Fall of the North RPG

[piosenniel]

Prologue

Malbeth the Seer was always restless, but he was far more restless today than he usually was.

His cold, grayed eyes looked across a burnished court floor to the feet of a middle-aged man, clad in the finest garments of Arthedain, who paced anxiously across the length of his hall, the great colonnade that marked the apex of the city of Fornost Erain. Upon the head of the man, capped with a smooth mat of brownish hair, streaked with the white that came from rulership’s stresses, was a silvery fillet bound across his brow with a single glimmering jewel, silver-white, set into it at the front. This was the Elendilmir, the Star of Elendil. The man’s hands wrung in front of him, showing signs of impatience and worry not befitting a King, and his brow was furrowed in worry, bereft of its former nobility. Those clasped hands held a gilt silver rod, a scepter inlaid with many dull jewels, the Sceptre of Annúminas, a signet of the Lords of Andúnië. On the thinning finger of his right hand, which encircled the scepter, was a sturdy ring, a pair of metal serpents encircling the digit to form it and meeting to entwine around an emerald-green stone set into the loop of their tales; the Ring of Barahir, the mightiest heirloom of the House of Elendil. This, as Malbeth knew well, was Araphant, the King of Arthedain, last of the Line of Isildur.

Or, he had been that last, until a few minutes ago.

Malbeth saw many things, most of which he saw through his eyes, but some, he saw with another sense, and this day he had seen something else. He was not a gifted man, nor was he a mighty prophet, magical in any way, but he could foretell some things, and, in the realm of Arthedain, his reputation had grown, at least enough to grant him a clerical following, no clandestine orders or mystical disciples though. He was renowned for his supposed abilities, and was called “Malbeth the Seer” throughout the land. In a troubled time, a time wrought with military and economic turmoil, people could believe in anything. He was not a falsifier, nor was he a liar and a charlatan. His real predictions were very rare, but there accuracy was held of highest importance. The King and court were not as easily swayed to opinions as were the common-folk of Arthedain, and regarded Malbeth merely as a soothsayer, with some knowledge they did not possess, but not a wealth of it. The seer’s wan face reflected little feeling about the matter.

The clipping of feet on marble began to fill Malbeth’s ears, like a chorus of raindrops loudly pelting a traveled road. Noisily, a squawking gaggle of handmaidens paraded down the hall, created a great din to replace the absolute silence. The chief handmaiden, a midwife, perhaps, did not hesitate to pay her respects to the King as she approached, and rushed, flustered, towards him. She bore a carefully tended bundle in her arms, cradled with great tenderness and maternal love. With a face reddened by toil and ecstatic eyes, she neared the King, who looked up on her, his face brightening. With a smile that could have brightened a dark room, the midwife pressed the bundle, swathed in silken blankets, into the unready arms of King Araphant. “Your majesty,” she uttered quickly, “it is a boy! You have a son, King Araphant!”

With a clumsy gesture and a tarrying moment, the king handed his scepter beneath the bundle, indicating that the midwife should take it. The maid took the rod with hesitation, and held it aloft with bright reverence, backing away as the King fumbled with the child nestled in his arms. He looked down, his anxious features relaxing and becoming gentle and benevolent as he examined the silent babe, who seemed comatose in his arms. He toyed with it as if it were a parcel, rocking it from side to side, and then turned to Malbeth. The seer did not react in any visible form to the look of respite on the face of the king.

“So, seer, shall this one be a good king?” He said, smiling warmly, but Malbeth did not even shake his head as he morosely replied. “I do not know.” The Seer replied, “I have not seen as much.”

“Will his reign be profitable, then?” questioned the King, patient, “Will he be loved?”

“I do not know, milord.” Malbeth replied again, his voice a somber monotone.

At this, the King became more impatient. His smile twisting into an annoyed frown, he shoved the sleeping boy in his arms into the unsuspecting grasp of the midwife and wrenched the Sceptre of Annúminas from her grip forcefully. “What do you know, then?” he said, louder and with more anger rampant in his voice, the tenderness of his care for the young son he’d held replaced by need for satiation by the soothsayer, who, as far as he could detect, was playing a trickster’s game with him. “I was told you wished to take counsel with me about my child.” He continued, brandishing the silver rod clutched in his hand, “What have you to say? What do you know?”

“His name, milord.”

Malbeth’s words were calm and collected, so much that, at first, Araphant’s face flushed with outrage and confusion, but it was confusion that won out. Araphant looked across the courtroom at the seer, his face the picture of a perplexed monarch. After a moment of mental deliberation, he spoke. “You know…his name?” Malbeth nodded, with such great solemnity that one who looked upon him might think he was a man in mourning. His pale face remained deathly white, but his eyes twinkled deftly, giving off a quick flash and an eerie glint that attracted the attention, and piqued the curiosity of the king. But, the strange nature of Malbeth made Araphant darkly nervous, and, to alleviate the air that had settled, he nearly laughed aloud, but stifled the sound and decided, against his better judgement, to entertain this mad theory of the soothsayer’s. “Very well.” He said, gesturing to Malbeth to continue, “What shall I call him?”

The seer of Arthedain took nearly a minute before he spoke, digesting each word that was about to come. He knew that the King might find them preposterous and possibly treasonous as well, but he had come to say them all the same, and would not leave this counsel until his message had been delivered. Araphant peered at him, filled with new misgivings, and the numerous handmaidens behind him whispered secretly to each other, gossiping of Malbeth’s ill-portents. He ignored the wayward maids and their talk, concentrating on his prediction, and then the seer reared back, filling himself with a breath of air, and spoke to the King.

“Arvedui you shall call him, for he will be the last in Arthedain. Though a choice will come to the Dúnedain, and if they take the one that seems less hopeful, then your son will change his name and become king of a great realm. If not, then much sorrow and many lives of men shall pass, until the Dúnedain arise and are united again.”

Some time passed after these words were uttered. Araphant did not speak again, considering the foresight of Malbeth judiciously. The darkness in those words struck a pang of fear into his heart, and daunted him. Malbeth might be casting clever wiles at him, to fright him from the throne, but the prophet’s words were natural in their course, like a flowing stream, and were not disrupted be either thought or wheedling foolishness. So, Araphant said to the seer, “Your foresight is too foreboding for my taste, Malbeth, but your counsel is wise. The child shall be called Arvedui, whether or not he is the last king. Now, if you have no more to tell, farewell.” He waved Malbeth away.

“It is a pleasure to serve, milord.” said Malbeth the Seer. This tryst was finished. Without a moment of waiting or a bow of reverence to the king, who stood at hand, Malbeth trod past Araphant and his chatting train, away from the child whose name his prediction had devised. His occupation bore an unhappy promise, in truth, one that gave him no solace, but it was his to perform, as oft as foresight came to him, and now Araphant knew of it, even if he could not fathom what Malbeth had meant about his heir’s fate.

His prophecy spoke of a choice.

In the year 1975 of the Third Age, that choice would be made in the barren, icy wasteland of Forochel, and the Line of Isildur and the Kings of Arnor would end…

Here follows the tale of Arvedui’s choice, the forgotten adventure of his people, and the Fall of the North.

--- Kransha

[piosenniel]

Kransha’s post

The battle had raged for days. Cities such as Fornost did not fall easily…but they fell all the same.

Hírvegil eyes saw a sight which he had never seen before, nor had most of the people in the city he now had a hand in protecting. Over the course of centuries, hundreds of years, thousands of sunrises and sunsets, foul orcs, the black spawn of darkness, had thrived and proliferated throughout Arnor. Never before, though, had such a terrible number been gathered, swarming beneath such a terrible banner and at the back of such a terrible lord. The forces of Angmar, orcs of Carn Dûm, like insects upon their prey, overwhelmed the gentle field that stretched, helpless and once serene, in front of the high-walled city of Fornost. The plains of Arthedain that sprawled lazily beneath Hírvegil were coated with their first layer of wintry snow, crystalline white that would, under normal conditions, have implanted a sense of tranquility in the man. But, today, the snows were marred with black and fiery red, embodied in the torches and flame-tipped torches that lined the orcish ranks as they crashed, wave after wave, into the weakening walls of Arthedain’s last stronghold.

Fornost was a great city, as some thought, though it did not compare to the grandest heights of old Númenór. It had not been built to fend off attacks by such numbers, though, and it was amazing that it had stood firm as long as it did. It was built of stone and marble, once sunny white and shining with the light of new civilization and prosperity. Now, it had been dulled in its color, and the carven features and profuse contours of the high walls, towers, and gates had been weakened by time, withered by the elements, and damaged further by conflict. Just within this mighty wall were the lowest levels of structures in the city, the training fields for the Arnorian military, and the diminutive homes, cluttered about over the brick foundations, densely packed together. Inscribed within that outer wall were two more walls, one around the housing and municipality of Fornost. This wall was narrower, but still bore a parapet from which archers and watchmen could overlook the field and structures before and below. Within this wall were the estates of the wealthier, more prosperous folk of Fornost. The higher-handed houses bore vaulted, extravagant roofs of more and less conservative architecture. Those were the dwellings that were home to the people of Fornost, the elite. The last wall looped gracefully around the central structures of the city, the inner sanctum: which contained the palace of the King and the quarters of his closest officials, counselors, and vassals. Here, the most grandiose of the abodes was, high towers that jutted into the cloudy sky, silvery pinnacles that rose above the many-halled court and the lavish mansions that sprung from it. This was the capital of Arnor, not necessarily at its best, but still a city to rival many others, a city that had been built to stand forever.

In Hírvegil’s eyes, it would last no longer than another few hours.

The outermost wall, the thickest, was now thin and vulnerable, with countless cracks and splinters running through the stones and still smoldering scorch marks from the heavy weaponry of the enemy burnt into the topmost parapets. The towers at the main gate had crumbled into so many mounds of dust and useless rubble. Many portions of the wall, and the buildings immediately behind, were reduced to refuse and ashen wreckage. The second wall was almost breached already, now that the orc hordes had surged past the ruin of the main wall and into the city. It was not as doughty as the one before, certainly, but it was now the last meager stretch of stone erected between the hordes of Angmar and the city itself. From the parapet of that wall, archers poured down arrows, stones, and any debris they could hurl upon the orcs as great waves of fire from below kept down the heads of the defenders. The frontal guard of Arvedui, the King of Arthedain, covered the top of the second wall, and filled the streets, crowding around the area behind the gates that led into the secondary sanctum and Fornost itself. On the other side of the wall, tremendous siege implements, gargantuan, cumbrous things, damask and dark, dragged from the shadows of Carn Dûm. Monstrous ballistas, ragged with spikes of steel and iron, shot forth great bolts, as long as a man, tipped and rimmed with tongues of flame that struck the walls and burst in a cloud of dense smog and glittering sparks. Primitive mangonel catapults, too heavy to be hefted past the first wall, lobbed great boulders; set alit with oil and fire, which crashed through all that stood between them and the city within. Rank after rank, wave after wave of orcs, armed with clubs and maces and mattocks of all sorts, bashed through the doors of every house and threw themselves against the main gates, attempting to bring them down despite the defensive implements employed against them. From above, the embattled second wall was slowly losing all those upon it, most to the wanton destruction wrought by the siege weapons. The line of defense for the city was wearing thin.

Hírvegil himself watched all this from the inner sanctum. He was a Captain of Arvedui’s rearguard, which would not see battle face-to-face until the last wall was breached. He was not thankful, though, for this reprieve, which many would’ve welcomed. At the behest of his King, who dwelled now in his halls, taking counsel with his seconds, he was not to journey past the reaches of the inner wall with his men. Before him, the people of Fornost were being overwhelmed by the orcs of the Witch-King. The ragged tatters of Dúnedain regiments had been all but crushed by the relentless assaults of the orcs, and now the darkling beasts were free to prey ruthlessly upon the hapless civilians of the city, who now ran rampant, with no place to turn, in the streets and alleys. Many attempted to reach the gates, but they had been barred against the orcs, and naught could be done. All that Hírvegil could do from his perch was hope that the aim of his chief marksmen on the battlements would find the throats of orcs, rather than those of the people being slain amongst them.

His lieutenant, Belegorn, stood nearby, peering over the wall’s turreted heights. The man’s eyes looked with a concern and whole sternness at the city below, with familiar yearning in those orbs as well. He turned as the clanking sound of Hírvegil’s overly cumbersome armor attracted his attention. When his face turned to Hírvegil, the Captain of the Rearguard saw more than simple worry in his lieutenant’s eyes, but no fear. He spoke, his voice heavy and serious, made hasty by all the surrounding events. “They will have the gates down within the hour, Hírvegil.” He said, brandishing the blade he held in his hand, clutched firmly beneath very white knuckles, “Our arrows cannot hold them off.” He was not a man who could become concerned at the drop of a hat, though this was no trivial matter. Belegorn was swayed by the struggle, and probably wished to join the fray in the city, rather than stand idly by.

“Not at this range, at least.” Hírvegil muttered in reply.

“We cannot get closer to them.” Belegorn retorted swiftly, “The only way to fight them directly is if they breach they gates, or we go beyond the gates.” Hírvegil turned; the dying ember of indifferent confusion tempered with biased rage against the goings-on, and began to walk down the length of the wall again, with Belegorn, sword swinging wildly as he hurried beside, close behind his commander. “Then we should go beyond the gates.” Hírvegil proclaimed, with a harsh tone in his voice, and some of the archers on the walls were nearly distracted by the darkness in him as he spoke, “The walls are nearly down as it is. If we stay here, besieged on crumbling walls, we have no more power than a game stag in the woods. Those who are trapped outside the inner gate need aid, and we can give it.” The wall was rocked just then by another great crash from beneath them, and crackling splinters ran across the cobblestones under their booted feet, but they ignored the damage.

“The King must order it first.” Belegorn said, obviously unsatisfied. He was no stickler for inaction, but the letter of the law was a law he abided by, and Hírvegil respected this. But, he was not in the mood to entertain matters of law. Arvedui’s codes were far more strict and binding than those of his father, Araphant, a fact which Hirvegil disliked. These matters should not clutter the battlefield, not in the way they did. Rounding on his lieutenant as they reached the fringe of the archers’ ranks, he spoke angrily. “The King has lost his senses if he does not see what we must do.”

“Be careful of what you say, Hírvegil, son of Sildathar.” intoned a sickly, creeping voice from behind the two. Belegorn spun first, more readily, as if he hearkened now to the baying call of a foul beast that had surmounted the battlements, but Hírvegil needed no foresight to know who had spoken. He turned slowly, anticipating the cold glare that met him.

Behind, perched and hunched over conspiratorially, stood Mellonar, one of Arvedui’s chief counselors, a great minister of Arthedain. The man was frail in form and figure, with features chiseled in a royal fashion, but so sharp as to be immediately unattractive. The neck of the wretched figure was permanently craned, and the arrogant head, beardless and pallid, hung downward beneath a heap of fur-lined mantles and robes. Mellonar was, to put it lightly, a detestable person, and his visage was no better. The counselor bore power over much of the happenings in Fornost, and was administrator of Arvedui’s many wardens and captains, who, in truth, did little more than communicate the Kings orders to his military commanders and then point out their failings. Among the soldiers of Arthedain, Mellonar was considered a very vulture in his countenance, and no man argued with the opinion, for even Mellonar himself acknowledged it with his bearing. Hírvegil, though, had known the King’s minister since his early days a warden of Arthedain’s borders, and had reason to bear him more malice, but he did not. In times of war, there was no use in wasting hatred on allies.

“Take command.” Hírvegil said sternly to his lieutenant. Belegorn nodded with quick astuteness and hurried off to the line of discharging archers at the battlement edge. After a circumspect moment of silence, Hírvegil cried after him, saying, “Focus fire upon those that man the rams below. That will hold them at bay.” With this he turned again to the counselor beside him, who had sidled silently closer to him. He looked, with an icy, glazed-over stare at the man, who stood comparatively shorter than himself, and extended, first, a question. “Why have you come, Mellonar?” he said, not deigning to smile in his reviling, for the battle’s hardships were still foremost in his mind, “I know your heart bears no love of battle.”

“I have not come to watch your folly on the field, Captain. I come with news from Arvedui’s Court.”

“Tell me, then, how long shall Arvedui take counsel with bombasts while his people die in the streets?”

“Do not question your king, Captain Hírvegil.” Mellonar snapped, his irksome voice forced to swell to accommodate the din of the battle that churned noisily in the distance, “His majesty has adjourned the conclave in his chambers.” Hírvegil peered at him angrily, the loosened grip he had on his sword tightening as he continually glanced to the side, his fire-filled eyes straying to the clustered city and the great torrents of smoke and fire that rose from every broken structure. He turned to Mellonar again, stepping forward in a most intimidating manner, and shook his sword angrily, the delicate edge of the Númenórean blade glinting in the noonday sun and reflecting broad rays of light onto Hírvegil’s armored breastplate. “What, then, would he have us do?” he said with dark, fury-wrought tone, half under his breath, “Wait for the doom of Angmar to tear down our walls as we stand upon them and bear us all to ruin and death?”

Mellonar did not hesitate to take several minute paces back, out of the range of Hírvegil’s quivering blade. As he moved, it seemed as if the counselor glided across the ruptured cobblestones, his robe flowing gently beneath him, as if he were some carrion-fowl creeping away from its scavenged meal. “Rally your men, Captain,” he commanded, mustering a semblance of dignity, “if you have loyalty enough to do so, and gather what folk you can from the city. The army of Fornost is sundered, and we can no longer defend the city. In his wisdom, the King has concluded that we must make for the North Downs, where forts still lie in the hills, and seek refuge their until we have organized, and may flee west. The ‘doom of Angmar’ will beset us further if we do not make haste.” He snickered silently, but did not smile. Even he knew the dire straits that had befallen Arthedain, and it was still his city, even if he could not appreciate the sacrifices being made so that he would survive. He scowled and slowly turned; arching his half hunched shoulders behind him and wincing each time a deafening crash erupted from the battle behind.

“Begone from here!” Hírvegil cried after him in disgust, “We will flee in due time. Let me salvage my troops.” Mellonar turned back, jumping again as a thunderous jolt rattled through the ground beneath him. “Do what you wish, but do not tarry. The king commands that you find those of most importance still in the city. Of utmost importance are the Elves of Lindon and of Rivendell, who still dwell in the inner sanctum. They must live past this day, if an alliance is to be sought with their kindred.” He pointed his bony fingering, which was, as much as he tried to conceal it, obviously trembling with unadulterated fear. “Be swift, Hírvegil.” He whispered to the stray wind, and turned again, hurrying back towards the King’s Halls.

“And you may be swift in your flight, as well, lest your cowardice sprouts wings and carries you from here.” Hírvegil’s voice rang coldly. He watched, satisfied, to some degree, as Mellonar winced again. Before the nobleman had reached his beloved, protective halls, Hírvegil had already turned and was moving concordantly towards the wall, where his men where still, pouring every arrow they had into the disorderly ranks of beasts that were crowding forward, gaining little ground, but still gaining, through the city below. Moving as swiftly as he could, he reached the line of men, all leaning precariously over the rail of the battlements. Belegorn was still easily directing the troops to fire, though their aim had not been granted any more precision. Belegorn turned as Hírvegil approached. “What says the king?” he said hastily, obviously just as eager as Hírvegil to hasten to the outer city’s aid.

“The King says that we must tend to politics again,” snapped Hírvegil, seeming rueful and spiteful, “but we will do what is needed.” He neared Belegorn, but the other troops nearby heard his words as they gained volume and commanding quality, that quality held by a Captain only, and they knew that whatever Hírvegil was going to say, they would do best to heed his words with great speed. “Command the entire rearguard to enter the city by any means they can find,” he said, directing the sentence at Belegorn, “including the main gate. Do not fight the foes in Fornost, if possible, and tell them to search the ruins for survivors. When all have been brought together, we shall rally at the gates. The city is to be evacuated.” This last phrase sent a minor shocking jolt into the faces nearby. Even though this action had been expected during the battle, no one was really ready for the crippling blow of hearing it said aloud. The city was alight with fire, which loomed and speared up into the highest reaches of the smog-filled sky, so that the pallid faces of frightened men were illuminated, painted blood red by the tongues of flame. Nevertheless, they turned willingly, as Belegorn and Hírvegil rushed through the thickly packed ranks to the front and, issuing orders left and right, lead the rearguard into the city of Fornost, now in ruins.

They moved down quickly, in droves, nearly. There were several angular staircases that led down from the battlements. Like its technical sister city in the south, Minas Tirith, Fornost was built, in a sense, on levels, so that going from one sanctum to the next would predispose descending. Each sanctum and protective wall rose above the one that surrounded it, so that the city seemed to be a very grand hill, which terminated in a very geometric stump where the King’s Halls and Towers coalesced. It was not hard, therefore, to get down into the lower levels of the defensive bulwarks and onto the other platforms and levels, but besieging foes might have a harder time reaching the heights of the inner sanctum even if they did break through. Unfortunately, there were so many vile beasts in the dark host that even a splinter in the cracking walls would’ve accommodated a great wealth of them. Already they rose and fell upon the city like black oceanic tides, crashing down on rocks, which were worn away by their constant lapping at the city’s foundations. The Dunedain rearguard, and scattered remnants of the army, surged through the gates and at the orcish hordes.

“Into the city!” cried Hírvegil as loudly as his failing voice could afford him, above the mighty thunder and fire, the crashing of steel on steel and stone on earth, “Seek out the Elf-kind and those who have escaped the orcs. Make haste!”

[piosenniel]

CaptainofDespair's post

Standing on the last remaining battlements of the city, was the Lord Mitharan. Alone he was, save for his bodyguard who stood at a distance. He slowly surveyed the carnage of his once mighty home of Fornost. Below, the bodies of the dead Dunedain soldiers and civilians were strewn amongst the carcasses of the orcs. Black blood mixed with the red-stained innards of the slain people of Fornost. The stench that arose from the streets and alleys was horrendous, and few could withstand the reek for more then a few moments. But the orcs, the orcs relished the smell, and it gave them new life. They only lived for the destruction of men and elves, and it was their greatest love to see the bodies of these hated enemies being ripped apart and eaten, some of them still alive. This sight disgusted the Dunedain Lord, and he turned from the death and destruction, and strode off the battlements, towards the last of the Great Halls, to hold a council with his remaining lords.

The streets were eerily quiet, as he walked the lonely path to the Hall. His mind drowned out the horrific sounds of the screaming, and torturous deaths of the civilian populace, as the Orcs ran rampant through the broken streets, killing and plundering as they went. Rather, he focused on his task at hand. He was forced to take a few back alleys at one point, as the barricades that had been laid up, were still in position, ready to be defended to the last. He was careful to avoid these checkpoints, for they only slowed him down, and he was hurriedly moving about. Yet at last, with a bit of effort, he found himself upon the steps of the Great Hall. Pushing aside the great wooden doors, he entered the slightly damaged building, which had been hit with siege projectiles in the latter parts of the Witch-King’s siege. One section of the wall was even being supported by the wooden struts of nearby houses, which had been destroyed or severely damaged by those same projectiles.

Upon entering, he stopped in mid-stride, and gazed at the lords who were now arrayed in the hall, and we already discussing what would be done. The King though, was absent, apparently handling other, more important business, with his chief counselors. Quietly, Mitharan slid himself into a chair, to listen to the rest of the debate. For a few moments, all was silent, as the speaker, having been interrupted, attempted to regain his thoughts. But at last, he composed himself, and began to speak.

“We are now at a crossroads. We have only two remaining options. Surrender has been ruled out, as neither side would accept it, and it would only be disastrous for our people. Thus, we must either fight to the death, or flee into the wilds, and hope to evade this enemy for as long as we must.” The Counselor paused, and scanned the faces of those surrounding the great, round table they were situated around. “Now, we must make a decision that will affect us for generations to come, or will end our people. But final word will come from the King, to where we flee, or where we die.”

Many of the other lords sat still, almost like they were frozen. Not a single one of them rose to answer the call of the speaker. Instead, they sat, and pondered their fate, and the fate of the Dunedain. But, Mitharan, in his unconventional ways, rose at long last, and addressed his peers.

“Our doom is inescapable! We are a dwindling people, losing number every day. We will not, nor can we, recover from what has occurred. If we flee, we will only be hunted, like rabbits fleeing the dog. The Witch-King will not stop until we are all dead. Our families, our people, will live in fear daily. Why not end that, and put up one last, glorious defense. One worthy of the name Dunedain!” He paused, and as if to ensure his meaning got across to the elder lords of this Council, he spoke again. "We must fight to the death!"

Murmurs could now be heard amongst the wizened men. Mitharan still stood, as though he was ready to march out, and confront the Witch-King himself. Finally, at the behest of another, he sat, and awaited the replies. But only dissension could be heard rising up. Some agreed with the young lord, and wanted to face the enemy head on, but the eldest of them, wanted to hide in the wilds, and hope to find a safe haven. Eventually, most agreed with this idea, and the Council began discussing what option they had, should they manage to escape the ruin of Fornost. Some suggest Imladris, others, Ered Luin, and a few suggested Lindon, where Cirdan dwelt. But a final agreement could not be made, other than that those who could flee, should go where they are able.

Mitharan stood from the table, upon the conclusion of the debate, and fled the confines of the hall, for the rancid smell of the dying city. Walking out, he heard the sounds of the dying rising up over the last section of defendable walls, and ran towards it. His only thought was to die protecting those who needed him, the civilians. Quickly he went, until at last he can to the final barricade before one who enter the overrun sections of the city. With his bodyguard in tow, he entered. His first sight, was that of some hapless civilian who had been caught in the fighting. Her eyes stared up at him, unblinking. His heart sank, and put his fingers over her eyes, and pulled the lids such, to give peace to the soul. Wandering a bit further into the city, he found more of the same, only in droves they had died, cut down before their time, by a merciless enemy. His bodyguard meanwhile, was becoming all the more worried. They feared the orc numbers, and knew if they were sighted, only the good graces of the Valar would be able to save them. But they didn’t express this fear openly, but Mitharan saw it in their eyes, and he wept to himself, for what had happened.

With the gates breached, nothing would stop the hordes from coming. Eventually, the inner defenses would fall, and Fornost would be made into a haven of vile creatures and great evil. The guards at the gate had fallen quickly, and only a swift counter-attack by the remnants of the outer defenses, saved the city from falling in one fell swoop. But those men gave their lives, willingly. But at long last, Mitharan could stand the smell of the Angmarim-guided death, and fled back to the inner sanctum of the city. As he crossed the final barriers, in silence, he caught sight of the Captain, Hírvegil. He seemed rather grim, more so than most men in his situation. But the Lord heeded him not, for now at least, and fled up the final stair cases into the inner sanctum of the city, to await what the final order would be from the King.

[piosenniel]

Garen LiLorian's post

". . . we are to escort you to the north gate of the sanctum. We shall escape that way and remove ourselves to the North Downs. Please, gather your possessions quickly and come with us.” Angóre stood in the doorway of the hall, listening to the Dúnedain knight delivering his missive in clipped tones. The Man finished, and the emissary removed herself hastily to the depths of the chamber. Angóre did not stir. All that he owned he carried already. “Tell me then, friend. Is there no hope for the city?” His tone was measured and calm. The captain’s voice was weary as he replied, “The first gate is down, the hordes of Angmar are against the second wall and our resistance is scattered.” His eyes flashed. “And of such companies that remain whole, many of us are sent on political errands, collecting emissaries and diplomats instead of helping our brethren on the walls. Begging your pardon, master Elf.” He finished in a sarcastic tone of voice. Angóre looked out again at the walls, beyond which the sounds of battle carried clearly. “I do not think that you shall be deprived of the chance to win glory here, friend. Though in truth, I agree with you heartily. I had rather be upon the walls when they are taken then guarding those who do not seem to need it. However, we both have our duty, do we not?”

A tremendous crash forestalled any reply. “They are at the gate!” The captain stared wildly in the direction of the second gate of Fornost, as if his eyes could perceive the struggle taking place there. A fell light awoke in his eyes, and he was transformed. “No longer can I stand watch while Fornost falls! Master Elf, I lead my men to where they are needed. Make haste for the courts of the king, and the north-gate!” And, so saying, the captain gathered his force and sprinted for the gate. Angóre stood fast as they went, though his eyes followed them until they disappeared around the bend. “Happy are they who choose death over duty,” he said as the last of the men vanished, and he stood there a while longer, vying with himself, until at last he turned back into the hall.

The great hall lay bare, all the servants who could bear arms had joined in the defense of the city, and those who couldn’t had gone anyway, and done what they could. Another crash came from the direction of the gate. Angmar was knocking. Angóre could hear the distant sound of the brave men of the vanguard readying themselves, and another crash. Then the air was filled with the sounds of battle. The emissary appeared before him, clad in traveling clothes. “They have breached the second gate. Quickly, now, we must reach the third level of the city before we are overrun.” His voice betrayed no emotion; he might as well have been discussiong the weather. And, before she could respond, he had turned and was out the door.

The hall given to the elves was still a goodly distance from the gate, and the sounds of battle still echoed from that direction. The rearguard of the Dúnedain was holding, for the moment, but however valiant the Men were the massive horde of Angmar must overcome, at the last. For the moment, however, this meant the streets were empty, and Angóre lead his charge through the streets at a quick pace, making for the entrance to the uppermost city.

[piosenniel]

Lalwendë's post:

She heard her husband before she saw him. She heard his anguished cry echoing through the great hall from where he slumped in the doorway. At first she was irritated for she had been hurriedly stowing away some of their most precious belongings, hiding items in nooks within the cellar and packing others into what bags she could find. The work was hard but some sense of foreboding told her that it was necessary. This siege had been going on for too long and she felt that it was about to break. As her husband had left the house on the previous evening he had told her not to be so foolish, wasn’t he, after all, one of those very men who had been sworn to the defence of this city? He had shaken his head in frustration as she slipped into one of her bitter moods; his gentle assurances only ever seemed to make her more resolute, even angry at times. Fretting, she had woken in the early hours and set to work sorting through the tapestries, the silver and the scrolls of parchment.

Picking up the child, who was at her side as always, she hefted him onto her hip and hurried out of the cellar. The child did not stir; he was not yet a year old and still small for his age, and a more placid babe in arms she could not have hoped to have borne. He was wrapped in a layer of soft blankets and a fur, to protect him from the chill, damp air. Frowning at what troubles her husband may have brought to the door, she entered the great hall and cast her eyes about for him. He was lying in a broken heap, in the shadows by the door. He had fallen down where he stood, clearly besieged by some great hurt and her angry frown disappeared.

“What has happened?” she cried out, rushing to his side, clutching the child even more tightly. She crouched down beside the sturdy, tall man she had been married to these past twenty years, and pushed aside his cloak, which lay across his chest, concealing something.
An arrow head was buried there; the shaft, filthy and broken, poked out from between his ribs. Black and clotted blood stained his leather jerkin. She got up hurriedly, thinking to fetch a bowl of water with which to bathe him, but her husband caught her hand before she could get away.

“No, my girl,” her husband said with broken breaths. “It is too late for that. Already I feel the foul poison...ah…I feel it taking me. Too late. Better to stay with me now.”

“Where is your mail shirt?” said Renedwen, feeling confused, for as befitted his station as a Lieutenant, he normally wore more protection than the usual boiled leather jerkin. She tried to remember if he had left the house wearing it last night, but he had indeed done so, as always. He had seemed to live in the mail shirt these past few weeks of the siege. It had given her a feeling of comfort, even complacency, that he was protected by such a valuable and rare thing.

Her husband blinked his eyes slowly and sadly, and then looked at her with a look of contrition, for he felt sure that as usual, Renedwen would soon start to scold him harshly, as was her way. “I gave it to one of my men. I…was leaving my post to come to see you, to warn you. And I could not leave my second in command man there while I walked hither to my girl, protected from danger though I was in none.” She still did not understand how the arrow had then got into his chest, if it was safe enough to come here dressed so lightly. He continued “As I came by the gates, I saw the orcs, and they saw me and did this. Listen to me; this is the end of it all here. They cannot be held back much longer”

As he stopped talking, the sounds of desperate shouting, screaming and the crashing of metal upon stone and wood drifted up towards their home. No birds sang that noon, they had long since flown away, and no children were heard laughing and singing. For weeks the youth of the city had been like this, subdued and hungry, yet at least their voices were normally heard on the street. Today there was nothing but the panicked cries of the men.

Renedwen suddenly felt a fire in her stomach. She had never been demonstrative to her husband, had never really shown him how much she loved him, yet now here he lay, his head in her lap, and his life was running away from him as fast as his blood poured into his punctured lungs. She wanted to shout and stamp and rail against the whole world that this had come to pass, but she felt that ever gentle hand on her own, staying her temper.

“This no time to vent your anger. It is our last time together. My girl, you were right, “ he said, his eyes dimming. “The hour is upon us. We have failed our wives and sons, and failed our fathers, failed your father. You must take our son now and go to find your father, for he is old and will need help to escape this place. Our city is now become a tomb, and those who do not leave will perish. You should see the enemy. The hatred…” he gave off talking for a moment, not wanting to relate to her the evil in the faces of the enemy. “When I leave you, which will be soon, for I feel the world ebbing away, you will take my sword and you will go. I shall have no memorial. I do not want one. This is the only thing I have ever asked of you.”

Tears welled up in her brilliant blue eyes, as blue as the sapphire he had given her almost a year ago, and the sight of them made her husband gasp. She never cried in front of him, a marbled queen was what he called her, a name he thought was beautiful, and she would smirk with a hint of scorn whenever he said it.

“I shall hold the thought of your eyes in my heart and leave here bravely, on this stone threshold of our own small palace,” he smiled as he thought of how proud she was of their home with its arching windows and marble floors, the rooms stuffed with all the finery that his money could buy for her; it made her happy, he knew, to be surrounded by elegant, delicate things. And then the tears welled up his won eyes and a look of concern crossed his face.

“You know you must not stay here, not even to take up our possessions. None of that matters now, only that you and our boy get out of here,” He touched his son’s head tenderly; he had his father’s grey eyes, and he loved the boy. He knew that his wife’s heart burned for her love of the child, the only seeming living person who she felt this for, and that if he impressed on her how he would be vulnerable, then she would not tarry there.
“While my eyes have the light in them, let me see you both. Let me fill my sights with this, so that my last thought is not of orcish hordes and dying men but of my girl and my son.”

***

She pulled the finest of all their tapestries over the body of her husband, and laid a pillow beneath his head. Before she covered his face, she kissed him tenderly, and one hot tear fell from her nose onto his closed eyes. If such tears had held the power to revive then he would have awoken with a start, as they were infused with her sorrow; but this was no story, it was all too real.

Taking up her husband’s knife, she cut two locks of his dark hair and stowed them carefully in a little bag at her waist; she would later bind them into bracelets of remembrance for herself and their son. Finally covering his face with the tapestry she took up what little she had the heart to take, a bag of grain, blankets for the child and her husband’s sword and knife. Blind with tears, she left their home, locking the door behind her. Dimly she heard the now frantic cries of the men defending the city, and only vaguely did she notice the other people running to mobilise for evacuation, children grasped firmly by the hand, shouting in panic.

Pushing through the growing crowd, she found her way to her father’s house. The doors were closed and there seemed to be no sign of life within. Running to the lofty arched doorway, she pushed on the latch and went inside. The great hall was in darkness and it took her some time to adjust to this. It was not unusual, as the Captain often closed his doors and windows to the world; it usually signified he had a bad feeling about something, that he felt threatened.

“I knew you would come here,” the deep, elderly voice echoed from the back of the hall. “At the end of it all, I knew my daughter would come here.”

The Captain, tall but now thin and weakened by advanced age, sat imposingly on the settle, facing the door. His noble face was resolute and grim with foreboding. He could not see the face of who had entered, as the light coming from the opened door temporarily blinded his eyes, but he well knew the shape and movements of his own daughter. He wore his mail shirt, and his weapons were held ready at his side. Renedwen’s mother, old and frail, lay on the seat beside him, her head in his lap and her eyes dull. His hand lay on her head, smoothing her white hair. Nothing had been made ready for evacuation.

Renedwen ran towards her parents, all her tears spent, and her face reddened with the grief she was enduring. She sat down on the other side of her father, who briefly turned towards her and touched the head of the child with tenderness.

“You are going to ask me to leave,” he said. “But I shall not. I may be too aged to join the ranks out there, but I will not give up our home so lightly. Not if it is the last thing I do.”

“The last that we shall do…” her mother said sadly, but with a hint of determination. She too reached out to the child, and she smiled. Pulling herself up, she motioned for Renedwen to pass him to her, and she took him in her arms gently.

“Can you not hear the screams? It is time we left here. You know this,” said Renedwen, fear in her eyes. “He is gone. He is dead. I am alone but for who I have here. You must come with me now, it was his dying wish”.

Her father shook his head. “You are your father’s child. You knew it would come to this all along. You know I felt the same. Even now, your brothers are out there fighting, but they will never see an end to it. Not for them the quiet years of retirement that I have enjoyed. And who knows even now they may be walking in a greener place with your husband. But I am now content. My daughter is come at least.”

Again Renedwen pleaded with him, but he shook his head. He smiled at last, something which she had rarely seen from her solemn father. “You are yet young, and you have the hope of the child. I will not go. But you should.”

Renedwen looked to her mother, but she too shook her head. She was as resolute as her father, and would stay with him whatever he wanted. “I know not what will become of any of us, but you should take this little one and keep him safe.” she said.

The cries outside grew louder and seemed close to the house. Her father, with a grim look on his face, stood up, and gripped the hilt of his sword, ready for whatever may come. He looked at his daughter seriously, and bade her to stand up. Taking her into his arms, he held her tight for a moment, and she thought she felt a tear land on her face, but as they drew back, she could not be sure if he had finally given in to some hidden feeling and allowed himself to weep. His face was as serious as ever.

Motioning to her mother, he finally took his wife, daughter and grandchild in his arms. “We will not forget each other, and one day, on a green field, we shall all meet again. The days will be happier. The time of this city is over, and you know I cannot abandon it. But you must go. Go and seek what life you can beyond these walls.”

He had drawn closer to the door as he had taken them in his arms, and now he walked towards it with them. As he opened it, once again the afternoon light flooded in, bathing their faces in a warm glow. Renedwen turned once more to her parents, filled with dark panic that her child was in grave danger, yet needing this last moment before she turned and left them to their fate.

[piosenniel]

Arry's post

‘They come against us like the dark waves in winter against the cliffs and crags of Tol Fuin. Do they not, brother?’ Gaeredhel’s words came out in a quick, clipped fashion as he drew back his great bow and fired into the clamorous mass of Orcs that threw itself against the gates of the second level.

‘Yes, and if you recall it well, the waves that crash high against the shores of that drowned land oft overwhelm the smaller isle of Himring.’ Rôsgollo hunkered down, his back against the wall of the parapet, as he worked a piece of wax up and down his bowstring. In a moment, he was back on his feet, bow drawn, and aiming for the neck of one of the greater Orcs. He scarcely noted the grimacing creature as it crumpled to the ground. Already there were two or three more scrambling to take its place.

A voice to Gaeredhel’s right rose above the din of battle. ‘Don’t know ‘bout those waves you speak of. More like mindless flies to a pile of sheep dung, to my mind at least.’ ‘Aye,’ came the voice of another, ‘haven’t seen anything bigger than The Pool myself. But I was thinking they was just like them crows and ravens out there on the edges of the field . . .all noise and sharp beaks and beating of wings on a fallen rotting corpse.’

Despite the grimness of their situation, Gaeredhel laughed at the words of the two periain who stood near him, their own small bows delivering death to the dark foe. He glanced down at the Halfling bowmen as they stood on two bales of hay to make their shots over the parapet. ‘And I am thinking,’ the Elf said, ‘that the Periannath do not care overmuch for the buildings of men. Pile of sheep dung? A rotting corpse?’

‘Unnatural, I says,’ commented another Halfling sent with arrows to replenish his companions’ quivers. ‘Building up houses and towns so far above the ground. Just asking to be knocked down.’ He walked the line of bowmen from the Shire, handing out his supply of repaired arrows. ‘Not like the Shire, mind you,’ he said looping back to where the Elves stood. ‘Lovely smials there, dug deep in the good earth. And what buildings there be are low-like, if you catch my meaning. Not all stuck up like some great whacking challenge to other bully-boys.’

The Elves and Halfings fell back from the wall, another line of bowmen, Dunedain, flowed in about them, allowing little pause in the routine of battle. Rôsgollo crouched down, as did his brother, and took the offered skin of water from one of the Halflings. ‘So how is it then,’ he said, passing round some waybread from his own pouch, ‘that bowmen from the Shire have come to defend this city of Men?’

One of the Halflings stood up from his group. He looked much like his fellows, brown haired, sharp brown eyes, a good natured face beneath the strain that war imposes. Save for the small white feather stuck firmly in the band of his small slouch hat, he was nearly indistinguishable from the others of his company. ‘Wilibold Brownlock, master Elves,’ he said nodding at the brothers. He’d taken off his hat by this time and turned the brim of it in his hands, more as a matter of hesitancy than nervousness. ‘Captain, I am of this rag-tag group. Pardon our plain talk to you if it offended. It was just the yammering of one soldier to another in the press of battle.’

Rôsgollo dismissed the apology with a small wave of his hand. ‘No offense taken.’ He looked about the city, his eyes straying up to the top level from which rose the King’s towers. To be honest, I cannot say the structure is much to my liking either.’ He settled down on his haunches, gesturing that the Halfing do so, too. ‘But my question still stands, Captain Brownlock. How came you here? You and your band of keen-eyed archers?’

‘Well, I’ll let old Rory speak to that,’ returned the Captain, motioning for one of the older looking Halfings to come forth. ‘He’s our record keeper, so to speak. Knows the whys and wherefores of goings on in the Shire. Keeps a journal, like his old gaffer and those before him. Writes down important dates and the stories that go with them.’

Rory fished through the large pouch slung from a strap round his shoulder and pulled out a battered, brown leather covered journal. ‘Now this is just my family’s field notes here,’ he said thumbing through the first section of the well worn book. There were pages and pages of faded, crabbed handwriting, down which he moved his ink-stained forefinger. ‘It was old Argeleb . . .number two, I believe if I read these scratchings right, that granted Marcho and Blanco, then of Bree-land, the right to cross the Brandywine River and take the land from the river to the Far Downs into their keeping. Anyways he was the king up here in Fornost back then and we were . . . are his subjects. And I must say his hand and the hands of the others after him always rested lightly on the Shire. Didn’t ask much of us really. It was a bigger kingdom then, you know, before it fell apart. Arthedain, they called it’ He turned a few more pages. ‘Now this king, Arvedui, he’s the king of one of the last good parts of the old north kingdom. It’s to him we still swear loyalty. And when he sent the call out to our Chieftains for aid a month or so ago, we came.’ He looked about at the small band of his battle-worn companions. ‘Not many of us left now.’ He closed the journal carefully, tying it securely with a piece of sturdy twine. ‘But they’re all recorded here . . . those what’s fallen . . . and their deeds. Cold comfort for their families . . . though, mayhap they will take some comfort that the king remained protected while still they drew their bows and breath.’ There was little comment as Rory finished speaking; only the thoughtful silence of warriors to whom the same fate still may await.

Too soon, the brief respite ended as the group rose to take their places back at the wall. The groaning and cracking of the great doors that still held against the foe had intensified, as had the increasingly triumphant bellows of the Orc host. One of the Halflings nearer the gate came running to where the Elven brothers stood bow to bow with Wilibold and a few of his men. ‘Cap’n! Cap’n!’ he cried, panting for breath as he came to a halt. ‘The King’s men have come down from the top level. All the Elves and survivors of the city are to retreat there . . . the Orcs will soon take this second ring . . . the King means to retreat to a safer place, or so the news flies along the lines.’

‘We must hasten, then,’ Rôsgollo urged his brother. Our charge must be found and taken up as the King requested. ‘Look round the west way, brother,’ Gaeredhel called as he started off to the east. ‘I’ll meet you at the western entrance to the King’s level.’ Rôsgollo hurried off, his eyes searching out the counselor. His brother paused for a moment, returning to where the Halflings held their line against the parapet. ‘Will you not be calling your men in?’ he asked the Captain. ‘Gathering them up for retreat? Shall we meet you up there?’ he finished, nodding his head up toward the towers.

‘We are swift of foot, good Elf,’ Wilibold assured him. ‘Let us hold out here a little longer until others have been brought to safety. We can make it before the gates are shut against the foe.’

Gaeredhel gave the Halfling a small bow then turning quickly began his search for the counselor. ‘To me, bowmen of the Shire!’ he heard the Captain call out, rallying his companions to take up places closer to the groaning gates. ‘Places lads! For the King and the Shire!’

[piosenniel]

Nilpaurion Felagund’s post:

It seems to be her fate to be stuck in sieges.

Bethiril was less than a year old when Morgoth unleashed his might and destroyed Gondolin in a short and bitter siege. She had been with her lord Elrond when Gil-galad’s expeditionary force to Eregion was driven away by Sauron’s Orcs to the feet of the Misty Mountains and contained there for three years.

And now this.

She and her guard had been caught on the walls of the highest level when the Orcs finally broke through the second wall of Fornost Erain. She had just been in the city a few weeks before, hammering out the final details of the alliance that all had hoped would crush the menace of Angmar with great fists from the West and the East.

It seems that the treaty had been too late. In Bethiril’s eyes, the might of the Dúnedain of the North had crumbled with their walls.

“Milady, we must now flee to the King’s courts,” her guard pleaded, knowing the great danger of staying in the open.

Bethiril did not stir. She watched as the black tide flowed through the breach of the dike. The siege weapons far behind rolled a few furlongs forward, and then stopped.

She was raging inside, though none could guess from her impassive gaze. How she hated the tumult of battle! How she hated lives being cut down by the thousands before their time, when the chances of the world were enough trouble for Elves and Men.

A boulder crashed a few feet below her. The stone wall of the Norbury of the Kings seemed to have endured the blow, but she saw cracks appear in it, the ravages of war seeking to increase its foothold in this great city of Men. Soon, this, too, shall crumble.

“Yes, we must,” she said, turning suddenly around and walking swiftly ahead of her guard to the King’s sanctum.

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post

Erenor had held herself in readiness for this long expected day and she was ready to leave. Her possessions were sparse and she had abandoned all that would not be useful in whatever circumstance lay ahead. Left in her chamber were robes of state and she had burnt many documents - all were useless now but she would not have them fall in the hands of the enemy. Dressed in warm travelling clothes, a tunic covering her mailshirt and buckled her sword belt, she shouldered her pack and covered all with a great cloak lined with fur before venturing out to see the state of play.

We have reached endgame at last thought Erenor. She had suspected that defense of the city would prove futile and she had counselled that the city be evacuated sooner, but the king was stubborn and as long as her remained, her duty was to remain as emissary. But there should not be women and children here she thought - mortal women at least. It was not the sights of battle that disturbed her so much as the sound and smell. Part of her wished to join the fight and she would have done had she seen a chance of success. But in such desperate straits, she deemed it better to live to fight another day, but flight was not likely to be a safe option either. Battle would come to her like as not.

She was glad to see Angore she had long noted similarities in temperament and their names had similar meaning. She was not at all offended by his brusque directions and followed with swift feet. There was no time for flowery diplomatic language now. Erenor felt a greater sympathy with her taciturn guard than her fellow emissary. She felt her refusal to bear arms an affectation, a luxury only possible for one surrounded by those who did not share such scruples. Yet she held her tongue; Berethil outranked her in age, blood and experience. At least she hoped she would have made it to the sanctum. The enemy were ever nearer.

[piosenniel]

alaklondewen's post

Ereglin had spent the greater part of the day in anticipation of a call from the king for council. In the early morning, he had surveyed the enemy’s forces from top of the second wall. Wave after wave, the horrid black creatures climbed, scratched, and attacked the walls of the city. Even with the aid of the Elven guard and the halfling army, the forces would not be able to withstand the fury of the enemy for much longer. With this understanding, the Councilor had prepared himself to stand before the king, because surely Arvedui would wish to have Elven guidance with a decision of such importance as what the final move of the city should be. He had sent his guards to fight on the wall in the late morning, and he would await the kings guard to escort him to Arvedui’s towers.

~*~*~

The sun was waning, and the late afternoon light lit the Emissary’s hall with a warm orange glow. Ereglin stood silently in the shadows still waiting for his call to council. He knew it was too late, and he felt like a bitter fool because of it. Many winters had come and gone since Ereglin had come to that city, and he clenched his teeth as he thought of time and energy he spent on the alliance between Lindon and Arthedain and what he had let go so the job would be done...

Ereglin took a deep breath. The clamor in the city was becoming much closer, and the assaults against the wall shook the foundation of the Elf’s hall. Unconsciously his hand slid under his robe and gripped the leather hilt of his sword. A choice would have to be made soon, and if the king wished for one last stand, he would fight once again, alongside his guards. The idea was displeasing. He was a skilled bowman and spent several hours a week in exercise with his sword, so it was not that he did not have the ability. It was not that he was a coward, for he feared not death nor pain. However, his place was at a table with the intellectual, political minds, not in hand to hand combat with filthy beasts.

The Emissary sighed again, and a knock at his door demanded his attention. “Come in.” He called, and a slight hope rose in his chest that one of the king’s guards would enter, summoning him to council.

“Councilor Ereglin, I am pleased to find you here.” One of his young guards strode quickly before him with eyes flashing with adrenaline.

“I would not be elsewhere, Gaeredhel.” Ereglin spoke under his breath, and then he hoped the young guard did not catch the bitterness in his voice. Swallowing the virulence he felt, the Councilor spoke again, more smoothly than before. “What tidings do you bring?”

“The king, sir...he has called for a retreat to the north gate.”

“Very well.” For the third time, Ereglin took a deep breath before he followed Gaeredhel out of the hall and into the streets.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post

Carthor gently shook his broad shoulders in an effort to warm himself. As he did so, a fine layer of snow fell from the heavy fur cloak draped over his armour, falling like sifted flour to the white clad ground. The steel of Carthor’s helm lay piercingly cold upon his head, the freezing nasal causing the bridge of his nose to become numb. Carthor’s gaze lifted from the snow-covered flagstones in front of his feet and looked out across the scene in front of him. The red light from the many burnings throughout the city illuminated his shadowed face, turning his burnished helm blood red. Other men of the rearguard crowded around Carthor’s bulk, all locked away in the private horror of what was befalling. Fornost was dying. Seven hundreds there were standing there, men of the hardy Vanguard of the city, by the gate of the second tier of Fornost, awaiting the brutal foe that was ravaging the first levels of the once fair city. The fires in the lower level poured out a thick black reek, adding its light quelling mass to the already blackened sky. The screams of the dying could still be heard from below. The host of Angmar was drawing out its glorious defilement, in no rush to halt the slaughter. The sun blared sickly and red through the masses of ash filled smoke above, glinting off helms and blades, adding to the already blood-soaked weapons of the orcs.

Carthor was dragged suddenly from his musings as an arrow thudded into the neck of a nearby man, his hot red blood pouring in bursts onto the cobble stones around him in accordance with the life pouring out of his soul. Comrades were covered in it as they rushed to his aid, the salty liquid bitter and burning in their eyes. Still more arrows fell amongst the men, and soon thoughts of aiding friends were exchanged for those of self preservation. Carthor merely adjusted his shield in a more skyward angle and clenched his teeth. This waiting was futile, and only prolonged the fear – already the stench of those who had unwillingly relieved themselves was almost solid in the air. Carthor thought it better to meet your fate sooner than live in fear of the inevitable. Better to die defending the stone of your beloved home than pent up in some hole, or surrounded in the bitter cold waste of the north. The stones below his feet, well laid and smooth could be felt through the thin leather of Carthor’s boots. Closing his eyes, he pawed at the ground with the balls of his feet, the well-known feeling, taking in the last ounce of familiarity, becoming one with the streets of his life-long home. For indeed, it seemed to Carthor now that his home would soon be bereft of all familiarity, would soon become the home of evil things – a city of filth.

The ram booming against the gate to the second layer crashed through the wood and iron mass that held back the torrent of death beyond.
“Men of Fornost!” A voice rang out through the dim light. “Draw thy swords!!”

BOOM

The ringing of steel from scabbard at that time was enough to stir the heart of even the most downcast of the men present.

“For it is now that we make such an end as is worthy of the folk of Numenor - such an end as to be worthy of the minstrels, though none be with living breath enough in the north to sing of it.”

BOOM

“For we, men of the Vanguard, are all that now stands against the filth that would take our homes, defile the houses of our fathers and spread a plague across our lands, the lands we have fought for these many long winters!” “Remember the bodies of your comrades strewn through the snow of our eastern marches, remember the burnt homesteads of our lands – remember the spirits of all those of our kindred slaughtered by this reckless, hateful foe.”

BOOM

“Do not let these memories die! Do not let their sacrifices go in vain! For today my friends, we fight for glory and death. For our city and our people! FOR FORNOST!!!” And as the last words were said, the voice raised to such a tumultuous bellow that the swords of those standing rang out in accord. “FOR FORNOST!!!” The cry came like a thunder clap, like the hooves of the steed of Oromë, as all the voices of the Vanguard rang out together as one.

And so it was that the gate to the second level of Fornost crashed down in ruin upon the feet of the Vanguard of the King. Angmar had broken a dam. The Numenoreans surged forth like stampeding kine into the waiting arms of their besiegers. Like ants swarming over a hillock the great ram was consumed and with it the many orcs around it. The Vanguard plunged through the host of Angmar into the first tier and with it plunged Carthor, son of Aldathor. The orcs holding the gate were rampant in their destruction and were caught unawares, falling back under the wrath of the Numenoreans, swept away like dust in a strong wind, like fuel in a fire.

Dark blood already stained Carthor’s sword, and he went to work with the hand of a seasoned soldier – large strokes and glorious thrusts were a grand way to meet one’s maker, instead, Carthor functioned with the no-nonsense manner he applied to everything. His strokes were controlled and energy efficient, small thrusts flowed into hacking blows and back into parries. Few could withstand Carthor and his mechanical, tick-tock fighting style. No sound passed his lips, pursed in concentration, not a cry was uttered from his throat as he slowly advanced through the ranks of Angmar. A great brutish orc-chieftain stood barring the way of the Vanguard, cleaving those Numenoreans who neared him with a great black flanged mace. Moving aside as the mace whistled past his ear, splintering the ribs of the man next to him, Carthor made a single, deft slash across the brute’s unprotected skull, cleaving a great gash in its left side. With the fall of their captain, many of the orcs fled in terror, more than some fell with black fletched arrows in their chests and white fletched arrows in their backs. The Vanguard halted momentarily to consolidate their strength. Black arrows fell amongst the men, many finding marks. The already dim sky was almost blackened with their bulk as the whistling hornets thudded into shield and chest alike. The forces of Angmar closest to the gate, which now was no more than seventy yards behind the Vanguard, had receded into the shadow of one of the few double storey buildings on the first tier. From here the archers of Angmar brought ruin on the Vanguard, and the men there fell like trees in a forest owned by a timber hungry lord. This building was upon a chief corner shared by the thoroughfare leading to the gates and another prominent byway. The building would be of great use in the prolongation of the fall of the second tier. With shields pressed tightly against one another the vanguard of the Vanguard pressed forth like a wedge towards the looming shape of the building, around which forces at least twice the size of the Vanguard still swarmed. Forwards crawled the Vanguard of Fornost, creeping towards its goal like some immense beast. For every man that fell there to the archers of Angmar, another there was to take his place in the cramped street. The orcs broke like a wave upon the prow of a mighty ship against the steeled ranks of the Vanguard.

Sweat mingled with blood on Carthor’s face, stinging his eyes. The leather under his right hand became slippery with moisture and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the weapon harder. Quickly thrusting into the soft belly of an orc in the midst of a powerful strike, Carthor found himself facing a small, wiry orc of no more than five foot in height. The orc wore leather armour from head to toe, something odd in the maggot folk of Angmar. In its right hand the creature bore a curved, crude scimitar similar to those of his kindred, however, much un-akin to his kind it bore in his left a long, straight dagger with complex guard arrangement designed to entangle an opponent’s weapon. The orc had a look of intelligent ferocity Carthor had seldom seen in its kind. Already the pile of dead Vanguard at this creature’s steel clad feet was large. Wasting no time, Carthor skirted just to his right, parrying a blow from another adversary, and gained a slight angle on the smaller orc. Even throughout having to dispatch two Vanguard, the orc remained fixated on Carthor’s powerful frame. The vile creature slowly inched forwards, probing first with its scimitar into Carthor’s defenses. Finding them, to none of its surprise, quite impenetrable from the forward quarter, the brute tried a quick faint right and downwards before lunging forwards and in on itself. Carthor read the move only at the last, this creature was crafty, and quickly launched a probing lunge of his own. Carthor was suddenly surprised at the ease with which the penetrated this brute’s defenses, it was only at the last second that he saw the long knife on its disguised trajectory towards his abdomen. Carthor slammed the base of his shield down upon the left arm of the orc in its thrust and rolled to his right at the timely moment, his sword hand moving into a stab at the creature’s left flank. The satisfying shock ran familiarly up the length of Carthor’s broadsword. Disentangling himself from the groping limbs of the dying orc, Carthor stepped back. The disgusting creature’s weapons lay forsaken and discarded next to the thing as it slumped down on its knees, both hands attempting to hold its pouring innards into the great slash in its left abdomen. Carthor’s blade whistled as it smashed down upon the creature’s exposed neck, severing flesh and sinew.

Carthor looked around him. The vanguard of the host of Angmar lay dead or dying around him and his fellows. The enemy gathered around the large building had been destroyed or had fled back towards the outer gate. The black arrows that had sped screaming from the upper windows of the building had been silenced by the bright steel of the Vanguard. At the building’s door stood the red and gold banner of the regiment, tattered and bloody, yet glorious in its triumph. The brief respite was opportunity for the archers of the regiment to collect arrow from amongst the slain, many having to resort to the shorter, black tailed arrows of the maggot folk. Wasting no time, Carthor helped order the men back into makeshift companies and fortify the newly taken building, spreading the bulk of the force on the walls facing the outer gate and the thoroughfare.

The glory of the Vanguard however soon became bitter in the mouths of those present. Clearly visible from the upper windows of the building, the host of Angmar was regrouping, and joined by masses of troops from other parts of the tier, was now slowly advancing in organized lines and columns. The numbers of the enemy could only be guessed at in the ruddy light but it seemed that the Vanguard was outnumbered by anything up to twenty to one. Not liking to be holed up, Carthor stood in the middle of the crossroads, which in peacetime was a market square, and surveyed the scene. The force marching upwards towards the Vanguard came bearing torches, setting those building they passed alight. The stench of burning flesh was rancid in the thick air. Screams began to eminate from the windows above him.

‘Well, this is what we are here for.’ Mused Carthor. ‘A glorious death. Somehow it doesn’t seem so glorious to them now…’

The first of the arrows fell blazing through the air and scattered on the cobble stones many yards in front of the first of the Vanguard. The Numenorean bows sang in answer, yet the falling orcs were but leaves off the greater tree. Still, perhaps a branch or two could be severed from that tree before the Vanguard’s end ultimately came…

Once again Carthor’s musings were rudely broken, this time by the masses of raging orcs slamming into the Vanguard. It was the Vanguard that was this time smitten. The host of Angmar was brutal in its fury, breaking both blade and bone, both shield and skull. Slowly the Vanguard fell back under the force of the thrust. Half of its number was killed in that initial charge, the rest it seemed, were soon to join them.

Carthor had his back almost hard up against the stone wall of the building, the ground in front of him a teeming sea of death. The cobbles underfoot ran red with the blood of the Vanguard. Torches were hurled into the upper windows of the building, most falling useless, but others caught before a member of the Vanguard could hastily stamp them out, and soon parts of the upper level were ablaze. It was then that the first of the onagers opened up on the building, their airborne missiles reaping havoc on the white masonry. Carthor disbanded a great orc who had made a daring swipe at his neck. Carthor had ducked in time, but the blow had landed across his protected crown, dazing him somewhat. Dazed or not, the tip of his blade had still found its way into the soft throat of the brute. Lights flashed in his mind, and the scene swirled…

Carthor!

A voice called his name, either in his befuddled head or in the waking world, he was unsure.

Carthor!

Staggering, he moved towards where the voice seemed to be calling from.

Carthor!!

The tone of the voice had suddenly changed to that of pleading. Someone needed him…
Carthor son of Aldathor pressed forwards under the eaves of the great building, unseen or unheeded by the masses of foes around him.

A great stone, hurled through the murky air and smashed into the crumbling wall of the building. Debris, both wood and stone, crashed its fiery ruin upon the cobbled street. A large beam fell crashing on Carthor’s helmed head and he fell to the ground.

Horns… Horns blowing… Have I met the hunting party of Oromë at last?

Darkness took Carthor son of Aldathor and he knew no more…

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial's post

Faerim threw himself down against the remains of the wall he had posted himself behind, his hands covering his head, as the top of the wall exploded and the rubble rained down on his light hair and face. Scrabbling back onto his knees, the youth brushed the debris from his clothes hastily and peered forward through what had been an arrow slit in the wall. His light eyes scanned outwards across the lower level and beyond, and widened as his gaze followed the black masses further and further outwards. His skin paled further beneath the light spattering of freckles as the full extent of the black army, and how little they seemed affected by the desperate army of Fornost – or what was little of them. Beneath him, on the lower level where a few orcs had breached the walls, chaos reigned: houses burned and smoked, the fell flood surged over the rubble, and from above, Faerim could hear the screams of those who had fallen prey to the catapult shots and arrows of the enemy. And all the time came that irrepressable booming of the ram hitting the gates...

Wrenching his horrified gaze from the scene below and turning his back to the wall, the youth pulled open his quiver of arrows and counted those that remained – a laughable four, and one so cracked that he doubted it would fly. He swore under his breath and looked back through the arrow slit to the lower level. Loading his bow with arrow number one, he scanned the area and picked out one particularly despicable individual who, along with a second orc, was hacking at the door of a house with a pitted axe. The opposite of his younger brother, Faerim’s sight was excellent, so that some had sniped before that the seventeen year old had got the eyesight for the both of them: as a result of his eyesight, the youth could see every detail of the vile creature, down to fresh bloodstains around it’s hands. Feeling sick at the thought of whose blood that might be, the young man sighted briefly and fired.

The orc fell backwards with a satisfying yell, the axe falling from it’s stumpy digits as it clutched, unseeing, at the arrow now embedded deep in it’s chest. Beside it, orc number two gave a snarl of surprise and followed the line of the arrow upwards until it came eye to eye with Faerim. He could feel it’s eyes on him through the arrow slit, but it wouldn’t last for long: defiant until the last, the archer gave a quick wink and loosed his second precious arrow. Not waiting to see whether it found it’s mark, he looked about searched the lower area and prepared to let off one more of his arrows towards another orc. But as he did so, a deafening scream came from along the wall beside him and a soldier toppled off, a crossbow bolt buried in his chest. The sound caused Faerim to jump at the last second almost wasting the shot. Twisting his mouth in irritation, the young man re-sighted, his muscles tensed to shoot-

The gates swung open.

With yells from the men and inhuma roars from the black hordes, the enemy poured into the city of Fornost. Faerim's arrow fly awry, lost in the masses, but the youth barely noticed, his horrified eyes fixed on ther scene below as beasts twice as tall as a man attacked the army of his city, battering them aside with brutal weapons. And his father was below...

Faerim took a deep breath and strung his bow with the fourth arrow – and then realised that it was indeed his last. Have to be careful when you’re out on a limb, that’s what Brander—

Brander. Dammit, his younger brother – where was he? He had been in the manor house, with their mother, but now…a fresh sluice of fear washed over Faerim. His father would be fighting in the frey below, a swordsman as he was, but at least he had some way of protecting himself - but a vivid image of the orcs, flowing from every side into the room around his blind brother, drove itself into his mind. Brander wouldn't stand a chance. Saving the last arrow, the Dunedain youth checked his sword and, in a strange crouched position, ran across to the shelter nearest to the wall where he had been crouched. Darting inside, he slipped quickly past the other soldiers there, taking on a busy air that meant none stopped him, the sprinted across the courtyard at the back towards the street of larger houses on the second level on the outer wall.

Of course, Faerim was under no impressions of his brother being helpless – for years, Brander had made it painfully clear, both to his older brother and to his parents, that he was determined to be as independent as possible. But, Faerim mused angrily, that independence – being able to look after himself in a domestic situation – was frankly worth nothing in this situation. What Faerim valued – his strength, agility, speed and skill with weapons – were nothing to Brander: a sword, or even a knife, would be more of a liability that an aid to the blind boy.

The white stone of a beautifully delicate, ancient spire, reaching so high it split the sky, suddenly shattered as a barrage of stones hit it. The debris pratically exploded and huge chunks of the base fell to the ground, coming so close to crushing Faerim that his cloak caught beneath it as he rolled agiley, coming to rest on one knee in the shadow of one of the houses. Breathlessly, without taking time to compose himself, he wrenched his cloak from beneath the shattered remains of the face of some ancient statue and kicked the side door of the house open. Half jogging in, he heard a noise from the landing above and fell to a crouch to slip one of his knives from the inside of his left boot. Satisfied that the noise had ceased, he took the stairs of the grand, sweeping staircase three at a time, cloak flying out behind him as he yelled for his brother – it was only a matter of time before the enemy broke through, and surely one of the captains would have arranged something? Either way, he needed to find out and bearing in mind he hadn’t an idea where his father might be now, he needed to make sure Brander and his mother were safe. “Brander? Brander!”

[piosenniel]

Nuranar's post

Lissi had been up since before dawn. The hideous clamor of battle reverberated through the air and penetrated every corner of the house. Tremors ran through the floor and walls as the city trembled with each projectile’s impact. Even the heavy storm shutters could not shut out the hellish glare of the fires. The red glow gave her bedroom such an alien appearance that Lissi buried her head in the blankets to shut the terrifying vision out. An instant later she jerked upright in shame and pride and slid out of bed. If she could not sleep, at least she would not cower in bed like a child afraid of shadows!

Lissi pattered across the room and defiantly flung open the shutters. Then she dressed with deliberate concentration in the weird light. Close-fitting underdress, deep red wool, laced on both sides, tight buttoned-up sleeves. Dark brown overdress, front-lacing, flared sleeves. Woolen hose and leather shoes. Small work knife, hanging from an old leather belt, around her waist. Heavy shawl around her shoulders, held together in the front by a brooch. Lissi laced every lace, buttoned every button, and arranged every fold of her raiment with scrupulous care. Moving to the polished metal mirror hanging on her wall, she arranged her hair. The white face she saw, framed by little natural curls, gazed back with calm approval as she braided her long black tresses into two braids and tied on her winter hood. Then for a moment Lissi’s busy fingers stopped, and she bowed her head.

A dull splintering thud rattled the furniture. The next instant Lissi found herself on the balcony in the next room, grey eyes straining to see the battle in the lurid light of the flames. Until the weak light of the winter sun illumined the heavy grey clouds, Lissi stayed on the balconey. She paced the whole time. At first she told herself she was keeping warm. But as she paced she thought, and as she thought her stride grew faster with nervous energy. If she only knew exactly what was happening! All she could do now was think – and think – and think.

For weeks Lissi had been thinking. It began with planning, then went to packing, but the thinking never stopped: thinking, always thinking – pondering the siege, imagining scenarios, devising a response to every one, preparing for every eventuality, desperately seeking a way to escape. Escape! What she wanted most in the world, and what she could not find. Despite all her intelligence, she could think of no escape. On the contrary, the merciless logic of her mind only built up the evidence of defeat. Of all helpless feelings this was the worst. The city was crumbling around her, her people were dying, the enemy was coming – and she could do nothing.

If she was fated to escape, escape would have to come to her, for she knew not where to find it. And if it came she would be ready. She had several packs ready to leave, and her husband’s stave was ever to hand. At the last she would leave the house, she and her blind son Brander. Lissi had scarcely seen her husband Carthor since the siege began, although she knew that if he had fallen word would have come. And her other son Faerim – he, too, was fighting, although he often came home to check on them.

But when the pale grey light of winter touched the cracked and scorched walls, she resolutely for herself from her perch. “Madam Lissielle, you will drive yourself mad if you continue in this way,” she scolded as she fled down the stairs. “You will go scrub that filthy kitchen floor until it shines, or until…” She broke off, then gave her head a little shake and hurried into the kitchen.

Ironically enough, Lissi found intense relief in her task. After laying aside her cloak – the exercise would keep her warm – and rolling up her sleeves, she threw herself into her work. She tended the fire, heated water, scrubbed the worn brick floor, and rinsed it clean with a zeal and absorption far from usual. Her anger and fear found release in attacking the mud and grease and soot that spotted the floor, and the harder she scrubbed the harder it was to hear the commotion outside. And nothing occurred to interrupt her. The house itself was almost eerily silent, Brander’s quiet movements upstairs almost unheard.

Lissi’s movements became more mechanical. She recalled her first sight of the hordes of Angmar: Rising from the eastern horizon, they spread like a black wave across the fields where she had been wont to ride, darkened the bare and lifeless land, and poured relentlessly on, lapping even at the Fornost walls. In that moment she had not felt terror. She had scarcely been afraid. But she knew. With the blood-knowledge and instinct of a hundred generations of warriors, she saw the remorseless inevitability of the coming defeat. She stood alone in that knowledge and looked into it without flinching. That evening Lissi had bade her dear husband farewell – for he was dear, if not beloved – with a smile, and watched him march to the defense of the walls. But she lay awake all night. The bitter import of defeat did not register until the darkest hour, just before dawn. And then she wept, in slow, anguished sobs, for the sheer heartbreak and tragedy of it all. But she had not shed a tear since. She only thought.

With a sigh Lissi rose to her feet, finished. As she tidied up the kitchen she felt the old gentle pride of a gentler time, the serene knowledge of a job well done. Smiling at herself, only half mockingly, she rolled down her sleeves and rearranged her clothes. Lissi was buttoning her sleeve when a crash sounded from the other side of the house, followed by quick footsteps and then silence. Side door, she thought, even as she slipped out of the kitchen, heart throbbing painfully. She had just lifted down Carthor’s bladed stave when Faerim’s voice echoed through the house. “Brander? Brander!”

Lissi gasped in relief, clutching the reassuring weight of the stave. She dashed out to the hall just in time to see her elder son vanish up the stairs, still calling for his brother. “Son! Faerim! What is it?” she cried. He was still safe! And news – at last!

[piosenniel]

Novnarwen's post

Brander had been sitting on a wooden stool for several hours now, in the middle of the bedroom, second floor of his family’s residence. Silently, he listened to the noises that filled the air. By hearing the sound of steel against steel, the cries of pain and roars of either personal victory or of horror, the blind boy managed to make images in his head of every aspect of the battle. He could almost see the soldiers struggling against hordes of Angmar, trying to manoeuvre the enemy into defeat. He could see everything so clearly, probably clearer than others who had a perfect vision; the sky was dark, choking every happy moment in the soldiers’ memory as they fought what seemed to be an endless battle. As a carpet, the heavy clouds lay floating over them, deep and threatening, suppressing every good feeling which still remained in their tired bodies. Fright and terror took command over them and forced the men to turn around to meet their worst fear; not the orcs themselves, but death. Death and defeat. They knew in their hearts that they, soldiers, were the symbol of hope during this battle; if they were defeated, there would be no hope left.

At times when he sat there, quietly by himself, feeling useless and weak, his brother, Faerim, and his father, Carthor, appeared in a long series of images, both in the ongoing battle. Did any of the cries of pain and despair belong to them? He wondered. Brander had never cared much for his father. He neither loved nor hated him. Indifference, one could call it. Now however, realising that death was so close, he felt badly about his feelings towards the man who had bred and fed him. Was he not grateful for what his father, and mother, had given him? To some extent he was, Brander admitted. The problem was not what Carthor had given him, it was what he hadn’t, which, in Brander’s eyes, were far more important than other things. His father had never given him what most fathers gave their sons, such as confidence, trust and responsibility. Carthor had never been proud of him either, partly because Brander had never really achieved anything significant, which was most due to his blindness, but Carthor had never given him the chance to do anything either. Brander tried being independent, tried trusting his own abilities more than others’ willingness to help, but it was hard when he was always being looked down on, not only by his father, but also by others. Society in general seemed to hate the fact that he was blind and decided thus to ignore him. He was educated and young; it should not be hard for a man like himself to get work. In his case it was however. Brander had tried many a time, but everything had resulted in the same manner.

He closed his eyes hard, tried thinking about something else; in fact, anything else. His mind failed him. His father was out there; he was indifferent about what happened to him. He hoped on the other hand, that his brother would return home safely. He and his mother Lissi had expected Faerim for the last hour, but his brother had not come back. What ill has befallen him? Brander wondered. Even though his brother was always favoured by their father, he loved his brother. There were few who treated him the way he did, equally and with respect. If Faerim died, Brander would also.

**

Slowly, time went by. It seemed that while he’d been sitting on the stool, thinking about his brother and father and listening to the sounds from the ever growing battlefield just inside the walls of Fornost, he had forgotten how hungry and how tired he was. Now drowsiness was sneaking upon him, as a sly enemy, making his eyelids heavy. He stood up and walked silently over to the bed in the corner of the room. His brother would come; in the meantime, he could sleep.

Everything he’d heard when being awake, the sound of the wall falling and the men crying, had surely been tucked into his sub consciousness and was currently depriving him of the good sleep usually brings. The images he had so effectively and eagerly created, haunted him. The uneasiness he felt could be seen as pearls of sweat bathed his forehead and doubled quickly in number. He lay trembling with fear as the face, or the image, of Faerim appeared in front of him. His whole figure seemed to rise up in front of him, enlarging by every second passing. Suddenly, a bow, right in front of him, was spent. An arrow, as fast as the eagles fly, ran through the air, almost touching the dark clouds; its target had been carefully planned in advance. A scream of horror echoed. A man sunk to the ground, his face halfway buried in the sand. He writhed in pain, rolling back and forth, until he rolled no longer. The features in his sombre face could be determined by a weak source of light; the image of the pale face belonged to without a doubt his dear brother Faerim.

Brander opened his eyes wide. With tears in his eyes, he realised that the arrow had not been sent by his brother; the bow had been spent by an unknown enemy, hidden in the shadows. He rose quickly to his feet, greatly alarmed by this frightening, but yet realistic dream. “It cannot be true,” he muttered to himself, “It cannot.” He wanted to call for his mother, but the thought of making her worried with his dream, seemed to be the dumbest thing he could do. After all, it was only a dream. Nothing more. When thinking it through though, he realised that the man in the dream might as well have been his father. I’m blind, he thought, I don’t know how either of them look like. It’s only an image, an image of a person I don’t know. This seemed to comfort him, and with renewed hope in seeing his brother come home soon, he took his position on the stool again and waited.

[piosenniel]

Saurreg's post:

The hellish tongues of flames licked the smog-filled sky lustily and illuminated the remaining buildings and standing walls of the lower city with an eerie glow. At the base of the south gate, thousands of Arthedain soldiers charged into glorious combat like an unstoppable torrent bursting from a dam. Their shiny helms shone fiery bright with the reflected light from the fires as did their ready weapons. Onwards they charged, and a host of war cries greeted the darkened sky air, joining in the distinct blare of countless brass, the powerful treble of war drums and the earthshaking reverberation of metallic soled feet thundering across the city ground. Arthedain was on the attack again and the Rearguard was leading.

Belegorn let out a roar and lowered his sword onto the head of a hapless orc sprawled at the base of his feet. The sharp blade cleaved through the black iron helm effortlessly and split the vile creature’s head in two. Just as the first lieutenant delivered the coup de grâce to his latest victim, a huge man – an easterling mercenary of Angmar no doubt, charged towards him with both hands grasping a huge bloodstained battleaxe. Bellowing like a feral beast, the fearsome warrior attempted to smite Belegorn with a single blow from his dreadful weapon but the Dúnedain leapt agility aside in the nick of time. The great axe missed and its bit met and penetrated the ground instead, throwing its wielder off balance. Grabbing the greasy locks of his assailant with his powerful left hand, Belegorn yanked forcefully and tilted the man’s head back, exposing his neck. He then pressed the cold blade of his sword on the laryngeal prominence and pulled back swiftly along the blade’s length. A crimson spray emitted almost immediately much to Belegorn’s satisfaction.

All around him other soldiers were also in the midst of mortal combat. Archers delivered their steel tipped arrows in volleys with deadly accuracy while halberdiers and pikemen charged shoulder to shoulder and literally overran anything in their way. Tough man-at-arms of the line and skillful skirmishers finished off any enemy that escaped the said unstoppable human fence, just as what Belegorn was doing. The impetus of the sortie had thrown the enemy off balance and Belegorn was eager to exploit the opening created.

He lifted the horn of a mountain onyx and blew with his might so that all around him could hear,

“ONWARDS CHILDREN! PUSH ON! PUSH ON!”

Belegorn saw his regimental flag bearer huddled to the rear and called to him in his mighty voice,

“TO ME! AVANT BANNER!”

Belegorn and the flag bearer carrying his fluttering green pennon dashed towards the frontlines. Those who saw the advance of the banner let out a cry of triumph and followed suite. The sortie led by the rearguard continued to surge forwards irresistibly overwhelming everything in its path.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Hearing no reply, Faerim swore under his breath and leapt towards the stairs, taking them three at a time. Why was Brander not replying? And where was his mother? The orcs had not yet reached their level, but... hearing footsteps, the youth spun around, his sword out and pointing in the direction of the noise as he paused mid-step.

"Son! Faerim! What is it?" Lissi's anxious face looked up at him from beneath him. Faerim sagged visibly with relief, grinning widely at his mother. "Mother...Brander, where is he?"

"I'm here." Brander's soft, reassuring voice came from the top of the stairs as the blind boy walked down them assuredly, but with his hand gripping the banister carefully. "You aren't hurt, Faerim?"

Faerim grinned, laughing breathlessly as he took his brother's hand to stop him, and clasping it in his own. "Me, brother? The orcs were running scared away from me!"


Brander smiled, his hand coming up to Faerim's face as if he was checking him over. But there wasn't a second to spare. "Your father, Faerim - did you see him?" Lissi sounded anxious, coming to the bottom of the stairs. Her eldest son turned to face her, coming down the stairs quickly as he shook his head, pushing his long, fine blonde hair out of his face as he did so, his expression impassive, still breathless. "He was on the ground level, mother; I was above, with the archers. I...I did not see Carthor when the orcs took the ground level."

Lissi's eyes opened wide and she raised a hand to her mouth. "They have already taken over the ground level."

Faerim clenched his jaw tightly as he nodded. He was about to speak when he heard a scream, very suddenly, from far closer than he would have expected, and his head snapped to the side, his fist clenching over the sword that he still held. Vaulting the banister, the youth landed hard on the wooden floor but took no notice of the jarring in his ankles as he ran to the window and looked through the slit between the shutters down the street. There, coming down the street, were at least half a dozen of the vile orcs: he could see them so closely, barely twenty feet away, their foul laughter echoing down the street as they battered their way into the houses. The screams of women came from the houses all around, the men being away fighting, and the orcs simply raised their heads and laughed. Faerim felt sick. How had they managed to get to this level? And the orcs were like a breaking dam: where there was a trickle, there would soon be a crushing torrent.

He couldn't help gasping quietly in horror, and his mother picked up on it, coming to his side. "What? What is the matter, Faerim?"

Faerim pushed his mother gently back, trying to keep her away so that she wouldn't see the vile creatures, shaking his head silently, but Lissi pushed past him, looking through the slit. As soon as she saw the orcs, she opened her mouth, making to speak, but Faerim put his finger to her lips, shaking his head urgently. "We need to get out as quietly as possible, mother - they cannot know we are here," he murmured softly. Lissi, her eyes wide and bright, nodded mutely. "Go, please, get a cloak for yourself and Brander - I will get the horses ready." With that, he was gone, sprinting out of the door quickly as Lissi, pausing only for a second, flew up the stairs in a whirlwind of skirts to prepare herself and Brander. Faerim was glad for his mother's sensibility: he needed it now, when he was required, for once in his life, to be responsible. It was something he had otherwise managed to pretty well avoid...

The family, unlike most, had their own stables in use, at the side of the house, joining through the cellar: you went down the stairs to the cellar and up those which led to the servant's quarters, almost seperate from the main house: by going up these steps, you entered the side of the stables. Not, of course, that they were particularly vibrant: there was space for a dozen horses in the high ceilinged, spacious stalls, but what use had they for a dozen horses? There was only an old widow next door with no interest in equine activities of any sort, and Carthor had gambled away much of the family's money - they had no excess for more than was needed. But despite their slowly dwindling fortune, Carthor had always held firm to one principle: that his horse was never to be sold, and that his sons were always going to be able to hold their heads high and ride their own horses. It was an ironic twist, then, when Carthor discovered that one of his sons would never be able to ride independantly, but his wife had persuaded him to keep the horse, being herself a keen horseman. Grudgingly, Carthor had agreed, doing simply what would please his delicate young wife and avoid hassle for himself. Faerim found himself especially thankful for this as he ascended the few steps quickly and tried to push open the door. It wouldn't move: locked, and the key probably knocked out by the thuds that shook the city and the houses. Rather than wasting time on looking in the dingy, unlit room, Faerim simply took a step backwards and kicked the door open with all his might. It splintered loudly and he winced at the noise, then entered the stables and quickly ran down to where the horses were kept.

Faerim's own horse, simply named North, had been a gift out of practicality when the boy was thirteen and had outgrown the docile, delicate steed that he had learnt to ride on as a boy. Both father and son had been determined that Faerim would join the military and so, as a sort of coming of age gift, the newly broken in, powerful black stallion had been given to him: and since then, with Faerim now seventeen and North the same, both steed and master had fleshed out nicely, the latter growing into the war horse that he had always been intended to be. North whinnied quietly as his master approached and stamped uneasily hay-strewn floor, tossing his great black head, nervous of the thumps and sudden flashes that could be seen dully through the dirty, high windows of the stables. Faerim laid a hand gently on his horse's muzzle, stroking his fingers down the long white stripe that ran down the horse's nose, making a soft, soothing 'shushing sound as he unbolted the stall door, and saddled and bridled North deftly. Coming out again, the boy now faced a hard decision.

His mother's wish to keep a horse of her own would serve them well now. The creature was a delicate looking mare, tailored to fit a growing boy and to teach him to ride well on a challenging steed. Brander had never used the horse independantly though, but the mare was perfect for Lissi: dappled grey, it's intelligent eyes dark and quiet, a good natured beast. But those eyes were now wide, the whites showing brightly as the horse neighed, terrified of the noises outside. In the stall beside this was another horse: Carthor's. To look at this horse, one could never be in doubt of it's purpose as a war-horse: as scarred and ancient as it's owner, the creature was as powerful a beast as ever walked Middle Earth, it's broad shoulders and wide, muscled girth having seen Carthor through very many long winters and expeditions. The horse barely fidgeted in it's stall, instead looking at Faerim with a deep, trusting understanding of the noises outside, quiet and calm.

The Dunedain youth hesitated, looking from his mother's mare to his father's war-horse. The latter would be more practical - a war horse would be more enduring, and there was less chance of it frighting as they rode through the streets. And what if Carthor returned? He would need his horse. But to ask Lissi to leave behind her mare... Faerim shook his head and unbolted the mare's door, taking only as brief a second as was possible to try to calm the horse before he began to saddle her up. He would have to take all three.

Having saddled up and bridled all three horses, Faerim tied together the bridles of North and Carthor's horse with a long piece of twine rope: long enough and strong so they would be able to ride together, but not so strong that one horse would not be able to break free of the other if one was injured or killed. Angry at the time he had wasted in deliberating which horse to choose, Faerim moved quickly, quickly packing up some horsefeed and lashing it to North's saddle. Then he stopped once more, as he reached the door, catching sight of what sat beside it...

"Mother, Brander!" Faerim immediately regretted shouting and clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms as he looked around alertly at the street at the back of the house. No sign of any orcs yet...

The door swung open and Lissiel and Brander ran out, Lissi guiding her son with a light hand. She held in her hand a sack, which looked alarmingly heavy and unwieldy to Faerim. "Mother, we can't take-"

Lissi shushed Faerim with a wave of her hand. "We'll take these, Faerim, it isn't much. Here-" She slipped a very full quiver of arrows of her back and handed it to her son. "I thought you might need these - you haven't any left there."

Faerim blushed at his foolishly, the red vivid against his pale skin, and counted his blessings for his mother's observant and practical nature, whilst simultaneously feeling ridiculous for not organising himself. His mother had also equipped herself with one of his father's weapons: a bladed staff. But Faerim nonetheless felt it his duty to give her what he had brought as well. He took a sheathed short sword from where he had hung it on North's saddle, and handed it to her. "Here: this would be more useful when riding. What on earth have you got in that sack? And can you use that staff well?" he added, eyeing the other weapon. Lissi simply smiled knowingly and raised her eyebrows before she turned to the grey mare and mounted smoothly. Faerim raised one of his own and grinned at her, despite their desperate situation, then turned to Brander, taking the other item he had picked up from the stables. "Brander - something for you to defend yourself..."

The younger boy took the weapon, his expression confused: they both knew that a blade would hardly help him in a desperate situation. But as he felt over the object, his face brightened in understanding, and Brander smiled at Faerim hesitantly. "A staff..."

"More like a club really: it can't hurt you but you're strong enough to fairly do some damage with it." Although Brander couldn't see it, Faerim's smile was audible in his voice, and Faerim saw his brother almost glowing with pride at the responsibility. Nodding, satisfied that they were ready and without a second to lose, Faerim helped his brother up into the saddle then mounted quickly in front of him. Settling them both, Brander's hands around his waist lightly, the quiver of arrows slung awkardly across his back with the bow, and his sword in the saddle-sheath, Faerim took a deep breath. He had been working on auto-mode so far: he was just waiting to fall apart. Looking across at his mother, Faerim noted the bright grey light that seemed to shine out of her eyes, making them almost otherworldly. Seeing him looking, Lissi turned to her son and smiled nervously, her calm nature reassuring without saying a word. Faerim took another deep breath, squeezed his brother's hand lightly, and, with that, the family began their exodus, making their way along the street from which they would head to the Inner Sanctum. Surely the orcs couldn't get there as well...

[CaptainofDespair]

Hot, and acrid air swirled about the doomed city, a mixture of the fires consuming unnumbered corpses, the reek of the recently slain, and the sweat and tears of the populace. The ghastly smell was only matched by the equally sickening screams and howls of those who were left to the menace of the orcs. The sounds were distant, but for the young Mitharan, they were all too near and dear. Standing at the gateway of the final tier of the city’s defenses, he watched in horror, unable to save those who were now marked by death.

Turning to one of his guardsmen, who muttered a few choice words. “It is for the better, that they die now. At least they will not live to see the next dawn...” He struggled to force out the last words. “...which shall usher in the fall of our once mighty people.” A minute tear formed in the corner of his eye, but he brushed it away as quickly as it had formed. His guardsmen stared forward, unmoving and seemingly unfeeling, bearing countenances similar to that of statues.

Suddenly, another projectile came hurtling towards their position, but it was stopped by the sanctum’s walls, which shuddered under the shock of the hit. A few archers from the regular army had remained behind on the wall, rather than to push out to halt the progress of the orcs, with their comrades. They had been where the projectile had smashed into the ramparts, but they stood there no longer. Muffled screams had been heard, but they were soon pushed out of memory, to prepare for the new array of senses which bombarded all of those who were still alive.

With cloaks fluttering in the rancid breeze, Mitharan and his entourage strode out into the war-torn, and ruined tier which lay before them. As they went forth, the counselor offered a few bits of encouragement to his personal guard. “Prepare your hearts and minds, my brave allies. We go forth, to meet horrors unknown. But take heart, for there are many enemies to slay before we are to be stricken down, or recalled to evacuate.” His men gave a “Hurrah!”, and hardened their hearts for battle.

They quickly passed the rearguard stationed at the gateway of the inner sanctum. Giving a nod to the posted soldiers, the small party issued forth, entering the lower parts of the city, on the wings of caution. The dead were strewn everywhere, slumped against crates and buildings, and scattered throughout the streets. The smell as almost enough to unnerve the group, and drive them back into the sanctum. But, they carried on, wandering through the emptiness that had engulfed the alleys and side passageways. Soldier, orc, and civilian were all at the mercy of death, left to fend for themselves in the chaos of war. While they wandered, a muffled screaming could be heard emanating from a small home. Inside, orcs searched, and pursued the occupants, who had hoped to hide from the disfigured, hideous orcs. Though urgency dictated that he should move up to help those fighters on the main battle line, morality urged him to enter the home, and execute the orcs for their crimes.

Mitharan, flanked by his guard, burst in through the door, to find an orc holding a whimpering young girl by the hair, preparing to slit her throat. But, with innate agility, the counselor beat out the orc, hurling a small knife into its own throat, leaving it gasping for breath, as it fell to the floor in a pool of its own black blood. Mitharan, kneeling, spoke to the girl, in a whisper, after scanning her over for any pressing wounds. “Where is your mother, child?” The girl, still in shock, pointed to the back of the house. “Good girl...Now wait here with these men, while I go get your mother.” Cautiously, the young statesmen moved to the rear of the house, listening for any sounds, while two of his guards brought up the rear. Sweeping quickly into the next room, the two guards fanned out, slaying two orcs who were caught in the midst of their vicious reveling. Mitharan himself jumped a piece of broken furniture, thrusting his sword into the gut of a third orc, ending its life with a slash delivered to the frontal section of its vile skull, spilling brain matter onto the floor, as the creature’s body crashed through a rectangular table. The girl’s mother was quickly found, huddled underneath another miscellaneous piece of furniture. She had a few wounds, each oozing fresh blood, but none were life threatening, for the moment. Now, an escape was needed. He quickly gave an order to a few of his guardsmen. “Take these two back to the sanctum. Rejoin us when you have done this.” They nodded, in acknowledgment, and quickly gathered the girl and her mother, and whisked them out into the streets, back towards the only remaining safe ground in the city.

Mitharan, and his remaining handful of guards, were equally as quick in getting back out into the street. They went in great haste, for dire circumstance would befall them if they did not locate the main body of the remaining defenders within the tier. Rushing through the stricken city, they forced their way past collapsed buildings, overturned carts, and the countless bodies of the dead. At last, after following the sounds of battle, they burst out from an alley, into an empty street. “There’s no one here, milord,” muttered one the soldiers. “I can see that. I was sure they were here. From the walls I saw this spot, and I saw the carnage of battle...” The counselor sulked, demoralized. Then, the earth shuddered, and began to quake. The sounds of feet, ironshod feet, those of orcs, came rumbling forth, and encircled them. “We’re trapped, milord.” The soldier caught the glare of his lord. “Yes, I can see that quite well.”

Grunting and hissing, the orcs issued forth from the shadows, as if they were a great, impenetrable wall, one which no man could enter. The ravenous lust for battle, bloodshed, and death, drove these orcs to the point where any number of foes, no matter how small, would be hunted down and massacred, without quarter. Ever so slowly, they pressed in, forming a wall of bodies that could only be broken by strength of arms. There were not many, but it was more than enough to outnumber Mitharan and his guard. Then, they came. In small groups they rushed out from their line, to give an attempt at slaying their foes. They were all quickly dispatched, with helms splintered, innards disemboweled, and heads cleaved clean off. The soldiers fought valiantly alongside their lord, but it was not enough. The orcs now attacked en masse, and a free for all melee ensued, tossing organization to the wind. But slowly, each man was hemmed in, cut off from his brothers, and left to fend for himself. But, without warning, a horn blew from the street leading back to the sanctum.

The few guardsmen that had been sent off to escort the woman and child, had returned, with aid. Mitharan’s father, learning of his son’s mind, gathered his own loyal guards, and went out to bring him back. This twist of events emboldened Mitharan and his entrapped guard. They now fought harder, and with allies pressing in from the outside, the orcs were in dire straits. And then, the orcs broke rank, and fled back from whence they came. But the young counselor would not let them escape so easily. He hunted down the few stragglers, and brought swift death to them, hacking off their heads, which spewed charred blood into the streets. His father however, bearing a sounder mind, grabbed his son by the shoulder, and attempted to instill some form of reason into his mind. “My son, you cannot save the city. However valiant you may be, you cannot prevail with such small numbers. Please, gather your senses, and return back to the sanctum. We are to begin preparing for evacuation.” Mitharan, seeing the reason his father preached, sighed, and turned to flee back to the well protected sanctum. Then, he pointed to a few guards. “Take the bodies of our fallen comrades. We shall not leave them to the orcs, for they derive strength from feasting on the corpses.”

[Arry]

Rôsgollo

Rôsgollo’s search for Lord Ereglin bore no fruit, save for increasing understanding that he must get to the top level if her were to survive to see his Lord and brother to safety. Gaeredhel, where are you? he called as he ran. But heat from the fires spreading from the parapet and the swell of battle as the Orcs breached the gates pressed in upon him and he could spare no time to look for an answering call. He retreated in haste to the western passageway slipping in just as the gates were closed and barred against the enemy. Breathing hard, he stood for a moment with his back against the stonework.

My brother, I am here with Lord Ereglin. He is safe. Come! Gaeredhel’s urgent call lifted a corner of the pervading shadow that cast a pall over sight and senses.

The enemy was already bearing down on the entryway to the third level as Rôsgollo climbed the steps up from the now closed gates. He paused at the top, making way as reinforcements of the city’s forces hurried to fortify their positions. Before heading to where his brother and Lord Ereglin were, Rôsgollo made his way up to the parapet that looked down on the second level. A dark river swelled into the streets below, leaving eddies of red and the sounds of screams and cut off cries as it surged against any who stood in its way. In some small places, there were brighter swords raised and the singing of arrows as they rushed in vain hope toward their targets. But the small points of light were borne under by the unrelenting current of the dark river. In vain, he looked for the Periannath, but could not find them below, nor did he see them along the parapet on this tier. With a grim face, he headed toward the hall where Lord Ereglin had been housed. From there he would make for the North Gate, intending to find his brother as he escorted Lord Ereglin to the escape way.

He paused to ask a question of one of the King’s men set as guard at the quarters where the Elves were staying. The man was just preparing to leave to join the other troops when Rôsgollo ran up. ‘They’ve all gone, the Elves have,’ the man told him. ‘They’ll be gathering in the King’s Hall with Minister Mellonar before they head to the North Gate.’ Rôsgollo thanked the man and ran on toward the Hall. An image and a thought niggled at the back of his mind as he sped on.

A thin, pale man, hunched beneath his robes . . . a vulture, waiting to feed on the dead . . . Rôsgollo narrowed his eyes at the image. . . . Any dead . . . Vultures are not picky when it comes to feeding, he thought. He must warn his brother . . . the man may bear watching . . .

[Kransha]

Hírvegil’s troops diffused through the city as ripples in water, spreading into the alleys and side-streets of lower Fornost. Trying to exterminate the scattered orcs who had broken through into the city, the Rearguard managed to overwhelm most of the second level, since few orcs had gotten near enough to the third wall to be able to stand a chance against the full Rearguard. The Angmar-hordes, however, had by now fully broken through, and were surging into the districts, setting fire to all they saw, tearing walls, rending roofs, and befouling the once-great city with their stink and blood.

Hirvegil himself stayed near the front of one of the groups spearheading forward towards the gate, down the broad central road that led from one gate to the next. Passing ruined fountains with derelict, crumbled architecture, the company cut down the few disorganized bands of goblins that stood before them as the visage of the splintered second wall grew before them. As they bounded towards it, they saw the orc-host growing with the sight of smoke and death, which rose like a massive storm cloud overhead and a surge of ash and geysers of smog from below. The orcs were clashing with the very skewed remnants of the Vanguard, and some divisions of the Midguard which had been stationed in the city. Both were decimated, and their ranks failing as the orcs pushed forward. The rearguard did the same, driving towards the fallen gates and walls as companies branched out into the city. Guards had been dispatched to fetch the Elves some time ago, and it would not be long before all of the Elven diplomats were accounted for, and the citizens of Fornost were grouped in the inner sanctum for evacuation. All was going well, even if the city was falling.

Then, a greater shadow then ever before fell upon the city and a new and terrifying sound replaced all others.

That terrible sound would haunt Hírvegil until his days’ end. It was no shriek, nor scream, nor cry, nor any sound belonging to man, but a ghastly noise that wrenched him from the world and ripped sharply and deeply into him. He felt blackness and shadow, flowing through him as if it had overwhelmed the blood in his veins and stopped up his heart. With a groan of pain and anguish, he reeled. He looked about him, and saw that his troops were likewise wrenched from themselves for a moment, and many teetered clumsily upon their legs. But, as the soldiers of Fornost quailed, those of Angmar swelled and hooted. A great shadow had passed into the city and a cloud as dark as death had obscured whatever vague light yearned to be seen in the sky. The cries of the orcs grew louder and grimmer, becoming hoots of mad victory. They knew, as Hírvegil knew, that their moment of victory had come at last. The battle for Fornost was about to end.

Then, all of a sudden, silence fell, and the orcs slid back into their respective orifices, as if they had been sucked back, berated by the forces of Fornost. The sky was not bright, but its stormy aspect was also removed by chance, and the terrible screams of the wounded ceased instantly. It seemed, but for a moment, that the road was clear. Silence fell too suddenly to replace the din.

And then the shadow fell again.

Hírvegil saw it with his own eyes, and nearly turned away, clapping his hand to his armor as his heart beat with the great speed of the winds themselves. The broad, stone-cobbled road that led from the main gate of the second wall to the inner sanctum now bore a misty fog which surged forward like a wave, a terrific wave that wiped over the streets and flowed through windows, doors, over turrets and bulwarks, and into mortal souls. Orcs streamed forth, bearing tooth, claw, and jagged weapon at the Rearguard, which could not help but pull away as the herald of darkness and his host fell upon them.

The Captain of Despair himself had arrived; the Witch-King of Angmar.

Borne on a pale-black steed, deathly and ghastly in gait, was a black-robed figure with a great, icy sliver of a sword raised up in his hand. As the Wraith’s steed bore him onward, his tattered mantle fluttered behind like terrible wings and the void enveloped in his ominous hood spouted terrible sounds, the cries of men in anguish. The Chieftain of the Nazgûl galloped behind a line of orcs, and then behind a second, and the orcs soon overtook him and overwhelmed the battlefield, but the Witch-King did not fall into the background. His shadowy visage held a terrible grimness that was imprinted in every mind, and the morale of Arnor was broken. Anarchy had come, and route was not far behind. Above and around the figure, the visage of shrouds and moving shades darted, rocketing themselves through the air and howling. Hirvegil could not determine identity of these things that carried a shroud over the field, though, in his state of fear, he could only guess that they were spirits of some sort; the entourage of the Witch-King. His mad mind conjured the thought of more wraiths and wights come to consume him, but his logical half reduced them to illusions, and he hardened his heart against them – His men, though, were not. Within seconds, morale deteriorated to the breaking point and shattered.

“The Captain of Despair is upon us!” voiced a lieutenant of the rearguard, speaking a name for the Witch-King used in Gondor and Arnor. That officer turned on his metal-clad heel and fled through the ranks of his troops. They turned, horror blazoned on their faces, and scattered away from the orcs. Other units broke and fled, routing like so many frightened birds sprinting in whatever direction seemed appropriate.

The rearguard crashed into the ranks of orcs and overflowed on both sides. Hírvegil saw orcs leaping above him and men being thrown about. Two soldiers were crushed into the earthen street beside him, and the heavily but crudely armored uruk footmen crowded around, brandishing an assortment of blades staves, clubs, maces, swords, knives, and axes. Hírvegil, setting his petty fears aside as best as he could, held his ground. Hammering his ironclad feet into the ground, the Captain began to flail his sword swiftly, hefting his shield to the back so it would not hamper his movement. He risked a direct hit, but knew he could fend off the anarchic mass of weaponry coming at him with ease, as long as his strength did not give out. A broad horizontal slash sliced the head from one orc and the heart from another. He spun, but kept his head inclined, staring, eyes affixed on the same path of murderous uruks surging on every side. He saw blades piercing the air and, barely able to keep from panicking, swung his sword in a parrying arc and pulled his shield to the front. As the light of the jagged weapons, reflected by their dark sheen, blinded Hírvegil, he heard a clang and a thud, and his eyes reopened despite the pain in them.

One orcish scimitar lay on the ground and an ax lay imbedded in the wood of his shield. Hírvegil pushed forward, lashing out with his shield and pushing orcs to the ground before he speared them where they lay dazed. He saw blade points peek through his shield, filling up on the other side, until the defensive device was nearly torn to ribbons. Bashing and clubbing with the remains, Hírvegil leapt back as it was cloven for the last time, and hurled the wooden bulk forward, watching with grim satisfaction as its weight struck down and orc coming forward at another man. Gritting his teeth and sucking in breath, Hírvegil wrapped both hands around his sword in tight fists and drove the sword forward at the masses, listening as he slashed and stabbed for the sickening crunch that meant he had hit a target. At last, he felt the sting of weariness, and the many minor wounds he’d received took hold. He could feel blood dripping from the plates of armor on his arms and chest, but did not feel the wounds; his whole body was numb and any part of him that felt was burning like fire. His legs barely able to hold him, he retreated into the ranks of his men, letting his sword fall and drag along the ground. Eventually, the Captain struggled past the fray and into an area of less severe concentration and combat.

In the distance, surrounded by more men, Hírvegil saw that Belegorn had been pulled aside by one of the Captains. He managed to get nearer to Belegorn, but near enough, and was forced to yell to attract his attention and compensate for the cacophony. “Belegorn,” he cried, magnifying his voice until it was pained so that he could overcome the din, “are all the Elves accounted for?” Belegorn could barely manage to cry back, but he was able to say, audibly, “Yes, sir.” Hirvegil did not bother to sigh with relief, too busy slashing the arm off an attacker, and began to back away from the thick of the fray. “Keep fighting,” he yelled to Belegorn as he began to tear his way backward through the rearguard to get to open space, “but be prepared for retreat. We must outlast the hordes if we are to successfully evacuate the city.”

Belegorn shot a last cry to him as he left the chaos. “The Vanguard has been annihilated, Captain;” his stern voice wrung in Hírvegil’s ears, “we are the last force in combat.” This was something Hírvegil had guessed, but the knowledge presented so bluntly and truthfully was painful indeed, and he lurched as he strode back. This was the second time this day he’d been taken aback by an obvious statement. He could think of no morale-boosting words to shoot back to his lieutenant across the field, and, with a haphazard shake of his head, gave his final order for the moment. “Extract the remainder of the rearguard from the orcish ranks and get the wounded to the rear. May the winds of Manwë give you speed, and the might of Tulkas give you strength.”

His lieutenant nodded curtly, and turned, disappearing into the smoke and dust. Confused and filled with dread, Hírvegil sprinted towards the stairs to the highest level, looking up. As he did, his eyes widened in deep anguish as a single dark shadow crossed over him and above, past the walls looming above. A great projectile, like a comet, ablaze with fire, soared majestically overhead and crashed down into the last of the silver pinnacles of the Kings’ Hall.

The last tower of Fornost, before Hírvegil’s eyes, shattered and crumbled with a terrible crash. His soul retching inside him, Hírvegil forced himself to run up the stairs and onto the parapet of the inner sanctum.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Bethiril followed the Dúnedain guard to the king’s court.

The main thoroughfare to the court was choked with people trying to flee the nearly fallen city. She looked at the refugees. Some would not be parted with their riches, carrying heavily laden carts that they dragged while negotiating the crowded avenue. Others, wiser and more foresighted perhaps, carried nothing more than what would fit in a pack they could easily carry in their backs. Still, she thought, even these wise ones would not be able to outrun the black tide once it gains mastery. And even if they could flee from its reach—when first she came to the city, a layer of snow newly fallen covered it. For the next days the blizzard waxed in might, as if in league with the Orc host. Winter would take those who did not fall to the bitter steel of the Orcs. It was sad to ponder. In her youth she cherished the gloom of Winter.

The dark clouds run swift, and hide Menel’s light.
And Manwë covers all with a blanket of white.

Her guard/guide forced her back to the present situation. He said that time was of the essence, and they would now take circuitous passages to avoid the crowds. And so they walked, and she knew she would never see most of those Men again. Perhaps if she had come earlier . . .

A high-pitched cry shattered the last remnants of tranquillity in the city. All stopped in their tracks, and turned to the direction of the sound. Some fell to their knees and covered their ears, as if such an act could shield them.

She had not heard such a cry of despair and blackness since the winged Dragons first troubled Middle-earth, when last the sons of Valinor went to battle against the hosts of Morgoth in the Plains of Gasping Dust. But such potency of malice in one fell voice—if ever evil were to be music, this would be its chord of victory. Her mien remained impassive, yet in her heart fear spoke ever loud: Even were all the hosts of the Elven realms sent to the aid of Arnor, none would withstand the waxing might of this Master of the Shadow of Fear.

Nay, Bethiril gainsaid the voice. Fear ever seeks to weaken the resolve of all who lend ear to it. Her lord Elrond still puts trust in the swords of Elves and Men united, essaying to root out where the seeds of Morgoth sprouted. This seedling, however strong and deep its roots were, would fall to the same doom.

Still, as they neared the king's court, a silent tune from the past played within her . . .

Chill music that a herald piper plays
Foreseeing winter and the leafless days.
The late flowers trembling on the ruined walls
Already stoop to hear that chilling tune.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn

The huge leather clad uruk crashed heavily onto its knees and a soft wet gurgling sound emitted from its throat. With a yell, Belegorn drove his sword swiftly through its broad back, penetrated the flimsy armor and did not stop until he felt the distinctive crack of a shattered vertebrate giving way. The acting commander of the rearguard then drew his blade back up and kicked the hulking carcass of his fallen foe aside. Wiping the stinging hot sweat from around his eyes with the back of his hand, Belegorn looked around and cursed.

In the excitement of the charge, the first line of the rearguard – the newest and most inexperienced men of the regiment was doomed. Led by an enthusiastic lieutenant of old aristocracy but modest ability, the line overextended and gaps formed between bands of fighting men. The enterprising uruks exploited the points of weakness by spearheading through the widening gaps in hefty numbers, encircling the men of the first line and crashing heavily into the second line – the tougher third year veterans. The young soldiers of the first line fought desperately like lions, but with their cohesion broken, most senior sergeants and the line lieutenant killed, they panicked and dissolved into a rout.

The men of the second line were equally ill prepared for the ferocity of the huge orcs and confusion then became chaotic and was further augmented by the arrival of the remnants of the first line, who rush terror-stricken in all directions to escape. It was almost too much for the men of the second line to take and they started giving way…

Belegorn turned towards the regimental archers at the rear and barked a curt set of orders. Fearing that the second line was about to follow suite first and rout, he and the flag bearer darted towards it and found that a crisis was in the making, for the men of the second line were so closely huddled together that their shields overlapped and each man was unable even to unsheathe his sword to fight. Individuals in the rear were already slinking away while many of the senior sergeants were also incapacitated. The uruks were decimating the men in the front – easily overpowering the defenseless men with their great strength.

Swearing vehemently, Belegorn grabbed the shield of one of the guardsmen in the rear and shoved his way to the front, urging the men to spread out and give themselves room to fight. He bellowed out the names the sergeants of the line and of the men he recognized to advance and reform the line.

“Nicanor! Iarminuial! Esgalelin! Reform the line! Attack!”

As Belegorn reached the front, an uruk attempted to smite him with his black blood-dripping scimitar. Belegorn raised his shield and absorbed the blow before thrusting his own blade into the groin of the enemy. He stole a quick glance to his rear and saw that the flag bearer was still with him and sigh a relief.

It was up to the archers now, and they did not fail him.

A skillfully discharged volley of arrows arced across the second line and as ordered by Belegorn, the archers let them down amidst the mass of uruks. With their second echelon cut down by the merciless missiles, the uruks at the front lost their momentum and stopped. Belegorn dashed towards the closest uruk and let his trusty blade find the orc’s head with a loud roar. The sharp Dúnedain sword met its mark and cleaved the uruk’s head in half.

Turning towards the men to his rear, Belegorn harangued them, nodding towards the stunned host of orcs,

“You miserable wretches! Aren’t you ashamed to let your lieutenant be beaten by mere animals?”

An emboldened orc charged towards Belegorn and attempted to kill him with a thrust of his scimitar. Belegorn skillfully parried the blow and delivered a lateral backhand swipe with his sword arm and took of the miserable creature’s head. Black steaming ichor gushed forth from the severed neck.

“While? What are you waiting for?”

Several of the senior sergeants had responded to Belegorn and came up to him. Belegorn then turned towards the orcs and charged, yelling with all his breath. The movement forward was a catalyst for the necessary courage and momentum of the rearguard. With a roar the men of the second line swept past Belegorn and the flag bearer and charged towards the enemy. With concentrated local superiority, the rearguard slaughtered the uruks.

Belegorn waited for the second line to scatter the uruks before signaling to the flag bearer to wave the pennon and the trumpeters to sound the halt and withdraw – he had no intention to lead the regiment into mass suicide. The first lieutenant then turned towards the third line – the supreme elite of the regiment, and signaled to them to part ranks and allow the second line to withdraw unmolested. It was his intent to withdraw the entire regiment by this leap-frog maneuver.

For now, the reputation of the rearguard as the best of Arthedain was safe. But just barely.

[alaklondewen]

The fruit of the enemy had taken Fornost. The streets lay in ruin, and the stench of the death and despair that surrounded the Counselor and his guard sought to overwhelm and overcome them. Ereglin covered his mouth and nose with his left hand and tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword with the other as they passed yet another scene where a small battle had occurred. Three young Dunedain lay where they fell, crumpled on the street. The Elf noticed the absence of their swords and wondered at the irony of others being slain by their comrades weapons.

“We must be careful, sir.” Gaeredhel called over a crash coming from their right. “The enemy holds no order.” His words were short and clipped by the steps he took. “They seem to be charged by the chaos that surrounds them.”

Ereglin nodded gravely just as shadow covered the city. The terrifying screech that followed cut into the Elf’s heart with a blade of darkness, and Ereglin stumbled momentarily...the Witch King had arrived. Darkness covered his eyes like a thick tapestry. Frantically, the Elf grabbed at his face and wiped his eyes, but he still could not see. A growing pressure gnawed on the edge of his mind, and he called out with as much force as he could muster, “A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!” Immediately, the darkness fell away from his mind like shards of glass, and Ereglin breathed deeply as though he had held his breath for several minutes.

“Lord Ereglin!” The guard’s voice broke brought him back into the dire scene. “We must move with all haste, sir...we are nearly to the Inner Sanctum!”

“Yes, with haste!” Ereglin followed Gaeredhel as they began to race toward the gates of the third level.

A crowd bustled around the entrance trying to file through. Many of the women were crying, as were their children, but as the Elf looked over their faces as they approached, he noticed one woman with a face as cold as stone. She carried with her a babe, hugged closely to her side, and Ereglin wondered how this woman, who’s sapphire eyes blazed, would fare. The Men parted enough to allow the Elves through, and they hastened to the King’s Hall.

One of the King’s guards met them at the base of the structure. “Lord Ereglin.” The guard quickly bowed and nodded to Gaeredhel. “Minister Mellonar is awaiting your arrival. All Elves are to assemble within the Hall.”

“Thank you,” Ereglin nodded to the guard, and he and Gaeredhel ran under the eaves of the great hall. At that moment, cries rose from the people within the third level and great crash was heard above them.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The three horses galloped at full pelt through the streets of the upper level, even the two great war horses terrified by the sounds around them. North's nostrils were flared and red and his breathing harsh and shallow as he belted along the cobbled streets and up the shallow, twisting, wide twisting stairway to the Inner Sanctum, Faerim bent low over his neck, his fingers entwined desperately in both rein and mane, his brother's fingers digging deep into his sides. The boy was entirely focused on riding straight ahead, keeping an eye on his mother but otherwise taking in nothing but the paved path that lay between his family and the Inner Sanctum.

Suddenly, a terrible, fierce screeching noise came from above him, the sound of the very fabric of reality being torn apart. It was too much for North: the inexperienced black stallion whinnied and reared up suddenly in terror, snapping the twine that tied his bridle to that of Carthor's horse and nearly throwing both boys off his back. Faerim grabbed at his brother's wrists with one hand, trying to stop him from sliding off as he desperately tried to stay on the back of his horse. But then he saw the sight that made his blood run cold.

Faerim, although young, was not cowardly: he came from a line of fine Arthadain soldiers and his every cell had yearned to serve his city and his country in the army since he couldn't remember. He was brave, morally and physically; but nothing in the world could ever have prepared him for the sight of the creature that lay in front of him. He yelled in shock and horror, his eyes opening wide as North reared once more. Faerim barely tried to calm his horse: his eyes were fixed on the fearsome, inhuman figure that, as he watched, took out three soldiers with one swing of that massive icy sword. The beast didn't look at him, but it was if he could feel every moment of joy he had ever experienced being tainted and sapped away as he looked upon the one that was called the Captain of Despair.

And for once, just for once, Faerim envied his brother for his lack of sight.

A scream pierced the air, a sudden, sharp, human sound that shook Faerim from his reverie, seeming to stand out even against all the chaos around them. Startled once more, the youth's head whipped around and there, amid the rubble of destroyed houses beneath their perch on the stairs, was a woman of about the same age as his mother, clutching a young boy's hand desperately. Faerim stared at the woman: how was she still alive there, with the orcs running wild? One thing was for sure: she wasn't going to last much longer like that. Faerim wasn't sure what about this woman had called to him so particularly, amid the devastation and death of the city; but as she struggled forward, she looked up, and her fierce, bright blue eyes bore straight into his, before she fell forward, tripping and falling to her knees, a curtain of black hair falling over her pale, terrified face. That was it. Brander's arms were wrapped tightly around Faerim's slim, muscular waist in a death grip, holding grimly on, and Faerim could feel his younger brother's head digging into his back, feeling the vibration that his spine as his brother whimpered softly. North had stopped rearing but was dancing backwards fearfully, tossing his head and foaming at the mouth as he whinnied, terrified at the ghastly spectre. Faerim laid a hand reassuringly on his blind brother's hand, then turned to his mother, whose mare was reacting similarly to North, although Lissi tried to calm her, using all of her substantial skill as a horsewoman to stay seated.

"Mother!" Lissi looked up fearfully, expecting something to have happened to ehr son, and Faerim steered North over to her side, yelling over the chaos of the witchking's descent. "Mother, I must...there is a woman, and a child, they have been left there. I must...I..." he trailed off, not knowing what to say, not knowing why he felt such a strong bond of duty towards this woman. Lissi paused, then nodded. "Go, go! But Brander..." Faerim nodded. "Aye, he-" Brander spoke quietly, the vibrations of his voice being felt more than heard by Faerim. "I will go, Mother and I must get to the Inner Sanctum."

His brother's calm sensibility made Faerim feel weak with love towards him. "I love you, brother," he said softly, squeezing Brander's hand tightly for a brief instant. Brander was quickly moved over and seated behind Lissi on her mare, but Faerim couldn't immediately move. Lissi drew the blade that her son had given her and gave him a look of fierce, strong emotion that Faerim couldn't quite understand, tendrils of black hair whipping around her face, her grey eyes bright, looking like the warrior queens of legend. The youth lent over and kissed her roughly on her forehead then, with a last look, he reared once more, turned, and sped away from them as they rode up the stairs towards the Inner Sanctum, as he galloped in the direction they had come from. Looking around, his blonde hair blowing into his light eyes as he narrowed them against the wind and dust of destruction. He was surprised to find that Carthor's warhorse had stayed close, as if taking comfort from the presence of North, but he didn't immediately pay attention to the creature, focusing intently on the woman and her child. He rode towards her, crouched low over North's back as the last remaining survivors fled past his horse's sides. Stopping beside the woman, he offered her his hand.

"Lady, please!" he yelled over the tumultous noise around them. Glancing sharply up at the dark, ragged silhouette like the image of death that seemed to hover on his horse in front of the rearguard, he was once again sharply reminded of how little time they had. The orcs were so close he could almost smell them: in less than a minute, he estimated, both he and this woman would be dead meat.

The woman, unbelievably, hesitated, and Faerim took a second to realise why, then it hit him: he hadn't thought ahead - how was the woman going to fit on, with her child? It would certainly slow them down, even if it was possible. Then a revelation came to him, a revelation of hope that relied on one thing. He looked at the woman hopefully. "Can you ride?" he asked bluntly.

The woman nodded, her face brightening. Faerim grinned in relief, despite the situation and turned to Carthor's warhorse, who was still close. Dismounting, he helped the woman and her child up as fast as he could, then leapt deftly back onto North's back. Grabbing the reins of the other horse, Faerim spurred North on impatiently - as the tide of orcs broke on the rubble behind them. Faerim, his knuckles white on the reins, spurred North on as hard as possible, praying that he, as well as the woman and her child, could get to the Inner Sanctum in time...

[Nuranar]

Morn was, on ordinary occasions, the most placid mare Lissie had ever met. Unfortunately, this was no ordinary occasion. There was no need to urge her
to a gallop as they fled from the house; indeed, the frightened mare did her best to pass North. But Lissi just let Morn run herself out. She had other things to think about. Her eyes kept her sons always in view and glanced from crevice to shadow, looking for danger before it found them. Even as Morn leapt debris and rounded corners at breakneck speed, Lissi rode with superb balance, only her left hand on the reins. The hilt of Faerim's sword, tied above the sack on the right of her sidesaddle, was within hand's reach.

Despite her vigilance, Lissi knew nothing of the Witch-King's coming until his cry split the air, echoed appallingly by a horse's terrified scream. For an instant Lissi knew blind panic, as her body felt the chill of horror and the world around her darkened. Morn swerved violently and reared, and Lissi's muscles tightened instinctively. Her reason returned as she fought the plunging mare to a trembling halt. She couldn't afford to look up, but even in the midst of the struggle she was thinking. They were ahead of me, and so was He... He's closer to them... He's between us and the Sanctum!

"Mother!" Lissi's head snapped around at the urgency in Faerim's cry, but she gasped in relief as Faerim and Brander rode to her side, uninjured. "Mother, I must...there is a woman, and a child, they have been left there. I must...I..." he pleaded, eyes strangely compelling. Lissi hesitated for but a moment. If he feels it's his duty, I cannot stand in the way. She nodded quickly.

"Go, go!" Wait!... "But Brander-" Faerim started to say something, when Brander himself spoke. "I will go, Mother and I must get to the Inner Sanctum."

Good boy! Lissi thought. Quickly they shifted Brander over to sit behind her; instantly he wrapped both arms around her waist. "No, I'm not big enough to hold you on!" Lissi said urgently, guiding his right hand to a grip on the saddle. If he's only holding me and he starts to fall, he'll drag me with him. She glanced up the street. Orcs were fighting with the men of the rearguard, driving them slowly back. I'll need every bit of balance I've got as it is, if we're to get through - she shook off the thought - WHEN we get through! We'll be waiting for Faerim when he comes. Lissi drew Faerim's sword with an instinctive flourish and turned Morn's head. Faerim was still beside her, and she glowed with pride as she saw him. Abruptly he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, then turned and galloped back. Lissi's eyes filled with tears as she cried out to Morn and kicked her into a canter.

Swiftly they fled through the chaos of soldiers, fighting and fleeing. Somehow they passed the shadowy horror unharmed, although Morn tried to swerve and Lissi felt Brander trembling. One orc, hearing her approach, turned to brandish an oversized battle-ax; Lissi shouted to her horse and ran the orc down, swinging the sword at another nearby. The very desperation of her onslaught was an advantage, as some of the enemy gave way and others were outdistanced. Morn developed an unexpected ferocity, now that the Witch-King was out of sight, striking down orcs in their path.

Lissi raised her eyes for an instant and sighted the gate to the Inner Sanctum. "We're almost there!" she cried to Brander. Abruptly they burst into their own rearguard, and Lissi had to rein in her mount to let the soldiers make a path. They rode up through the gate, into the chaos of companies and officers, dead and wounded. At any other time Lissi would have been fully aware of her appearance; as the only women in sight, on horseback, a boy behind her, and a blood-spattered sword in her hand, she made quite a picture. But to all this she was oblivious. Even as Morn shoved on through the press, she was looking back. Please, Eru, let him live!

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen’s world was falling apart around her and yet the child still slept, wrapped in his blankets and strapped firmly to her chest. He was his father’s son, she thought to herself as the threat of tears began to prick her eyes once more. He was all that was left now. It was her and the child, alone, in this chaos and the heaving mass of struggling, frightened people. She clutched him even tighter as she tried to squeeze towards the gate, and struggled to keep her feet on the ground, lest she go under and be trampled.

As she turned her head about to get a breath of air she saw a garden she had once envied, and fell back from the struggle. It had been a beautiful place, shaded by drooping trees and filled with scented plants, and she had often gazed on it in silent envy. Now it was littered with tumbled masonry. The shrubs were crushed by many feet and the trees had been hacked at. A statue of a woman which once stood in the centre of the garden now lay on its side, its cold stony face gazing sadly on the equally stony face of Renedwen.

She faltered, thinking of her elderly parents not far away. Should she have gone back to them and insisted they join the escape? Or should she have joined them in their defence of their home? She could feel the warmth of her child’s gentle breath through her gown, and she looked from him to the struggling crowd at the gate. Surely the sensible thing to do would be to give him to another woman, bid her to take him to safety? It would not be so bad. After all, he had no father now, no home, and precious little hope of growing up in the luxury she had planned for him. Now she was no better than any other widow who struggled to get through the gate and to safety; all notions of wealth and status meant nothing now.

Renedwen had almost decided that the child would fare as well away from her when he stirred within his swaddle of blankets and opened his eyes for a moment. She suddenly found herself looking into the eyes of her husband and her heart seemed to turn within her. Wracked with grief and love she turned back to face the gate.

The cold screeching which issued from somewhere above filled her with a sudden need to be out of there, to take her child and get to safety and cold determination surged through her bones as she set herself amongst the crowd. Her deep blue eyes were intense as she tried to work out how best she could get through this gate as quickly as possible, and as she looked over the crowd, planning her escape, she noticed a tall elf with dark grey eyes watching her. He was a King’s Councillor, reduced to trying to escape as much as she was, and she watched him as he made his way skilfully through the crowd.

She was not watching what was coming from behind her, and no sooner than she heard the cries, the creature was upon her and she seemed to fall into a stairwell for protection. Then the walls started to come down and all she could do was cower with her arms covering the boy’s head. She did not even have time to cry out, and time seemed to halt as she stumbled forwards, only knowing that she had to move, had to get away, had to be elsewhere.

Renedwen looked into the eyes of a young soldier who was watching her, horrified, and then she fell. She did not put out her hand to stay her fall, as she could not bear to let go of her son, and winded, she lay in the rubble, shaking her head in despair. All the thoughts of who she missed, her husband and family who had suddenly been taken from her, whirled about her and she felt as though to give in was the only thing she wanted. She thought of meeting them on that green field and what bliss it would surely be. A hand touched her arm and she thought she might already be dead and that it might be the welcoming hand of her husband, but as she opened her eyes again, she saw the young soldier, somehow bright on his horse against the backdrop of smoke and dust.

She barely noticed as he urged her onto a horse with the child. She thought she must be smiling, but she was numb with the horror of realising she was alive after all. She automatically hooked her fingers through the halter and urged the horse on with a squeeze of her knees, but it did not seem as though it was herself who was doing anything. She felt that somehow she had left her real self elsewhere, that she ought to have been out on that green field, not here, urging a horse on in blind terror.

[Arry]

Rôsgollo

The Hall was in sight. What should have been an easy passage became a rat’s maze of dodges and twisting turns as he maneuvered his way at a run through an increasing mass of bodies. They were frightened . . . panicked . . . and it was this sense of chaos and despair that pulled at him. Help me! . . . the words beat against him, repeated over and over in little images he pushed away. His duty was to his Lord; the keeping of his Lord’s safety, his pledge.

Still he helped as he could. A hand here to one fallen in the melée and a spurring thought . . .Run, man! Seek safety. The King will lead you out soon. Another hand to a woman on her rearing horse, a child in a sling at her front and one several years older clinging desperately to her from behind . . . Shhh . . . shhh, brave one! he coaxed the frightened animal. Take your charges to safety. He ran on, speeding his way to his brother’s side without pause, save for one from which he could not turn aside.

A young woman had fallen, the victim of some foul Orc missile. She lay on her side, crumpled on the smooth paved way, a tangle of bloodied clothes and pale limbs. Her sightless eyes stared up at him as he passed; the horror now fled from them in the peace of death. Her long dark hair was snarled from her panicked flight, strands of it splotched here and there with her blood. Save for the color of her hair, she was nothing like his wife, lost long ago to this same foe. And yet he gasped at the sight of her, recalling the image of his wife and child dead in that battle. The fleeing hordes swirled about them as he paused to look down at her.

He wrenched his thoughts from her, shoving his fresh-turned grief down deep. A little movement beneath her cloak stopped him as he turned to go. There were soft words, in a tremulous little voice. ‘Mami! Gilly safe now?’ Rôsgollo crouched down, turning back the section of the cloak that covered the woman’s chest and hips. There, tucked into the hollow formed by her belly and hips was a little one, not more than three years old. He lay sucking his thumb, his grey eyes blinking in the sudden light, a frightened look on his pale face. She had tucked him there before she died, telling him to be keep quiet – they would be safe soon.

‘Come, little one . . . Gilly, is it?’ Rôsgollo murmured soothingly as he took off his leather gloves and tucked them in his belt. His hands reached for the child, who protested and pushed closer to his mother. ‘Mami!’ The plaintive cry tore at the Elf’s heart. ‘Gilly is safe now,’ he said in a gentle voice as he picked the child up and cradled him in his arms. A fat tear rolled down the little boy’s cheek. ‘Mami?’ Rôsgollo tucked his cloak about the child. ‘Yes, Mami is safe now, too.’ He leaned forward a little and closed the eyes of the woman. His voice kept up a soothing patter as he stood and began to hurry to the Hall once again.

You will not claim this one, foul Shadowspawn! he vowed as he entered under the eaves of the King’s Hall.

His brother and Lord Ereglin were soon found. ‘We are waiting on Lord Mellonar for his instruction,’ said Gaeredhel eyeing the child his brother held in his arms. ‘Best we do not wait long, my Lord,’ Rôsgollo said, shifting the boy in his arms. The last spire on this Hall has fallen to the enemy’s missiles; it will not be long before the Hall itself is in ruin. If Mellonar does not come soon, we need to get to the North Gate.’ Gaeredhel leaned in close to his brother’s ear. ‘And what about the little one. Should he not be with his kind?’

‘His mother is dead,’ Rôsgollo answered. ‘None stopped to see to her. For now, I am his “kind”.’ He looked down at the boy’s face then back at Gaeredhel and Lord Ereglin. ‘I will not abandon him,’ he said evenly.

There was a stir as Mellonar approached the gathered Elves. The focus shifted to the minister as he began to speak . . .

[Amanaduial the archer]

The woman didn't seem in any fit state to control the horse herself: she seemed to be in a state of shock, numb, frozen up, with just the strength to cling onto the reins of Carthor's horse - steering was out of the question. Faerim was therefore left with the non-too easy job of steering both horses, and as he didn't have a piece of rope or the time to tie the horses together, this meant holding the larger horse's reins with his free hand. If this wasn't enough, the orcs were catching up now; Faerim risked a glance over his shoulder and saw in horror that they were but a few seconds behind, despite the speed with which he was travelling. If either horse slowed down, they would be on them in a trice.

Swearing repeatedly under his breath, Faerim turned around again and realised a decision was going to have to be made. Shaking the woman on the shoulder, rough in his desperation, he called to her. "Hey...hey!" he called, and she turned her head to look at him, fear showing in her bright, tear-stained eyes. Faerim didn't have time for compassion though, not at the minute. He flapped the reins at the woman. "Reins - take them!" he snapped, curt from tension, still riding at full pelt, only watching the woman with one eye. By the expertise with which she had mounted, Faerim guessed this woman could ride: he hoped so, certainly, for both their sakes. Thankfully, she took the reins and took control numbly. Faerim flashed her a grateful grin and nodded upwards to the top of the stairway where he had previously come from. "Take your child up there, as fast as you can - go, go!" There was barely any point in speaking in full sentences: she probably only heard a few of the words as the wind gained confidence and blew his words away over the ruined city.

Talking of gaining confidence... Faerim glanced back at the half a dozen orcs as the woman sped past him on his father's horse. They were keeping pace worryingly well, seemingly tireless, howling and whooping as they followed the boy, like a monstrous fox hunt. Faerim swallowed his fear down hard, knowing what he had to do: it was the hardest thing he had learned when training for the army, a skill that would be invaluable in battle but which, unfortunately, he wasn't sure he had really 'perfected' yet. Shooting from a horse whilst riding. And that would mean letting go of North's reins...

Doing so in an instance, Faerim tightened his grip on North's sides with his knees, taking a precious second to balance himself, his arms out at his sides to improve it, but only for an instant. Still gripping tightly, Faerim slid the bow off his back and whipped out three arrows from the quiver at the side of the saddle where he had fixed it. Fixing the first deftly in the bow, Faerim performed the trickiest part of the manoevure: checking the way was clear ahead of him and that North was headed straight, he turned, sighted briefly, and let rip with the three arrows in quick sucession, aiming for the nearest orcs in a volley, meaning he would hit at least one of them with the three arrows. But his impeccable aim didn't fail him: he took out two of the orcs, and a third fell behind, an arrow embedded in his knee. Not that Faerim had taken any notice: he had turned to face the horse's head as soon as the third arrow was loosed, grabbing hold of the front of the saddle, gulping deep breaths of acrid air. But there were still several behind him. Dreading performing the risky manoevure once again, Faerim took another three arrows, let go of North's saddle, and fired again: once, twice, three times the arrows found their marks in the orcs, Faerim's silhouette like some legendary centaur as he fought back. Most of the small pack had fallen now, and the remaining pair were falling behind him. Relieved, the youth slung his bow carelessly over one shoulder and took hold of his reins again as he shook his blonde hair out of his eyes. The half-crazed horse kept galloping, but on top of him, his rider was almost shaking.

They mounted the stairs and Faerim urged North on a little harder as he gritted his teeth and rose in the saddle, but with some difficulty this time: he was beginning to tire. Halfway up the steps, a shadow seemed to come over the youth, and he looked up at the top of the steps...where he saw that spectral figure again, rearing up, his sword pointed forward towards the Inner Sanctum, silently commanding his nightmare troops. Faerim let rip with another volley of curses under his breath, and drew his sword from the saddle sheath just in case, holding the reins with one hand. North didn't need to be urged on further: he was almost blind in panic. Above them on the steps, Faerim saw the woman and Carthor's horse falter as she saw the witch king turning towards her...

"Ride!" Faerim yelled the single word like a catapult shot, and the woman's head turned towards him, her gaze ripped from the witch-king's. He was almost directly behind her, and, in desperation, he slapped the warhorse's rear with the flat of his hand. The horse was jerked into action, as if it to had been captivated by the witch king. They were so close to the Inner Sanctum, but Faerim made the woman ride ahead of him so she got in there first, as he rode behind her, just in case any more of the orcs came - or even... He turned, pausing his frantic horse as he stood at the gates of the Inner Sanctum, and looked up at the terrible, mysterious figure. It looked towards him and the youth looked back with burning eyes, pointing his sword defiantly at the creature who had made his city fall. North reared once more, terrified, and Faerim let his arm fall, turned, and rode through the gates. They shut behind him with a ominous clang, and Faerim suddenly felt faint with weariness - and the realisation that, at least for a time, he was safe.

[Novnarwen]

"We're almost there!"

His mother's voice drowned in the chaos surrounding them. Cries of pain and despair rung in his ears, penetrating his mind and body. There was something about the terror in his fellow kinsmen's voices, echoing, which he couldn’t' explain. What pain and suffering could possibly make a man scream with such horror? Brander shivered with fear where he sat, clutching his arms around his mother. He could not imagine the scenes evolving in the city, and deep in his heart, he was happy for the lack of his sight. He was in a way grateful for not being able to see what was taking place; men dying by their swords, fighting courageously until the end, women and children slaughtered; he was glad he couldn't see all he had known all his life being put to ruin by the greatness of a power he didn't and couldn't understand. However, even though he wished to be spared for the pain of witnessing this, the pictures which were being formed in his head by horrifying sounds, which seemed to be coming from every corner of the City, were merciless. In truth these images were just as cruel as the ones that were presented to everyone else.

As they rode, the wind rushed roughly against his face. He did not know exactly how far they were from the gate, but he did not dare ask. It was no time for questions, he knew that much. He thought of his brother. Faerim had left them. Bravely he'd done so, to save a poor woman and her child from an evil fate. Although Brander was proud of his brother's immense courage, he knew that this time it might have been the last time they had heard from him. The thought of his brother being somewhere out there, behind them, where orcs were roaming, slaying everyone in their way, made him swallow with anxiety. What was he supposed to do without Faerim, the only person he truly cared for? He frowned, immediately reproaching himself for his self-centeredness. How could he think of himself, what would happen to him if Faerim died, in a situation like this?

The pace of the horse seemed to finally slow down; his mother’s mare was no longer galloping in a ferocious speed, it was trotting hurriedly. Brander listened to the sounds from its hoofs, thumping the ground continually. “Mother, please tell me that we are safe,” said the blind, young boy silently, loosening his grip. He felt petty and unimportant where he sat, and when Brander discovered that his mother hadn’t heard what he had said, he was, in an odd sort of way, glad. Suddenly, the feeling of being weak, which he had felt quite often when being underestimated for being blind, came over him. But the sensation of being of no use, more like a burden, was stronger now than what it had ever been before. Suppressing his other feelings, he felt choked by thinking of his valiant brother. He felt ashamed. Brander was a young man; he should be fighting to protect the city he loved, the only city he knew. He should be one of those who were willing to go back to save women and children from the orc’s slaughtering. He should be one of the soldiers fighting against the terrible enemy who was threatened put everything to ruin. I should've been fighting, side by side with the other young men at my age.., he thought to himself sighing. Yes, he was truly ashamed. Brander knew that Carthor probably was too.

“Brander,”

“Yes, mother?”

“You must stay here. You will be safe for now. We are in the Inner Sanctum. The gates will still hold for a while. I must go and look for Faerim. He might be here, and we must find him.” He heard his mother jumping off the horseback. “If something happens when I am gone, pull the reins and ride. Don’t wait for me. You won’t . . see me . .”

Brander bent down, his mother leaving a dry kiss on his forehead. Tears were in his eyes, and already before she had left, he was praying for her to come back.

[Garen LiLorian]

The trip had been swift, and without event. Whether it had been luck or fate that guided their steps, not so much as a solitary orc showed his shadow on the path that Angóre and Erenor had taken. They could hear the shouts and screams of the dying, and now and again Angóre would stop to listen as the tramp of footsteps came close to the streets on which they walked, but they quickly left the scene of battle behind, moving on silent feet towards the citadel.

"Halt! Stand and declare!" The challenge rang out as the two elves reached the walls to the inner sanctum. A pale, scared face peered out over the wall.
Angóre and Erenor stopped. Erenor answered the lad, and a small portal opened for the Elves.

Inside, the chaos continued. Every now and again, missiles arced over the walls, wreaking havoc on the towers and halls of the King's sanctum. The Elves were instructed to meet with Mellonar inside the King's Hall, and they hurried inside, just as the councilor began to speak...

[Kransha]

Oddly enough, Mellonar did not really like Elves. He managed business with them only because it gained him favor in the court. It was a tedious, friendless job, but that was much the sort of thing that Mellonar enjoyed. The King favored his work, the court and lords favored his work and, as far as he knew, the Elves he interacted with were indifferent. Most saw through him, and he realized this, but he was a politician in the classic sense and had no qualms about being thought of as exactly what he was. His footsteps echoing loudly in his ears, Mellonar glided like a shade over the tiles of the court floor, towards the regal visage of three Elves, who stood amidst the slowly diminishing commotion of the King’s Hall. With a very conservative bow-nod of his drooping head and neck, Mellonar addressed the noblest of the trio, who he knew to be the Lord Ereglin. His mouth opened to speak as his aviary, vulture’s eyes scanned the sight of all three. Before words formed, manufactured by his silver tongue, he caught sight of the object cradled with odd tenderness in the arms of one of Ereglin’s guards. It was a child – a Dúnedain child.

‘Sentimental fool;’ thought Mellonar cynically, ‘he must have saved the child in the city.’ Mellonar was not inclined towards liking the younger of his kind. Babies and children were useless until they could work, and those that were spoiled or immature despite age were even more so. This Elf must be somewhat naïve, or at least a little wet-behind-the-ears, if he had bothered to save a child from Fornost’s crumbling ruin. His efforts would’ve been better spent combating the hordes of the enemy besieging the city. But, trying to disregard the gnawing cynicism, Mellonar spoke, turning from the Elven guard and not deigning to look upon him.

“Lord Ereglin,” he began shrewdly, clasping his two hands together and letting his spiny fingers interlace, “I had hoped to wait until the other Emissaries were here, but I fear time is against us, as is the day. Lady Bethiril and Erenor are absent, and I fear some harm may have befallen them, but I cannot know their fate. Soldiers have been dispatched to get them to safety. For now, I can only treat with you.”

The Elf Ereglin spoke before he could continue, hastily, but with good reason. “Not for long, I hope.” said the Emissary, “This court’s halls shall not sustain fire much longer.” Mellonar showed an obviously irked reaction to interruption, but calmed himself and spoke with the wisp of a smile glued to his stately face, hanging there as a false grin to ward off questions about his emotional state.

“Do not worry, Lord, your safety is assured. The rearguard will cover your retreat, as well as the King’s. You will evacuate with the second wave of citizens to issue from Fornost; soon, I suspect. The populace of Fornost will remove to the North Downs, where a stronghold of the Norbury Kings lies and shall hold us all until preparations have been made for all to retreat, most likely to the Blue Mountains for safety’s sake. There, we will recuperate until we can again strike at the Angmar insurgents.”

Mellonar spoke with illusory confidence, but the Elf detected this and did not hesitate to pose a disapproving question. “Would it not be better to hasten to Mithlond?” He ventured gracefully, and Mellonar’s left eye twitched indignantly, but he masked his annoyance again and answered with an all-too-pleasant smile on his cold lips. “The King’s decision is not mine, Lord. Best to let it stand and question it not.” In truth, he was inclined towards the Ered Luin, rather than retreating to the Grey Havens. The Elves might be overtly wise, but were they really that trustworthy? They had sent no great wealth of aid, even if they did remain a steady alliance with the Kings of Arthedain. The diplomatic relationship between the Elves and Dúnedain had been merely aesthetic since the Last Alliance, despite the few favors each party did for the other once in a blue moon. Diplomacy was not an Elven art, as politics was a governmental corruption adopted by those of Mannish descent. Political organization in Arnor was owed to old Númenór, the citizens of which had cultivated the craft and become adept politicians, skilled in the ways of law. Mellonar was one such adept person, but military stratagems were not his strong-suit.

“Counselor;” replied the Emissary, “has any attempt been made to overrule him? I would not encourage dissent, but I believe that fleeing to the Ered Luin is no apt course of action.”

Mellonar was about to respond, indignant again, when another of the Emissaries and his guards hurried into the hall, barely flustered as most people in such a rush would be. Their flawless grace aided in flight, something that Mellonar had oft coveted. Cutting himself off, the minister turned swiftly, his robe swirling like a mellifluous wave beneath him, and addressed the newcomers.

“Lady Erenor, my heart sings to see you unscathed. Now that you are here, we have but one Emissary to wait for. I have told Lord Ereglin of the events to come, and taken counsel with him about what must be done. I am afraid I must really upon him to tell you of the transpirings, for both of you must needs make haste. Hopefully, the Lady Bethiril can find her way, but I cannot remain to aid her course, wherever she may be. You, though, must hurry to the North Gate Passage. You will find it below this chamber, down the staircase at the end of this hall.” He jabbed a bony finger down the length of the quieting hallway, “The stairs lead to a wide passage, where the Dúnedain citizens have gathered for departure. Join them there and ready yourselves for retreat from the city. You will find some of the King’s Guardsmen among those in the passage; they will answer any and all questions you may have. I must be off to attend to some pressing matters before we depart. Go, and may your journey be safe.”

Not waiting for them to leave, Mellonar glided past them and in the opposite direction, disappearing from the hall a mere moment later.

[Amanaduial the archer]

North slowed to a walk, his head dropping wearily, but Faerim kept hold of his reins, staying alert as he turned the horse around to where a group had gathered some way inside the Sanctum, on a flight of white steps, one of the only areas that was not crowded with the survivors from the battle. The youth looked carefully at the group with sharp blue eyes, trying to figure out what was different about them - then one turned, and he saw the sharp, bright profile of it's face. An elf. His eyes widened in awe. The youth only remembered seeing the elves once before, and that had been when he was very young. Still, if all that Faerim had heard about elves was true, the seventeen years was still nothing more than a child to elves...

Giving the elves a strange look, Faerim clicked his tongue quietly and rode around past the stairway, shamelessly eavesdropping. He was rewarded with a snippet of conversation. "...will evacuate with the second wave of citizens to issue from Fornost; soon, I suspect. The populace of Fornost will remove to the North Downs, where a stronghold of the Norbury..."

Faerim's mind was whirling. Evacuate the citizens? The whole of Fornost?! No matter how practical, the thought had never occured to Faerim. The idea of moving away from everything and everyone he knew...

Everything you know is destroyed. And everyone you know...

Faerim clenched his jaw, his fiery anger returning against the beasts who had destroyed his home, and a wave of pure hatred washed over him. But it was quickly followed by tiredness; the youth tried to stay upright in his saddle, but as he dismounted, he landed heavily, his knees jarring. He winced, putting a hand to his leg where he could feel a dull ache forming: the statue that had fallen near him when he had made for the house had apparently not entirely missed him. Straightening up, he scanned the crowded Inner Sanctum, trying to catch sight of the woman he had escorted from the rubble along with her child, trying to pick her out amid the dark haired, shocked masses. After a second, he spied her, cradling her child, Carthor's horse nearby; taking North by the reins, he stroked the stallion's muzzle gratefully as he led him towards the woman.

"My lady," he said softly, approaching her from behind. The woman spun around, her dark hair a velvet curtain whipping out behind her, then, recognising him, she smiled. Faerim grinned back, but felt oddly tongue-tied - he was so tired that his usually quite natural charm had abandoned him completely. Grasping for it, he nodded politely to her and tried to speak without stammering. "I...I hope you are alright?"

The woman nodded, and seemed about to speak when her child gave a grizzling whine and she turned her attention away from the young man in front of her. Faerim hesitated for a second, then held out one hand to the woman, still wearing his riding gloves. "My name is Faerim, ma'am. May I ask yours?"

The woman smiled back, and took his hand gracefully. "Renedwen. Thank-"

"Faerim!" A shout interrupted the woman and both he and Renedwen looked around. Faerim's face lit up when he saw it was his mother charging towards them, her skirts held up as she made for them, her expression painfully relieved. Faerim seized his mother in an embrace, holding her tight for a second, her hair tickling his nose, but he didn't care: she still had hair, she still had her smell, she was still able to run, she was still...alive. So fast had the whole chain of events since he had left his post as an archer that he hadn't even been able to consider what might have happened, but now that it hadn't, Faerim felt relief wash over him like an icy shower, a cold torrent of 'what if's... He suddenly felt guilty: the pull of duty he had felt to save this woman could have meant his mother and Brander could have been killed without him there...

Brander! Faerim stepped back from his mother, his hands on her shoulders as he looked into her eyes, concerned. "Mother - Brander - where is he? Are you both safe? They are going to evacuate us from the city, to the Northern Downs. The elves are here, they - is Brander alright?" Faerim's words rushed out in a half-excited, half-anxious torrent.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

“Halt! Stand and declare!” A challenge rang from the door.

“I am Belectir of the King’s Guard. With me is Bethiril, emissary of Rivendell.”

The door grudgingly opened, and Bethiril marched in, oblivious to his guard’s farewell gesture. She caught sight of Mellonar, the king’s counsellor, hurriedly leaving the sanctum. The others in the room were looking at her, almost urging her to hurry. She maintained her slow, stately pace.

“What has happened?” she asked.

“We were about to move to the North Gate,” Erenor answered in a voice tipped with frost. “The king has ordered the evacuation of Fornost.”

And where could they hide from these foul folk? Bethiril almost said aloud. “And where are we to go?”

“We are to head for Ered Luin.” Bethiril saw a flash in the eyes of the emissary from Lindon. It was only a slight glint, and it faded soon, but even so she caught it. And she understood the cause: The mountains in Winter? What fools these Men be. It’s as if that at the king’s whim, the blanket of cold will be lifted from whithersoever he declares.

“I beg your pardon,” Angóre said, “but we must leave soon. The enemies come nearer as we tarry.”

The emissaries nodded assent. With the guards leading the way, the Elves headed for the stairs that would lead them to North Gate—and hopefully, Bethiril thought, a place safer than this fallen city.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor, though she disagreed with Berethil on bearing arms, thought that they might be in accord on this at least. All the Noldor remembered the Helcaraxe even if they had not made the journey themselves. Those who had roots in Gondolin had special reason to remember that dread journey.

Erenor focused her mind on those of the other Rivendell elves, especially that of Berethil who immediately preceded her as they made their way to the North gate. She hoped she would receive the words the words Erenor could not utter, knowing that the would increase the anxiety of the mortals: This path is folly. It will lead only to death for all, one way or another. All choices are perilous but, if we aim south,at least we need not add the weather to the list of our enemies -and there is a chance we might meet aid from our kindred. We should try to change the king's mind and perhaps if he refuses we should deem our embassy to be at an end

Erenor knew this thought was selfish but she did not see what could be acheived by following the route North to death. The elves would endure longer. They would travel easier, bear the cold better and require less food than the mortals but they were not invulnerable. Death by the sword would be preferable, she thought. Then she shivered;any death would be preferable to capture and thralldom. All the time she could hear the sound of clashing steel, the wails of the dying, the sound of the soldiers feet and she kept her mind open hoping for some response from Berethil before it was too late.

[Arry]

‘Pressing matters!’ snorted Gaeredhel. ‘What could be more pressing than getting the people to safety?’ He eyed the stooped figure of Mellonar as it whisked from the Hall. ‘I have heard from some of the King’s guard that beneath those voluminous robes of his, he has all sorts of secret pockets. I would just bet he has gone to fill them with packets of sneaking little notes he made on everyone who could be of use to him at sometime.’ He eyed his brother, who’d pulled down one of the soft hanging curtains that hid an alcove, and was busy tying it about him and looped over one shoulder as a sling for the child. ‘Here, let me give you a hand with that,’ he said, hacking off the excess and getting it tied securely. For a second, a small smile swept his lips in an upward arc as his finger caressed the little one’s cheek.

Rôsgollo fitted Gilley into the sling, adjusting it so that he would have good use of his arms for weapons as the need arose. He nodded at his brother that they were ready. Gaeredhel took his place before Lord Ereglin as his brother fell in behind. ‘Lead on, then, brother,’ Rôsgollo called out. ‘And be swift.’

At a run, the three Elves moved down the hallway and toward the passageway leading to the North Gate. As they sped down the steps from the hallway, Gaeredhel made one last comment. ‘And what sort of a joke was that last parting remark of the minister – “Go, and may your journey be safe.” By the One! The Witch-king and his minions are upon us in full force. Surely he must know they will harry us like hounds on the scent of a fox.’

The passageway was very wide and long. Refugees from the city were packed in tightly, the overwhelming stench of their fear palpable in the tight place. They were quiet, at least . . . parents shushing their children, many stifling their grief with choked off sobs for themselves and for their loved ones who had not made it through. They eyed the approaching Elves, sizing them up with sly glances . . . would they elbow their way through to the front without regard, these tall, cool Elves, one could almost hear them thinking.

Lord Ereglin stood between his two guards, their broad shoulders and stony looks keeping the press of the crowd at bay. ‘What business calls the King,’ Gaeredhel wondered, ‘to keep his people waiting so?’ Gilly whimpered briefly and was silenced as Rôsgollo gave him a sip of water from his flagon and a small bit of waybread to chew on . . .

[Nuranar]

Lissi had rarely wished to be taller than she was, but this was one of those times. If she could only see! Faerim was tall, and his fair hair should have stood out. Then why couldn't she find him? What if he- No! she told herself sternly, frowning and pressing her lips together, even as her eyes never ceased searching. You're going to look until there's no other- There!

"Faerim!" Catching up her skirt she broke into a run, slipping nimbly through the crowd, and caught her son in her arms. Thank you, thank you!

Abruptly he stepped back, hands on her shoulders and concern all over his face. "Mother - Brander - where is he? Are you both safe? They are going to evacuate us from the city, to the Northern Downs. The elves are here, they - is Brander alright?"

Lissi smiled up at her son. "Brander is quite safe, we are both safe, even Morn. I left him further back in the Sanctum. As I was searching for you I heard people talking about an escape. Come with me, we must rejoin him." Faerim's mouth opened as she turned, but before he made a sound Lissi stopped. "Wait! The woman, and her child - are they...?"

Faerim nodded reassuringly, gestured to the silent figure beyond him. "This is Renedwen, mother."

Lissi's quick grey eyes took in the stranger, noticed her tired regal bearing, her fine clothing, and the child in her arms; the lines of misery that marred her beautiful face and the bewildered agony of grief looking out of her blue eyes. She was not young, but she seemed so forlorn and vulnerable that Lissi's heart was wrung. Impulsively she embraced her. "Come with us, dear," she said softly. "You will be safe with us."

Renedwen's mouth twisted suddenly, as if with some poignant emotion. "Thank you," she said, in a low voice. Lissi squeezed her hand, and turned to Carthor's horse to give Renedwen a moment of privacy.

"Come on, Faerim," she said a moment later, "Brander is this way." As the three made their slow struggle through the crowd, leading the horses, Lissi gradually worked her way to Faerim's side. "Son," she breathed softly, in a very controlled voice, "have you heard anything of your father?" Her eyes shone very bright, all the anxiety and emotion of the day only there finding expression.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

The snow fell heavier. The emissaries from Rivendell looked around. Most of the refugees were ill-clad—in the haste of their departure they had left their winter clothing behind. Families huddled, shivering together as they strove to keep warm.

Bethiril felt for them. She also felt the message of Erenor, flashing through her mind every now and then. Her respect for her fellow emissary increased a little, coming up with such a bold (and desperate) move as a protest. However, any action they would take at this time would divert the focus of the king from the more pressing task of evacuating the city. Despite their perception of the king, she knew that what he was doing right now was what he thought was best for his people.

But the road really is folly. She sighed, channelling her anger at the feeling of helplessness that this situation had put her in. She had been there before, but nonetheless it irks her that such situations had to exist.

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen knew full well how to ride a horse but she found herself unable to move. She held the reins in her cold, shaking hands while the young man urged both horses onwards. She couldn’t do more than hold the reins and hope that her son was unharmed. She looked down at him silently, hoping to hear him gurgle or make a babbling noise and couldn’t think of anything except his vulnerability. Her rescuer urged hoer on again and finally she kicked her heels and the horse moved off up the steps.

She halted at the top of the steps, transfixed by the sight of the creature that headed towards her. The air was cold and her heart seemed almost to freeze. She felt the horse falter and her blood ran cold. It was as though a nightmare had come to life. One of the night terrors which took her a dark place where she was frozen and unable to escape from what assailed her until her eyes opened and she woke, clammy and breathing hard. She could not wake this time. The dream was real.

Then she felt something strike the horse and it bolted forwards and she frantically grasped for the reins, only catching hold of them as the horse sped her through the gate. He did not stop until they were well inside the sanctum and he could go no further owing to the crowd of frightened people clustered within. She took a breath as she realised what had happened and slid down from the horse, her legs shaking and her eyes wide. Huddled by the horse’s steaming flanks, she carefully looked inside the bundle of blankets still strapped as firmly as could be to her chest. She saw the face of her son, his eyes closed and his cheeks slightly reddened, but as healthy and placid as ever and her racing heart eased.

“My lady”, she recognised the voice but it was different somehow. Turning around, she saw the face of the young man who had rescued her and gave him a brilliant smile. He was much younger than she had first thought, barely more than a boy, and he stumbled over his words. Still, he did his best to retain his dignity and she found herself glad to receive his best attempt at courtesy. Faerim. She had not heard the name, though she knew her husband would have done; he always took pains to be kind to the younger soldiers. She felt a strange sensation of pride and grief welling up inside her when an ecstatic voice cried out and Faerim turned to greet a woman who was obviously his mother.

Renedwen clutched her son tightly as she watched them embrace. She thought of how she had almost given her son up to someone else, how she had almost run back to her father’s house. She knew it would have been wrong, and she knew she would have known it was wrong the instant she did it. Nobody and nothing was going to take this child from her now. His eyes were open and she saw he was waking, finally unsettled by the noise around them. Those clear grey eyes looked right into hers and she looked into them sadly, thinking of her husband, alive only a few hours ago, and now waking in that green field alone. Maybe he would not be alone for long. There would be her mother and father with him. And her brothers. She was the one alone.

She was shaken from her thoughts by Faerim’s mother who gazed on her thoughtfully, with a look of heartfelt warmth, and then threw her arms about her. Taken aback for a moment, Renedwen almost shrank from the embrace, but she finally sank into it, and put an arm about the other woman in a gesture of gratitude and comfort. Renedwen couldn’t thank this woman enough and did not know how to put her feelings into words. Her son had rescued a stranger, had put his life at risk for her. She was not a wealthy woman, Renedwen could tell she had put her life early into raising a family, yet here she was, welcoming her and offering help. Would this have happened before these troubles? Renedwen did not know, but she knew she wouldn’t have considered such a thing. She was, she had been, the wife of a wealthy man, and they lived in a fine house, and she had fine gowns and fine ideas. All that would have set her apart just a day ago, but now in the ruins of the city she saw that they were all the same people.

Renedwen followed Faerim and his mother, unable to do anything else. Once, she would have led, but now she could do nothing else but follow meekly. She was chilled to her heart and still unable to say much, her sharp tongue finally stilled, and her brilliant blue eyes dim and dull with grief and shock. All the nightmares and portents of doom had finally come to pass and there would be no waking up in a warm bed this time.

[Kransha]

Hírvegil wished now, as he hurried through the inner sanctum, that he could be with his troops on the field of battle, but King’s orders could not be ignored. Now that the Elves’ were found, Hírvegil had to be sure that the word sent to him was not false, and make final arrangements for departure. Belegorn was a stern and proud Dúnedain commander, one who would not let him down. He had been given command of the Rearguard before, and proved extremely resourceful when such occurrences occurred. If anyone could successfully move the rearguard through two sanctums and cover the retreat of another small army of non-combatants, it was Belegorn, and this confidence boost brought up a surge of optimistic energy in Hírvegil, although it was replaced by grimness again a moment later when the sound of harsh orcish drumbeats and the steady rhythm of crashing projectiles filled his ears.

The Captain ran into the complex of hallways, chambers, vaults, corridors, and colonnades, but the area had nearly entirely emptied, and the plain bareness of the halls was eerie and dark, combined with the terrific sonic explosion that pressed inward from outside with each passing second. Sunlight in the halls had been stifled by smog from the field and the shadow of Angmar itself. Torches were going out as blustery winds blew in and particles of crumbled marble and stone from above fell from the cracks in the domes and roofs of the citadel, clattering onto the floor below where piles of worn dust accumulated into small piles and lumps that soon covered the area. Soon, Hírvegil was distractedly glancing through each doorway into every chamber to find someone who could relay information to him, until he reached a shady hallway, decked with weakened columns on both sides, and rushed down its length. This area was a clump of storerooms and economic chambers used primarily for fiscal ceremonies. There was a small auction house contained entirely in one room, and a larger bank in another, the bank whose vaults held nobility's earnings, rather than those of the common populaces. Some large rooms branched off into smaller rooms, all circular and barely large enough to hold a congregation of five. Hirvegil, huffing and puffing wearily as he went, darted into every alcove and through every arched doorway long enough to scan every room in succession.

At last he caught a glimpse of a veiled, hunched figure standing in one of the chambers, its narrow shadow cast ominously across the shimmering floor. Hírvegil recognized the figure, even with its back turned, as it bent over several marble tables erected in a claustrophobic storeroom. “Mellonar.” He said, and the figure spun about on his flailing robe tassels, obviously flustered. “Captain,” remarked the nervous Minister, hastily diverting his attention to Hírvegil, “you are not with your troops. You-”

Hirvegil quickly cut him off. He could easily have questioned the counselor’s own integrity, rummaging through items in a darkened storeroom when he should be consulting with the Elven Emissaries or reassuring the Dunedain, but this was certainly not the time to entertain personal squabbles such as that. “There is no time for banter now, Minister.” He said, not even moving towards the minister, “Are all the Elves in the passage?” Mellonar nodded, quavering with fear, confusion, or nervousness, as he often did. “I saw two Emissaries there myself, but one journeyed there, I assume, without my knowing.” He paused, looking off and stumbling over the fine Elven name that had escaped his memory before saying, with some confidence, “The Lady Bethiril, it was she.” He took a moment to visibly ponder, and another to jump, jolted by a burst of sound that shattered the stilness of his rummaging session. Behind him and above, a glass window shattered into crystalline shards, with trickled onto the floor nearby, and he backed off subserviently.

“You are sure she is there now.” Hírvegil’s voice held no urgency, but the matter spoken of was urgent. It was definitely in his as well as Mellonar’s best interests to see that all Elves escaped safely from the city. Again Mellonar nodded, his balding head bobbing swiftly up and down as he began to move across the small, closet-like room towards the Captain of the Rearguard. “I heard the guards declaiming to someone as I left the two that had come. I do not doubt that it was her.” He continued moving, but Hírvegil, his armor jingling and clanking gently as he swung around, waved him off and spoke, “Good. Are the civilians prepared for departure?” He spoke even more quietly now, with the stern seriousness stereotypical of a military commander, and of one of the Dúnedain. His proud gaze was lessened, though, by the alarmed state of emergency, the fires of anarchy that raged about him. He bore on his face a mixture of an icy glare and a heated, passionate look of need - need to make safe his city.

“Yes,” replied Mellonar, “they are prepared.” Hírvegil nodded grimly. “All is as it should be. I shall initiate the final stage of the evacuation.” With that, he dashed off down the darkened colonnade. Mellonar, shaking his cold head as the Captain made his way to the North Gate Passage, turned and returned to his daunting work – filling his robe’s orifices with various trinkets that would not be missed by the evacuating ministers, but might fetch a pretty penny if the Dúnedain ever reached mercantile civilization. He had already stuffed copper and silver coins into his robe's pockets to the brim, and clinking currency spilled out as he moved, littering the floor, once he had finished. A few medallions and semi-precious metals had found there way inside as well; anything worth something. He admitted to himself as he heard Hirvegil's footsteps' fade into a nerve-racking nothingness of sound that he was a cad to do what he was doing, but the reward was enough to keep him from caring. Once he had sufficiently exercised his sudden spurt of kleptomania, he to hurried out of the storeroom and towards the North Gate Passage.

[Arry]

‘What business calls the King,’ Gaeredhel wondered, ‘to keep his people waiting so?’

The brothers’ voices were low as they discussed what they expected to happen next. ‘Most likely he is already at the front,’ said Rôsgollo, ‘and there are any number of advisors who have one last thing to say before he is free to take action.’ He pursed his lips and raised one brow at his brother. ‘You know how hemmed in plain Captains are, always having to weigh this and that before even one part of a plan is put into play. How much worse must it be for a King.’

‘Well, If I were King,’ began Gaeredhel, ‘and the Shadow had fallen on this city as it did today, I would make all haste to put as many leagues as I could and as swiftly between the armies of the enemy and my people.’

‘Then thank the One you are not King, brother!’ Rôsgollo returned. ‘Else we might already be rotting corpses on the northern fields.’

The crowd of refugees nearest to the Elves pushed in closer about the two brothers. There were some, in the grip of fear, who agreed with Gaeredhel, and voiced their greatest worries. What if the King had no plan? What if he thought it hopeless? What if he had already fled and had left them behind to slow the pursuit of his own escape? Others with cooler heads raised their voices recalling how the King had always put his people first. Think on it they admonished their fellow citizens, bringing up instances in which the King had acted for the good of them all. Would it not be reasonable to think he would continue to do so? Voices surged and receded and surged again as more of the crowd expressed their opinions.

‘Now look what your loosely guarded lips have wrought,’ Rôsgollo hissed in a low voice at his brother. ‘This is all we need now, a panic in this small passageway . . .’

There were muted cries, then, from the front of the passageway, whispers really, that moved toward the back of the corridor. And the swish of cloaks and clothes, the scrape of boots and shoes as people turned toward the front. ‘We are moving!’ The words rippled and swelled toward the back ranks, bringing some small measure of hope to those who had feared the worst.

The at-first-slow progress increased in speed until the front of the second wave of evacuees had neared the exit of the passageway. Rôsgollo tucked Gilly in close to his chest, secured tightly by the sling he’d rigged for the child. He led the way toward the exit, Lord Ereglin following close behind him. Gaeredhel followed on their heels, his bow at the ready, an arrow nocked.

‘Hurry, brother,’ Gaeredhel called to Rôsgollo, turning often to see what might follow behind the fleeing men and Elves. ‘There are sounds of Dunedain troops trailing us closely.’ He paused in his talking, his keen ears trained on the sounds in the passage way. ‘And beyond that last line of protectors are the foul sounds of Orcs and other spawn of shadow that seek to overcome them . . .’

[Saurreg]

Belegorn

An enormous missile streaked across the darkened sky and impacted upon the highest structure in the city of the grey-eyed sea lords. A low menacing sound of rupture emitted from the base of the king’s citadel – the seat of power of all Arthedain, followed by the distinctive snapping of mortar and paste. For a few moments nothing happened, and then the top of the slender tower seemingly twisted clockwise on its own accord before crumbling into bites and chunks of clay, concrete and stone which, plummeted swiftly towards the fiery inferno that was once the proud white city of Fornost.

Arthedain had finally fallen and with that, two thousand years of Dúnedain hegemony in the north came to a close.

Fornost itself, once the greatest and most magnificent city of men, second only to the old capital of Annúminas, was no longer recognizable. Its once gleaming white towers and smooth walls had been greatly reduced and those that remained standing were crumbling and stained grey by ash and soot, while its paved streets were caked in grease and dried blood. Fornost, once the capital of Arthedain was now the prize of Angmar. Its capture marked a milestone in the Captain of Despair’s victorious campaign.

Belegorn watched, almost mesmerized as the top of the king’s citadel came crashing onto the forum. He was filled with disgust at the misdeed that was done but at the same time felt a pang of envy for the assets and capability of the enemy. No one could deny the fact that those wretched orcs were exceptionally gifted siege engineers. Belegorn attributed that talent to their destructive nature.

The stalwartly Rearguard was now in the narrow confines of the north passage with the north gates a hundred or so yards to their rear. They had traded blood for time at the main gate of the third wall while women, children and the infirm made their escape out of Fornost. Like automated killing machines, the tough soldiers let the enemy bash themselves senseless against their broad shields before cutting them down skillfully with sharp swords or running them through with long spears and thus the Captain of Despair paid a high price for the barter of the gates. Only when the last of the non combatants had left the walls of the great city did the elite regiment continue its leap frog withdrawal into the inner sanctum with immaculate precision and discipline, brave lusty voices laughing and singing.

While the rearguard made its slow but steady retreat, a gang of feisty soldiers from the annihilated vanguard suddenly appeared out of nowhere before an astonished Belegorn and offered to fight to their last along side him and his regiment. Grateful for the reinforcement, the acting-captain of the rearguard ordered the leader of the troop to lead his men ahead of the rearguard and undo any ambush that the enemy might have planned during the chaotic fighting before finding mounts for themselves and to flee while they can. “Easily accomplished my lord Lieutenant! Rest assured!” replied the leader of the men, a man by the name of Euphranor and he was true to his word – no sooner had the first elements of the Rearguard entered the first building did it find decapitated orcs laying sprawled behind upturned tables and slumped against the dark corners of walls.


A feral cry filled the narrow but long north passage, sending echoes along the stone carved walls. A pack of iron-clad uruks launched themselves against the thangail of the Rearguard only to be knocked onto their feet by the mobile wall. The guardsmen parted their shields and dispatched the stunned orcs with ruthless efficiency before reforming the infamous shield fence again. These men were the battle-proven highly experienced men of the third line. The withdrawal was entering its most crucial phase and Belegorn wanted only the most capable men to hold the dark torrent that threatened to engulf them all. Already, companies after companies starting with the newer men were dismissed from the north gate via horseback and the Rearguard was down to its last element of veterans – men who volunteered to be literally the last line of defense. The regiment’s standard was amongst the first to be sent off – to its rightful captain lest the regiment be overran and the pennon capture. Only Belegorn’s ever reliable archers remained also and these were now busy at work – pouring a thin line of liquid fire incendiary from where the line of guardsmen stood, in the axis of the passage before turning in both directions and laying it across the with of the north passage so that the pattern of the powdered substance of pitch, sulphur, tow, pounded gum of frankincense and pine saw dust resembled that of an elongated tee.

The two archers finished pouring the connection, stuck the cock snuggly into the opening of the barrels and scampered off towards their mounts at the entrance of the north gate. The sergeant of the archers arrayed his men and one of them gave Belegorn a curt nod. He was sweating profusely and it wasn’t just due to the humility of the passage. Belegorn lifted his stained sword and ascertained that he had all the principal non-conmissioned officers’ attention and in another hand he held a flare. It was time to put his plan into motion – at best the rearguard lives to fight another day and the enemy is forced to seek another way pass the north gate to catch up with the refugees. At worst, everybody got to visit the Halls of Mandos. Belegorn began his series of commands,

“Frontline! Fall back! Normal pace!”

The command was echoed by the sergeant of the shield bearing guardsmen who started backtracking. Metallic soles marching in unison. The last defense of Arthedain was no more.

“Archers ready?”

“Ready!”

The thangail continued its steady withdrawal, it was getting closer to the top of the tee. Another feral cry filled the passage as another pack of uruks commenced their charge, hot on the heels of the guardsmen whom they though were cracking.

“Frontline down! Archers fire!” yelled Belegorn as he pointed his sword in the direction of the retreating guardsmen and charging uruks to emphasize his point.

Immediately the highly disciplined and alert guardsmen fell onto one knee and lowered their heads. Not a minute too soon a flurry of black feathered arrows streamed overhead and found their mark amidst the charging uruks, stopping that menace dead in its tracks. Time was of the essence and Belegorn wasted none of it,

“Frontline fall back! Archers fall back! Quick time!”

A cacophony of trampling feet filled the passage as the guardsmen came thundering towards the north gate and where Belegorn was. Despite the rush, Belegorn noted that each guardsmen was wary on where he planted the sole of his boot, especially where lines of incendiary were. The guardsmen continued their frantic retreat and did not stop even when they were clear of the incendiary. Joined by the archers, they continued retreating, streaming pass the first lieutenant. The enemy had recovered and had starting pursing. Bellowing at the top of their lungs with joy and wildly waving crudely shaped scimitar, axes and clubs in the air.

Belegorn sheathed his sword and pulled the cord of the flare, igniting the charge and threw the burning item onto the incendiary, turned tail and fled at breakneck speed. There was a violent white flash and the entire passage behind him was engulfed in an eerie hue of blue. Shearing heat engulfed him and his nerves screamed in pain over the extreme sensation he felt. But Belegorn ran on nearing the gate, because he knew that to stop then was to surrender to death. He could hear the death cries and howls of the miserable beasts as the liquid fire greedily consumed them. The heat was excruciating and even there so close to the gate, the air had turned into a superheated stream flowing towards the source of the flames. Belegorn faltered and felt his legs undoing beneath him. But then strong hands reached out and pulled him forwards, through the gate into the open.

Belegorn fell face first onto a moss covered ground. He could feel the vibrations from the shuffling feet about him and then cold water being poured all over him over and over again. Coughing and spluttering, he turned around,

‘Enough! Are you trying to drown your lieutenant!”

“No sir!”

‘Good, for I’ve had enough! Mount your horses and ride for the column. And someone help me up! I feel like a drowned rat!”

[Kransha]

Passage to the North Downs was quicker than expected. Those on horseback, or riding in carts, on mules, or hurrying on foot moved quickly away from the ruin of their once-home, shedding but a few choice tears over their loss. The armies of the Dúnedain were beyond devastated; they were ravaged. Once a proud army of thousands, the full core of the military had been reduced to around one hundred men – not nearly enough to stand up to the hordes of Angmar. Thankfully, Belegorn’s clever plan had bottled up the orcs in the city, amidst crumbling wreckage, and the trick would slay many as they tried to surmount it, but it would not withhold them forever, and this heavy thought weighed like a jagged rock balanced on the shoulders of the trekking refugees. Reaching the North Downs would not save them either.

It was less than a day before the column, moving swiftly against harsh winds that swept down from the north, ascended into the rolling hills of the North Downs. Some small outposts, towers of wood that barely reached above the snow-capped slopes of the Downs, dotted the area. They grew more frequent as the column spread and stretched, winding up over cobbled paths that looped into the hills. Tussocks also pockmarked the snowy white earth, and clouds moved with serene tranquility overhead. A burden of sadness lay upon the group, but it was not enough to drag them down, or keep them silent for very long.

Hírvegil rode at the back with his troops; he had reunited with them after the train escaped Fornost, and given due congratulations to his trusty lieutenant, Belegorn. He could not dwell on his second’s accomplishment, unfortunately, nor could he ponder many thoughts beside those that filled his mind. The King’s portion of the column, separate from the rest by nearly a mile and containing the ministers, counselors, and more prosperous landowners or merchants of the city, had already entered the Downs fortress deep in the hills. Hírvegil knew that, when the Rearguard arrived, they would discover the nature of the Dúnedain’s stay in the hold; whether it would be a long stay and an attempt to outwear the Witch-King’s host through siege, or a brief sojourn disrupted by almost immediate departure. A long siege was not a good idea, in the humble strategic opinion of the Captain of the Rearguard. The North Downs hold was not an impregnable fortress, it was a keep that might serve to hold off the orcs for days, but not months or, more likely, the years it would take to fully repel the fearsome Chieftain of the Nazgûl and his merciless host.

The sun was in the sky, but barely visible between wisps of plentiful cloud. The vessel of Arien had not shone over Fornost, possibly hidden in fear of the Witch-King’s shadowy wrath, but now it burst out with subdued defiance, meek but apparent despite the coming of dusk. The sky’s hue was still dark, but no longer because of evil shadows or dark occurrences. Night was on its way, and a blood red tinge had slid onto the horizon, gently tracing the silhouette of distant white mountains turned orange by the golden glare. The hills became steeper around the Rearguard and those citizens who had been absorbed into it. All horses and beasts of burden bore both man and supplies, some saddled down with two people as well as sacks of rescued goods bound to their flanks. The animals trudged upward as the primitive pathway they strode upon became wider, and bordered on each side by picket fences of ancient, rotted woods. The train passed through thin gaps between hills as the hills became mountainous peaks and the valleys beneath became near gorges.

As Hírvegil, prodding his horse and inciting it to move faster, looked about warily, he saw the hillsides close in on him and the column packed together tightly, moving beneath some archaic stone arches set into the walls of hill-rock on either side of them, remnants of a past architectural regime. As the refugees passed beneath the last high arch, Hírvegil clucked his stern tongue in recognition, knowing that they had crossed through the North Pass. He looked downward expectantly to see the North Downs’ Keep, an unimposing brick structure built into the recess of a mountain, surrounded on one side by a shallow coomb that flattened out in one section to create a land-bridge that led into the keep. Two towers sat, built into outcroppings of the mountain looming of the keep, on either side of the hold, and, as evening came and the sunlight dimmed, glimmering torchlight could be seen, like flickering candles, on the towers’ turrets.

When, by the torches of the Rearguard, the refugees caught sight of the keep, many broke into a run, or goaded their steeds to their fastest paces, pushing the creatures to their imagined limits. The earthen bridge seemed to expand to meet them, and the iron-grilled gates of the keep gaped like a pleasant maw to take them in. The hundreds crowded into the chamber just behind the door, and filed through expansive halls, ablaze with chatter and talk, until they all reached a greater chamber, huge in size, with an unseen ceiling and arching walls that vaulted at a level far above. This was the grand chamber of the hold, where councils of old had oft been held, built beneath an off-shooting hill of the high mountain. Here there was no time for merry or teary reunification, for the place was buzzing and claustrophobic. The Rearguard dismounted, leaving countless stable boys, pages, and squires to hurry the animals to a stable in the fort. They surrounded the civilians, who joined the others of their ilk at the center of the hall. The remainder of Fornost was barely five hundred, many civilians and lords among that number, and all were present in the grand room, though some nobles and ministers were rumored to be taking counsel in adjacent chambers. There was not a silent instant that passed, for all were speaking at once, creating a tremendous din. No one knew exactly what was going on, or what was going on, or much of anything, in fact.

Until, that is, the King arrived.

The room fell silent as King Arvedui of Arthedain mounted a small marble platform at one end of the chamber, flanked by elegantly clad royal guards and close ministers, as well as servants who stood or knelt beside him. Hirvegil looked on from the very back, trying to deduce what had occurred before his arrival. He guessed that Arvedui had consulted with the few ministers who arrived with him and settled on a finite plan, without the aid of the nobles who had been part of Hírvegil’s evacuation party. Now was probably the best time for a morale boost, considering the circumstance, and who better to give such a talk than the King. Arvedui did not often appear to his people, except for addresses to the populace made from a balcony or podium arranged for him. This unprofessional, personal atmosphere was jarring and abnormal, but the shifty Dúnedain, nervous and filled with consternation, got used to it sheerly for the sake of their own peace of mind. After nearly a full minute of blank silence, the King raised his open hands and spoke, his kingly voice booming.

“My people: our home is lost to us, our lands are marred, and many of us lie slain in Fornost Akallabêth, but we are still here!” There was some more shifting, but no distinct whispers from Arvedui’s audience. He had referred to Fornost as “Akallabêth”, the Downfallen, a name of old Númenór. This was appropriate usage, but ill-timed. Solemnly, he went on. “Regardless of the losses we have bravely endured, there is still a road we must take. We are not defeated, not bereft of life or lost in a tempest sea; we are the Dúnedain of Arnor, the people of mighty Isildur and Elendil, we shall not be conquered by wraiths and foul-spawn!” He brandished a fist madly in the air. “This is not our home, nor will it be for long. A plan has been devised that shall grant us safety from the insurgents from the east.”

He took time to pause, but all remained quiet. This was news, good or bad, that would incite a reaction.

“The North Downs shall hold us intact for some days, until preparations for a longer trek across the wilds have been made. By the will of the heavens we shall traverse the lands to the west and make haste to the Blue Mountains.” Now whispers and sidling words could not be avoided. Unnerved chatter undulated through the crowds. “There,” continued Arvedui calmly, “the refuges of the Dwarves shall be home to us until we have recovered from this stinging blow. Food and supplies can be found there, and metals in those mines to forge new weapons that shall replace our splintered blades. Shields will be remade, spears sharpened, armor wrought, and victory regained in time. It may take many months, but, by the Valar I swear, the line of Isildur shall reclaim Fornost and all of Arnor in time, and our glory and power shall be restored. The strength of the House of Elendil shall crush this menace in time. Until then, we will repair to the Ered Luin and rest in safety.” He stopped again, having paused periodically for reactions during the speech, and let it all sink in.

“Make yourselves ready, all, for a great journey. Look to your arms and your families, tender them dearly, and let them not stray from you. The wilds shall not bow to us, we must overcome them, and the elements in turn. But, I say no darkling thing shall hinder us. Arnor is not over, my people. The North has not fallen yet!”

With that, Arvedui descended from the platform, leaving a sudden overwhelming surge of noise in his wake.

[Osse]

Slowly, Carthor’s eyes opened to take in the ruddy light. He was stretched out on a bier of yew; the branches were lashed together and covered in fabric to form a membrane which was currently sagging under his weight. As his eyes slowly reached out to focus the great room around him, he became aware of a cold wall of grey stone to his right. The wall was covered in richly embroidered tapestries and hangings depicting great scenes of battle. One by his cold, grey right hand depicted a great hunt, the dogs rearing as they went in for the kill upon a large boar, fighting to the last. Carthor’s head swirled as he tried to raise it, the blood rushed to his throbbing head and he lay heavily back down upon the bier. His eyes closed and his tired, damaged mind tried to piece together the happenings of the last day, the last bloody, horrible day.

Flashes of the battle raced like stampeding kine through his mind, their thundering, steel clad hooves breaking the soft ground of his mind and throwing other memories, like dust into the wind. Faces, both man and orc, alive and dead, swirled in the dust. Carthor could feel his own hand as it gripped his broadsword, could feel the shudder as it bit into flesh. A tall building, aflame suddenly reared up out of the dust, its form like a great beast itself, stricken by many hurts, yet still unconquered. He could hear the screams, taste the hot blood on his parched lips, feel the cobble stones underfoot and the sickly wind as it mockingly caressed his face with the stench of the dead. And then out of the dust came a great beam, burning as it fell on him.

Carthor opened his eyes. There, kneeling by his left side, bathing some linen in steamy water, the fragrance of which filled the air, was his Lissi. It was then that Carthor realized that the fear and doubt in his mind was not directed at what had happened to him, but rather what had happened to her, her and their two boys. Carthor’s gnarled hand reached over and touched hers, the porcelain skin warm from the water. She started and looked up from the bowl, her lovely grey eyes bright in delight. Lissi’s lips opened for speech, yet the words lingered on her tongue. Carthor gently raised his finger deftly to her soft lips and with much effort pulled himself upright enough to place a delicate kiss on their supple curve. Lissi sat upon her haunches, quite shocked at this tender change in her stone hard husband.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Carthor said gently. “You and my boys.”

“Where are they? Are they safe? What of Brander??” The questions that had been plaguing Carthor rolled like waves from his heart.

“They are quite safe. Those two are no braggarts, and looked after their mother well. They are both now helping the men prepare, the king has addressed us.” Lissi’s voice had softened from the usual strength it held when directed at her husband, and her face seemed tired and worn and she said no more.

A short period of time passed where neither of them spoke, Carthor just reveling in her presence, Lissi looking around the large stone hall with interest. Neither saying what was on their mind.

Part of Carthor’s organized mind longed to fill in the events that he had missed – how had he got to the North Downs stronghold, a place he had been on two previous occasions? Who was responsible for his rescue? What had happened to the rest of the Vanguard? How close was the enemy behind them? Where would the people go now, for surely this was no better a place than Fornost?

Instead, he just laid his head in the lap of his beautiful wife, quieted his mind and gave his swimming head a rest. Lissi bent down and placed a beautifully soft kiss on his furrowed forehead and his eyes fell closed. Carthor escaped into the soothing quiet of dreamless sleep.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn

Belegorn raised an eyebrow and rubbed his stubble covered chin absentmindedly with his ungloved left hand,

Ered Luin. So that’s the king’s plan!

A burly man in front of Belegorn turned around cursing and brushed passed the First Lieutenant rudely much to the latter’s irritation. Jolted out from his thoughts, Belegorn looked around and saw that his men were still standing among the civilians near to him, their filthy faces betraying anxiety, nervousness and unease. Many a few were straining their heads and scanning the crowd, with the look of those trying to identify familiar faces. It was all too understandable to Belegorn, for the guardsmen had not seen their folks since the day they took up positions behind the secondary battlements and then there here they were, mingled with the survivors of Fornost. The urge to go off and find their families and loved ones were overwhelming, but as they were still on duty, their discipline and honor forbade them to leave their post without permission.

The occupants of the seemingly endless hall of curved stone was now in an uproar as the king’s foreboding announce sank in and realization of its significance struck the cold and tired Dúnedain refugees like a merciless invisible hammer. A mob of agitated men folk standing nearest to the dais were gesturing threateningly and yelling their displeasure in the direction of the King’s entourage. The nervous bodyguards of the king were quick to note that and quickly formed a line separating their charge and his glittering staff from the rest of his royal subjects, their black leather clad hands grasping the gilded hilts of their swords tensely. Belegorn sneered at the rowdy men.


The First Lieutenant looked for and found Hirvegil. His captain was looking in another direction and standing very still, facial expression undecipherable. Belegorn made his way over slowly and tapped him gently on one of the broad shoulders,

“Sir, the men have not rested since the day the retreat begun and are exhausted. Would you have them gathered and addressed before dismissing them from their stations? I’m sure a kind word and praise or two from their lord captain would be most appreciated.”

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

During the King’s speech, the Noldo was silent. But in her mind, Bethiril decided that the time for action has come.

After the King had finished his address, she looked for her fellow emissary. She found Erenor in one of the armouries, whetting her blade. Bethiril almost faltered at the sight of the weapon, but she gained composure and moved on to her task.

“We must do something. If the Men of Fornost persist in daring the elements, they will only open the doors of Mandos wider for them.”

“That I know. Did you not read my thoughts then, when we were gathered at the passage of the North Gate?”

“I did, but I deemed it then that the time was not proper. Yet now, we are in a place of safety, if any place will ever be safe from the grasp of the Witch-King, and we will find no better place and time to avert the doom of Arnor.”

Erenor sheathed her sword, then stood to her feet. “Will you not help me with this task? You have more experience in this than I have.”

Bethiril was silent. Her eyes were transfixed by the dull gleam of the scabbard hanging on Erenor’s right hand. It still doesn’t make sense. She of all people should understand: emissaries should aim to rid Middle-earth of the blood-thirsty metals and their wielders, not carry one themselves. Erenor perceived her mind, and hid the sword under her robes. “Arnor must survive this onslaught. I am willing to set aside our differences to achieve our goals. Will you not do the same?”

Bethiril raised her eyes, and stared at the Elf before her. They said that Erenor was a woman unsentimental. Who is this then before me? She spoke: “You know that you have more authority in this place than I have. I was sent for a purpose now bereft of meaning. Let us hope your errand falls not to the same doom.”

“Let us go then,” and summoning Angóre the two emissaries trod the paths to the king’s chambers.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor answered her co-emissary "this is not a time for that dispute - those who do not wield swords are still liable to die on them - I will not pass to Mandos without offering resistance". She sheathed her sword and uttered no further word until in the presence of the king. She made a reverence, but the gesture seemed cursory compared to those of the obsequious courtiers. Her language was similarly direct; Arvedui was not her king, her status protected her and her honesty was a more valuable gift than her skill with blade.

"My Lord, I must advise you against this course. The road to the mountains is long and into the depths of winter. The journey to Imladris is no longer and conditions would be easier. Furthermore, aid could be expected from our kindred. If you insist on the westward course it should be to the Havens not the diggings of the Naugrim. It may be even now that the Earnil of Gondor has harkened to Arthedain's need and aid from the south will await us there."

[Kransha]

Mellonar was indeed disappointed about having been absorbed into the last party to leave Fornost. His train had apparently arrived almost two hours later than the others at the northern hold, which explained why the King had so readily orated when his group arrived. He and about ten other nobles had not been part of the emergency rede of counselors held in the chambers of the hold, and had little idea of what was going on. He had to be filled in by nobles’ attendants and guardsmen, since all the Arnorian lords already busied themselves during this time settling in for a brief stay. After the King left the main hall, the throng dispersed into other rooms, and guards divided them into units that occupied small rooms of the fortress. The hold became more controlled by soldiers, but was still a chaotic mess of a situation, one which Mellonar did not like and could barely, in this ill time, fathom fully.

In his haste, the minister found himself worming his way illicitly through the crowd, constantly proclaiming his status so underlings would scoot clumsily aside, and made his way with great, serpentine speed to the chamber of the king. It was not a large room, certainly not befitting of royalty, and had been, at one time, the seat of some provincial Dúnedain lord, possibly, so the weathered old rock stone that the King now sat in, kneading his creased brow with a bony hand, bore some merit, but little. Lords and ladies were crowded around, running back and forth to attend to their own respective duties or needs. It was hard to near King Arvedui, but Mellonar soon attained close vicinity to the last Arnorian monarch, and attempted to approach. Unfortunately, before he came near enough, another source addressed the king – the Elf, Erenor.

They were speaking to the King, of course, which made Mellonar seethe. They should have sought him out. He was their ambassador to the king, in charge of relations with the Elven-kindreds of Middle-Earth. Sourly, he approached them as they concluded what they were saying. Mellonar noted that the King was still too busy kneading his brow to take complete notice, probably very weary from all the business he had to tend to, so Mellonar took the opportunity to shove himself in front of the Elves.

“Lady Erenor, Lady Bethiril, pardon my rudeness but, if I may, I will take your questions.” He said all this with sickening sweetness, fitting of his nature, and smiled grimly, but the look of the Elf who’d spoken, Erenor, was somber. “Our query was addressed to the King.” She steadily and seriously intoned, and Mellonar diverted a scowl and nodded accordingly. “And I will tell him of it, I assure you.” He continued smiling, but was certainly grimacing within. “Now then, what is it you want?”

Erenor spoke, and Bethiril simply stood by. “We” she looked quickly to Bethiril for final confirmation, “believe that the King is making a mistake.” Mellonar winced noticeably, but recovered his smile, though it was now tempered with a stern furrowing of his threadbare eyebrows. “My dear Lady, the King does not make mistakes, even in times of war.” Erenor looked a little disdainful when this was said, and Bethiril looked indifferent. Both were oddly cold, and shot a look at Mellonar that bordered on ennui, which annoyed the minister to no end. Quietly, Erenor responded.

“All men make mistakes, Lord Mellonar, it is not a shameful thing.”

Mellonar sighed. “I suppose Elves make no mistakes, yes?” He shot back with a tone of caustic sarcasm ripe in his wheedling voice. There was a slight pause, as the graceful Elven maid was digesting this retort. It was, in fact, Bethiril who replied, possibly covering for her compatriot. “All creatures are flawed,” she said, in an attempt at vague pacification perhaps, “but that is not the matter we pursue here. The course of the king is a wrong one. The Ered Luin hold only catacombs and darkness, an asset to the Wraith Lord who pursues us rather than a detriment. We can reach the harbors of Mithlond easily once we have gone far enough west.”

Again Mellonar sighed at the ignorance of the Elves (his image thereof, at least), and set off in a brief harangue. “You should consult your maps, Emissary. Between us and Mithlond many perils lie. It is not as easy a course as it sounds or even looks. Orcs are numerous now in the north. Have you not heard of the terrors the Witch-King has brought upon us?” he widened his eyes and gestured with his politician’s fluttering hands to illustrate, “There are wraiths, spirits, and phantasms in the south, infesting the graves of our dead. Goblins from the mountains swarm over the hills, and wolves gnaw at those lost on the plains. A journey to Mithlond is a journey to death.” He spoke the last word with grinding sternness, and some people who were walking in the area nearby stopped and shot concerned glances in the direction of the three Elves and the minister who was trying to dissuade them from their course. Unfortunately, Bethiril was quick on the uptake.

“But, if we reach the Ered Luin, will we be farther from that death?”

Mellonar’s throat allowed a bubbling growl of contempt to escape it, though his face remained stately, despite rising anger. “Why must you question his majesty now?” he said tiresomely, “He is tired and his wisdom should not be questions.”

Erenor picked up the argument again. “You speak rightly, he is tired – and his wisdom may be dulled.”

Mellonar’s eye twitched, and he did not bother to answer. Annoyance plain in his voice, he gestured to two nearby guards, who were only two of the many who were gathered in clumps throughout the room, answering questions, issuing directions and orders, and keeping order in the area. The guards hurried over, and Mellonar turned back to the two bemused emissaries and the ever-silent Elven guard. “We have not the time for this.” He said, gesturing again, unnoticeably, to the armored guards. “Here,” he indicated the guards, “these men shall escort you to your quarters. We will be here for some days, but do not settle, for we shall uproot again before the new moon.” He jabbed his quavering index finger in the direction of the nobles’ chambers under his billowing robes and turned away before the Elves even had a chance to protest, hurrying towards the King. A moment later, the rushing crowds of ministers and lords had moved all around him and concealed him from view.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

The guard motioned for the emissaries to follow them. Bethiril held her ground, her stare following the slithering form of Mellonar.

Here she was, believing that the sword was the greatest danger to all, able to take more lives than anything else this world could throw against anyone. This Man, though weaponless himself, is more dangerous than a thousand swords and spears. With a sickening infusion of pomp, stubbornness, and arrogance, he sends the people of Arnor to a fate they otherwise should not have tasted.

She turned to the King. His head was now bowed, his hands rubbing his temples, revealing a glimpse of the tempests that essayed to scatter the ashes of his wisdom, the gales of contradictory advice this Man must have received ever since the hated host reared its banners before the walls of now-doomed Fornost. Perhaps, on his own, Arvedui would have been a better king, a great king even. But with Men like the insecure Mellonar as his counsellors, he may perhaps live to his name.

She was tempted to try to persuade the king once more, pouring out the last of her strength in an appeal that she hoped would prevent Arnor from partaking of this deadly fruit. She was tempted to take her ring, and cast it before the feet of the king, washing her hands of any evil that might after befall. She was tempted to do many other things, but the knowledge that all these would ultimately prove useless prevented her from being dragged away by the mad thoughts.

Erenor beside her felt the momentary turmoil in her mind. She reached out to touch her shoulders. “It seems that the king has burned his ships,” she said, her voice quavering, as if she struggled to remain master of it. “Let return to our quarters for new counsel.”

Bethiril turned to the window, looking at the Dúnedain women and children huddling in the cold. She remained silent as she turned her back and left the presence of the king.

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre didn't bother to keep his voice down as the guards approched hesitantly. "This is foolishness." He directed his words to Betheril and Erenor. "To where are we fleeing? Are the holes of the Naugrim more defensible with a hundred men than the Citadel of the north with a legion? What friends are there to aid us in the frigid north, when we are beset again by the pursuing forces of Angmar?" His tone was scathing, his normally impassive face twisted. The braver of the two guards felt that some response was called for.

"You would do well to trust in the decision of our king, Elf. Never before has his wisdom failed." The man was red in the face, but resolute.
"For you and yours, once will be enough," replied the Elf with a twisted smile. "But I do not deny the north-King's wisdom. It is against the mistrustfulness of his ministers that I speak. For I think that many among those who have the king's ear hold no love for the Eldar, and I see their hand behind this ill-fated choice. Alas that it should come to this! Will we now hold petty squabbles of more import than the survival of the heirs of Númenor? Tell me friend, do you see any hope in this choice?" But the man was silent as he and his companion ushered the Elves out of the hall. Angóre took one last look over his shoulder at Arvedui, last king of Arnor, and his countenance softened. The man sat lost in thought, the toil and strain of his decisions clearly visible in his features. It was plain that Angóre's questions had been oft in the mind of the king as well, and similarly plain that, for all his wisdom, he didn't know the answers either.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor had not trusted herself to speak again before the king and his minister but the second the elves were alone in their quarters her anger exploded. "This is madness - he will lead them all to death in his pride, rather than seek sanctuary in another's kingdom. And that MAN!!! How dare he lecture me - I dwellt at Mithlond when Elendil fled Numenor and I have traversed Eriador oft in the long years since. Does he think me some child to be frightened by his tales of phantasms and goblins? I fear the Witch-King himself less than his stupidity. " Erenor paced the small chamber. In her plain, somewhat masculine travelling clothes she ressembled more than ever her warrior father.

"We must try to speak to the king again - I fear the old fool will haunt my steps and I will be hard pressed to get near the king's ear - but perhaps the Lindon emissary may add his voice to our cause - I cannot imagine they wish to roam the mountains any more than us. But if the king refuses - what should our course be? surely our duty is not to follow to certain death - theirs if not ours? My sire was slain fighting on the slopes of Orodruin and the victory won by his death and those of so many others was squandered in pride and folly - must we too pay the price for the arrogance of the line of Isildur?" . Erenor spat the words at noone in particular .........and spun on her heel to face her companions, her hand unconsciously rested on the hilt of the sword at her hip.

Then calmer she said : "Lady Berethil - I will try to seek contact with the minds of our lords at Imladris - I would you would add your essais to mine since your power is the greater and some are closer in kindred. We may get counsel even if we cannot hope for aid." She sat on a bench and rested her head in her hands, fatigued by her own outburst.

[Nuranar]

As the King stepped down, the chaotic hubbub rose once more. Lissi forcefully quelled the despair rising in her and turned to her sons. "Go find us a place to rest. Here, Brander, take this" - she handed him the bag she had brought. "Faerim, take care of them. I'm going to look for your father among the wounded. If--"

"You can't do that," Faerim interrupted. Concern was written all over his face. "You don't know - I'll go with you, or I'll just go, and--"

"Faerim." The tone was sharp and brooked no objection. "You need to look out for your brother and the lady. When you've had some rest, help the men wherever they need you. I need to find my husband. If he is not among the wounded, I will meet you by the main entrance to this hall shortly. If I do not return, I am with him, and will come to you when I can."

Faerim nodded and began to turn away, gently directing Renedwen and his brother. The woman seemed intelligent and aware, but the listless apathy in her face was alarming. Lissi had no intention of leaving her alone. Brander hesitated. His searching hand found Lissi's arm, then her shoulder. Then he enveloped his mother in a fierce hug, just for an instant, and turned and found Faerim. Lissi blinked, swallowed hard, and began shoving her way in the other direction, where she'd seen the wains go.

~ * ~ * ~

The infirmary was a series of small rooms, inadequately heated by braziers holding coals, but still warmer than the rest of the Hold. Lissi picked her way through the livid darkness, peering uncertainly for the face she knew, kneeling beside those she could not see, hoping that the face behind the blood might be Carthor's. A number of dim figures also stooped and rose, other women hoping against hope. The noise here was not the clamor of conversation; it was the low murmur of groans, cries, orders, and weeping.

With a sigh, Lissi rose again. She looked at the next man, then the next - then back to the first. Quickly she stepped across and looked into his unconscious face. It was he! Her heart was pounding so hard it frightened her; the tears that suddenly began flowing down her face were a relief.

A minute composed her, and she was busily looking him over for injuries. Someone had removed his helm and set it beside him; a large dent in it mutely testified as to the ugly bruise on his brow. There were large, painful-looking burns on his shoulders and neck, but it was the head wound that worried Lissi.

Remembering something seen on the way to the infirmary, she quickly left the infirmary. There he was - a bent old man tending a fire. And yes, there was water heating on it. Carefully Lissi filled a bowl and hurried back. The old man never looked up.

Lissi washed Cathor's burns with the hot water and bandaged them with long strips of linen torn from her smock. She knew she hurt him, for the man's face grimaced and he moaned, but never did his eyes open. Then she carefully cleaned the blood and dirt off his face and bathed the bruise on his head. Once she left to get more water. Silently she cared for him, sitting quietly by his side through the long dark hours.

Suddenly a hand - his hand - reached out and touched hers. Lissi jumped, and she gasped to see Carthor's piercing blue eyes fixed on her. She opened her mouth to speak, but her relief and gratitude were wordless.

Her husband smiled at her confusion and shushed her wordlessly. Then, rising carefully, he leant forward and gently kissed her. If Lissi had had any words before, this incomprehensible action would have obliterated them. She could not recall the last time her husband had kissed her. All she could do was stare, her mind reeling from the double shock.

"I thought I’d lost you," Carthor said gently. Oh, so gently! When had been the last time? "You and my boys." Wondering, Lissi saw the anxiety in his face grow. "Where are they? Are they safe? What of Brander?"

"They are quite safe," Lissi said, her voice trembling. She cleared her throat and pulled herself together, even trying to smile. "Those two are no braggarts, and looked after their mother well. They are both now helping the men prepare," she finished - no, one more thing. "The king has addressed us." And made clear his folly and our doom, she did not say. Carthor did not answer immediately, and Lissi's thoughts wandered back.

"We shall traverse the lands to the west and make haste to the Blue Mountains," the King had said. "There, the refuges of the Dwarves shall be home to us until we have recovered from this stinging blow." Does he not know that the mines have been deserted for a century? Is he that much a fool? "Food and supplies can be found there, and metals in those mines to forge new weapons that shall replace our splintered blades. Shields will be remade, spears sharpened, armor wrought, and victory regained in time." There is nothing there - no food, no fuel, no supplies. Victory with a hundred swords, against Angmar! There is nothing but death. Why does he lead us there? Why?

Lissi's thoughts, wandering in sad circles, were interrupted as Carthor sighed wearily. He looked around once more, then laid his head in her lap as if it was the most natural thing to do. Lissi's eyes filled with tears. She kissed his forehead and watched him sleep.

[alaklondewen]

Ereglin was deeply troubled by the King’s decision. He could not fathom taking these people across dangerous land with winter upon them to reside in abandon Dwarf mines. They should be heading to the Havens and to Cirdan, where real aid would be available. The Councilor did not fail to notice that the King had left the city long before the Elves, and therefore, took no counsel with the Eldar. It was folly.

“Lord Ereglin.” Rôsgollo’s voice brought him from his thoughts, and Ereglin noticed a guardsman talking to his personal guards. “He wishes to take us to our quarters.” The young elf said as he followed Ereglin’s gaze.

“That is good,” Ereglin answered. “I believe we can all use some rest.” As he spoke the young child that clung to Rôsgollo began to fuss, and the Elven guard set to calming him.

The mortal guard led them down a long, narrow hallway, lit with mounted candles whose light danced on the walls and floor before them. Several doorways along each side emptied into storage rooms. Ereglin glanced into each room as they passed and saw that they were quickly filling, mostly with nobility who were settling in to rest for the short time they were allowed. As they neared the end of the hall, the Elf’s highly sensitive ears picked up the melodic sound of Elven voices. “…must we too pay the price for the arrogance of the line of Isildur?” Ereglin raised his eyebrow at the statement and wondered if his guards heard it too. He almost smiled at the similarity to his own thoughts. The voice died down just before the guide halted at a heavy wooden door on the left. He knocked dutifully on the door before pushing it open, exposing the forms of the Imladhrim.

After thanking the guard for showing them to the room, Ereglin stepped in front of his guards and greeted the other Emissaries. “Lady Bethiril…Lady Erenor.” He bowed his head toward each of them. “I hope we have not interrupted you, but it seems we will be sharing quarters for the next few days.”

[Kransha]

“I do not believe my words will console them, Belegorn.”

Hírvegil was not tired; he had learned to remain alert and awake for hours on end. In fact, he hadn’t slept since the beginning of the siege days ago. Yet, he felt no weariness now. The speech of the king had filled him with too many strange thoughts to allow him to nod off. His eyes were reddened, though, and dark wrinkles creased the rough skin beneath each one. His brow sagged and looked heavy, as if weighted by a battle-helm. As he looked to Belegorn, he saw the amazingly sprightly nature of his Lieutenant who, by rights, should have been far wearier looking than he. The battle had taken little physical toll on him, besides the prerequisite injuries he’d received. The man was an aspiring soldier indeed, though his Captain. With a serious expression glazed on his soldierly face, Belegorn responded.

“They did well in combat against forces Arnor has never faced the likes of before. They deserve congratulations.” His honest selflessness was as refreshing as his contemplative vigor. Hírvegil could not smile, but he allowed his spirits to rise and clapped the lieutenant hard on the shoulder, striking his un-removed pauldron and taking him by surprise. “You deserve congratulations, Lieutenant. You have done well…” he paused hesitantly, but continued soon after, “Better, perhaps, than I would have.”

After Belegorn gathered the gist of the words, he gestured negatively. “Your flattery is undeserved.” He said. He was not really a humble person, as Hírvegil knew, but his pride allowed for similar modesty. Hírvegil shook his head swiftly and replied with further accolades. “But it is.” He retorted, chiding his second like a father or older brother, “If we ever reach stability in the north, I will see that you are promoted. When I speak with the King, I will recommend you for a higher post.” His face glowed warmly, though he looked no less weary.

“What post is there in an army of hundreds?” Belegorn was grateful, but could not avoid adding the jarring phrase. Hírvegil tried to laugh it off, even though he knew the words to be deadly serious. “None, I suppose,” he said, clucking his tongue, “but I will make sure the King hears your name.” Belegorn nodded and bowed his head in reverence, saying quietly: “Many thanks.”

As the noise of conversation and the hollow sound of footsteps against brick rang emptily in the chambers, silence fell on Belegorn and Hírvegil, leaving a nervous atmosphere over both comrades in arms. Hírvegil realized, as he glanced absentmindedly away from the lieutenant, that he had little to do but contemplate, though all thoughts there were to be pensive about were darker than he cared for, and he did not want to be drowned in that sorrowful humor that might overtake him if he lost himself in thought. Thankfully, Belegorn spoke again, reminding him of another option.

“So, you will say nothing to your men?” questioned the man.

Hírvegil didn’t need to think on it for long. He required a diversion – even a brief one. “Very well,” he said, waving dismissively, “assemble them in the barracks.” With another acknowledging nod, Belegorn hurried off, rounding up the remnants of the Rearguard milling about the chamber. Soon, armored men were filing into another offshoot chamber, another large room. This room held weapons on racks, mounted shields and tables of maps and papers. The men, all tired and not having slept in days, or even sat, slumped eagerly on the cold, hard floor when told they could. Sitting in a variety of positions, they reclined in cramped clumps. As Hírvegil moved, with Belegorn, towards the front of the room, he looked across it to see a decimated throng, but not a defeated one. They looked like acolytes awaiting a preacher’s words, looking up from where they sat to their Captain.

When Hírvegil stopped at the front of the room, the Rearguard cheered, very unexpectedly, and Hírvegil reeled a little, but recovered and quieted them with a commanding gesture. They seemed strangely jovial, despite the loss of the city and the news of travel-to-come. Hírvegil supposed that they considered escaping a victory and, in many ways, it was. The Captain began:

“Soldiers of the Rearguard, you have fought well, nay, excellently. An enemy has come upon our lands whose power is unmatched in south, east, and west combined, but you, the soldiers of the north-kingdom, held him and his spawn back and allowed us all to escape safely from a doomed citadel. Your strength was great, like the peerless courage of our forefathers. I feel the pride of Númenór when I look upon you, all warriors from a generation that came after my own, one which I did not fully understand, but now revere. In my veins runs blood that has fueled my arm, my sword, my shield, and my strength, but your blood is that which has been spilled in Fornost, and that blood has spared the blood of many.”

“I was with you for some of it. You stood as my armor when the Captain of Despair fell upon us, but I am sad to say I was drawn from you. But, by the Valar’s grace, you still had a mighty captain.” As he paused gratuitously, a cheer rose; all men looking to Belegorn where he stood at Hírvegil’s side. Ever humble, Belegorn put up his hand to halt the cheer, and it diminished. Hírvegil spoke again. “Your hearts may now be hardened against death, since you have drunk of it deeply and, I am afraid, have developed a taste. It is a taste that, once acquired, will not leave you until the day or your death. Do not drink of death lightly, my brothers, for it is cruel liquor, and a cold one that will leave you with nothing.” The melancholy tone made the silence settled around him all the drearier. “But, you have something today; you have hope. You have given all of us hope. And that, brothers, is no mean feat.”

“We will soon depart, and you will further defend the King of Arthedain and the people of Fornost. In future days, when books and tomes of lore bandy about tales of Arvedui, they may say he fled his capital, but indeed he did not. He flew from the city, with you as his wings and the sword in his hand which bore the hope of Arnor from Fornost and to safety. We do not idly flee, but hasten to a new land where we will stand again. And we shall stand again, my brothers. It is as the King said: the north has not fallen yet!”

Another cheer rose from the energized audience, and Hírvegil smiled.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Nilpaurion Felagund's post

Bethiril was looking out the window. Snow fell lightly outside, and once more, she was young again, watching in wonder the falling of the feathery tears of ice falling from a frowning sky. The staves from her youth she hummed again.

The dark clouds run swift, and hide Menel’s light.
And Manwë covers all with a blanket of white.
All go into slumber in this long and cold night.

Then she looked down, and saw the destitute of Arnor shivering anew. Her reverie was rudely ended, and she heard now the request of Erenor. The emissary was tired out by her effort to control her emotions before the king, followed by this outburst. Just a day before, Bethiril would have thought her less emissary-like than before. But now she saw in the younger Noldo a tenacity and dedication sometimes needed to change the minds of these proud Men of the West.

There was a knock on the door. It opened moments later, and the emissary from Mithlond walked in. “I hope we have not interrupted you, but it seems we will be sharing quarters for the next few days.”

“That is well.” The emissary from Rivendell sat down beside her superior, and she waited for Erenor to stir from her respite.

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Mithalwen's post

Erenor looked up and a glimmer of a smile passed briefly over her face as she saw the emissary from the Havens. Although he was younger than she - he had been less than a couple of centuries out of childhood when she had removed to Imladris after Gil-galad was lost - she knew him to have risen to high office through great determination. Furthermore his experience of the court far exceeded that of Berethil or herself who were relative newcomers, sent as the severity of the situation had increased. Finally - and Erenor hated to think that this was a factor - there was the possibility that by virtue of his gender, Ereglin's view would be taken more seriously than those of the Noldorin ladies despite their seniority in years and perhaps also in power. It rankled still how the old courtier had spoken to her as if she were a wilful and ignorant child. Ereglin with his strong resolve and the authority of his long ambassadorship would be a powerful ally.

Erenor spoke, and when she did so her voice was dulcet enough to meet even the most demanding standards of diplomacy.


"My lord Ereglin, your arrival is as the answer to a prayer for I wish greatly to have you counsel and if you will it your aid" . She relayed the facts of their attempt to speak with the king in measured terms. "Every instinct tells me that the king's choice leads to doom - I would attempt to persuade him but I fear I will be denied access - I will attempt to reach the minds of our Lords in Rivendell - perhaps if you will you might try likewise to gain counsel from the havens. the distance is great but our need may aid the transmission if there are those whose minds are open to our thought. "

Erenor fell silent and sought with her mind for contact. Knowing that the sharing of thoughts was easier with kindred and close friends she focused her will on her kinsman, a councillor of Elrond. She closed her mind to outside influences but it seemed that a great fog lay between the downs and her home sapping her power. She sighed...... " We cannot give up " she said.

[Arry]

Arry's post

Gaeredhel sat on his rough made cot, his sword held lightly in his left hand, his sharpening stone in his right. Snick . . . . snick . . . it went as he moved it smoothly along the blade’s edge. His knife, already sharpened lay on the quilt beside him, its keen edge catching the light from the small, slit window in the room. It was cool in the room, with the thick tapestry pulled back from the high opening, but the brothers preferred it to the dim, close, smoky enclosure it had been before they’d tied back the curtain.

‘Push your knife back further,’ came Rôsgollo’s request as Gilly toddled across the thick skin rug the brothers had foraged for in one of the hold’s cellars. A cry of frustration escaped the little boy as his intended plaything was put out of reach. ‘Here, Little Star,’ crooned Gaeredhel, offering the chubby fingers the sheath to play with instead. Gilly plopped down on his amply padded bottom and banged the knife sheath about on the bear skin. It was soon abandoned as some other object of interest caught his eye.

‘How long must we stay here?’ asked Gaeredhel, sheathing his sword. ‘Are we not simply waiting for the next blow to fall from the foul hand of the Witch-king?’

Rôsgollo nodded his head in agreement. ‘There are so few left – I cannot think how we might hold out against him.’ With his own knife, he sectioned a wizened apple he’d managed to secure from what small larder the hold had. He held a small piece out to Gilly, and one to his brother. A last bit, he popped into his own mouth, savoring the flavor. He wiped his knife on his breeches and resheathed it.

Gilly chortled happily as he gnawed the sweet offering. ‘Were it my choice,’ Rôsgollo said watching his antics, ‘I would have us leave these Fírimar to their fated end. No good will come of us staying with them. They care not for us or what counsel we can give. Why should we follow them to certain death?’

‘My thoughts echo yours, brother.’ Gaeredhel fished out a small piece of plain waybread, and leant forth, smiling, as the boy reached for it. ‘Once we cross the Baranduin, we should head south, to the Emyn Beraid and then to Mithlond.’ He looked up at his brother who stood to light the wall lamp as the sun descended. ‘What do you think? Would Lord Ereglin agree to come with us? I cannot see why he would stay, can you?’

‘That is the problem, is it not?’ Rôsgollo continued, drawing the tapestry across the window. ‘We are sworn to guard him . . . however wise or foolish his decision might be.’

Gaeredhel raised his brows as he considered the dilemma. ‘I suppose it is out of the question to simply kidnap him for his own good.’ He was startled as his brother laughed; it was a sound he had not heard in a long time.

‘Should push come to shove, we may have to consider that as a real course of action. I suppose that being sworn to guard him might include guarding him from himself.’

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Saurreg's post

Belegorn was pleased that the address went well. Hírvegil was a natural born leader of men and like all who partook in this gift of genius, he had an irresistible charisma that few could deny. His inspirational speech, delivered by that crystal clear animated voice aroused the fiery spirit of his people within the hearts of the soldiers and filled them with newfound hope and courage. The first lieutenant found it especially gratifying to see that as his men filed out of the barracks, their grey eyes were sparkling and the corners of their mouths curled upwards. Belegorn had little doubt that if their beloved captain was to order them to head back to Fornost and retake the great city right at that moment; they would do so without the slightest hesitation.

Belegorn turned to his captain to congratulate him but was taken aback when he saw the eyes his intent. The very eyes which captivated his audience and held them spell bound during the speech were now dull and lifeless – devoid of the wild fire that spun its hypnotic dance in them a few moments ago. Those grey eyes were still beautiful and clear, but they were heavy, spiritless. It was as if a totally dissimilar Hírvegil was sharing the room with Belegorn; the inspirational captain whom men would gladly lay down their lives down for had disappeared amidst the ranks of exiting soldiers and replaced by the same man whom he accosted in the main hall. For a moment Belegorn felt incredibly depressed and an irrational urge arose to seize the man before him by the shoulders and shake violently just for a glimpse of that hope again. Hirvegil noticed that his lieutenant was staring at him intently,

“Lieutenant, you should get some rest too. You must be tired after your ordeal in the north passage,”

“Sir…” Belegorn begun, but the rest of the words died in his mouth and never came forth. He eluded the still penetrating glance of Hírvegil and stared at the aged stone paved floor like a child who had discovered a secret those around were trying to hide from him. A spider darted across the floor from a cot and disappeared beneath the cracks of a stone curved wall.

Hírvegil narrowed his eyes and spoke, this time a bit more sternly,

“You may speak your mind lieutenant, if there is something you wish to say,”

“Belegorn cleared throat mildly and started a new,

“Beg your pardon sir. I was going ask you if I could have your permission to round up some of the civilians as fillers for the ranks. Some of the men are too seriously wounded for duty and all are too tired. Replacements are needed sir.”

“Very good Belegron,” replied Hírvegil addressing his subordinate by his name, “you have my permission to carry out your drafting. And don’t confine your search to the commoners alone, you may also include the youths of higher society in this exercise. They too must play a part in this nation’s defense, no?”

Hírvegil gave Belegron a wane smile as he concluded. The latter knew that his captain understood his distain for the aristocracy and nobility and must have added the last punt in jest just to lighten the air, but the younger man did not reciprocate. Squaring his shoulders, Belegorn continued in sonorous voice,

“And also, I am in the opinion sir, that the role of the rearguard must change. We are too scant in numbers and capacity to operate under current doctrine. If you would permit sir, I would like to have every single guardsman mounted on chargers and thus fighting as mounted light infantry. Every one of the one hundred is a trained rider – a basic prerequisite for entry into the Rearguard, so there shouldn’t be much problems sir. As for the replacements, we’ll try to pick out accomplished riders and at least those with some experiences handling the noble beasts. At worst, there’s nothing a good crash course in mounted warfare couldn’t solve.”

Hírvegil nodded and replied,

“I am also for this idea. Very well, you may carry out this reorganization of the rearguard lieutenant. Except I feel that a hundred mounted infantrymen would be hard pressed by the enemy in a standard engagement, with or without the crash course. I’m thinking on the lines of reconnoitering and scouting. At this point of time, I will have to pay a higher premium on battles avoided over battles won.”

Belegorn nodded curtly. Taking a step backwards from Hírvegil, he snapped into a smart salute, turned and strode towards the exit into the main halls hoping to find a senior sergeant or two.

As the first lieutenant passed the rows of green painted oak wood cots, he debated whether to stop and speak his mind to Hírvegil but decided against it. After all, a vexing comment would do no good in such times…

Hírvegil son of Sildathar, you give hope to others. Why do you not keep any to yourself?

[Kransha]

Kransha's post

Four days passed uneventfully in the North Downs hold, though, despite the seeming peace of the world around them, the air of the Dúnedain was far from peaceful. Four days had been spent at the height of alertness. All the inhabitants of the temporary hold were circumspect; the soldiery of Fornost occupied watchtowers and parapets, torchlit in the cold, wintry evenings, staring out into the distance expectantly. But nothing came to strike down the doors of the fortress, to smite its walls and burn it to the ground with merciless resolve. No orcs poured from the mountain passes or popped up from holes in the rolling hills. All were ready for departure at any moment, since an order to flee could come at any time, but, just as no foes swarmed across the downs to pursue and besiege, no order came. Sleepily the dazed passed, and dustings of snow blanketed the high pickets and tower roofs of thatch and lumber. The sun grew brighter, despite the penitent cold, and all seemed well with the world.

Then, on the evening of the fourth day, movement was sighted in the hills from the highest tower, and the light of braziers marked the encampment of the enemy. They had been detained in Fornost, looting and pillaging, for days, and then trailed the path of the escapees to the downs. The hold was alerted, and peace turned to barely controlled chaos. The guards of the fort had to patrol the halls and keep harsh order as panic began to take root among the people.

So it was that on midnight of the fourth day, Captain Hírvegil of the Rearguard and his second, Lieutenant Belegorn were called into the council chamber. They were met by a host of ministers and lords, as well as all commissioned officers in Fornost’s shrunken ranks. The Emissaries of Lindon and Rivendell, though, were absent (possibly left out on recommendation from Mellonar), as were many local prefects and the like. All were seated somberly about a great oaken table, hewn from what appeared to be a single slab of tree’s wood. The table was cleared and circular, one great, shield-like disk with low-backed chairs arranged around it. The King was not present when all were told to sit by the residing regent, the minister and vizier, Naurthalion, a bold and stately lord who often acted as a liaison to the king, between he and merchants, generals, and representatives of the commoners. With a solemn mood, and a vague, enigmatic tone in his voice, Naurthalion bade all present be seated. As they sat around the table, officers and ministers clumped together in nervous isolation, Naurthalion spoke, an orator at heart.

“Good evening to you all,” he began carefully, “though I am afraid it is not a good evening, in fact. The King has retired for the night to ready himself for the morning, and I am to relay to you all the plan he has devised, a cunning device that shall grant us safety from the Witch-King’s hordes. This morning we shall depart the hold here and make for the plains to the west. But, we shall not move together, a dragging caravan to be overtaken; we shall divide into two parties. One shall depart second and head southwest towards old Annúminas, drawing the Witch-King away from his majesty, who shall be in the first train. In the Hills of Even dim, the Captain of Despair may be eluded and both parties shall reunite at the Ered Luin.

There was a rumble of idle chatter from the audience, a rising fluctuation of whispers that faded as a voice rose above it – the voice of Captain Maegorod of the King’s Guard. “But,” he queried curiously, “will the Witch-King not pursue with dark speed the second party and crush it?” Maegorod was a younger man, less hardened towards war and its ways, but ready to learn of it. He had gained his position more by the merit of blue blood that ran in his veins than by the crimson blood he spilled on the field. But, he still held some respect, though less by elder officers. Sensibly, Nauthalion responded.

“I doubt that he has the foresight to immediately decide which tracks to follow, and the second, which will be fresher in his mind, will ride all the faster to escape him. That group shall be led by Captain Hírvegil, and shall contain half of his command, the Rearguard, as well as the common civilians, many of whom have been drafted into service. The other will contain the other half, as well as the King and the nobles of Fornost, ministers and counselors alike. One minister, though, must give up his station in the first party and represent his majesty in the second. This may constitute some sacrifice, but any emboldened man may do so, and he would, by doing this, earn my deepest respect. I leave that choice up to whomever wishes to make it."

"In which party shall the Elves go?" inquired another minister, an elder one, "Shall they accompany the King as well." Naurthalion seemed overly hesitant, steepling his fingers and glancing down as he spoke, skeptical. "The King has thought of this," he said, as if striving to say something against his own will, "and decided that they shall go in the second party." This also gave rise to some whispers. "I do not understand, Lord." continued the elder minister, "Will not the Elven Emissaries be nearer to harm in the second? Would it not be best to keep them safe?"

"Indeed it would, but the King, in his most infinite wisdom," Naurthalipn grimaced as unnoticeably as he could, "does not wish to deal with the Eldar at this time, and their foresight will be more useful to the party closest to danger. Similarly, it seems to be the desire of the Elves to divert themselves from the chosen path, so they may subvert as much as they wish away from the tension of the King's council." As he finished this sentence, he changed his doubting looks to a look at least tinged with hopefullness. "Enough, though, of that matter, what say you all to this?"

His words presented what could be a damning choice to one, and a damning proposal for many. When Hírvegil heard his name spoken, he felt his heart swerve fiercely in him, and his soul fill with a fire that bore no real, determinable emotion. With little hesitation, he too spoke up in stern protest.

“I must protest, Lord Naurthalion.” He said, giving his voice the necessary volume of reverence, tempered with obvious disapproval, (he had more respect for the Lord Naurthalion than he did for most other underhanded politicians of the crown), “I suggest the people of Fornost all travel in the party with the King. We of the Rearguard are willing to be overtaken to hinder the Captain of Despair in his course. If he battles us, we may draw down his guard and slay many of his horrific spawn before they have reached even Evendim.” He chanced an offhand look at Belegorn, who sat at his side, whose thoughts were far more decipherable through the look on his face. He seemed to agree with his captain, but Naurthalion’s words banished his hopes of altering the king’s plan.

“Nay,” the lord said, “the groups must be equal in number, and you can surely keep safe those who you must guard in this hard time. You have served the King well in the past, I am sure you will not fail him. Now, all get to your stations and look to your charges, for we shall all leave this hold within a few mere hours, before the sun has crested the white hills. Organize the denizens of the fort at the tunnel that leads beneath the mountain to our west and onto the plains, from whence we shall travel swiftly, with the strength of days’ rest to arouse us. Go hence, brothers and friends. Do not dawdle here, lest the Captain of Despair come to our doorstep unexpected.” He waved his hand and thrust himself firmly from his seat. The room broke into disarray as, immediately, the rede ended and the audience dispersed very hastily, even the heavy-hearted Hirvegil and his heavy-handed lieutenant, both with dark thoughts on their minds.

It was not long before the news had diffused, spreading like wildfire, through the hold. In an hour, the worried Arnorians were ready, gathered in a narrow passage, the pass that led through the North Gates, which led to freedom from the downs. The narrowness of the pass would hinder the orc-hordes in itself, for it would take long to get through with a large force. The two groups organized, one headed by Hírvegil and the other by Maegorod and the King himself. All passed quickly as chaos became ordered confusion, a contradiction in terms, but a strangely understandable one. Time flew by, creating madness and unruliness, but, since all folk knew of the happenings, their natures were subdued and, in time, the parties departed. They were all unready, but ready; all confused, but aware; all scared, but brave enough to battle their way to safety in the Ered Luin.

As the golden vessel of Arien shed yellow light on the peaks of the distant northern mountains, an hour after the flight of the King and his entourage and guards, the second party of Fornost, with Hírvegil riding at its unsteady helm, steering a vessel that was destined for an unknown harbor, saw the light of day and the plains of Arnor stretching before them, ready for their long journey.

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Nilpaurion Felagund's post

Bethiril headed for the council chamber. She hoped that the days had brought a renewal of minds to the King and his counsellors, and that in going alone, without Erenor and her fiery temper, they would reach peacefully a path that would avert the danger from Arnor.

She found the door shut. Inside, she heard voices. This is strange . . . The Noldo approached the guard standing beside the wooden doors. “What is happening behind these portals?”

“The ministers and the lords and the captains of Fornost are holding council.”

She glowered at the guard. “How can that be? Would they hold assembly without the Elven emissaries?” She essayed to gain entry into the chamber.

“Milady,” the guard said, barring the way of Bethiril. “You cannot enter.”

“Why?”

“I am but following orders, milady.”

“Whose orders?” Bethiril asked, though she already knew the answer. “The counsellor Mellonar?”

The guard swallowed. “Yes, milady. It was he.”

Bethiril stood still, staring at the doors, as if by some Elven-craft she could see through the wooden barriers. Once again, that contemptible Man had gotten in her way. Who knows what rede the King now pronounces, with the craven Mellonar controlling his every thought.

Once again, helplessness set in. Calmly, she turned away from the doors, and made her way back to their quarters.

[CaptainofDespair]

The meeting in the council chamber was of somber mood, and it rung of defeat, at least to Mitharan. The King’s plan of splitting the host of Arnorians, to allow the King to escape, was not one the young counselor likened to that of a Numenorean descendant. He felt his people were being driven into the wilds, so that none would hear the screams that would emanate from the dark woods and shallow valleys, as Darkness incarnate overcame them. The ‘cunning’ plan of the King was merely a ploy to save his own hide. When he heard the details that Naurthalion, vizier and minister of the King, presented to the gathered lords and captains, he shrunk in his seat, and muttered a few dire words, “This will spell the end of all...”

Luckily for the counselor, none heard him, or he might have been left in the Downs to fend for himself. But, maybe that was not such an evil end for a bitter life. Nevertheless, he was to live, for now. His hope had faded, that the Witch-King would be driven off, and the lands of Arnor made safe again. The vizier continued to speak of the plan, and the methods with which it would be carried out, though he had been interrupted by a few objections from those in the service of the Crown. Mitharan continued to pass in and out of a daze, remembering little of what was spoken. However, a small section of the speech did penetrate the daze, “One minister, though, must give up his station in the first party and represent his majesty in the second. This may constitute some sacrifice, but any emboldened man may do so, and he would, by doing this, earn my deepest respect. I leave that choice up to whomever wishes to make it.” Almost immediately he became alert, and waited patiently for the other counselors to leave, knowing full well that known would give up their stations, for they would rather be with the King.

Only a few moments later, the council was dispersing, to pass into the twilight, and finalize their preparations for the morning’s departure. Mitharan however, wove his way through the ranks, to meet with Naurthalion. A few of the guards had impeded his progress, if only for a moment, and eventually he pushed his way into the path of the minister. Bowing slightly, he attempted to make his case, to ensure that no other would get what was now his coveted position. “Milord, I wish to leave the King’s direct service, and become his representative in the second train.” Naurthalion, having known the man’s father, inquired to validate the reasoning of the ‘youth’. “For what purpose would this serve you, Mitharan? Your family is not here with you, and thus we assume you are the last of your house.” A quick, seemingly prophetic response came next, “That is my reasoning. My house lies in ruin, and I am the last. I seek retribution for these despicable actions, rather than to flee with the first host, where battle may not come.” The vizier nodded, and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Then may you find what you seek...”

With his new post secured, the youthful minister strutted off, to find Captain Hírvegil, to notify him that he would be the new addition to his command. The captain and his lieutenant had lingered on the outremer of the hall, for a few moments, deep in thought. That is where the counselor found them. Stepping out of the shadow of the vaulted doorway behind the two men, he spoke, “Good evening, Captain Hírvegil. I am Mitharan, a lowly counselor of his Majesty’s court. I will be his lordship’s representative amongst your train.” The Captain responded quickly, with a hint of spite in his voice, “Why would you risk your station to journey with us, to be harried by the Witch-King’s evil?” Mitharan sighed, and hesitated to answer the query. But he did answer nonetheless. “I have many reasons, one of which is to seek some way to deliver the retribution and vengeance of my house upon Angmar’s forces. But...another is that I despise the King, and do not approve of his methods.” Hírvegil and Belegorn looked at each other, and shook their heads, chuckling under their breath. The counselor, with cloak lapping at the air, strode off to find a mount, and prepare to depart the downs.

The light of morning was only beginning to dawn over the hills and fields of Arnor, but the two trains had already prepared to march out, each equally readied for the rigors of marching, and the prospect that battle might come to them. The King’s train had set out earlier, to allow the snow to settle, and cover their tracks. Soon, Hírvegil and the Rearguard would set out with their own, in hopes of distracting the eye of the enemy. Mitharan groaned, sitting uneasily, and rather sleepily, atop his mount, waiting for the signal to begin the long, arduous journey.

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre's mouth twisted again in disgust as the messenger relayed King Arvedui's decisions and council. If it was possible for his estimation of the King's ministers to drop further, it did so. Few things displeased Angóre more than cravenness, especially when it put undeserving people at risk.

"Erenor." His voice shocked the junior emissary from her latest fruitless attempt at communication. She looked up from where she sat. "Erenor," he said again, "I am going to accept the decision of the king to ride with the rearguard. They will need all the strong arms they can get, and I tire of sitting behind walls of shields."

Erenor looked as though she would speak, but Angóre forestalled her words with his upraised hand. "Although I have no authority over you, I would urge you to protest, to stay with the king and his ministers. Though you are indeed valiant, and I doubt not that any company would be pleased to add you to its number, you -and lady Betheril, of course- may yet be able to convince King Arvedui of the folly of his decision, a task far more important and, I fear, difficult than playing the rabbit to the captain of despair's hounds."

"Whether you come with this second party or no, the decision rests, of course, with you. Either way though, I shall not be acting as your guard for much longer. I intend to ask Captain Hírvegil for a position among his scouts." His face was set, and his voice was grim. "I may yet be able to make some difference in this vain endeavor, and I would do what I can for these men."

[Arry]

The horses stamped and whinnied low in the van, their breath streaming out in misty snorts in the chill air of early morn. The riders, too, were nervous for the most part, anxious to begin, their own uneasiness at this venture translating through the reins and the nervous twitches of their knees against their mount’s flanks. Lord Ereglin’s horse stood calmly, taking his cue from the composure of his rider, though even this horse could not avoid completely the nervous air of those others of his kind who milled about him.

Rôsgollo pulled his cloak more firmly about him, shielding Gilly from the cold. The little boy’s bright eyes peeked out from the gap where the edges met. ‘So quiet, you are,’ thought the Elf, shifting the child’s body closer against him. ‘Did your mother teach you that, little one? Some measure of protection in this grim world, I suppose.’

Gaeredhel urged his mount closer to his brother’s. ‘I was talking to one of the guards at that meeting,’ he said quietly, his gaze flicking up to where Lord Ereglin sat, his back to them. ‘Apparently, the King sent us with this group because “he does not wish to deal with the Eldar at this time”.’ Rôsgollo raised his brows at this information. ‘Tis true,’ continued his brother. ‘It seems those from Rivendell counseled against the King’s decision to move to the Ered Luin.’ ‘And the King would not consider their counsel?’ asked Rôsgollo. ‘Nay, not the King, so much,’ returned Gaeredhel, ‘as that buffer he imposes between the Eldar and himself. Mellonar.’ This last word was spat out, as if it left a nasty taste in the Elf’s mouth. ‘The King, or his twisted minister, has left us to offer what counsel we may to those “closest to danger”.’

The brothers sat in silence for a moment, watching the last preparations before the small column moved out. ‘Well, here is my counsel,’ murmured Rôsgollo, glancing round at the women and children huddled on their horses. ‘We make for Mithlond. Keep the King’s people safe . . . and ourselves.’ Gaeredhel gave a grim laugh, agreeing with his brother. A number of eyes slid toward the sound then looked quickly away. ‘A sound idea, brother, and beneficial to the King, too. Do you not think so?’ Rôsgollo’s brow puckered; he did not follow his brother’s thoughts. ‘The King . . .,’ prompted Gaeredhel. ‘What good is such a title when one has nothing, and no one, to be King of?’

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen

She had spent the last few days deep in despair, thinking only of what she had lost. Finding a quiet nook she had withdrawn into it with the child, only accepting food so that she might keep herself alive for the sake of the boy; nothing brought comfort to her now, only the sight of his face. He was beginning to crawl now and she struggled to keep him close to her. The nights were the worst, and she had to sleep curled about him in case he woke and crept away. She could only be thankful that he was so quiet and placid that he was as happy sleeping close to her as he was exploring the world about him.

This world was now changed, and instead of the warm house with its tapestries, rich furniture and thick furs, the child had nothing more to explore than a dark and noisy hall, crammed with those who remained from the great city. Instead of a safe and welcoming home he was now in a cold old hall, and rather than his cradle in the corner of the grand chamber his mother and father has shared, he now slept on the floor in a corner, with only his mother for comfort.

Renedwen not only protected the child through the ordeal, but she also kept hidden from the view the sword her husband had made her take when he died. Many of the people had come here with nothing, and although food and warmth were the primary concerns and most sought after commodities, she could sense the level of fear and knew that such a weapon would catch the eye. She was terrified of anyone seizing it while she slept; in the mass of people it would never be found again, it could soon be hidden from her and its theft easily denied. In the day she had kept it hidden beneath her cloak, but while she slept, she made sure the sword was tucked beneath her. It made her nights even more uncomfortable as she felt the constant pain of the hilt digging into her ribs, but it was preferable to not sleeping through worry that it might be taken.

When the call came for everybody to move on, Renedwen was almost glad, as the last few days had been a constant worry to her. She had retreated into her despair, into the familiar comfort of misery she knew all too well, and though uneasy about what was ahead, she was glad to be moving on. She knew she would be forced into a situation where she had no time to brood; this stasis could only deepen into darkness if she remained here much longer. As she waited to move off, the talk around her was negative. People were angry about the King’s decision and spoke in hushed tones of treachery. She listened half-heartedly, as she had expected as much of their leader; of course the King would want to save himself, who were they to assume otherwise? In answer to the talk of a younger woman who sat on the horse next to her own, Renedwen snappily answered “What did you expect? For the King to defend us with his own hands?”

The child was strapped firmly to her, and she sat upright on her borrowed horse, her cold blue eyes gazing into the distance. Some who looked upon her thought she was frozen right through to the heart; she appeared to them to be noble and almost arrogant, to be trying to hold herself apart from the common crowd. But Renedwen was thinking of that strange place where her husband and family now walked in peace. She strained to see it with her eyes, trying to perceive something which was always there but not quite visible, as though it lay just out of sight along the path, the place to which she was now headed.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"Hush now, good boy. There you are, North, there..."

Faerim's soft, soothing words to his horse, however nonsensical, calmed both himself and his steed as he stroked the black stallion's soft muzzle with his gloved hands. Taking a surreptitious handful of oats out of his pocket - handful being a generously used word for the few scrawny specimens which now resided in his palm - he gave them to the horse. North sniffed at the only once then greedily ate them, his lips snuffling against Faerim's gloves. The youth laughed softly at the tickling sensation and drew his empty hand away, smiling and patting the horse on the side of the neck solidly. Moving around to the side, he mounted North smoothly, checking that everything was in order on the saddle. His mother had been right to take a few things with her: he had not realised how practical she had been, taking a few servicable belongings for each of them, which were now strapped about Faerim's saddle or on Morn's. The boy looked across through the crowds, searching for the umpteenth time for where his mother and brother were, seated on his mother's mare: they had decided it would be better if they rode amid the other women and citizens. Along with them was the other woman, the one who Faerim had saved, he supposed: Renedwen. His eyes flitted across to her and hovered there for a moment. He frowned slightly: she sat haughtily upright, his chin held high and defiant, as if she thought she were better than all those around her. He sighed slightly. The nobles still felt themselves noble, the king still felt himself a king: what they did not realise was that when the city fell, the last thing to fall in the ruins of statues and towers, was the hierarchies.

What she also doesn't realise is that it isn't just sleeping with that sword close that's stopped anyone from taking it, he added silently, smiling to himself. He didn't know why, but since getting them out of the rubble, Faerim had felt something of a responsibility for the woman and her child: he would protect them, as he would protect Lissi and Brander. Not that he would let on. And not that it was probably going to last long either, he added, if she kept her nose in the air like that.

Clicking his tongue softly and digging his heels slightly into North's sides, Faerim rode the horse around and found where the soldiers were. Now came the trickier part...

The dilemma was as follows: Faerim was technically, as of a few weeks ago, a soldier in the army of Fornost. He had been enrolled in the desperation for new blood as the soldiers fell like flies against the black hordes of that...creature back in the city. However, while he had fought like the rest, he was missing a few slightly vital parts to becoming a soldier, such as a uniform, a regiment and, oh yes, any proof at all that he was actually part of the army. Now that they had left Fornost this shouldn't have been so much of an issue, you might think, being as an army to protect a city may seen slightly superfluous when the city no longer exists; but not so. The soldiers were guarding the rest of the civilians, like guards around the rest of the ex-citizens, and Faerim had every intention of doing his duty and being one of them. And, seventeen or not, he was damned if he was going to let anyone get in the way of his doing so.

Riding confidently around to where a group of soldiers were gathered at one side of the mass of civilians, he stopped and began to expertly check his equipment thoroughly, making sure his bow, quiver, and sword were all to hand (not to mention the long knife in one boot, but only North could feel that one); he fiddled slightly with his cloak; he flexed his fingers and patted North briskly on the side of the neck, murmuring a few words to the horse.

Altogether, he gave the impression of someone in exactly the right place, knowing exactly what he was doing.

But to be accepted just with that...it was too good to be true really. One of the men, a rather portly, slightly balding middle aged man who one might more easily imagine in a grocer's or butcher's shop, turned towards Faerim, looking up from where he was standing on the ground. He grinned worriedly but politely at the boy. "Sorry, do you need to ask something? We really must be off."

Damn.

"No, thanks, I'm...I'm just waiting for us to go. I need to take my place around the citizens: wouldn't want to lose anyone, and we need to be ready if the enemy catches up, as the Captain said." The words were delivered with a brisk informality that continued with Faerim's lie of confidence while inside, he quailed, like a little boy about to be caught and sent back to play with the younger children.

The portly soldier hesitated, then smiled almost patronisingly. "Now, I really don't think that will be necessary. There are trained soldiers already there, and civilians-"

"I am a soldier." Faerim realised his mistake in interrupting straight away, and continued hastily, his blue eyes and cleancut face the very picture of earnestness. "Apologies: I meant, I have already been enrolled as a soldier, sir."

"When?" The man was beginning to lose patience, his mood quickly souring.

"Several...months ago." Liar. "I was enrolled before the fighting began. My family are a military family, and so it seemed only natural that when the time was right, I would join up." It was hard to imagine a more earnest individual than Faerim was making himself out to be.

"When the time was right?" The portly man narrowed his eyes, ready to pounce.

"Well, when I turned eighteen, of course," Faerim replied innocently.

Liar!

But the portly soldier didn't pick up on a bit of it: he seemed to relax, looking back at the scrappily made list he had in his hands as he ran a hand over his head and nodded. "Ah, yes, yes, that's fine then. Eighteen...of course." He glanced up at Faerim, beaming distractedly. Then his smile faded slightly and he frowned a little. "...But I would expect to remember your face: striking eyes, don'cha know. Maybe I'm just...well, what's your name?"

Faerim thought fast. "I don't recall seeing you either, sir: maybe because I was training I didn't have chance to encounter you yet?" he hazarded. Wrong answer. The man's frown increased, the grooves on his expansive forehead deepening slightly. "No, no, I shouldn't say so - I would have thought we would meet. When did you say you joined?"

"A...a few months ago, not long before the fighting began..." Faerim was usually the smoothest liar around, but he had been able to sleep well over the past few nightmarish days, kept up by the crying of the children and those who had lost or thought they might have lost, sleep driven away by the worry and fear of 'what-if's and 'what-could-be's....

"When? I say, are you sure? You wouldn't just be trying-"

"I'm simply trying to do what I was told to do." Faerim's tone was curter this time, and his blue eyes were icing over in anger.

"Don't you interrupt me, young lad, I'm doing as I have been instructed, as I suspect you aren't." The portly soldier was practically swelling up with self-importance. "What was your name again, hrm? Hrm?"

"I-"

"Oh, for- Your city has already been destroyed, and if we do not move soon, the same fate is going to affect your people. Why exactly, then, do you feel the need to argue?"

The smooth, irritated voice made both Faerim and the portly man freeze and glance around sharply at the speaker: a wiry, dark haired elf seated on a horse with, most surprisingly, a small boy peering out of his cloak. Faerim did a double take: the boy was a mortal, a Dunedain. He looked at the elf's face again, alarmed, then glanced at the other who was positioned a few steps behind him. Meeting the elf's eyes, he shook his head. "I agree, I...sorry." His mature, confident start trailed away simply to a small apology. There was something about those grey eyes and the way they were glaring at him: from the laugh lines around his face, the elf did not strike Faerim as a bad character, but it was like being berated by a mermaid - completely unexpected. And a ruddy old mermaid at that: Faerim did not know much about how old the elves could live, but he had heard that they had many hundreds of times the longitude of even the Numenoreans...

Glad for an excuse to look away from those fierce grey eyes, Faerim turned his bright cornflower gaze back to the portly gentleman. "My name is Faerim, sir, the son of Carthor."

The man nodded irritably. "Yes, yes..." he muttered, looking away. Faerim pursed his lips, then looked back at the elf: he couldn't help wondering about the immortal's strange burden. "The...child, sir..." He looked from the innocent, wide eyes to meet the elf's sharp grey ones again. "Pardon my asking, sir, but...why are you carrying a human child?" he asked curiously, feeling somewhat foolish as soon as he had said it.

[Arry]

‘Pardon my asking, sir, but . . . why are you carrying a human child?’

Rôsgollo drew himself up straight on his mount, a quick glance measuring the one who had addressed him. For a brief moment his eyes took in the officious soldier standing near the young man, then, with a return of his gaze to the questioner, he dismissed the portly officer from his attention. ‘Faerim, is it not . . .?’ he asked, tucking the curious child closer against him.

Before he could give further answer Gaeredhel urged his horse forward, putting himself between the men and his brother. ‘Is there trouble, brother?’ he said, his hand drawing back his cloak to make free his blade should he need to draw it.

‘No trouble, just a simple inquiry,’ Rôsgollo replied, his voice smooth. ‘Faerim,’ he went on, ‘son of Carthor has asked why I carry a human child.’

Be careful with your answer, brother. The other one looks edgy. And I think he has no love of the Quendi. Gaeredhel kept his gaze on the two men as he spoke with his brother in thought.

Rôsgollo nodded, moving his mount forward to be in view of Faerim. ‘His mother is dead, Faerim, son of Carthor. Slain in the streets of your city. None stopped to see to her. Would you not have taken up such a child to bear him away from his certain doom for at least a little while? Man or Elf child, what difference should it make to me?’

The sound of hooves approaching caught Gaeredhel’s attention. One of the King’s guard was approaching, his gaze intent on their little group. Gaeredhel moved up again to block his brother . . .

[Saurreg]

Belegron

The standard of the King’s rearguard fluttered proudly in the breeze, winding gracefully like some great emerald serpent gliding through clear waters. It was made of the purest of silks and the intricate regimental insignia and decorative motifs were hand-woven using the finest threads dyed with the color of the precious metals so that it reflected incoming light into brilliant hues of green fused with silver and gold. To Belegorn, the triangular pennon felt not like an inanimate object but a living entity in its own right. Every beautiful serpentine motion and twirl seemed to convey secret expressions and feelings to those who would care to notice. It displayed defiance in crucial moments of danger, unrestrained joy in victory and quiet sorrow in tragedy. He had never seen the flag flutter during services to the fallen of the regiment; the heavy banner seemed to hang limp on its pole as if in silent respect to those which it represented.

Irrational! But nevertheless it was a thought that he felt comforting to have.

The standard of the Rearguard was a sacred symbol of the regiment – its capture was a great disgrace and shame that warranted disbandment. It represented the eternal bond between king and men. It was proof of the regiment’s battle honors, generation to generation. It remained when men came and went. It was the heart and soul of the regiment. It was the regiment itself.

And to Belegorn it was alive.

The Rearguard was no more. It was now more than just the King’s honor guard. It was now the symbol of Anorian defiance and the will to live in adversity. It was now the last line of defense of the people and the keeper of its sacred trust. It was now the people’s regiment.

The sun shone weakly in the winter sky and offered no warmth. But within sight of the fluttering banner, Belegron felt warm and secure, invincible even. Hours have passed since the second column left the North Downs for the ancient Dwarven realm of Ered Luin but nothing had came into sight except for undulating hills covered by thin layers of snow. The column was moving too slowly for Belegorn’s liking but with the old, young and the infirmed in tow and in such weather, it could not be helped.

Captain Hírvegil, the disgruntled Mitharan and the Elven emissaries were at the head of the column leading the way like great maritime explorers charting the unknown. The rest of the hundred strong horse mounted guardsmen were now dispersed into smaller units. The two larger ones at twenty riders each now formed the vanguard and the rearguard while another fourty were sent out in all directions as scouts to alert the column should the enemy be sighted. The rest of the regulars and the replacement militia were kept close to the column itself.

Belegorn had detached himself from the head of the column for his periodic checks along its depth, looking out for refugees in need of special assistance. He had requested that the flag bearer follow so that all who saw the green banner would be encouraged and be glad of heart. It turned out to be a poor judgment call, for civilians being civilians had little interest in sacred military artifacts and the journey was starting to take its toil, very few seemed to notice his presence and none responded positively to his words of encouragement and good wishes (there were unfortunately, several rude replies starting generally with an expletive and followed by an ‘off’).

“Ungrateful wretches!” cursed the flag bearer.

Belegorn was now clad in his less cumbersome chainmail vest and had acquired a long lance as his primary horseback weapon (all the guard men were armed with this new issue). The sallet with its impressive red plume had also made way for a Cardolan styled cavalry helmet, with flared sides all round and a knot of black horsehair fixed to the top. The headwear offered an unobstructed panoramic field of vision at the expense of protection to the side of the head and neck.

Finding their presence amidst the refugees less than welcomed and no special aid required, Belegorn and the grumbling flag bearer turned tail at the end of the column and trotted back leisurely to its head. It was along mid column did he notice an interesting sight;

A youth was engaged in conversation with one of the Elves and in between them was one of the militia fillers drafted in the North Downs. Fearing that a squabble was forming and that it involved the militia (who was under Belegorn’s charge), the first lieutenant signaled to his companion to follow and galloped to the trio. Once within range, he slowed his charger and confronted them,

“Hold people! May I inquire what is going on here! Are there any disturbances? Let’s start with you soldier!”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim turned his horse around expertly to face the approaching sound of hooves, and his pale skin paled even further beneath his light freckles as he saw the flaring flag standard. He recovered quickly, his face shifting subtly into a polite, impassive mask as he took in the two approaching horsemen. One, the clean shaven, officious looking soldier beside the flagbearer, called over.

"Hold people! May I inquire what is going on here! Are there any disturbances? Let’s start with you soldier!"

Faerim nodded respectfully at the man, who was obviously a high ranking officer from his fine clothing and way of speaking. He recognised him a second later, and it hit him just how high ranking. "Captain Belegorn, there is no disturbance. Merely a-a misunderstanding." His voice was polite and almost flawlessly confident, apart from the slight stammer in the middle. He saw the elf with the child, the one who he had been talking to, shift slightly in his seat, and could feel the grey eyes on his face, watching him with quiet interest. But Belegorn's gaze shifted as he turned his attention to the rotund officer who had been making the fuss.

"Well soldier, is there anything going on here that I should be aware of?"

Faerim, an expert at concealing his emotions when necessary, managed to hide his gleeful grin as the soldier squirmed beneath his superior's gaze, before he muttered a few words and was dismissed by Belegorn. The Captain then turned back to Faerim, and the youth was surprised to see that he was grinning. Unsure of how to respond, Faerim kept his face emotionless - he had no idea what to expect, and Belegorn had a fiersome reputation, from what Faerim had heard: certainly Carthor wasn't exactly a fan. Belegorn regarded him for a moment, and seemed about to say something when he simply sighed and turned to the elves where they had moved over to Renedwen. Faerim couldn't see his face clearly because of the wide helmet that the man wore, but he could feel his uneasiness. He started to say something, to try to prove some sort of reliability. "They will not harm h-"

But Belegorn was gone before he really started, signalling to the flag bearer and speeding away, leaving Faerim to watch his retreating back thoughtfully and wonder. Not only an acquaintance with an elf carrying a human baby, but now Captain Belegorn appearing rather considerably less terrifying than may have been made out: an intriguing passage of events certainly.

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen rode in a dream, her deep blue eyes focussed on something just out of reach; the vision was fragile, halfway between reverie and nightmare. She saw the faint shapes of those she had lost, walking through the long grass on that distant field, but the colours were dull and washed out as though a mist had descended. If she did not concentrate she saw only the grey walls of the city, the despoiled gardens, the awful black terror which had nearly taken her.

She was silent and still, and though she held the reins, she allowed the horse to take his lead from those about him. Her son had remained still, fast asleep wrapped in his swathe of blankets, but now he began to stir, and sensing the movement from the bundle strapped to her body, Renedwen was shaken from her visions.

The child’s small head turned and he opened his grey eyes to look up at the face of his mother. He grizzled a little. Looking down, she saw that he was hungry, but how was she to satisfy that while they rode? She knew she could not stop lest she fall behind, and though she knew she would quickly catch up, the fear of being alone in this place was too much to contemplate. Taking firm hold of the reins with her right hand, she did all that she could for now, and that was merely to soothe his brow for a few moments.

Now she was aware of what was going on once more, she caught sight of Captain Beregond, who had known her father. He had broken ranks and was riding quickly toward Faerim, the young soldier, who spoke with one of the Elves and another man. She hoped that Faerim might not be in trouble, for she knew Beregond to be an exacting Captain, and extremely proud. Taking up her reins again, she gently urged her horse on a little faster so that she might hear what was said. As she got closer, she suddenly slowed, for she saw something unexpected. There, peering from the folds of the Firstborn's cloak, was the face of a Dunedain boy not much older than her own son.

[Arry]

Surely there are more important things that a Captain might attend to than questioning some young man who wishes to speak with us? But, then again, perhaps he thinks we will draw our blades and have at the stripling for his impertinence. Gaeradhel’s thoughts held a hint of amusement as did his face. His lips curved up briefly at the scene.

Rôsgollo pulled his mount up to where he could see the scene more clearly. He shifted a bit forward on his seat to see both the speakers. The young man, Faerim, after a very brief falter, had taken command of himself and seemed to be acquitting himself well in the face of one who outranked him. He nudged his brother. He has some measure of strength in him . . . Faerim . . . do you not think so?

For a man . . . yes. Gaeredhel watched Faerim for a moment. Perhaps he will escape this foolish venture’s doom and live long enough to be scion of a healthier branch on his family’s tree.

Rôsgollo raised his brows questioningly at his brother.

He is Carthor’s son . . . Gaeredhel went on. There are many interesting stories whispered about the father. Dissolute . . . married more to his command than to his wife and family.

The brothers’ eyes shifted to another who had come up to the edges of this scene. A woman looked on at the two men, her eyes paying particular attention to the captain. Her glance fell on the Elves, her cloak parting slightly with the movement. She, too, had a young child held close against her. Gilly’s face lit up at the sight of another small being. ‘Baby!’ he squealed in delight, a grin on his face. Rôsgollo guided his mount around the Captain and the Faerim to where the woman sat.

‘Greetings, Mistress,’ he said, coming only close enough that she would not startle at his approach. ‘My charge,’ he continued, indicating Gilly, ‘wishes to greet another of his own age and size.’ Gilly waved the piece of waybread he’d been munching on at the other child. ‘Baby?’ came his plaintive question.

[Saurreg]

"Captain Belegorn, there is no disturbance. Merely a-a misunderstanding."

The youth spoke eloquently in measured tones and he looked at the inquisitor squarely in the eyes with confidence. His syntax hinted of education and it was devoid of the vernacular of the lower echelon of Arthedain society. Belegorn ventured to guess that the young man before him was no riff-raff from the slums, but someone brought up in a household with culture and discipline.

He then turned to the intended recipient of his query who was averting his sharp glance whilst fidgeting on his saddle. The portly militia was obviously unsettled by Belegorn’s sudden appearance, frightened perhaps. No doubt Belegorn possessed a sour countenance that discomforted the weak willed, but his sinister reputation as the monstrous hangman of Fornost helped not also.

“Well soldier, is there anything going on here that I should be aware of?”

The militia shook his head slightly, head bowed and pudgy shoulders slumped. He was a sharp contrast to the confident teenager beside him who was viewing the spectacle with some amusement.

“Very well then. Off with you. Return to your place in the column and keep a sharp eye out the signals”

Without a word of leave-taking, the outsized rider turned quickly and galloped towards the column, his rotund body shuddering with every hoof step the horse took. Belegorn grinned and look towards the teenager. The youth was still looking at him coolly. Belegorn gave him a curt nod and continued,

“Since my attention is not required here, I shall take my leave. Return to the column, lest you get left behind.”

Belegorn turned to the elves, but they had since left him and the teenager and were riding towards a slender looking woman who held a bundle before her. He would have preferred the elves to ride in the front of the column where Hírvegil could keep an eye out for them. It was unsettling for Belegorn to see the emissaries of and their guards interacting with the people when he knew not their agenda nor why they were in Fornost in the first place.

Wolves among sheep? Carrion birds waiting by the wings?

The jurisdiction of Belegorn's office did not extend over the elves and Hírvegil did not give him any specific instructions on dealing with them. There was nothing he could do but observe from a distance. Sighing quietly to himself, Belegron signaled to the flagbearer and the both of them broke into a gallop back towards the head of the column, the green ground passing swiftly under the hoofs of their exceptional horses.

[Kransha]

For the days it took to reach the Hills of Evendim, Hírvegil kept himself sequestered coldly from all others. He rarely spoke to anyone, save Belegorn, who began to communicate to his charges in his stead and act as a go-between when Hírvegil became reclusive. Though he rode proudly at the front, his eyes peered ever downward and no word passed between his chilled lips. He, a consistent extrovert, was now reduced to a veritable hermit, while Belegorn, who Hírvegil had known to be not the most social of men, began frequently interacting with the Dúnedain civilians, as well as the Elves. Oddly, Hírvegil did not interact at all with the Elves, despite his curiosity about them and interest in their own devices. Any who had earned (or so he heard) the detestation of Mellonar was worthy of friendship, but Hírvegil had neither had or made the time to treat with any of the three emissaries, or their guards and attendants. Overall, he had retreated into a turtle shell and was not in the fashion of speaking to anyone, save those he was required to.

Again, the course of time was sped up to accommodate the boredom-tempered fear of the train. Days and nights passed as minutes, ticking by on Arda’s cosmic clock, signaling, each day, a step closer to safety in a second set of rolling hills, the Hills of Evendim. The first few days were slowest; a weary journey across newly snowed-upon plains, which, over time, became warmer as the column wound southward towards the southernmost inlet of Lake Evendim. The group was swift as they could be on horseback or foot, hoping they had long since eluded the Angmar host. Many feared the rabid beasts lay in wait, trailing them and yapping at their heels from behind the nearest lumps of earth or scattered assortments of trees. Others knew better – the host was far behind enough not to worry and, as long as the fire of Arnor’s sun still dwelled, though meeker now, in the hearts of men, they would not catch up. Confidence was not high among the Dúnedain, but each day put a few more leagues between them and their foes.

It was on the eight day of their journey that they reached the banks of the Baranduin River, which spilled out nearby into the Nenuial, called Lake Evendim in Westron, which was flanked on its own northwestern shores by the Emyn Uial, or Hills of Evendim. The process of getting the column across was somewhat arduous, and many became fearful that, during this struggling time, the group might be beset upon by orcs or goblins, but the Rearguard’s solemn ranks surrounded the passing civilians and thickened their own rows, steel at the ready, though no enemy came. A shallow point in the quick-footed river was found and, by the grace of mighty Arnorian steeds and makeshift wagons, all were drawn across, and not a man was lost in the rocky rapids to the west or east. Afterward, to the chagrin of all, it was discovered that an ancient bridge, though decrepit and neglected, still stood not far off, and could’ve reduced three days work to a few hours passage.

After some time, on the fourteenth day, the gray stones of Annúminas, the dead city, could be seen like mountain peaks in the distance. The lake’s fragile surface shimmered gently beneath the overhanging cliffs they trudged over, moving steadily towards the massive structure of rock and marble, built into the earthen face of Lake Evendim’s shores. The site of the city, as its vague silhouette arched above them and fell upon the people, was a sight that soured the collective mood, and so it was avoided. Moving out of their way, the train was pushed around the walls of Annúminas, the citadel which had once held the great seat of Arnor the North-Kingdom, but now lay as a stony carcass, a shelled tomb that jutted into the sky ominously, but whose high peak had been struck down as a reminder of its eventual defeat at the hands of Carn Dûm. The walls were crumbled and crumbled still, tossed aside by the great boulders of Angmar, the dooming projectiles of the Captain of Despair, as if hurled by a godly hand from his own fortress leagues and leagues away. Some steaming wisps of smoke still rose like tattered arms from the coomb of the city and the highest heights. No light glimmered and a cloud hung over the once-great place. It was a saddening thing to look upon.

That night, there was no camp erected in the shadow of Annúminas. Sleepless troops marched on doggedly, past and out from beneath the shadow, and into a moody light, that of a tired morning, that awaited them. Lake Evendim came fully into view, and the waters softened the hardness of the refugees, though it did not thaw the snow on the ground or that which had instilled itself in their hearts. Fortunately, escaping the vicinity of the three dead cities (Annúminas, Fornost, and probably the North Downs by then) granted everyone a strange relief, as if they had been freed from the fetters of true fear and were now only wary, rather than outright terrified and miserable. Their load was lightened, and, even if the sun did not shine fervently upon them, they were no longer the ghostly shades some had been.

From then on, their course became routine. It took ten days for them to transfer from the withered plains to hilly land, which meant they were nearing the hills. For days, they all talked little, and cold Hirvegil spoke less and less. It was guessed that they would all relax when the hills were achieved, for then there would be time to sit and think, to speak, and to get to know one another. By this time, twenty-four days after the start of the journey, Hirvegil had still spoke with no one outside his inner circle and was in a daze, aching in body and soul day by day. None questioned his motives for this retreat though, and he eventually promised Belegorn that he was merely trapped in a grim malaise, and would break from it as soon as he saw the Emyn Uial.

And he did.

[Kransha]

“Though it surprises me, my heart sings to see you well, Captain.”

Belegorn was grinning beneath his familiar soldierly look, but Hírvegil bore a busy smile on his face as he hurried throughout the camp, issuing offhand orders and making sure all was well, with his lieutenant hot on his swift heels. “As does my own, Belegorn.” He replied, not gleefully but full of a relieved warmth that allowed his nature to brighten and become sprightly once again. As the Captain whisked himself lithely back and forth, Belegorn was left to trail behind, shaking his head as a fool undergoing an epiphany might. “I suppose you never were a man who made ill on his vows.” He said, yielding to the fact that Hírvegil had made good on his promise. He had probably not expected, even if he had fervently hoped, that Hírvegil would truly become his former self once the Emyn Uial were reached. Though Belegorn seemed apparently defeated by this loss, Hírvegil was not too proud to rub his nose in the wrong opinion.

“Now I can hold you to that, eh?” he remarked flippantly, casting a bare glance at his lieutenant over the battered spaulder affixed to his prominent shoulder, a lingering relic of past battles, “Never can it be said that Hírvegil of Fornost was not a man of his word.” After much business in the camp, he came to rest near a larger tent, and his dramatic pace slowed. He had been running about ever since the train of Dúnedain first entered through a wide pass into the Hills of Evendim, after dismounting a hitching his horse at a shoddy post erected for the small army of mounts at one end of the newly constructed camp. Already night had fallen, and a resonant dusky haze lay peacefully on the sky, a welcome change from the dank skies of turmoil that had littered the journey of the Arnorian escapees. Stars were invisible, their silvery light clouded from view by thick, billowing mist that drifted across the arc of the heavens, but the fog that lay on the earth was not a shadow, simply an opaque blanket that covered the camp as it was built, and filled the journeyers with weariness, which was brought to the forefront of all their minds.

As Belegorn and Hírvegil headed towards the area where the officers’ tents and officials’ tents had been pitches, the Captain of the Rearguard spoke again. “But,” he said, linking back to his last words, “promises are set in stone, and I am curious about a far more earthen issue. I have not spoken in some time, to anyone. You may or may not know that I exchanged some words with the minister Lord Mitharan some nights when we made camp, but all we discussed was drab and political – I believe we were both dwelling on something else. You however, have oft spoken with the people. You know their way better than I now.”

Belegorn stopped walking as the tent he knew to be Hírvegil’s appeared before them and laughed quietly. “Their way?” He said, a comical skeptic, “I know little of that; I only know their outward mood.” This seemed to be a resolute thought, but Hírvegil’s interest was already piqued, and he was full of verbiage after not speaking for so very long. “You treated with the Elves?” He inquired.

“Yes, not much.” The lieutenant replied, “I had to address them, but I have not formally met the Emissaries, they have kept very much to themselves. We all have. Now, though, I shall probably seek them out.” He nodded after a moment, confirming the matter in his own mind as well as his Captain’s, and Hírvegil pursed his thin lips in thought, saying soon, “I think I will do the same. I yearn to hear their age-old minds’ ruminations on our situation.” At this, Belegorn seemed to jump, and hooted, “Ha! The great Hírvegil wishes to seek the aid of others making strategies, and the Firstborn as well!” he looked as if he’d been struck by a bolt from the sky and laughed once uproariously, obviously caught up in the upturned mood of the camp, “What a day this is!”

“Night, Belegorn,” Hírvegil corrected astutely, “It is night, which is why we shall wait until morning to talk. I do not believe a single one of us has slept in days, except for jolted slumber on horseback. A night of undisturbed sleep will be much enjoyed. Many are already descended into that realm, and I will journey there to. I suggest you do the same.” He gestured towards the numerous roomy tents pitched in a disorganized formation around his own, but Belegorn replied negatively. “I could not sleep if I wished to.” Hírvegil’s thick eyebrow was uplifted in a skeptic fashion and he jabbed his finger, encased still in his plate-mail gauntlet, at the younger man. “I’ll wager my mithril helm you fall asleep within the hour.” He said.

Belegorn did not respond immediately, for he was instead looking around. Hírvegil followed suit. The two realized, to both of there surprises, that no other sound of voices, of song, or of mortal men or Elves could be heard in the camp. Though, in the dark of night, little could be seen, the illumination of torches set up all around revealed the pathways of the campsite to be empty and as still as the grave. Some low-voiced conversation could barely be heard but, overall, the camp had already fallen into a well-deserved, peaceful slumber as the Captain and Lieutenant of the Rearguard loudly spoke, creating the only great sound in all of the hills, save for the whistling wind that rumbled in the distance.

After an uncomfortable minute, Belegorn spoke again. “I dare not take that bet, for I know that if I make it, fate will see to it that I doze off before a quarter of that time has passed.” He smiled, “Goodnight, Captain.”

With the smile returned, Hírvegil lifted the flap of his tend and walked soberly inside. “Sleep well, Belegorn,” he said as his second-in-command turned with a final acknowledging glance and headed off towards his own tent, “and may you be granted happy dreams.” He yelled the final words and let his loud, merry voice wither and fall into a pleasant nothing, which died on his lips as well, leaving less than nothing. With a breath and sigh that bore in it all his emotions, the Captain turned and, unsteadily, thrust himself onto the cot that lay on the earth. He had no covers or sheets, but his armor warmed his heart and soul enough to ward off the chilly winter winds. He did not even have time to think before his eyes forcibly closed and he was lost from the world for the evening, with a smile still on his face even as he slept.

[CaptainofDespair]

The shadows of night had settled across the Hills of Evendim, leaving the cold land shrouded in a seemingly eternal dark. Torches burned within the camp of the refugee Arnorians, providing the only source of light, but also attracting the eyes of a foe much more frightening than the silent darkness. Orcs had come, from where, it was not known, but they were certainly in the service of the Angmarim. They had been stalking the camp, for some time. They had gone unnoticed by the whole of the host, and they preferred to remain that way.

Far off the camp was, but not far enough to leave it safe. The orcs had come with a purpose, and they had been stalking the party for some time. Nagbak, chieftain of these orcs, stood on a small rock, gazing deep into the shadows. A lieutenant, standing near him, shivered in the cold, muttering in broken Common and Black Speech. “Silence, you fool,” came a quick reply to the muttering. “There are elves in that train, and they may be able to hear us.” The bowlegged underling looked up to his chieftain, inquiring into his lord’s course of action, “What are we to do? We cannot face the whole of them, and still be able to have strength to flee.” A short grunt came from the chief, followed in quick succession by a wisp of steamy breath rising from the nostrils of the large orc. “That’s why we are sneaking in. I will be taking a contingent of the guard, to creep into the camp, subdue what guards we must, and capture the elves and any other priority targets.” He paused, pointing into the shadows, “You will wait in the trees. When I return, we must make haste. We cannot afford to be caught in the daylight. My mission depends on this raid,” he finished, adding a snort to fortify his point.

Only a few moments more had passed, and the orcs had split into two groups, one far outweighing the other in numbers. The plans were finalized amongst the higher ranking orcs, and then the trains split, one to the forest, to wait in silence, the other to the human camp. A light fog had now descended upon the hills, furthering the cloak and dagger mission the clever chieftain had devised. Slowly, they crept into position, careful not to make any noise ‘unnatural’ to the region.

A guard patrolling the torch-defined perimeter, suddenly noticed a few torches burn out. Too weary to think much of it, he lackadaisically wandered over the edge of the lights to investigate, thinking it was only a spurt of wind. Then, without warning, he was swallowed up by the shadows, as several lightly clad orcs snuck into the camp. They then took up positions within a cluster of the tents, prepared for battle, should it come. A weary elf, possibly one of the emissaries to the humans, was awake within stretched hide hovel, sitting on a bedroll provided for him (though Nagbak could not tell if it was possibly a female, for the darkness obscured his vision, and he was not sure if Elves even had men and women). His two compatriots were asleep, as much as Elves can be. Nagbak gave a low grunt, like that of a boar, rousing the elf from his position. As soon as he came to the edge of the shadows, the chieftain conked the elf in the head, with the back of his large hand, incapacitating the diplomat. The other elf, having ‘heard’ the thump of his fellow elf hitting the dirt, rose up, only to meet a similar fate. A third elf, whom Nagbak had not seen in the darkness, came up behind him, in a semi-daze, attempting to rouse the guards. This failed, as the elf was grabbed, and flung to the earth. Two other orcs then cast themselves upon the fallen Moriquendi, and bound him as quickly as possible. Fearing that the elven guards had discovered them, the orcs pulled back, to the edge of the camp, to gather their cargo, and prepare for the long flight away from the camp.

But, just as the orcs were preparing to pull out with their prizes, they were interrupted. A woman, with a child walking upon her heels, had entered the cold of night, for an unknown reason, strolling towards the night-cloaked orcs. Making a hasty decision, Nagbak gave the signal to capture the woman and child, and cart them off with the elves. Two orcs waited in the shadows, as the two humans passed by. When they had passed just beyond them, they leapt out, each taking a prisoner. Nagbak stood before his gathered men, who had the elves bound and gagged, to make them easier to carry off. However, the woman and child were merely slung over the broad shoulders of their captors, each having been incapacitated. With another hand signal, the orcs crept back out of the camp, unseen, and unheard, to the forest.

It had taken the orcs several long minutes to reach the tree-line, partially due to cargo, and somewhat due to the fear of an alarm being sounded in the camp. But the alarm was never risen, and the orcs paraded into the cold-soiled forest unscathed. Nagbak’s lieutenant was waiting for him, to hear the news of the kidnaping. He spoke in a low tone, both weary of no sleep, and of out of the habit that had been acquired over the past few days, “How went the operation, my chief?” The larger orc shrugged, and without looking where the prisoners were, pointed into the nothingness of the night “It went well. The scouts were correct, and we managed to take all the elven emissaries. We were almost caught however, by some woman and a child. So, they were taken as well.” A sigh came from the subordinate. “Good. Now where do we go from here?” The chieftain grunted, and then snorted. Cracking his neck, he added “To the southwest. If my plans are to come to fruition, I will need the elves for bartering. The humans will be handed over as well, unless something unfortunate should befall them.” He chuckled, and sat down on a fallen tree, removing his helm. “We will depart shortly, but first I must rest.” The old orc (for an orc at least), too tired to get up, drifted into a sleep.

When he awoke, only an hour or two after sitting down to catch his breath, he found his loyal companions were assembled, with all of the hostages bound and gagged, and prepared to march out. A wry smile crossed the hard features of the orc, and he placed one of his large hands on the shoulder of another, and gave a hardy laugh. “You boys are deserving of reward. And it will come, after we get what we want from the Elves.” A few gave a low cheer, still wary of the camp. Then, Nagbak, raising his fist into the air, gave the signal to move out. The orcs bustled forward, some carrying the cargo on their backs.

Song had broken out from the ranks once they had gotten a few miles from the camp. Nagbak could only marvel at the liveliness of his ‘boys’. A few hours had passed and they had gotten a safe distance from the small forest, if it could have been called that, so the whole of the orcs decided to rest amongst a crowding of rocks and boulders, for both the reason of stealth, and for protection from attack, should something of that nature come upon them.

The Elves and the Dunedain were unbound, and permitted to eat some of the orc rations, but it left a horrible taste in their mouths, and they ate it no more. One of the Elves, who had refused the food outright, made a gamble, one that could prove fatal. He dared to question the chieftain, without permission to speak. In a beautiful elven voice, he inquired into the mind of the orc chief. “Why have you taken us from our beds, and dragged us into the night? Do you intend to slay us here, or force the dominion of your master upon us?” Nagbak was not pleased with the disrespect to his title, but he decided to humor the elf, as it could prove useful if they knew his plan. “ I do not intend to bring any harm to you, Elf. Nor will I allow you to fall into the hands of Angmar. I intend to bring you to those of your house, and strike a deal,” he chuckled, hoping for some sort of expression on the face of his prisoner. When none came, he frowned, but continued on, “You are now my pawns, in a bid for a land the orcs can call home, without fear of conquest or dominion. And I bid you, do not disrespect my title of chief again.” Then, in a strange showing of compassion, he tossed a sack to the elf, adding “Take this to your companions, and feed them with your way bread. The Elf nodded, and was led back to the others, to be rebound. The rest of the night was lonesome and quiet, all good signs that the camp had not noticed the kidnaping yet.

[Saurreg]

Quicksilver crept through the slits of the entrance and underneath the edges of tent where cloth met ground. Some stray iota were met by the large burnished shield and reflected, resembling small precious white jewels that glittered in the night. The man stared and was momentarily memorized by the gift of Tilion. He then frowned, threw his head back onto the folded cloak that doubled as a pillow and cried,

“Sleep! Merciful sleep! Receive me now!”

A few seconds passed and the man opened his eyes reluctantly, his night vision was superb and he could make out the folds of the tent at its ceiling, rippling like waves in a calm sea as the night wind blew. He sighed in resignation; sleep visited not.

He mourned. Disappointed.

The man turned starboard in his small cot making the wooden frame creak and joints squeal. He pulled up the woolen blanket to his broad shoulders and then drew them away again. He turned port and accompanied by the customary protest by his bed, found himself staring into the nothingness of the large airy tent.

A strong breeze rose, it parted the slits of his tent a little wider and blew across the tent, caressing the rough unshaven face of the man. Refreshed, he took a deep breath.

Salty. Smoky. Cheese… no! Ham. Somebody’s been cooking. Hmmm… Hungry.

The man drew a heavy arm from the cot, crooked it and placed the lazy appendage overhead, palm underneath his head. His was still staring into darkness above him but his thoughts were with the militia detailed for night duty. He worried that they would fall asleep during their shift and the security of the camp would be compromised.

Sleeping militia…. Hang them! Camp in danger.

The man wondered if he should get up and visit the perimeters of the camp but decided against it. His hearing was superb and he listened. Nothing. He began to suspect that he was the only person still awake in the camp. He yawned and hot tears welled by the edge of his eyes.

So tired… must sleep...

Sleep final bestowed its grant upon the man an hour later and so Belegorn of the rearguard slept, unaware of the happenings at night.

[Arry]

Night into the cold first light of day . . .

It was quiet in the tent where the Elven guards were quartered. Quiet and for the most part dark. Rôsgollo had bade the other two let the little one sleep as men do, and so the night had passed with Gilly curled in a little ball beneath the blankets, his back tucked against the Elf’s side. Still, the little one had frightening dreams that woke him from his sleep to cry and fret several times during the night. Between these times, the Elves passed the night in sleepless dreamings.

A pale sun crept up, but barely, from the east, lending what light it could to push back the darkness. Gilly woke and sat up, patting Rôsgollo on the arm. Angore and Gaeredhel were already stirring in the tent. The flap had been thrown back and a small cook-fire started for something warm to drink.

‘Do you think we will move on today?’ Gaeredhel’s question was aimed at no one in particular. He had noted Angóre beginning to stow away his gear and wondered if perhaps he had heard something from the Lady Bethiril or Erenor. No such word had come from Lord Ereglin. ‘But then,’ he chuckled to himself, ‘we Elves are rarely consulted on such matters.’

Rôsgollo had just hoisted himself to a sitting position, when he cried out, clasping his head at the back, a grimace of pain and surprise on his face. Gaeredhel ran to his brother’s side and crouched down, a look of concern on his face. ‘You are hurt, brother?’ he asked, touching Rôsgollo lightly on the arm.

‘It is not I who is hurt,’ Rôsgollo rasped out. A spasm of disgust crossed his face. ‘They have taken him, brother.’ Rôsgollo clambered to his feet, hoisting the child to him as he did so.

Angóre had picked up on the tenor of the brothers’ conversation and drew near as Rôsgollo stood. ‘Yrch! The Lord Ereglin has been taken by the foul creatures. His head is painful where they struck him. It was during the night, while the camp slept. Angóre, make haste to see if the emissaries from Rivendell have also been captured. My Lord has fallen silent now; he did not say.’ Rôsgollo buckled on his blade as did his brother. ‘We will run to the Dúnadan captain’s tent.’

A drowsing guard at Hírvegil’s tent tried to bar the Elves from the captain’s tent. The flat of Gaeredhel’s blade knocked him to one side, as Rôsgollo threw back the tent flap. ‘While you sequestered us apart from our charges, with the unspoken promise that your troops would see to Lord Ereglin’s safety,’ Rôsgollo said coldly to the man on the cot, ‘Orcs have stolen into the camp. Lord Ereglin has been taken. How will you assist us to recover him safely?’ He paused for a brief moment to let the information sink in. ‘Or must we attend to this on our own?’

Before the captain could answer, Angóre burst in . . .

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre sped over the soft ground, his mind reeling from Rôsgollo's revelation. Orcs! How had they escaped detection? In three weeks of scouting for the train Angóre had not seen a single trace of orc spoor, and the yrch were hardly stealthy under normal circumstances. Everything about this felt wrong, and Angóre feared some dark design lay behind it.

The camp lay still and silent; the night's activities had not yet been discovered by the majority of the host when Angóre reached the tent that had housed Betheril, Erenor and the lord Ereglin. The ground was churned up, many heavy, iron-shod feet had left their imprints on the soft ground, and Angóre could tell without entering the tent that his two charges were gone. He knelt, studying the tracks. There was no sign of the lightly shod Elves, and he sighed. They must have been carried out rather than led. He had been hoping for a sign they had been conscious and alert during their capture, but even that frail hope had been dashed.

He moved inside the tent. The place looked serene, undisturbed as though the inhabitants had just stepped out. He frowned. Another odd sign. In Angóre's experience, Orcs would slash and batter anything, especially items and keepsakes of Elven craft. It took a fell captain to keep such soldiers in line. He found Erenor's sword, untouched and still sheathed, lying beside her bedroll.

Angóre traced the tracks back outside the tent, and followed them slowly towards the wood. He saw where they had encountered another, apparently unexpected person. At least, a small set of tracks intersected the rough Orc-prints and came not away again. But he could see no blood anywhere; a hopeful sign, if distinctly odd.

Angóre straightened. He had followed the tracks as far as the edge of the camp, and he dared follow them no further without taking the council of Rôsgollo and Gaeredhel. He crossed back through the camp, headed for the tent of the Dúnedain lord.

The guard at the flap looked up from where he sat, his cheek showing red as though he had been struck. "Another of you bloody Elves, is it? You can damn well sit out here 'till Lord Hírvegil tells me different," he said, but Angóre ignored his complaint and ducked under the tent flap.

He caught the end of Rôsgollo's sentance "Or must we attend to this on our own?" The Lord of the Dúnedain was lying on his cot, having propped himself on his elbows to listen to the Elf.

"There is more," Angóre interjected. "Another, I would guess a woman, was taken as well as Lord Ereglin and Ladies Betheril and Erenor. I do not think that they were harmed, but there is something exceedingly strange about the whole endeavor. Were it not for Rôsgollo's intelligence I would almost think the culprits were Men, rather than Orcs. They did not despoil the tent, shed no blood and showed stealth and woodscraft in the capture. There is much about this that I do not understand. But the answer to this puzzle must wait. Lord Hírvegil, we must give chase soon!"

[Mithalwen]

Erenor's spirit had been robbed by it's fire by her situation. It takes a mighty blow to stun an elf and she still felt nauseous - a strange and disproportionately distressing experience for a being who had never known sickness. She could not have swallowed even elvish food at that time and the orc fare made her retch. Her self esteem was further damaged by the fact that they had been taken unawares. This seemed impossible - that three Elves should have been surprised by notoriously heavy footed orcs. It did not surprise her that the men should have been taken unawares - after the decisions the king and his councillor had made she felt their stupidity knew no bounds - but she thought of Angore .. where was their guard when they needed him?

The fact that they were still alive had small comfort to her. She had heard tales of elves being captured in the Elder days - she would prefer death to thralldom without end. And what help was there of rescue? Even if those doltish men effected their release it would be only to lead them to death in the blue mountains. She had failed in all attempts to contact the minds of her own kindred far away. Escape was hopeless ... she had no sword, her possessions were etiher still at the camp or taken by orcs.

The cold made her head ache worse and she shrank back into the folds of her furlined cloak. The orcs had not taken that yet. She felt he tug on the wound from her hair, matted with blood and tried to make herself as comfortable as possible despite her bindings. Something was digging into her hip and the realisation of what it was gave her a glimmer of hope - not a bright glimmer but enough to prevent her willing her spirit to Mandos. It was the hilt of the dagger she wore, like her mail shirt, under her outer tunic. She guessed the orcs must have noticed the mail but the mail itself had disguised the knife. It was strange that they had not taken the mail; the shirt was of noldorin craft and far surpassed antything the orcs possessed - but then an orc would find elf-mail a narrow fit.

Though she appeared as passive as before, seeming to her captors and companions as no more than a barely animate bundle, Erenor's spirit had revived and she tried to absorb details of their plight that might help. she was aware of Ereglin talking to their captors but made no effort to follow suit. Her passivity might lull them into a false sense of security - she just wished that it was not entirely feigned - if only her head would stop hurting. The faintest moan escaped her lips and her mind slipped into a waking dream.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim awoke slowly, his eyes remaining shut as his ears tuned in to the sounds around him. The camp was still largely peaceful and still, although the sounds of the first early birds moving around, and the enticing smells of cooking starting, drifted lazily over to Faerim. He sighed contentedly and turned over onto his back, opening his blue eyes and blinking a few times in an endeavour to wake himself up a little more. Not that he wanted much to wake up - sleep was at least a peaceful place where he could rest, alone with the stirrings of his own mind, and his own largely dreamless peace: where Brander appeared to give dreams much grave respect, Faerim had never paid them much attention, and rarely dreamt, or not generally of anything specific that he could remember in the morning. But he knew his largely peaceful sleep was not shared by everyone: during the past few nights since they had left the city, the youth had often been awoken in the middle of the night to the sound of shallow breathing or even cries as others in the camp woke in the thrall of nightmares. Probably dreams of Arthedain, he mused grimly.

Propping himself up on his elbows and shaking his tousled hair off his face, Faerim looked around the crowded, makeshift tent at the others nearby. The refugees had stayed largely in families, but with some groups of women departing and staying together for modesty's sake, and the soldiers had their own quarters. Much as he had leant towards the idea of slipping in with the soldiers and attempting to keep up his pretence of genuinely being conscripted, Faerim had stayed with his family in the end: Brander slept beside him, his eyes, as always, slightly open, a slither of white showing beneath his lids. Faerim saw the blind boy's lips move slightly, his brow creasing lightly, then he turned over onto his back, sighing deeply. Dreaming...

Keeping his elbows tucked into his sides and his feet still as he pushed his cloak-blanket off, so as not to disturb anyone by nudging them, Faerim sat up carefully. He yawned silently, rolling his stiff neck from side to side and running his fingers through his hair to collect it into some semblance of sanity. Dressing quickly - that is, as far as he had been able to undress the night before - he eased his boots on, and stood.

Having disturbed only the specks of dust, Faerim slipped out of the tent and into the still morning air. There was no breeze - nearby the flag hung limp on it's pole - and as a result it was not particularly cold. Faerim stifled a yawn and sniffed the air: the smells of cooking still wafted through the air from where a group of three or four women were cooking. He grinned and began to whistle a tune as he purposefully ambled in that direction, hoping to find someone he knew to take a bite of breakfast with.

The sounds of low, frantic voices caught Faerim's attention as he passed one tent, and as one particularly agitated voice interrupted another, he hesitated. Feeling guilty, he looked around nonchalantly to check no one was watching him, then edged towards the tent and began to listen. The voice that was speaking was an elven one that he did not recognise.

"...not for Rôsgollo's intelligence I would almost think the culprits were Men, rather than Orcs. They did not despoil the tent, shed no blood and showed stealth and woodscraft in the capture. There is much about this that I do not understand." You and me both, mate, Faerim thought, puzzled. What the...

The elven voice continued. "But the answer to this puzzle must wait. Lord Hírvegil, we must give chase soon!"

Faerim jerked back guiltily at the sound of the Dunedain captain's name. He didn't want to be caught eavesdropping on some matter of state, and bearing in mind the serious tone of the elven voice, this was no light matter certainly. Yet curiosity stopped him from leaving. He listened harder, having the strain to hear over a sudden flurry of noise which came from a the civilians' camp.

"A Dunedain woman was taken as well, you say?" Hirvegil

"In addition to two of our own, Ladies Betheril and Erenor."

"How would the orcs have got in undetected? It doesn't make sense!" A more agitated, furious voice spoke next, panic tinged with fury. Another shushed him but the first snapped back something in a strange language. The other replied in the same, and another human voice attempted to come between them, speaking in the Common Tongue again. But before he could pick up on the words, someone approached the tent flap, the silhouette looming towards Faerim and the youth scrambled backwards guiltily, running a few steps away back towards the camp where he had come from. He frowned, dissatisfied, digging his hands into his trouser pockets as he slowed to a walk: he hadn't learnt much and now the bits and pieces were simply confusing...

"'Gone'?" An old woman's incredulous screech pierced the peace of the still air making Faerim jump. "What do you mean 'gone'? People don't just up and vanish, Sara, even children as difficult as your Tathy-"

"He has!" A younger voice butted in, and Faerim pinpointed it to a particular tent. "He has! He ain't anywhere to be found, mam, I've looked everywhere-"

"Outside? You haven't looked outside, have you? Don't worry, Sara, didn't you say that no-good sister of yours had gone as well? They'll simply have gone to get breakfast, you know what Tathy's like, all stomach, that's what I've always said..."

"No, mam! I've looked! I can't find either of 'em, not even getting breakfast! Oh, my Tathy, I hate it when he strays like this.." the woman moaned forlornly. The front flap of one of the nearby tents stirred and the owner of the voice stepped out, wringing her hands anxiously. Seeing Faerim, she flung up her hands and approached him. "Ah, you, boy, you haven't seen a little lad wandering about have you? A skinny wee tyke of about so high, dark-"

"I...haven't, I'm afraid, sorry ma'am," Faerim replied. The snippets of conversation he had heard were beginning to fit worryingly. The woman made a small worried noise then stuck her head back into the tent. "That's it, mam, I'm going to report it!"

Despite her elderly mother's muffled cries of disagreement from within the tent, the mother set off determinedly in the direction of Hirvegil's tent. Faerim watched he go for a moment, then caught up with her, walking along quickly beside her to keep up with her cracking pace. "Er, ma'am, that may not be such a fine plan - Captain Hirvegil is a little busy at the moment I think-"

"Poppycock!" The woman crowed. "He'll see me about this - we can't have people vanishing left right and centre and I want something done!" Her accent was that of the upper society of Arthedain - a voice that was used to having things done for it. Faerim winced. "Ma'am, your son may just be getting break- er, ma'am, please..." Faerim trailed off, his attempts having failed as the woman flung open Hirvegil's tent flap and striding in purposefully, with Faerim somehow beside her.

"Captain Hirvegil, it is my understanding that-"

The elf who had been speaking stopped suddenly, spinning around on his heels to face Faerim and the woman beside him, and the youth felt keenly on his face the eyes of three immortals and, somehow more terrifyingly, Lord Hirvegil. The tableau remained in stunned silence for a moment before the elf who had been speaking flung up his hands and glared at Faerim in disgust. "What is the meaning of this interruption?"

The woman appeared to be frozen in terror, her mouth having dropped open and her eyes like saucers. Faerim resisted the urge to elbow her hard in the ribs and stepped forward. "Captain Hirvegil - and my elven Lords, " he added hastily, including the elves in his address. "My name is Faerim. I believe this woman may be relevant to your discussion. She awoke this morning to find her son and her sister gone - presumably taken also by the orcs."

The woman gasped, then slapped solidly Faerim on the arm. "Taken by orcs?" She squawked. "I don't bloody think so, mate, I would have noticed if a crowd of flamin' great monsters had stormed through my tent in the middle of the night-"

"So you did not hear anything?" Rôsgollo pounced as the woman paused to take breath. Her eyes bulged but she managed to reply, carried along by her outrage. "I...well, no, no of course not - and I'm a very delicate sleeper, mind, quite accustomed to waking at the slightest noises in the night, so I am-"

"Her tent is some way from the quarters of the other elves, Lord Rôsgollo," Faerim added, his voice respectful and understated in an attempt to rule out the fact that he had obviously been eavesdropping. "I presume her son and sister must have been outside the tent when they were taken - but nonetheless the orcs must have moved with surprising stealth."

"It was planned then!" spat the elf who had been speaking when Faerim entered. He turned and paced across the floor, looking across at Hirvegil sharply as he began to speak to the Dunedain lord once more. Now that attention had apparently been transferred away from him, Faerim glanced at Hirvegil and began to edge out of the tent quickly. The woman did the same, darting out and expressing her distress quite vocally enough for the entire camp to hear as she returned to her mother. Faerim opened the flap and followed, but as he did so a quiet voice arrested him in his tracks. "Stop."

Faerim turned, dreading some sort of reprimand for eavesdropping, but he simply saw Rôsgollo standing behind him, those grey eyes fixed steadily on his face. Behind him, his brother, whose name Faerim did not know, was also watching. Rôsgollo nodded curtly at Faerim. "Our thanks for your help, Faerim son of Carthor," he said. The youth smiled quickly, not quite knowing what to say, then nodded to all four of the others in the tent and removed himself into the fresh air sharpish, breathing a sigh of relief as he did so. He couldn't help a slight grin though, however inappropriate to the situation. Who says eavesdropping doesn't do any good...

[alaklondewen]

alaklondewen's post

Ereglin walked slowly toward the small fire around which sat the ladies, Erenor and Berithil, and the lone mortal woman with her babe. His eyes wondered down to the way bread that found its way into his hands by a stroke of strange compassion by the Orc captain. As he moved across the camp, he did his best to tune out the curses and sneering from the soldiers. Several times he felt something heavy thud against his back, shoving him forward, but he kept his eyes on the bread and feet moving ahead, refusing to react to their bestial behavior.

As he approached, Berithil looked up and met his gaze. Ereglin touched her mind with a half smile. Do not be afraid…we have hope. Before she could answer, he sat beside her on the cold earth and placed the bread in her hands. With head tipped and eyebrow raise, Berithil look curiously at the Lindon Elf. “It is better than that retched meat from some unknown creature,” Ereglin offered in response to her expression.

What did you learn from the captain?

Ereglin did not answer immediately as he phrased his answer in his mind before opening to her. It seems they plan to ransom us to the mortals. What he did not reveal was his doubt as to whether the men would pay to have them returned. The King had shown what little regard he had for the Elves, and Ereglin assumed his Captains would show the same attitude.

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Nilpaurion Felagund's post

Bethiril had been close to Orcs before. During Morgoth’s assault on Gondolin, when she was but a child, a band of them came upon their escaping band in Cirith Thoronath. One of the guards was cut down before her eyes by their curved blades, and the same doom would have befallen her and her mother had not Thorondor and his folk swooped down and sent the Glamhoth shrieking to their doom.

Now, their guard was nowhere to be seen, and no eagle came to their aid. Yet, to her surprise, they were still alive, and even treated fairly well. There was no torture, nor threats of it, and no despoiling was done: things she had heard Orcs do to their prisoners. She had obtained news from Ereglin, and she was astonished at the way this abduction was being used.

Politics.

This proves that she was right all along: even the Orcs, putative enemies of Middle-earth, tire of bloodshed. And this could be her chance to take that great step towards the cessation of all hostility. All she needed to do was take it.

She could start by not escaping. She turned to her companions, hoping neither of them was planning flight right now.

[Kransha]

Hírvegil’s head hurt at this point, though years of practice allowed him to cleverly mask the fact. Though none new of it, he suffered from chronic headaches. At the moment, the grinding of wheels in his mind had begun, and the gritty mechanics of the matter were instilling pain in him that, thankfully, his willpower could overbear. He had awoken from a too-pleasant dream to find himself in an anarchic nightmare of sorts. He was bombarded by information that forced him to act, even though he had fully expected a few days of rest. His feeble brain was forced to process numerous thoughts, and create a plan of action to be put into action hastily. He reviewed what he’d learned in the spare instant of gentle silence that preceded the departure of the youth called Faerim: Orcs had, by night, stolen into the camp by means of craft he knew not, and taken captive the Lady Bethiril and Erenor, and Lord Ereglin, as well a woman of the Dúnedain and a child. Foul deeds were afoot, wrought by the yrch, as the Elven guardsmen called them in their tongue.

The Captain was far from ready to organize a plan. He sat on his cot dejectedly as the three Elves turned away, their keen eyes, those of mighty hawks, followed the Dúnadan from the tent. Hírvegil knew that showing any mental or physical weakness before those eyes could be dangerous. He could not hide mental fatigue, but he could conceal his weariness and occasional error. He clasped his knotted hands and laid his elbows on his knees, looking down and contemplating the ground as the Elves turned back towards him, immediately noticing his state of contemplation. The Elf called Angóre spoke.

“Now that we know what has happened we must give chase.” He said; Elven calmness evident in him despite the urgency of the matter. “Surely you know this.” Hírvegil nodded, seeing no other recourse besides agreement. The Elf was right, after all, time was of the essence. “Yes.” He murmured under his breath and rose, “We will follow their tracks. Among the Dúnedain are skillful trackers. The fiends cannot have gotten far.” His voice was tempered with a tone of reassurance, hoping that the Elves would be satiated, but they all looked upon him skeptically, and the guard by the name of Rôsgollo spoke then.

“Orcs do not tire, Captain,” he said, moving towards the Captain, who glanced back with the uneasiness he always felt when in the presence of Elves, “not easily at least.” After the addition, he continued, turning to pace towards his two kinsmen in the tent. “They may be miles from here.” He spun again towards Hírvegil, “Time cannot be wasted talking.” Hírvegil was put off by the hasty behavior of the Elf, and his seeming lack of confidence in Hírvegil’s skills as a captain.

“My people are tired, Elf.” He shot back, somewhat coldly but with no spite or anger. Still, the Elf was quick to respond. “We are not.” He swiftly objected, “If you do not go after our kin than we will do so alone.” He seemed very sure of himself in this, as if a trio of Elves could annihilate a whole great band of uruks. Perhaps, though, their prowess in combat could diminish orcish ranks, but they would not rescue their charges. The orcs would slay their captives as soon as defeat was evident, to win at least a moral, posthumous victory. If all Elves perished, or even the Emissaries of Rivendell and Mithlond, political relations between Elves and the Dúnedain of Arnor would dwindle in strength and their bond would weaken, when the Dúnedain reached civilization. Besides having the camp of refugees destroyed, this was the worst possibly scenario, and it had come at the worst possible time.

Hírvegil shook his head solemnly and turned, taking his hauberk of mail from the wooden rack it hung upon and flung it over himself quickly, becoming disheveled in the process, but he maintained his grim nobility, despite the obvious loss of sleep he suffered and stress he was under. “No,” he said, shaking his head again, “we will hasten after them with you, but I must take counsel with my lieutenant and the King’s lord, Mitharan.” As he looked to the Elves, still blinking remnants of sand from his sleep-deprived eyes and running a hand through his unkempt hair, he saw further skepticism, but ignored it. “I will have them both sent for immediately.” As he said this, he pulled on his bracers and pauldrons in a messy fashion and moved between the Gaeredhel and Rôsgollo, edging quickly towards the tent flap, which he practically punched open so that it whipped upward in the windy air, startling the guard outside.

“Issue my order to all guardsmen of the camp. Tell them to arouse the soldiers of Fornost, but leave those civilians who are still slumbering where they lie. Also summon to my tent Lord Mitharan and Lieutenant Belegorn when they have been told what occurred this night. See to it that they consider a course of action and come to me when they have found one.” The words spouted from him quickly and all in one, ceremonious breath. The guard was flustered and confused, but soon digested the command, gave a threadbare salute, and turned on his heel to do the bidding of his captain. Hirvegil, not satisfied with his own position in the situation, turned towards the Elves, who, by now, looked even more unconfident in him.

“You would have a politician and your second make plans for you, Captain of men?” inquired Angóre, but Hírvegil made a negative gesture and said instead, “I have a plan, Elf, and one that shall see us through. You would do well to trust in it. I will seek the opinion of those two, and we will then depart to track the orcs. As for you, go and ready yourselves for our leaving. I thank you for your aid in this matter, but it shall no longer be needed until I take counsel again. Make ready and arm yourselves; perhaps you can even assist my soldiers arousing the camp. Again, I thank you.” Again having let slip this lengthy harangue, Hírvegil took a quick, deep breath, and nodded in acknowledgement to the Elves. Though unsatisfied, Gaeredhel and Rôsgollo turned, but Angóre remained, lingering a moment longer. Hírvegil lifted his tent flap and was about to duck inside when the clear Elven voice stopped him.

“Captain,” said Angóre behind him, “I will do as you say, but I ask you to remember that my name is not ‘Elf,’ it is Angóre. You would do well to remember that.”

Hirvegil did not turn, but only said, “I shall.” and disappeared into his tent.

[Garen LiLorian]

Hírvegil had almost disappeared into the blessed silence of his tent when Angóre's voice halted him once again. "And captain," the voice had changed, impassivity now draped it where sharpness had been but a moment before. Hírvegil turned, surprised despite himself at the change. Angóre continued; "I must apologize for our rude behavior. I need not explain to a lord of men such as yourself the dismay that fell upon us when we were found in breach of our trust: having failed those who depended upon us. But now is a time for cool heads, and not hasty deeds. Orcs do not love daylight, and I do not suppose that they will travel far or swiftly while the sun shines. Prisoners can only serve to slow their travel as well. Therefore, take your rest and gather your strength. It will do us no good to charge after them, only to be killed or taken as well." Angóre then bowed, after the fashion of the Men of Arnor, and retreated.

Hírvegil stared in wonder at the receeding Elf, who had spoken so calmly while his charges lay in bondage. Truly, he thought, the ways of the Firstborn are strange beyond any Man's knowledge. He shook his head and vanished into the tent.

[Arry]

Come! It will not help Lord Ereglin if you speak any further.

Gaeredhel urged his brother out of the entrance and away from the Captain’s tent. He feared the Captain would harden his less than favorable opinion of the Elves and attempt to keep them from helping in the rescue attempt at all. Angore, at least, had placated the man somewhat, or so he thought. If he could redirect his brother’s anger it would be all for the best.

Rôsgollo was quiet as they walked back toward their tent, his mind racing. He was already chafing at the idea they would need wait for the Captain and his 'skilful' trackers. Lord Ereglin had been injured. Who knew what further things the Orcs had done to him with their filthy hands and weapons. Or would do with each space of time now passing. He stopped, forcing his brother to a halt also. ‘There is no reason we cannot assist the trackers. The signs of the Orc troop’s passing are fresh. Let us follow them. One of us can always circle back to bring the Dunedain troops forward.’

‘And what of the young one?’ Gaeredhel asked, nodding toward the drowsing child his brother held in his arms. ‘He can’t be left to fend for himself when we leave. And certainly you won’t be bringing him.’

Rôsgollo said he had already thought of that. He bade his brother get ready their horses and gear, saying he would see to Gilly. He would ask the women with the young child he had met if she would watch Gilly while he was gone.

‘And what of Angóre?’ Gaeredhel asked as he turned toward their tent. ‘See if he wishes to come with us,’ Rôsgollo called back over his shoulder as he hastened off.

Around them, they could hear the guardsmen making their way through the camp, rousing the soldiers to readiness . . .

[Saurreg]

Belegorn stared at the messenger incredulously. Droplets of water navigated their way through the wrinkly folds and lines on his face before dripping from the pronounced chin back into the basin.

“Kidnapped you say!”

“Yes sir. Well… At least that is what the elves are claiming. The captain requests your immediate presence, sir.” Answered the flush faced guardsman.

Belegorn scowled fiercely, causing the nervous young soldier to cringe. The former then wiped his face with a clean but worn out towel before placing it beside the wash basin. He then reached for his chain mail shirt and leather belt.

“I want all the sentries of last night’s detail assembled and accounted for. The duty sergeant is to take the statement of each man under the oath, on what they did and what they saw last night. All senior sergeants to my tent and await my return!”

The messenger snapped into a smart salute before scampering off to have the lieutenant’s orders relayed.

Belegorn hastily donned his attire, thinking dark thoughts of elves all the way…

*********************

Moments later, Belegorn arrived at Captain Hírvegil’s tent. The commander of the rearguard bade his subordinate to enter and acquainted the latter with the situation in hand. Hírvegil sounded calm enough, but his appearance was more haggard than ever. It was all too clear to Belegorn that his superior’s chronic headache had been acting up and the unpleasant development in matters had aggravated it.

It would seem that the three elven envoys – the one from Lindon and other two from Imladris had gone missing and their impetuous guards had barged into Hírvegil’s tent demanding immediate action to be taken. And just to complicate matters even further, a youth by the name of Faerim also chose to report at the same time that a woman and child he knew were also missing.

“And thus is the situation so far.” concluded Hírvegil. “I have also requested the presence of Counselor Mitharan. But I want to hear what you have to say first. So what say you Belegorn?”

Belegorn cleared his throat and spoke as a matter-of-factly,

“Sir, it is in my opinion that we should not do what the elves are insisting,”

Hírvegil raised an eyebrow and implored the lieutenant to continue.


“Firstly, our mission is to escort the civilians and baggage wagon to Ered Luin as soon as possible and effect a rendezvous with the king’s contingent. That is our primary objective and it must be accomplished at all costs. As such speed is of the essence and we can ill afford to loss any time.

Secondly, our charges are the refugees. They and their children are what remain of the Anorian people and they represent whatever hope we have left. We own to them our utmost care and devotion. This will involve whatever strength we can muster to defend them.

Thirdly, our strength in arms is scant. We have but only a hundred guardsmen and a little over twenty militia men. Most of the guardsmen are injured in one way or another and the quality of the fillers is doubtful. Every single blade will be needed, if we are to accomplish our mission and remain as faithful as possible to those we are protecting. If we are obliged to send out searchers to find the missing persons, a large number must be sent for the search to be effective and to withstand any enemy ambuscade or interception. The defense of the column would then be greatly compromised and weakened.

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, sir.

And lastly, we know not the true reason behind the presence of the elves in the first place. Their exchanges with the king were top secret and neither one of us were and are still privy to that information… Quite frankly, I find the disappearance of three of their kind and the envoys themselves at that to be too coincidental. The elves are secretive, who is to say they have told us the whole truth or in this case the very truth of the matter itself?”

[Nuranar]

One moment Lissi was calm, peaceful, and very much asleep. The next all her senses were wide awake and aware, controlled by sure maternal instinct. The gentle whisper of cloth on cloth, the subterranean creak of stiff joints, the deliberately muted movements, were nearly inaudible under the noise of the waking camp; and yet they had woken her up. Without moving a muscle, without conscious thought, Lissi catalogued every sound. She knew with the intuitive certainy of mother-wit that Faerim was getting up with every intention of stealth. Instinct having made its report and Intellect having deliberated briefly, Lissi lay still until the swish of tent flaps betrayed her son's departure.

Conscious mind now almost fully awake, Lissi rolled to her back and stretched slightly. She reflected distantly on the marvelous cognizance that came with motherhood. That night when Faerim was still so little: She, the ignorant girl-wife, had been roused out of the heaviest sleep she'd known in weeks, had found herself on her feet, halfway to the infant's cradle without any waking intention, and had rescued the little one from the bedclothes that nearly suffocated him. Carthor had been absent on duty that night, at that time a rare occasion. The baby one more asleep in her arms, she had paced the balcony in the warm, velvety night air. A lovely summer that had been... so warm, so clear...

Involuntarily Lissi's whole frame shivered. As the memory of that warmth faded, the cold penetrated her consciousness, and the hard ground beneath her penetrated the blanket as if it were pure ice. Sleep was irrevocably fled for the time being, and the outside noise was more insistent. Another day had begun.

With infinite care she slipped out from beneath the cloaks that covered her and Carthor. Her husband's head wound still needed care, although his burns had healed rapidly, and she had no intention of waking him sooner than need be. She slipped out of the tent more silently than Faerim, huddling on her shawl.

The calm air was crisp without bitterness, and it was mostly habit than a need for warmth that kept Lissi pacing while she smoothed and replaited her long black hair. Habit, and the desire to stretch her legs. Muscle memory was a wonderful thing, and she was a born horsewoman; but the forced neglect of years could not be remedied in a few days. The first week of bitter soreness was long past, however. Beneath the ever-present anxiety, and the even deeper despair, lay a simple but genuine delight to be riding once more. All that remained was a residual stiffness every morning, itself a joy to be walked off.

How glad she was they had brought Carthor's horse! His heartfelt joy at their reunion had moved her to tears. He was proud to ride beside her and Brander with the people - at the forefront of the people, nearest the advance guard, it was true. Brander, too, was making great strides. Lissi had known, even back in the city, that Morn would never be able to carry double for long. It had taken little time at the hold to find the extra horses. With their dead and wounded, there were quite a few horses to spare, and Lissi had chosen a steady, compactly-built gelding for her blind son to ride. After what he had managed in their flight through the city, she knew he was capable of riding on his own in ordinary times. Without the distraction of sight, he learned to ride by feel and motion. Now, Brander sat his horse with a straight back and the regal bearing and grace that only instinct can supply. Furthermore, although Lissi had led the gelding the first day out, Carthor had insisted on doing it from then on. For the first time, a closeness seemed to be growing between father and son.

Finished with her hair, she stuck her head back into the tent. Both were still sleeping. Carthor hadn't moved. Brander had, but his face was peaceful. Lissi's own frowned as an unpleasant caterwauling filtered through the canvas. She saw Carthor jerk in his sleep, and she swiftly turned around and darted through the tents. Stupid, noisey women! she thought savagely. Lissi did not suffer fools gladly, whether highborn or low. Petty jealousies and trivial but vicious spats had arisen in the last week as fear had faded. This was just one too many.

Amidst the screeches and yammering, she caught a few words as she neared their epicenter.
"...I told you..."
"...such nonsense..."
"... but the Elves..."
Rounding a large, flamboyant pavilion into the company street, Lissi saw the two culprits just down the way, a few gawkers already gathering. I'll put a stop to this one, at least! she thought, lips tightening.
"...all gone, the orcs have taken them!"
The fragment made her stumble. Orcs! A flood of dismayed surmise welled up within her.

The previous commotion was nothing to what the women could do when they really tried. A truly alarming exhibition of wails and lamentations assaulted her ears as she rushed up to the pair. "Ladies, come inside! This will never do," she said firmly, and bundled them into their tent with scant ceremony. Instantly she ducked back out. "Don't go anywhere," she ordered one of the erstwhile rubberneckers, whom she had noticed on her way in. Faerim froze, then nodded mechanically, aghast at the narrow-eyed imperative in her cold gaze.

Back in the dim chill of the tent, the wailing was still ear-splitting. "Please, you need to hush!" she cried over the racket. "We must be calm and quiet. Think what would happen if the whole camp panicked! You must be quiet." The shrewish face of the louder woman, red and distorted with crying, was mirrored in the wrinkled and stricken visage of her companion as both turned to her, but under the force of her authority the noise diminished to shuddering sobs and sniffs. Lissi sank to her knees and gently laid a hand on each of their shoulders. "Now, tell me what's happened." Their confused, convoluted story tumbled out in confused, convoluted words, but eventually Lissi grasped what they knew. Having comforted and, she hoped, impressed them with the importance of order to their safety, Lissi stepped back out of the tent.

Faerim was scuffing the ground absently and, she thought, a little nervously. He turned to her with a very shamefaced expression. Lissi forced him to meet her eyes for a full second, then took his arm and led him slowly down the row of tents. "Faerim, what do you know about this?" she said in a low but masterful voice that would brook no evasion.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Stopping short, Faerim gaped in surprise and then looked affronted by Lissi's question. "Mother," he answered quietly. "Are you suggesting I had anything to do with-"

"I'm not blaming you, Faerim," Lissi replied sharply. She glanced up at her son, meeting his eyes for a second, then simply waited. Faerim sighed. It was a method that his mother had tried, tested and perfected over the years, and one that, every time, would eventually worm out all the information she wanted. Resistance, Faerim had learnt at a young age, was futile. He continued to walk slowly along the row of tents towards their own, and summed up shortly what had caused the women's panic.

"The pair of women probably told you everything you need to know, Mother - the woman's sister and son have been kidnapped by orcs."

Lissi narrowed her eyes. "Why? Why would they go out of their way to creep in at night and only steal away a woman and a child, when they could have easily slewn the entire camp."

Faerim shrugged non-commitally, raising his eyes to look straight forward. "Doesn't make sense, does it?" He hesitated, then went on, lowering his voice. "There is more, of course. The woman and child were not the only ones to be taken: three elves were kidnapped from their tent."

Lissi stopped short. "Elves?" Her startled exclamation was loud and two passing soldiers glanced over curiously. Faerim shushed her frantically then nodded. "Aye, elves. The elven emissaries. Which is why the soldiers have been roused: Captain Hirvegil is intending to go after the orcs and retrieve the captives, elves and Dunedain."

Lissi nodded mutely, frowning slightly as she walked onwards. They were only a few feet from their tent now and Faerim hoped childishly that they could get there before his mother asked the next, predictable question, so that he could find some diversion. He didn't exactly relish the thought of Lissi viewing her eldest son as an eavesdropper. But alas, it was not to be: the woman turned to Faerim and fixed him once more with that stern gaze. "And you know all of this exactly how, Faerim?"

Faerim hesitated and glanced towards their tent. "We-ell, I..." he trailed off, but with reason, his gaze fixed over Lissi's shoulder, and she turned around to see what he was looking at. When she saw, her eyes widened: two elves, advancing purposefully, their object very definitely Faerim and Lissi's tent. They paused as they reached the pair, and the taller of the two - Gaeredhel? - nodded curtly to Lissi then addressed Faerim. "We are looking for the woman who you were with at the beginning of this expedition - the woman with a child. Do you know where we could find her?"

Lissi broke in before Faerim could answer, her voice level but stern, a tone not unlike that which she had previously been using with her son. "Why are you looking for them, sir?"

Gaeredhel glanced at Lissi then looked to his brother, who pursed his lips and replied accordingly, jiggling Gilly a little to keep the child warm. "I must leave Gilly with her - the two children got on well together." Lissi nodded, apparently satisfied with the elf's answer, and motioned towards their tent.

"Where are you going?" Faerim did not mean to seem disrespectful but the question simply came out. As the two elves turned to fix their still grey eyes on him he felt like a foolish child but did not shrink against them. Rôsgollo looked across at Gaeredhel then replied quietly, "To find out kinsmen." With that, he ducked inside the tent behind Lissi to speak to Renedwen.

Faerim hovered outside reluctantly, knowing that the inside of the tent would be too crowded if he was to go in as well - he was satisfied at least that Rôsgollo would not do Renedwen or her child any harm. Gaeredhel stayed outside also, but as Faerim watched him out of the corner of his eye, he noted that the elf showed a statue-like lack of cold, despite the chill of the air. As Faerim moved to go towards the tent, his eyes darted up quickly, pinning the youth like a butterfly on a collector's plate.

Faerim shivered inadvertently, a reflex not entirely due to the cold air, and held Gaeredhel's gaze. This elf seemed somehow the more approachable of the two, as far as that was possible: there was something, some air about Rôsgollo that the other did not possess: something ancient and untrusting, Faerim deemed, of the Dunedain. The other elf, the one who had been speaking so heatedly to Hirvegil, had this also; Gaeredhel seemed different somehow. Faerim stamped his feet, breaking the elf in question's gaze as he looked away distractedly towards the tent. Plucking up his courage, he asked the question that had been nagging, perched on the edge of his tongue for the past few silent minutes. "Are you really going to find your kinsmen?"

He looked back sidelong at Gaeredhel, and the elf nodded silently. Faerim nodded quickly, fidgetty, and fell back to silence. After a moment or two, he broke it again. "But...what about Captain Hirvegil? He said to wait; the soldiers are not ready yet..." he trailed away under Gaeredhel's impatient gaze. The elf did not say anything for a moment, then he frowned irritably and replied, "Captain Hirvegil can take all the time he wants to prepare and make decisions. We cannot wait - anything could happen in such wasted time..." this time, it was the elf's turn to drift off, and he seemed distracted, worried. Faerim nodded slowly, not speaking. He understood the elf's worry. Yet at the same time...at the same time, something stirred within him, some urge to please or need to help. His mind began to tick, a plan forming. The elf was right: the soldiers were taking time to prepare, whereas the elves were already ready to go - they could be gone in a few moments to find their comrades. What was the use in wasting time? Yet...yet even if they took a horse each - which would be more practical, as it would allow them to move more swiftly and concentrate on tracking rather than on another animal - how would they get the elves and Dunedain woman and child back to the camp? Even with two to a horse, they would be a horse short, and having horses laden down with a cargo twice as heavy would slow them down, taking away the edge of their all-important get-away. They would need extra horses - and who was to take them...?

Inwardly, Faerim grinned.

The tent flap opened and Rôsgollo strode out briskly, rubbing his hands together as if at a loss for what to do with them. He nodded to his brother. "It is done," he said. Gaeredhel nodded in return and laid a hand on the other elf's arm, and for a moment their gazes locked. Faerim looked away, feeling as though he was intruding, and feeling strangely left out: it was as if they were still talking to one another, but without the inconvenience of words. Then the moment had passed, the elves moved on, striding briskly away from the tent.

"Wait!" Faerim called after them. Rôsgollo stiffened impatiently but Gaeredhel turned to see Faerim standing hesitantly behind them. He darted forward, as near as he dared, and spoke almost conspiratorially. "I could come with you."

The two elves simply looked at him, apparently unimpressed. Gaeredhel laid a hand on Faerim's upper arm and shook his head, giving the youth a slight smile as if he was a child who had asked his father to come to war. "I do not think so, Faerim."

"Hear me out!" Faerim leant forward, speaking urgently. "When you get to the orcs camp, how will you get your fellows away? I presume you are taking one horse each - you will still be a steed short even if you double up. That is if you were intending to rescue the Dunedain woman and her nephew also, instead of just leaving them there to the mercy of the orcs..." he let the sentence trail off, knowing that they would not be able to do so - or at least, hoping that Rôsgollo's strange compassion for Gilly, despite his apparent distrust of the Dunedain, could extend to another human child. The elves looked at each other, each searching the other's eyes. Faerim went on. "If I was to come as well, I could bring the extra horses - you would be able to track without being hindered by an extra animal each. It would allow a quicker approach and a quicker get-away - the horses would be quicker with less cargo apiece."

There was a pause in which Faerim got the decided feeling that he was being measured up. Rôsgollo spoke first. "Why would you voluntarily do this?"

Faerim grinned. "Why did you take in Gilly?"

[CaptainofDespair]

The pale light of the new morning had risen, and issued forth its rays upon the land. However, all was still cold and bleak, at least to the counselor. He had awoken with a yawn, but still retaining some exhaustion, he fell back onto his cot with a resounding thud. He could hear soldiers running about the camp. “Just morning combat exercises,” he thought. But then, an emissary, one different in appearance than the normal ones, probably one of Hírvegil’s, tore open the flap to his rather weakly built tent, and spurted out a few words. “Milord Mitharan, your presence is requested by the Captain. It is of utmost urgency.” The counselor groaned, attempting to refuse the summons by all means. But, at long last, he wearily rose, and put on a few articles of clothing. Wrapping himself in a fur robe as he exited, he muttered, “The Captain better have good reason for dragging me away from a near-slumber...”

The camp was aroused, full of excitement. But over what, the counselor knew not, and probably cared not for. It took him a few moments to find his way through the crowds of soldiers who were pacing about, but he eventually made it to the Captain’s tent. He could hear Belegorn’s voice, but he could not decipher the words, save for “The elves are secretive, who is to say they have told us the whole truth or in this case the very truth of the matter itself?” The grogginess would soon pass, he hoped, or not. He would rather be sleeping. Lazily, he folded back the corner of the tent’s flap, and stuck his head, and a bit of his upper torso, into the Captain’s chambers. Hírvegil looked up from his hands, but did not respond. So Mitharan did, in his most tired and irritated speech, as he pushed his way past the leather hide flap. “Why have I been roused from slumber? The reasoning for such intrusion of my rest had better be good, Captain.” At this, the world-weary captain did respond. “We have a situation, counselor. Orcs have come in the night, and captured the Elven emissaries of Lindon and Rivendell.”
“Captured?” That was the only response to the event the young counselor could muster. He looked at the captain in dismay, pondering the next course his mind would take. After a moment he added, “What is the course of action you are to take, or have you summoned me here for counsel, as is my purpose?” The captain could only nod, and Mitharan took this to be a ‘yes’ at the latter portion of his query. “Then my only counsel is on the Elves to determine why they were taken. As for the initial purpose of this train, continue with its course.” The counselor sighed, adding, “I would recommend allowing all to rest, as may have been intended, while allowing scouts, and military detachments to go forth in search of these lost Elves.” He paused, allowing himself to take a breath, and wake up a bit more. He continued from there, attaching, “I believe this path would allow us to continue to Ered Luin, and search for the Elves without much pause. The King would not be pleased to lose a nation-saving alliance because we allowed the Elves to not only be captured, but be kept as hostages.” He bowed low, and exited, finishing with “I will be in my quarters if needed for further counsel,” as he pushed past the flap in the tent, and out into the morning air.

As he left the presence of the captain and his lieutenant, he could not help but marvel at the stealth of the orcs. But, those thoughts would have to wait, he needed to return to his tent for another stint of sleep. He meandered his way through the droves of militia and guardsmen, slowly at first, but then at a speedier pace, as his desire to sleep just a mere moment more forced him on. He cared not for who he bumped into, and nor did he notice much. But, once in awhile he would attract a scowl and “Hey! Watch where you’re going!.” Finally, he had arrived in his home away from home, his own personal lodgings. As he plopped down onto the rickety cot, he heaved a sigh of relief, and tried to slip into his world of dreams. But alas, he could not, for his mind was not at ease. “How could Orcs slip into the camp without anyone knowing? They would need an especially crafty and strong-willed leader to keep them from marauding and plundering the camp. Yet, this cannot be the work of the Witch-King, or his chief minions.” He closed his eyes again, and rubbed the side of his head, trying to weave his way through the maze of thoughts that was his mind. “Whatever the case, they had a purpose. Perhaps the Elves themselves could be the answer...”

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen was happy to look after the boy, she knew where the Elves were going, she had heard the whispering in and aorund the encampment and knew they would want to find their kin. It was not just their kin who they sought but the woman and her child. Thinking of what might have come to pass had she been the unfortunate one caught by the orcs sent a shiver through her. She hoped they would be rescued, and so she gladly answered the request to care for the orphaned boy.

Rosgollo had a look of fear in his eyes when he spoke to her, his words polite but his mind elsewhere, and yet she noticed that when he bade farewell to the child, his expression changed and Gilly did not see that harried look, but the same kindly warmth he had always seen in the Elf's face. If this Elf does not return, she thought, then the child will only remember the kindly face of his protector, he will not know his fear as he has not seen it. So smiling, and heartened by what she had seen pass between the two, she gathered the boy towards her with a warm smile of her own.

Her son, awake and attempting to crawl about the tent, noticed Gilly and laughed; the older boy immediately headed towards him clutching some kind of sweet bread that Rosgollo had given him, and sat with the infant, breaking off tiny pieces of the dainty for him to suck on. Renedwen watched the pair for a few minutes and half closed her eyes, imagining herself safe at home. It was a comfort to her to see the children innocently playing and forming a bond while outside fear began to stalk the camp after the events of the night before. But she could not dream for long. She had to take this chance to gather her scant belongings and take stock lest it soon be time to move on again.

The familiar feeling of foreboding came over her just as it had done the night before the sudden evacuation of the city, and she sought her comfort in making herself ready. There was nobody now to tell her otherwise, she reflected sadly to herself as she rolled up the blankets and strapped them tightly into a bundle. She might even warn Lissi to do the same. The other woman did not carry around the burden of fear as much as she did, she seemed to be hopeful, but Renedwen decided she would tell her about her fears all the same. It was the least she could do for someone who had helped her.

As she finished her work, Renedwen shook out her cloak and her husband's sword lay on the ground where it had been hidden all night beneath her dark blue mantle. Gilly noticed it, his eyes caught by the bright blue enamel decorations, and he stopped playing and reached out a hand to take up the weapon. Too late, Renedwen saw him attempt to lift it.

"No," she said, her eyes wide. "You must not touch this. It is far too heavy for a boy to handle. And sharp". She was not, however, frightened that he might come to harm, but afraid he might tell somebody about what she was keeping hidden. She bent and picked up the blade, and took it firmly in her hand. It felt odd to her, strangely heavy and firm to grip, yet as she moved it, she noticed how lightly the blade moved. This was more than a mere ceremonial item, it had been made by one of the finest smiths in the city, a fitting reward for her husband's efforts, and as she handled it, she realised why he had bade her take it. Even with the scant skills she had learned all those years ago in her youth, on those miserable days when her father had made her learn skills which she deemed to be pastimes for boys, she realised that with this blade she could defend herself.

She carefully placed the sword back into the sheath which hung from her belt, and skung her cloak about her shoulders; once more the folds swung forwards and concealed the existence of the blade. Nobody would take this from her now, she was more determined than ever. It had been fear of the loss of something so dear to her husband which had at first driven her need to conceal it, but now it dawned on her that trouble might be coming and she would yet have need of this to defend her son. A shiver passed through her again as she thought of that, and turning around, she saw that Gilly had been watching her every move.

"Shall we go and find some breakfast?" she said to the boy, knowing that the thought of food would distract him from what he had just seen. And more than breakfast, she thought to herself, some news would be welcome. She smiled warmly at the boy, and he nodded his agreement eagerly. "Then let me wrap up little Derendur against this chill and we shall go." She caught her breath for a moment as she said her son's name; it had also been the name of her husband.

"Let me help you", said Gilly, finding the infant's fur hood and offering it to Renedwen with an eager look. He touched her hand gently, hopefully, and she drew him towards her and hugged him.

"Yes," she said. "You can help me." It seemed to her that he had already forgotten about the sword.

[Arry]

The tent flap was thrust back hurriedly as Rôsgollo made his way from the tent. Renedwen had agreed to keep Gilly with her while he was away. The youngster had fretted at his leaving, but was reassured in the arms of the woman. Rôsgollo had kissed him lightly on the forehead before leaving him with a piece of sweet waybread. ‘I will return, little one. Until then enjoy the company of your new friends.’ His hand went up to smooth back the fine hair from the boy’s face. He bowed slightly to Renedwen, thanking her once again for her help.

Gaeredhel waited outside the tent. ‘It is done,’ Rôsgollo said. He was starting off when his brother touched his arm. We need to go back to the tent. The horses are packed; Angore awaits us just beyond the perimeter. He has already found the tracks for us to follow from the camp. Let us hasten. Gaeredhel moved toward where their fellow guard waited, his brother following close behind.

It was then that Faerim spoke up, presenting his request and then his argument to the brothers. Gaeredhel was impatient with the intrusion, but Rôsgollo heard the young man out. Here, at least, was one of the Second Born willing to put himself forward to aid them. And he seemed so eager, the looks he cast at them trying to pick up on any approval of his offer. Rôsgollo could barely suppress a smile, despite the gravity of the situation.

Do not be hasty with him, brother. He is much as you were. Gaeredhel’s brows rose at this comment. But Rôsgollo continued. He is eager to play in the grim game of battle. To wield his blade again against the present foe.

Pah! Young fool! Gaeredhel could not help smiling, though his brother’s words were dark. Then let him come with us. Gaeredhel gave his brother a sly look. But since you seem to be his champion at the moment . . . He paused and gave his brother a considering look Indeed the champion of the young and lost of this ragged band of men . . .then, you may keep watch over him.

Rôsgollo turned his gaze to Faerim. I think he will acquit himself well . . . despite your doubts. It should not be much work.

Gaeredhel laughed abruptly, startling the few passersby near the little group. ‘Oh, I will remember your words, brother!’

Faerim looked at the Elves wondering at what seemed to have passed between them. Rôsgollo motioned him to follow along with them as they made for the perimeter of the camp. ‘Gather your gear quickly, Faerim. We will take you up on your offer. Bring the extra horses. Meet us there,’ he said lifting his chin toward the edge of the camp where the Orcs had entered. ‘We will wait for you for a space of time. Angóre has already gone ahead following the trail. We will meet with him at mid-day.’ He stopped for a moment and looked at the young man. ‘Go now. Hurry. We will not wait long . . .’

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim almost leapt a foot in the air when Gaeredhel suddenly laughed. The elves had been silent for so long - and he had come to the conclusion that they were most certainly communicating in some way, although to ask probably wouldn't be polite - that the sudden sound surprised him. He looked from one brother to the other, wondering what conclusion they had come to, but he did not have to wait long. Rôsgollo raised one eyebrow at his brother, then motioned to the Dunedain youth to come with them as he began to walk briskly.

"Gather your gear quickly, Faerim. We will take you up on your offer." At the elf's words, Faerim grinned widely, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise and delight, and he resisted with difficulty the urge to punch the air. Trying to regain a more serious composure, he listened to the elf's swift instructions, then nodded respectfully. "You won't regret it, Captain Rôsgollo, on my honour." He wasn't even sure whether it was the correct way in which to address the Rôsgollo, but it didn't seem to matter right at that moment. Unable to restrain himself, he shot the elves another brief grin, then left them to prepare.

As Faerim came through the tent flap and cast around for the few belongings he would need, he wouldn't have been able to describe the strange feelings that had welled up when the elves had accepted his offer. Pride, that they thought him good enough to come with them? Delight? No, surely not: it was a dangerous mission that they were embarking on. But independance? That certainly had a part in the compound; and a sense of excitement and, maybe, honour. Hold it back, Faerim lad, you don't want to dally with that yet; wait until you've got this done, then you can have time for honour...

Bow, quiver of arrows, knives slotted into place, sword at his side and his coat pulled hastily on: Faerim had what he needed. Renedwen had left the tent, taking her son and Gilly with her, and the tent was otherwise empty - so far so good, Faerim supposed, it allowed him to get out quicker. But as he moved towards the opening, a figure blocked his way, and he saw his father standing in front of him. He nodded his head respectfully and gave his father a smile - the first sign that Carthor, cynically but realistically, might have picked up upon that something was not right. "Good morning, father."

"Morning, Faerim," came the gruff reply. Carthor eyed his eldest son, standing slightly hunched in front of him because of the tent's low ceiling, and his gaze fell on the bow slung over his shoulder. He blinked, then looked back at Faerim, raising his bushy eyebrows slowly. "Going somewhere, son?"

Faerim hesitated, then made an indeterminate noise and shrugged, looking past his father. A flicker of impatience may have showed in his eyes, for Carthor's brows rose slightly higher and he moved his hand casually in his son's way. "Where?" he asked sharply.

Faerim shot him an almost impatient glance, tempered only by his respect for his distant father. Since when did Carthor care where he was going? He had never cared in Arthedain, only nudging his son into place when Lissi hinted at it, or when he got in his way - their relationship could hardly be described as close. So why now? Faerim knew the answer, but not the reason for it: over the time since the refugees had left the broken city, something seemed to have changed in his father. He seemed capable of emotion, for crying out loud! Faerim hadn't spent much time around his father relatively, but he had noticed the changes - how could he not? His father's changed attitude to his mother was more subtle; but his attitude to Brander, a mixture of tenderness and even a sort of pride in what his blind son could do, was truly astonishing compared to the past. Faerim wasn't sure what to make of it but, even in his hurry, he supposed it was reason to tell the reason for his departure - even if not in detail.

"I'm going to help some acquaintances with a few things," he answered cryptically. Carthor raised a sardonic eyebrow, suddenly alike to Rôsgollo, and he looked sternly at Faerim with dark blue eyes. "A fight?"

Faerim cocked his head on one side. "Not...exactly. I won't be getting into trouble, father, don't worry." He couldn't help a little sarcasm added in the last sentence. Sighing, he tried again, looking his father straight in the eyes and becoming more serious. "I am going to help the elves, Father. They needed help and..." he shrugged, looking away, as if it was nothing much, trying to shield his impatience. Carthor remained silent, and Faerim eventually looked back at his father - and on his father's face he was surprised to see a small smile and...was that pride? Carthor did not speak and Faerim eventually spoke again. "Could...could I borrow your horse, father?"

Carthor frowned slightly, then the smile returned and he sighed, seeming suddenly so old, seeming suddenly to know the gravity of his firstborn son's situation. He nodded and laid a hand on Faerim's shoulder. "Aye...aye." He seemed about to say something else, but instead simply grunted and nodded, releasing Faerim. The boy smiled solemnly back at his father and nodded in thanks, before he darted out of the tent opening.

There were few horses in the camp which could now truly said to be spare; but there were a fair few that could be said to belong to pretty much anyone. With Arthedain, men had fallen in their hundreds, but not all of their steeds had fallen with them, and some had been taken out of the city, having been seized by fleeing citizens or simply released when the soldier's, forced to run from the barracks, had opened the stable doors to give them some chance of survival. The people of Arthedain had had to learn fast, and although some stubbornly contented themselves with walking, many of the less experienced riders shared horses or took turns to ride, but wouldn't have a clue how to look after the animals, and so left them pretty much in the care of the army. As a result, there were some horses that could go missing for a while and would not be especially missed - and sure, wasn't Faerim going to return them in a while? Having managed to gain and saddle two such steeds - a young bay mare and a grey stallion - along with North and his father's stallion, Faerim led them by their reins to where the elves had said they would meet him.

Mounting up, Faerim organised himself briskly on North's back, sticking one knife into the horse's saddle beside the pommel, putting on his gloves and trying to sort the horses reins into some semblance of usefulness. Having worked at the blacksmiths, he was used to working with several horses at once, and had often been asked to test out several horses at once to make sure that their shoes fitted correctly; he was therefore able to quite professionally organise the horses together in a fashion that they would be able to run together. However, what he didn't let on to the watching elves was that the horses he had tested out before were generally lame, very young, or very old: in short, the ones that might have had trouble with new shoes and would not have been running all too fast in them. This could, he supposed, pose a new set of problems, but he glossed that over in his mind. He could handle this: the elves trusted him too, and that gave him some sort of confidence, as well as being a dire warning not to fail. Straightening up, he shifted in his saddle to get most comfortable and shook his hair back out of his face, looking to Rôsgollo. He nodded. "I am ready."

[Kransha]

The counsel of Belegorn and Mitharan had, thankfully, been swift. Mitharan was already gone from Hírvegil’s tent, so lengthy deliberations would not be necessary. This meant that, if a decision could be reached soon, the Elves might be appeased. The problem was the decisions that had been made so far. Mitharan spoke ever for the King, but even he did not seem insistent upon dedicating force to the Elves, or perhaps that was his weariness speaking. Belegorn, his growing comrade, had proposed something easier, more logical, but less politically correct. That was the rub for Captain Hírvegil.

“Belegorn,” he said to his lieutenant, pulling off the bracers he had just put on as he spoke and casting them onto his bedroll, “You know, do you not, that I must listen to Mitharan above you?”

“Yes, sir. He is a Lord, I am a soldier – as you are – his words hold far more importance.”

“I did not mean that. I merely meant…” Hírvegil trailed off uncomfortably, realizing with some annoyance that Belegorn was right. He was a slave of politics, even if it was his prime enemy. Mitharan had done nothing to earn his hatred, but the profession was what he disliked. People like Mellonar had doggedly attacked him and his father for years. His father, Sildathar, remained defiant into old age, but Hírvegil was fast losing that defiance and becoming a lapdog of the political system, in the thrall of the counselors of Arvedui: a sad fate indeed. After a moment of looking troubled, Hírvegil shook his head to shake off the nagging doubt instilled in him, and said, “You speak some of the truth, Belegorn, but the lords of Fornost do not lead our armies.”

“No, Captain, you do.” Belegorn said this as if he knew how much the truth’s irony stung Hírvegil, and it did. The Captain eased his own mental anguish by shifting the spotlight. “And someday,” he said, grinning a weak grin, “you will do so in my stead.” Belegorn barely acknowledged the praise, “Now, a decision must be made.” Belegorn again looked noncommittal. “No need to tell me, sir. I know this.”

Hirvegil nodded and rubbed his stubble-ridden face. “The Elves may not relent,” he said, “so we must be quick. If only your proposal and that of Mitharan’s could be adapted. Alas, I do not think the Elves desire our help overmuch.” Belegorn’s response took the words from his mind. “Then why extend it to them?” Hírvegil shook his head darkly, murmuring, under his breath, “Politics, again.” Belegorn agreed. “Politics, of course.”

“Their decisiveness,” said the Captain, after a brief pause, “and our lack thereof, is what is making this complicated. If they could keep their fiery heels planted in the ground for one moment longer-” He was interrupted by a windy gust from the tent entrance as the flap flailed upward and a feebly armored figure, uniformed as a watchman, burst in, breathing unsteadily. Belegorn and Hirvegil spun about as he spoke. “Captain Hirvegil,” said the man through stifled, terse breaths, “word spreads through the camp.”

Hírvegil did not exactly what this meant, so he responded incredulously, “When orcs steal into a camp in the middle of the night and vanish, word does tend to spread swiftly.” But the watchman shook his head abruptly, flinging loose hair from side to side. “No, milord, word of the Elves’ doings is what spreads now, replacing the old word. It has been overheard that they plan to depart to track their kinsmen, regardless of your aid.” Hírvegil stifled a gasp, but noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Belegorn did not react. “Are you sure of this?” He questioned urgently. The guard nodded, relying more on gestures to convey the answers, since he was out of breath. “Yes,” he replied, “they were overheard speaking with the youth who you spoke to before.”

Hírvegil’s eyes widened and narrowed at the same time. “That lad? What was his name: Forim? Fordim? Ah, Faerim! It was Faerim.” The soldier let his drooping head nod. “Yes, sir.” Hírvegil’s look became confused revelation, and then turned to sour resignation, and he dismissed the watchman. “Thank you, friend.” He said, the confused air of emergency gone in his voice. “Now, be off, and see to your duties.”

As the guard, with a hasty nod, left the tent, Hírvegil sank back and relapsed into deep thought. ‘Fools,’ he thought, ‘arrogant fools.’ He was now glad that he had not made the acquaintance of the Elves before, for they were proving to be no more than stubborn and insubordinate. He understood where they were coming from, but could not fathom the mood that led them to this doom they had perceived. He admitted that the contradictory views of Mitharan and Belegorn surprised him, but he should’ve expected as much from both. Hírvegil’s own sensory and mental perception of his circumstances had dulled to the point where he could no longer determine the course of action others would take, which had once been a prized skill of his. Thankfully, his prowess in battle or under tactical pretenses remained sharp as sword-steel, and he acknowledged this with gratitude to the Valar, who had left the favored parts of his aging mind intact. Though he was no longer blessed with the wisdom he’d held, Tulkas allowed him strength and sapped no power from him, despite the graying of his beard with passing seasons. This, at least, would allow him to devise a proper plan for the circumstances.

He weighed Belegorn’s, Mitharan’s, and the Elves’ views against each other on a three-pronged scale, trying to sort out each. Belegorn’s, the perspective of a soldier, an officer, and a man after his own heart, appealed to him most. The Elves displeased him and seemed to shun his aid even if he were to give it. Perhaps they would function best left to their own devices. Then again, Mitharan, steady regardless of his youth and candor, had pointed out with political tact what should be done to ease the Elves’ plight and please the King, when they reunited with him. Both views were worth consideration. The Elves seemed to support Mitharan’s view, but they did not care what Hírvegil did with the refugees, and would probably be content if he dismissed them, and sent them off on their own. It was a puzzling dilemma, but one that he resolved to quickly overcome. He spoke to Belegorn, who now stood pensively in his tent nearby.

“All is moving too quickly, Belegorn. I should have slept this day through.” He kneaded his brow, plucking a tell-tale gray hair from the foreground of his scalp and quickly dismissing it after a suspicious inspection. Belegorn, though more sprightly than he, gave hearty agreement. “We all wished for that, Captain, but orcs do not sleep as we do.” Hírvegil growled slightly. “Nay, and neither do the Eldar.” His lieutenant’s brow was piqued in interest. “You trust the Firstborn less and less, I see.” said Belegorn.

“I had not talked with them until this morning. Now, I hope never to treat with them on such a matter again. Their cooperation is much desired, but I fear it will never come, for they are an independent sort. In most, I would admire this, but here and now it is folly. But, I will not brush them aside. The King shall have his alliance.” He stood up, sounding very firm as he did so, and pulled his bracers on again. Belegorn rose with him expectantly. “You are going to lead the Dúnedain after the Elves?” he questioned, but Hírvegil shook his head. “No, I am not. Excuse me, Belegorn.” With that, the Captain of the Rearguard swept out of the tent.

[Kransha]

It did not take Hírvegil long to find the Elves and the boy who was supposedly going to accompany them. He found them saddled up on the outskirts of camp and, looking disheveled and tired, hurried up to them, trying to maintain a look of dignity as he addressed the three Elves and the Dúnadan. “My noble friends,” he said, outstretching his hands, “I know you are busy at the moment, but I must intrude. I have to speak with Master Faerim.”

The boy looked taken aback (by either the fact or the title applied to him), but the Elves gave him their usual monotone looks. “You know we are leaving, then?” said Gaeredhel quietly. “Yes,” responded the Captain with serene grace, “secrets are had to keep in a camp as small as this. I know I cannot dissuade you from your course now that I know of it, and I fear I have not the time to send aid with you, for the lord of this camp and my officers are still discussing the matter – resolution will not come soon enough. I know your choice is made but, if I may, I would like a chance to speak with my kinsman before he leaves at your side. I wish to offer him thanks and parting words, if I may”

Gaeredhel glanced suspiciously at Faerim. “If he so wishes.” The boy took a moment (one of impatience for Hírvegil) to respond, but in the end agreed. “I will.” He said, and dismounted. Rôsgollo took his horse carefully as Hírvegil, with a glimmer of a grin, led Faerim back. The young man became a bit more wary as Hirvegil led him conspiratorially away from the Elves, but did not refuse Hírvegil’s hand. As the two stopped, farther from the watchful Elven eyes, Hírvegil began.

“Alright, lad, I ask you to listen to what I say now very carefully.” Hírvegil's voice lowered in volume immensely, for he knew how well the Eldar heard earthly sounds. He spoke in a consistent whisper.

“Captain Hírvegil?” Faerim looked surprised, and, if Hírvegil had been in a more perceptive mood, he might’ve noticed the well-masked worry on the young man’s face. He did not; far too busy pretending to be brisk and energetic himself. “That is my name, last I checked.” He said, with a good-natured smirk on his face, well meaning but enigmatic. Faerim did not share his false merriment. “What brings you here?” asked the boy. Hirvegil, his grin fading idly, dove on into his pre-prepared address. “I wanted to speak with you.” He began simply, “After our “collision” earlier, I was unable to treat with you in the presence of the Elves. Now I can thank you properly for your aid, which was much appreciated. I have no wealth at the moment to repay you, but perhaps I have a job for you instead.”

“Captain,” the boy responded, “I fear I won’t be able to any jobs for you in the immediate future.” But Hirvegil was not daunted. “Oh, but you will.” He said, a clever glint in his aged eye, “You are going with the Elves.” Faerim saw this as a statement of fact, but still had to digest it. “Well, yes.” He said, but Hírvegil plowed on. “No need to hide the fact now, boy.” He said, assuring, “Now then, you are going with the Elves. I must assume that this is your own choice, yes?” “I thought so. I shall not make you remain, as I should, but I will instead reward you in this way. You may serve your people by doing one simple thing for me.”

Faerim did not really reply to this. He seemed to understand the situation, but indicated neither agreement nor disagreement. Irked but steady, Hírvegil continued. “It will be some days before you and your new companions overtake the orc raiders. Some distance behind you, there will be scouts and trackers of mine, a small party, trailing the Elves. On the eve that you reach the orc encampment, light torches in your camp. If the orc host you face is of great size, light only one; if it is small enough to be handled by the Elves, light two, and if the Elves plan to turn back, for whatever reason, light three; if the Elves could manage the orcs with some assistance, light four. Is that clear?”

The young Dunadan again looked noncommittal, but posed a question before replying in earnest. “Pardon my asking,” he said, with polite hesitation, “but, why? Can you not simply send soldiers with the Elves now?” Hirvegil grimaced inwardly, but maintained outward patience.

“Forgim-” “Faerim” (Faerim corrected) “Yes, of course – Faerim, this matter is one too complex to discuss in the short allotment of time we have. Suffice to say, this group could not stand the loss of many soldiers. If I was to send troops with the Elves, they would be resigned to their fate. If they encountered a great many orcs, they would be decimated, if not worse, which would be a terrible detriment to the journey ahead of our people, yours and mine. If the Elves can handle them, there is no use in wasting good men. If the orcs are many, than the mission is suicide anyway, and sending men to their deaths would be folly. With your help, a major loss could be avoided. Your service would be invaluable.”

Now the Dunadan seemed bitten by confusion, with a hint of anger brought on by Hírvegil’s plan. “So, you would let the Elves hasten to their deaths while your men stand near enough to save them?” The Captain let himself grimace outwardly this time, and stood up sternly, his pleasant features straightening into his soldierly sour look. “Faerim, who do you serve, the King or the Elves? If you do this, I will reward you with anything and everything that is in my power to give. This is the chance of a lifetime for you, lad, I suggest you take it. My men will follow the Elves whether or not you do this thing, and you will receive your reward if it is done, but if you reveal what I have said to the Elves, I will have no choice but to charge you with treason and, as a soldier, ill conduct and espionage, as far as your little escapade earlier. I am not a harsh man, or a demanding one. Do this not for me, but for yourself, and your people. They are depending on you. Good day.”

He turned, now, not waiting for an answer, to the Elves on their steeds nearby, and gave them a bow of farewell. “And good day to you all.” He said, loud enough for them to hear, “I wish you luck in your mission, and hope you return to us with the quarry you seek in tow. I wish I could have sent my assistance with you, but I am bound by my duties to the crown at present. Again, good fortune to you, and especially to you, Faerim.” He almost winked, but knew the Elves would see it, so he simply smiled heartily and waited for the motley quartet to depart.

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre was kneeling by the tracks, perhaps a hundred yards from the edge of the camp when the others rode up. Gaeredhel quickly filled him in on the captain's decision and Faerim's presence. Angóre's face remained impassive, but the merest flicker of his eyes betrayed his unhappiness with the situation.

"I wonder if we were not over-rash with the good captain," he said softly. "Look here." He showed the brothers the tracks of the orcish company. "The group that executed the capture is here," he said indicating the relevant tracks, "but they are met here by a much larger force. The numbers are unclear, but I cannot make out individual tracks from here onwards so I would guess the company numbers at least twenty, more likely forty or fifty. If they were taking care, walking in file to confuse our efforts there could be as many as a hundred orcs ahead of us. Our situation has suddenly become much more desperate. We cannot defeat such numbers."

The youth, Faerim, spoke. "Then we do not fight. Perhaps we can enter the camp stealthily, and effect our rescue without being seen?" Angóre seemed to see the lad for the first time. "And then what, son of Man? We would certainly be pursued when the rescue was discovered. Would you have us bring the whole of the Orcish company down on the rear of the unsuspecting Dúnedain train?"

Gaeredhel spoke next. "Perhaps we could lead them away from the Dúnedain camp, into the wilderness. We might even make for Imladris... or the Havens. Enough of our kinsmen dwell there to repulse this company of Orcs. In any case, we may simply have to cross that bridge when we come to it. We cannot abandon our charges to the Orcs."

Angóre nodded, but his face was grim.

[CaptainofDespair]

A gloomy atmosphere hung over the primordial camp of the orcs. The elves and the two Dunedain slumbered against an outcropping of rocks, guarded by many of the chieftain’s most loyal orcs. It was a boring and tedious task, but they knew reward would come soon enough, for they were stout warriors, who supported their overlord. Nagbak himself was tired of resting now, for they had been slumbering for nearly the whole of the night, and past the dawn of the morning. He was now growing restless, for something was on his mind. His lieutenant, he often hung at his lord’s heels like a dog, spoke up, hoping to see into the mind of his chief.

“Great chieftain, we have been here too long. Humans, or the other wicked elves will come soon,” he muttered. Nagbak sat silent on a rotting stump of a tree. A few silent moments passed before any life could be seen in the chief’s body. Finally, he replied to his subordinate, with a slight twitching to his left eye, “Prepare to move out. We are at least half a day from meeting up with our reserves.” The underling, knowing the whole of the story was not revealed yet, inquired more into his master’s plan. “Yesss, but we are to be soon hunted, my captain,” he replied. Nagbak knew the situation would grow desperate, and even his loyalists might mutiny if pressured by an enemy who would relentlessly hunt them, until none remained. “I know, Grutazg. Which is why I have something for you to do.”

The quirky under-chief looked confused for a moment, unable to understand what his ears had heard. He was loyal to his master, and he was left bereft of all intuition that might have led him to believe something dangerous was upon him. Thus, he could only wonder what sort of reward was upon him. “Grutazg, my loyal lieutenant, you are to do me, and all orcs, a service. You will depart here with half of our boys, and turn back to the southeast. Hopefully it will delay the trackers that will be following our tracks soon. From there, head to Gundabad if you can.” Grutazg scratched his head, and nodded. Then, he responded, “Yes, Chief Nagbak. But what of yourself?” The old orc let forth a hardy laugh, from the pit of his gut, and he slapped his compatriot on the back. “I will be departing with the rest of our boys, along with the hostages. We will head to the west, then follow a small, partially frozen stream to the north, where we will meet up with Razhbad and my reserves. If all goes well, our tracks will never be found after reaching the stream, and our mission a success.” At this, the chief left the company of his underling to muster his personal guards, and the hostages.

The rest of the early morning was spent preparing for the departures. Grutazg had acquired the force he needed, and had made his way back into the forest, to put into action his chieftain’s plan. Meanwhile, the Chief had finished his personal preparations, and, after feeding a semi-poisonous berry to the elves and Dunedain (for the purpose of leaving them in a groggy, and for a time, unconscious state), was readying his own guards for the journey. A few shouts and grunts were all it took to rile his men into the mood for a long march, and the order was given to move out. At the same time, Grutazg had done the same, and left with his force to the southeast. Neither was unsure of what would soon happen, if the plans would fail, and the mission be defeated.

As he had planned, and as he scouts had told him, Nagbak came to a small stream, which, if his luck were to hold, wouldn’t be on any maps the trackers might possess. Here, he gave the order to his men to turn into the stream, and wade up it, as far as they could. The hostages were be bundled over the backs of the carrier orcs, and placed in the middle of the group, should trouble arise. Nagbak, kept himself at the head of the column, where he would receive the latest information from his scouts who were being sent ahead to keep the path clear. To ensure the scouts weren’t picked up, he had set up a forward screen along the stream, to guard against any ambushes. This was his plan thus far, and he continued to hope it would hold well, for his sake, and his hostages’ sake.

[Arry]

The Elves had pushed their horses as much as they dared in an effort to catch up to the Orc troops. They were resting now, in a small clearing near the tracks they had been following. It afforded them some measure of cover against the chill air and left an easy view of the route the Orcs had taken with their captives. It was not only the horses who were relieved at the rest, but Faerim also who welcomed a chance to replenish his energy.

Rôsgollo threw him a spare blanket from one of the extra horses they’d brought as the young man sat on the ground, his back resting against a log. Faerim had offered to make a small fire to drive off the chill, but Gaeredhel had spoken up, saying there would be no fires until the captives were freed and all were in a safer place. ‘Orcs have eyes and noses. We cannot afford to have them know our little group is following.’

It was only a brief rest before they pushed on again. The track led them southwest from the Dunedain encampment. The Orcs had traveled quickly despite the burden of their captives and had made no effort to conceal the direction they had taken. A while later, the Elves and Faerim came to a rocky area where it appeared the Orcs had made a brief camp. Angóre and Gaeredhel scouted about the perimeter while Faerim and Rôsgollo attended to the horses and kept watch.

‘Did you find where they have gone?’ asked Rôsgollo as his brother came running back.

‘They have split up, it seems,’ Gaeredhel replied. ‘Some heading southeast, another group of equal size it appears, heads west. I followed for a length down the southwest track. Again, they make no effort to conceal themselves from any who might be on their trail. I could not tell if they bore the captives with them or no. Angóre has gone scouting down the west way. Let us wait here until he brings back his report. Then we can decide which route to follow.’ He looked hopefully at his brother.

‘Nay, there is no answer. Something clouds Lord Ereglin’s mind.’ Rôsgollo shook his head. ‘I can only hope he will break free of it at least for a brief moment and give us word of himself and the others.’

The trio hid the horses in a small clearing among the boulders, then hunkered down themselves to keep watch for Angóre . . .

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre moved slowly along the western troupe's trail. This splitting of the Orcish strength worried him. When they had first come to the place where the party had split it had made him glad: the obvious explanation was that the foul folk had quarreled, whether over the captives or the direction was, of course, unknown. But Orcish quarrels tended to leave corpses in their wake, and no sign of conflict could be seen. Already Angóre was starting to have a healthy respect for the unknown captain of these Orcs, and this further solidified his feeling. It was a rare captain who could split his troop, sending some off in a clearly diversionary tactic. Especially when prisoners and spoil lay with one group.

He had been working his way along for perhaps a quarter of an hour when he came to a small stream. He frowned. This did not look good. The Orcs had entered the stream and moved along it, in which direction Angóre could not tell from where he stood. The little stream had started to freeze in the chill of the night before, and for a moment Angóre hoped he might be able to tell their direction from the broken ice reaching out from both banks, but the Orcs had stuck to the center of the stream and if they had broken off ice, Angóre couldn't tell the difference.

Gaeredhel had only just finished giving his report when the trio heard the slow clop of Angóre's horse. They looked up at him expectantly as he entered the clearing, but he shook his head in negation. "I cannot tell," he said simply. "Any luck from you?"

Gaeredhel shook his head as well. Angóre sighed. "There is a frozen stream not far from here. The Orcs I was following entered it, in which direction I cannot say. But they cannot have stayed in the water for long; the cold would sap the strength from their legs. But it is worrying nonetheless; it is the first thought they have taken to throwing off pursuit. I fear it will only become more difficult to track them from here on."

Faerim spoke slowly. "If one of the troops is taking care to conceal themselves, and the other isn't, I'd guess that the first troop is the important one and the second is the decoy." He looked up at Angóre, who nodded in agreement. "That would also be my guess. But the orcish captain has proved so cunning thus far I would not put it past him to take advantage of this. I do not know if we can afford to leave one column alone entirely."

"How far ahead would you say they are?" Rôsgollo asked. "Not far," Gaeredhel spoke up, "I would say not more than a few hours." Angóre nodded in agreement with Gaeredhel's assessment. "Then," Rôsgollo continued, "we might follow both trains and when we've found which contains Lord Ereglin, send word to the others."

"I'm not sure I like that idea," Faerim said. "It'd be at least another whole day while the other two caught up, even if we could get a message to them immediately. Throw in the Orcs' movements and we could be separated by half of Arnor right when we need to act."

Angóre nodded again. "I agree with the boy. We must choose one, and pray that it is the right one. I would choose the westward trail, but it is a baseless guess and I do not lead this company. What do you think?"

[Novnarwen]

He was back at the Inner Sanctum. He was sitting on his mother's mare, helpless and afraid. By hearing the voices filled with horror and despair, he felt little and unimportant where he sat, weak even. He wondered how it would be if could see. What would he see? Would it be different from what he was seeing inside his head? Would it be worse or better? The feeling of anxiety rose inside of him as time went by. He was shaking wildly where he sat, waiting for something to happen, or someone to come. Who? What? Surprised by being alone, he knew what it was that worried him. Desperately, he called out for his brother and his mother. “Lissi, Faerim?” His voice echoed, and yet it sounded faint and distant. His breath went hurriedly, and sped up as time went by. No one answered. Again he called, but there was only silence. Silence. There was nothing, not a single sound. Why? How come time seemed suddenly to stand still? Stricken by this, he tried listening attentively to anything that was going on. rRegardless of how much he tried however, how much effort he put into calming himself and listen to his surroundings, there was nothing.

His mother’s mare grew uneasy, sensing the same oddness of the situation as himself. He held the reins of the horse firmly, deciding never to let go. With the absence of his family, mother and brother, the horse was all he had. When a few minutes had passed, the urge, or need, to understand what was going on took command over him. Being afraid of the danger with revealing ones location to a possible enemy, he nevertheless decided that it was the only thing he could do. With a shaking voice, first silently, then aloud, he called out. “Hello!?!”

Brander woke up. He opened his eyes, expected to see as if his whole life had been nothing but a dream. Black, black as always. “Faerim, are you here?” He rolled onto his back, feeling a silent breeze touching his skin, softly, and as he heard the sound of fabric waving in the wind, he knew that what he first had feared was definitely untrue.

Calling for Faerim again, but hearing no reply, he realised that it was probably passed mid-day, and he didn't blame his brother for having gone out while he was asleep.

[Arry]

‘I have found Orcs to be clever, to a point,’ said Rôsgollo. ‘Cunning, in fact. But in a straight forward way. Nothing so refined and intricate as thinking they can make us believe that the group who is taking care to conceal its tracks is the one with the hostages when it is not. My thought would be that we try to overtake those Orcs heading west.’

Gaeredhel nodded his head at his brother’s words. ‘What bothers me also is that they have split their strength. They cannot know how many Elves and Dunedain will come after them. It concerns me that the group with the captives has plans of meeting up with a larger force. If we are to free the hostages, then it should be done before the Orc troops increase in number.’

‘The stream presents another problem, as Angóre has said,’ continued Rôsgollo. ‘He could not tell whether they went north or south along its course.’

‘But if the water is frigid, then they will have to come out of it at some point not far from where they entered as Angore said.’ Gaeredhel crouched down and with the point of his knife drew two parallel lines in the dirt to represent the stream. ‘Were I the Orc leader,’ he said, ‘I would have my troop travel as far as they could in the cold water. And ahead of my column I would send out scouts to see what problems lie ahead. They would not keep to the watery track but range out along the embankment and the areas to each side of it. Surely, if we travel just a small way up or down the stream we should be able to pick up these lone Orc tracks, coming and going.’

‘We can split up then, when we reach the frozen stream. Do you not think so, Angóre?’ Rôsgollo asked. ‘Since we are on horse, the time spent to find the scout tracks should be short. Two of us can go north and two to the south. Gaeredhel and I will split up, and keep in touch with one another as we travel along. When one of us has found the column’s direction the he will give notice, and the other and his companion can hasten back.’

‘Why can’t you ask the other Elves where they’ve gone, then?’ Faerim voiced the obvious question. He’d listened closely to the discussion and had wondered previously at the Elves ability to speak with each other without words.

‘A fair question,’ Rôsgollo answered. ‘And normally it would not be a problem to do so with Lord Ereglin. But something clouds his mind, keeps his thoughts hazy, and him hard to reach. I can sense that he is not far away, but I cannot rouse him to aid us in our search. At some point I am hoping he will break through whatever dams his thoughts, but until then we will just have to proceed as we are doing now.’

‘We should make haste, brother,’ Gaeredhel urged, making his way back to where his horse was tethered.

They mounted their horses and made their way as quickly and quietly as they could to where the westward tracks of the Orc group met the stream. Angóre and Gaeredhel, it was agreed, would head north, up the stream, while Faerim and Rôsgollo searched to the south

[Kransha]

The day after the night raid passed slowly and groggily, despite turmoil in the camp. Confusion abounded, but a very lazy sort of confusion in which no one wished to be energetically bewildered, merely tired and unknowing. Word of the Elves’ departure quickly spread, but none seemed to object. Though knowledge of the orc break-in was a douse of realism to the train, it was not disheartening. After days of sleepless traveled, all that most cared about was that they had not been harmed by the orcs, and that the orcs were gone.

Hírvegil organized a small detachment of tracking Dúnedain from the unit Belegorn had arranged and sent them to do what he’d told Faerim they would – follow the Elves. They were to keep far away and strictly avoid contact with the Elves, unless they encountered the orc host. Based on the signals he hoped Faerim would give, their actions would be determined at a later date, and would, hopefully, not involve the other Dúnedain further. The worst possibility would be the loss of all Elves and the trackers, the best being the safe rescue and arrival of the Elves at the camp again – it was impossibly to foresee which was more likely to occur. The Dúnedain rangers were resigned to this stealthy task and, under the command of a minor commissioned officer, left the camp on the still-burning tail of the Elves and their idiosyncratic companion.

Now they’re seemed to be a layering of knowledge in the camp. Some had no idea what had happened, some knew only that the Elves had been kidnapped, some knew Hírvegil had sent out rangers, and some knew almost everything about what had transpired through spreading gossip. Hírvegil prayed that most knew less about his plans than he did, though some seemed to know more. To his chagrin, Hírvegil discovered that the counselor Mitharan had found out most of the happenings of the day when he came for the second time into Hírvegil’s tent. The rustle of leathery tent flap awoke the Captain from an unsteady slumber, one he sorely needed, and caused him to sit bolt upright in alarm. His shoulders, arched like the hairs on a cat’s back, sagged and relaxed when he saw the visage of the lord, but he was filled with consternation.

“The Elves are gone?” questioned Mitharan plainly. Hírvegil sighed again and spoke, his voice indistinct in the moments after waking. “Yes,” he coughed, “their impatience could not be helped.” Mitharan’s hasty air settled, and he slowed the pace of his words and breath, stabilizing. He paced nobly about the tent as Hírvegil rose from his bed, wishing he could remain in it for once. Mitharan’s question came in a stabbing manner that annoyed Hírvegil, but its bluntness could not be helped. “You did send some soldiery with them, did you not?” he intoned, less as a question and more as an accusation. Mitharan was not a caustic, sardonic creature like his unrelated kinsman Mellonar, but he was obviously displeased.

“Not with them;” groaned Hírvegil, brushing a couple of loose hair strands out of his eyes, “behind them.” Mitharan either did not comprehend this, or he was beating around the bush. “Dúnedain may not have the swiftness of the Eldar,” he said, “but that is no reason-” Sternly, Hírvegil interrupted, pleading with invisible forces to end this uncomfortable conversation. “Lord Mitharan, they departed too hastily to assign a unit to them. There was nothing I could do.”

Mitharan looked indifferent. “You could have been more decisive, Captain.”

“I’m sure I could have, but, alas, I was not. What’s done is done.”

The counselor never became louder or more aggressive, but his words became more stinging in time. “What’s done is the alliance between His Majesty and the Firstborn by your negligence. Captain Hírvegil, I respect your abilities, but this matter cannot be dismissed as it has been. If you knew the Elves were going to depart unaided, you should’ve detained them. Now we risk losing all the Elves when some could’ve been saved.” He spoke directly to Hírvegil, a strange trait for a politician. Most counselors Hírvegil knew would speak their petty woes to the universe rather than to one, insignificant man, dramatically stroking their own egos. Mitharan was, at least, slightly different from all of them. Hírvegil tried to pacify the lord. “At this stage,” he said, “I do not believe anything can be done.”

“I was taught, Captain,” Mitharan continued, unheeding of Hírvegil’s words for the moment, “that something can always be done, even if it is not the something that will induce a desirable result. I suggest you try to remedy this matter in what way you can. If nothing comes to you, I will not persist, but the King will know of it, if not by my word then by the lack of Elves in this camp. I bid you good day, Captain Hírvegil.” With a very meager bow to the Captain, Mitharan whisked himself like a regal gust of wind out of Captain Hírvegil’s roomy tent.

As Mitharan departed, Hírvegil fell back on his bedroll for the fifth or sixth time that same day, heaving a heavy sigh from his weary throat. He rasped and let himself cough once, then returned to breathing steadily. Mitharan was right in more ways than one, and his passive objection struck Hírvegil hard as he realized his mistake, one of many he’d made. He contemplated a new course of action, but none presented itself. The only recourse available was to try to figure out what the Elves were planning so that he could send word to his trackers to outmaneuver them. With a somber look on his cold face, he ushered in the guard who’d stood at the entrance to his tent almost all day and spook quickly to him. “That boy;” he said, “Faerim, does he have family in the camp?”

The guard hesitated, and then nodded readily. “Yes, sir. He is the son of Carthor.” Hírvegil’s brow rose at this. He had heard tell of Carthor, the lone survivor of the Arnorian Vanguard who’d been rescued from the ruin of Fornost while all his companions, dead, fleeing, or injured, had eventually expired. “You mean Carthor of the Vanguard?” he inquired curiously to affirm his suspicions, “The survivor?” Again the guard nodded, but after no hesitation. “Yes, that is he.”

Hírvegil let this information sink in in silence, and then spoke up, mouthing his thoughts vocally. “Now that is an interesting development.” He mused, mostly to himself, “Have Faerim or the Elves been seen treating with any others of the Dúnedain?” Again the guard nodded, more steadily though, and with less haste or hesitation. “Just one, sir,” he paused slightly, “a woman.” Again Hírvegil’s curiosity was piqued. He did not think of the Elves as folk who would deliberately interact with any Dúnedain, but perhaps this woman was an acquaintance of Faerim’s. He would soon find out, he supposed, and let the matter rest in him.

“Do you know her?” asked the Captain of the Rearguard, and the guard gave positive response. “Yes, I believe she could be located.” Hírvegil let slip another moment of contemplation, and then spoke up in an orderly fashion. “Very well, have the woman and Carthor brought to my tent. If there are other family members of the boy who went with the Elves, bid them come as well.” He waved his hand dismissively and the guard allowed himself a curt bow and a polite, “Yes, sir.” before he departed the tent.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim was glad to be paired with Rôsgollo as they mounted up and followed the frozen stream south, travelling at a trot father than a faster gallop, so as not to miss anything vital along the way. Rôsgollo unexpectedly offered to take one of the horses that Faerim had brought along, so the boy would have less trouble leading two than three, and he took up the offer, surprised but glad: it was a sign of companionship or appreciation or...something, he wasn't sure exactly what, that he was glad of from the elf. It meant that Rôsgollo really didn't regard him simply as a burden.

But as they travelled in silence for several minutes along the banks of the stream, the steady sound of the hooves on the hard, frosty ground drumming out an almost sopophorically relaxing beat, Faerim could not help the unease that had been growing in his mind. He thought over what Hirvegil had said, the captain's words spinning over in his mind again and again.

"Who do you serve, the king or the elves? If you reveal what I have said to the Elves,I will have no choice but to charge you with treason and, as a soldier, ill conduct and espionage, as far as your little escapade earlier..."

Treason...

"What did you say?"

Faerim's head jerked up guiltily as his neck snapped around to face Rôsgollo. For a moment, a panic seized him: elves could not read human minds, could they? Sneak through his thoughts without his realising... Rôsgollo's wording caught up with him and he realised he must have said the dreadful word out loud. Shaking his head, he replied hastily, "It was nothing. Just...just nothing."

The words were on the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill out of his lips any second if he spoke any more to Rôsgollo, so he fell back into an unhappy silence. Hirvegil had placed a terrible burden on him here, for what was he to do? The Captain had said that his men would follow them even if Faerim did not light the torches when they camped; but how would they know where to go when even the elves, with their tracking skills, were not sure? Without their help, the firstborn would likely not stand a chance; yet if Faerim lit the torches, he would risk killing them all anyway. Unless he told Rôsgollo why he needed to do so...in which case Hirvegil would try him for, among other things, treason! He nearly cried out in frustration. Faerim was not even sure what the penalty for treason was...at this alarming thought he frowned in worry: surely the death penalty could not continue when the king of Arthedain did not even have a city any more? Unless he was to be made an example - and so much for honour then, if he was executed for treason! What was he to do?

Who do you serve, the king or the elves? Hirvegil's words taunted Faerim and he remembered how much he had wanted to answer at the time. The king had seemingly abandoned them, leaving in a different train along with his ministers and his court. The legends of the kings of old told of monarchs who would follow after their people to the very end, leading them wisely all the while - how could Arvedui do that when he wasn't even within several miles of his people?! Yes, as a soldier, he served the king of Arthedain - but right now, trotting beside Rôsgollo with only elves within at least a five mile radius, it was the elves, not the king, who he had to get along with.

"What is the matter, Faerim?" Rôsgollo's words once more interrupted his thoughts. Realising his frown had been ever deepening, Faerim smoothed out his expression and shook his head, brushing his hair distractedly away from his face. "It...it is nothing," he replied, for once unconvincing in his pretence. But as his frown began to form once more, he sighed and asked the rather worrying question that had been nagging. "Rôsgollo, can..." he hesitated, unsure of whether this would strictly be polite, then carried on regardless. "Can elves read the minds of men?"

Rôsgollo gave him a very strange look, then actually laughed, a joyful, musical sound that, though quiet, seemed to echo joyfully. Faerim felt a little foolish but found himself smiling slightly at the sound anyway. The elf turned to him with a sidelong grin and replied, "Do not worry, Faerim. Neither myself nor my kinsmen will be probing your thoughts, never fear." He laughed again and shook his head, then grinned slyly and added, "Why, should we try?"

Faerim felt his blush stand out against his pale skin and didn't try to brush his hair from his face this time, so it was at least partially hidden. No matter what the elf said, Faerim felt sure he could somehow read his thoughts! Taking a steadying breath, he forced a smile and shook his head. "Of course not, Rôsgollo. I simply wondered whether you felt any clearer on what Captain Hirvegil wanted that I do."

The elf snorted derisively and for a moment more they rode in pensive silence before Rôsgollo spoke again, his piercing grey eyes facing straight forward as if it did not matter much, although his curiosity was evident. "What was it that Hirvegil said when he took you to one side, Faerim?"

Faerim replied instantly with a nonchalant shrug and a casual tone. "Merely a few words of warning - try not to get myself killed. 'Can't think why he should actually care particularly, but then, I suppose it would not bode well for any of the parties concerned if the captives were not rescued and a Dunedan was killed, all because Hirvegil did not instantly send his troops with enough haste."

Rôsgollo nodded slowly, thoughtfully, but only gave a short reply of, "Indeed."

Faerim felt almost faint with the realisation of how close he had come to telling the elf. However much of a rebel he may have been in the city, he could not help the anxiety of these consequences that Hirvegil posed to him, however baffling they were. Why should it matter so much if the elves knew that Hirvegil simply wanted to know how many men he needed to send? One of the horses slipped and staggered forward as his foot fell into a hole in the icy ground and Faerim reigned him in quickly, soothing him softly to stop him or the others from bolting. Concentrating on that, he tried to force the thoughts of Hirvegil's hidden threat from his mind, and concentrated on following the path.

[Arry]

The man dissembles . . . and not well . . . Rôsgollo turned over the few statements Faerim had made. There was no need to read the young one’s mind, his emotions played across his face like heat lightning on a hot summer’s evening. Hirvegil had bound the boy with promises, or threats, more likely, and even now was using him as his informant. And to what purpose, the Elf wondered. Faerim looked torn with the consideration of whatever decisions he was asked to make. If Hirvegil were using him to hedge his bets about this mission, it seemed likely that Faerim would fare ill no matter the outcome, either by his own conscience or the brute hand of the captain.

What was it the young man had said . . . ‘I suppose it would not bode well for any of the parties concerned if the captives were not rescued and a Dunedan was killed, all because Hirvegil did not instantly send his troops with enough haste . . .’ Interesting choice of words. Does he imply that Hirvegil means to somehow weigh his options before committing to the rescue mission? Would he truly leave us to our own devices with no support. If that is so, then . . .

Brother? Gaeredhel’s query drove the tangled web of thoughts from Rôsgollo's mind. He asked if they had as yet found any sign that the Orcs had gone south since neither he nor Angóre had seen anything out of the oridinary as yet.

Faerim had ridden a little ahead, his gaze was bent to the ground, looking closely for any sign of movement the Orcs might have made along the stream. He shook his head as Rôsgollo drew up to him. ‘Let us range out a little farther from the edges of the stream, the Elf suggested. Motioning for Faerim to take one side while he took the other.

We have found nothing yet . . . Rôsgollo said in answer to his brother’s query. At least in the way of Orcs . . . but there are other thoughts I would share with you when we are together again. The Orcs may not be the only ones who wish us ill . . . who conspire to bring us harm . . .

[Nuranar]

Thinking... thinking... always thinking...

Lissi sat on the ground gazing into the little campfire, her mind far away from the cluster of tents huddled in the hills. Her heart ached in Faerim's absence. Why had he gone? She had not heard his discussion with the Elves. Carthor had seen him when he came to the tent, but he had volunteered little information and Lissi feared to question him, to imperil the tiny developments of warmth he was showing. She hoped that he was changing, but in the meantime... The man who should have been her shelter was shutting her out.

Her thoughts raced through the possibilities. Clearly the Elves and Faerim had gone to rescue those who were taken. But how many orcs were they pursuing? Where had the orcs gone? Why had they taken the Elves captive in the first place? What if they were trying to draw the refugees out? What if they were planning an ambush? Even now -

Forcibly Lissi tore her mind from the thought. Why was she so wrought up? She long had known and accepted the fortunes of war; at least, she thought she had. No - this was the power of a mother's love, this vital force that set at naught the philosophy and reason of her intelligence. She told herself that Faerim had gone because he knew he had to do it, just as he had known he had to rescue Renedwen and her child. She told herself he was doing his duty as he saw it, just as she was - trying - to do hers. She told herself all this and set her mind to strength. And still she was afraid.

Lissi willed her body not to tremble, not to disturb Brander. Her younger son sat at her side, head resting on her shoulder. Renedwen held her sleeping son in her arms, the child Gilly wrapped in a cloak at her feet and sleepily playing with his fingers. Carthor snored gently, propped against a box close to the fire.

Brander abruptly stiffened and raised his head. Startled, Lissi realized what his quicker ears had caught immediately: the quiet clank and squeak of armor. A soldier was approaching. He was unseen in the early dark of winter, doubly hidden from her light-dazzled eyes. Lissi laid a reassuring hand on Brander's arm.

A shape gradually loomed up through the smoky dusk. Lissi saw the vague outlines of a guard's helmet and dull glints of firelight on metal. "Is Carthor here?" the man said.

Carthor was immediately awake. "Carthor here, sir," he said, jumping to his feet. Too fast. Lissi rose swiftly and took his arm as he swayed, still weak.

"Captain Hírvegil requires your presence," the man said. Eyes adjusting to the dark, Lissi saw his face. He looked tired. Glancing around their circle, his gaze fell on Renedwen, beautiful and austere, and the children with her. "Madam," he said, bowing slightly, "the Captain wishes to speak with you as well. As well as you, ma'am," he continued to Lissi, "you and your son." He gestured to Brander, still sitting by the fire.

Lissi's fear returned in full force, but with something to do she could pretend to ignore it. Quickly she called a neighbor over to tend the fire and stay with Gilly. Renedwen's face never changed as she rose carefully and wrapped her son more closely against the cold. Within very few minutes they were following the guard back through the tents, Lissi at Carthor's side and Brander holding her hand.

[Kransha]

When the guard who Hírvegil had sent returned to his tent with a Dúnadan man, a boy, and two women, Hírvegil had fully dressed himself, complete with his usual panoply, glistening dimly in light that spurted in through the tent flap. The sound of clanking plate and jingling links of chain irritated his aching head, but he ignored the imaginary welt on his scalp and mustered a commanding look as the five Dúnedain civilians were escorted, somewhat confusedly, inside. The innards of the tent had been rearranged, with two rickety stools and two rickety chairs that had been scrounged recently from supply wagons placed in a semicircle, facing away from the tent entrance. As the four came inside, Hírvegil put on his most amicable face and welcomed them with a venerable gesture.

“Welcome, welcome.” He said, recalling the noble etiquette his father had taught him, “Please sit. It was hard enough to find stools and chairs in our many supply wagons, so I would appreciate it if you utilized the accommodations procured.” The Captain’s grin lit up, but then faded into an expected dark and serious look as the quartet began to sit. The man who Hírvegil assumed was Carthor aided one of the two women, the one who looked to be of higher birth, with brighter, bluer eyes that bore a simple radiance which Hírvegil had to admit caught his interest. The other man, a boy really, did not aid the other, more simply clad woman. This boy had his eyes gently closed for some reason, but was able to find his own seat easily enough, though he gave no unnecessary aid to the older woman who sat, after carefully making sure he had sat down, at his left. Once all were settled, and Hírvegil had duly looked them over, the Captain of the Rearguard spoke.

“No doubt” he began, “you all have at least some idea of what is going on. But, before I begin, I would like to at least know to whom I speak. I have not had the pleasure of meeting any of you, but I do know one of you.” He looked admiringly to the man garbed as a soldier and took his hand in greeting. “Carthor, it is an honor.” He had heard tell of this man, the lone survivor of the doomed Vanguard of Fornost, a resident celebrity, in more blunt terms. He was the only man to have been so far at the front of the Arnorian troops at the battle that he could witness the goings-on in the outermost sanctum – the first to fall. Carthor responded as a venerated man-at-arms might, throwing off the veil of Hírvegil’s flattery.

“Moreso for myself, sir.” He said, and bowed from the waist, somewhat stiffly. Hírvegil responded in much the same manner. “Now is not the time for flattery.” He said with a good-natured glance at the others around.
“From what I have been told, I admire you all the more.” This was true, even though he knew not what real admiration he held for the man. Surviving the annihilation of the Vanguard was no mean feat, but Hírvegil knew Carthor had not achieved it alone. “I met your son, and I knew that the father of that boy must be a strong fellow, worthy of praise.” He laughed as if he’d made a good joke, and Carthor showed some sign of bemused amusement. Hírvegil turned to the woman at his right, looking at her serene face and grey eyes. “And you must be his mother.” He said, noting immediately the apparent fragility of the woman, though he knew it might be a planned or unintentional façade on her part.

“Yes.” She said, “My name is Lissi.” She gestured to the boy who had not aided her in sitting, “This is my son, Brander.” Hírvegil, going through traditional motions, extended his hand to the lad, but he did not take it customarily. Instead, he looked blankly forward with closed eyes and, as he heard his name, bowed meekly in the general direction of Hírvegil. Perplexed, Hírvegil retracted his hand. “It is a pleasure,” he murmured, and then looked quizzically at Carthor. “Wait, this is Faerim’s brother?” Carthor nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

Hírvegil, despite his upbringing, could not help but stare at the boy with closed eyes, unable to continue. He peered darkly into the young man’s face, seeing a pale but kind expression, that of a friendly person with a good heart. But Hirvegil could not perceive the boy’s heart, instead he could only perceive the boy’s noticeable lacking. “You are…blind?” He questioned, wishing immediately afterward that he had not mentioned this, but no one seemed even remotely offended.

The boy did not hesitate, or seem remotely affected by the observation. He nodded simply. “Yes.” Hírvegil masked his surprise and impolite interest. He marveled at the strangeness of this family that had been produced for him: a stalwart, foolhardy son, a blind brother, a famed, venerated father, and a mysterious mother – what a brood indeed. Shaking himself of the reverie inwardly, he managed to unglue himself from the family and look to the final woman, noticing for the first time that the bundle in her arms was a baby, seemingly asleep. He did not let his gaze linger on the tranquil visage of the child and looked to the woman, venturing a question. “And you are a friend of Faerim’s?” He asked.

The woman seemed to hesitate very slightly, following Hírvegil’s gaze as it fell periodically on the baby clasped maternally in her arms. “Yes,” she glanced at Carthor and Lissi, “– I believe I am now. My name is Renedwen.” She bowed as well, but, now that introduction had all been made, Hírvegil did not have the time or sense to return the acknowledgement, and continued on eagerly.

“Very good. Now that I know all of you, I have a grave matter to discuss with you.”

A few wary looks were exchanged, none of them noticed by Hírvegil as he stood and walked before them. He began, using an interrogating tone, but not a suspicious or stabbing one. “As you probably know,” he said quietly, “the Elves have gone after their kin, and Faerim with them. They left without divulging their real plans, only saying whither they were going. I need to know, in short, if any of you have any idea of what plans they have. If not, that is all well, but if so, I must demand that you speak now, for the political stability of the Dúnedain in exile is at stake. If you know nothing, then tell me what you know of Faerim and the Elves, for it may be an aid to my next plans to know their minds.”

[Novnarwen]

If Brander could see, this would definitely be the time where he would turn his gaze towards his mother. With penetrating and questioning eyes, he would try to learn what his mother thought of this question, or demand. Instead, the blind boy sat still, trying to digest the questions placed upon him and his family, what in truth was news.

"I must demand that you speak now, for the political stability of the Dúnedain in exile is at stake. If you know nothing, then tell me what you know of Faerim and the Elves, for it may be an aid to my next plans to know their minds.”

The Political stability of the Dúnedain? It sounded odd, absurd even, that his brother was part of something that was obviously dangerous. Either way, voluntarily or involuntarily, Brander could not imagine that Faerim, his own brother, would risk the safety of his fellow kin in order to follow another; the elven. Furrowing his brow, he thought of the many events that had taken place the last couple of days. He realised that he hadn't at once really spoken to his brother. It was nevertheless unbelievable that Faerim would go off without telling him. They had always had a close relationship, and realising that, Brander started wondering whether there had been a reason behind his brother's silence on the questioned matter. Was there a reason, aside from the fact that his brother thought him a cripple? Instantly, he swallowed, reproaching himself for even thinking his brother thought in such a manner of him. Faerim had always been so kind; the only one who had understood and been encouraging him to be independent. However, was there truth in what he had thought? Had his brother intentionally kept this a secret, thinking that Brander would not be in any use anyway?

For a moment or two, the blind boy considered all the possibilities around Faerim's decision to keep whatever it was that he was doing secret. It was only now that he first realised that none of his parents spoke, and neither did Renedwen. Did no one know anything about Faerim's intentions; were they as ignorant as himself, or did they know, but were unwilling to tell?

[Lalwendë]

The moment she entered the tent, Renedwen was impressed by the presence of the Captain. He was as her father had been once. Stern, strong and proud. Yet unlike her father he did not bear a grim countenance. He wore a mask of confidence, and she could see that he would never entertain any possibility of failure, at least openly. He was here to do the task the King had set him and nothing would prevent that, not even his own feelings.

As she sat down a strong sensation of rebellion surged through her. She did not want to be here, she would rather be anywhere than here. Why could she not be let alone? What might the Captain think she had to answer for? She felt sure all was certain to end in disaster so she could not see any reason to even try to maintain any semblance of order and discipline. She would sit here and say little if anything, and so set her mouth in a straight, grim line and stared coldly at the walls of the tent.

She did not care particularly for the Elves, or had not done so. It had been for the sake of the captured mother and child that she had allowed herself to go along with the plans of the Elves. It was the thought that if the same fate should have happened to her, then she might have been able to cling to the hope that someone might attempt a rescue and so save the life of her son. For her own fate she cared little beyond the needs of the infant. So when the Elven brothers had brought Gilly to her she had readily agreed, for the sake of the safety of her kinswoman and her child. Then when she had seen the tenderness with which Rosgollo had treated the boy she had realised with a shock that Elves were not distant and lofty folk. They too wanted to save their kin, and this was natural. As natural as her worries for the captured woman. She had been surprised that no men had been sent along with the Elves after the Orcs. Of course, the men had as usual had to discuss and debate the matter while time passed by. All these thoughts raced through her mind and made her angry with the Captain.

Yet as soon as he addressed her and did not respond with the courtesy she had given, she realised that there would be little point in trying to rebel against this man. He was a Captain of the Dunedain, just like her father had been, and with that came a resolute will, the ability to dominate and it was useless to try to do anything contrary to the wishes of such men. Her husband had been the opposite, still possessed of leadership, but where he had only ever wanted to please, Captain Hirvegil would not care if he pleased or not.

It was to her that he turned first, and after a few respectful words about her father and husband he went straight into his questions. Trying not to look him in the eye she told him that she knew the Elves merely through helping with some ‘domestic matters’. She did not go into detail and remained as frosty as possible. The Captain, however, sought detail.

“So, you would say,” he continued. “You were helping with matters which would allow them to proceed on their course of action unhindered? What sort of matters might they be?”

Renedwen, knowing full well that the Captain would not be pleased to know that Rosgollo had been sheltering a Dunedain boy, saw that she would need to deflect this question. She answered by giving him a long and detailed speech on matters of the hearth and home, of airing blankets and scouring pots and seeing that fires did not burn out. As she had hoped, the Captain’s eyes began to glaze over and he turned away and coughed. But then he turned back with another question.

“And the youth? A noblewoman such as yourself, to take an interest in him. It is interesting, is it not?” She could see that this question was not a casual one, that the Captain was posing a potentially awkward question, and she took a deep breath.

“He saved me from the city. I owe him a great debt. So I listen to him, and allow him to watch over me. Such a care is a fine and noble interest for a young man to take. He watches over me just as he watches over his own mother and brother. He will be a man to be proud of one day.” Renedwen’s icy coolness started to deteriorate at this point as she thought of everything Faerim had done and why all should be proud of the lad. She did not lose her temper, but her voice became hard and it rose in defiance. She did not look at Lissi but knew that Faerim’s mother listened to the words with pride.

“So you would say that he has much pride?” said Hirvegil, watching her closely, his brows knit sternly.

“Pride enough to do what he can in the face of this almost certain disaster,” she answered. “Letting our kinswomen and the Elves be taken in the dead of the night bodes badly for our escape. What will be next? I dare not say it. No, I will not denounce him. He has done what any worthy man might wish to do and offered his assistance where it was needed. And I am sure he will do what needs to be done to help the Elves in their rescue, if they are not already too late. Of this bravery we should all be proud.”

She swallowed hard and finished her speech. The Captain continued to watch her, and she looked deep into his eyes for a moment, realising she had probably said too much. He raised one eyebrow slightly and blinked slowly, shutting her out, before he turned away. He was through with his questions to her for now. She looked down at the floor, proud that she had stood her ground and had her say, but suddenly afraid that she might have said too much in her cold anger.

[Nuranar]

Osse’s post

The introductions were over. The formalities had dissipated like smoke on the breeze, their true frailty clearly seen. Carthor could perceive a slight pause in the sturdy frame of his Captain, a great breath before the plunge.

“Very good. Now that I know all of you, I have a grave matter to discuss with you.”

Carthor’s mind stood suddenly alert, like some sentry who had been caught slouching lazily against the wall of his post, dreaming of malt beer, by his tyrannical lieutenant.

“As you probably know,” Hírvegil said quietly, “the Elves have gone after their kin, and Faerim with them. They left without divulging their real plans, only saying whither they were going. I need to know, in short, if any of you have any idea of what plans they have. If not, that is all well, but if so, I must demand that you speak now, for the political stability of the Dúnedain in exile is at stake. If you know nothing, then tell me what you know of Faerim and the Elves, for it may be an aid to my next plans to know their minds.”

Carthor had expected as much from his Captain, and his reply had been hot on his tongue. As the first syllables prepared to roll out his lips, Carthor hesitated. He realised that what he had been about to say was perhaps not true, he realised he knew little of Faerim’s motivations. His hesitation must have been noted in the room as Hírvegil’s probing tendrils of speech wrapped themselves around the women, Renedwen, who promptly burst into speech in his son’s defence. Carthor half listened, as he mused upon the real reasons of his son’s blind faith in the Eldar…

Thankful for, and not a little perplexed at, the ferocity of Renedwen’s defence of his eldest son, Carthor threw himself into the breach to ease her suffering at the hands of the incredulous and penetrating Captain of men.

“My lord Captain,” Carthor began strongly, “I know nothing of the Elves’ plight and only little of why my son would be involved … and only that through my own deductions.”

Hírvegil donned an air of intense interest, his head almost craning forward on his neck like some great bird as he absorbed all the information that was sent bounding into the fences of his attention.

“Faerim is a young man, eager to exceed expectations, brave, even foolhardy to some extent, much like we all are at such an age. My son however, is driven by loyalty – I can only suppose that our esteemed Elven comrades must have acted in a way as to instil a sense of loyalty, or even fealty in my son. For this I can speak neither for nor against, as I have been travelling, much apart from my desires, aside from the Rearguard and cannot speak of his doings, or of whom he corresponds with during these times.” Hírvegil smiled softly at Carthor’s words, yet his air of interrogating interest remained.

“However,” Carthor plunged on, “I must insist that it was his chivalrous and loyal nature that propelled him into this plight – traits the soldiery of the Rearguard are renowned for my lord, surely such a deed is commendable rather than worthy of reprimand?”

Hírvegil was as quick as a whip crack, landing on Carthor’s statement with the ferocity of a falling hawk, talons extended for the kill.

“You speak the truth Carthor, son of Harathor, loyalty and commitment are commendable attributes… when instilled in their proper institution. Has Faerim thought of his loyalty to his regiment? What of his comrades in the Rearguard, left forsaken? Or more importantly, his loyalty to his family? Do you not feel deserted Carthor? Has not your eldest son forsaken his family? His sightless brother? His loving parents?”

Carthor felt the bite of those talons, their glossy black lengths piercing his heart, finding therein what had previously gone unseen. He could find no reply.


Nuranar's post

"How dare you." Lissi's voice, low and menacing, cleaved the charged atmosphere. Hírvegil stared at her, visibly startled. "Your duty is to protect those under your command. When you fail, you do nothing to rescue them. Instead you seek the ruin of others." She stood straight and still. Her eyes flamed in the twilight.

The captain reassumed his dignified bearing. "And what is there to ruin? A disobedient boy?"

Lissi clenched her teeth, fighting to control the fury. "My son has disobeyed no one. He fought bravely in the front lines" - a pause and a coldly significant eyebrow - "and yet was never mustered in, nor his service acknowledged. You have no authority to command him. He saved this lady at great risk to himself. Who are you to question his motives?"

Her words stung a dull flush into the man's cheeks. Hírvegil strove to control his expression. "He deserted this people. This people and his own family!"

"He did nothing of the kind." Lissi's lips curved into an insolent smile, but her eyes glinted hard like ice. "You call rescue desertion? These people were taken from under your nose. You above all people should know the vital imperative of action. But you dawdled. Who would be content to abandon his kin while authority debates? You should have known what the Elves would do. And my son has gone where you feared even to send others. He is aiding those whom your responsibility is to protect. He is sacrificing him- "

For the first time Lissi's voice caught. Gathering tears glimmered in the lamplight, then she turned swiftly to her other son. "Come, Brander." Hand on his arm, Lissi left the tent, chin held high and without a glance for the captain.

The tent flap slid back into place with a soft swish. Hírvegil stood motionless in the silence. Renedwen, after one pointed look at him, rose quietly and exited. Carthor looked expectantly at Hírvegil, who yet did not speak. He rose to attention carefully, said, "Captain," bowed slightly, and followed the others' example.

[Garen LiLorian]

It had been perhaps half an hour since they had split; Angóre and Gaeredhel to the north and Rôsgollo and Faerim to the south, and Angóre was starting to get worried again. Half an hour of slogging through this frigid water should have been more than any creature would bear, and yet neither he nor Gaeredhel had spotted so much as a print in the soggy riverbank. Gaeredhel was checking back with his brother with more frequency now, and Angóre could tell that he was bothered as well. But Gaeredhel spoke only to update Angóre on the south parties' progress and Angóre spoke not at all; all his attention focused on the muddy bank.

In the end, it was Gaeredhel who found it. He had been patrolling the western bank while Angóre took the eastern and the prints of a whole troupe of orcs could clearly be seen in the mud on that side, leaving the river and moving off to the woods before continuing northwards. He called to Angóre, who quickly joined him. "I have informed my brother, and they will be rejoining us shortly," he said as Angóre jumped down from his horse. He laughed. "See! The water has proved too cold for them after all! I was starting to get worried. And look, these tracks cannot be more than an hour or two old. We may catch them up during the night tonight, if our luck holds and we are set no more puzzles."

Angóre's face lightened as he examined the tracks. It certainly seemed as though Gaeredhel had the right of it. "Let us continue on then!" He said desicively, "The afternoon wears, and I would catch them before the light is gone entirely; I do not like the thought of tracking in the dark against so cunning a foe. Tell your brother to make haste!"

"Wait a moment!" Gaeredhel cried. "You have missed a piece to this puzzle. Look, some of these tracks are older than others. The captain must have sent scouts ahead of him, and I would know why before we charge ahead."

"What can it matter?" Angóre asked impatiently. "Do you fear an ambush ahead? If they were to set such a trap, we have passed several places to do so, certainly. I think they must be content with their river trick. Come, let us go!"

"I do not know what it is I fear," Gaeredhel responded slowly, "but something about this is not right. We shall continue, but be on your guard! I shall tell Rôsgollo to make haste."

The Elves moved off at a brisk trot, eyes scanning the clear tracks of the orcs as well as the trees ahead. Gaeredhel seemed ill at ease, and his eyes scanned ever the surrounding trees. After a while he spoke. "Rôsgollo has turned away from the river. He cannot be more than a few minutes behind us. Let us wait for him here! A threat is growing in my mind."

But Angóre was unmoved. "We are close now, and I grudge every moment that Lady Betheril and Erenor remain in captivity. Your brother shall find us soon enough, whether we wait or no."

Gaeredhel slowed his horse to a walk. His keen eyes scanned the trees. "Do you not feel it?" He cried "there is danger here! We are being watched by unfriendly eyes. Let us stay!"

Angóre checked his horse and turned, frowning. "I see nothing," he said, giving the trees around them a cursory glance. "I-"

He was interrupted by a black-feathered arrow that buried itself in his horse's shoulder, missing his knee by inches. The beast screamed and reared, throwing the lithe Elf to the ground and taking off through the woods. As though the arrow were a signal, harsh cries rent the still air and dark forms leapt out at them from the trees.

Angóre rolled to his feet, unharmed but dazed as the orcs closed with him...

[Arry]

The eastern bank. There are tracks. Gaeredhel’s message was brief, the tone guarded.

‘Make haste, Faerim.’ Rôsgollo turned his horse northward, urging it along the river’s bank. ‘They have found where the Orcs left the water.’ Unconcerned any longer that they might be seen, the two riders bent over their mounts’ necks, using their heels to drive them on to a gallop. The lengthening stride of the horses brought the man and Elf very near the area where Angóre and Gaeredhel had stopped.

There is danger here! Gaeredhel’s warning was loud in his brother’s mind. Faerim and Rôsgollo were yet to clear a small cluster of trees that hid the others from them. They are waiting! came the even more urgent message.

‘Your weapon!’ cried Rôsgollo as the two elves came in view. Angóre’s horse had been hit and was running off, leaving his rider to face the approaching Orcs on foot. Gaeredhel had nocked an arrow to his bow and was firing into the running Orcs. There were nine of the creatures – two with bows, the others with blades or clubs.

Rôsgollo drew his bow and hit one of the Orcs in the shoulder. The creature screamed, dropping his bow, and pulled out his own sword. At a dead run he charged the Elf. An arrow from Gaeredhel’s bow brought down the Orc, inches from his brother’s horse.

The mass of Orcs was close enough that Rôsgollo drew his own blade and charged in among the three nearest him, bringing one of them to his knees with slicing blow. He had just turned his horse, readying himself for another pass through when a cry from Garedhel brought him up short. The lone Orc bowman had let fly a cursed missile as his Gaeredhel raised his right arm to let fall a blow from his blade. The intended Orc target was battering at Gaeredhel’s mount with his club, causing the horse to rear and strike out with his forelegs. The arrow pierced the Elf’s unprotected armpit, driving itself through his chest muscle until the chainmail shirt stopped its exit.

Rôsgollo flew to his brother’s side as Gaeredhel fell from his horse . . .

[Saurreg]

Meanwhile back at the camp

Belegorn stared at the wide openness before him, taking into view the wide expanse of snow-covered plains and the endless sky. He was lingering by the perimeter of the camp where he saw off the small detachment of guardsmen sent to support the elves and the teenager – the bold and confident one he spoke to during the journey. The veteran soldier sighed softly to himself, turned his head towards the cluster of drab grey tents behind him before turning back to continuing gazing at the natural landscape.

He had just managed to accost the troop of riders before the set off for their mission and spoke hastily to their commanding officer – a young sergeant who was recently promoted for his conduct and valor during the exodus from Fornost. The advice and command Belegorn urgently gave whilst grabbing the young man’s wrist still resounded in his mind,

Keep a sharp lookout at all times. Be prudent in your judgement, do not simply charge at the enemy when the signal is given by the boy. Be your own judge; assess the strength of the target before taking action. Remain downwind when approaching orcs and always remember to remain mounted at all times. Should the strength of the enemy be too much to bear, turn head and fly like the wind. Care not for the elves or the boy then, they are the masters of their own fates. Scatter your men in different directions, each to make his way towards Ered Luin individually. In no way must you all ride back together towards the camp.

Good luck! And may Oromë keep you safe!

As the intrepid little band thundered off into the horizon, Belegorn felt a sickening thud in his gut, the feeling one acquired when ill-fortune foreboded. He instinctively felt that the brave young sergeant and his equally youthful subordinates were heading towards their own doom. Belegron felt that they were sent to their death by their beloved captain, discarded like worthless pawns on a chessboard.

Hírvegil had bypassed the chain of command by approaching the men directly and giving them their marching orders for the mission. Belegorn had known that Hírvegil had been won over by Mitharan’s “carefree” comments and was determine to aid the elves on their foolhardy and very suspicious “rescue” mission and he was not convinced by Hírvegil’s reasoning. But to do so behind his immediate subordinate’s back was surprising. Indeed Belegorn would have been kept in the dark had not one of the militia burst into the tent when he was questioning his assembled sergeants, to tell him that a group of mounted horsemen were making their way to the perimeter of their camp.

Hírvegil had changed both in body and mood since the day they left Fornost. He was colder and more isolated than before. It would seem that the captain had fermented distrust in his first lieutenant; for what reason Belegorn knew not. Had he not been faithful in carrying out his duties? Or was it due to his undying devotion to king and country? Belegorn remembered how Hírvegil’s countenance changed when the former reminded him of their duty to the king and his orders.

And what if the day came when Belegorn was made to choose between duty to King and friendship to Hírvegil? Which path would he take?

The first lieutenant searched the dark recesses of his mind and an answer surfaced, in the form of the first three lines of the soldier’s pledge he made when he entered the regiment of the king, decades ago.

We, soldiers of the Royal Arthedain Army
Do solemnly and sincerely pledge
Our true faith and allegiance to King and Country…

Belegorn’s mind was made up as he reentered the camp. If subversion of any sorts arises, he would suppress it. Or die trying.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim drew his horse back as North reared suddenly in fear, as Rôsgollo charged forward into the melee towards his brother. The boy took in the scene in a second: Gaeredhel lay fallen to one side, Rôsgollo leaping off his horse to his side, but nearby Angóre was kneeling on the ground, is horse nowhere to be found and with a stunned expression on his face although he was already readying himself. Although he knew the elf was probably far more capable than he at handling himself, Faerim doubted the javelins that Angóre carried would be as easy to use from the ground as opposed to on horseback; he also knew that with three skittish horses in tow, he was going to be about as useful as- well, as they would expect him to be. And he knew he could prove himself to be far more than they expected.

Killing two birds with one stone, Faerim drew his sword and chopped swiftly through the rope that held the first horse to North, then at the one that held this one to the one behind it - he had no time to do more than that, and the other two bolted almost immediately. Taking the first, Carthor's stallion, by the reins, he rode over to Angóre, yelling to the elf as he came towards him. "Angóre, quick!"

The elf looked up, surprised, but caught the reins as Faerim threw them at him. Not wasting a second, the elf mounted smoothly, while Faerim rode on, bringing North around in a semi-circle towards the orcs, building himself up to the conflict as he raised his sword, his knuckles white on the stallion's reins. As he galloped towards it, the orc who had been running at Gaeredhel and Rôsgollo froze and looked across at him. Giving a makeshift battle cry, Faerim drew himself up suddenly and swept his sword around in a arc of bright steel, and such was his momentum that the orc's expression of surprise remained on it's face as it's head flew from it's shoulders. Grimacing in distaste as the black blood smattered onto his sleeves and gloves, Faerim slowed slightly as he re-adjusted his grip, then made for a second orc, hoping simply to do the same thing.

What the boy did not have the experience to know was that in a small scale battle, simply hammering out the same tactic on different foes rarely works more than once. This time his intended victim was ready and, as Faerim swept his sword down towards it's head, the creature ducked smartly, raising it's own blade to clash against the stroke that would have decapitated it. The jarring connection caused Faerim to cry out in shock and pain and his fingers uncurled as a reflex - causing his sword to fall, embedded in the ground. Flexing his fingers painfully, Faerim regained his wits as North headed straight for the woods, ducking not a second too soon as a low-flying branch threatened to tear his head from his shoulders. Gaining control of his terrified steed once more, Faerim turned him with some difficulty and, his sharp mind working quickly, realised that he needed to play the same ace card as he had in the falling city of Fornost. Praying that it would work, he unslung his bow and quiver and nocked a bow quickly. He barely had time to think before he shot, as a charging orc rushed him, it's bloody, nail-endowed club held high as it yelled fiersomely: Faerim shot with a cry of surprise and, more out of fluke than anything else, the arrow connected with the orc's shoulder. It fell back with a snarl, turning protectively over it's wounded shoulder, then resumed it's course of action with a vengeance. But this time Faerim was ready, and had time to sight at his opponent: the orc fell, a bow in it's neck, less than four feet from North.

That was the fifth orc taken care off, but four still remained, and their constant battering was like an assault on the senses as well as a physical assault. Despite all his training, North was obviously terrified by the haphazard melee in which the elves and Faerim had been so outnumbered, and his eyes rolled crazily and his black coat flecked with spittle and shining with sweat, shifting his feet and tossing his head. As the orc's arm spasmed by North's hooves, the horse took off at a canter once more, understandably spooked. Gritting his teeth and holding on desperately with his knees, Faerim turned to sight at his next victim and loosed another arrow, then another, taking down a sixth orc. Three remained, and Angóre, now mounted on Carthor's stallion, saw to a seventh victim. Cutting their losses, the remaining pair turned tail and fled through the trees, almost vanishing in an instant. Faerim shot one arrow, then another, and another after their backs, but it was Angóre's javelin that rewarded them with a dying cry of anguish. His lip curling both in satisfaction with the kill and irritation for the last orc who had got away, Angóre urged his mount on and sped after the last one - presumably hoping to kill it before it got word back to the orc camp.

Faerim slowed the skittish North to a walk then, with difficulty, to a halt, trying to regain his breath and soothe his horse. Dismounting painfully, he tentatively brought his hands up to the horse's nose and, although he shied and whinnied at first, North eventually calmed down enough for Faerim to rest on hand on his nose, stroking it gently as he 'shh'-ed the horse like a small child after a nightmare. Hooking the stallion's reins over one hand, Faerim curled a lip in disgust at the orc's blood on his fingers and rubbed his forefinger and thumb together curiously: the liquid was thick and sticky, like tar in texture and appearance. Glancing at the blood's previous owner, Faerim shuddered slightly and had to swallow down the violent urge to retch. Wiping his gloved hand on his longcoat to remove the blood, he tied North up to a tree and made for the spot where his sword lay, still shuddering slightly, embedded several inches into the ground. Pulling it out with as much strength as he could muster, Faerim bent and wiped it across the ground in a rough attempt to clean it, before he looked at the orc who had caused him to drop it. It lay face down, the steel-tipped javelin that had killed it rising from the small of its back, almost comical in it's absurdness. Curiousity about his brutal attackers once more overtaking Faerim, he reached out a foot and rolled the creature over, the javelin propping it onto its side. Looking at the orc's face, Faerim repressed the urge to physically recoil: the stubby, dirt blackened features were curled in an expression of anger, pain and, more disturbingly, fear, and despite their ugliness, they seemed almost human for an instant. Then the moment passed: Faerim had been told before than men sometimes felt remorse for their actions on a battlefield when confronted with the faces of the dead, wondering about the victim's background, family, life... But looking at the features of the dead orc, Faerim doubted it ever could have cared about any of those things.

Tearing his gaze from the orc, the boy turned and walked slowly away, heading for Rôsgollo and Gaeredhel. As he reached them, he heard hooves and turned, half heartedly raising his sword, but it was Angóre, not one of the enemy, who dismounted. Giving the elf a quick smile, he turned back to the other two, concerned.

[Arry]

‘You . . . cannot . . . stay . . . with . . . me!’ Gaeredhel groaned out his declaration in short bits. Rôsgollo had stripped his brother of his bloodied tunic, leather vest and chainmail shirt. He forced the rest of the arrow’s head through Gaeredhel’s flesh, snapped it off, and then withdrew the remainder of the shaft. ‘It only pierced the skin and if it grazed the muscle, it did not tear enough that I cannot use it.’ He grimaced as his brother prodded at the wound. ‘It burns no more than the arrow you mistakenly placed in my leg when we were children, brother mine,’ he said forcing a smile in an effort to make light of it. ‘It does not burn in a way that makes me think it is poisoned.’

Rôsgollo dismissed his brother’s claims with a snort. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘it is an Orc’s arrow and filthy from whatever they have hunted before.’ He took his water bottle and sluiced the wound as thoroughly as he might. ‘I have brought a small amount of herbs, thinking we might need them for the prisoners. We can spare some small amount for your wound.’ Rôsgollo fished in the pouch at his waist, bringing out several silver-grey leaves. Chewing them into a paste, he covered the exit and entrance wounds as best he could, then bound the shoulder with clean strips from his own tunic. Once done, he helped his brother put on his own shirt and other gear.

The four held a hasty conference on how to proceed. Rôsgollo held back his preference that they ride back to the Dunedain encampment for reinforcements. Gaeredhel had already read his thoughts on this and gainsaid them. You will have to tie me to my horse to have me go back now. Aloud, Gaeredhel urged them to go forward in the pursuit. ‘We are so close now. We cannot afford to let them hide themselves away from us again.’ He clasped his brother’s shoulder. ‘We have sworn to keep him safe. We must press on.’

‘Do not speak to me of our duty,’ Rôsgollo said quietly. ‘I know it all too well. But my heart speaks of my first duty, which is to you.’ He gazed shrewdly at his brother, gauging his response to his next proposal. ‘I will continue on with Angóre and Faerim to the Orc camp, if you will return to where we first found the Orcs had entered the river. Wait for the Dundedain that will be sent to aid us and direct them to us. We will leave an easy trail for them to follow.’ He paused for a moment, tensed against his brother’s answer.

Gaeredhel was silent, his thoughts guarded. He read the resolve in his brother’s eyes. ‘I will agree to this.’ Rôsgollo took in a sharp breath of relief.

Though I doubt any Men other than Faerim will rush to assist us . . .

-----

Rôsgollo watched as his brother mounted his horse and turned back south, down the river. Angóre, Faerim, and he resumed their progress northward keeping as low a profile as they might to avoid other Orcs left to watch the trail. In due time, they approached the Orc’s encampment, their own presence hidden by the thick stands of trees that grew along the edges of the eastern perimeter.

Dismounting before they drew too near, Rôsgollo stayed back to keep the horses quiet while Faerim and Angóre went quietly forward on foot to scout out the camp . . .

[Mithalwen]

The journey, had mercifully passed in a blur, but not enough of one to totally obliterate the jolting horror of being carried by an orc. To be in such close contact with the foul creatures, bitter enemies of the Firstborn was in itself torture. Yet one evident fact penetrated Erenor's returning consciousness as the orcs arrived at their campsite - the yrch had not harmed them. The orcs had provided them with food - repulsive maybe but seeming as good as they possessed and no harm had come to their persons, nor even their possessions.

The march over,the hostages had been dumped in a group. The others seemed fairly inert, but since Erenor was concealing her own awareness it was possible the others were doing likewise. A low groan from one of her stirring companions, corrected this idea. Erenor realised the truth. She had been given a smaller measure of the drug - her original and then feigned drowsiness from her headwound had made the orcs cautious with their dose. "Excellent", she thought, "they really do not want us dead".

Her train of thought was halted by a strange sensation; she felt watched. This was ridiculous; she had been watched with more or less attention, by orcs since her capture, but this was different. She looked around her surruptitiously. Their guards were still there but with thier captives bound and seemingly unconscious, they were engrossed in the universal activities of soldiers after a long march, preparing food and fire and easing sore feet. There were sentinels about the camp but they were looking out not in.

Besides the sensation was benevolent, she felt sure that elvish eyes or at least elvish minds were seeking her. She stole glances at her fellow emissaries on either side. Though they stirred she knew it was neither of them.

Erenor opened her mind, surely if their guards had survived the orc raid, they would have come after them? Or perhaps by some blessing her earlier attempts at seeking aid from her kindred afar had not been in vain. She fixed a picture in her mind of the camp, and then visualised the still concealed weapon, wondering if she could reach it without being discovered. Any elf near and so inclined woudl be able to read her thought: she trusted the orcs had not the skill. It was a risk but one she had to take. The presence seemed strong to Erenor but as she waited for some response, her hope faded in to fear that her feeling was some cruel side effect of the drug.

[Kransha]

With the questioned individuals departed, Hírvegil sought comfort in lying on his bed again. He should really be up and about; he had spent far too much time during the day isolated in his semi-spacious temporary quarters, most of that time sprawled on a disheveled bedroll. The Captain’s mind had used up its daily reserve, which was significantly less than usual, and felt both peaked and spent, both different feelings as far as he was concerned. One encompassed the pain in his head, the other the uselessness of his thoughts. Both put him off extraordinarily as he lay, thinking dejectedly about his predicament.

He was not himself. He, Captain Hírvegil of His Majesty’s Rearguard, had been spoken down to by a middle-class soldier’s wife, a common woman. He usually never even considered the class stations assigned by his archaic society, but he had always considered himself part of a specialized caste, a warrior class of elite comrades. Never had he held himself above others, but as that woman, Lissi, spoke to him in such a caustic, condescending fashion, and then had the nerve to walk out on him, he felt petty societal prejudice rearing its ugly head in him. Was he so different that he could not hold sway or command with common-folk? This was not the Captain of the Rearguard.

Hírvegil started to wonder if the fall of Fornost had altered him, changed him in some way. Usually, inspiring wartime oratory came from him passionately, as the speech-craft of ancient lords of war, but his words to the troops at the North Downs had been weak and threadbare, lacking in his typical abilities. His stratagems were not themselves either. Under most circumstances, he could’ve efficiently devised a solution to this whole sorry dilemma, but today his mind was dulled and content to beat lazily around the bush, concocting second-rate schemes which he could not even issue in a timely manner.

His father would have easily concluded the situation with a thought out solution, and so would he have done if he were the man he was but a month ago. His father would’ve done so many things differently, and this was no consolation for that father’s son. Rolling uncomfortably back and forth, wishing for sleep, Hírvegil pushed memories of his past glories away, trying to remain firmly rooted in the present, rather than the more desirable past. He rubbed his eyes and closed them tightly, scratching his scalp with an aimless hand that had nothing else to do, trying to empower himself with the spirit he’d once possessed.

Now he resolved that something had to be done. The lord he’d been charged with was obviously displeased with him, morale among the soldiers was dropping (through lack of information, disillusion, and other motivations), his own lieutenant seemed to have lost some confidence in him, and even the civilians were reacting negatively to his actions. Though his logical half spoke out against it, he blamed, inwardly, the Elves. Their stalwart braggadocio had cost him the support of his people. Yesterday, he’d been merry, ready for a good night’s rest and a needed period of slow, plodding travel that would tax neither him nor those beneath and around himself. Instead, through the arrogance of the Firstborn, as well as their clumsiness and the stealth of their orcish adversaries, he found himself unconscionably depressed and with no recourse he could see. The only things he could do where go on, go to the Elves, or stay where he was. Remaining static was out of the question, since that would just worsen the situation, and too many would react aversely if he chose to march on. That left one option.

Two minutes later, Hírvegil yawningly ambled outside his tent, fully armored and ignoring both the jingle-clank of his panoply and the orderly greeting of his guard who had been stationed outside his tent for hours and hours. With an ill cough, he dragged himself through the camp until he reached Belegorn’s tent. His blurry vision caught sight of the lieutenant some distance away, heading towards the tent and him. Belegorn’s look of withered disappointment overshadowed feigned surprise at seeing Hírvegil. “Captain?” he said.

“Belgorn,” Hírvegil mumbled, slurring syllables together as he spoke with both haste and tiredness, “Arise all able-bodied men.” His lieutenant looked at him confusedly, his eyebrow rising unnoticeably beneath a stern forehead. “Captain, I’d say all able-bodied men are aroused already. Day passes swiftly, and all men have woken and know of the evening’s transpirings.” Hírvegil barely heard this, picking at his ear with a hand encased in an embossed leather glove, minus his plate-mail gauntlet. “Good, good, get ‘em ready to move out.”

“Move out?”

“Ye, we’re headin’ after the Elves.” Hírvegil’s refined annunciation was all but gone, replaced by a slummy, country accent caused by the weariness of him, in voice and mind and sight. Belegorn stared at him as if he were mad. “Sir, you just dispatched a unit of rangers to-” “I know that, lieutenant, but we’re going to catch up with them, we are. Organize all troops into their respective companies and have some guards and watchmen appointed to remain in the camp and keep lookout. All soldiers are to move out in an hour. We will trail those blasted Elves at a speed even their proud steeds can’t match and finish this whole sorry affair with one swordstroke. I’ll take no insults from commoners and politicians, nay; we’ll slay all those elf devils ‘afore the day is out.”

“You mean ‘orc’ devils, Captain,” interjected Belegorn, still very confused. He looked a look Belegorn had never before seen – one of utter disbelief and utter incredulousness. It would have amazed and intrigued Hírvegil, but his eyes were focusing instead on a blank spot somewhere in the distance, past his trusty lieutenant. With a grunt and a blink, Hírvegil managed and “Umm…” followed by, “yes, I do. Now, get on it.”

With that (and another yawn), Hirvegil plodded back to his tent to get another hour of sleep.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn placed the feathery quill down and picked up the parchment. His grey eyes darted left to right swiftly as he proof-read what he had written. It wasn’t elegant prose for the writer was not a man of letters, but it contained the necessary information and instructions. Satisfied with his work, Belegorn held the parchment close to his face, blew gently to dry the ink, rolled it up and bonded it with a brown linen strip. He then turned towards the waiting messenger and handed the scroll over to the youngster with a stern instruction,

“This parchment contains the necessary information and instructions that the counselor Mitharan would need. In the absence of the captain and I, he would undoubting be in command of the column. Hand it over to him immediately and make sure that he reads and understands its contents.”

The youth nodded quickly and left the tent. Belegorn watched as the young man weaved and zigzagged before disappearing among the cluster of canvas tents. It would have been more appropriate if Hírvegil had approached Mitharan personally, but the commander was in no position to do so, not in his current state. He had appeared red-eyed with exhaustion before his deputy, lifelessly dote and speech slurred. More shocking than his tardy appearance and unbefitting bearing were his orders – absurd and totally incomprehensible.

Belegorn meant to protest immediately but Hírvegil left as sudden as he crashed, trashing about as he made his way hurriedly and clumsily towards his warm cot. For a moment Belegorn’s eyes widened and an unexplainable rage arose. His gloved hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his bejeweled sword and he felt an irresistible urge to pursue his outrageous commander and smite him with all his might and fury. But the terrible torrent subsided as soon as Hírvegil disappeared from view and Belegorn was left horrified by the dangerous hatred he felt. It took a while for Belegorn to regain his faculties. The time taken to draft the memorandum to Mitharan helped.

Belegorn adjusted his sword belt and affixed his dagger into its sheath on the left side of his body at the belt and retrieved his helmet and cloak from the wicker basket by his cot. He stepped out reluctantly out into the open and issued an order to a militia orderly to pack up his belongings. He had no idea how long he’ll be away and when the column would move again.

Tucking the wide rimmed helmet beneath his arm, Belegorn strode towards the marshalling ground where his charger and men awaited him.

**************

The grey winter sky offered no warmth and the sun was no where to be seen, being blotted out of the sky by dark clouds and fog. Just as well, for it mirrored the feelings of the first lieutenant and his rode across the assembled front of the riders and inspected each youthful face carefully. The mounted men stared on ahead passively like mannequins while the horses reared their great muscular necks in agitation. The aura and mood emitted by them were all too apparent to Belegorn; fear and insecurity were the orders of the day.

When the assembled riders were ready, Belegorn sent a messenger for Hírvegil. He looked towards the green pennon of the Rearguard in anticipation but the flag hung limply in its folds, inanimate on the pole. A forebode of the darkness to come.

[CaptainofDespair]

Even the strongest of the orcs need a rest at one point or another. Nagbak had figured this, and since the icy chill of a winter stream will sap the strength out of any creature, even the mighty trolls of the East, he had decided to make haste, and find a camp site quickly. His scouts had located one particular meadow, nestled in a thicket. Due to the lack of supplies, he would seek this place, but not before making one final arrangement with his subordinates.

Sloshing up out of the chilling waters of the brook, and onto a frozen embankment, the orc contingent hurried, with Elven cargo, to their pre-determined location. An hour or so later, they finally arrived at their location, a small patch of snow-covered grass, just large enough to lay out proper defenses. The chieftain’s subordinates ordered that the hostages be dumped in a cluster, and be given a small watch. The rest of the orcs, excluding those on perimeter sentry duty, would be allowed to rest their feet, and treat any wounds they may have sustained along the march. Nagbak, meanwhile, busied himself with attending to the scouts, of whom the last were arriving.

As Nagbak seated himself on a rigid, rather uncomfortable stump, a small snaga, only about half the height of his master, came waddling forward, in the usual bow-legged walk of the orc. “Massster...the rear guard you left behind has not returned...dead they are...” The chieftain, with his face in his large, cold palms, muttered a few words to his slave-scout. “I assumed this much. Now, do you have any other news?” The little orc, looking almost as if he had exhausted the last of the resources in his near-desolate mind, thought for a few moments. After scratching his head a bit, his eyes lit up, and he enthusiastically gave his reply to the query. “Oh! Indeeeeed, chieftain! Razhbad has arrived!” The old orc, at the mentioning of this, perked up, and lumbered forward, almost tearing the stump out of the ground as he lurched up from his perch. “Excellent! I take it he is downwind of the camp?” The snaga nodded delightedly, bouncing as he walked beside his powerful and noble chief. “Very good. Have him ready to rush to our aid at a moment’s notice. If my instinct serves me correctly, the humans and Elves will be upon us soon enough.

[Kransha]

When the messenger came to Hírvegil’s tent, he had to be yanked forcefully from his slumber. When he finally awoke to find himself being violently shaken by the confused young man, he had to be told carefully what was going on. The knowledge registered with him after a few minutes and, since he was already suited up, though very disheveled, he was able to traipse over to the marshalling field outside the camp to meet Belegorn. He did not speak to his lieutenant, or even acknowledge his presence, and his only words were to the youthful messenger as he helped the captain onto his mount, saying that he needed no aid.

Less than a few seconds later, he fell off the horse.

He didn’t retreat into thought, for he couldn’t comprehend that he wasn’t himself. With a minor bruise from the fall, he remounted and wordlessly signaled the troops to move out. He was totally incommunicative, his face sweaty and wrinkled, the youth of his position gone. Perhaps he was just sick. A plague had taken his mother from him years ago, and the disease might be lying dormant in him, in a happy slumber until his system was weak enough to let down its guard. He showed many signs of generic ailment – tiredness, confusion, feverish activity, dysfunctional behavior – it seemed perfectly obvious. But Hírvegil didn’t get sick. He could not remember a time when he had felt bad, besides his chronic headaches. Had the fall of Fornost triggered some downward spiral?

The Captain of the Rearguard did not for a moment realize what he’d become in a day. Yesterday he’d been a healthy, fit, normal fellow. Over the course of the journey from the Downs to the Hills of Evendim he’d been depressed and detached from cold reality, but not so distant and changed. Now he was different, his elegant devices stripped from him and his powerful mind dulled like an age-old blade, similar to the one that hung feebly at his side. That sword, at his waist and in his soul, no longer burned with the mental or physical fury it had once. His sickness, though, that which caused that sword to loose its deadly edge, was untraceable, in a fashion. Personally, Hírvegil was unaware of how much he’d been altered, so he was unable to trace the cause, and his comrades knew too little about the circumstances.

Hírvegil, still without words, in the limbo of life proceeded onward. His quiet ushering bid the riders move. The steeds all hesitated on the grounds, braying noiselessly to themselves and glancing with eyes full of foreboding at the sky, which was caught between night and day, a mixture of shade and light. Hírvegil was at first oblivious to the hesitation of the troops, even of Belegorn, mounted close at hand to him. His horse teetered as he did atop it, but he managed to swivel the beast precariously about, and his face formed a look of dim displeasure, his sweat-soaked brow furrowing.

“Move.” He coughed in a barely commanding manner at the large clump of reluctant horsemen. Half of them didn’t hear him. Bewildered by angered, he continued to prod the horse into spinning about, watching its unwieldy form sway beneath him. “You heard me,” he yelled, his voice again rasping, “move!”

This time, most heard him. Many snapped to sharp attention and started cantering slightly forward, or meandering about. The rows began to diffuse over the field, but most remained stationary. As Hírvegil glanced around at the indecisive cavalry, Belegorn expertly wheeled his own steed about and sidled up next to the commander, startling him. After a quick intake of breath from Hírvegil, he settled and inclined his drooping head to look at his lieutenant. Quietly, but with an air of command himself, Belegorn spoke. “Captain,” he posed, “are you sure you want to-”

Hírvegil, even in his state, could guess what Belegorn was saying. Swinging himself foolishly to on side on his horse, he said “Yes, I am sure.” His face was only tempered with anger, for the look of sickness and hurt dominated it. After a brief silence between the two officers in the midst of the Rearguard, Hírvegil nervously posed his own question. “Are you questioning me, Belegorn?”

Belegorn did not answer directly. “Perhaps you are not well, sir.” He ventured.

The Captain was used to being commanding, but he could not be now. He tried to brandish a scolding finger at the Lieutenant, but succeeded only in batting at the air and sliding over on his saddle. “Don’t you think I know whether I am well or not?” he snapped, spitting accidentally, “I’m perfectly fine.” He spun himself again, driving sharp heels and glimmering spurs into his mount’s flanks that sent it rearing up and forward. His voice rose, catching the attention of all the nervous soldiers of the Rearguard. “Now, all of you; move! We must catch up with the Elves and our riders within mere hours. We must push ourselves to the greatest swiftness we can muster, is that clear?” His possessed roar faded like a dying gasp in his throat.

There was no answer. The chatter of gossip among the soldiers disappeared and was replaced by silence, accompanied by a mélange of accompanying emotions. The Rearguard’s confidence in their leader had not broken, but his behavior was cracking it slowly but surely. Like good soldiers, the riders placed themselves back in their respective lines without hesitation, organizing into four neat columns. They looked to their captain for guidance, for leadership, for the words of the man they knew – but they got none of that.

“Good.” groaned the man who’d been their captain. “Now, ride!”

So they rode.

[alaklondewen]

Nilpaurion Felagund's post

While her body laid motionless on the frigid ground, Bethiril’s mind was in a place of violent turmoil.

Barely a month ago, the decision would have been easy. Erenor and Angóre meant nothing to her, and she would have betrayed them, despite their kinship, to fulfil what she had hoped to do. But now, despite the feebleness of the bond between them, the act of treachery needed she needed to do could not now be done without a great struggle.

She did not want any of them to be freed by force. She wanted this crisis resolved peacefully. Surely, the Orc chief’s plan made sense—with a land to call their own, the Glamhoth would, perhaps, no longer need to take up arms. Then the Firimar, seeing that the Orcs are no longer a threat, would follow suit. A lasting peace—all she had to do was make sure that none of them escaped. All she had to do was bring to their captors knowledge of Erenor’s concealed weapon. All she had to do was warn the Orcs of a plan to assault their camp.

But her heart, which she had kept under control for so long, now rebelled against her mind. Bethiril had begun to love her fellow emissary, the love of an older, wiser sister for a younger sibling with wisdom of her own, but who too often moved impetuously. She had sometimes thought of trying to win Erenor over to her cause, yet realised that in stifling the free spirit within, she would destroy her.

And in betraying your friend, you would destroy yourself.

She was roused from her thoughts by Ereglin, who wanted to know whether she was fine or not. There must be other ways of fulfilling my mission, she said to herself, as she set all thoughts of treachery aside.

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alaklondewen's post

The flickering of a nearby fire seared Ereglin’s opening eyes, worsening his already excruciatingly aching head. A groan slipped from his dry, rasping throat as his hands instinctively pressed his temples, trying to relieve the throbbing pain that clouded his mind. After a moment, the elf attempted to open his eyes again, but he only managed to squint at his surroundings. He took in a deep breath of the chill wind that swirled around him and lifted his hair from his shoulders. As he let the breath go, an overwhelming nausea surged through his body and he retched into the grass beside him. Once his body purged whatever was left of the poison the foul creatures had fed him, his mind became clearer and he was able to take in the components of his environment.

Berethil lay crumpled nearby in a fitful unconsciousness. Behind the Counselor a handful of orcs bickered in their abrasive tones. The elf assumed that these were their guards as none were closer, and the other orcs, beyond their fire, were paying no attention to the captives. Ereglin slowly turned his eyes around to the other emissary, Erenor. The lady did not appear to suffer the illness he felt, but with her eyes closed, she displayed peace and control.

Ereglin laid his head back against the cold ground again as tried to contact his young guard. Rôsgollo… The lord let his thought carry in the wind hoping he crossed the mind of one of his guards. He called again after several moments of silence and was greeted this time by the hopeful voice of his guard’s thought. Lord Ereglin! How do you fare?

I am well enough…weak from poison, but I will survive. Ereglin opened his eyes and studied the stars overhead. It seems I am several miles west and north since I was last awake.

Yes, my lord. We have tracked the orcs’ progress and are just outside the camp now. Rôsgollo answered quickly.

That is good, my friend. Ereglin paused as the throbbing in his head returned and he grimaced with pain. After several breaths, the aching began to lessen again, and the Counselor spoke again with his guard. How many soldiers strong are you?

Several moments passed before the young guard answered the question. We are four strong, my lord…my brother and I along with the Elven guard, Angóre, and a Dúnedan youth have come for you.

And what of the Dúnedain army?

[Arry]

The Dunedain . . . Rôsgollo’s thoughts were hesitant at Lord Ereglin’s question. He sought a way to frame his answer in a better light.

Come, Rôsgollo. I am no child to need your words couched in softer phrasings. Speak plainly. They did not come for us. Ereglin’s piercing statement unleashed a flood of words . . . the hesitancy of the Captain from the first . . . his excuses . . .

But we have come, my lord. Along with Angóre and a young Dunedan soldier who offered his aid. We three must serve, and it must be enough with your aid and what information Lady Erenor has given us. Rôsgollo regretted his lapse as soon as he had thought it. Lord Ereglin picked up on the number three, saying he thought there were mention of four.

And so there are . . . said another voice, breaking in on the conversation. Gaeredhel came softly up on foot behind his brother. I stayed behind for a moment to see that no Orc followed after us as we approached their camp. There were none. Nor did I see any sign of Dunedain troops approaching. Gaeredhel smiled grimly at his brother. Though, I left signs of our way that they might read should they come.

Rôsgollo’s eyes played over his brother’s advancing form. He seemed fit enough, though he noted he held his right arm close to his chest, and led his horse with his left. He would not be able to use his bow and his blade work would be weaker with his left arm. But then, he thought, he need only whack roughly at the Orcs; they were not known for their skillful moves, only their brute strength.

A hurried conference was held between the three Elves, and Lady Erenor contacted. She was, it seemed, less drowsy from the Orc’s potion. It was her that had first shown the outlay of the camp, bringing the would be rescuers near to where the prisoners were held. And she was the only one with a weapon still available to her. What of Bethiril? And the woman and child? Rôsgollo asked.

Bethiril had feigned drowsiness as had the other two Elven prisoners. She was as awake as either of them. The woman and child had not been drugged at all. There had been no need. The Orcs had made it plain they would kill the child should the woman give any trouble. To her they had given the task of ministering to any needs the Elves had. The child was kept close by her.

Let us speak with Angóre and Faerim; they are the ones closest to you at the moment. We will devise some diversion and then let you know of it. Can you ready yourselves? Near the back of your tent, I think. Wait for our instruction. Rôsgollo motioned for Gaeredhel to come hold the horses, saying he should be ready to ride quickly with them in tow when he was called. He was going forward to find their other two companions and give them word of what he had learned. Once a plan was in place he would let everyone know of it . . .

--------------

In the end, the three decided a simple diversion would be the best. Angóre was left to keep watch on the prisoners’ tent. Faerim and Rôsgollo circled around to the opposite side of the camp, staying low and out of sight as they gave the near perimeter a wide berth. Dried, fallen limbs were hastily gathered into a pile about a tall evergreen tree with low growing branches; while among the gathered limbs were stashed a great number of pitchy cones. Retreating a distance away, Rôsgollo let Angóre know what they had done and told the Elves within the tent to gather now at the back of it and await his signal. Fixing a large pitchy cone to an arrow with strips from his tunic, he lit it, and sent it flying toward the mass of gathered limbs. The piling caught fire, the flames flashing quickly from one pitchy cone to another, until the mass was ablaze.

Faerim and Rôsgollo sped quickly away from the blaze which now whooshed up behind them, catching onto the cones growing in clusters among the living branches. The flames licked hungrily upward seeking to consume the tree. The Orcs caught sight of the blaze and scrambled in disarray to stop the spread of the flames from the tree over the dried grasses toward their camp.

Now! called Rôsgollo. And Erenor cut the rough cloth of the tent, as Bethiril and Ereglin handed out the woman and the child. Gaeredhel had mounted his horse and now moved forward with the others in tow. Ereglin exited from the tent next, followed by Bethiril. Erenor stood guard, her knife in her hand. And well she did as one of the Orc guards was sent in to check in on the prisoners during the melee. She dispatched him before he could raise the alarm, then left the tent herself.

Rôsgollo and Faerim made it to where the others were gathered, now mounted on horse. It would not be long before the Orcs would suspect that this suspect blaze had something to do with their hostages. And in fact, they had barely mounted when from a short distance away, an Orc voice rang out, calling his fellows to give chase . . . the prisoners had escaped!

The Elves and Faerim rode hard away from the Orcs . . . their only thought now to reach the safety of the Dunedain encampment . . .

[Kransha]

The sight of a veiled blaze on the horizon and the singing scent of fire’s smoke was barely recognizable to Hírvegil as he wobbled uneasily on his horse, sweaty fingers clasped around an ice-like metal hilt that swung at his left flank, rapping fitfully against the battered haunches of his steed. He barely heard the ceremonious gasps and sounds of recognition that rippled through the Rearguard, but few could have. The Rearguard’s entire mass was surging, at almost break-neck speed, across snowy plains ands through icy ponds and puddles, kicking up a gargantuan cloud of white dust in its wake.

Some men who rode behind their captain wondered if they even knew where they were going. Those at the front who could see the many skewed tracks left by galumphing orc feet, subtle Elven treads, and heavy Dúnedain horseshoes steered the line chaotically in one direction and the next, trying to keep them all together. The horses rushed madly at times, with no steady orders to abide by. Soon enough, though, they were forced to slow a rein themselves in when they encountered sight of the first group of Dúnedain to be dispatched, which was slowly riding towards the distant blaze as well. When they collided, no words were exchanged, or given by Hírvegil, who continued to lead on like a drunken hero. As the confused trackers were absorbed into the quick-moving cavalry host, it was left to their comrades to explain to them what was going on. Though all was anarchy and disorganization, the columns surged on like a wave of spearing flame.

They were borne over ridges, through iced over marshlands, and every which way, no longer following tracks but simply heading onward to the fire. Belegorn was now generally in the lead, and was doing his best to keep Hírvegil himself from charging off in a more divergent direction and leading the troops astray. He wheeled about Hírvegil’s steed every few moments, pulling the mount forward and riding his swiftest so that he and his captain would not be overwhelmed by the unbridled force behind, which was having its own troubles. Hírvegil sat, quietly oblivious but caught up in the grandiose cacophony and the fueling noise of riders and the dun of battle to come. His eyes were glazed over and he looked to some oaf with armor slapped on him who’d been feebly superimposed on a horse, but his mind was working with great speed, reliving its glory days. The dreams were becoming reality, even though he had no control over his thoughts or movements in the chaos. He smiled to himself, then grimaced, then wretched, then smiled again, and laughed, and guffawed, and reeled, and did many things which had nothing to do with the thing that came before. His hands, weakly gripping the reins of his mount, swung madly from side to side. Belegorn kept shooting his hand in expertly to try and manage the horse if it became to unsteady, but Hírvegil ignored him, or didn’t notice. He was too caught up in the glory of the charge – which was quickly spiraling more and more out of control.

Hírvegil’s eyes only saw dim, multicolored blurs galloping towards him over the nearest hill as yells of “Elves!” and “Riders!” echoed behind him. “What’re those?” mumbled Hírvegil, leaning over towards Belegorn as he bounced up and down, “Orcs?” He had obviously not heard the cries, or horribly misinterpreted them. Belegorn managed to hear his faint mutterings because of the short distance between him and the captain, so he could respond. “No, Captain,” he yelled over the din into Hírvegil’s ear, jogging his senses a little, “It is the Elves! They seem to have succeeded!”

“Good,” grumbled the Captain, “kill ‘em.” He didn’t see the look of bewildered horror on his lieutenant’s whitened face. “No, sir,” cried Belegorn, “Elves.” As the riders thundered behind them, Hírvegil considered, his head bobbing like a fisherman’s baubles. “Oh, right. Well, don’t kill them.” Belegorn’s loud groan could be heard at Hírvegil’s side, but it was cut off with another sharp breath and gasp of recognition as Belegorn peered forward. “Captain,” he said very urgently after a moment, “I think the orcs are behind them!”

“Ah,” murmured the dreary Captain of the Rearguard, “Kill them then.”

Belegorn nodded curtly and maneuvered to the side, turning his head as much as possibly. As the Rearguard closed the distance between it and the Elven riders, who had seen them long before, it was more and more becoming evident that the cavalry had reached a momentum in could not brake in an instant. It was going so fast, so hard, that it could not be stopped except by some great obstacle. In order not to hit the Elves, they could only turn and amass together. At the top of his ragged lungs, Belegorn cried out. “TO THE LEFT!” his voice thundered terrifically, “RIDE LEFT!”

Slowly, the huge troop began easing left frantically. The Elven riders also pulled their horses right. Since the Elves were in a more convenient position to do so, they maneuvered their horses hard right, but still they could barely turn fast enough. The Rearguard rode on, thundering, booming onward; trying to steer, to turn, or do anything. As the distance between the horde and the few Elven steeds became mere meters, there was still a chance the Elves would be trampled by the uncontrolled cavalry. The distance closed, further and further until at last it disappeared.

The two forces missed each other by less than an arm’s length. The cavalry of the Rearguard, like a colossus, swept past the four horses, who were met with a sonic blast from the moving wave of sound and a plate of dust that fell atop them. As they at last passed the Rearguard, another force appeared – the orcs.

This time, no attempt was made to steer out of the way, even though it would’ve been much safer to stop and then attack. The grand host of a hundred, magnified by some divine imagination to look like a thousand, continued towards the orcs. Some tried to stop, and were pushed on by those behind them or sucked backward and spit out of the guard’s rear. Others spun off to one side or the other and swiveled to gain balance. The core group, though, with Hírvegil and Belegorn at its head, quickly lanced over the next lump of a hill, veering madly, towards the goblins sprinting towards them. When the orcs realized what was happening, they made every attempt to turn or get out of the way, but to no avail.

With no recourse, the two forces collided, the Rearguard overwhelming the small band of orcs who’d caused them so much trouble.

Of course, Hírvegil saw none of this, since he blacked out a moment before the collision and was hurled from his horse when it was bodily thrust against a routed orc.

[Garen LiLorian]

The rescue had gone smoothly, though Angóre still held fears about the pursuing Orcs. Though they were not mounted, and the Elves' train could easily outpace them, Orcs were notoriously unshakeable and the Dúnedain encampment lay less than a days ride away. He had no wish to bring a hundred orcs down on the civilians in that camp.

And now they were fleeing those very Orcs. Angóre held tight the mane of Carthor's stallion, feeling the very unusual weight of another person with him. His horse had been lost in the ambush and there had been no time to recover it, which had left the party one short. The ancient war-horse was the strongest of the beasts brought by Faerim and so Angóre had in front of him lady Bethiril, seemingly much the worse for wear from her captivity. Her eyes were strangely unfocused and it was all Angóre could do to keep her from sliding off to the side as the big war-horse galloped on, flying before the orcish host. In truth, the orcs were still grouping, scurrying about by the light of their burning camp like an anthill exposed to the sun. But Angóre knew better than to trust that sight. He could sense, away and to the left, a group of small fast goblins very nearly keeping pace with the horses of the Elven train and horses tire before the soldiers of the Enemy. Before him, Bethiril shifted again, and slouched heavily against Angóre's arm, causing Carthor's horse to veer left before he could respond.

It was Faerim, in this group of keen-eyed Elves, who first spotted the Dúnedain host, and he cried aloud. The darkness hid the sloppyness of the rearguard's movements, and to the eyes of the rescuers they looked proud and mighty. "We are safe! Hírvigil! Hírvigil and the Dúnedain!" The lad cried, standing in his stirrups and raising his sword, and a seemingly echoing roar came from the host of Men as the plunged forward, spears lowered.

Angóre's joy turned to shock. "They cannot see us!" He cried. "They will ride us down! Ride left, and may the Valar turn them aside!" He did not wait for a response before wheeling his horse. But the sudden movement caused Bethiril to shift again, and she would have fallen had not Angóre's arm been there. His arm buckled with the unexpected weight, pulling on the horse's mane, and Carthor's well trained stallion turned obediently back to his right as Angóre fought with the weight in his arms. It took him long seconds; seconds he could ill afford to lose, but he got the emissary upright again, groaning softly, and turned his attention back to the horse.

Carthor's stallion was a veteran and had stood his ground in many combats. He trusted implicitly the warrior he carried, and this is perhaps why he stood his ground in the face of the Dúnedain charge while around him the horses of the others fled madly to the left. It very nearly cost him all he had to give. Angóre's eyes were wide as he urged the warhorse to a dead run. The Dúnedain charge was nearly upon them, and it seemed impossible that he should make the edge of the charge before it overwhelmed him.

The last spear actually passed over his head as he cleared the line, the spearman wide-eyed and sawing frantically at the reins of his enraged beast to try to avoid this lone Elf. The stallion's tail flickered briefly in the breeze of the passing host, and then he was past; the host thundered past him towards the Orcish camp.

[Saurreg]

The ground itself trembled with awe as the multitude of heavy cavalry hooves thundered across the open plain towards the enemy, producing a colossal white plume within its wake that could be seen for miles around. Emerald green cloaks fluttered wildly in the draft, numerous mail rings clattered sharply and the immense chargers neighed and snorted in anticipation. The winds swept pass the ears of each man and intoned an air of invincibility. War cries of “Oromë!” and “For Fornost!” greeted the sky.

Onwards the mounted guardsmen charged, as each pounding hoof step brought them closer to their enemy, their quarry. As the fiery host approached the mass of terror-struck orcs, shaking lances were lowered and the cavalry galloped forward into the last lap with reckless abandonment. Faced by the terrible spectacle before them, the orcs lost their nerves, broke rank and rout. The slaughter began.

Belegorn of the Rearguard felt the hooves of his mount pound the ground, felt its power and felt the irresistible allure of the battle. There was always something special in horseback fighting, an indescribable rush that would made even the most battle weary cavalier grin with excitement. The first lieutenant had not felt this “alive” for a while, not since the chaotic retreat from the old city where his and the lives of his men stood at the edge.

The Dúnedain spotted his opponent – a large imposing goblin clad in black fur and mail, armed with a crude halberd. Pulling the reins of his charger with a loud and reassuring ho, he turned the magnificent animal towards the pike holder and galloped towards it. The speed of his approach was less than that of the initial charge, but what Belegorn intended to accomplish required more in terms of accuracy than alacrity. The rochecthel was the nonpareil weapon of the cavalry arm; scientifically engineered to provide both shock and wield-ability. With the right angle of approach, adequate momentum and a strong spear arm, it was guaranteed to penetrate anything. And right then, Belegorn was quite intent in introducing his rochecthel to the orc.

The orc caught sight of the incoming horseman and instead of fleeing; it showed remarkable courage and chose to stand its ground. With a grunt, it planted the halberd into the frozen earth and tipped the elaborate end of his weapon towards man and beast. The confrontation then turned into a deadly duel of nerves versus reflexes. Should the orc be nonplussed and quit the yoke, its life would be automatically forfeited. But should its courage prove steadfast, and then it was up to the rider to discharge his lance at the right moment and at the right spot before his horse veers to avoid the obstacle and expose its master to certain doom.

Seconds passed like hours and time slowed to an excruciating crawl as Belegorn galloped up to huge snarling goblin. In those moments his senses were heightened and he could hear the strain in the charger’s deep snorts and feel its fear and uncertainty at the enemy it was forced to face. The pounding of the hooves was painfully apparent and reverberated in his head like beats of huge drums.

Timing was everything.

Belegorn marked the exposed collarbone of the orc and urged his mount forwards…

The creature let out a ferocious roar of defiance, yellow eyes staring straight at its adversary’s…

The leave shaped tip broke through warty skin, penetrating tough flesh, sinewy tendons and dense bone before it met something more delicate and fragile. With a grunt of exertion, Belegorn twisted the lance and it snapped as it should. He allowed the steed to continue its gallop for a short distance before turning back to look; the collapsed orc was mortally wounded and hot steaming ichor spewed from the mangled shoulder where half a lance still protruded from.

Grinning with satisfaction, Belegorn disposed off the then useless lance and immediately drew his cavalry saber from its sheath. Surveying the carnage around him, he moistened his lips, placed his horn to his mouth and blew to rally his men,

“To me guardsmen! To me children!”

[Amanaduial the archer]

As Faerim rose in his saddle and held his sword high to his kinsmen, he felt a rush of exhileration course through every inch of his self as the crowd of Dunedain roared back seemingly in reply. But his grin soon began to fade as the men lowered their spears and began to charge forward.

Towards the elves.

Faerim's grin slipped from his face in horror and his eyes widened before he gathered his senses and galloped to the side of the host, going as fast as he possibly good so as not to be run down by his own allies. The weight of the elf behind him felt strangely heavy although she was not ungainly: she sat well in the saddle, moving with his own movements, obviously an excellent horsewoman, but she seemed as unfamiliar as he in this way of riding - neither were used to travelling with another with them. But the newly rescued woman had determinedly mounted up on a horse of her own and had fled in a trice with her child, a boy of about ten - thereby leaving the elves and Faerim another mount short, and so meaning that the lady Erenor had to travel with Faerim: they had to get away as swiftly as possible and it had been the quickest way, the other spare horse having been with Gaeredhel. But at least she seemed awake, much more so than the other female elf, who was slumped across Carthor's mount with Angóre - indeed, Erenor had been the most alert of all, chillingly efficient in her cutting the throat of an orc who threatened to thwart the rescue attempt. Feeling her weight against his back as she leant forward to streamline their passage, Faerim glanced back for a split second, seeing the fair, noble face staring straight forward, keen eyes fixed on their target: the edge of the Dunedain line.

The horses of his own kinsmen were dangerously close now, travelling too fast to stop, and the pair of riders still had about twenty metres to the end of the line. Leaning over North's neck, his fingers woven white into the horse's mane, he dug his heels in and urged him on desperately at a dead run to the end of the line. Come on, come on, I cannot have got this far to be run down by my own cavlary...!

With a last spurt, North charged forward and was out of the way of the Dunedain line with barely a second to spare. As they thundered past, swords held high and in full armour, Faerim realised just how close it had been, feeling almost faint with relief. But there was no time to spare now: the line of Dunedain thundered on and, Erenor or no Erenor, this rescue mission was not over yet. Drawing his sword, he turned his head and had to yell over the furious drumming of horse hooves and the sound of battle for the elf behind him to hear. "This hardly seems practical, my Lady, but it seems we shall have to fight together," he yelled, trying to sound confident.

Faerim felt rather than heard her exasperated sigh, then the glint of silver rose so dangerously close to his eyes that the hairs on the back of his neck rose. "It shall have to do," she replied grimly. Faerim inclined his head and shifted his fingers nervously on the swore hilt, but Erenor interrupted his preparation, adding, "You may like to use your bow though: it is a more practical way of fighting when there are two of us: there is less chance of you hitting me."

Deciding not to take the comment as an insult, Faerim nodded once and wordlessly sheathed his sword, but loosely, ready to pull out in a second. His bow ready to hand, the youth steeled himself for the impact of his very first battle, and pulled hard on North's reins and gave a short, fierce yell, digging in his heels. With a whinny of delight, excitement and terror that reflected Faerim's own terrifying mix of emotions, the horse reared back then set off at a gallop through the Dunedain ranks and towards the battle.

North was a nimble horse, and fast, and although he carried two riders, he was spared all the extra weight of cumbersome armour that others wore, with Faerim crouched low over his neck, his face almost touching the horse's flyaway mane. They reached the front ranks fairly quickly, jostled though they were by other riders. As Erenor raised her vicious looking curved sword - both beautiful and dangerous, probably rather like the lady herself, Faerim mused uncomfortably - Faerim tightened his grip on the saddle between his legs and took his bow from his back, ready strung, and raised it to his face. The orcs were coming straight for them, a solid wall of stolen fur, fangs, gruesomely stained weapons and glaring, half-dead yellow eyes. Fighting the urge to whimper or run away, Faerim braced himself for the impact and let fly with the first arrow. But even his good aim could only delay impact for a moment of two and when it came, it was so sudden that the youth felt like he had been flung into a brick wall.

Inexperienced in battle as his rider, North reared up, lashing out with his hooves at the dark beasts that assailed him and doing his bit. Faerim did his best to hold on and continued to fire, against all odds, into the mass of creatures, focusing only on the tip of the arrow and it's intended target, barely even aware of Erenor behind him as she swung time after time, hewing down those who came too near. Taking a second to regain himself as he almost slipped from the saddle, Faerim snatched at North's reins and urged him on once more, moving him forward through the melee - and the horse obliged, trying to run from this sharp, jagged place, an assault on every one of his sensed. Erenor almost slipped at the sudden movement and Faerim grabbed her wrist to steady her, more as a reflex than anything else. As soon as she had regained her balance on the fast moving horse, Faerim let go and turned his attentions back to his bow, firing another three arrows into the melee around him. But it was too much concentration to keep up, and his eyes and both arms were tiring quickly from this method of fighting: he knew he couldn't keep it up.

As an orc charged towards them with an awful yell, Faerim turned, startled and unable to take it down at such a close range, and it's blade almost took off his leg before Erenor's blade arced across sliced it's head from it's shoulders at such a speed that the body of the orc did not stop for a moment afterwards. North danced out of the way, equine eyes wide and fearful, and so it was the unfortunate soldier close by to Faerim who bore the brunt of the orc's weight: the man was taken unawares as the heavy body of the orc slumped across him and the spiked armour caused his horse to rear in pain. With a yell, the hapless man fell from his horse onto the muddy, churned up ground and, despite Faerim's attempt to get to him, an orc got there first, cutting the soldier's throat in passing. Faerim drew back in horror but Erenor barely paused: seizing the now redundant horse's reins, she swung across onto it's back from North's and was settled in the saddle in an instant. Giving Faerim a brief, grim nod, she raised her sword once more and continued her attack.

Faerim hesitated, marvelled at the elf's cold, business like efficiency in taking the dead man's horse, and in that precious second he very nearly lost his life as an orc attacked from behind. Faerim turned in an instant, his hand finding his sword and plunging it backwards into the orc's thick torso with lightning quick speed, but the closeness of his death standing by had jerked the young man back to his senses: sword now ready in his hand, he swung it around in a wide circle and, surrounded by his kinsmen, he attacked.

[Arry]

In the midst of battle, unwelcome death . . .

Lord Ereglin waved them on. The trio had ridden somewhat beyond the area where the Orcs were fully engaged with the Dunedain troops, and had stopped to look back on the fighting. Rôsgollo and Gaeredhel kept close to Ereglin’s mount, making sure the Elf was strong enough to maintain himself astride the horse. He assured them he was, urging them with his motions to join in the fray.

The Orcs were disorganized, frantic in their fighting. Striking out wildly against the Dunedain onslaught. For their part, the brothers mowed down a good number of the creatures that came against them. But, then, Gaeredhel grew tired; his right shoulder increasingly painful. The strokes of his blade were slower, less forceful. And several times he was almost unseated as an Orc with a lance pushed past his blade and struck against him.

Rôsgollo had been keeping parallel with his brother, and seeing him falter, he drew nearer to him, cutting through the few Orcs that crowded about him. Two Orcs with lances now harried Gaeredhel, and Rôsgollo could see, as his brother shifted in his saddle, the stain of blood enlarging on his right shoulder. Gaeredhel’s wound had opened up, and even now the blood trailed down his side beneath his shirt, a small rivulet running red down his high boot. An unfortunately aimed blow from one of the lances knocked the Elf to the ground. The two Orcs bore down on Gaeredhel, the one’s club bashing soundly against the Elf’s head with a sickening sound as the other drove his lance just above the neck line of the mail shirt, where the exposed throat lay.

Too late Rôsgollo came close enough to strike a blow against them. Already he could see the light fading from his brother’s eyes. With a cry he drove the Orcs away from his fallen sibling, slashing at them with grim determination. He drew his horse to a halt very near Gaeredhel’s now still form, dismounting quickly. He stood over him, slicing at the oncoming Orcs with a precise economy of strokes. He would hold them off, he thought, until he could secure his brother’s body from the foul creatures.

The Orcs, for their part, were attracted to one of their foe on foot. They pushed in against him in increasing numbers until the very weight of them bore him under; their clubs and blades bringing him to the same still repose as claimed his brother. Like ants over dead leaves, the Orcs swirled in their frenzy and just as quickly dispersed seeking other prey . . .

[Kransha]

Hírvegil’s eyes peeled open hesitantly, the lids apparently unwilling to lift themselves off the swollen orbs beneath. He blinked and felt again, the surge of reality rushing up to meet him. The sting of a wound on his forehead came into focus, and the stink of recently dried blood wafted odiously into his flared nostrils. He instinctively moved his now un-gauntleted hand to his brow, feeling the thin crust of dry crimson plastered to the rent skin there. There was some wet blood still simmering in the wound. With a pained breath, he arched his back, shifting numb legs beneath him so that the ruffled sheet beneath him was kicked aside.

“Captain?”

The voice was Belegorn’s, and it stabbed Belegorn sharply. Hírvegil winced, gritting his teeth and slapped his palm against his brow as it throbbed once and then again steadily for a few seconds. His eyes managed to focus as he turned his heavy head towards his lieutenant. “What?” he groaned, twisting his mouth about around his tongue and screwing up his face to accommodate the words, “What is it?” As the fuzzy vision presented to him became clear and acute, he saw Belegorn nearing him, scooting closer on a rickety stool. Overhead was the willowy fabric of his tent’s drooping flat roof. He rubbed his eyes firmly, working bony fists into the red-rimmed sockets, trying to beat out the pain in his head, as Belegorn spoke.

“How do you feel?” asked the lieutenant patiently. Feeling a little better, Hírvegil tossed off a glib response. “Like I’ve been drinking all night.” He said. Then, after looking down at the quiet earth for a moment, he glanced up at Belegorn quizzically. “Have I been drinking all night?” The lieutenant grinned half-heartedly, but did not laugh. Instead, he simply shook his head with minimal briskness and replied.

“No, you fell from your horse. Thank Oromë you were not trampled.” He gestured, indicating the wound on Hírvegil’s forehead. Hírvegil continued to look at him, blinking erratically, with a questioning look on his face. “Trampled?” he mumbled, mostly to himself, and then his eyes brightened – a revelation. “Ah, yes, I remember.” Again his mood changed suddenly to one of urgent distraction, “Belegorn,” he whispered sharply, holding his breath, “were we victorious?” The answer was obvious, but Belegorn indulged him.

“Yes, but our charge was ill-planned. More men were lost then needed to be...including,” his tone became solemn, and Hírvegil shifted unreadily, "some of the Elves". Hirvegil looked stricken, his face losing a hint of its still vague color. Seriously, he spoke. “How many?” asked the Captain, his own voice becoming slow and steady. Like a well-oiled machine, Belegorn rattled off casualty numbers from memory. “Two Elves, fourteen of ours dead, three mortals gravely injured, and many more with minor wounds. Luckily the maids of the camp volunteered to tend to them, though little real tending or medical attention was needed. The loss was unfortunate and, dare I say, it unnecessary." He paused, letting Hírvegil absorb the information.

"Which Elves were slain," questioned the captain gravely. Belegorn instinctively lowered his head, the words flowing from between seemingly closed lips. "Gaeredhel and Rosgollo, the two guards of one of the Mithlondhrim emissaries." Hírvegil looked at him, his eyes dim and unseeing, like those of one blind. "How have the Eldar taken this?" His question was darkly made. Belegorn's reply was one of semi-dejected confusion. "They are, as usual, enigmatic. Obviously they mourn his loss, but I do not know their post-mortem rites for comrades in arms, so I cannot speculate."

After a moment of pondering, Hírvegil questioned his second again. “How long was I-”

“Less than a day, Captain.” Belegorn deftly interjected, anticipating what his captain would say, “I hope you feel better. I must say,” he paused again, an uncomfortable lump welled up in his usually stern and resolute throat, “you were…strange, yesterday; not yourself.” He said this all with great uneasiness, but his tense shoulders sagged with relief as Hírvegil’s downturned head nodded. “No,” he acknowledged, “I was not. Your honesty is always refreshing, Belegorn, but we cannot dwell on that now. We must make haste to the Ered Luin.” With a little more spring in his step, though a still feverish one, he rose. Belegorn, though, bade him remain seated wordlessly.

“Captain,” he said, “I must advise that we wait a day. This ordeal has left many tired, traumatized, injured. It may not be sensible to push the Elves on after losing two of their company. It will be hard to resume our appointed course.” Hírvegil, though, did not heed his good advice, shooting a watered-down glare of arrogance and familiar Dúnedain hubris at the lieutenant. “Since when,” he intoned, “have the Dúnedain bowed to such petty challenges? We will journey on before the sun reaches…” he trailed off, realizing, to his mild dismay, that he did not know what time it was. “Belegorn, where is the sun now?”

“It has just risen on a new day.”

“Very well.” Continued the captain haughtily, rising to his full height, “We must not be felled by this loss, and the Elves will have to perservere beyond it. We shall ride out before noon.”

[Kransha]

The ride to the Blue Mountains was just about as somber as the ride to the Hills of Evendim. It was much longer, but just as uneventful as the first. It dragged on, but, though the year was progressing steadily out of winter, ascending to lands farther north brought heavier snowfall. Valleys became glaciated, plains bore no more tufts or patches of refreshing greenery, trees became bare, and the sky seemed locked in some mockery of dusk, a wintry haze descended on the lands and the traveling company of wanderers.

I was some weeks before they passed from rough plains to rolling hills, and then into rocky straits of land, rivers of snow beneath great tides of ice-stained rock. Earthen crags of stone jutted up occasionally, giving way to deeper canyons and high rising land bridges that forded the chasms. Mountains loomed, overwhelming the shadows of sloping hills, and snowy white became deep grey and shaded black of the high rock spires shooting from mountainsides, cliff faces, and the towering peaks. The overall altitude of the land varied dramatically, so much that looking up or down might become nauseating. Before the last ranks of the Dúnedain stood one of the largest ranges of mountain peaks in all of Middle-Earth, to their eyes at least.

Hírvegil’s mood remained contemplative and dark, even as signs of civilization presented itself. Dúnedain watchmen from the first troop had been stationed in posts on the manmade roadways leading through columned passes, which stretched, looped, wound, and intertwined into the depths of the cavernous ridges, beneath the mountains. Light faded around them, but it remained and soon increased in the Dúnedain hearts. The Elves, though, were more reclusive then before, perhaps in the face of their loss. As long arches of stone closed off the vague sight of sunlight above, dancing shadows pattered like wolves around them and the black roads descended deeper and deeper, but torches of guardsmen welcomed them, some new and some old, those of the Dwarves who had marked the entrances to their caverns centuries ago.

Roads delved into the earth, into moist caves first, then through narrow, twisting tunnels in which the columns of men and women had to be packed tightly and thin out into slivers of lines that wound downward, snaking through the spiraling corriders. As the whole train spread into the lower areas, corriders became collonades, widened in width and height. The torches illuminated less of rooms as they grew more expansive. The geometric designs seemed to ripple over walls and rectangular pillars that stretched seemlessly upward to hold up ceilings that might as well have been the very sky itself, considering their massive lengths. The numbers of Dúnedain guardsmen increased, and soldiers began to populate the areas that the second train of Dúnedain entered into. Many filed into the ranks to speak with officers and gain relayed information about what had occured on their journey so they could bring it back to the king. Soon enough, the Dúnedain had been herded into more well lit areas, where they were greeted with a small concourse of counselors, soldiers, and courtiers who had earlier arrived.

Talk ran rampant quickly, with so many things to talk of. Both groups, upon arriving in the Ered Luin, were low on food and supplies. No one was starving yet, and all were eating healthily, but supplies could not hold out indeffinately, and the Dúnedain needed some new food source. The cavernous rocks of the Ered Luin did not seem like the best place for farming or herding livestock. Another favored topic of conversation was the skirmish that had cost the lives of the two Elves, Gaeredhel and Rosgollo, though most officers avoided touching on this subject so as to be politically correct, as well as simply to be polite. Many things were talked of, but the most popular subject was the one at hand. The King was taking counsel with his inner circle, about to address the people for the second time in as many months.

Soon the situation became a duplicate of what had occurred at the North Downs fortress. Uncontrolled masses, lessened since their last assembly, filed into the largest of the room, escorted on their borders by now unarmored guards who kept their ranks, unsteady and swelling, in check. They eventually amassed in the atrium, the most tremendous of the preliminary rooms. It was not as grand as some of the long-winded cavernous halls and great rooms that lay beneath, but it was grand all the same, high and long, a gargantuan chamber with a vaulted roof unseen by the naked eye, high above the cracked floor. Upturned furniture carved of rough and course stone lay strewn at random throughout the room, which was soon cleared aside by laborers to make room for a granite tablet that was suitable as a platform, which was pushed slowly to one side of the chamber and centered. The Dúnedain clumped around the platform, chatting expectantly, admiring or loathing their surroundings, and engaging in numerous discussions of the bizarre circumstances.

All fell silent when a lone figure swept up onto the newly erected platform. It was King Arvedui.

A feeling of repetition swept through the room as well with his arrival. This was almost mimicry of what had occurred at the North Downs’ and it made room for an uncomfortable air in the vast chamber, which spread like wave through every last Dúnadan. With somber voice but kingly manner and a majestic gait, King Arvedui of Fornost, monarch of Arnor, addressed his people for the second time, breaking apart the deathly silence like a rusty blade.

“My people;” his voice boomed, “my people who have come with me through great hardships; my people who have endured the fall of their fair city, assault and assailment from all sides, death, toil, and darkness: the grace of the Valar has seen us this far safely. Your bravery has led us here, to more darkness, but in the darkness light can be found! We may have lost friends and family, but we have stroven onward victoriously, swept across a great distance, and are now safe for a time. We must now relieve ourselves of blades and shields, and take up the pickaxe and the hoe, for it is time for us to live again.”

“We may be dwelling here, under these damask roofs, ‘neath pillars of mighty Dwarven stone, for a long time. We cannot farm or make a living as once we did in fields lush beneath the sun, but we can still live! The Dwarves who lived her in elder days kept great catacombs brimming with wealth and supplies for their rampant wars. We must find their coffers; find their reserves, so that we may survive where they did not. The caves around, above, and below us may well be home to dark beasts, those left by those past days, but they will not deter us. So now, I, your king, give you orders.”

“Separate into groups, all of you, and be not segregated by petty whims. Let soldiers, men, women, and children all stand and be counted, for all shall be needed. But let these concourses not be great, no more than ten or twenty perhaps, and be of watchful eyes, all, for you shall disperse into the catacombs of the deep. For reasons of solidarity, let our friends, the Eldar-kin, go together, but with a fellow of rank to escort them, and others. They have lost friends, so I am told, but have remained with us throughout, and deserve our thanks and reverence. Do not fear the depths, Dúnedain, for the depths hold nothing insurmountable. Now, my friends, be off into the caves, and bring back with you whatever you find to this, our new camp – our new home. Hope and luck to you all, by Manwë’s thunder and the light of Varda find your way!”

And he walked off of the platform.

----------------------------

Some minutes later, the room was abuzz with talk again, and the officers were separating into their respective groups. Hírvegil, though, retreated unceremoniously from the din, heading with others off into some of the offshooting cubicles, dank, dusky chambers that rimmed the vaulted atrium. Belegorn and other commissioned ranks edged through the tightly packed crowd (significantly less than it had been at the North Downs) and diffused slowly into the same side chambers. Belegorn found his Captain sitting and taking deep, chest-heaving breaths on a frigid stone stool with a shattered corner and a broken limb. He looked even more tired than usual, if such a thing was possible. Hopefully, Belegorn moved towards the Captain and spoke to him with hasty words passing between his lips.

“Captain,” he said, “Shall I form some groups among our company? I will assign an officer to the Elves as the King commanded and you may oversee-” Hírvegil interrupted him with a raised, flattened hand, as he sagged in his battered seat. He spoke in an almost mournful tone, saying words that sounded as grave as death. “Belegorn,” he uttered soberly, “I am not going on any of the expedition groups. I am staying here.”

For nearly a whole minute, Belegorn gaped at him until finally stammering, “But why, sir?”

Hirvegil sighed deeply at this question he’d expected, pulling his hand across his brow and using his broad index finger to analyze the bruise left by his forehead wound. “I do not feel well,” he paused almost after each word, leaning back on nothing, his silence drowning out the din of officers’ loud discourse, “and when I say this I do not mean that I am merely ill. I do not feel like myself. I must rest. Please, Belegorn,” he sounded almost pleading, a strange emotion coming from the staunch Captain of the Rearguard, “do not question me this once. I have received permission from the King’s lords to remain behind.”

“Indeed he has.” The vulture’s voice cut in.

Belegorn swiveled about to see a familiar, pale face – Mellonar. The white-faced shade of a politician hovered behind the Lieutenant, who glared at him, but a simmering grin peeled over Hírvegil’s face instead of the expected scowl. The counselor moved closer, swooping down like the carrion-fowl he was so often likened to, his shadow slim and bent over as it was cast out over the broken stones of the floor. “Ah, Mellonar, you old fiend,” spat Hírvegil with a grim cough, “I thought, or rather, I hoped you had perished on the journey from the Downs. But, your visage does at least remind me of home.”

“Likewise, Captain.” Grinned the lord, licking his colorless, pursed lips and brushing a single loose strand of greasy hair from his face, “I see you are not in good spirits. Your haphazard victory at Lake Nenuial may account for that. I fear my long-time friend is losing himself in this mad time, but you:” he turned, gliding on his slithering robes, towards the lieutenant, who did not flinch openly as Hírvegil did, “You are a specimen indeed, unlike your commander. Word of your accomplishments this season reach many ears, Lieutenant Belegorn of the Rearguard. Even a wise old counselor like myself has seen the promise in you. This is why I caved to your superior’s request – yes, it was I” he interjected into the sentence with a biting in his voice directed at Hírvegil, a usual caustic addition, “–I wanted to see your skills at the helm. You shall lead the group containing the Elves.” Belegorn looked a bit flummoxed by this, and Mellonar’s snaky grin widened, the leathery edges of his mouth curling upward. “Also,” he continued with cold reserve, “take this boy I have heard of, Faerim,” he said the name (like he said all names) with disdain, “and his family, who aided the Elves. They will feel more assured with mortals they know of nearby. Also, I delegate to you the counselor Mitharan, who seemed so eager to go off with you and your braggart captain to the ends of the earth, and any others who the Elves associated with.”

Hírvegil cut him off seriously, ignoring the sardonic nature of his foe. “There was one, Belegorn. A woman called Renedwen. Take her as well.” Mellonar’s lip curled, his ire aroused, but he nodded. “Yes, that will do. What a motley crew you’ll make; splendid. I would wish you luck, lieutenant, but I am sure your captain has given it to you already, and his wishes far outweigh anything I might give you. Good day, Belegorn, Hírvegil. May “Manwë’s thunder” see that you do not fall prey to the creatures of the caves, or whatever terrible things decide to gnaw on your ankles.” He cackled merrily under his breath, “Farewell.” With that, he spun like a bird in mid-air and maneuvered gracefully out of the room, his feet never touching the ground.

As Mellonar disappeared, Belegorn shook his head and turned away; preparing to leave and assemble the group, but an unsteady hand on his pauldron stopped him. His head turned slightly to see the wavering arm of his captain and hear his quiet words. “Good luck, Belegorn.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

[Novnarwen]

Mid-day was slowly passing and the rays of the sun shone more weakly as the minutes passed. The sky was dark blue, covered with light, white clouds and the weather was warm and pleasant. One could think that on a day like this, people would be out and about, enjoying the last bits of the sun before it would disappear behind the mountain tops. Surprisingly enough, no one could be spotted anywhere. Inside a cave of average size however, in the Ered Luins, there was indeed life. Usually, it would be silent in the caverns at this time of day, but for some odd reason there was particularly much noise....

“Wwwwhat’s he dddoin’ heeere?” The question formulated was directed towards a big figure, clad in green scales, which lay huddled up against the stone wall.

“Shh! He’s asleep!” Riva, also known as the Old Hag, said fiercely.

The tone in her voice reflected the amount of power she now possessed. Being the only one of the trolls in Stuttering Stuga’s clique that could cook decent food, she had gained respect. It was not the sort of respect Stuga had, but Riva didn’t mind. She wasn’t a typical leader. She was in fact more than pleased with the position she had managed to hold on to for so many years, and with the lack of competition to get her position in the clique, it seemed that she would be the chef amongst them until the end of her days. Luckily for her, this was to her advantage; Stuttering Stuga had ordered everyone to take good care of her, to make sure she didn’t die. Or rather, Stuga had figured that this would suit them all perfectly well, if her death could be delayed yet another couple of years. She would cook, and they would eat. Amongst the trolls there hadn’t been much resistance, but a few problems had indeed arisen with the decision of offering Riva all what she wanted and needed to secure her wellbeing. However, the massive leader had made sure it would never happen again, by giving the trolls accounted for a few hits with the largest club he possessed, and they had thus far kept their mouths shut, and had not dared speak of the special services offered to her.

For a moment all of the trolls stood silently watching the figure that lay on the stone floor, fast asleep.

Even though deeply offended by the Old Hag’s rash and reprimanding words, Stuttering Stuga kept his mask. He needed her, everyone did. He couldn’t just beat her for her disobedience like he did with the rest of the scum surrounding him; it would simply make the others wonder why they had taken him seriously when telling them not to hurt Riva. No, beating her now, in front of the others, would be in nobody’s favour, especially not his. With this he realised that he was almost thrilled by his own resolution, which had led to the stunningly brilliant conclusion of not beating her, and he giggled in excitement.

“So, yer letting him stay?” Riva, the Old Hag, asked, seeming almost pleased with herself. She had obviously been convinced by Stuga’s satisfying grin, and had no idea that it was something else that made him smile.

“Weweah non mmmwy geeen scaldesss tttbat Bett, be Eeevpllelled, bbbis gggoin ttpo blleeve.”

“What he intended to say, is that he swears on his green scales that Frett, The Expelled, is going to leave . . .

“Bthisss ibntttan”

“He adds . . ‘this instant!’”

**

And the reader may wonder who of the trolls said what, and what actually one of them said. It is difficult to tell, as one can only guess what a highly, frustrated troll would say and how he or she would sound like. Well, let’s go a bit backwards.

After Riva had started believing that the figure huddled up in the corner was being allowed to stay, it was Stuttering Stuga who spoke. He, too frustrated by Riva’s misconception to talk in an orderly manner, had answered in the best way possible. Naturally, a stuttering, frustrated troll can’t be any good, and so the words spoken had come out in an exceptionally odd way. The other trolls surrounding him had of course not understood a single word, well, except for Grawa.

Grawa thinks he is a remarkably smart troll. It is maybe true; he is at least smarter than the other trolls in the clique; he is the only one who understands what Stuttering Stuga says, regardless of how he says it. In that way, Grawa is without a doubt the best translator ever known to the ‘Troll(an)’-kind. And if that’s not enough, Grawa has also the great pleasure of being Stuga’s favourite cousin, but it ought to be mentioned though, that Grawa is to be sure the only cousin Stuga has.

**

Anyway, after having translated, Stuga nodded to his cousin, and nudged him hard in the ribs. It was a sign of gratitude of having such a great cousin, who actually understood him. It was a sign of satisfaction. By the look of Grawa, one could see that the extra attention paid to him by his cousin had meant something, and without noticing it himself, he turned slightly pink.

“WHAT?!? Please! It’s enough. Poor Frett! He’s starvin’. He just came. He’d been wanderin’ in the caves for days without findin’ food! He’d almost turned himself into stone by walkin’ in the sunlight! Give ‘im a chance!”

It was at this time, when Riva, The Old Hag, had raised her voice to the absolute that Frett, The Expelled, woke up from his deep sleep. Looking upwards, he let his gaze wander; his big, bleary eyes shone ghostly in the dim cave. Noticing that everyone stared at him, he rose instantly, bewildered. He moved his head in an awful pace, from left to right and right to left. It seemed that the silence that had fallen over the clique of trolls seemed to confuse the poor Frett. What was happening? Were they mad? Was his mother, Riva, going to let him stay? Rolling his eyes, he stood looking at Stuttering Stuga. Twice my size, he told himself. No, more. More, much more than twice my size. Four maybe? Yes, that must be it. Can I take him? I can jump… jump at him.. Oooh, he reminds me of one of those, huge, fire-breathing, hard scaled... monsters!!! He blinked, letting his big, weary eyelids rest for a moment before he opened his eyes again. But I can do it.

**

Before we continue, it is important to say that Frett can't really do anything. Not anything at all. This is why he was expelled from this hopeless group of trolls in the first place. It was due to the fact of his clumsiness, his insane clumsiness, that drove everyone else insane, except from his mother, Riva, who of course like all other mothers love their children regardless of their abilities (or disabilities). Of course, as every other problem, Frett's case was taken to the Troll Council (which only Stuttering Stuga is a member of) and, unfortunately for Frett, the case was stamped as hopeless. In fact, the case was just as hopeless as Frett himself. So, in order to keep the good quality that the other trolls in the clique possessed, and not let the group be set back only because one didn’t function normally, Frett was expelled from the group; thus the title. It was decided that Frett was never to show his clumsy face again. He was only allowed small portions of food, which his dear mother Riva made him. But other than that, no one was to keep in contact with the fellow, which wasn’t really a problem at all. The other trolls were perfectly fine with letting Frett walk, as useless as he was.

Stuga’s solution to the problem, chasing after Frett with a club, making him promise to disappear and threatening to eat him alive, worked for quite some time. Frett was even renamed to Frett, ‘The Expelled – On Probation’ for a while, but the clumsy fellow had to ruin it all. Today was actually the third time this week he had shown his clumsy-presence in the caves, and Stuga was naturally starting to lose his patience.

**

Without a warning, Frett sprang into the air, but in doing so, he stumbled, not unexpectedly, in his own feet and landed right in front of Stuttering Stuga. Without hesitating, the large troll grasped Frett, The Expelled, around the neck and held him tightly. “Beengiguh,” he growled. Suddenly, Stuttering Stuga set up a great pace, and started walking. His great feet made the earth shake, and in mere desperation of the situation that had occurred, The ‘Beautiful’ Uruva called out;” Where you takin’ him?!?”

“Enough,” Grawa said, silently.

“Uh?”

“Enough. Stuttering Stuga’s had enough.”

“WRAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! He’s goin’ to kill ‘im!” The Old Hag made a grimace before she started running after Stuga, who had only just disappeared from their view. Judging from the thundering sound in the caves, all of the other trolls followed.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn tilted his head back and regarded the ceiling of the underground hall in awe. He raised his torch in a vain attempt to illuminate the ceiling but quickly recognized the futility of his insignificant act. Unless a towering scaffold was erected and a wide brimmed cauldron of flaming oil placed on it, there was no way he could scrutinize the dwavern rock carvings with adequate lighting.

Great were the crafts of the masters of stone, thought Belegorn admiringly as he continued to view the inspiring works of art above him, turning his head this way and that like a tourist in a strange but wonderful place.

“Magnificent!” The wide-eyed man remarked aloud idly to himself, “Simply magnificent!”

A shrill and youthful voice chirped excitingly,

“My lord Lieutenant! The exploration party has been assembled. Twenty men strong as ordered ssarrr!”

Belegorn shuddered as the nasal voice cracked at the last noun. He looked towards its source, eyes squinting and mildly irritated by one as audacious as to interrupt his private moment of awe and contemplation. The messenger turned out to be a red-cropped, pimpled faced youth, short and skinny. He looked at belegorn in a pleased manner and smiled cheekily. But this boy wasn’t any errand boy of the moment, scampering to deliver a message to the most ferocious man in the vicinity for a token or two. This was a boy clad in an ill-fitting leather hauberk and brandishing a blunt twin-edged blade. The youth saw that Belegorn was eyeing him and his crooked grin drew even wider.

“We should leave now sir!” The youngster exclaimed with unbridled, unnatural glee.

Belegorn was less enthusiastic. First things first,

“Egad! How old are you boy? What are you doing with a sword? Don’t you have other toys to play with?”

The boy recoiled as if caught in surprise by a poisonous snake. He quickly recovered his composure and replied haughtily, “The name’s Nevhith, son of Torgar! I will be turning fourteen next spring, sir. And this… This is no toy! I was invited into the king’s army this morning and this is my weapon. I will kill orcs with it! Hah!”

He swung his sword menacingly through the air to emphasize his point before adopting a stance that he thought would exemplify his battle-readiness. Belegorn thought he looked like a frog, armed with an extra large tooth-pick…

‘********************


Belegorn waked slowly pass the assembled men, scrutinizing each face intently. The soldiers were adorned in light chain mail shirts and heavy cloaks. Aside from their swords and daggers, they would be carrying no other weapon for what they were about to embark on was a mission of exploration and not battle. Possibilities of encounters with the enemy were slight, or so claimed by the king’s agents who planned this bizarre mission.

Whoever heard of food hunts in an underground series of deserted caves?

As Belegorn brushed pass each face, he could smell the odor of dried perspiration and multitudes of bandaged wounds gone funky. The men stared passively ahead, well drilled in ways of military ceremony and discipline, but the lieutenant knew only too well that they were all dying to scratch themselves in the most awkward of places. Nevhith son of Torgar grinned, Belegorn ignored him. All the men of the severely reduced Rearguard were already injured in one way or another and these few together with some militia volunteers were the remaining ones capable of and bearing arms. Not the most pleasing to the eye, but they would have to do.

Resigned to fate, rather than being pleased, Belegorn cleared his throat dramatically and addressed the troops,

“Men! This mission comes from the King himself! We are to venture into the lower levels of this dwarven stronghold and to seek out whatever resources that are of use to us and appropriate them. But leave any sarcophagus or burial ground alone! The last things I want are stunted specters chasing us!”

Belegorn paused for effect but no one took the bait, his attempt at humor failed miserably. He droned on,

“The caves and tunnels are dark and slippery so watch your footing. Torches to spare are limited so stick close to one another and look out for more on the mission.”

Finished with his address, Belegorn ordered eight of the men in the front row to pry open the metal doors that led to the destination of their supposed objectives. The men grunted and strained before the twin doors finally creaked and moaned before parting. A cold draft blew into the hall and torches flicked.

Belegorn was the first to enter.

[alaklondewen]

The last few weeks had passed by as quickly as the ground had passed under the hooves of Ereglin's mount. The Elf did not remember much of the dreary, monotonous days, as a fog had continued to cloud his mind. Part of the problem came from the poison to which he had been exposed (it took a couple of days after his rescue for its effects to wear away), but mostly he was grief-stricken. The death of both of his young guards had been a terrible blow to Ereglin. It had been their duty to protect him…he knew this, but they had not lived long enough to truly enjoy the beauties that were bestowed on Middle Earth. This thought is what hurt him most, and he felt responsible for their demise. Rationally, he knew better, but his heart still bore the guilt.

The arrival of the refuges to Ered Luin had yet to raise his spirits. In fact, the Dwarven stronghold (however vast) felt oppressive to Ereglin. The stone was cold, and even though many torches were lit to illuminate the area…it was a far cry from the sun’s rays on a warm day. The Councilor wondered at the strangeness in the Dwarves’ concept of beauty. What a pity? He thought.

A pity? Ereglin was surprised when another thought answered his. It was Bethiril, who stood at his side as they readied themselves to be forced down the passages of the mines in search of food.

The Lindon emissary looked at her momentarily before cracking a smile. There are no windows.

The Imladris emissary’s melodious laugh pierced the tense air and brought several curious glances toward the Elves. Ereglin sighed. He had not heard laughter in too long a time, and it felt good to smile again. Although it did not last, as the Dunedain soldiers began moving the group along.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Bethiril was recovering slowly from the whole experience with the Orcs, although she had concern for Ereglin, the emissary from Lindon. After all, he had lost both his guards to their Orcish captors. A pity they had to die when they shouldn’t have. But Bethiril knew there was no turning back the slow yet ever-ticking hands of time.

What a pity. Bethiril started when she heard a reply. Perhaps the Sindar had read her mind. Yet when she looked at him, the emissary was looking not at her, but at the dark Dwarven hold.

A pity? Bethiril answered as she stopped beside him.

There are no windows. Bethiril could not help laughing aloud. After all the troubles this journey had brought them—to him especially—he still had mirth in his heart to joke. She saw Ereglin smile, an ominous spell broken.

The group began to move again. Bethiril wanted to find her fellow Noldo, but before they parted, she answered. But what would you need a window for? To gaze at the wonderful Dwarven architecture? She heard Ereglin chuckle as she walked to the back of the group. He perhaps understands my cause better than anyone here, she thought. A pity two Elves had to die to pay the price for that understanding.

[Nuranar]

Lissi hated the caves with a passion. She had lived all her life in the city, but the times she'd loved best had been out on the land around it. Even this wretched, fearful refugee life had a strange wonder to it: the fascination of wandering, of an ever-changing landscape, of being enclosed by nothing. Most of the people seemed to fear it, afraid of the very space and emptiness that soothed her. They liked the solid security of thick walls. Much good those did back in Fornost! she thought in disgust.

Space, freedom, the ability to see! Lissi didn't want to hide behind walls, she wanted to see what was coming and prepare - or go out and meet it on her own terms. But in these horrible holes in the ground, everything was changed. Everywhere the thick, soft darkness pressed in. A wandering torch might keep it at bay for a little space, but it was always there in the corners, ready to conquer again. The very size of the place worked against them: An army could hide in any of these massive halls, protected by the ominous dark. And they were to divide their forces (and get lost, most likely) and look for supplies? Brilliant, indeed! Lissi thought bitterly.

Casually, she glanced around. If anyone else felt her apprehensions, they were concealing it with great skill. Was she just paranoid? At least no one looked happy about what they were doing. No - take that back. That kid in uniform was far too excited. He would be a danger, to himself if not the whole group.

Despite the bitterness, her mind was trying to plan ahead. There was little she could do to organize their party; the soldiers should handle that, and even if they were incompetent they would not welcome her interference. Carthor could handle himself; he had already recovered his own arms and taken back the bladed stave she had brought from their house. He had not once mentioned rejoining the ranks, however. Instead, he spent most of his time with Lissi, riding beside her and trying to talk. Lissi did not want to repulse him, but she had been hurt so badly in the past she was afraid to open up to him. For now, theirs was an easy, warm, but superficial relationship.

Faerim - well, Faerim was still grieving for the Elves who had died. Her eldest son seemed so mature and so capable that she had come close to forgetting how young he really was. These were desperately hard times for anyone, but particularly for such a young man. Old enough to know his duty and able to carry it out, he lacked the knowledge and steadiness of greater maturity. And his affections, as much as he might have argued the point, still had the warmth and generosity of childhood. He was only just learning how much it could hurt to care for people. There was strength in him, though. Lissi knew he would be ready for whatever came.

And there was Brander. Lissi's gaze slid over to him, sitting silently against the wall near her. He had never been very communicative, but instinctively she knew how terribly it must hurt him, to be blind in this situation. Not only was he unable to help defend the group, he was a liability: Someone else had to take care of him especially. Lissi could not imagine how she would feel in Brander's place. She had done her best, though, teaching him to ride well, to understand what his horse was doing, even to follow her without being lead, using his ears and trusting his horse. But he had never responded or even thanked her. She knew Carthor's disappointment in him had deeply hurt Brander. He had certainly resisted all of Carthor's repentant overtures. Perhaps he was angry at her, too. Lissi shook her head. Perhaps he was forgetting - he wasn't the only one Carthor had hurt. But whatever happened, she had to take care of him. The club Faerim had brought back was still in their gear somewhere.

Their gear - Lissi hopped up quickly, then bent to Brander. "Come on, Brander," she said, smiling so he could hear the friendliness in her voice. "We need to get some things out of our gear." Her son rose carefully, holding an elbow away from his side. "Of course," he said. Lissi took the arm easily, thus able to guide him without trouble. They had worked out the system some little time ago, and it worked well.

Carthor was sharpening his sword not too far from their piled-up saddles and small heap of saddlebags and packs. Lissi knelt and rummaged through it, her hand pausing as it touched something smooth and cold, then moving on to find the club. "Here," she said, pressing it into Brander's hand. "Do you remember this?"

He smiled - very slightly, but it was there. "I do."

"You may need it, I think. Why don't you ask Faerim to show you how to use it? You might be able to work out some signals, too. He'll be better at that than me." She called Faerim over and left the two of them together.

Swiftly then she selected the most essential articles from the rest and filled the smallest pack. Last of all she slid out the short sword Faerim had given her. Finding a long strap among their gear, she cut it to size. With that and some narrower pieces of leather she rigged a makeshirt but effective swordbelt.

Swiftly Lissi stood to her feet and shook out her travel-stained skirts, then buckled the belted sword around her waist. She was glancing toward the boys when she surprised the look on Carthor's face. He was still sitting there, but grinning in surprise and admiration. And the gleam in his eye was reflected from no lantern. Lissi raised an eyebrow and winked coquettishly. Then she turned and walked away toward their sons, swishing her skirts.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim had been moving in a daze over the journey to Ered Luin, his eyes dull and his speech infrequent. The death of the two elves had hit him hard, as hard as if one of his own friends had died. But could he even have called Gaeredhel and Rosgollo his friends? They had remained distant and spoke little, and yet...and yet they had trusted him. They had gone behind the backs of every other Dunedan in the camp, but they had trusted Faerim.

Surely that stood for something?

Propped up against one of the stone walls, out of the way of the rest of the Dunedain, Faerim shifted uncomfortably in his half-lying position, staring at the ceiling high above with disinterested eyes. What did it matter now, what his relationship with the brothers had meant? They were gone now, passed into whatever peace elves believe in, whatever oblivion their souls transcended to...if they believed in souls, that is...

"We do," said a mellifluous voice from nearby, answering his thoughts aloud.

Faerim started and sat up, looking around at the owner of the voice, his hand on his sword although he had already recognised it: Erenor. The elf was sitting about a metre from Faerim, her hands clasped around one raised knee, watching him brightly as if she had been there all day, her cool grey eyes watching him as if studying some rare animal. He returned her gaze silently for a moment, then nodded courteously although suspicion flickered in his eyes: she had listened in to his thoughts, and it made him uncomfortable. However, he did not show his misgivings when he spoke. "Good day, Lady Erenor."

"The souls of elves go to the Halls of Manwe, Faerim; we do not simply pass into an oblivion." Erenor continued as if she had not heard the boy. "We go back to the the bossom of the Vala, the creators, and to our ancestors...." She trailed off wistfully, looking through Faerim, her gaze distant. Faerim watched her for a second, then looked away. "You listened in to my thoughts," he said shortly.

Erenor raised her eyebrows. "I did not 'listen in', Faerim," she replied sardonically. "I have just seen that look before in they eyes of those who grieve. Why is it that you grieve so for a pair who you barely knew, who did not share your generation, your interests, your race?"

Faerim did not answer. Erenor arched one eyebrow and Faerim looked sharply at her, angry at the uncaring action. "Do you not care that they are gone, Lady? They died fighting a battle brought about by your rescue-"

"-And similarly I fought in that battle, as did you, and a hundred other men." Erenor cut him off sharply.

"They saved your life, Erenor!" Faerim instantly regretted his angry outburst, his disrespect in calling her directly by her first name, in snapping at her: she was a lady, and an elf, and he suddenly felt his pitiful seventeen years shrink at those ageless, immortal eyes. He averted his gaze, looking at the ground. "Apologies, Lady, I did not mean to snap, I was-"

"I understand." Erenor replied shortly. Faerim flinched inwardly at the coldness in her voice, but when he looked back at her, she was watching him with her head on one side and a new, unexpected emotion in her eyes, a sort of interest, as if she had just found that this strange, rare animal really did have claws and was capable of caring for itself. She gave him a small smile as if reaching out to him. Her voice had a gentler note.

"When I said before elves believe is souls - believe was not the right word. We know that the fea of a slain elf is called to Mandos but after a while they are released to dwell in the realms of Bliss. Do not grieve overmuch for Rosgollo and Gaeredhel they are together an reunited with their kin who have gone before. They chose their path and knew the risk. Battle is a necessary evil, Faerim; No one would chose it - it is the fruit of the seeds of evil sown by Morgoth. Evil will not be eradicated until the world is remade. We have to fight it when we find it lest the world be entirely overgrown.

You should know this; you are of a line of warriors -as indeed am I . Loss of life of those near you has to be expected - although it may be harder for you than I. You are young and the fate of men is sundered from ours. Warfare is not something to delight in for its own sake but it may prevent a greater evil. Do not shy away from it - you have skill in battle, I have seen that."

The Dunedan youth looked surprised at the unexpected compliment, and couldn't help grinning back at her. Flicking his eyebrows up and down, he replied, "You weren't at all bad yourself, Lady."

Erenor laughed, and the sudden, joyful sound seemed to signify some sort of bond or alliance between she and Faerim, however distant. She gave him a sort of satisfied, appraising grin, nodding slowly. Rising in a fluid motion, she held out a hand and Faerim stood. Looking to where a group of men were gathered, the elf looked slightly disdainful. "My kin and I were called to join that motley group in some exploration of the tunnels. You are no doubt expected to join them: some of them appear several summers younger than yourself even."

Faerim sighed and nodded, looking sidelong at the group, led by Belegorn. "Times have become rather desperate for the Dunedain," he murmured softly, his voice older than his years, and Erenor gave him a curious glance.

She thought for a moment and rummaged among her belongings. Anyone who had bothered to notice such things would have noticed that they had increased somewhat from the small pack she had borne from the evacuation. She handed Farim a cloth wrapped bundle which contained a mail shirt and a dagger. The youth started when he recognised them as belonging to the dead elvish guards. "Don't be squeamish - they need them no longer - I think they would approve

Bending to retrieve his sword and sheath, Faerim buckled the belt around his slim waist and stifled a yawn: sleepless nights had left him tired, like many of the travellers. Reaching out, he took Erenor's gifts with utmost care, as if they were more precious and rare than the finest stones mined from these caves throughout the years. The mail felt strangely solid in his hands, and their heaviness surprised him, although of course it made sense: where mannish chainmail was concerned it was deceptively light, of course, but the elves...they had seemed magical, weightless. A foolish concept, Faerim thought wryly, turning the mail in his hands. Gaeredhel and Rosgollo were as solid as you. More so, probably. In that moment, the childish magic of the elves that Faerim had imagined died a little - and his understanding increased. Stowing the folded chainmail in one pocket of his coat, he attached the fine dagger onto his belt, on his right side. Feeling strangely reassured by the heaviness in his pocket, Faerim looked once more up at Erenor. "Thank you, my lady," he said softly. She smiled back and inclined her head, and with that, started briskly towards the group led by Belegorn.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

She finally found Erenor, who had just finished talking to a Dúnadan youth. It was the one had joined in the mission to rescue them from the Orcs. He looked at the boy, who was even now putting on a sheath around his waist. Even the youth we arm now? she thought. What is Middle-earth coming to? She approached the lad.

“I have not thanked you yet . . .” she stopped, having forgotten his name.

“Faerim, m’lady.” He grinned, then bowed. He still had the gangling awkwardness of a teenager. And yet he volunteered to join war-hardened Elves into an Orc camp. Perhaps, like any young man, he thought himself to be untouchable by death.

“How old are you, Faerim?” the emissary asked. The lad stared down, and he began to scratch the ground with his foot. He seemed uneasy at the question.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim looked down, uncomfortable with Bethiril's curiosity. Why had the elf asked how old he was? It was the sort of question that one would ask a small child who was playing at being older than he was, puffed up with childish importance and full of maturity that he did not possess. Was that how the elves saw him? As a foolish child? The boy's fingers faltered slightly on the buckle of his sword.

But then, what right had they to judge him? Faerim had had access to practise with weapons since he was fourteen years old, since he had started his apprenticeship in the blacksmith's workshop. He had the ability to wear this sword, more than some of the soldiers several summers older than him who had joined the army already. He looked up and fixed Bethiril with his clear, bright gaze, raising his chin. "I am seventeen years old, my lady."

"Seventeen?" Bethiril seemed surprised, but whether it was that he was older or younger than she had expected Faerim didn't know. He glanced at Erenor, but she was studying the other elf's face also. He nodded, maybe a little too quickly. "Aye, seventeen - I will be eighteen this spring." If we ever reach spring...

Resisting the urge to ask the elf how old she was, Faerim began to walk towards where Belegorn had gathered and was prepping a group of men. The elves followed, and Faerim continued. "You are right in thinking I was technically too young to join the army," he said, then looked up at Erenor's surprised face and grinned. "Aye, I can guess what you're thinking sometimes as well, Lady Erenor. But due to the...the seige on Fornost, every man able to wield a weapon with some ability was drafted into the army. I have been trained with a sword and bow since I was young - it has always been my intention to join the army, as my father and his father before him have done." He shrugged. "It did not matter that I was a year too young; you have both seen that I can use a bow, certainly."

Bethiril frowned slightly, her eyes flickering away from Faerim's, but Erenor laughed. "I suppose you aren't bad," she conceded sarcastically, a reference to their previous conversation. Faerim grinned cheekily, shaking his blonde hair from his face although he just managed to restrain the urge to wink at her - an alliance with the elf was one thing, but he was fairly sure that Erenor would not appreciate the gesture. But he was not able to restrain the next question he asked Bethiril. "Why do you ask?"

The elf's step faltered slightly and Faerim wished he could retract the question, or at least the tone it had emerged: as a challenge. Pale skin reddening, he shook his skin. "Apologies, my lady, forget I asked..." he muttered hastily, speeding up slightly towards where Belegorn stood, blushing furiously.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

As the Elves watched Faerim walk away, Erenor spoke up. “Why, indeed, did you ask him that?”

Bethiril shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said in a weak voice. “Just curious, I guess.” A few moments passed before she spoke again, this time in her normal, melodious voice. “So, here we are, and the remnant of Arnor, despite all our efforts to stop it. What do we do now?”

“Let us speak to the king again,” Erenor suggested.

“Can we speak to the king again?” What followed was a suppressed chuckle. “That Mellonar protects him. He’s already sent us out of the way twice, after all.” Bethiril looked at Erenor, hoping that she did not yet know of her last attempt to talk to the king. But she was silent. At hearing Mellonar’s name, her eyes flickered with a barely suppressed flame.

“Too bad. The Orcs were much better to us then he is,” the older Noldo said in an attempt to bring Erenor out of her deadly mood. It worked, but not in the way she hoped. Erenor recalled the event that almost broke her pride in her abilities.

“I am sorry,” Bethiril said, and she meant it. She realized a moment later that she was no longer the cold emissary that she was. What has happened to her?

“Never mind that. We must catch up with our group.” With that Erenor began walking back into the caves.

[Osse]

The news that the Dunedain would be organised into small groups and sent into the darkness of the Dwarven halls to search for supplies had fallen rather lightly on Carthor’s shoulders. Little had broken the monotonous rhythm of the slow, crawling journey to the Ered Luin. Indeed, since the rather turbulent events of the orc-raid, Carthor had found his mind growing steadily impatient with the never-ending, plodding pace of the column. He was sick of skulking through the wind-swept landscape like some disgraced animal, turned loose from its den by its once-lesser counterparts. Their arrival in the Blue Mountains and the changes it brought had been welcome.

Carthor sat musing by his open leather pack, his hands hovering over it, holding a length of salted pork wrapped carefully in damp linen. His wife's slight, beautiful frame was just striding away. To break his state, Carthor looked wistfully down at the meat in his gnarled hands, like some spoilt child contemplating an old toy that had grown void of its appeal. For weeks on end Carthor had eaten this same, meagre fare. The once supple flesh now sat bitter and leathery on his tired tongue. Carthor longed for new meats – game had been sparse during the journey, and time to snare it equally so. Carthor relished the thought of the chance to gather new supplies, if only to relieve the monotony.
Still, as he looked down at the joint in his hand, he was smitten with its importance. The refugees had little left now, scarcely enough for a month and that with a tight belt. Much hope lay in the finding of new food in this dark, lonely world of stone.

Carthor’s musings were suddenly broken as two well worn, soft-soled leather boots appeared in front of his nose, their shiny tan surface shimmering slightly in the frail, flickering candle-light.

Quickly, gracefully, Carthor stood. Placing his right hand on his cloaked breast, he saluted the Lieutenant of the Rearguard.
Bowing his grizzled head, he addressed the tall man before him.
“Hail, Lord Belegorn.”
“Hail Carthor, son of Harathor!” Belegorn’s voice was soft yet commanding, subtle yet full of power.

Raising his chin, Carthor removed his hand from his breast and surveyed the man before him.

“I am not one for delay Carthor, so I will not tarry with unneeded formalities.” Belegorn wasted no time, like a stag pursued by a brace of hounds, he leapt straight into the purpose of his visit.

“As you know, Carthor, we are to search this pit for useable stores. We here, and our Elven kindred, shall all go together as one. For the purpose of their protection, the king has placed myself, along with some of the Guard, in this particular party.” Carthor sat patiently, despite his words, Belegorn was addressing unneeded formalities.

“I need someone with experience to help me lead the party, both the Guard and the others. I need you to help me lead the party Carthor.” With startling pace, Belegorn had thrust into the point of his speech.
“You are both seasoned and experienced, which is far more than most of the ‘men’ I have under my command at this point in time Carthor.”
Carthor chanced a brief look over to the waiting ranks of the Guard, and was appalled to see the youth thereof. Surely these boys had seen far too little life to be allowed to fight. As his eyes strayed over the ‘men’, Carthor’s gaze fell on a pale, freckled young man, his great cloak and breastplate ridiculously large on his slight frame, surely no more than twelve summers old, the boy had a grin from ear to ear.

“What say you? Will you aid me in this endeavour?” Belegorn’s voice was settled and steady, yet a look of almost-pleading could not be hidden from his grey eyes.

Thoughts of his inner vows to refrain from violence flicked through Carthor’s mind, images of the quiet, responsibility-free days he had hoped for danced like a candle-flame in his conscious, the blood filled days, the horror-filled nights - all gone.

And then the flame flickered and died. He heard a voice say: “Verily my lord Belegorn, I will aid you in your plight.”

Carthor realised the voice had been his own.

[Saurreg]

A smile shaped on Belegorn’s lips as the gladdening words of Captain Carthor reached his ears. He thrust his hand out and offered it to the older man in friendship and solidarity. Carthor was caught unprepared by the spontaneous act and hesitated at first, but he quickly accepted the sincere hand shake and Belegorn could discern a glitter in his new-found comrade’s eyes.

Belegorn took the opportunity to study Carthor’s face in the pale light of nearby torches. Age and weather had roughed the rounded face leaving countless lines and wrinkles, and the scarred nose with its dented ridge was a testimony to the countless battles and tribulations the man had faced. But this was not an odious face; in fact the piercing blue eyes, distinctive forehead and grey hair gave the man an aura of power and an air of regality. Carthor belonged to the elite division of charismatic men who were born to lead, just as Hírvegil was.

His features were also strikingly familiar. Belegorn could have sworn that he had seen the same well set pair of blue eyes somewhere before, not too long ago.

“Pray tell Lord Carthor,” asked Belegorn, “But do you have a son and is he with us?”

Carthor broke into a grin with unsuppressed pride, “Not just one Lieutenant, but two fine strapping lads! I should think that the one you have in mind is Faerim, my eldest born. Folks say he resembles me the most, especially at eyes and forehead. But his has delicate features, good looks from his mother’s side I reckon. And thank the stars for that!”

Both men laughed out loud and their laughter caught the attention of curious bystanders near them. Both men winched when Nevhith decided that he was privy to the conversation an emitted a shrill laughter of his own. Ignore him, mouthed Belegorn to Carthor with his back to the intruder. Eyeing the boy from head to feet, Carthor wisely agreed.

“Faerim, so that’s his name…” mused Belegorn to himself, “Fine lad! And he seems is to be on good terms with the fairer folks. Perhaps… Perhaps he would be interested in a position in the Rearguard.”

“Aye... perhaps,” remarked Carthor with less enthusiasm, eyes falling away from Belegorn’s.

Sensing that he might have inadvertently touched on a raw nerve, Belegorn acted to diffuse the rising tension.

“Let’s see; Nesse? Nehit? Nevhith? Yes! Nevhith! Come here boy and make yourself useful!”

Like an eager puppy anticipating a treat, the scrawny youth scampered towards the two men but before Belegorn could continue, Nevhith was already introducing himself to Carthor,

“Yes, I am Nevhith, son of Torgar! And I am no boy, I am a man! And this is my-”

“Yes! Yes!” Interrupted Belegorn, waving his arm impatiently, “Now listen carefully, this here is Lord Carthor – a captain of the king’s army. You will now go and find the senior sergeants and tell them that Lord Carthor has hereby agreed to help us and all men of the regiment are to obey his every command and pay him the same respects as they would to Captain Hírvegil himself. Understood? Now off you go!”

Nevhith snapped into what he thought was a formal Arthedain salute (it was not) and bolted off into the semi-darkness, delighted with his “important” errand.

Belegorn turned to Carthor and gave him an apologetic look.

[Lalwendë]

Since they had left for the Ered Luin, Renedwen had allowed herself to retreat into the comfort of her memories. Her only concern had been for the boys; her son had been as quiet and sleepy as ever, but Gilly was troubled. The boy was now totally alone and the loss of the Elven brothers hit him hard. Through the journey she had been forced to wrap him in her mantle as the child barely stopped weeping; when he was not crying, he seemed to gain comfort from clutching a little bag that he had been given by the brothers. She was thankful that she had a horse and could allow the beast to bear them along as her thoughts had long since flown elsewhere, the grief of the child was too much.

Now they were in the chill confines of the deserted Dwarven stronghold, she seemed to wake and her senses became keen. This was no place for survival, she could tell from the moment she stepped foot in there. It was long abandoned and like all such places seemed all the more desolate for its lack of life. Lanterns which had not been lit in many years were draped in cobwebs as thick as snowdrifts and carvings which would once have been revered for their beauty now lay thick with grime and dust. This place was cloaked in gloom, permanently hiding what it had once been; she reflected sadly that this was how her own city would look before many years had passed.

This was a place of death. Her only thought was to join the search for provisions in the hope that something might be found that could sustain the children until they could leave the place. Alert to every sound and movement, she kept the boys close and made certain the sword she had carried for so long was close to hand. She had a sensation that something ill was afoot.

Finding a resting place for a break after some time in the search, she allowed the boys to nap. She told them no stories of darkness in here, it was a dreary enough place, and she felt that monsters would be all too real an idea; instead, she gently sang while they dozed. As he slept Gilly released his tight grip on the leather bag he carried and for the first time Renedwen noticed it. It was finely made as all Elven crafted goods seemed to be, and soft. Perhaps this was why the boy found such comfort in holding it, she thought. Yet on looking inside, she found something precious. Wrapped in deep green leaves was some kind of bread which also smelled as sweet as cake. The boy had food. Quietly, she wrapped it up again, and put the bag back into his arms. The Elves must have known what would happen, she reflected, and they must have left him with something to sustain him.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn politely refused Carthor’s invitation to partake in the meal of unsavory dried meat the latter was consuming before being interrupted. Taking his leave from the veteran soldier, the lieutenant resumed his rounds and attended to his people. Like old Carthor, most were breaking their fast or trying to catch whatever rest they could before Belegorn decided that it was time for the subterranean expedition to continue. He would have preferred individual scouting parties to be sent out before having civilians make the journey themselves, but the king had made his decision and there was nothing he could do but abide by them.

The mood in the corridor was glum and lifeless and Belegorn passed by many without them even noticing. It was as if the very darkness of the tunnels had sapped the life out of the people. Even his soldiers who were usually sharp and alert, seemed daze and inattentive; not one managed to salute or even acknowledge the presence of their commanding officer in time. The situation was indeed perturbing and Belegron knew he had to get his charges out of the underground as soon as possible, but the complexity of the interlinking tunnels acted to oppose his will; every turn off the corner produced new foreboding passageways that left one undecided and witless. Unless he had in his service a cadre of scouts with superior senses to piece together some sort of decipherable pattern in the labyrinth they were in, there was no way they could exit the dwarven fortress in good time, or even at all.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Belegorn failed to notice that somebody in his way and bumped into the latter. With the mind to apologize, Belegorn looked upon his intention and discovered that it was Faerim, the son of Carthor. And from the looks of it, the youth seem to be lost in a world of his too.

“Forgive me Faerim,” begun Belegorn sheepishly, “I should have been looking at where I was going.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim stumbled slightly as a taller, thicker set figure pushed past him, and turned angrily towards the latter. Recognising the individual as Lieutenant Belegorn, Faerim hastily mellowed his expression and nodded stiffly to the superior soldier. Since Hirvegil's strange request and even stranger threats, however thinly veiled, before Faerim had set off with the elves, the youth had felt less sure of the leaders of the army. For a time, in his own mind, he had angrily laid some of the blame for Gaeredhel and Rosgollo's deaths on the Captain of the Rearguard; now, as his frustration had disintegrated over the weeks to a complex regret and sadness, his anger at Hirvegil had softened as he resigned himself to the fact that the blame could not be laid entirely at the Captain's door. He had not been himself over the last few weeks... But although he was no longer so much angry at those in charge of the army, he remained wary of them. Of course, he had no reason to be cautious of Belegorn specifically, having spoken to him but once, at the very start of the exodus from Fornost when Faerim had fairly blagged himself into the army, outgoing and brassnecked. But the young man's cynicism was maturing rapidly, and that seemed a world ago. For this reason, his greeting of the lieutenant as he was literally shaken from his reverie was rather more formal than it might have been a few more weeks ago. Approach with caution.

However, Belegorn could not, in this instant, have ever been called exactly fear-inspiring. He looked positively sheepish, Faerim noted with surprise, as he turned back to the younger man, apparently forcibly removing himself from his own world, too.

"Forgive me Faerim; I should have been looking at where I was going."

Faerim almost started in surprise, taken aback at Belegorn's words. Firstly, the lieutenant had called him by his name: Faerim could not help but be impressed. But secondly, and even more surprisingly, the lieutenant was actually apologising to him. Taken off-guard, Faerim floundered slightly, lost for words. "I...erm, that is, it was my..." Inwardly shaking himself, Faerim pulled himsef together and yanked himself out of the pit of sycophancy that he knew he was headed towards. Nodding politely, he started again. "My mistake, Lieutenant Belegorn; I fear I was as lost as you were."

Belegorn nodded slowly, looking intently at Faerim, and after a second, the youth looked away, clearing his throat and glancing towards where Carthor sat with a few other men, a look of busy determination on his rough features. The second surprise in as many minutes: Carthor had never had much authority to wield, yet he appeared to be commanding several of the men to do things. And they were obeying. Fascinated for the first time in many years by his father's activity, Faerim was distracted from Belegorn until the lieutenant spoke again.

"Your father's new appointment suits him well, Faerim," Belegorn murmured enigmatically. Faerim turned, his eyebrows raised and his lips half open, to the other man, frowning slightly. "What do you mean, sir?"

Belegorn grinned more openly, rubbing his stubbly chin thoughtfully as he too turned his eyes to Carthor, then back to Faerim. "Why, his appointment as a Captain," he replied, smiling.

Faerim's jaw dropped open as he stared incredulously at the lieutenant. Captain?! The young man could not actually remember a time when his father had last been promoted; Carthor had stood still in the army for years, drink and gambling ensuring that his pitted features remained solidly behind the stripes of the same rank apparently for all eternity. Faerim, like Lissi, had stopped expecting more, respecting his father for his history but feeling the regular pangs of contempt for his future, and for every time a younger, less able man passed the older war veteran simply because his father could not motivate himself to change things. So now to see his father finally promoted...why, Faerim might as well have been told that Arvedui had been bumped off the top spot and Carthor had been crowned king in his place and he could not have been more surprised. Stunned, he simply stared at his father, and as Carthor caught his eye, the older man gave a small, anxious smile, raising a hand self-conciously to his eldest son like a boy looking for his father's approval as he stepped out on a new venture, anxious for his parent to see that he really could do it: a strange role reversal for a father and son who had never been close, for a seventeen year old who was half-accustomed to looking after his family.

Smiling back at his father, Faerim gave a small laugh as he tore his eyes away and took once more at Belegorn, nodding silent thanks to the lieutenant. Belegorn smiled modestly and began to walk away, and as he did so, Faerim saw his eyes turn to the two elves, Erenor and Bethiril, who stood conversing a few metres away. He watched them for only a moment, but it was notable to Faerim when he was watching for it, and the sharp-witted boy wondered about it, wishing he could see the older man's expression. The elves did not appear to notice, but Belegorn nonetheless appeared to come to some sort of decision, for he made a small, decisive sound in the back of his throat and half turned back to Faerim, weighing him up appraisingly with sharp grey eyes. After a moment, Belegorn nodded, apparently satisfied with what he saw, and began to walk once more, but this time beckoned for Faerim to walk with him.

Confused, the youth obliged, falling into step with his superior. "Sir?"

[Saurreg]

Belegorn walked slowly towards the direction of the elven emissaries. He was still a distance away from the duo and other movements along the passageway masked his presence so that his intents did not notice his approach, as yet. When young Faerim stepped along side and joined him, the older man solicited softly.

“You alone know them best,” begun Belegron with his eyes still on the two elves, “tell me Faerim, what are the moods of our elven friends? Do they resent us? Bear us anger?”

A moment passed without reply and Belegorn stole a side glance. Faerim had a perturbed look on his handsome face and the former guessed that the young man was in a conflicted state of mind – wanting very much to oblige the lieutenant but at the same time not wanting to erroneously committing any natters that might deal his very special friends harm. Belegorn smiled inwardly; whatever slight irritation he felt due to the hesitation was more than off set by his approval of the youth’s sense of loyalty and responsibility.

“Well lad?” he asked, this time with a bit of deliberate curtness. Faerim and he were closing their distance with the elves.

Almost immediately, Faerim turned his head and look at Belegorn with the sense of doubt disappeared and indignation in its place. Good! Though Belegorn, much pleased with his little test. The boy has fire in him!

Faerim began sternly but yet with politeness, “My lord Belegorn. As much as I would like to indulge in your inquiry, I should think that I own my friends a measure of privy. Especially when I know not what are the intention behind it.”

Ye Gods, the boy’s bold! A surprised Belegorn thought, as he looked at Faerim in the eye. The youth’s face was composed and he did not bate a single eyelid when Belegorn’s piercing grey eyes met his own sapphire blue gems. Belegorn smiled wanly and tried to diffuse the tension.

“Faerim,” he begun, soft and gentle again, grey eyes softening, “rest assured that I mean our mutual friends no harm with my inquiry. I merely sought to discern their moods and to see if they would fit into what I have in mind for the remainder of our journey underground.”

Faerim cocked his head and raised a skeptical eyebrow in suspicion. Belegorn chuckled and revealed his intentions to the precocious youth.

“If you’ve noticed, our progress in the caverns and tunnels of the stunted folks is tardy and unsure. In the dark, this place threatens to seal us in for eternity. Unless we can decipher a pattern in this complex labyrinth of stone, our chances of leaving this place are none.”


Belegorn looked towards the elves and continued, “The Eldar possess gifts of the senses beyond yours and mine. Should they aid us, this expedition would stand a higher chance of success.”

“You want them to be our eyes and ears, as scouts.” Faerim concluded for Belegron, nodding.

“That is all.” Belegron assured again.

“Well,” begun Faerim, “I know they are still grieving for their fallen kinsmen silently, but I do not think their grief would affect their faculties; they’re a resilient lot. They do resent our indifference to their plight however, as well as the king’s haughtiness. Ask nicely.”

Belegorn smiled, “That’ll do lad. Come! Let us go talk to the elves.”

[Mithalwen]

Erenor listened to the Dunedain's request and it occured to her that taking a lead in this foolhardy expedition might provide a small chance of surviving the original folly of the retreat to the mountains. For all the king's praise of their loyalty she felt as much hostage of the Dunedain as she had of of the orcs. And at least the yrch had been considerate enough to render them oblivious and had kept them in the open air - and had demonstrated a concern for their survival. Strange indeed were the fortunes of the world. In fact she wondered if this party was intended to fail.. Mellonar the Perpetually Obstructive would be only too happy to relate how they had nobly given their lives in the cause... and was it coincidence that all the dunedain who had associated with the emissaries were together.


The darkness was opressive but the further they went the closer they would be to the far side .. a west gate would be perhaps their only chance of escape, a small group might be able to make their way unobserved by the enemy south through Lindon to the Havens. There alone did she believe they would find succour. The king would never listen. Disobedience might be their only hope - but for the time being she would keep her own counsel.

The elf woman met the Dunadan's gaze steadily though she stood some inches shorter, and at last, she answered, " Lieutenant Belegorn, I am willing to do as you ask, and maybe Lord Ereglin will also. We seek food and if there be any, chances are we will find other beings who regard it as their larder. For that reason it may be wise that we go a little ahead. If you wish one of your soldiers to come with us, I suggest it should be Faerim, who has the soft footedness of youth and is used to our ways" .... she gave a half smile, well aware that it was not necessarily a skill that would be appreciated by all his kindred. "The Lady Betheril does not bear arms so it may be safer for her to lend her skills to the rearguard, for we my not explore all the small side tunnels that may give passage to some creatures, though not elves and men. Nevertheless the choice is hers."

Waiting for the others to respond, she glanced into the tunnel beyond, hand on her sword hilt. So used had she become to wearing her mail and sword that walking armed and armoured felt as natural to her as her own skin. she looked at the boy. I wonder if he can learn the osanne she thought.

[Garen LiLorian]

"As my Lady and my charge have accepted this from you," Angóre said softly, disapproval coloring every word, "I shall do so as well. But I do not know what you expect us to find. I do not believe we shall find any food fit for Elves or Men down these long-abandoned shafts of the Naugrim. Like as not, we will only find dust, or other pathetic creatures as desperate as ourselves and as hungry. Tell me, Belegorn of the Rearguard, why do you ask us to take the lead in the search?"

Belegorn repeated his explanation of Eldar senses, and Angóre chuckled mirthlessly. "I assure you, captain, I have no craft to lead us through such gnawings and worm-holes as these. Mayhap we can catch some small and unwary denizen of these holes, if indeed they are not utterly abandoned as I believe, but we would do better to mark our path carefully and retrace than rely on the senses of the Eldar to escape these wretched mines."

[Kransha]

“You realize that you cannot lead in this state.”

“Of course I can, and you know I can.”

Mellonar scratched his jutting chin thoughtfully, assuming the port of a philosopher, quiet and contemplative. He leaned back on the “imported” divan he had procured from the Arnorian supply wagons and lazily blinked, allowing an icy grin to perk up his colorless lips. “You do yourself too much credit, Hírvegil. You are sick, we both know it, but you, as always, are to stubborn to admit it. Perhaps it is a strain of the plague that harried us years ago, or a new strain. You are often in close proximity to the orcs and the dead. You are probably the most likely to fall ill in all the land, considering your exploits.” He feigned concern deftly, but Hírvegil was neither satiated nor amused. The Captain of the Rearguard sat woozily in a stone chair near Mellonar’s divan, leaning both arms on his downturned sword, which was stuck between the cracked floor stones.

“You are no physician, Mellonar, nor are you a healer – quite the contrary. Your prognosis is hardly one of an expert. I will be well after some rest, and the King no doubt has confidence in that. Besides, both of us want Belegorn to demonstrate his prowess as a commander and, after what happened to their brethren, the Elves probably despise me. It is better that I remain.” Mellonar clucked his tongue like a chiding school marm and giggled under his breath, obviously delighted by the whole situation.

“Yes, by the Valar, you’re a stubborn fellow, just like your father before you.” Hírvegil grimaced. His already whitened, pale face losing what little color it had as he became livid. “Don’t you bring my father into this, snake.” Mellonar looked slighted. “Snake? You call me this when all I wish to do is help you? I compliment your parentage and I am titled a serpent. Hírvegil, have you no shame?” He cackled noticeably, and Hírvegil’s face regained its color, but flushed irate red. He sputtered a little, feeling as if he should say something caustic, but nothing came from him, and he simply sat, rocking meagerly and flushing deeper and deeper crimson as Mellonar noticed his discomfort – and laughed again.

“I do not relish-” laughter “-your discomfort, Hírvegil, but it is rare that I see such an proud man of Númenórean blood, reduced so much, and yet so very arrogant still. You have not even the sense to admit your illness, but, t’is all the more humorous for me. The counselors in the King’s Chamber speak even now of what transpired at the Hills of Evendim; you are not what you once were, Hírvegil, do not pretend you are.” As these words fell from Mellonar’s lips, his tone remained an intonation of political sarcasm, but now deathly grave, as if the very syllables had become pale and grim. His eyes, bright with merry wickedness, lulled into serene dankness that peered, with some curiosity, at Hírvegil, as he snarled deep in his throat. “My mistakes,” the Captain said with a harsh rasp reverberating in his sore throat “shape my future successes. You are one to speak of such things, a politician whose career has been forged by underhanded movements and shady dealings. My faults are honest at least.”

“You fault may be honest,” Mellonar said in reply, slowly now and with no joy in him, all happiness having evaporated suddenly, “but you, Captain of the Rearguard, are not. You did not fare well, I dare say, and our troops have suffered. The Elves may have had their aristocrats rescued from the maw of goblins, but the loss of those two guards will cost us all.” He paused, gracefully, and settled back against the divan, easing into its sooty cushions like a wriggling serpent. “And,” he whispered, even though no one else was in the room, “I hear of other shortcomings. Some of the citizens have spread rumors, Hírvegil.”

The Captain’s graying eyebrows rose questioningly, both hairy tufts as skeptical as hairy tufts could be, “What rumors?” he said, his voice as deadly as a sword, but without the commanding strength of a well-forged weapon. Mellonar made a noncommittal chuckling noise.

“That boy, Faerim son of Carthor; you tried to enlist his aid in spying on the Elves.” Hírvegil winced, remembering this. He had felt dreadful doing that, weeks ago, but it seemed to be a perfect solution considering the circumstances. Darkly, he nodded, his head drooping downwards. “Yes, I did. As far as I know, he did not uphold his end of the bargain, but I blame him not. The situation became very chaotic later on and it would have been monstrously unjust to charge him.”

Mellonar perked up, his hooked nose giving a little rigor-mortis-like twitch, that of a dead rodent. “Charge him with what?” Hírvegil winced again, but not because of painful nostalgia. He shouldn’t have assumed that Mellonar knew of everything he had told the boy on that chilly Evendim morning. Obviously, someone had overheard snippets of the conversation of the camp borders and word had diffused fierily throughout the refuge of the Dúnedain. Now, inadvertently, he had given away the source of his guilt, the ruthless attempt by him at bribing a Dúnadan youth, a shady maneuver that rivaled some of Mellonar’s. With uncharacteristic reluctant, Hírvegil dove onward, “I did threaten, at one time, to charge him with high treason if he did not comply with my plan. It was a moment of weakness, one which I am sure you will cherish, but it is in the past. I do not know if that boy has forgotten the fact, but it was never brought up again. I certainly don’t intend to bring charges against him now, so the matter rests. You have your answer.”

Mellonar drew a long, manicured fingernail against the cushioning of the divan, drawing a bit of fuzz stuffing like blood from a wound, and placed a finger before his mouth, pursing his lips in contemplative repose. Then, he threw himself up suddenly, his billowing fur robes fluttering as crows arched wings and alighting on the floor, kicking up some cobwebs that had settled between the cracks in the stones during their conversation. “That is all one, Captain. See that you get well before matters become…” he halted, “complicated.” The word seemed strangely impacted, ringing like a weighted bell that struck and sounded in Hirvegil’s already pounding skull. “I am off to do what you cannot: lead. I suggest again that you consult someone skilled in leech-craft, or perhaps simply consult a leech and let him do the job, without the hassle of social interaction. Farewell.” With a self-satisfied grin, Mellonar swished dramatically out of the room, leaving Hirvegil to wallow in the pain induced by unknown ailments and well-known ills.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"I would be glad to go with those who will scout ahead, Lieutenant Belegorn, if you so wish," Faerim said respectfully, glancing at his superior curiously although he inclined his head courteously. He saw Erenor look sharply at him and, out of the corner of his eye, he caught her smile. Belegorn also shot him a sharp look, then, after a moment's hesitation, he nodded. "Aye; Lady Erenor, if you are to take Faerim with you whilst you go ahead, as you have suggested, and Lady Bethiril can accompany the rearguard, if you deem it would be helpful."

Faerim could not help getting the feeling this swap appeared to be something like a hostage exchange - one of ours for one of theirs - but somehow he did not mind. Erenor had proved intriguing company and whilst he would probably make no difference in the rearguard full of over-eager, under-trained youths, he suspected he could be of some help if he was to go ahead in this smaller group. He bowed his head to Belegorn, accepting the order, but the Lieutenant still seemed distracted, frowning slightly as he regarded Angóre perplexedly - deep in thought over the elf's words, no doubt. At length, he spoke. "You are right, Angóre, about the importance of marking our tracks so as to get out of these blessed mines - you would have no more skill than we in retracing our footsteps?"

"Not so as to hang the fates of half the army on, Lieutenant," Erenor replied quietly. Belegorn nodded, looking troubled as he rubbed his fingers across his stubbly chin thoughtfully. Faerim ran over the possibilities in his mind, then alighted upon one as his thoughts grazed over it. How to mark their tracks back to the other Dunedain...

"Maybe if we were to leave a...man-" Angóre chose the word carefully and with a certain tone of disapproval as he glanced non-too-subtly at Nevhith, who still hovered nearby. "- behind in the tunnels every couple of hundred yards, or at every crossroads - we should easily be able to trace our way back that way, and if there was a problem we could call back to them and they would be able to return the cry to bring us back the right way?"

Erenor, Ereglin and Bethiril nodded thoughtfully, apparently liking the idea, but Belegorn shook his head, worry for his troops presiding. "A practical idea on the outset, Captain, but what if something was to come along the tunnels? They would find our men on their own, and then where would we be? A score of men down and even more lost."

The elves looked disheartened and fell once more to thought, but Faerim silently mulled over his own idea. Maybe it was that he was younger than the rest of them: their childhoods and childhood stories were far behind them - gods, who knew if the elves even had bedtime stories? Looking at Angóre's pale, solemn stone face, he somehow could not imagine those stern features tucked up in a cot, snuggled into a delicately embroidered baby blanket... Feigning a coughing fit so as to cover up his smile as the image sprang through his head, Faerim looked away, but as he did so, he once more caught Erenor's eyes: she appeared to have been watching him all the time, once again with this air of study about her fair features. She raised an eyebrow sardonically at him and Faerim grinned back behind his hand, wrinkling his nose impishly. Angóre cast a disapproving glance at the pair, then fixed his eyes on Erenor. "Lady Erenor, Lady Bethiril, have you any thoughts on the matter?" he asked, like a teacher reprimanding a child caught talking in the back of class.

Faerim jumped in first. "Actually...actually, Captain, I have an idea that may work. What if we were to leave a trail behind us, so to speak, tracing our way back to the camp? Nothing special, mind, just something large enough for us to see and follow back - say a cloth or spare item of clothing tied to the rocks so as to mark our way out of the mines?"

The elves seemed to be mulling over the idea, frowning slightly as they mused what flaws it might have, but Belegorn gave a faint half smile as he nodded slowly at Faerim. "A trail of bread crumbs," he said softly. Caught out in his fairytale source, Faerim blushed and looked away, feeling suddenly even more juvenile. But the elves, it seemed, did not quite understand, and Bethiril jumped in. "Oh no, Lieutenant Belegorn - why, we are short enough of food as it is, that would be a waste of..."

Belegorn shook his head, smiling at the elven emissary. "A turn of phrase, my Lady, a mere turn of phrase." He looked back at Faerim. "Alright, Faerim, we shall try your 'trail of breadcrumbs' through the mines - it is as good an idea as any, I suppose, and I cannot see a problem. Oh, except..." He frowned, sagging slightly as he found the flaw. "Except...if there is some creature in these mines, surely it would help them trace us all the more easily?"

The reply that came was grim. "If something is to find us, Lieutenant, believe me: they shall find us just as easily with or without a trail of petals." Faerim looked across in surprise at Erenor as she used not 'breadcrumbs', but a second reference to the childish tale from which he had had the idea. Caught out...

Belegorn nodded, pursing his lips but in agreement. "Let us hope not, my Lady, let us hope now." Looking around the small group of elves, plus, as always, Faerim, the man's expression resolved and he gave a deep sigh of satisfaction, before murmering a few words and striding away to the rest of the soldiers, holding himself with a bearing strong and tall as he went to address them. As the elves fell to talking among themselves about how to conduct the scouting party, Faerim continued to watch Belegorn, his head on one side like a sparrow having seen something unexpected in a murky lake: maybe not all the superiors in the army were quite so ready as Hirvegil had been to threaten him - maybe Belegorn was that glimmer beneath the pondweed. Smiling to himself at the thought, Faerim turned back to his new companions to hear their plans about the scouting party.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor mused on Faerim's idea and cast her mind back to the distant days when she had learnt to scout and track for fun - fate had not required her to use woodcraft much for real, her status meant that she was invariably accompanied by elves skilled as rangers. Angore was a fine guide across country or through wood but these tunnels seemed to be affecting him, she thought. And of course the deaths of Gaeredhel and Rosgollo had affected him ... the whole wretched episode. Erenor was aware that their guard opened his mind seldom but she tried to reach him with her thought nonetheless. He was unreachable but she hoped that his bitterness and misery would not blind him completely. She also hoped that Berethil would not insist on joining the advance party. If they met trouble the unarmed woman would be a liability but if she remained they could communicate with the main group by thought quickly and silently.

"when we track in woods we leave signs. In these tunnels it will be necessary only to mark junctions. We will not need much material .. or maybe it would be possible to mark the stone somehow". She looked at the walls and tested them with the blade of her short knife..... the fine line could be maybe it would be enough... but she doubted it . Then out of the recesses of her memory a fact emerged. The Noldor, alone of the elves shared the dwarvish delight in metalwork. "Chalk! - see if there is any chalk around" she ordered .

"My lady Erenor, I don't think that there will be - these walls are hard stone" said the captain.

"Not in the walls! Around", The elf was at her most imperious, impatient that what now seemed obvious to her was lost on the others. " The dwarves worked metal here didn't they? Chalk is used as a flux when smelting copper and iron... " Erenor realised this was not the moment for a lecture on metal production " the dwarves would have needed it in quantity and they are unlikely to have taken it with them - I think we just passed some work shops - perhaps you could send a couple of your ...men back to have a look?"
Men! boys scarce out of babyhood who made Faerim look like a hardened warrior... nevertheless the lad was bright, and brave. There was somehing about him she liked and she gave him a quick smile while they waited for the boys to return. She would have to be careful though since it might do him no good to be seen overmuch as an elvish protege.

After a few minutes the lads returned with handfulls of soft white stone. "You see Captain? Chalk " said Erenor taking a pocketful before advancing, sword drwn into the tunnel.

[Garen LiLorian]

She had only advanced a few steps down the tunnel before she felt Angóre's cold hand on her shoulder. She looked up at his disapproving face. "You may do as you wish, lady Erenor," he said quietly. "But as long as I remain your guard I would order you at least in this; let me go first! I will walk ahead some ways and remain alert for dangers. I'll wait for you at intersections."

He turned to the young man. "I am entrusting the safety of Lady Erenor to you, Faerim. See that no danger befalls her; her life is more important then mine. Or yours." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and vanished into the darkness of the tunnel."

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Bethiril wanted to step back from the conversation. She knew little of caves, and less of exploring them. But she found no way of exiting gracefully, so she stood there awkwardly, like a peasant watching the discussion of nobles.

I’m sure nobility wouldn’t include allusions to children’s stories in their lofty discourses. She hoped no one would discover that she knew the tale. As unbelievable as it sounds, she had heard of it from an old man from Dor Lómin who somehow found his way to the mouths of Sirion. But Bethiril didn’t want her image . . . tainted.

Well, she thought, my acting was pretty good. She gazed at the stone roof above. And what will we find here? An edible cottage? She almost laughed, but then remembered, And what evil thing will we find residing in it?

[Lalwendë]

The air was acrid as though something had been burning, yet it was also chill and clear, and there was no sign of any recent fire. All was desolate, and there was no sign of life let alone the kind of life that might want the cheer of a fire. Renedwen was more unsettled than ever, even though she was not alone. Lissi at least came along with her, and though they did not talk together, her presence at least was a small comfort.

Renedwen was now troubled with her son. Since his birth he had been remarkably quiet, and this had been a blessing on this journey, but he had begun to grizzle when they left behind the daylight, and now they were deep underground, he had begun to cry. The noise echoed in the dark passageways and she saw how the others winced at the sound. If there was anything living down here, it would surely hear them now. Seeing the disquiet on the faces of her companions, she only felt worse. There was little she could do, as she dared not let go the hand of little Gilly, who now clung to her as though she were his own mother. If she did not have him to care for then she could attend to her son, comfort him, but now she had two to care for, two frightened boys.

Something in the cries of her son chilled her heart. It was more than cold or hunger, as she had made sure he was not suffering from either of those; it was terror. She knew that coming into this dark place, leaving behind the wide open skies, had awakened a dim memory of the terror that had assailed them back in the city. It was as though a curse had been placed upon them and the child was voicing what no adult dared to mention.

If she could but speak with someone, she might get some help, but she was frozen not just with foreboding but with fear of her companions. She knew she had been aloof and had made sure they could see she could cope; it was her way of withdrawing after her grief, and now that the silent tears had passed she did not know how to approach anybody. She looked at Lissi when she thought she would not be noticed doing so, wondering how to speak to this other woman who had been so helpful many weeks ago, but she could not find the words.

The company stopped in one of the passages and Renedwen, busy with the boys, walked on, not noticing that her companions had halted. Gilly tugged on her hand and eventually let go. Panicking, Renedwen spun about and looked for the boy, but stumbled backward. Her fall was halted by something soft, but instead of standing up again, she found she was unable to move, suspended with just her toes touching the ground. The more she tried to stand upright, the further she got from the floor, until she was hanging there, held by something sticky she could not see in the gloom.

Remembering a familiar childhood tale, a chill went right through her. She tried to scream for help but the words stuck in her throat. Like a nightmare she could not wake from. And then her cry for help suddenly echoed along the passageway, but the nightmare did not stop.

[Osse]

It had not been the skill of the Eldar that had led the Dunedain to the small storeroom; rather, it had been through a misunderstanding. The party had become stretched out, winding through the corridors of the city like some giant millipede, the head often having no knowledge of the whereabouts of the tail. Belegorn had delegated the organisation of the party into Carthor’s capable hands. Not wishing to rely solely on the Eldar’s prowess, Carthor organised, as suggested, the end-man to mark the route the group had taken with the chalk the Elves had found earlier. For this task Carthor had chosen a capable young man, Derigorm.

It was because of Derigorm that the party stumbled across the little room. Derigorm, white chalk in hand, had fallen back slightly, far enough behind to be unable to see the glow of his comrades’ torches in front of him, and as the group took a passage to the left, Derigorm turned into a smaller stone doorway to the right. The room on the right turned out to be a small square room, roughly hewn from the living rock, with shelves of softer, smooth stone placed along its walls. On every surface stood stone and clay jars, ranging from great round vessels to small intricately patterned pots.

Suddenly aware that Derigorm was no longer with them, Carthor, located near the rear of the column, had halted the group. Soon after, Derigorm’s husky voice came running through the corridor behind them. Now at the head of the group, Carthor strode towards the sound of the younger man’s voice, finding him standing torched raised at the entrance to the chamber.

“What is it?” Carthor’s question was short, Derigorm’s answer matched it.
“Have a look.”

Shards of pale grey stone crunched and crackled under the leather soles of Carthor’s boots, rudely disturbing the quiet of the small chamber. The torch held aloft over the man’s grey head cast long, flickering shadows around the room, glancing off the glossy stone surfaces like droplets of water.

Every vessel, every jar, was broken - as if in a fit of fury the room had tried to consume itself. There was no surface that was not covered in the crushed remains of the containers.
Evidence of their contents littered the floor; grains of barley and oats, as well as other grains indiscernible in the ruddy light, spilled around the broken pots like waves breaking on jagged shores. The smell of broken clay, stale air and slowly rotting grain wafted like plant tendrils through Carthor’s nostrils, its mustiness sitting like some great carrion-fowl at the back of his parched throat.

Carthor was aware of the fact that the remainder of the group was pressing him in from the corridor behind.


Stepping forward further into the chamber, Carthor raised his hand, signalling the rest of the group to follow him forward. In the far right corner of the square chamber, a great shelf had been up-ended, its contents falling in ruin upon the cold stone floor. On the wall where the shelf had been standing, was a small, square, cunningly crafted door. The shelf, in its original space, would have completely concealed it.
Indeed, the door was hard enough to see in the dim torchlight as it was. Were it not for the huge flakes of broken stone around its edges and rutted centre, the door would have been near-unidentifiable. Carthor had seen such marks before, as if great hands had beaten upon the rock in their fury, rock-like themselves. The marks sent a shivering quake down his crouched spine, which ran like an electric current, shimmering through his entire body. Putting the thought of those who had made such marks from his mind, Carthor beckoned to the men behind him to come closer, and using the tips of their swords attempt to pry the door open.

Carthor’s broadsword fell clattering and cold from his hand as a scream rang out through the corridors behind him, echoing and resonating like some contorted, twisted musical instrument, playing chords that shook his soul. Turning, Carthor joined those rushing towards the scream.

[Nuranar]

Lissi was learning to deal with the dark. At first, every instinct urged her to stay in the light, to dog the footsteps of the torch-holders. But their spasmodic progress was frustrating, and soon her steady pace found her a position forward of the middle. With only the flickering reflections of the torches to see by, Lissi watched the ground carefully, as much for herself as for Brander. Her eyes became so accustomed to the murk that direct torchlight pained them like the glare of the noonday sun.

Now she trailed along behind Renedwen, Brander her side as always. Sometimes she held his arm, sometimes his hand; sometimes he simply grasped her sleeve or her cloak, but it was her task to guide him safely. Her eyes noted unevenness in the floor and deep shadows in the walls, which could hide doorways, with the same ease she negotiated rough ground while riding. But even as she did so Lissi worried about the other woman. Renedwen seemed to be brooding over her husband's death; she never spoke if she could help it and seemed to ignore Lissi's existence. With the additional burden of Gilly, Lissi thought she would need help, but the lady had stayed cold and untouchable. Lissi watched with concern, aching to help. But she was afraid, afraid of the other woman's pride and disdain and grief. She imagined those brilliant blue eyes, flashing with anger and rejection, and shrank within herself. But she could not stop worrying.

Just as they turned a corner, Lissi thought she heard a low-pitched "halt" from behind. "Did you hear that?" Brander asked, stopping. "Yes," she replied. "I'm glad I caught this one." Brander's sense of hearing was far better developed than hers, a fact which had become very important. Sounds were both easier to hear and more confused in these tunnels; sometimes they echoed clear and far, sometimes the echoes made it impossible to tell the source, and occasionally those same echoes canceled each other out and nothing was heard. They made their way back to the main body. Carthor's voice was raised, but he was out of sight; apparently he was investigating some sort of chamber.

They were nearly to the opening when a shriek rang down the tunnel behind them, a cry for help, shrill with terror. Lissi tingled with horror, fear, and shame all at once. "That was Renedwen!" she gasped to Brander. "Wait here!" She spun and dashed back, the soles of her shoes slapping softly against the stone. The dark beyond the turn blinded her briefly and she slowed. Then a small glimmer appeared in a shadowed turn-off and resolved into Gilly's terrified little face. He dashed up and wound his arms around her knees as Lissi stooped to him. "It's all right, I'll take care of it!" she tried to assure him. Glancing back, she saw Brander's shadow approaching carefully but steadily. "Go to Brander!" she said firmly, untwining his arms and shoving the little boy toward the light. Drawing her sword, she turned away. "I'm coming, Renedwen!" she called. "What is it?"

"I'm caught!" The other woman's voice broke in a panicked sob. "Please help me out of it. Please - hurry, hurry!"

"I'm here, I'm here," Lissi said, slowing as she neared Renedwen's voice, straining to see. What was she caught in – a hole in the floor? A cave-in? Something was clouding the tunnel ahead, something that entirely absorbed the thrice-reflected torchlight. A spot of deeper dark seemed to move... "Renedwen?" There - the white blur of a face. "Here," she whispered. Lissi advanced carefully, sword angled in front of her. Abruptly the blade was deflected and seemed to slide on an invisible obstruction. She hesitated, then reached out her hand. Soft and sticky and slightly elastic... Lissi jerked her hand back with a sudden shuddering horror. "Renedwen, are you all right? I know you're caught, but are you and the child all right?"

The other woman's voice trembled. "I'm all right, but I think I hear them." Her voice trembled and rose hysterically. "They're crawling along the walls, they're on the ceiling and the floor, they're coming for me!"

"Stop it!" Lissi snapped, trying to banish the images from her own mind. The light had improved marginally, and she could see Renedwen's form suspended near her, caught near the edge of the web. "I'm coming for you now." Swiftly she moved in, side-on. Sword ready in one hand, with the other she reached for Renedwen and slid her arm around her waist. The web's supple cling wound about her arm and shoulder and fastened to her skirt, but she swung at the rest of the threads with her blade.

Hastily she cut away the web above and around Renedwen until she could slide down to the floor of the tunnel. Still keeping a trim grasp on the other woman, Lissi pulled and cut and worked the two of them loose. As they stumbled from the branch tunnel they met with Carthor's party, including Brander with Gilly. Lissi explained hastily; unsurprisingly, no one was inclined to investigate the turnoff further. The two women followed them back toward the safer discovery slowly. Lissi held the taller woman closely, feeling her tremble, speaking softly and reassuringly, trying to calm her down.

[Mithalwen]

The value of the elves as an advance party had perhaps been undermined by the bickering of Erenor and Angore. Noldorin ladies of high rank do not appreciate being overruled by their guards; still less to they enjoy being undermined publically and before mortals. Erenor would have had to have deferred to Berethil and maybe even to Ereglin, the longest serving elven emissary, but, despite her respect for Angore as a ranger and fighter, she felt he had overstepped the mark. And she had refused to yield.

Since Angore was determined to stay ahead and Erenor was equally determined not to be left behind , they had moved swiftly. Faerim was young and agile and well able able to keep up with their steps if not the hissed exchanges in Sindarin ( though the elvish tongue was still known and used among the Dunedain, the speed and volume of their speech made it hard to distinguish their words ). Their gist, however, was easy enough to follow.


The scream roused them from the folly of their dispute. It rang and echoed aroung the tunnel and caused the elves and the boy to turn and retrace their steps, their light footfalls obscured by the lasting resonance of that terrible cry.

As it subsided, Erenor sensed another duller sound, it seemed, from the other direction .. the one they had been heading for before the scream. It was duller, irregular but repeated frequently - like the pounding of great drums out of time. The sound was still distant but getting nearer, heavier. Looking at Angore she knew he heard it too, though it was yet beyond mortal sense.

"Faerim, if you aren't wearing that armour, I suggest you put it on very soon, but now draw your sword and run". The elves and the boy fled back towards the scream, Erenor careful to keep Faerim ahead of her, for whatever Angore had said, she felt his young life to be precious. As she ran, Erenor tried to reach the mind of Bethiril - both to discover the cause of the scream and to warn them of the danger that threatened, for the sound had not augured a friendly presence, rather about the worst thing that she could imagine finding in a cave save a dragon.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim obeyed Erenor without a word. The steady way in which she had given the order came from the mind of a woman who has just worked out what they are against and does not want to panic anyone - including herself. And if an elf of thousands of years more experience of the world than he was worried, Faerim had a feeling that whatever he was imagining didn't even come close. Turning tail immediately, he ran backwards, closely followed by the other two elves, although he did not immediately draw his sword; the light in the caves was little enough as it was and with the torch in one hand, he could not risk stumbling and thereby both putting out the light and possibly stabbing himself - not, he mused, a particularly heroic death for anyone, even a seventeen year old boy who was probably thought of by half his companions as a fool already.

The pounding seemed to be getting closer and closer, louder and louder, the ominous, muffled beat becoming stronger and faster and thought growing in confidence as the elves ran from it, swelling with the victory. Was it his imagination, or was the floor even now pounding along with the beat? No, impossible, nothing could be so large as to shake these caverns - impossible.

Beneath Faerim, the floor trembled suddenly, the very pebbles leaping and, with a yelp, the boy stumbled forward, barely catching himself in time as he carried on running, the torch flickering.

Possible.

Fear suddenly caught up with Faerim and as he turned the corner he flinched away from a sudden flare of bright light. Drawing his sword, he blinked against the light, before recognising his fellow soldiers. Faerim barely even paused in his step as he continued in his headlong sprint. "Run, quickly! There is-"

Belegorn grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, pulling him back. "Faerim, what is this nonsense-"

The floor shook, and for a second, Faerim saw the impossible: through Belegorn's capable, unshakeable gaze flashed a sudden dart of fear. He swallowed, trying to catch his breath, as Belegorn stared down the tunnel as Angore and Ereglin burst into view, followed closely by Erenor, all three with sword drawn. The lieutenant didn't question the grim expressions on their faces, and neither could he question the drumming, now unmistakably real, that pounding stronger and stronger by the second. Turning to his men, he signalled them back down the tunnel. "Retreat, men! Retreat back down the tunnels!"

"Lieutenant Belegorn, wait." It was Angóre who spoke. "To take the men back that way - we are leading them directly back to your people. The unarmed Dunedain are sitting ducks for these foes."

"And what foes exactly are these?" Bethiril interjected this comment, appearing behind Belegorn, the only one in the tunnel without a weapon - a fact that Faerim immediately noted and which he doubted Angóre had dismissed either. Erenor answered her, looking directly at her companion with a steady, no-nonsense gaze. "That sound, in such a place? What would you guess, Bethiril?"

For the first time in Faerim's sight, the calm, smooth porcelain of Bethiril's face faltered and her eyes widened. "It cannot be," she whispered.

"You know it is, Lady Bethiril," Erenor almost snapped in reply. "That sound is all too familiar, and you know it as the dwarves would have."

"And what sound is that exactly?" Belegorn inquired exasperatedly. His sword was now out, ready to run or fight as he glanced repeatedly down the tunnel the way the elves had come from.

Bethiril's expression was haunted as she took a few steps down the tunnel away from the pounding. She turned wide eyes upon the lieutenant and gave a simple, unexplained answer, but one that would inspire fear into the heart of any who knew what it meant. "Trolls, Lieutenant. Trolls."

Belegorn's jaw dropped, the answer wreaking the same effect upon him as it had upon the elves. Behind him, a few of the older soldiers had stayed, unmoved by his orders as they had seen that their leader stayed, and one of them swore softly, spitting on the ground and taking to his heels unashamedly. A few stayed, themselves holding a torch, but they were as spooked as Belegorn. Faerim looked from Erenor to Belegorn, seeking some explanation as to what these things were, what Bethiril's answer implied, before he saw Erenor's grim expression and understood that now was not the time for explanations. The elven lady had her eyes fixed upon Belegorn. "What would you have us do, Lieutenant?"

A scream echoed down the corridor, then another, desperate, urgent, high pitched - female. Fear drenched Faerim as he realised what this meant: besides the elves, there were but two women in the party: his mother and Renedwen. And the realisation, along with the sound, shook him to the core. Without thinking, every nerve balanced on that scream's echoes, Faerim was within seconds sprinting full pelt down the tunnel, torch held high. As he turned the corner he came to a crossroads in the tunnels, he heard Erenor's cry, then something lunged at him out of the side tunnel, hissing viciously. With a yell, he fell sideways, tumbling head over heels; as the torch extinguished itself, Faerim's world was plunged into darkness...

[Novnarwen]

Stuttering Stuga & Co

While walking, the troll in Stuttering Stuga's grasp had stopped moving. The long struggle had finally ended, and the caverns were silent once again. A lifeless body remained, whose arms and legs were dangling in an urgent rhythm; the rhythm of a killer's pace.

"S-s-s-silent, eh?" Stuttering Stuga said, grinning satisfyingly. Only minutes ago, gasps and choked cries had left the other troll's mouth. Now it seemed that he had given up against Stuttering Stuga's immense powers. "I was-s-s g-g-gettin' s-s-ick of y-yer, ya kn-n-now. C-c-an't have t-t-that," he said, thinking aloud. He thought of the moment he discovered Frett in the cavern, their cavern, for what seemed the hundredth time, together with the clique. Was it so difficult for him to understand that he was not one of them? They didn't want him; he was annoying, ignorant, useless, lazy and he spoke too much.

Suddenly, when going over Frett's absolute uselessness in his head, it struck him as odd that Frett the Expelled had become so silent. He didn't call or even move. Was he not feeling good? He certainly had an odd colour on his face, but he seemed to be asleep. But then, why were his eyes open? Shaking his head, he decided to shake the troll he bore as well. It was a wonderful feeling; shaking was fun. And while doing so, the limbs of the troll swung in a hurried pace, back and forth.

***

In another tunnel, which bent into the opposite direction of where Stuttering Stuga and the newly deceased Frett were, a gang of trolls was lost in the dark; among them were Riva, the Old Hag, Uruva, the ‘Beautiful’, and the intelligent Grawa.

“We’ve lost track of him,” Grawa said loudly to the others, pretending to be smart. Uruva rolled her eyes; they knew that much. They didn’t need ‘I’m-important-and-smart’, Grawa, to tell them that. “We have?” The female troll said mockingly. It annoyed her that this fool of a troll always said the most obvious things in the world, as if the rest of them were too stupid to figure anything out by themselves.

“Yes,” Grawa started, seeing his chance to impress Uruva, who he, like Stuga, had always been very taken by. He turned to her, and trying to be smooth, he started;” Yes, my dear Uruva. My guess is that we lost Stuttering Stuga for some time ago. I guess that we’re at least a mile apart. It can be more, I guess. I guess that if Stuga really wanted to kill Frett, he must have done so by now. Then, I guess, Frett is dead.”

“STOP GUESSING, YOU TWIT!” This time it was the Old Hag’s turn to speak. Overhearing Grawa’s resolutions and the final conclusion had made her red-faced with anger. With a desperate cry, she aimed at him and jumped. The two of them fell over, the Hag having a tight grasp around Grawa’s neck. Rolling from one side to another on the stone floor, the two were quickly involved in a battle of life and death. The other trolls, who had only just noticed the two of them fighting, came over and gathered in a circle, surrounding them. “Come on, Riva! Show him who’s in charge!” It was obvious that the older troll had an upper hand; she was a rather big lady, and it seemed that this was to her advantage for once.

Giggling with delight over the little performance, the rest of the trolls watched Riva smacking Grawa a handful of times, and it was only when Grawa called out for help, crying that he surrendered, that they finally tore the two apart. Grawa seemed to be quite embarrassed by the incident, and didn’t dare look into Uruva’s eyes. She, who had enjoyed seeing Grawa humiliated, could nothing but laugh.

*

They had walked for another hour or so, now going backwards, aiming for their cavern. They had already failed in the hunt for Stuttering Stuga and Frett. At last they decided to make their way back, hoping to find Stuttering Stuga there. They didn’t care about Frett, The Expelled. He had no right to be in their cavern anyway; not a word of their dismay towards Frett was uttered to his mother, Riva, though. Anyhow, Riva objected naturally to their decision about going back; she even threatened to stay behind and starve herself to death. When they told her that this was okay, that if this was what she really wanted, she was welcome to do so, Riva immediately changed her mind.

Nearing their home, they were alarmed by a scream. “Where did that come from?” Uruva asked, not expecting any reply.

“MY FRETT!!!!” A moment passed, and all of the trolls started to run down the tunnel.

It was only Grawa who noticed that the smell that hit them didn’t come from any troll. It was the smell of unexpected, and most likely uninvited, guests. Before he was able to warn any of the others, it seemed that Riva, who was in the lead of the running company, had come to the end of the tunnel. She stopped, and looking around, she discovered that it was certainly not Frett who stood in front of her, but someone else; a stranger.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor saw a mass dart out and back of the side tunnel and Faerim falling but the light form his torch was extinguished before he hit the ground. Whatever it was it was not a troll - but it's exact nature was irrelevant - whatever her guard might think, she would not leave the boy to his fate. Where was Angore anyway? she thought momentarily before the evidence of her ears told her that there were more foes than one in these tunnels. She reached the side tunnel entrance and was aware of the boy at her feet - but she did not dare check on him until she knew what enemy they faced.

She raised her own torch in her left hand with her unsheathed sword held tightly in her right. It was not the ideal weapon to use one handed, its fine curved blade was used to best effect two fisted, but against creatures of the night, light could be as potent a weapon as steel - and she decided that the extra reach gave it the edge on her dagger.

Its flickering light illuninated a scence of ghastly beauty , the tunnel seemed to be draped in a kind of thick gauze wrought of shining cord, luminous and strange. Erenor gasped in wonderment before realising that it was not gauze but cobwebs... but cobwebs unlike any she had seen before... she realised exactly what the darting mass was at the moment it returned.

Scion of a noble line of warriors Erenor did her utmost not to show her feelings, since if Faerim had not fallen victim to the spider's poison she must give him confidence. Nevertheless it was the most frightening experience of her life (she had not the time for fear when the orcs had taken her from her tent). She remembered her father's words "If you cannot conquer fear, you will never conquer an enemy"... she wondred how this creature compared to the enemies he had faced in Mordor. There was not time to wonder further. The creature advanced swiftly did not move as swiftly as the elf who slashed at its legs with her sword.

The creature made some noise but whether of fear or pain, Erenor did not know but it soon tried to attack again. Erenor jabbed towards it with her flaming torch and then sliced across its montrous head with her sword. It was not the easiest of foes - so large, almost as tall as she but so much wider. Faerim she thought, if you are conscious.. I could use some help

[Osse]

Carthor whipped around the corner, his great bulk a careering shaft loosed over-soon from the string, reckless, almost uncontrolled. The scream rebounding recklessly in his ears as he thrust forwards.

In front of him, shapes emerged from the gloom, their misty forms strengthening into discernable shapes; two tall women, one steering the other firmly but gently down the passage toward them. A slim young man strode tentatively behind the two, his outstretched hand clasping gently the cloak of the leading woman. Hand clamped firmly to the young man's, a lad of no older than three or four shuffled, his curly locks shining in the torch light as he contemplated his small feet.

“What ha…” Carthor started breathlessly, concern twinkling in his eyes as he looked upon his wife and her shaken friend.

Carthor was not to finish his question. Lissi, obviously on a higher plain of nerves and awareness, anticipating his query, launched into a brisk, yet inclusive recount of the events.

“All is well now.” She said, more to the woman next to her than to Carthor. “All is well…”

Carthor ushered the women and children into the middle of the group. He paused for only a brief second as his son passed, the words he meant to say drying in the sun of his emotions. Carthor strode to the front of his group, composed again, and turned back the way they had came. Or so he thought.

In the confusion and hurry that had followed Renedwen’s scream, the group of five or six men that had rushed to her had failed to mark their route. They were now far from the glow of the rest of the group as they stood perplexed at the door of the storeroom, their precious torchlight now hidden, and had no mark to guide them through the twisting and turning tunnels.

To make matters worse, the group had only one torch amongst them, and that was burning dangerously low, particularly for a group who now found themselves stalked by eight-legged foes on one flank, and confronted with a booming, ever present drum-like clamour on the other, especially as the group now contained women and children, one of whom was blind.

Carthor, his stride long and mechanical, paused, suddenly aware of the fact that the return journey was taking far longer than it should, despite the pace of the party being barely half of its careering, uncontrolled canter outwards. Without stopping, Carthor raised his hand, signalling Derigorm, who strode just behind him on his right, his long, fluid steps making almost no noise, to walk beside him.

“Derigorm my friend, it seems we are somewhat, shall-we-say, misplaced.” Whispered Carthor.

Derigorm, stout to the last, merely raised his eyebrows in a half nod, unwilling to be the one to drop the spark on the ever present oil of panic. Instead he merely leaned closer to his old captain and asked what he would have him do.

“Certainly nothing to raise alarm my lad.” Carthor’s answer came soft and subtle, like a gentle breeze licking at one’s face. “Have you still your marker stone?”

Derigorm nodded.

“Mark our route. Discreetly.”

Derigorm spun deftly, his cloak swirling like some great wing, cutting through the air. The man slowed his pace near the middle of the group, feigning to talk to one of the other soldiers, with instruction from Lord Carthor.

At least now we’ll know just how to retrace our steps through this confounded pit. Carthor mused bitterly as he peered forward into the receding gloom.

He was trying, largely in vain, not to flinch as the many tendrils of super-fine, ordinary cobweb that littered the corridors brushed his grizzled face. Chattering footsteps, in rhythms of eight found their incessant way into his mind, whether they were real or imagined, Carthor could not tell. Terror stood nonchalantly behind every footstep, waiting for Carthor to lose concentration, so as to like an uninvited guest, feed off his hospitality.

Suddenly, the torch in Carthor’s right hand spluttered and died, the hiss it emanated both sombre and obvious in the quiet, confined tunnel – a terminal breath audible by all.

Terror now stood in the hall of Carthor’s mind, casually hanging its black cloak on a gilt hook and firmly shaking its host’s hand.

Carthor halted.

“Halt.” His voice echoed with astounding clarity in the confined space, resounding harshly in Carthor’s own ears.

Pulse quickening the entire time, Carthor instructed his fellows to stay close. He was going to have to stop and count off more often now.

Feeling his way with his left hand, Carthor inched slowly but surely down the corridor. Every web that hit his expose skin made him shudder, threatening to allow terror further into his home. The still air was silent, not even the horrible drums were sounding. Carthor could hear the soft scraping as Derigorm, true to his word, marked their route through the darkness.

Something brushed up against his exposed right hand, though it was no web. Lissi’s cold hand met his in the gloom and clasped - two halves of a whole, reunited. Hand in hand they proceeded into the pitch darkness before them, host and hostess, entertaining terror.

Carthor halted suddenly. Largely because he had run into a knobbly pillar of rough-hewn stone.

“Oi!” The pillar shouted, as it turned around and picked Carthor up by the throat.

Carthor right hand fumbled for his scabbard, and found it empty. His broadsword lay forlorn amidst the spilled grains of the storeroom, it's steel length gleaming in the receding torchlight of the rest of the refugees as they departed.

Terror now sat at the very head of Carthor’s table, beaming jovially as it made inappropriate jest.

Carthor’s scream filled the corridor with a shuddering clamour.

“Run!!!”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim rolled to the side, opening his eyes then closing them again almost instantly as a sudden flare of light illuminated the tunnel. The lightning flashes danced behind his eyelids confusedly and he shook his head, his hand coming up to the back of his skull which ached numbly, darting lances of pain jabbing occasionally through the fog. But then he heard a voice, a female voice but one full of fierce strength: Erenor.

Opening his eyes and trying to ignore the pain in his head, Faerim shook his head again and staggered to his feet - before he saw what stood before Erenor and took a step backwards, uttering a single curse-word in shock, his eyes wide in disbelief - not fear yet, for fear can only really set in when one knows what one should be afraid off; and when what one sees cannot possibly exist, the fear is delayed, a ball of nerves thrown in the air leaving the owner shocked and disbelieving.

But what goes up has to fall.

With a yell, Faerim darted to the side as the giant spider in front of him jabbed its foreleg at him viciously, but his reflexes were slower due to his headlong fall into the cave wall, and the jagged point of the spider's foot barely missed his shoulder, ripping the shirt as it snagged across it and scoring a thin line of blood across his upper right arm. Clasping the cut tightly for a moment with his other hand to stem the bleeding, Faerim glowered at the spider fiercely, then ducked out of its way once more, rolling to the side, towards the spider - and grabbing his sword from the floor in the process. Grinning, he rolled onto one knee and stabbed straight upwards at the alien enemy, in the process slashing across its stomach. The creature yelled, a piercing scream that made Faerim physically wince, his hands on his ears. But the beast was not done yet: taking a staggering step away from Erenor (at least Angore won't crucify me for letting her get hurt, he mused abstractedly), it loomed over Faerim, bearing down upon his with giant, gross mandibles. Disgusted and adrenaline pumped, Faerim scrambled backwards on his hands, managing to stagger to his feet, but now pressed against the cave wall. With strength borne of the desperation of a man who faces his death, the youth grit his teeth and swung his sword in a vicious arc straight across. Metal met gristle and the spider screamed again, taking a step backwards as it bellowed its fierce displeasure and pain - as one of it's forelegs fell to the ground.

"How do you like that, you ugly great insect," Faerim muttered grimly, taking some pleasure out of his inhuman foe's pain, although his arm was now aching fiercely - glancing down, he realised that it was bleeding quite strongly now, blood staining his white shirt beneath the tough, battered black coat. If the spider had been a second quicker...Faerim shuddered, imagining how the jagged, pointed talon would have impaled him against the cave wall. Too late, he remembered the elven mail shirt in his coat pocket...

Erenor gave a yell of her own and returned Faerim to the present, as he saw the elf throw herself out of the way of the lurching spider. On her feet in seconds, the lady elf planted her feet and cried aloud something in fierce, fast sindarin. For a moment as she did so, the tableau seemed frozen in Faerim's mind: the lady elf, fair and vicious, her noble face twisted with anger and her grey eyes burning as brightly as the torch in her hand that she held high, illuminating her, her other hand holding her sword ready to stab. Faerim watched her wonderingly - then the voices of others interrupted his reverie and he saw Angore standing beyond the flailing mass of limbs. Throwing his fear and his panic both equally to the wind that did not even bear to stir within these ghastly caves, Faerim launched himself once more at the spider.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor was relieved to see Faerim on his feet and fighting - both for his and her own sake. And considering his inexperience the boy was doing a fine job . "Elbereth Gilthoniel... A tiro nin Fanuilos!" she had cried , asking for the protection of the star-kindler in this place where no stars shone. As the spider recoiled from Faerim's amputation she called to him to take the torch.

Able at last to use her sword to full effect, the fine blade described an arc too swiftly for Faerim's mortal sight to follow. He saw the effect though as foul smelling ooze emerged form the spider and it shrieked. "Now Faerim! " The youth obligingly ran his sword between the creature's eyes. It was clear no further action was necessary.

As they stepped over the grisly remains back towards the main tunnel. Erenor spoke casually, almost off hand "Good work with the spider - who do you feel about tackling a troll next ? ... Ah Angore ...."

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre cursed as Erenor bolted past the lieutenant and down the corridor after Faerim. He had heard the scream as well, but he also heard the drums, and they weren't coming from the same direction. Trolls! Angóre's eyes burned at the thought. His whole adult life he had spent hunting the creatures. It was his sole purpose; the only thing he lived for. Until recently. Until he had aligned himself with these humans, thrown his lot in with them and with Erenor. Erenor.

The Elf stood, torn. Belegorn stood as well, his eyes darting back and forth. Suddenly, with a curse of his own, he collected his men, scrambling back up the tunnel towards the main party and the scream and leaving the Eldar by himself. Angóre looked up towards the well-lighted corridor, hearing the sounds of panic and combat. Surely there were enough of the Dúnedain to fend off the attack, whomever was making it. A lone soldier would make no difference. Except, possibly, to the person he was supposed to be guarding. He cursed again and looked down the darkened pathway towards the sound of the drums. Would the trolls come up on the unsuspecting and frantic Dúnedain train? Would they pass them by in the labyrinth of caverns? Could he take the chance that they wouldn't?

Angóre had always considered himself a warrior, secure in the knowlege that his decisions affected only himself and that if he made the wrong one only he'd know the difference. And up until recently, this decision would have been simple. He would have followed the sound of the drums until he came upon the trolls, and then he would have attacked them until they or he lay dead. He'd spent his whole life, more or less, in one or another stage of this plan. Find the troll, kill the troll. He had taken an oath, sworn in the still-warm blood of his mother, on that fateful day they had brought him her corpse, ravaged by the creatures of Sauron. He had taken an oath...

He swore feelingly. "I'm sorry, mother," the words sounded dragged from his lips. "I'll be back for them." Then he turned, sprinting up the tunnel towards the Dúnedain and Lady Erenor, his charge.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn ran. His powerful legs pounded the cold floor of the corridor and propelled his body forward in great strides; dark locks flying in the draft. His sword was unsheathed and griped tightly in his right hand; its polished blade shimmering in the light of the torches held by others and fixed on holders along the walls. He could hear heavy thumping close behind him and was assured that his men were still following him. Belegorn ran and did not halt for others to stand out of the way, he simply shoved his pass them. The high pitched scream that sent shudders down his spine was no more and if any incident had occurred, Belegorn was sure it had passed him by already.

Leaving the jumble of bewildered and frightened Dúnedains in his wake, Belegorn continued running and in the dim light of the corridor, he could make out two bipedal silhouettes in the near distance. Every foot step took him closer to the duo and he was able to decipher their forms better; one looked familiar with its tall slender height and broad shoulders, the other was more petite. Both stood with their backs facing Belegorn and his men.

“Thank the stars you’re alright!” exclaimed Belegorn as he came to a stop a few feet from his intents. “I was wor-” The remainder of the words died in his throat and his eyes widened with astonishment as he saw what lay before him.

It was an unnaturally huge arachnid creature; black and hairy beyond reason. Its segmented limbs which the Dúnedain estimated to span at least four feet long when out-stretched were curled up close to its up-turned bulbous body. The hideous head with its array of liquid black globes and immense maniples were cruelly hewed.

“Yer Valars…” began Belegorn, still wide-eyed and staring at the carcass of the fallen beast, “Are there any more of these foul creatures?”

”I do not know sir,” replied Faerim courteous as normal, “But I can only hope this is the only one of its kind here.”

Why am I not surprised it’s you? Thought Belegorn, as the youth turned to face him. The older man eyed the teenager from head to toe scanning for any signs of injury and asked anxiously, “Are you hurt Faerim? Was anybody hurt?”

A new voice answered, and it was pleasing to the ears for it was smooth as silk yet firm but not overbearing. It was unmistakably feminine also. Belegorn turned from the youth and looked onto the face of Erenor, the high elven emissary from Rivendell.

“I do not know Lieutenant,” She replied as-a-matter-of-factly, “Neither Faerim nor I have sustained any bodily injuries, but I cannot say the same for the rest of your people. I fear this expired denizen of the dark might have acquired a victim before we arrive and dealt with it.

Erenor then pointed towards a tunnel that led off from the main corridor. Belegorn walked cautiously towards it and peered through. His keen grey eyes could make out the fluttering wisps of tattered dust caught web that lined the entire circumference of passageway. Arachnid spun web were thin but steely strong. A broken web could only mean that either a fortunate prey had managed to break itself loose or most likely, the creature had dispatched of it already.

Belegorn frowned and his lips parted with bitter disappointment as the Noldorin shared her acuity with him. He had hoped whimsically perhaps, that under his leadership no one would be lost but that has been proven vain now. He nodded slowly in regret to no one in particular and strode towards Erenor and Faerim.

His face was darker and tenser than it was before as he faced the two spider-slayers and resumed, “It is unfortunate. But we have no time to grief now.
Another pressing development is at hand.”

As if on cue, the low boom of a bass drum echoed through the passageway sending alarmed shrieks and yelps from the already cowed refugees. Faerim’s eyes bulged and he looked nervously towards the source of the ominous sound. But Erenor’s cool composure remained and she looked at Belegorn straight in the eyes.

“And what are your intentions Lieutenant?” She inquired, unperturbed.

Belegorn looked towards Faerim and asked hurriedly, “Do you recall seeing any other tunnels leading off from this one at the rear where we passed?”

“Yes sir, I think so.” replied the youth betraying signs of fear.

Belegorn nodded quickly and continued, “Good, this is what I want you to do; lead your people back and enter those tunnels. Get out of this corridor as soon as possible. Destroy any of the markings made when you come across them. Go now!”

The Dúnedain commander pointed to the way which they came from to emphasize his point. Satisfied that his orders were clearly understood, he turned to leave, but stopped and delivered his forethought,

“And if you see your father, tell him he’s in charge now!”

“And what will you do, Lieutenant?” ventured Erenor sternly as she stepped towards the taller man, “This is no time for vain heroics. Your people need you.”

Belegorn sucked in his breath and exhaled slowly through clenched teeth. He turned back towards the tenacious elf and replied, every word enunciated calculatingly,

“And what would you have me do milady? Lead the flight back up whence we came from and let the trolls overtake and slaughter every single last one of us? Or would you have us make a stand in the narrow confines of this corridor against a terrible foe whose numbers we know not of? Nay milady! And neither will I send another brother, husband nor son to take my place and die in my stead! No more milady! No more!”

Belegorn turned his back on the elf with a word of leave-taking. He found the soldiers that followed him standing by the shadows, nonplussed by the confrontation that took place.

“Work with them!” he ordered and left to rejoin the crowd. Belegorn approached the refugeees, intending to identify any individual in need of special attention. But they instinctively backed towards the wall away from him. The lieutenant's eyebrows rose in surprise at the people's reaction to his goodwill but immediately realized why; he had charged through them excessively whilst brandishing a weapon with a look of madness in his eyes, then lashed out at a member of the Elder Race that the people most probably regarded as a supernatural being and then returned to them.

Belegorn closed his eyes and sighed, there is only one word to describe my actions - madness!

He opened his eyes again and regarded the refugees, his people. And they simply looked back with wide frightened eyes, like kittens staring at one who had hurt them before. Belegorn wanted to reassure them, to set their mind at ease, to explain that they had nothing to fear from him. But words fail to emit from his dry lips, for Belegorn knew he had failed already. A leader was supposed to guide, to inspire and to nurture but so far what Belegorn had succeeded was simply to create resentment and fear by exercising his authoritive powers alone.

He was never loved by the men who served under him and now he would be feared and hated by the people who's very lives depended on him.

Belegorn's eyes averted from the refugees because he was unable to endure their judgemental stares any longer. He turned to leave and came face to face with Angore, the elf-guard of Erenor. The two came into arm’s length of each other and their eyes met but both spoke not; Belegorn broke into a sprint back towards the front and the handsome elf continued his way towards his charge.

A hand reached out and grabbed Belegorn by the arm. Belegorn swung around and prepared to defend himself. Instead he was confronted by a familiar head spotting a bandage across the cranium, patch over the right eye and a sling across the left arm. It was one of the company archers whom Belegorn made his harried exodus form the north passage of Fornost with. Discharged due to injuries with full honors.

“Sir, wot’s that noise! Was dat a drum? Und where yer going!”

“Going to do what I must, soldier.” answered Belegorn curtly as he turned but the hand held on still,

“Yer not coming back aren’t cha?” questioned the ex-archer, grey eyes widening with morbid realization.

“We must do what we must. Goodbye soldier. And good luck!” answered Belegorn this time more gently and with a wane smile. This man deserved better.

“Wait sir! Then take this, you might need it!” asserted the war veteran excitedly as he pulled out a huge bulging knapsack and tried frantically to untie the knot, fingers fumbling. Not really knowing what the ex-archer was up to, Belegorn helped him. Prying open the weather stained covers and rummaging through the assortment of personnel belongings, the soldier unveiled a tightly wrapped cylindrical container.

“Here it is sir! Here it is,” grinned the man through his yellow stained teeth, “Fire powder. Same stuff we used back there to roast those filthy orcs, sir. I kept the remainder, made sure it’s all dry and such!”

Belegorn held the insulated container in his hands and shifted its weight in his palm. A plan came into mind almost instantaneously. He smiled and placed his free hand on the shoulder of his benefactor,

“Thank you soldier. Thank you.”

“My pleasure sir! And Good luck!” the veteran replied softly, grasping Belegorn’s hand in his, tears welling in his eyes.

***********************************’

He was alone. He had always known that he would die alone.

Belegorn stood at where he, Angore and the rest of the scouts were when the dreadful tidings of approaching trolls were made. He looked towards the rear where he knew the motley cru was making its hasty withdrawal under the reliable leadership of Faerim and the elves. Noises were strangely muted which was gladding. The only thing Belegorn regretted was not being able to see Carthor before he left; to give him further instructions. But the old soldier should be back there and he would be able to rejoin the rest.

It was time.

Belegorn unwrapped the linen from the cylinder and unplugged the hole to its contains, the familiar acidic stench assaulting his nose. Slowly with great care, he poured a thin layer of incendiary across the width of the corridor between him and the refugees. Taking a few steps back, he lit a bunched fistful of straw with his torch and tossed it onto the black line. Also immediately, a jet of blue flames shot up the walls and licked the ceiling of the corridor lustily. A fiery barrier now existed.

The layer of incendiary was too thin to prevent an overtly persistent troll with a thick hide from dashing through, but there would be painfully excruciating burns and Belegorn was banking on the fact that trolls might be deterred from trying.

Besides, he was going to be the diversion.

Somewhere behind Belegorn, a huge mailed fist drove into a tough leather bounded drum and sent forth strong tremors that shook the ground of the passageway. Belegorn quickly exited the main corridor into a tunnel not far from the flames.

Coming to a stop after a short run of over a hundred and thirty feet or so, he turned and readied himself.

[Kransha]

The deeps of the Ered Luin were home to many things. Trolls wandered throughout, as was known to most denizens; some goblin bands scouting the mountains sometimes delved deep enough to penetrate the cavern bulwarks; wolves or wargs from the outside in packs occasionally wandered through smaller, burrowed openings in the mountainsides were they opened to the valleys between each mighty, white-capped peak, and even more bizarre creatures, like the hordes of white-wolves from the south or wandering spiders from the distant forests made there ways into the deeps. These things, though, did not spend their lives in the caves; most ventured inside to suit swift purposes: hunting, sightseeing, sanctuary.

The only things that were always in the caverns were the original residents, though none of the others ever caught sight of them.

Narguzbad the Twenty-Third’s ears were not what they once were in terms of hearing. His beard, once black as night and sleek like the fur of a wolf, was grayer than gray these days. His eyes were nestled between vast pouches of rough, armor-like skin that sagged over weary eyelids, but the two bulbs that lay past all of this were grim and fiery, brown in color but tinged with bloody red like a raging inferno. He still held the passion that a warrior of his caliber was reputed and expected to possess. After slaying many things, the bladed axe at his hip was still sharp after being attended to each day with a dwarven artisan’s whetstone and the warhammer strapped to his back had lost none of its weight or intimidation factor. He was a soldier through and through, even after two centuries living in the darkness of caves that had once been rich with the light of Dwarf wealth. Still, though, he had lost the honing of his senses, at least those besides his ocular senses. Years of darkness made him almost nocturnal, surprisingly, whereas his ability to hear noises far off, and smell life in the deeps was dimmed severely.

Despite all this, he was who he was, and that was the Lord of the Ered Luin (technically). In reality, he controlled little in the Blue Mountains, save for a motley band of Dwarves who were the sole survivors of a once-great kingdom. He did know were everything was – almost everything – which was generally advantageous in so vast a realm. He had, in his helmeted head, stored knowledge of the cartography of most of the cavernous deeps, the cities, now ruined, of Belegost and Nogrod, and even the ultimate depths, caves and mines that belonged to things he had never faced…and never hoped to face. Those enigmatic creatures could be blamed for the death of his great-great-grandfather, Narguzbad XXII, but the Dwarf held them no malice. Many strange things had taken the lives from his ancestors. His father, Azaghâl XIII, had been crushed by a giant mithril knocker on one of the vaulted double-doors in the chambers of Old Nogrod. His great-great-great (seven greats) grandfather, Barazbud IV Flamehair had been killed by a flaming goblin shield flying like a proverbial discus (long story). Narguzbad himself expected to die a bizarre death, but he had come to terms with this. Being alone in such an expansive region conditioned one to such things.

Of course, he was about to find out that he was not alone.

“Lord?”

The gleaming, aged eyes swiveled about with the madness of a great warrior in their sullen sockets. Narguzbad saw nearby his Grand Vizier and Arch-Counselor, Zinshathûr, who was also the Chancellor of the Belegost Senate, and High Priest of Oromë. Most Dwarves in the caves had a string of titles, since there were so few of them to occupy important positions, and strings of titles sounded nice. Honestly, it was suspected that the Dwarf-King who had installed the titling custom, Barazbud II, had been a bit insane. Most Dwarf-Kings nowadays and, come to think of it, most Dwarves in the caves were actually a bit insane, but none of them knew or cared. They had wisdom, strength, and fancy titles. What else did they need?

“Yes?” replied Narguzbad, Lord of Nogrod, Regent of Belegost, Emperor of the United Blue Mountains, Warchief of the Khazâd, and Commander-in-Chief of the Belegostian Legions, stoutly.

“There is news, milord.” Narguzbad snorted, a puff of steamy mist swelling and pouring from his hefty nostrils. “There is always news, Zinshathûr, and it is seldom good news. If it is interesting news, however, it would be very nice to hear it.” He grinned a little, the whiskers of his beard flailing like little maces. Zinshathûr, entwining one prickly stump of a forefinger in his long, grayish matte of beard, replied with reproachful bemusement. “It is very interesting news, milord.”

He said nothing after this, prompting Narguzbad to lean forward and say, in a conspiratorial whisper: “Well, out with it, man.” Zinshathûr, who was actually odder than most other Dwarves, by virtue of his strange duties, nodded, his lower lip folding up over his upper, and paused for effect. “Milord,” he intoned, “There is something in the deeps!”

There was no real reaction. Narguzbad coughed. “Zinshathûr, there is always something in the mines. Spiders, orcs, wolves, trolls. If it is a horde of walking ale-mugs, filled to the brim, then, perhaps, this would be a situation worthy of note.” Zinshathûr nodded, as if he’d expected all this. He leaned forward again, his eyes narrowing into mysterious slivers, and said, “Milord, there are things in the deeps!” Narguzbad was obviously a bit peeved at this point, but he’d gotten used to the actions of his Grand Vizier. Quietly, and without a hint of the annoyance that was bulging in his gut, he said, “What things?”

“Afterborn!”

This, in fact, was something interesting. Even though he had nothing in his mouth to splutter with, Narguzbad spluttered – quite a lot. He was standing in a large, empty chamber that opened into many diffusing passageways that crisscrossed through the “royal chambers.” As the voice of the Dwarf-King formed the single syllable “What?!” his word echoed magnificently through the room, bouncing off the arches of the high ceiling and reverberating deep into every inlet and side-hall. The armored Dwarven guards stationed at each door, and meandering throughout the room busy with one thing or another, all turned, eyes widened and throats sealed, creating one drastic holding of breath that created a sort of vacuum. As if in retaliation, Narguzbad gasped for air. “Afterborn? You mean,” he halted, “the Edain? Men?”

“Yes.” Spoke Zinshathûr, “There are men in the deeps. Scouts near the ruins of Gabilgathol’s warehouses saw them roaming. They have set up a very large base camp in the eastern antechamber, and have many men.” He looked about with suspicious grimness, and a familiar paranoia. “Perhaps they are invading.” There was another vacuum created as all the nearby Dwarves inhaled, but Narguzbad shook his head quickly, to assuage their fears. “No,” he said, “They would not do such a thing. The Edain fought by our side, or we by theirs, at the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. They were at times misguided, but would not make war on us.” He considered for a moment, looking morose, “Besides,” he said depressingly, “They probably do not know we are here. We’ve not talked with their kind for generations. They are probably from very far off, one of the lesser kingdoms.”

Zinshathûr nodded a dank little nod, and the other Dwarves drooped, their flowery builds wilting in accordance with the mood. “But,” said Narguzbad, perking up, “They are here, and they are many in number, yes?” Zinshathûr nodded again, a confused look on his face. “Perhaps they have food, supplies, or a camp on the outside. That would explain the orc incursions of late. Their expansion may have pushed goblins into the caves.” Suddenly, Narguzbad looked ecstatic. “Lads,” he said, to the room mostly, “This could be our chance for emancipation from these catacombs. If there is civilization near enough, we may venture to it.” There was a beam of light, metaphorically, that filled the room with vigorous happiness. A kind of joint cheer rose from the Dwarves, but Zinshathûr hushed them solemnly.

“Milord,” he murmured, “They are many, but they are not the Afterborn in the Old Books. They are different. They speak a different language, which none of the scouts knew. We will not be able to communicate.” The conversation, so far, had been held in the Dwarves’ tongue, Khuzdûl, for they knew no Westron. The mood fell again into the dank depths, but Zinshathûr, who seemed at first defeated, ventured a hopeful remark. “But,” he said, “there are others among them.” Narguzbad watched him with less-than-patient eagerness, awaiting a reply again. “Elves! The Elves, though, are in a splinter group far from the base camp. They have ventured into the dark caves miles from here, and are probably in danger.”

Narguzbad was not excited, but he became instead meditative. “We have known the Elves more than we have their mortal kin. Some volumes in Elvish are in the Library, I think, but I do not think any of us are fluent.” He looked around the room, and got only reluctant head-shaking. “I suppose we all have a rudimentary knowledge of it, but it will not be easy to communicate. But, we must try. If the Afterborn and Firstborn come bearing news of the outside world, we must seek them out in force.”

He turned from his Vizier, and addressed the guards. He knew scouts, excavators, and other dwarves (perhaps a hundred, which was all that had survived the long centuries) were elsewhere, but they could be brought together. “Go hence,” he said majestically, “and assemble all the Khazâd of Nogrod and Belegost. We must reorganize and find the Elves and Men. They may be in dire straits even now, having gone into the lairs of dark beasts, and we must find them if we are to obtain the sustenance we require. We must move quickly, if we can, and unite with them. This is our chance, lads. To arms!”

With a shout, a gnashing of teeth, a glaring gleam of axe blades and mace spikes, and a clinking of plate and chain mail that rustled the hazy, fogged air, the Dwarves surged together in the chamber and through the passageways that led northeast, towards the Dúnedain and Eldar in the distant caverns.

Watching Zinshathûr swish along behind them, Narguzbad leaned down and kissed the dully shimmering ring on his forefinger for luck, then followed his kinsmen into the deeps.

[Saurreg]

The wait was excruciatingly agonizing and Belegorn was engulfed in both excitement and terror. His instinct was to scream but the absolute control of his faculties and years of experience and iron discipline suppressed the urge and he was able to remain quiet and still in alertness. In the silence and stillness, he could feel his heart pounding faster and faster as the stomach continued its frantic churning of adrenaline. The hormones coursed through the veins of his body; steeped into flesh, tickled other organs and touched the skin. His senses were heightened and his breathing became ragged. His right hand grasped the hilt of his unsheathed sword so tightly that the knuckles turned white and his trembling left hand threatened to crush the thin stalk of the flaming torch.

The trolls were yet to come and a sudden sharp crackle in a distance before the soldier made him realize that time was running out;

A brilliant shade of blue illuminated the wall of the main tunnel behind the fiery barrier that was created. For some time the vivid sapphire hue waxed strong and was unremitting but then capricious ripples started appearing; random little ones at first but increasing in magnitude and occurrence as the seconds tricked passed. Soon the entire surface seemed to flicker and swayed unsteadily whilst waning. The thin line of incendiary was burning itself out and its intended recipients were no where in sight. Belegorn’s plan was falling apart and there was nothing he could do.

Just as the Dunedain was falling into a state of despair, a booming roar echoed through the tunnels of stone and sent jolts of shiver down his spine; it was the unmistakable bellow of a troll but the fell beast sounded a long distance away. Regardless, Belegorn readied himself and stared intently ahead towards the entrance of the tunnel he was in. He strained his ears and listened, and sure enough more livid feral cries filled the air. But that was not all; despite the loud bellows of the trolls, his sensitive hearing could make out fainter cries in the midst of the cacophony – clearer and higher pitched. Belegorn’s eyes widened in fascination as he continued to listen.

Above the increasing din, the sudden and unmistakably shrill cry of a woman reached belegorn’s ears. Someone else was crying out in urgency also, but in a more measured voice that Belegorn instantly recognized: “Run! Run! Save yourselves!”

Carthor!

Without pausing for a thought Belegorn ran back into the main corridor. The brightness and heat of the fiery barrier stunned him temporarily in his state of heightened senses but he recovered quickly and ran towards the voice. As he continued towards the source of the clamor the blue light behind his back dimmed progressively and at a distance it suddenly disappeared.

The fiery barrier was no more and Belegorn was now the only obstacle standing between angry trolls and their quarries.

[Saurreg]

And they marched.

Through the halls of stone, over treacherous chasms of never ending depth and passed gates of wrought steel.

And they marched.

For they were the Khazâd; the Children of Aulë. Gonnhirrim; “Masters of Stone” and Naugrim, “The Stunted people”

And they marched.

Because for the first time in a long while, a host had entered the depths of their sacred underground kingdom and it was neither foe nor food.

And they marched - for civilization!

Narguzbad XXIII halted to catch his breath and wiped the sweat off his brows with his huge gloved hand. It has been more than sixty-score years since his heavily booted feet trampled across the very trail he was on and despite the dwarves’ reputation as lords of the great underneath (a dwarf never looses his bearings!), the scion of Azaghâl XIII was quite lost. He turned his thick neck this way and that, scratched his ruddy cheek in confusion and quickly reproduced the map #214 of the underground caves and tunnels from underneath his helm and scrutinized the chicken-scratch with great intensity. Vice-Vizar and Arch-Counselor Zinshathûr stooped nearby leaning on the hilt of his great twin-bladed battleaxe and wheezed uncontrollably. The forced breathing irritated the map-reader and he looked across in annoyance at his Pontifex Maximus who could only give a “can’t help it” apologetic shrug in reply. The Holy Khazâd Emperor shot a “I don’t care, now stop that” look back, stuffed the parchment vack under the protective headwear and turned to look upon his great army; the Imperial Guard of Holy Khazad-dûm, the White Guards of Tumunzahar, the Blue Guards of Gabilgathol and the chosen axe-throwers of the Sacred Hammer.

Nineteen equally anciently wizened faces looked up and regarded their liege lord, the Grand Duke of Tumunzahar. One or two smiled cheekily and revealed blackened teeth and gaps between them, the others kept their mouths closed because the wind hurt their bare gums. For the first time in a long while, the great army was fully assembled in full battle order in heavy reinforced helms with sloped neck guards and close fitting cheek guards, tailor-made ring-mails fitted with lamellae plates and studs, thick leather vests and armed with an assortment of weapons ranging from dragon head war-hammers to terrible twin-edged broadswords. Narguzbad XXIII sighed quietly and thought that it could have been better but considering that fact that nineteen was all he got, dwarven logic quickly established that nineteen vertically-challenged bicentennial warriors was better than no vertically-challenged bicentennial warriors and so he’d better make do with what he got.


Chancellor of the Senate Zinshathûr had fallen asleep already, leaning precautious on his heavy weapon. Narguzbad XXIII elbowed his prime minister roughly and without waiting, continued his journey. Twenty-one pairs of heavy steel soled boots broke into a march without any unison.

After consulting his map, the lord of the Blue Mountains was sure that beyond the next stone bridge laid the tunnel where the afterborn from the East would most probably venture through. He also knew through the map that it was also the lair of a giant spider. The Great Elector of All Khazâd never liked spiders and for moment he toyed with the thought of perishing in an epic battle with the arachnid.

There were other worthier enemies of course. Mused the king who was suddenly acutely aware of his old age and the looming darkness that would engulf him in bed. A death without honor.

The great Khazâd contingent was midway across the last stone bridge and Narguzbad XXIII was contemplating whether or not to grant the leader of the Afterborn the favor of kissing his right hand when he thought he had the din of battle ahead. Dismissing it as a wild fragment of his imagination (that was become more frequent nowadays) he continued marching. But the sound did not disappear but became louder and louder. Even old Zinshathûr who was hard of hearing was looking forward intently. Narguzbad XXIII halted suddenly and turned towards his brave warriors with widened eyes that flashed with excitement and glee. Every other Khazâd was grinning from ear to ear also (even those without teeth) and were looking intently at their great leader. The great leader placed his thick and stumpy index digit before his pluckered lips in the universal sign, turned tail and broke into a brisk trot towards the sound of clashing blades and roaring beasts. The other Khazâd followed closely with unsuppressed smiles as the years left them like cumbersome coats unrobed.

And they ran.

For honor, glory and victory.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor's elvish senses, attuned now to the echoes of the caves and heightened by the battle with the spider picked up the cries in the tunnel behind. Belegorn was not alone against his foes. She remembered her fathers words "We must do our duty and we must obey orders - but sometimes it is our duty to disobey orders.

Bethiril would have to lead the refugees away - if not to safety, at least as far as possible from the trolls. She who was about to break an order gave them quickly and calmly. "go as swiftly as possible but mark your path so that we may find you again all being well - use ranger marks that the trolls may not follow if it goes not so well. I am going after Belegorn; it would be craven to let him face them unaided - but I fear some of our party have already crossed the trolls path. Any who come with me must do so of free will - Angore, I release you from my service. I am no longer Emissary, for the kingdom as we knew it is no more. If you feel obliged to guard go with the Lady Bethiril, who bears no arms - but I think the needs of us all would be better served if you consented to join me against the trolls. " So saying she turned and torch in one hand and drawn sword in the other she ran after Belegorn, aware of feet and voices following her but not of the identity of their owners.

As she ran, her voice murmered a chant the words of which seemed to pass to her lips without the intervention of her conscious mind: she felt guided by something out herself.

"Oh Lady Varda, dost thou watch me even here in these dark tunnels, far from the light of thy stars?" she thought. Though far from the mightiest of the firstborn she was of the Calaquendi, a noldo of a noble house and a power was in her strange to mortals even though they be Dunedain and a light was about her as she ran than was not the product of her torch.

Yet she blanched when she saw the sight that Belegorn had seen shortly before. The mighty captain Carthor, in a trolls grip and several other trolls about him. And some other refugees, a young man, two women and a small child. It was hardly going to be an even contest even if the man was armed ... Erenor hoped she had some followers and they would arrive soon. But there was no time to waste, and moving with speed that no mortal and certainly no troll could match, she attacked. Her fine weapons and speed must serve in the place of brute strength. Her priority was to aid Carthor and hope he was able still to fight when the troll released it's grip. But that was her rational mind... subconsciously she was still chanting, her voice increasing in volume the until the chant echoed around the cave walls. She planted her torch in a wall sconce and soon her blade started to sing it's own strange song as she swung it two handed to meet troll hide with optimum power.

[Osse]

The air was rushing out of Carthor's lungs like flour from a sieve. The searing pain in his flanks blinded him, his thoughts were clouded, as if some great shroud had been thrown over the life-lamp of his mind.

Carthor was being examined.

“Wha’da you lot fink he’s doin’ here? We aint seen none of is kind ere for ages.”

“Dunno.” Another troll answered the first. “Wonder if ders’ any more of dem…”

As if in reply to the second troll, Carthor’s captor tightened his vice-like grip around the Dunedain’s torso. The last of his breath dragged from his compressed lungs, Carthor swooned.

Soft chanting filled his mind. The soft, yet powerful feminine voice resounded in its polished halls and corridors…

Carthor’s head snapped up, suddenly lolling on his neck no longer. Though his torso was held in the mighty grasp of his detainer, Carthor still had use of his arms. Coming harshly to his senses, as if drenched in ice-water, Carthor reached down to his boot, and drawing his worn utility knife stabbed at the marble like flesh of his assailant.

The troll cried out, its booming voice whipping like threads at Carthor’s ears. Dropping the Dunedain onto the cold hard floor, the troll brought its mace-like hand up to its mouth and sucked away the trickle of dark, dark blood that was collecting like pooling rain water there. Carthor rolled as he hit the ground, the knife in his hand glinting in the darkness, in accord with the eyes of the one who held it.

Carthor was aware, in the dim light, of at least two others present in the corridor, from the sounds of their voices. Where Lissi and the others were, he didn’t’ know. He pushed them out of his mind and joined the tall shape of Erenor as she hacked at the trunk-like legs of her foes.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn stared in astonishment as gravelly faced Erenor of Rivendell went up against one of the hulking behemoth, screeching like a Gramian wildcat and swinging her keen blade this way and that. What spirit! As amazed as he was by that reckless act of Eldarin courage, he was even more impressed by the fact that she (Erenor) whom he (the dumbfounded one) left way back in the main tunnels had actually reached the enemies swifter than he despite the greater distance to run.

Mysterious was the prowess of the fair folks. Learn to respect it or be damned!

The passive one departed from his state of quiescence and ran towards a troll of his own intending to cut it down the size. He skillfully ducked as the brute swung its powerful scale-clad arm at him and dodged in anticipation when his opponent let his club fall. Belegorn meant to strike immediately when the beast was in its most vulnerable state immediately after its failed attempt to squash him, but the impact of the titanic blow was literally earth shaking and it sent the would-be opportunist tumbling backwards, losing the grasp of his torch that cluttered across the damp stone floor before being extinguished.

The attacker landed clumsily on his back and searing pain that coursed through his spine made him grimace. But the expression of physical agony soon turned into horror as he became aware that he was in the shadow of the troll which had raised its cruel weapon above its hideous head attempting to perform again what it failed to accomplish the first time.

And it would not miss this time.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor was not quantifying the damage she was doing and she was aware of others fighting around her and of the angry roars of injured trolls - but she knew unless fortuitously placed or delivered with extreme strength a knife might have no more effect than an insect sting. THe brutes were enormous. Erenor stoud around six feet tall but the trolls were about that much wide and half as high again. Still she chanted and the sound resonated about the chamber. I am an insect that buzzes aswell as stings she thought laughing inwardly for a moment as she sliced a great weal into troll hide.

Then she became aware of of a mighty club raised and the Dunedain captain lying in it's shadow. With the catlike agility of her people she ran and leapt up nearly twice her own height to catch one handed onto the club as it swung down. The troll changed the direction of its blow trying to shake of Erenor and as she swung she slashed at the trolls face with her sword.

Releasing her grip before she could be smashed into the cave wall she scrambled onto the back of another troll, like a child carried pick-a-back. As she did so she dropped her precious sword which clattered to the floor, far out of reach. With one hand she tightened her grip around the troll's neck and reached for her dagger with the other. It had saved her a couple of times already and she hoped it would not fail her now.

The troll reversed backwards into the cave wall crushing Erenor against the cave wall. She felt her mail grind into her flesh; she jabbed her knife into the troll's neck and it roared and moved forward again. But it was a brief respite. the troll drove backwards with greater force. Erenor however had reached forward with her dagger and with her body trapped between the wall and the troll, used both hands on the hilt, which was turned away from her, and all her remaining strength to drive the blade through one of the trolls eyes.

The creature fell forward in it's death throes, but for Erenor, the chanting had stopped when breath had been forced from her body "Maltore!", she gasped and was briefly aware of fallingand of her head striking something before she lost consciousness.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Erenor rushed off to fight the trolls, leaving Bethiril lost in thought. “I am no longer Emissary, for the Kingdom as we know it is no more.” The older Noldo remembered saying such words to her younger colleague not long ago, to which she added the hope of not seeing her purpose fall to meaninglessness.

But the North Kingdom as it had been is no more. Even if the people that once had inhabited its land . . . No. Forget the distant future. This remnant of Arnor left to your care must survive. She left her contemplation to look around her, to remember the faces of the persons that had been entrusted to her . . .

Angóre, she immediately discerned, is troubled in mind. Bethiril queried him in his thoughts. He wants to go after the monsters that scarred his life, and after the person he had protected for so long.

“You may go,” she said.

“But you . . . and them . . .”

“We’ll be fine. Now go.”

“I may not leave you unarmed,” he said as he withdrew a sheathed dagger from his thigh. “Take this.”

Bethiril stared at the presented arms. She no longer shuddered at the sight of it, yet . . . Dare I take it? Go against everything I believe in? Perhaps wearing the weapon would not be so evil . . . Yet should the need arise, will I use it for its ghastly purpose? Will I take I life? Could I do such a thing and not break myself?

Angóre sensed the conflict within her. “Milady, although I entrust to you the life of these Edain, I would not trust you with my blade.” She saw the beginnings of a smile in his face, suppressed quickly as he pointed to a Man behind Bethiril, a former member of the Rearguard of Arnor now bandaged and in crutches. “Take this dagger, soldier. You are now in charge of protecting them.” He then saluted stiffly in the manner of the fighting men of Arnor, and the soldier, with as much formality as he could muster, returned it. The Elf turned back to Bethiril and bowed. “Thank you, milady. May the Valar protect you,” he said before running off to follow Erenor. Bethiril’s eyes trailed him for a while, then she remembered her charge. It may not bring with it the hope of ending Angmar's reign, but . . .

Perhaps it will.

“Let us go,” she said.

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre dashed down the tunnel, reflecting ruefully that he had been doing a great deal of that recently. The strap that had held his dagger slapped against his side, and his mind ran back over his conversation with the senior envoy. Even were he to live another full age of the world, he would still not understand her pacifism. With the world crumbling around her, the servants of the great Enemy ringing her in, still she refused to take the weapon from him. He wondered if that pacifism would hold even with the enemy bearing down on her. Would she not struggle then? Even a rabbit did as much. It was a path strange to him, and, though he respected her strength of will and stately presence greately, it was a path he could never give his respect to. He wondered again, this time about the aged and crippled soldier the blade had gone to instead. Was it possible the man knew the worth of the gift given him? It seemed unlikely. In all, he reflected, it had been a strange day.

Which would only get stranger. He rounded the bend in the tunnel to see his charge flung limply against the stones, breath dashed from her lungs. And the word, 'Maltóre.' He felt the strength leave his knees. Fighting raged around him, screams of the wounded and dying, and he did nothing but stare at the comatose figure. How had she known that name? The last time it had been spoken had been by the emissary of Elrond, informing him of the death of his mother. He had been struck still then as well, looking out over the valley of Imladris. When he had finally turned, all color and life drained from his features, his words had only been this; I am Angóre now. And he had never been called anything but that since. How had she known? And why, why had she spoken that name now?

The battle raged, but Angóre was no part of it anymore.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn got up just in time to see his valiant savior crumple and collapse onto the ground. “Erenor!” he cried as he reached down and retrieved his sword. The troll that would have been his executor stood between him and the unconscious female elf. It was blinded by the sharp thrusts of elven blade but it breathed still; thrashing about and bellowing in terrible anger and pain. Fire overtook the Dunedain and he launched himself towards the handicapped beast with a shout of fury and reckless disregard. Reaching out, he planted an outstretched palm on the troll’s sternum and with his sword arm; he plunged the three feet long blade upwards through the beast’s neck and severed the base vertebrate. Like a marionette with its strings cut, the troll instantly turned limp and Belegorn shoved its bulk away from himself.

He ran towards Erenor, knelt and reached out to her lifeless body. With the most deliberate of care, he turned the unconscious elf around slowly and pulled her towards his chest. He was mildly surprised at how light the slender body was despite its height and sinewy musculature when he inspected his safekeeping for signs of bodily injury – there were none that could be seen. Cradling Erenor close to his own body, he could feel her warmth and the silent but steady breathing. She was still alive and he had to get her out of harm’s way.

The din of battle around them was deafening and with the nearest torch yards away from the combatants, it was too dark for Belegorn to make out the shape of men amidst the immense silhouette of the rampaging trolls. Over the sonorous cries of the torogs, the helpless Dunedain could make out the cries and yells of Carthor and his men, but the acoustics of the corridor merged actual emissions with echoes and thus there was no way he could pinpoint the exact position of his comrade.

A strong hand reached out and grabbed Belegorn by the shoulder. With Erenor in his arms, Belegorn was defenseless and he anticipated the worst. But a familiar face came into view and brought a sense of relief to Belegorn’s heart.

“What happened?” Inquired Carthor with great concern etched on his face.

“She fell trying to save me,” Replied Belegorn looking at the very attractive face of his charge

“Carthor, Listen! We must get away from here. This fight is beyond us!”

“But my wife and her friend are still back there!” gestured Carthor towards the direction of the trolls in exasperation, “I can’t leave her!”

Carthor’s revelation made Belegorn’s heart sunk. Had all the Dunedain been fighters, there might have been a chance for the party to fight their way back up the corridor but the inclusion of non-combatants made it impossible.

There was nothing left to do but despair…

A troll caught hold of a Dunedain by the neck and lifted the man high above the ground. It gave a roar of victory and poised to swing its hapless opponent towards the cave wall, intending to dash the latter. Primal fear filled the luckless soldier as the troll grabbed him and it was too much to bear. The Dunedain lost all control of his mental faculty and started to scream in uncontrollable fear the moment his feet left the ground. His cries were bloodcurdling and they pierced the hearts of those who heard them and sent chills down their spine. Even as the troll swung his victim towards the wall in a terrible display of uncanny strength, the man continued to scream uncontrollably until the very end when his neck was crushed and the back of his head smashed. Unmistakably feminine screams of terror followed.

“Derigorm… Lissi!” Exclaimed Carthor aloud as he recognized the voices.

The outburst alerted one of the trolls and it started is lumbering gait towards the trio.

“BARUK KHAZÂD! KHAZÂD AIMÊNU!”

The dwarves had come.

[Mithalwen]

The first thing Erenor became aware of were of strong arms wrapped tenderly about her and the reassuring solidness of the chest against which her head lay. She had not been so held since childhood and so comforting did she find it that she stirred trying to nestle even closer. In repose her face had lost it's sternness and she looked more like a lass who had dressed in her brother's garb for some gest than a warrior herself. I will just stay here and sleep till the pain goes , she thought, but her movement had disturbed her injured shoulder and the sharp pain stirred her more fully.

Erenor opened her eyes and to her astonishment met the concerned gaze of Belegorn. She would never have expected the gruff and battle-hardened soldier to be so gentle. She looked around.. she saw two trolls lying dead but at least twice that number remained and a dunadan was dead also. She then saw her guard standing strangely transfixed despite the danger that faced them all.

"Captain let me down..the troll.... Angore....! Where is my sword?" The question was as much for herself as anyone else for she saw it and breaking from Belegorn's arms she lunged forward for it... She staggered on her slender limbs like a newborn foal and having grasped her sword she used it as support as she regained her feet. The effort caused fresh and agonising waves of pain to crash through her body and again she felt Belegorn's arms about her as she tried to stand. Anything more than the shallowest breath pained her, her head ached, her left arm, though not broken could not be moved without excruciating pain and she was still losing blood from her concealed wounds - the shadows were too deep for mortal sight to perceive the dark stain spreading slowly across the back of Erenor's tunic.. "Lady Erenor ... you must not... " but his voice was lost in the battlecries that rang down the tunnel and though her mind was clouded by pain she knew the meaning of those few words of the secret tongue that outsiders ever heard: KHAZÂD AIMÊNU, the dwarves are upon you. Hope comes unexpectedly, she thought as she desperately tried to focus mind and body.

[Saurreg]

Narguzbad, son of Azaghâl howled with unbridled glee as the last throwing axe landed onto the broad shoulder of the last unscathed troll and buried itself deep. His chosen axe throwers were still doughty and unbowed by age in the manner in which they let loose their deadly missiles. Every axe found its mark and the trolls were all wounded even before the dwarves got down to close-range melee – the type of fight that Narguzbad relished the most.

As the last axe thrower expended his compliment of hatchets, the entire Khazâd contingent roared again (one or two started to wheeze immediately after), waving and rattling their weapons in the air; eyes wide with maddening fire and almost foaming at the edge of their mouths from kindled bloodlust. Narguzbad, Lord of All That He Surveys regarded the largest of the trolls; a hideous female with uncharacteristic coolness that distinguished him from the rest of the ancient troop. He narrowed his already beady eyes into a squint before donning his wolf-faced iron mask.

The trolls helped one another up and turned to face the stunted warriors. They growled and snarled as the recognized the nature of their assailants and prepared to do battle.

Narguzbad raised his arms and his warriors ceased their boisterous taunts. An uneasy silence filled the air as twenty-one dwarves suddenly became as quiet as stone. It was the calm before the storm.

The king intoned slowly in a quiet but firm voice, “Baruk Khazâd, Khazâd ai-mênu,”

“Baruk Khazâd. Khazâd ai-mênu.” replied his congregation in equal solemnity.

The king then lowered his arms and pointed his stubby sword towards the enemy. He repeated himself but this his voice boomed and echoed throughout the dwarven halls,

“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”

The rest of the dwarves followed suit in equally loud and imposing voices. So great was the chant that the walls trembled and dust on the ground bounced and scattered from the vibration,

“BARUK KHAZÂD! KHAZÂD AI-MÊNU!”

Without warning Narguzbad leapt forward like an uncaged lion towards the trolls - all by himself. Grasping the heavy blade with both hands, the heavily armored dwarf bounded, onwards as his pounding feet took closer and closer to his opponent. The female troll bellowed aloud at the challenge and it too broke into a run towards her much smaller opponent whilst swinging her club wildly in the air. Riva the Black swung at Narguzbad XVIII but missed badly and stumbled. Grasping opportunity by the hair (literally by the greasy locks of the stooped Riva), the dwarven king stepped onto the grounded club and propelled himself with astonishing agility to face his mortal foe with a single leap. Well-honed dwarven reflexes swung into action and an aged but still muscular arm plunged its sword into the old hag’s neck. It was the moment the dwarves were waiting for; Narguzbad threw his head back and called out,

“SAARG KHAZÂD!”

The rest of the dwarves broke into a cheer and ran towards the enemy with the song of fury in their hearts and thoughts of true life-everlasting in their mind. All ran forwards except for perceptive old Zinshathûr who noticed two huddled shapes, trembling by the edge of the main tunnel where his great lord had just passed them by. Realizing what they were, the ancient dwarf hobbled towards them, grabbed them by the arms and dragged them roughly along the ground a good distance away from the intensive fight. Satisfied that the two Afterborn females were still alive though very badly bruised and shocked, Zinshathûr took his leave and joined the battle.

[Amanaduial the archer]

As Erenor had charged, with her terrible battle yell, towards the trolls after Belegorn, Faerim had instinctively grabbed for her, but his hands had grasped only empty air. As the elf vanished into the melee, the young man had started after her - but an arm grabbed his, pulling him backwards. "Get back, boy! Your commander told you what to do, now you respect that," a gruff voice remonstrated. The speaker lowered his voice to a grim, respectful tone and added, "Respect the wishes of a dying man, boy."

Faerim spun around and shoved the older man, pushing him roughly against the tunnel wall. Caught off guard, the soldier stumbled backwards and fell against the wall, but anger had overtaken Faerim and he was too caught up in it to regret it yet. He took a step forward, barely holding himself back. "Don't you ever say that - Lieutenant Belegorn is not dead yet."

The soldier was taken aback but only for a moment and he sneered at Faerim, straightening up and spitting to the side. "What, like your little elven friend? She ain't dead either - yet..."

This time it took another soldier's grip on his arms to restrain Faerim. He struggled for a moment then simply glared at the older man and shook the other off him. Casting a last glance at the battlescene that surged around the corner, he swore quietly and turned to the others - a group of lost soldiers without commands, half of whom were merely boys, younger even that him. And one other figure: Brander. Subconciously, Faerim straightened up as he faced them. "Get back - towards the caves, quickly. Take the torch and follow...."

"Nevhith," the boy to the right of him interjected. Faerim raised an eyebrow. How could I ever forget that voice... He nodded. "Sure, follow Nevhith. And for gods' sakes, don't drop it."

The boy nodded, swelling up with his own importance and held the torch high, he turned to the end of the tunnel and took the lead. About half of the group followed but some hesitated: the older, more experienced soldiers, those more around the age of Faerim's father than of he himself. The youth looked at them and raised his eyebrows very slightly, but they didn't move, glancing nervously down the tunnel to where Belegorn and the elves had vanished. And Faerim realised glaringly who was missing, and was amazed that he hadn't done so before: Lissi. The air knocked out of his lungs, he turned wide-eyed to the man who had held Faerim back - Serrane, Faerim now remembered, the name surfacing from the depths of his memory. "Where is she? My mother, where is she?"

Another man sneered once more, but Serrane cut over him. "Faerim-"

"You were told to take care of her!" the boy almost shouted. "Where did she go?"

Serrane didn't reply, his eyes flashing with muted anger at being shouted at by a boy so much younger than himself, but he didn't reply - but the way his eyes wandered down the tunnel fleetingly towards the fighting told Faerim all he needed to know. The boy paled and, without another word, turned to run in that direction, his hand on his sword - but quick as a viper, Serrane grabbed his arms once more. "Get back here! Listen to me, Faerim, both your mother and father are down there - you really think they'd thank you for getting yourself killed in addition?"

"I can't just let-" Faerim squirmed furiously against the older man's grip, but he held firm: although Faerim was strong, this man had been in the military for a lifetime.

"You can, you will," he interrupted fiercely. Pushing Faerim ahead of him, he turned down the tunnel and started down it determinedly, following the fading, wobbling light of the torch ahead. But Faerim wasn't giving up that easily: if he was anything, he was stubborn. He walked a few steps quite meekly - then turned and tried to cut down under the other man's arm. Mistake. Serrane's arm shot out reflexively and all but floored the younger man. Faerim sprawled against the wall, writhing as his back hit the hard, jagged rock and his eyes flared furiously. Serrane squared himself up for the boy to make another try - but then a sound quenched them both, and all the others in the tunnel. Marching feet, regimented and solemn, the sound of a well trained force coming down these dark, terrible tunnels, their footsteps echoing off the walls and, it seemed to the already edgy Faerim, shaking the very stones. What was this, yet more trolls come, or something even more terrible? He remembered the attack on Fornost: the enemy hadn’t seemed organised in the attack then, it had been chaos once they entered the city, but the memory of the regimented orcs standing in battalions as straight sided as a knife edge remained in his enemy. Yes, even the vilest form of orc who had taken everything from this people could march in line, for all their animal screams and nightmarish appearances. Were they about to do it again, to take yet more from the Dunedain? Hardly daring to move or even to breathe, the dissheveled Faerim waited, silent and wide-eyed as the footsteps came to an abrupt halt. Something close to silence descended.

Silence.

Then a blood-curdling yell ripped down the tunnel, vicious, screaming words in an jagged, unfamiliar tongue. That was it: Faerim took advantage of Serrane’s momentary lapse in concentration and burst past him, sprinting up towards the sound of the voice, with only the thoughts of Lieutenant Belegorn and his family in his mind. And Erenor. Always Erenor.

[Saurreg]

The Battle under the Blue Mountains was so violent and intense that it last for no more than fifteen vicious minutes. At the end of the pivotal confrontation, six immense bulks lay prone or were slumped onto their sides and scattered amidst the carcasses of the hewed cave trolls were the crushed and broken bodies of aged dwarven warriors; no quarter was asked and none was given. The mood of the trolls was dark and their strength and stamina terrible to behold, but for all the worth of their incredible attributes, they were matched by the stalwartly courage and legendary skills of the Children of Aulë. And none was more heroic in that struggle than King Nazgurbad the Great whose great sword left many a marks on all the trolls. However exhaustion and wounds overcame the great lord and soon after he dispatched the last troll stripling with a thrust through the crown, darkness covered his eyes and he slumped, sending his heavy dragon helm tumbling from the regal head.

The confrontation was too intense for any of the men or elves to participate and for most part of the battle they were reduced to mere spectators hoping for the best and dreading the worst. But when the last of Nazgurbad’s warrior was crashed underfoot and the old king was confronted by two wounded by nevertheless fearsome trolls, dour-handed Angore launched himself at one of the great beasts and slew it with his sharp spears. And faithful Carthor rushed to the aid of the lone dwarf but the latter vanquished his mortal foe and himself passed to the house of the dead swiftly, all the Dunedain could do in time was to grab hold of the king’s collapsed body before it toppled off his kill. Searching along the tunnels in the vain hope of rendering aid to any dwarven fighter who might have been still alive, the survivors were joyfully reunited with two of their womenfolk whom were dragged off to the safety at the far end of the tunnel by Zinshathûr the Wise. More incredulous was the discovery of the maps of the underground passages by sharp-eyed Faerim which, allowed the refugees to remake contact with the rest of their people and travel along the maze of tunnels without any further delays or molestation.

By the end of the sixth day underground, the survivors of Fornost returned to the surface of Middle-Earth and were greeted by the stars.

[Mithalwen]

It had been Faerim of course who had realised the extent of her injuries; Faerim the sharp eyed and sharp witted; Faerim who perhaps cared most for Erenor's safety - though Angore probably regarded it as his duty even now she had discharged herself from his care. Once the battle with the troll had ended he had sought the most skilled of the dunedain women to treat her wounds. A stone wall sconce had driven links of mail deep into her shoulder and caused the great blood loss. Otherwise she had come off remarkably lightly from her encounter with the troll. The physical injuries would soon heal as is the nature of elvish bodies but the events had left other marks. With her wounds fresh she could not bear to wear her mail, and without it her frame appeared much slighter, fragile even. She had exhausted much of her power in trying to hold off the trolls and for a while her spirit was dimmed.

Partly she despaired that the blessed find of the dwarvish maps were being squandered in returning to the King who seemed to delight in finding ways to try to kill them, partly the gallantry of the Dunedain had made her ashamed of her previous attitude. They deserve a greater leader for their great loyalty she thought. She knew that the sense of honour and duty that had led Belegorn to rush to her aid even as battle raged would not allow him to desert his liege lord so for once she held her tongue. Nevertheless she was all the more grieved at the doom that seemed to face them. The idea particularly that that brave lad Faerim's life would end so soon was harder to bear by far than the prospect of her own demise. The devotion he showed to his family too was something admirable and she wondered if it was fair to ask him to choose. Since if she tried to escape to Mithlond she would be loathe to leave him - but he would surely not abandon family and duty. If he would not leave, would she stay to protect him as long as she might? The answer was not clear to her and she spoke little during their journey back and if any of the other elves read her thoughts, they did not comment on it.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn stood on the grass covered knoll with his eyes closed and allowed the welcoming night breeze to caress his face. Refreshed and thankful, he opened his eyes and marveled at the brightness of the stars and their multitude. The celestial jewels were out in full force that night and they were like countless eyes burning bright in alternating hues of blue and yellow.

They were there to welcome the refugee’s return to the surface. They were there to witness and give testimony to their trials of tribulation under the Blue Mountains and before that.

The gift of the Lady to the Firstborn, mused the man as he continued to gaze serenely at the twinkling lights above him, witless that his lips were curled slightly by the sides of his mouth. The light of stars gave no heat, but on that winter’s night, Belegorn felt warmth like no other in his heart.

And now her Grace shares this gift with us…

A polite clearing of the throat brought Belegorn out from his daze. He smiled when he recognized that his interrupter was the young standard bearer of the regiment for he was glad the latter made it out of the underside also.

“Sorry to disturb you sir,” begun the young man softly, “but Captain Carthor requests your presence at the camp.”

Belegorn nodded his silent approval and turned to follow the young soldier down the mount. He turned and gave the stars, the warmth and the peace he was leaving behind a long reluctant look.

Real life beckoned.

[Osse]

Carthor shivered under the stars' cold gaze, in spite of his thick fur-lined cloak. The night no longer held any beauty for the old man; instead, through a harsh re-education of screams and unseen death, it had become a time of fear and malice to be slept through, or if the visions of pain stayed when his eyes closed, to be endured within the safety of stout walls.

Too many cold nights. Too many cold graves. Too many cold memories...

The soft sound of the camp gently drowned out the nightly noises, the shuffles of those sorting through their sparse belongings, the ring of metal on metal of those preparing their meagre meals.

Carthor added to the din, tapping out the tune to a favourite Arnorian marching song on the hilt of his broadsword. He quickly stopped as he remembered those he had first sung it with.

Carthor sighed.

Where was Belegorn?

The party needed to decide what to do, now that their last option was exhausted. Food was running short, even though the party had been substantially thinned, and its members had tightened their belts - many were substantially thinned themselves. Carthor reckoned on them lasting no more than a fortnight. Hunting was poor, the game had spread due to the cold.

Bitterly, there was little hope, particularly for the very young and the very old, many of whom had already been hastily buried in some lonely knoll or under some icy hillock, far from the white stone of their home.

Carthor lived without hope, as he had for many years. Inside he was as numb as his fingers were on the outside.

Pulling his great hood over his head, helm and all, he trudged off in search of Belegorn, the newborn frost crunching under his heavy boots.

[Saurreg]

Snow started to fall as Belegorn made his way back to the camp with the standard bearer by his side. They fell endlessly and everywhere; on his hair, on clothes and on his face where they melted instantaneously on contact with his warm skin, creating tingling little shocks that were invigorating. Fire and ice, he recalled the words of an old campaigner, worldly imperfection at its absolute – life itself. If there was anything Belegorn had learned to appreciate more than the wondrous beauty of celestial bodies at night, it was the sensations only the living could feel.

They trampled through the loose snow for a while until they reached the camp fire and torch lit camp. It was far smaller than the one the refugees had pitched before entering the Blue Mountains – a testament to the numbers that have fallen. Even with the map of the old dwarf king, Belegorn could not save all of his people. Many bands were lost forever, swallowed by the tunnels and caves that give no inking of their fate. Some were found but decimated, their members wide-eyed and trembling, slurring incoherently about monstrosities that burst out from the walls and watery depths, taking away screaming victims in their lethal coils and cruel maws before returning whence they came from. Even the king’s party was not spared and Belegorn learned soon after the re-ascend that chief amongst the victims of that band were Targon, commander of the king’s own guards and foul Mellonar – constant agitator and tormentor of Hirvegil whom they left in the underground also. He was also surprised to hear from the gossips that it was King Arvedui himself who led the rearguard of his party in the wake of his military commander’s demise and when a huge segment-bodied beast attacked, he was the one who slew it and in that struggle, Crown Prince Aranarth was the only who stood by his father’s side.

Belegorn’s mind was still fixated with the fantastic deeds of the King when a huge silhouette stepped out from the dark and neared him. Years of well honed reflexes kicked in, Belegorn immediately drew his blade and turned to face the intruder. However the dark figure had stepped out of the old soldier’s peripheral and revealed it to be a king’s own guard clad in dark mail and thick furs with the king’s own crest embroidered boldly across his breastplate.

“Well met, Lieutenant Belegorn,” intoned the soldier cautiously with his eyes on Belegorn’s sword, “The King requests your immediate presence, sir. I have been sent to fetch you back to the camp.”

Belegorn’s eyes narrowed and for a moment tension filled the air. The standard bearer eyed the newcomer and then his commander nervously but neither man moved. Finally Belegorn broke the deadlock and sheathed his sword. “I recognize you soldier. Very well, I shall go and see his Majesty. Lead the way.” He then turned to the standard bearer,

“Where is Captain Carthor?”

“The captain is at the west of the camp, sir.”

“Good, tell him that I will see him later,” Replied Belegorn and he turned to face the king’s guard,

“Lead the way.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Seated to the side of the camp, his back against one of the scraggy trees around the borders of the Dunedain’s camp, Faerim shook his head like a dog as the snow began to settle on his long, light hair. Looking up, the boy squinted against the snow to watch it falling, silent and strange, from the heavens. Something about the soundless passage that the snowflakes took from the velvet sky seemed to hush the camp, and the slow, dizzying dance that they performed as they fell from those ethereal heights made the boy shiver as he watched them, not only from the cold. Sighing peacefully, he finally drew his eyes and turned back to other matters, matters of the real world. He removed his long coat and then, despite the cold, removed his leather jerkin. The sleeves were rolled up, as usual, but the colour of the shirt was far from the snowy white it had once been: fighting in the woods alongside the elves, and again in the tunnels, had seen to that. But it was only when he had removed his long coat and jerkin that he saw the true measure of the latter fight: the material around his right forearm and shoulder was crimson with blood, a jagged rip slashed through the cloth. A souvenir given to him by the spider. Frowning – he had not realised the cut was so deep – he gently touched the wound with his fingertips, and grimaced a little, drawing back from the wound as it stung. Undoing a few of the top buttons of his shirt down to about his mid torso, he pulled it over so that his shoulder was revealed, again clenching his teeth as he peeled the cloth back from the wound: it had had some time to fester there and the dry blood had effectively stuck shirt and skin together.

Below the spider-wound was a smaller scar, a clean, straight line just below his elbow. It was partially healed, yet still burned with muted fire: a wound from a sword blade, sustained in the seemingly doomed rescue of the elves. His first battle…It seemed a million years ago now; he had become used to using a sword, no longer against a training opponent but against a real flesh and blood enemy. It had been an eye-opener and no mistake! He almost smiled at the memory. Faerim had changed that day, for better or for worse: he had learnt to fight a genuine adversary, but he had also learnt something about those in authority. Something about his heroes not being as pure as he had always suspected – a lesson springing from the moment when Hirvegil had blackmailed him with treason. That was not a lesson that Faerim could smile at as he looked back at it… Both lessons had hurt, but while the former had been physical pain, it was the latter that had been the harder to take. As the snowflakes fell on his newer wound, raw and now bleeding where the shirt had been pulled from its cloying grip, the touch of the ice on his skin and open flesh made the boy shiver again, but the soft, tingling paths that the wintry fingers stroked across his skin were not unpleasant: as the sound of the women from the camp, as the cracking of the campfires, as the light breeze that ruffled the strands of light hair across his cheeks, the sensation of the snowflakes on his skin only served to remind the boy that he was alive.

Unlike so many others…

The light crunch of snow in front of him made Faerim look up, but slowly: he had guessed who it was before he saw Erenor’s fair, pale face beneath the hood of her cloak. He smiled tiredly. “The snow stops you from moving quite so silently, Lady Erenor.”

Wordlessly, the elf took a few more steps towards him, her feet this time almost silent on the snow. Looking up again, she returned his smile. “I thought I should have given you some warning: all of us have had more than enough nasty surprises today.” It was one of the first times that Faerim had heard her refer to herself and the elves along with the Dunedain together: maybe battle had advantages, however few. It was in battle that he had discovered more about Erenor, after all. It was to battle he had intended to pledge his young life, determined to save the elves, the Dunedain, his family… Not that it had done much good in the end. As he shifted against the tree, a few dry scraps of bark and dirt fell from it, and he flinched slightly, caught off-guard, as something fell into the wound on his arm. Erenor indicated it with her head. “Looks like she gave you something to remember her by?”

Faerim looked up, puzzled. “’She’?

“The spider.”

Faerim nodded but his expression darkened even under the shadows that the tree cast across his young face. “Why give her – it – that creature a gender?” he replied, his voice soft but deeply angry. “I would not give any such thing a sex; would not give any enemy such as that anything to humanise it.” He hesitated for a moment, looking away, then added bitterly, “Today has been rather a lesson in mortality for me.”

The elf did not reply immediately and in the silence that followed Faerim’s comment, only silence moved amid the snowflakes. After a moment, Erenor responded. “I am sorry about your brother, Faerim.” Her voice had a softer tone to it this time, less of the aloofness usually present audible in her voice. Even when she had spoken to Faerim before, this voice was not one he had often heard: it was the tone she had used when she explained the nature of elven souls to him after the deaths of Rosgollo and Gaeredhel. It was a reminder that she understood, that elves too could feel the pain of death, even if they themselves were immortal. Faerim nodded his thanks silently, then opened the satchel that lay beside him, a flat bag made of sturdy cloth, and from it produced two items that the elf immediately recognised: the dagger and belt of the two elven guards. Erenor wordlessly stepped forward and sat beside Faerim, pushing her hood back and taking the dagger in her hands, fiddling with the hilt and the leather binding the handle before the tang.

“It is hard to lose someone you love.”

The words were a prompt and Faerim immediately replied. “Hard?” he almost spat the word, his head snapping around to face Erenor, before he caught himself before the elven lady and turned away again, his voice softening. “Yes…yes. I don’t know…oh, my Lady Erenor, I always imagined that I would die before Brander, that I would die in battle long before his time was up – it seemed to make sense! That I would be able to take care of him for as long as I lived, and that he would become part of Fornost as much as any other, that his sight would never be a disadvantage – but…but that I would be able to protect him.” He shook his head, blinking rapidly a few times. “Not this. Not a death at sixteen, alone in a labyrinth of caves far away from our home.”

He heard Faerim sigh softly, before she walked slowly around to right side and gently took hold of his arm, inspecting the wound but remaining quiet for him to speak. “I cannot forgive myself, Lady. I cannot forgive myself for not reaching him in time. I came to my brother’s side only when it was already too late, as he…as he died…” he choked and turned his head to look straight forward, clenching his teeth and raising his chin defiantly, determined not to cry. The elf regarded him in profile, her head slightly on one side, inquisitive, but Faerim did not look at her. Brander had died mere seconds after Faerim reached him as they came back to the caves, a sword wound through his slim chest finishing him off cleanly, as painlessly as could be expected in battle. But it was not painless: it was a death in battle in a strange place, a death which was never meant for the blind boy. Faerim swallowed, closing his eyes as he remembered his brother’s face as he held him, those brilliant green eyes sparkling light the brilliant gems that must have once been hewn from those blasted mines, a faint smile on his face as Faerim brushed his blonde hair, hair the same colour as his own, from his brother’s face, pushed it behind his ears and told him that it would be alright….

Faerim almost yelped as his arm suddenly froze, and pulled away from Erenor. But the elf held fast, a slightly wicked grin on her face as she held the makeshift ice pack to his wound. His arm spasmed slightly and he clenched the fist, but Erenor shook her head. “Don’t. You’ll only bleed more.”

“It’s bloody freezing,” he replied simply through gritted teeth. The Noldorian elf smiled sweetly, her pale face framed by dark hair on which the snowflakes nestled like a snow crown: a smile for which Faerim could have forgiven her anything. He glared at her, then his lips opened to flash her a chilly smile as he laughed. He raised an eyebrow and pointed at her with the forefinger of his left hand. “You are evil, Lady Erenor.”

The elf laughed too, shrugging lightly and turning her eyes to his arm once more. She removed the ice pack and he was almost surprised to see his blood sparkling on the ice, seeming to become part of it. Flinging it away, she picked up a new lot and Faerim tensed his arm as she packed it on. They sat in silence for a moment, the Dunedain youth and an elf generations older than himself, and rather than break the silence, he simply watched her, marvelling at how similar the elves were to Men, and yet how much stranger and different she was, knelt beside him, helping him although she did not need to. Otherworldly.

Sighing, the boy looked away, not wanting to be caught staring at Erenor so, and looked instead up to the stars above. He had been told once that when Men died, their souls would take to the skies, to keep their silent vigil from above, the tendrils of distant light they stroked the air with their attempt to reach the world they had left. But as he felt the ice, heard Erenor’s soft breathing, watched the softly winking stars, and recalled his brother’s joyous, merry face now turned to stone, he was not sure he could believe such a legend. His brother, like so many others in the tunnels, was gone, but to the stars? He tried to imagine it, Brander’s bright, unseeing eyes replacing the sparks of merry light in the distance…But in his heart, the boy was left, alone and silent, staring up to the silent snowflakes that fell from the stars.

[Saurreg]

The silent snowflakes fell endlessly like miniature crystal petals as Belegorn followed the king’s towering bodyguard back towards the camp. The sharp cry of a hawk filled the night air, followed by the rhythmic flapping of powerful wings that soon dissipated. At the perimeter, a lone sentry halted the two men at spear point but quickly recognized the lieutenant of the Rearguard and let them pass with a sharp salute. Without any further delays or harassment, the duo negotiated their way through masses of warm bodies and arrived at the center of the camp where a low palisade enclosure was erected and within it, sprung a cluster of tents that resembled a minute citadel; a sharp contrast to the bivouacking silhouettes around it.

The gateway was unguarded and Belegorn’s guide simply led him through and passed the smaller tents by the peripheral before stopping outside the entrance of the main tent – spaciously wide and tall at the center. The king’s guard turned and regarded Belegorn sternly,

“I cannot go further. His majesty requests your presence and your presence alone. He is in there waiting for you. I shall take my place here and ensure no one else enters.”

Belegorn eyed the guardsman with aroused interest before nodding his head curtly. He stepped pass the large man, pushed apart the heavy canvas curtains and entered to see his liege lord. King Arvedui was standing over a small portable field desk at the back of the royal tent, reading a small parchment when his visitor entered. He looked up and smiled warmly at Belegorn before rolling up the parchment and inserting it into a small cylindrical container. Belegorn in turn was surprised to see that far from preparing to retire for the night, the king was fully arrayed in his plated armor and his sword in scabbard hung by his side. The lieutenant cleared his throat mildly and spoke,

“The First Lieutenant of the Regiment of the Rear bids Your Majesty a good evening and presents the best wishes of his loyal guardsmen,” begun Belegorn as way of introduction.

Arvedui left the desk and strode towards his subordinate and royal subject. Standing two feet away from his intent, the king was a good couple of inches taller than Belegorn. A mysterious aura of elegance, power and regality of old seemed to emanate from the royal body and despite the latter’s attempt to keep an impassive face and stare ahead, he could not help but look towards the clear commanding grey eyes that shone in the light of the lamps.

“The King acknowledges the greeting of his commissioned officer and gratefully accepts the gift of his loyal soldiers,” replied Arvedui in a voice that was pleasant to the ear and warm, yet each word uttered resonated with potency, “what is our status Belegron? What are our numbers and state?”

“Your Majesty, the number of our people stand at a five score and the strength of the rearguard is less than half that number. I fear that is about five percent of original strength, Your Majesty.”

King Arvedui’s eyes narrowed and his handsome forehead scrunched at the dire tidings. He turned and started to walk back slowly to the desk, hands held together behind his back. The flames danced in the bronze lamp that hung at the ceiling of the tent, casting flickering shadows across the wall and ground.

“Tell me Belegorn, what is your personal opinion of our situation? Can we make it to Mithlond at this rate? Or are we thwarted?”

Belegorn signed softly and said, “Your Majesty, it is good that we have left the under city of the dwarves. But out in the open we are easily detected by the agents and spies of the Enemy. The only option is to force-march and thrash our way westwards but that would result in numerous stragglers and render our marching column long and slack. In any case, Your Majesty, it is my belief that an encounter with hostile forces is imminent. We can only hope that their forces are not too great and that the engagement does not turn general.”

Silence permeated through the air and Belegorn fidgeted nervously. Both men stood motionless; Belegorn looking at the king and the king with his back against the former. In the end it was the monarch, who broke the silence that was turning awkward,

“It is winter,” he said silently, with a sudden tenderness that amazed his subordinate for the umpteenth time that evening, “my people are with burden. Most are injured and all are malnourished. They will not make it across the snowfields by force-march.”

Belegorn nodded in silence while the king reached the desk. The ruler reached for the parchment and gave his doom,

“No. It is my command that the column travel at a pace that all can keep up with.”

“But Your Majesty, the longer we take to travel, the higher-”

Arvedui interrupted Belegorn with an impatient wave of his hand and interjected, “Yes, the higher the possibility of the Enemy catching up with us in the open. But there is a way!”

He looked at Belegorn and his sharp grey eyes sparkled dangerously, “Nothing more would gratify Angmar than to have my royal person in his possession. He hates me because he feared my forefather Isildur and his liege Elendil for what they did to the Dark One. This unholy campaign of his is not just a war of territorial conquest but an attempt to end the line of the Sea Kings!”

King Arvedui walked back towards Belegorn and handed him the parchmentr, “I have decided back in the tunnels on what our next course of action should be. And… and I have come to the decision that it is my royal responsibility to safeguard the future of my people at any cost.

I will ride onwards to the north and create a diversion. The Enemy would no doubt direct most of his forces towards me. It is then up to you Lieutenant, to lead my people to Mithlond as fast as you can until relief from the Grey Havens finds you.”

King Arvedui noted the look of amazement on Belegorn’s face and smiled knowingly, “Forgive me for keeping you in the dark. But neither you nor Hirvegil would have known that Lord Cirdan and I have been corresponding for quite some time now. Great is the lore of the Elven Mariner but even greater is his fidelity in friendship. He has been offering consul to all kings of Arnor since the reign of King Valandil and without his wise insights; bitter end would have come sooner for the North Kingdom. In fact, I have just sent him my last correspondence by messenger hawk moments ago. He will aid us as he had always done.”

It was too much for Belegorn to bear, “No, Your Majesty! You cannot do this! You are the King of Arthedain, the leader of your people!”

King Arvedui shook his head and replied sternly, “A king is the first servant of his people. What good is a king when all his people are dead?”

Belegorn opened his mouth to protest some more but King Arvedui stopped him by placing his large strong hands on the former’s shoulders and continuing, “Listen to me Belegorn of Fornost! I am Arthedain and no matter what happen to me, as long as my people remember who they are and carry themselves in a manner befitting their status then I live forever in their hearts and minds and those of their children.

And do you not remember that I have a son? Aranarth is coming of age and he will be a better leader of the Dunedain than I will ever be. Protect him Belegorn! I ask this of you not as your liege lord but as a father. If Aranarth survives, then the legacy of our people will persevere.”

There was nothing left for Belegorn to do or say but nod slowly in agreement. The king had made up his mind and nothing would dissuade him from his noble course of action. The First lieutenant looked up and found King Arvedui smiling warmly at him again.

“Thank you Belegorn. I am sorry to have laid such a heavy task on your shoulders but I am sure you will rise to the occasion and know you have friends you can count on. The parchment I gave you; keep it well and read it when you have arrived at Mithlond. My men and I, joined by Captain Carthor who has volunteered for this mission, will ride now while the night is still young. Farewell.”

With one last friendly grasp on the shoulder, King Arvedui left the tent whilst donning his gauntlets. Belegorn stood rooted on the spot for a while before falling heavily unto one of the sheep skinned chairs that lined the spacious tent. Head bowed and hunched, the Dunedain sat for what seemed to be hours until a gush of cold air blew across his face as someone parted the heavy curtains and entered the tent.

“He… he has left?” inquired a young man’s voice.

“Yes your highness.”

“I see,” replied young Aranarth, “Thank you Lieutenant.”

[Mithalwen]

Erenor smiled wryly "Well you made sure my injuries were tended back in the tunnel so it is only fair - though you should have put that mail-shirt on". She took a clean silk kerchief ("How could she have such a thing after weeks of travelling?" Faerim wondered) and satisfied that the bleeding had stopped bound the wound firmly. She did not release his hand and held it in her own.

"Only those who never love never mourn, Faerim" and there was a catch in her voice that he had never before heard, that few had ever heard. "Had things been slightly different you might have reached your brother in time, but maybe you would have both been slain and your parents mourning two sons, and if I may presume to say it, myself a true friend.

The Elves know not what fate awaits the souls of men after death but, we who are bound to Arda as long as it endures, believe they slip the bonds of Earth and pass beyond the circles of the world. So you may not be far wrong when you look to see him in the skies. Forgive me, mellon-nin, I should have left your thoughts alone but they are not hard to discern.

I know no gift, no word might heal the hurt you have suffered this day, but I name you Elf-Friend for the assistance you have shown me and my kindred through this journey, and you shall have whatever assistance and protection my people may give. I beg you to receive this as a token of our friendship. It may also serve as a remembrance of the stars of Elbereth that watch over us all - though the colours are reversed."

Faerim had hardly noticed the swift gesture required or felt the swift kiss on his brow, but hanging round his neck on a slender chain was the sapphire pendant in its white gold setting, the only adornment other than a cloak pin that Faerim had ever noticed Erenor wear. " It is an heirloom of my house, made in Gondolin in days of glory" she said quietly. The boy started to protest but she merely murmured as she rose to her feet, "Faerim, I have no heirs." With that the tall, slender figure wrapped her dark cloak about her and walked towards the camp, silently her feet leaving little imprint on the snow.

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre sat alone in the snow, unheeding of any and all Men and Elves. He felt his body, bruised and battered from his battle with the Trolls, growing colder, yet he made no effort to move. Two of his short spears had been shivered as well, leaving him only one. It and his blade were lying by his side as he stared out over the snow-covered fields, straining his far-seeing eyes. He was hoping for a glimpse of something, of what he didn't know, but he wasn't finding it. The light of the moon and stars was cold and pitiless. He sighed, pulling his knees to his chest, noting that his left knee wasn't moving properly.

It had been a day since the battle in the tunnels, and, despite his fearlessness in said battle, Angóre hadn't even approached the lady Erenor yet. He didn't know if she even remembered what she had said, or if she knew how strongly it had affected him. All he knew was that, of a sudden, he wasn't who he thought he was anymore, and it frightened him. He'd stayed quiet, keeping to the rear of the train, ostensibly to guard against attack but in reality looking to stay as far from the reminder of his former life as possible. He'd taken solace in his duties, at least those that let him keep distance between himself and his charge. But now he'd run out of things to keep himself busy, and was feeling himself on the brink of a long, dark slide, to where he did not know.

[Osse]

The sickle moon’s pearl-light fell on Lissi’s cheek, casting soft shadows on the cold clear tears as they silently fled across her fair skin, before losing them to the dark as they dropped, caught in the wind.

Carthor raised his hand softly, slowly to caress his wife’s shapely face. Lissi turned away, staring, unseeing, at the snow below her, hiding her sorrow behind flowing tendrils of raven hair.

‘My darling…’ Carthor pulled Lissi’s sobbing figure into an embrace, trying to hold onto what he knew was fast slipping away.

Firmly but gently her white hands pushed him away, and turning she strode off into the grey of the night, her bowed head letting her tears fall onto the fur of her mantle, lost like a faun in the night. As lost as her husband’s heart.

The old man stood alone, his grey-blue eyes firmly closed, weeping silent, dry tears.

Why? Why had it come to this, this torment? Why had he lived when so many others had died around him, just to come to this end… just to see all that he had loved fall around him. The white walls of his home defiled and scorched, littered with the corpses of his kindred…His son, whose keen ears would hear no more, lying cold far from his home…A duty, crushing in its weight, crippling in its metallic grip… And Lissi…

Carthor reached for the dagger in his boot, unsheathing it. The metal seemed hideous in this grey world, its brightness staring mockingly into the old man’s eyes. In that metal, Carthor saw the faces of the dead, staring at him accusingly. He shuddered. The vision fled and he was left staring at his own face in its cold length…

Silently, Carthor’s gnarled old hand guided the blade towards his chest, the point, almost relieving as it stood poised against the scarred skin. Carthor took a breath… his own face would be added to those of the dead.

‘Lord Carthor!’ Belegorn’s strong, even voice came whistling through the eddying snow behind the old soldier.

Carthor turned.

His dagger fell silently groundwards, its stag-horn hilt barely discernable as it law enshrined in the soft, billowing snow. Even Belegorn’s eyes, so accustomed to discerning shapes shrouded by the night failed to see it as it fell, and not even elven eyes would have seen it as the snow blew and settled over it.

‘Lord Carthor,’ The Lieutenant spoke again. ‘I have searched for you high and low my old friend!’

Solemnly Carthor looked into the face of his comrade, and the gaze Belegorn was subject to froze the blood seething through his veins. Here was a man, who had finally been defeated, whose face, usually resolute and strong finally showed the scars of its past; not the physical scars, which had always been there as a stout reminder, but scars that had been hidden.

Carthor said nothing, merely stared, dazed, into the eyes of the man opposite. Recognition of any of his friend’s words failed to wander in the crisp halls of his old blue eyes, which had acquired thick mantles of emptiness. Belegorn shuddered. Looking into those once proud eyes was like looking at death itself, as if all the horror they had seen had finally broken its levies and surged outwards into the night. Belegorn had seen such eyes before, but only in those who had been broken by the forces of Angmar, though not in body.

The words stripped from his tongue, Belegorn reached out to place his hand on the shoulder of the older man. Beneath the fur of his great cloak, Carthor was shaking, as if every sinuous inch of his frame was overcome with a spring-like tension. Springs can only be tensed so far before they shoot back. Obviously, the spring that was Carthor son of the Dunedain had reached that limit.

‘Carthor old friend…’ Started Belegorn, suddenly finding his tongue again, ‘I have spoken to our Lord… please friend, tarry a moment to think first of what you do! Stay! You have no further allegiance to this man. The kingdom he rules is dead my friend, as is any bond it once held you in! I beseech you Carthor, think of your family, this is no time to throw your life away in grief, for death is all that awaits you in the North Ice!’

For the first time since Belegorn’s voice had landed on his scarred ears, Carthor spoke:
‘I must go.’

Belegorn’s hand fell to his side, as the old soldier’s bulk strode forward past him. Quickly, he turned, continuing his plea.

‘Carthor, our kingdom as it was is dead, and now lives on only in one place; those who have lived! These folk Carthor, who have faced fire, cold and death and endured are all that lives of our home… and as they still draw breath, so shall our land my friend. I plead with thee Carthor, do not leave those who need aid now, do not let our home die, forgotten, burnt out like a wick...’

Carthor walked on, his hunched shoulders soon becoming almost indiscernible in the foray of ice.

‘Carthor!!’ Belegorn pleaded to his receding shape, ‘Carthor! Dying alone, far from those you love shall not bring him back! This is no way to grieve for Brander!’

Belegorn’s words were swept away in the wind, ripped ragged by the falling blades, utterly destroyed in the maelstrom.

*****************

The sentry outside the King’s tent was amazed at the speed and silence with which the old soldier tightened the girth strap of his grey charger. He was even more intrigued by the grace with which the man swung into the saddle, and with a deft blow to his mount's flanks, rode off into the night with the king’s company. For long after they had left, the man peered into the swirling gloom watching his Lord, whom he had served many long years, ride off into a bitter, lonely night, far from the rubble of his once fair city. Silently, the man asked the Valar to protect him and those who rode with him.

On rode Carthor, son of Harathor, leaving behind him the cold grave of his blind son, leaving behind him the living remnants of his once proud race, leaving behind him his newfound self, who, overcome by the horrors of the past had spent its last breath in the cold wastes of the Blue Mountains. Carthor closed his eyes, but the images that haunted him were still there when he opened them. Taron's great hooves churned the snow as he ran, onwards, northwards…

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

From the shade of a shivering tree Bethiril watched Erenor and Faerim converse. The falling snow, stirred hither and thither by the wintry winds, muffled the sound, yet her ears still heard every word spoken; and, despite the thickening curtain of white that veiled her eyes, she caught a glint of blue as Erenor bestowed her necklace upon the young lad. Shortly after that, she left Faerim, and Bethiril left her place to follow her.

"You must have liked that mortal child much to have given him what you treasure," Bethiril said, laughing gently, as she was moved by the mirth she felt.

"You had been listening to us?"

"Forgive me if I had done wrong in that. I wished for you company this night, but I could not interrupt while you spoke to Faerim."

"All is well," Erenor said. "Where have you been? I haven't seen much of you since we left Ered Luin."

"I was some place else . . ." she answered, her voice trailing off. Her right hand wandered to her ring, and immediately, Erenor felt the unease in her colleague.

"Is aught amiss?"

"Erenor," she said in a voice of one who despaired of life, "This ring, the symbol of my service to Lord Elrond, has been my life. It has been my sole burden. Because of it, I have no heir myself.

"Yet, the more I know you, the more I realise that I am no longer of use in Middle-earth. I have been too deeply scarred by the evils of Morgoth, and I have refused to let the wounds heal. You understand the Hildor better. You do not fear to take a life, or to give your ife, if you are called upon to do so. You would do better in my place." At this, she took the ring off her finger, and presented it to Erenor.

"Take it," Bethiril urged her.

Neither spoke for a long time. The wind stilled. The only sound left was the soft crunching of the snow beneath their feet. Reluctantly, Erenor took the ring from her.

"When we reach the Havens, will you leave Middle-earth?" Erenor managed to ask.

Bethiril laughed softly as foresight came upon her. "I shall not wander out of sight of the shores of Endórë until another ring, one of greater worth than mine, has been saved from loss."

At this, she took another path, one that led deeper into the bare forest, leaving Erenor with a ring and a riddle.

[CaptainofDespair]

“So...cold...”

His chest was heaving, as it tried to resist the pain of breathing in the icy hot air. He had been delirious the past few days, stemming from a combination of snow blindness and the nothingness that surrounded him in every direction. He barely managed to keep warm now, with his heavy fur and clothe cloak in tatters. Only his singular goal kept him going on; self preservation.

He had been wandering for…forever. He had lost track of time, and counted only how many times he had eaten, which was meager, at best. A lonesome sword, stained with animal blood, hung at his side as he plodded slowly across the land, dreading every wet, freezing step. His leather knee-high boots had already begun to fall apart at the seams, leaving only the largest sections of his legs and feet protected. Yet, he had not succumbed to frostbite, or to any predators lurking about. He clung to his mission, his quest.

He felt damned, as he thrust past a layer of snow and ice that had blocked his dragging feet from progressing. He fell; face first, into the snow. After picking himself up, he decided it best to take a little rest, and sat down upon a nearby log. He brushed off the snow, and perched himself on it. How had he fallen so far, so quickly? Nothing made sense anymore. Whether that was because of the hallucinogenic qualities of his mind reacting to the vast expanse of bleak landscape, pot-marked only by mountains and a few trees, or this entire situation was, by its nature, like a confused child, he did not know. He had been there, as the party reached the Ered Luin in relative safety. He wondered where he had gone wrong. He began muttering to himself, speaking aloud, hoping someone would answer his questions. “Was it the refusal to enter those damnable caverns?” He paused, swaying with a cold breeze, seeking an answer from the northern winds. No response came from the cold, only more shivers and shudders. But, he continued as if the wind had indeed said something. “No, you are right, it couldn’t be. I am a counselor, not a war-maker.” He sighed, and went deeper into crazed, delirious thought, putting his face into his palms. His frozen eyebrows began to twitch, and he looked up from his icy grip. “Ah-ha! It must be…yes…it must be.” The wind picked up briefly once more, and his eyes lit up. “Thank you…what was your name again? Oh well, it doesn’t matter, does it? No, you’re right, it doesn’t.” He shook his head, and took in a whiff of the icy atmosphere, to give him new life. He stood up, realigned his cloak, and marched off. What direction he was going, he did not care. As he left the sight of the log, he uttered one last message to his invisible muse, “Yes, you were right, all along. Good bye, my friend.”

But, as he marched himself away, with a new aura of haughtiness and purpose, he tripped on the root of a tree stump, hidden by the snow. As he collapsed to the frozen earth, he slipped into a dreary unconsciousness, left to elements…

[Mithalwen]

Erenor had never felt so alone in her life. Long had she prided herself on her independence and self reliance but the self delusion had been shattered by recent events. Without Angore, the dwarves and the Dunedain she would have been dead, but had she died no one would have grieved for her as Faerim mourned his brother. He was attached to her, she knew, but at least in part it was an attachment to what she represented rather than to herself. Nevertheless the boy had found a way into a part of her that she had thought shut away beyond reach long ago. He had touched her heart, by his courage, his honesty, his humour and his lack of reverence. But while his youth had refreshed her view, jaded by many centuries; his devotion to his family had thrown her isolation into sharp relief.

Bethiril had chosen a strange time to decide that she, Erenor, was right, she thought.. but that encounter had placed a strange foreboding on her spirit. She turned the ring over in her hand and the more she considered Bethiril's words, the more discomfited she was.

She moved silently to where Angore sat, gaze focused on the far distance. If Faerim's mind had been easy to read, and Bethiril's voiced words oblique, Angore who concealed his thoughts and spoke little, gave the only clue to his state of mind through his body language. He sat hunched up, frozen emotionally perhaps as much as physically. She spoke his name, soft as the snow falling and was aghast when his blue eyes stared into hers with an expression she could only describe as fear... not of her but of what she might say ..... "Angore - what have I done?"

She was bewildered, having had no recollection of her words in the tunnel. The chant had come freely into her mind and in the strange and heightened state she experienced as she had called on a power she had little experience of controlling and her awareness of what had gone on was confused beyond what could be expected from the physical injuries she susequently sustained. In her heightened
state she had used Angore's true name. One that she might have heard long before in Rivendell, or came to her by instinct as she tried to use her mental strength against the enemy .

Still drained physically and metally by that struggle, her spirit was crushed now by
loneliness and a sense of doom impending as she became certain that Bethiril's words were expression of a deathwish, Erenor cried out and took but a few steps before curmpling to the ground. She had not yet resumed her normal travelling garb and her skirts and cloak spilled around her like a dark pool on the snow. Bethiril's ring fell into her lap and glistened there - a lone star on a sapphire ground. Tears coursed down her face as she sobbed, uttering no word. She could not muster the will to move but she covered her face with her hands for shame. No one had seen her cry in this age of the world and few would think the haughty Lady Erenor capable of showing such emotion - or weakness as she would have termed it until recently.

[Garen LiLorian]

He knew he'd shown his fear immediately by her reaction and his already stricken mind reeled at this further display of his weakness. When she turned and stumbled, falling to her knees and sobbing, his body moved without his will behind it, driving him to his feet and over to her. He tried to make his voice cold, emotionless as he had kept it for so many years. "Lady Erenor..." His voice cracked, his seething storm of fear, wonder and anger making it sound raw. He knelt beside her, placing a hand on her back as he wondered what on earth he could say to her, hesitating between providing rough, warrior's speech or trying to relate to her, comfort her somehow. He hadn't any idea how to do it, only that he wanted to. He tried again. "Lady Erenor... I.." He frowned and cleared his throat. "This is... allow me to escort you to your tent, milady." He took refuge in his courtesy, his mind whirling. "I.. milady, I am a soldier." His voice cracked again, filling his speech with his turmoil. "But.. should you wish to speak to me, please do so. I.. cannot promise wise council..." He cleared his throat. "But, it does me great ill to see you so unhappy, and.. I would do what I can to help you."

He stared at her, trying hard to mask his own emotions, questions and thoughts, trying to re-establish his emotional wall, reflecting his anguish back inside again. He removed his hand from her back suddenly, as if it were shocked, and turned his kneeling stance into a pose of submission, lowering his head and pressing the hand that had touched her back to his heart. "Please, lady Erenor. Allow me to help you." With his head lowered, his eyes averted from her, his voice regained some of its composure.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor too struggled with a rush of conflicting emotions. Angore's voice seemed harsh but his touch was a reminder of the strength she had relied on for so long but it did not comfort, rather it was the cause of another wave of emotion she could not explain, she could not understand why he knelt before her - it was she who should kneel and beg forgiveness for whatever harm she had done .. she tried to explain this but her words were incoherent . Even the sound of her own name seemed ludicrous - no title meant anything in the wilderness and there was no steel left in her soul.

She gathered enough wits to realise they might both perish if they remained outside and found her voice steady enough .. " Yes help me to the tents.. but I must talk with you" Her voices was carried on the wind only shiwing him Bethiril's ring as explanation they staggered to her tent. There they sat, not daring to meet each other's gaze.

"Angore, I wish I knew what ill I had done you so I might repair it "she swallowed hard "I cannot bear to have inflicted so much pain on one I ... respect so much, but first, I must tell you of Bethiril" and mastering her own emotions as much as she could she relayed as much of their conversation as she could.

[Garen LiLorian]

He digested her story slowly, unable to think much about it. "But... she will remain with the train, correct?" Thoughts swirled behind his eyes, but he was unable to do more then grab at them uselessly. All that seemed important was that his guard duties remained unaffected. "I.. suppose congratulations are in order, lady Erenor... I am confident that you will be wise and strong as the representative of lord Elrond." His eyes remained fixed on the floor of the tent and he wound his fingers together nervously until he realized what he was doing and stopped.

"And... as for me." He swallowed. "You need not apologize for anything, lady Erenor. The name you called me... it should not have affected me so. It is my duty to be stalwart for you, and my weakness if I cannot be so. It is I who must apologize, truly. It is just... an old wound, and one I had thought closed. Truly, not worthy of my lady's attention." He withdrew further back into himself, walling himself off with his courtesy. He raised his eyes to hers again, showing but a flicker of his emotion in the cool depths of his dispassion. "Is this all that was bothering you, milady? If so, I" His voice cracked once again, his eyes flashing. "I would like to know... where you heard that name you uttered in the tunnel. And why you chose to call me... that." He clenched his fists. "And.. I would ask that you do not do it ever again, milady. I hope I am not being presumptuous, but it is for you and not me that I ask... Clearly, I am not... I cannot." He bowed his head again. "Don't... call me that..." He whispered. "I'm not that person anymore..."

[Mithalwen]

Erenor let Angore finish speaking, forcing herself to use the skills long learnt in council to remember points raised in order to deal with as the moment came. And with one set of emotions repressed others required an outlet. Her voice became as cold and contained as his.

" I think Bethiril is gone, Angore - why else would she give me the ring?" . Erenor knew not whether to hope she was right or wrong. It had been the thought of Bethiril alone in the snow that had stopped her from ... well as things were turning out stopped her from offering herself up to rejection and humiliation. She winced inwardly. "There is no need to congratulate me - I will return the ring to Lord Elrond if I survive - and that is not something I can assume. That is not a judgement on your capabilities rather on the dire situation the Dunedain have forced us into. However, I would not replace Bethiril even if there were longer a need for such a role. I am neither wise nor strong and if my counsel was held in any esteem we would have been safe in the havens long ago, and many lives would have been spared.

I am tired of death, Angore: the needless carnage at Fornost, the deaths of Gaeredhel and Rosgollo saving myself and the other hostages, the death of innocents and the valiant naugrim in the tunnels - and now ice and starvation meet us all. All are the consequence, direct and indirect of misjudgement. This is no place for me. It has all been a lie. I cared nothing for the edain until I saw their courage in risking their lives to save mine. I am not worthy of them. I sought high office to gain renown and honour the memory of my father, I sought battle to avenge his death. But no matter how many orcs, or spiders, or even trolls I slay, it will not release him from Mandos sooner. In seeking glory for myself I have endangered others maybe..." she wondered how her dispute with Angore might have affected the course of events in the tunnels, where the separation of the parties had proved near disastrous for all and fatal for some. She choked slightly.." I cannot bring them back to life, but if my fate is to return to Imladris, I will return this ring and beg work in the gardens or with the healers and try to redress the balance in favour of life.....

As for the wound I have opened - well I regret I did so but I have no recollection of my words in the tunnel from when I ran to aid Belegorn until I awoke in his arms ......." she cast back further in her memory .... " the person you were? Ah, I called you Maltore then? Well I shall not use it again....but I dwellt at Imladris long and I did know that was your name ... there was no malice in it. A name is just a name - it may reflect the self but it cannot change it. But since you give it such importance, I would ask you to cease this milady-ing. I recall that you too are of a noble line and my title a reflection of the role I no longer hold. If you would do me courtesy you would look me in the eye" .

He did so and for that time the eyes that had shown such anguish in the twain now reflected an equal fire of spirit. Erenor realised moments too late that this was the point she should have stopped, but one point remained to be answered.

" You asked if that was all that bothered me; well you must know the answer to that in your heart - whether it be of gold or steel - but clearly there is no point in speaking of it!". The fire went out of her grey eyes and they suddenly became too bright as she realised she had voiced that thought. She gave a low cry of anguish realising that Angore was between her and the tent flap and she had no where to flee. She could bear his gaze no longer and turned away curling up in her close wrapped cloak, and grateful that her long dark hair had come loose from its braid, to curtain her from Angore's gaze as the tears traced silently down her face.

[Nuranar]

The world was grey and cold, swimming and vague in the pale light. Lissi fell to her knees and wept out her sorrow, her sobs low and anguished. Something had broken within her, and her heart was desolate.

When she finally raised her head, her features were once again still and calm. But there was something stoic in that calmness that had never been there before. She gazed motionlessly across the moonlit land.

Carthor was gone. This was truly the end. Their fragile new regard, stricken by Brander's death, had withered when Carthor informed her he was joining the king. Perhaps he saw it as his duty, Lissi thought apathetically. She had disagreed - Family before country! she had cried out - but anger had fled with her tears. Now it was time to mourn. A time to mourn for their love, for their son, for what might have been.

Lissi sighed, a tiny sigh, and gazed up at the moon. She saw the path set before her with little liking; it was narrow and hard, and she could not see where it lead. But it was there, and she would follow it with patience and endurance to the end.

Stiff and chilled, Lissi rose carefully to her feet and stretched her cramped muscles. The sight of a dark, motionless figure, standing but a few yards distant, shocked her senses into alertness. Dumb in her grief, she had heard no one approach. "Who is there?" she demanded in a low, steady voice. Beneath her cloak, her hand grasped Faerim's sword.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim watched Erenor go, and as the snowfall thickened, her figure faded after a few metres. He watched the space where she had gone until his vision seemed confused and befuddled by staring into the swirling eddy of flakes. The cold, the twisting whirlpools of snow around him, the distant, detached feeling that the snow and his recent encounter with Erenor had brought about...the landscape could have easily have been underwater. The depths of the ocean, beyond any help or worry...

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the cold air sharp in his respiratory passages, the prickling sensation in his throat reminding him that he was alive. Alive. Maybe others had died, but he was alive... Shaking his head, dog-like, to remove the flakes that had settled on his hair, Faerim rose in a swift movement, brushing them off his shirt and shivering, suddenly feeling the cold through the thin material: apparently Erenor had not felt it as keenly, and her presence had distracted him. A touch of his old humour made Faerim grin to himself – if he died of pneumonia, he’d be having serious words with that elf. Swinging his coat loosely over his shoulders, the boy began to walk slowly to the tent that his parents had been staying in, but the path was a slow one, for, like a child, he tried to walk as quietly as possible, trying to imitate Erenor’s silent step over the snow. So absorbed was he in this childish game that he remained oblivious of the fanged danger that lurked not far off in the snow-quilted landscape – and it was only at the last moment that he saw a immediate and, in a way, worse danger, and the reason he had taken so long to get to the tent: a hunched form, highlighted dimly by the light of the tent behind her, kneeling as if in silent homage to the moon, but shaking, ever so slightly. His mother, weeping.

Faerim did not move for a moment, simply standing motionless some distance from the woman. This was why he had been in no hurry to reach his tent, why the young soldier had sat in the snow watching an ancient elf’s figure receding into the snow until his eyes hurt rather than come back – what was there to come back to? His brother was dead, his father a man who had been distant for most of his life, and his mother… The boy hesitated, not sure whether to approach, wanting to avert his eyes but somehow unable to, embarrassed by his mother’s sorrow: he had not seen her cry before, he realised. Lissi had been a strong figure throughout her sons’ lives, strengthening them with her stubborn refusal to allow the harshness of her life to weaken her in front of them. So to see her so broken down…

Before he could look away, Lissi seemed to gather herself, taking a deep shuddering breath and, after a moment, stiffly rising to her feet like a woman under a great weight – and turned to see her son standing nearby. Her tear-stained face was lit in profile by the soft lamplight from in the tent, and Faerim saw shock and fear quickly blanketed by defiance as she groped to her belt – the strong woman he knew emerging. But the fact that he now knew that it was little more than a mask, however well maintained… Faerim fought the lump in his throat as he stepped forward towards her. “It’s me, Mother,” he replied quietly.

Lissi frowned slightly, her mouth beginning to form a word that Faerim recognised and which bit into his heart more harshly than the cold: Brander. Then, as Faerim came closer, realisation struck and her face softened. She looked away, hastily trying to surreptitiously wipe her face. “F-Faerim…I didn’t see you there, you…you surprised…” she trailed away as Faerim didn’t move, standing silently in front of her, and finally raised her eyes to her son’s face. “Oh Faerim…Faerim, he’s gone.”

Faerim’s voice seemed oddly croaky when he replied. “I…I know, Mother. But Mother, I was there with him and it was a quick death, he would barely have felt it for long-” Lissi was shaking her head, her long dark hair straggling from the wetness of the snow. A sense of dread stole over her son. “What?”

“Your father, Faerim.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Carthor is...gone.” She drew herself up once more, her face pinched as she tried to keep her composure strong. “He went with the king, Faerim. He…he isn’t coming back.”

Faerim stared at her in uncomprehending silence for a moment, then, not trusting himself to speak, he opened his arms; her mask breaking, Lissi’s face crumpled and she fell into her son’s arms. As the snow fell around them, the youth rested his chin on his mother’s head and gently rubbed her back comfortingly as he closed his eyes and allowed a single tear down his cheek and onto Lissi’s dark hair.

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen's cracked hands dug at the snow and the cold caused a wave of pain to surge down her fingers and up her arms, but she was not going to stop. She knew there must be some kind of edible root buried here. The boy Gilly seemed to have a knack for finding the hiding places of the few edible plants in this frozen place; he would poke a stick into the snow a few times and then tell her where to dig. Each time she had found something to eat, enough to share with the few others who had survived so far. Boiled, these roots provided reasonable food, but they were usually eaten raw as people had now begun to get desperate to eat.

When she had first started to dig in the earth with her bare hands she had despised herself for such uncouth, low behaviour. It was something an Orc might do, but not a Dunedain woman. But then she had seen some of the peculiar things others in the group had found to eat and what she was reduced to having to do did not seem quite so bad.

Anything now, she found, was better than dying. She had lost her wish to follow her husband; as the struggles she had endured passed by, each one made her a little more determined. It was as though it would have been a waste to struggle only to throw it all away just by giving up. And, she had reflected to herself, if her husaband and father and brothers could make their contribution by fighting the enemy, she too could fight, by not giving up.

The child Gilly now rarely spoke. He took comfort in finding the roots that they ate, as though being busy was pleasure to him. But he did smile when he saw the baby, who was as healthy and placid as ever, so Renedwen took care that Gilly was always able to sleep right beside them each night; he found comfort from the baby, and she found comfort from having him near. She found it slightly odd that ever since she had taken him on, they had been very lucky many times. Did the child bring luck with him, like a talisman? She had almost convinced herself that this was true, and in any case, she did not like him to stray too far from her side.

[Garen LiLorian]

His expression passed through a number of emotions quickly, the most prevalent being surprise but followed closely by confusion. Whatever seemed so clear to Erenor remained clouded to her armsman, but he was sure of one thing; It was he that had caused her this distress. He reached out a hand uncertainly, holding it over her curtain of hair, wanting and fearing to offer words of comfort, uncertain. He clenched his hand and withdrew it again, dropping instead to one knee.

"My lady..." He stopped, then continued. "And you are my lady, whatever post you might hold, my heart... it has been locked away even from me for many lives of Men. What you speak of..." He shook his head. "The answers may indeed rest there, but I know not of them. I do not even understand the questions." He considered how to continue. "But... that you are hurt hurts me, and that the source of that pain is myself wounds me again." He peered at her, trying to discern her eyes under the curtain of hair. "And I would know what I might do to relieve you of this pain, my lady." The honorific had a strange catch in it.

He clenched his hands by his sides again. "I.. will leave you if you wish it, Erenor. I will not be the source of your pain." But he made no motion to move. "But... I would rather stay." This time he did touch her, taking one of her hands into his own callused palms. His eyes were confused but resolute as he looked up at her.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor's first instinct was to pull away from the contact that broke through her attempts to rebuild the wall around herself that had broken down so comprehensively in the past few days, but then the import of Angore's words sank in. She left her hand quietly in his as she turned back so that she knelt before him. Then pushed her hair back from her face with her free hand before placing it gently over those that clasped its pair.

She looked up at him with a smile like the first sunlight after a storm, her voice tentative but tinged with hope " Truly, you will not leave me? I was so scared you would.... when I was being crushed by the troll, the last thing I remember seeing was you, and I was glad; it gave a glimmer of hope before the darkness came. I realised how much I have depended on you ... but since then you seemed to avoid me - and I did not know why - then Bethiril spoke and I feared you might have to go with her and when ... .just now out there..... I realised how much distress I caused you, I felt certain you would go too, and I could not bear it. " She bit her lower lip and lowered her gaze again.

"Do not be troubled on my account, for if you will stay with me you will be the balm not the source of sorrow. Yet I think I cause you pain again - you do not look comfortable, please, sit "

Although they released hands they did not move further apart. Erenor noticed Angore flinch as he moved his injured knee, though he made light of her concern. She did not press the point. She had been overwhelmed by the realisation of Angore's importance to her; clearly he had not had the same experience. But she had reason to hope he might eventually let his sequestered heart realise what feeling another's pain as your own might signify. She would not rush him to find answers now. If they survived there would be time, if they did not... and her mind replayed his words and the memory of his touch.

"Do we have a chance to reach Mithlond, Angore?" she asked, and for once the "we" did not mean the elves alone, whose lightfootedness and endurance gave them an advantage.

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post - Erenor: journey toward Mithlond


Angore thought and gave a characteristically laconic response. "Yes but not a good one. We have less than two weeks rations remaining and short rations at that - and I would expect the journey to take mortals at least that time on foot in fair weather". And and everyone is already hungry thought Erenor, and tired and so cold.

Nevertheless the party trudged on day after day. They were grateful for the light of the sun each morning even though it gave no light. The pitiful remnant of the proud citizenry of Fornost cooperated with each other but spoke little, even though their situation equalized all, regardless of race or rank. They huddled in to as few a number of tents as would house them at night to save exertion both of carrying them and setting them up.

Erenor had often found snow beautiful when seen from her window at Rivendell - it was far less appealing now although there were moments when a shaft of light created such sparkling loveliness that she could forget their plight for a moment.

The ice had more sinister creations. They found the body of the missing councillor Mitharan caught like a bird in a thicket at the base of a steep slope. He was like a twisted star glittering with ice - a strange mockery of a jewel. Though they did their best to dispose his body in a more seemly fashion it bore little relation to a decent funeral.

Erenor saw little of her previous companions. The tension had eased with Angore, there was a tacit understanding to concentrate on getting to safety. He was still her guard but as the strongest and most experienced in the ways of the wild among them, his skills learnt through the long centuries of errantry were vital to all. He and the hardened soldier, Belegorn, were in close counsel with the prince Aranarth as to their path and actions, but at other times he served as the rearguard of the group and though his mind was yet closed to her she was aware of his gaze resting on her as her scanned the horizons and it comforted her.

Bethiril spoke seldom. She was absorbed in her own thoughts and whatever strange destiny she had fortold for herself. Erenor had never enjoyed the best relationship with her - she had not disliked her but she had failed to understand her. Now her viewpoint had shifted but it seemed too late. Bethiril had taken on her remoteness as Erenor had developed Bethiril's abhorrance of violence.

Faerim... Faerim her faithful hound, her kindred spirit and whose devotion had inspired so much amusement was also preoccupied. His youth gave him strength and he was of the few that had the energy to hunt for wood or food. Other time he spent mainly with his mother. Lissi had reserves of spirit few could equal but death had claimed one son and in the time of that bereavement she had been forsaken by her husband in the name of duty. At least in Faerim she had a son to be proud of. Although when the opportunity for adventure arose, he had been eager to take it, Erenor knew his first priority had ever been his family.

Then there was that other protege of Rosgollo - the child Gilly. Despite the conditions the child seemed cheerful and remarkably healthy. Perhaps his name had won him the protection of the lady Elbereth. Now they were largely horseless - the poor beasts perished gradually through starvation and accident in the ice and snow - Erenor took it upon herself to carry the child when his short but sturdy legs could not cope with the snow. Renedwen was already burdened with her own infant son, Derendur. She had seemed suspicious at first of the elf lady, who for so long had seemed to place herself above such mundane domestic concerns as the care of small children, thinking perhaps Erenor sought to reclaim the child rescued by her own kind. It had not helped that Erenor had soon asked if she would keep the child when they reached safety. Renedwen who was at least in terms of the Dunedain as noble as Erenor was in those of the Noldor could be just as haughty if she chose, had responded that her son had lost a father and she would not separate him from the brother he had found. Misunderstandings resolved, and understanding if not yet friendship developed between the two ladies who carried swords as well as children.

Nevertheless it was Gilly the blessed and beloved who was Erenor's bane. Little used to children of any kind she did not watch him as constantly as mother does by instinct, and the little boy toddled unheeded to the brink of a icy stream deep from meltwater that flowed down from the mountains this far south. Alerted the elf had leapt and while she was able to save the child from the fall she had taken it herself. Although uninjured she was soaked in the stream’s frigid water.

Over two weeks into their journey, they had come almost to the end of their supplies, eked out by cutting quantities and supplemented with what little they could scavenge (enough for a lone traveller but not a party of their size), but more deadly to the elf now than starvation was the cold.

Angore had rushed to his mistress's side cursing himself that again she had come to harm when he had been away ignoring the fact that there was little he could have done. He wrapped his cloak about them both and held her tight as if by so doing he could hold warmth and life in her frozen body. Only now as she was dying did he have the same realisation that she had undergone weeks before. "Don't leave me, my lady” he murmured, her hair damp against his face. She had not the strength to speak bud rested her head against his chest. His reserve was broken at last and for the first time he opened his mind to her hoping to keep her attention, and awake.

Erenor was aware of little the wind blowing outside the tent and the comforting sound of Angore's heartbeat. She was beyond cold now and lying safe in her beloved's arms it would be so easy to drift into sleep. She would just close her eyes a little while, just rest til the storm abate and they could go on... her mind filled with images Angore, trolls, a woman like enough to be his close kindred. Then the tent opened and she saw Gaeredhel - or was it Rosgollo enter? I must be dead she thought as she yielded to sleep....

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor: taken in by the Lossoth


The old man reached a brown hand out from the rippled folds of fur. King Arvedui poured the contents of a ragged cloth pouch onto the man’s wrinkled palm. The old man’s round face peered at the glossy surface of the sapphire as he held it up to the light. Muttering something to the man standing by his side in his own tongue, he looked back at the men in front of him. He sniffed at the great stone, before thrusting it roughly back into the still outstretched hand of the king. He shook his tightly cloaked head.

“Ice men no want cold stone.” His deep, guttural voice was surprising in such a wizened frame.
“Ice men cannot eat cold stone.”

“And Dunedain cannot eat ice! Cannot you spare even a morsel, o’ Chief?” Replied Arvedui.

The journey had almost broken the king, and he could not keep the desperation from filling his eyes and his voice.

“If you cannot aid us Chief, if we cannot find sanctuary with the Men of the Snow, then we are lost. We shall go out into the ice to perish. I only pray the wind freezes our breath before starvation does.”

The king made to turn and depart, but with a single deft movement, the old ice-chief was standing, his broad brown hand spread gently over the ragged fabric of the king’s cloaked shoulder.

The old man’s glance darted from the king’s desperate grey eyes to his cold hand as it lay on his sword hilt.

He looked up.

“Tall men stay.” His voice, once as cold as the winds of his home, had warmed.
“We give you what little we can.”

The king stepped forward, with his hand outstretched in sign of the agreement. The Ice-chief hesitated, his black eyes examining the Dunedain’s poised hand for a brief moment, before reaching out and clasping it firmly. Carthor, standing behind the king, could see his whole body relax as a wave of relief rushed through it.

The chief’s warriors, all clad in their thick fur wrappings, of what animal Carthor could not guess in the ruddy fire light of the ice-house, stepped forward. Each bore a thick brown blanket, and draping them tightly over the white-cold frames of the Dunedain, they ushered them all into a warm alcove. Carthor sipped gratefully at the hot fish-broth one of them provided for him in a shallow wooden bowl. The steaming liquid coursed through his stomach, extinguishing the hollow pain that his weeks of hunger had brought him.

Carthor looked grimly around the alcove, his blue eyes landing heavily on the faces of his companions. Seven times he paused; seven times he looked into lost and wearied eyes. The seven men around him were all that remained of the king’s guard that had ridden out from the mountains.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor


For ten days they had headed northward, following the crisp bite of the wind. The snow had deepened under the hooves of their mounts with every stride they had taken. Their food bags began to empty, despite their best efforts to ensure their stores lasted. At nightfall on the tenth day, the first of the horses had perished. Slipping on a patch of unseen ice, the stout bay mare had lost her footing and come crashing down in a whirl of limbs. Her rider had fallen under her, his cold brown eyes staring up into Carthor’s own as he kneeled beside him. There had been no time to properly bury the young man. Instead, they had laid him out proudly by a deep snow drift, the tattered banner on his ash spear still bearing the device of the king fluttering in the bitter wind.

Carthor had shuddered to feel the weight of the horsemeat in his cloth bag. It was a poor way to repay such a fine beast for years of faithful service, a beast whose only mistake had been to blindly trust in the guidance of her master’s hand. Better to live with the guilt than to die without it. Death, even then, would have been a sweet relief to Carthor, son of Harathor. Honour drove him; as long as his king drew breath, so would he.

Within a week of the first, all twelve horses had fallen, their frozen corpses lying as grim reminders of the group’s passage. The Dunedain had continued on foot, trudging through the snow, which often rose deeper than the knees of their tallest man, sharing the lead in shifts. Two men walked in front and behind of Arvedui, their eyes guarding their lord’s back, guarding it from the despair they all felt. On the third day, the last of the horsemeat was eaten.

For six more days, the Men of the North trudged on through the thick snows, the snows that seemed to be forever clinging, like dead, cold hands at every limb and every cloak. The men were all soaked as the snow tunnelled in through their clothing; no cloak could halt its wandering fingers. Slowly, but surely, the men would fall to the back of the column, unable to hold onto the slow, plodding pace. Their footfalls would become clumsy and their strides shorter, as if invisible hands held them by the shoulders, slowly pulling them back. One by one, they fell down into the snow, unseen and unheeded by their comrades. For those who turned to give aid were soon consumed by the same deadly foe, the only aid they would give would be company with which to enjoy Eru’s Gift.

Then, on the ninth day since the last of the horses had perished, the seven survivors of the group of fifteen reached the cold, grey expanse of the icy sea. Great towers of white rose out of the water, their great bastions and towers mirrored below them. The men stood dumbfounded at the edge of the great water, watching the ice towers collide on the glassy surface, listening to the call of cracking ice, feeling the whip of the icy wind in their lank hair.

As they stood, the Forochel’s white splendour lying eerily around them, the Lossoth espied them, and walking on the surface of the ice on basket-shoes, they had led them to their camp.

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post - Erenor: Mithlond


White, everything was white. This was not how she had imagined Mandos. White but not cold. So she had not returned to the snow. She raised her head slightly, it was a ceiling. And she was lying in a bed. Then an elvish voice. "Ah Lady Erenor, you are back with us!" The voice belonged to a grey clad elf-woman.

"Where am I?”

"In the Houses of Healing at Mithlond of course, do you not remember?"

Gradually memory came back. If had not been one of the slain guards of course who had entered the tent but an elf ranger of Mithlond in the same uniform. Cirdan alerted by Arvedui's hawks had sent out search parties. The fire they had risked in an attempt to save Erenor had speeded rescue for all. The rangers had carried phials of precious miruvor which had the power to restore even those on the point of death, and this had bought her time . The rangers had horses and had rushed her to the Havens. Erenor blushed at the memory - she who had thought herself among the strongest had been the weakest at the end.

The healer wrapped a mantle about Erenor's shoulders pressed a cup of broth into her hands and made her drink it before she would answer more questions. "The others? Are they safe? Are they here?"

"They are safe, but not all are here yet - the last should arrive later today. You have been asleep for two nights and a day since you were brought in. Your man- at- arms arrived in the middle of last night and wanted to see you there and then, if you please! Dressed in his filthy rags . . . of course I would not hear of it. Told him to come back this morning and be clean!"

"Angore, was here and you sent him away?!" Erenor quelled her ire, the woman did not know and losing her temper would make more delay - "Please send for him..." She needed no messenger however since when she sought his mind with hers, she was answered. Nevertheless the minutes seemes like hours until the door burst open. Angore was dressed in new clothes, his habitual grey and black relieved by a shirt of blue that matched his eyes, but his face had the same anxious look it had worn when he had entrusted Erenor to the Mithlond elves. He knelt by her bed and took both hands in his. "My lady?" he asked. "Always, my lord."

A little later when reality had intruded on their bliss, Erenor said "Perhaps I shall have to continue being an emissary - I will not be allowed a guard as a healer or gardener..."
"That won't be necessary I hope - though would you mind choosing gardening over healing? Healers seem rather bossy" he said looking in the direction the elf woman had departed when she realised that her presence was surplus to requirements.

"And I am not?" asked Erenor incredulous.

Angore answered by raising his eyebrows “I must be a soldier a little longer by necessity, but when we are safe back in Imladris, I too would take another path - or rather resume it".

Erenor cast back in her memory for some clue and failed “What path?".

"I realise I can honour my mother by fulfilling her wish as well as avenging her death. Before she died, I was training as a minstrel".

"A minstrel? You?" Erenor was amazed that one who had wasted so little breath on speech during the time she had known him could be a master of song.

"I was considered very talented actually" ... Angore replied affecting an injured expression.

Erenor could not but laugh "You had better find a lute or harp prove it to me then!"

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor


Carthor’s musings were broken suddenly. The men around him were standing, being led out into the snow by their hosts. Slowly, Carthor stood and wrapping his fur blanket more tightly around his broad shoulders, he followed the backs of the men in front of him up the short ramp out of the low-slung ice-house. The hide door-flap slapped loudly against the roof, moved by the fierce wind, as he walked away. He followed the men in front of him through the small camp, shivering despite the weight of his warm shroud. The group halted outside another, slightly smaller, ice-house.

It was low and square, with piles of snow heaped up against its square walls in mounds. From outside, the house gave as little purchase possible for the grasping claws of the north wind to latch onto. The structure seemed more sharply shaped than the others he had noticed, as if it had been built but recently. As he stood by the entrance, two Lossoth emerged from the enclosed entrance; both bore flat, broad shovels carved of bone. One ushered the seven Dunedain, including King Arvedui, through the entrance. The square structure was covered in many animal furs and blankets, and a cheerful fire glinted from its centre, the smoke from which wound its way lazily out of a hidden chimney in the roof above. Several immense fish were hanging on a smoking rack from the roof above.

Curling up in a nook by the fire, Carthor fell into the abyss of the deepest of sleeps, only waking briefly to eat some smoked fish and wrap himself more tightly in the fronds of his fur shroud.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The dream . . .


Lissi turned slowly, the light, black fabric of her mantle sweeping across the dark flagstones of the floor, sending gusts of fine grey ash into the eddying breeze. She paced slowly across the cold stone of the floor, toward a long, polished oak table. Other figures stood solemnly around the great table, their faces shrouded by heavy hoods. Each of the tall silent figures wore a red or green tabard, embroidered with the devices of Arnor. Cold blue light streamed softy in through the blackened remains of the rafters above the group’s bowed heads. The entire room was filled with the light’s coldness, all the room except the length of the great oaken table, which was cast in thick shadow.

Slowly, Lissi’s erect frame strode toward the table, her veiled features smitten heavily by shadow. Her pale hand reached from under the folds of black fabric and tugged gently at the grey covering draped over the form lying on the table. Slowly, her hand revealed a shining silver helm, covering the grey, wavy locks of the old soldier. Piercing blue eyes stared out from under the carved brow of the helm, their black centres reflecting the cold light from above.

The grey shroud was pulled away, sliding silently off the table, pooling like spent blood in folds and waves. The stout man’s hands were folded over the hilt of a shining broadsword, the blade of which was notched and scarred. Broad stains of dried blood littered his scarlet tabard, like grisly continents on a sea of blood. Stepping back, Lissi’s proud head bowed in a signalling nod.

As one man, the tall onlookers stepped forward, each bearing a long piece of wood in his hand. The wood piled in rows, like soldiers in rank, around the edge of the great table. With another nod, the men’s forms receded to their original positions, their faces still shrouded.

Lissi stepped to the side of the table, a great earthen flask carried in the crook of her right arm. Starting at the old soldier’s head, she poured the oily contents of the flask over his spread form. Then, reverently, she laid herself by his left side, upending the flask over her black gown. She folded her slender fingers across her lap and closed her eyes.

The tall men took a single uniform step forward, the orange flames of lit torches illuminating their cold hands with a dancing, flickering light. Each thrust his torch into the piled wood. Immediately the flame’s blades rang out from their scabbards and thrusting through the oils, bit into the wood. Boots snapped against the cold floor as the hooded men stepped backwards.

A single figure remained within reach of the flames. In a smooth motion, his nimble fingers reached up and slowly pulled down the black of his hood. The dancing gold light of the pyre lit Brander’s face as he stared, unmistakeably, down at his parents’ forms as they were devoured, his green eyes shining.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor


Carthor woke with a start. Sweat soaked his tunic, turning the course fabric cold and sodden. The fire, in its small stone grate in the middle of the ice-house, had burned down to coals, which shone gently in the warm air. Around him, Carthor could make out the forms of his companions, still enwrapped in the warmth of sleep, or if the warmth had turned to cold, as it had for Carthor, then in the shrine of open-eyed rest. Carthor stood, and dragging his coverings behind him, moved to the fire. Sitting on a small, round, cured hide chair, Carthor piled more of the carefully stacked wood onto the coals. The fire was soon loud and raucous in the small space. Breaking his fast on more of the smoked pink fish, which was as soft and subtle, like moonlight given flavour, Carthor sat watching the flickering, dancing flames until the light shining through the ice walls turned a lighter shade of grey. His comrades started to rise, adding their own stirrings to the growing noise of the shelter.

His clothes now dry from the fire’s welcome warmth, Carthor rose and slipped on his old calf-hide boots, ignoring the near jet blackness of three of his toes. They had stopped hurting, so Carthor didn’t mind if they decided to stay attached to the rest of his foot or not. The wool linings that he had asked Lissi to sew in at the beginning of the winter were ragged and worn, yet they still held some warmth. He’d have to ask get her to sew in some new ones next year.

Carthor swore under his breath, to vent the true emotions he felt when thinking of what he had left trudging through the icy forests and frozen stone of the Blue Mountains: Grief. There was no real escape though; Grief’s sinuous frame stalked him night and day, waiting for his wearied guard to drop.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor & the King


Carthor hunched into something nearing a crawl as he walked up the slanting entrance and peeled open the hide door of the snow-house. Outside, he was greeted by a clear blue sapphire sky, the eastern tinges of which still glowing with the soft pink haze of dawn. Around him, the Lossoth camp was ablaze with activity. Smoke rose from the chimney holes of every ice-house, men carried long wooden poles, and others carried racks of the large, broad silver fish, the same fish Carthor’s belly was full of. The sound of yelled orders and padding feet turned Carthor’s head. Over the rise of an ice drift, appeared the oddest cart. It was wheel-less, and glided across the surface of the white ground on long wooden skids. Its great length was piled entirely with baskets of fish and seaweed.

Draped triumphantly across the front was the great carcase of a male Elk, its great pronged head lolling with the rhythms of the cart. It was not the cart itself that amazed and startled the old Dunedain however, rather it was the way by which it was propelled. Attached in great leather harness, were what appeared to be five grey wolves. Carthor was amazed, for the only men he had known to ally themselves with wolves were under the Witch King’s banner. As the great sled skidded through the centre of the camp however and came to a halt some way from where Carthor stood, he saw that they were in fact not wolves, but mighty dogs, with thick grey and white coats and shining eyes. Their masters, who had ridden on the back of the cart, dismounted, and after congratulating their unlikely steeds on a job well done, began unloading the cart.

“An amazing, if rustic, folk.” Said a quiet voice beside Carthor’s ear.

Inside, Carthor jumped in surprise, as he thought himself alone outside the ice-house, his exterior however, stayed composed in its relaxed stance.

Carthor looked into the speaker’s face. “Aye my lord, amazing they are. One would scarcely believe tales of a folk who dwell in houses made of ice and ride on carts without wheels pulled by wolf-dogs.”

King Arvedui chuckled. “Your words are true Captain, these are strange times indeed that have caused us to seek shelter from such folk.”

Carthor merely nodded. They were indeed strange times. The two men stood silently for a while, each loath to break the gentle silence of the morning.

“Lord Carthor, your deeds and council have been ever hardy these past weeks, as has your loyalty. But my friend, I would have you complete one final task for me, as the Captain of my Guard.” King Arvedui paused, but as Carthor didn’t speak or interrupt, he pressed on.

“Our numbers have halved my friend, I know this. But our sanctuary here must only be short-lived, and though I don’t agree with the Ice-Chief in his superstitions, I see that the Witch King’s arm is indeed long. I do not doubt that he can reach us, even here.”

“Our entire journey north was to find the Lossoth and gain their aid, and this we have done. But these people cannot harbour us from the grasping fingers of the Witch King. We must look to the sea Carthor, for in the sea lies our only hope; if Cirdan has had news of our plight, as I trust he has, he will soon send grey ships northward in search of us.

We must look to the sea Carthor, but we must ensure that the sea can look to us! Make a beacon fire Carthor, and have your men tend it night and day, never letting it be extinguished. We must ensure our own rescue.”

Without waiting for a response, the King turned on his heel and disappeared back inside the ice-hut with the slap of hide hitting ice.

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post – Cirdan sends a ship northward


A grey ship was sailing from the havens. Sent by Cirdan to the aid of the king at the behest of Aranarth. The prince had been discouraged from joining it - "Your people need you here." Cirdan had said but if he had some foresight he did not share it.

Bethiril had insisted on going despite Erenor's attempt to dissuade her. "You have found your fate and I wish you joy, but this is mine and I will follow it - Deliver the ring to Lord Elrond when you may".

There was nothing Erenor could say to change her mind and she was filled with regret and forboding. "I am sorry I never understood you."

Bethiril had merely smiled that serene smile. "Namarie, Erenor...I thought you a woman unsentimental, but much has changed - perhaps when you too have taken ship we will meet, and in that realm of light and peace there will be no misunderstanding. But until then I think this is farewell. You will remain in Middle Earth till the time of our people here ends forever - but I am weary of it and even if this ship bears me back, I will take another." They had embraced, and Elrond's Emissary boarded to seek for the king.

Once the ship had cast off, she had left the quay to join other survivors on the sea wall. Bethiril's ring clinked slightly against her own silver betrothal band as she turned it in her hand. She stood next to Angore and he clasped her hand in his. Although stern of face as they watched the ship enter the firth and head for the sea it was clear to all the sorrows of many centuries had been lifted from them. Renedwen was there with the boys, as was Faerim with Lissi. Erenor could hardly bear to look at them; the contrast between their hope and her fear was so strong. And yet it was not only those who sought passage north, with winter barely starting to fade, who were in danger. Mithlond was safe and perhaps Imladris was still safe but little in between was safe from the shadow of the witch-king.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor: the rescue ship arrives; the Ring of Barahir is given to the Lossoth


For five nights, the six Guardsmen rotated, sitting in hide tents beside the wind-whipped fire, feeding its hungry jaws with all the dry wood they could find. Their icy fingers ached from their labours, and many of their noses bore black or red patches, as if the skin had been seared by a red-hot brand.

On the dawn of the seventh day, a broad white shape was seen coursing through the white towers of floating ice in the broad bay. The sleek grey timber of the elven ship shone in the light of the new morning, its swan-shaped prow gliding majestically through the crisp air. The Dunedain stood aligned, their faces alight in relief and awe for the grace of the grey vessel. The Lossoth fled in fear of the greatness of the ship, and only the Chief and his warriors remained by the King’s side.

An eagerness the light of which Carthor had never witnessed danced in the Arvedui’s grey eyes. The wolf-dogs were made ready, and the Dunedain nestled themselves atop two of the great wheel-less carts. The carts sped across the glassy surface of the ice at a startling pace. The swan prow grey larger and larger, framed against the clear blue of the western sky. Boats, in stark likeness to the larger ship, were seen to be floated, their grey oars speeding them lightly toward the edge of the ice.

Dismounting from the sled, Carthor peered out at the grey wooden shapes as they drew near the shore.

Arvedui gave the instruction, and the Dunedain stepped tentatively toward the edge of the ice. The Chief of the Lossoth laid his hand gently on the arm of the king, who turned to face him.

“Ice-men smell danger on the wind, Tall King.” He said, his deep voice full of fear and concern.

“Do not mount this sea-monster! If they have them, let the seamen bring us food and other things we need, and you may stay here till the Witch-king goes home. For in summer his power wanes; but now his breath is deadly, and his cold arm is long.”

As if in answer to the Chief’s words, a biting wind arose out of the north. To Carthor’s old eyes, the sky there was darker than the rest, as if a scribe had drawn a deft ink-line across the horizon. The wind seemed unnaturally cold and malicious. Carthor found himself agreeing with the old chief’s words. However, he remained silent.

Arvedui, taken with eagerness to depart from the dead and cold world of ice, heeded little the words of the old Lossoth, despite the latter’s desperate pleading.

“Chief, I thank you and your people for kindling life where there was none, and for the aid you have given us, saving us from joining our friends in the icy wastes of your home. We shall leave, and fear not, for the ships of Cirdan cannot falter!”

In token of thanks, Arvedui pulled the great ring from his right hand, and placed it in the hand of the chief. “This is a thing of worth beyond your reckoning. For its ancientry alone. It has no power, save the esteem in which those hold it who love my house. It will not help you, but if ever you are in need, my king will ransom it with great store of all that you desire.”

Arvedui kissed the old man on the forehead, before turning and climbing into the first of the awaiting boats, which was held fast against the ice with much effort by her elvish oarsmen. Carthor stepped carefully down into the boat beside the king. The six other men slid onto the finely carved benches behind and beside the king, and in the other boat. The last two bore a heavy, iron-clad oak casket.

The Lossoth stood watching the boats row slowly away from the ice, their grey wood’s sheen radiant in the strong light. Their Chief stood watching the sea long after the boats had been lost to view, the Ring of Barahir enclosed warmly in his palm.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor: aboard the rescue ship


With typical elvish efficiency, the two small boats had reached the deeper, less constricted waters and had been drawn up onto the great grey ship’s deck. Carthor joined his fellows in embracing Cirdan’s sailors. Relief at their timely appearance flooded through his heart and he found himself crying out for sheer joy.

Carthor was ushered below deck, and found himself sitting alone in a sweet smelling, cushioned corner, with the soft sunlight coursing in through the innate windows above his head. Carthor’s head lolled against his armoured breast, and the weariness he had fought for weeks finally found its moment to attack. His breathing soon became deep and regular. Sleep’s soft, maternal arms embraced him.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor: Finis


The screech of wood wrenched Carthor violently from sleep. The white light that had spilled through the windows was gone, replaced by a quelling grey darkness. Carthor stood, and peered out of the window above his grey-clad head. The sun outside was hidden behind angry masses of black cloud. Riding down on the howling north wind came swords of sleeting rain. The ship lurched sideways, as if Ossë himself had thrust it away. Carthor was thrown bodily across the deck, sliding against the grey wall of the cabin. Great waves beat against the glass windows, like savage hounds bashing at the door of cot, their braying voices rising in tumult.

The elven ship was dashed time and again by the great waves, bounding like a wayward pup from one iron embrace to another. The north wind screamed, whistling through the ship’s ragged rigging like a wraith. Suddenly, from the north, came a wave, greater and more towering than any other. The grey ship was sucked up its towering side, and lingered at its point for what seemed an eternity. The great wave surged forward, carrying the elven ship like an autumn leaf. White ice rose to greet the wave, and the water beat upon the grey ship. As Aulë’s hammer smites his great anvil, Cirdan’s ship smote against the hard surface of the ice tower.

Icy water rushed into Carthor’s screaming mouth, running in torrents into his bellowing lungs. Darkness engulfed him as he somersaulted through the watery void. He could feel wood falling around him, sweeping down in lazy arcs. His mouth opened, gasping for breath. Salt water rolled, like thundering horses, down his throat. His mind was burning with a soft light as images of faces and people mingled with the darkness. Carthor tumbled through the icy water, like the disjointed thoughts tumbling through his starved mind. Carthor could see it himself: a great candle, burning, giving off a soft yellow light. The wick hovered above the pools of hot wax below, dancing, loitering. Carthor stared at the candle, watching, waiting for the moment, waiting for the wick to finally reach its end: it had been burning low for a long time.

The flame flickered, before burning brighter, as if in defiance. Carthor stared. The wick licked the pool of wax, its flame teetering. Time seemed to slow, the flame stood still and erect. It hissed, sighing, released at last. And was gone.

[piosenniel]

-o-o-o- Epilogue -o-o-o-


Mithalwen's post

Months ago Angore had predicted that Faerim would "escape this foolish venture's doom". This small group, all of whom had been touched in some way by the lad's kindness and courage would share his good fortune. These who survived the Witch-King's triumph at Fornost would survive his defeat.

Some weeks later, a ship was seen emerging from the dawn mist in the gulf of Lhun. First hopes were that it was the rescue ship returned, but it was a ship of Gondor and the first of many. So many that they filled the Harlond and Forlond and were a joy and wonder to the Elves and the remaining people of Arnor, those scattered groups who had one way or another evaded the servants of evil and found sanctuary at the Havens.

Earnur, heir of Gondor had brought a mighty army - both footsoldiers and horsemen tall and fair with fine horses form the vales of Anduin. Cirdan joined his forces to Earnur's and the host of the west marched to meet their foe, the Witch King who dwellt now in the Palace of Arvedui at Fornost.

The Host of the West descended upon him and had the mastery and though the fell lord fled towards his own realm at Angmar he was caught between the cavalry of Earnur and the force of Glorfindel from Rivendell. His forces but not the Witch-King himself were utterly destroyed.

Belegorn, Angore and Faerim fought in that battle and if Lissi's anguish was doubled as she waited for news of both husband and son, Erenor could at least understand it. They occupied themselves with care of the injured and waited for the return of those they loved. When all was done they found their way back to Imladris and there Angore and Erenor were wedded.

Belegorn, who had won renown in the victory to add to the courage and duty he had shown in the retreat from Fornost, became senior among the Rangers of the North as Aranarth established the new community of his people. Lissi bore the loss of her husband when the fate of the ship long supected was confirmed, with charactersitic courage. Faerim, her remaining son became a warrior with all the skill of his father but none of his flaws and managed to combine duty to his king with duty to his kindred.

If Renedwen had had no personal connection with the defeat of the witch-king she would have one with his ultimate downfall. Her line did not fail and in later generations those of her birth son Derendur and her adopted son Gilly would unite. The fine sword set with onyx which had been made for her husband became an heirloom of her house. Of such craftsmanship was it that it was a weapon to be reckoned with over a thousand years later when it was borne by one of her descendents at the battle of the Pelennor Fields. And when its owner, a member of the Grey Company who had ridden out of the north to the aid of Aragorn returned to tell his tale in the Hall of Fire, he found two elves who could tell him how his foremother had carried it from the destruction of the North Kingdom.

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~