The Fellowship of the Fourth Age (Part 1): A New Beginning RPG

[Nogrod]

Hadith and Johari

Hadith was getting to where the assigned foot soldiers would gather and make clear of their tactics under the advice of Beloan and Joshwan, of whom the latter seemed to have raised to the occasion. Hadith looked at the late pirate with new eyes as he walked downhill.

On his way he bumbed into Johari. "Oh it's you again", Johari said, condescending.

“Johari! Where are you going? Are you going to join us foot soldiers? Come with me then?” Hadith was tense but tried to be manly and graceful. His mother’s teachings were deep in him.

Johari shrugged a little. "Not anywhere in particular... I'm not much one for battles, or being in the thick of them."

Hadith was upset with the answer. He was totally baffled. How could someone say something like this? But after a small pause he managed to answer her: "What do you say? You're not ready to help others... just sticking to yourself, burying your head into the ground? That's just the thing that benefits the slavers! We must stick together and that means you too! You must join us!" Hadith’s expression was filled with disbelief and begging the question.

Johari looked somewhat indifferent and mildly annoyed: "What if I told you that I don't really care, and that what happens to most of the people here doesn't matter to me?"

Hadith felt stunned for a while and forcefully brought himself to answer her with the immediate question that twirled in his mind: “What do you say?” He was nervous again, as he had been with this woman every time he had met her. But there was something more in it now. He was totally baffled with Johari. She was a wise woman but talked the contrary of every belief he himself found secure. Hadith gathered his thoughts and asked sharply his next question as he thought he had gotten a grip of what was it that they were discussing in the end.

“How would you survive alone in this land, against those slavers and the nature that is dead? Isn’t freedom also about the others?” he made a pause. Hadith was getting even more serious: “Isn’t freedom something about all the people? That you freely decide to be there for others and trust the others to be there with you?” he made a pause again, trying to avoid Johari’s eyes. “ I don’t know... You really make me confused.”

Johari smiled bitterly. "Freedom, yes, that's what it's all about. Freedom. What a concept. Freedom to do what? To what purpose? Perhaps if freedom in itself was what I wanted, I would be more inclined to care... more inclined to fight. Can I help it, Hadith, that none of this matters to me beyond how it affects me, and that as long as I make it out of here alive, with or without the rest of you, I will be satisfied? I never intended to join up with any group when I escaped, but somehow I got dragged along. I don't know why I've stayed. But... this isn't what I want." She stopped abruptly. Suddenly Johari looked and sounded more distraught than Hadith - or anyone else - had seen her in years. This expression was quickly masked again and the familiar hardness returned to her face, seeming to dare Hadith to make something of it.

Surely all this was lost from Hadith’s eyes. "What do you want then?" he asked abruptly and as he got no immediate answer, he turned away in confusion. His young heart had been wounded again by this woman, but he was not sure whether it was for good or bad.

[Folwren]

Athwen had done what she could to help with the preparations that day. There had been work to do constantly during the morning and half of the afternoon. She helped the children and women and elderly get settled in their appropriate places, hidden from view. Now there was nothing left for her to do. She wanted to speak once more with Dorran, and then return to her place and stay with the other women.

She skirted around the large boulders and rocks that created the shelter and walked down the slight incline towards the camping place. The remains of the fires dotted brown sand and men moved about or stood speaking in groups. She looked for her husband as she walked on and soon spotted him. He stood with Lindir, just behind the place where the tunnel ran guarding the encampment. They stood close together, their heads bent inward, speaking with each other as they watched the open plain.

She passed silently through the camp and drew near to the two of them. Their expressions were grave and full of thought. Perhaps more plans were being considered for that evening’s fight.

Lindir looked up when she came near and she smiled at him as she stopped by Dorran’s side. Her hand slid into Dorran’s and she looked up at him.

“Is something wrong?” she asked at once, startled by the troubled look in his eyes. But Dorran only shook his head.

“Nothing is actually wrong,” he said. “Lindir has thought of a plan that will lead the slavers into our trap here, but it needs a rider.” He told her what had passed between the two of them in a few words. When he had finished, Athwen looked steadily at him a moment, and then turned her head and looked up at Lindir.

“And you will not ask anyone to do this?”

“I will not order anyone,” Lindir replied.

Athwen looked back at her husband. “Dorran, I-” His face fell instantly, and he dropped his eyes. “I will be careful!” Athwen pressed, knowing at once that he had read her thoughts. “You need someone - you need a woman who can ride well, and I can do it! You know I can. I can lead them into the trap and then return to my place and be ready to tend to any wounds that should occur. Please, Dorran.”

[Firefoot]

“You wouldn’t understand,” said Johari roughly. Likely enough, this was at least partially true. Hadith was so naïve, so full of hope; how could he begin to comprehend the crumbling world she lived in? And while he might understand about wanting to find Kalin, Johari did not want to talk about it. She did not want his help or his pity.

“I can try,” said Hadith.

He just didn’t give up on an idea! “Look, it doesn’t matter, all right? Forget I said anything.”

Hadith was looking confused – one of these days his face was going to get stuck like that, Johari thought, and smiled despite herself. He also seemed about to say something more, so Johari cut him off. “If it matters so much to you, I’ll tell you one thing. His name is Kalin. I hope that satisfies you.” Why was she telling him this, anyway? He had no right into her business. “Why do you care so much, anyway? I’ve done nothing but ridicule you, scorn you, even punch you. Don’t you ever take a hint?”

[Durelin]

Khamir

The “Dwarf,” as Khamir had learned the short, flame-haired man was, had been incredibly kind, and the Southron was still surprised by his kind, soft-spoken nature. His respect for the Fellowship had only been increasing since they arrived, and it left him feeling a little lost – though it was a more pleasant feeling than any like it he had ever had. There was little joy for himself, but plenty for others, and that made up for his losses. He was unhappy with his position, mostly because he had no idea what it was.

He was a raging mix of pride and disappointment, happiness and bitterness, strength and fear. The coming battle filled him with excitement, and he still stuck to his belief that they could not lose now, not now that they had spirit and, though he shocked himself to think it, the help of Gondor. They had waited for it for so long, that, now that it had been received, these heroes of the King were more like men out of legends than ever. And there was even an Elf among them! The tall, dark-haired man with strange ears, it was said, was an Elf, thousands and thousands of years old! With such wisdom and experience, they were in good company.

But what place did Khamir have in the coming battle? He had only one arm, he could not draw a bow, he did not have a sword and had not carried one since his youth. The Dwarf, Vrór he was called, only reassured him when he voiced his concerns, but gave no suggestions. His face, even with the majority of it covered with orange hair, appeared a little perplexed. Khamir said nothing, but inwardly thanked him for his kindness. Unable to remain with the Dwarf, obviously a natural warrior if this was the natural appearance and nature of his people, the one-armed man went to find Beloan. Even now, he would seek the man’s counsel.

His friend was leading the group of foot soldiers, and was going over plans for where they would conceal themselves until all the traps had been sprung and the archers had their share of the enemy, and how they would time their attack with regards to the predicted sandstorm. Seeing him busy, and with Joshwan, Khamir decided that now was not the best time to speak with him. His pride just could not handle being looked at as some poor injured creature, beaten down from its former position – for that was surely how many of them saw it, when they had been adverse to his leadership for some time now.

Discovering that Shae was to be a member of a small group of horsemen, he felt particularly alone.

He had to take his place somewhere in the battle, and he supposed that with these other regular “soldiers” as they suddenly called themselves was as good a fit as any. It seemed like another life in which he had drawn back a bowstring, his sights on a black-tailed jackrabbit, a kill to impress his father…

With only three throwing knives, they would not last him long. And however quick he was with his longer hunting knife, it would be nothing against the slavers’ swords and spears. He had always been about survival, and now he found himself feeling almost trapped. Over the past couple months, he had begun to realize that his own survival had been surpassed in importance by that of others. Perhaps now he could resign himself to that.

“Wi…will this knife be enough?” came a hesitant but clear and assured voice from somewhere behind him, whispering under the louder voices of Beloan and Joshwan. He turned to see the boy – or young man – who had been on watch when the slavers first attacked. Adnan. Khamir could picture his face that night, the grief and rage and shame twisting it, and looking at the fifteen year old now, he was certain that it already bore new marks of age. The way Adnan held out the knife he had been granted not too long ago it seemed he had been using it for years.

Khamir smiled, a slight smirk, from pride and compassion rather than from happiness, but his voice was as steady and heavy as ever when he spoke. “Yes, yes it will. But we will have to watch each others’ backs, won’t we?”

[Tevildo]

He had been afraid of this.....afraid of it since the very first moment when Lindir had come up with the idea of sending out a skilled rider to lead the slavers' astray. Part of him had already known that Athwen was the right person for the task and that she would proudly volunteer if given the slightest chance. The problem came down on his shoulders. If he said "yes", his wife would ride and assume the terrible risk of making herself a target for an entire company of armed attackers. He also knew that, if he said "no", his wife would defer her decision and return to the relative sarety of the grove. But what would that do to her spirit, and how would she feel about a husband who put her own safety even above the oath they had jointly taken to Elessar and Eomer and to the completion of the fellowship's quest?

Dorran had lived too long in Rohan to set aside his oath in such a hasty fashion. Both he and his wife had taken on certain obligations when they had agreed to journey to Mordor and help the slaves. Athwen was no child; she had certainly been aware of that obligation just as he was. Who was he to treat her like a child and deny here the chance to do what she had promised to do?

There was a rock hard piece of Dorran's mind that could simply not erase that promise even if it seemed like the easiest thing to do. He turned back to his wife and extended his hand to hers, "I would be lying if I told you that I wanted you to do this thing. It is hard and dangerous, perhaps harder that you realize, since you have never been in a battle before. But we have made a promise to the slaves and to the fellowship itself, and we cannot turn our backs on that. If your heart is set on this, I will not say no. I ask just two things. I will wait till the slavers pass and ride immediately in back of them. I will strip off the insignia of Rohan and dress myself in plain rugged gear such as a common traveler might wear with a hood pulled down over my face. Even if one of the men notices me, he is unlikely to pay attention in the heat of the pursuit. At least that way, if anything happens, I will be right there to help."

"And the second?" Athwen queried her husband.

"The second is that you will promise to be very careful. If anything seems to be going wrong, wave your white sash in the air so that the others who are mounted can ride out to help you." For a long time, the two looked at each other. Then Dorran sighed and went on in a lower voice, "There need be no words between us. Just lean over and let me hold you gently for a bit that I may have your agreement."

An instant later and the couple stood in each other's arms, with Dorran whispering some private words in his wife's ear.

[Nogrod]

Gwerr (and Ishkur)

“You never listen to others, now do you?” Gwerr said as Ishkur was making his leave. Ishkur had clearly made up his mind and seemed to be tense. Why am I bothering... I should know this. It’s all going down the drain anyhow.

With these thoughts Gwerr fell down to get some sleep but he never managed to fall in to anything like a deep sleep as he had to check every once in a while whether the Uruks were stil asleep or up to any mischief.

In the end he fell deep down into sleep anyhow. He faintly regained his consciousness hearing someone roaring enthusiastically but was truly awaken by a kick to his ribs.

"They're gone! The slavers have left. I hope gone for good, but at least for today. The camp is ours whenever we want it. And look what I have brought back."

Ishkur seemed excited – and soon Gwerr saw the reason for it. A berrell of ale was more than welcome news indeed.

"We'll go back once the sun sets and it gets more comfortable, but why not start with a little nip here? It will get us in the right spirit." Ishkur uncorked the small barrell and filled his flagon as he cried out, "Gwerr, Makdush, Mazhg, Grask..... Everyone come here and have a taste."

Gwerr rose up slowly but still was the first to reach Ishkur and his barrell. Ishkur poured his skin full to the top. Gwerr took a draught and then wiped his lips with the back of his right hand. Burping lightly he smiled to Ishkur in a faint fashion and looked around to see the other orcs to awake one by one. Even the Uruks were coming forwards.

“Okay pal, you might not have understood what I said but let’s not let that to come between us. We’ll give all these good draughts of this “flower-ale” you have brought us and then we will go and have a look into the camp, before the others come to think of it... What do you think?”

Ishkur seemed to ponder the thought for a while but then nodded. Together they started to deal rations of ale to the other orcs that were forming something like an odd queue around them. There was some jostling and pushing around but in the end most of the orcs had gotten their share and some had even managed to gain a second helping.

“Okay, time we go? Let’s fill our skins and leave? We’ll take your horse to carry the loot?” Gwerr asked as the queue had vanished and all the other orcs seemed content enough with their ale. The sun was setting, it was late afternoon. It would take an hour at least for the sun to actually set.

“We go”, Ishkur answered and rose up, picking his flagon with him. Gwerr followed him to Ishkur’s new horse and they both threw their half-empty sacks on the horse.

“Do you think your new horse will accept us two?” Gwerr asked. Ishkur hesitated for a while but then nodded. “That’s the easiest way, if you are so good with the horses you claim you are. This one is not the most compliant one”

“We’ll see about it” Gwerr said and took the horse by the reins. “Jump up. I’ll follow!” Ishkur jumped the horse and Gwerr tightened the reins, taking a firm grip from the horses neck. She was not very happy about her load and seemed to sense the next phase in advance. Slowly Gwerr managed to inch himself towards the middle of the horse that seemingly was not at all happy with the things going on. At the secure moment he jumped up on the horse too, gaining a foothold from her side and climbing up to gain balance as she took to her backfeet.

In a moment the horse was on its way, gallopping ahead. It really didn’t seem tom approve the two orcs on her.

“Now stop this!” Ishkur called as he was at the back and had no chance to steer the horse or actually make any difference. Gwerr did his best to bring the horse down in front.

“I’m doing it, I’m doing it! Wait a moment!” Gwerr replied and draw the rains as heavily as he could. With his experience Gwerr managed to bring the horse under his control after a while and in the end the she settled down and the two orcs rode slowly into the empty camp of the slavers.

It was empty indeed.

“Now see here!” Ishkur yelled as he dropped from the horse. “Here is the tent of their leader!” Gwerr jumped down as well, throwing the reins over the horse's head. They both entered the tent that was double the size of the other tents around.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Once the hornets had flown off, the slavers took a while to retrieve their missing horses. Then Imak ordered his men to get back in their saddles and immediately ride to the slave camp. But several of them complained loudly, since they had been badly stung around the eyes.

"You can't do that. It't not smart," confirmed Urlok, one of the oldest in the band who knew a few simple remedies. "Their faces will swell till their eyes shut. They'll be no good for fighting. Either treat the men or leave them here." A few of the others nodded in agreement.

Imak reluctantly agreed to wait until the wounds were treated. Urlok used the flat of his dagger to draw out the stingers and then made a mud paste with water from the leather pouch. He applied the soft mud dressing to their faces, and also found a bit of plantain weed, which he chewed up and spat on each of the bites. By the time he finished, a whole hour had passed, but their faces were not swelling as much.

After they mounted up, Urlok rode his horse over to Imak and said in a low voice. "Captain, the weather looks bad. A hard wind is coming." Imak stared where Urlok was pointing. He could see the wind was blowing harder and that the sky behind their backs looked more brown than blue.

"So what do you expect me to do? Wave a wand and change the weather?"

Urlok answered evenly, "Perhaps we should turn back and wait till the winds blow over. The slaves aren't going anywhere. We can ride out tomorrow morning."

"The bites, the wind. How many excuses can you come up with? You've gotten soft. A few gusts of wind aren't going to stop me. I swear I will not sleep tonight until we defeat those slaves, and I get my sword back." With that, Imak dug his heels into his horse's flanks and took off at a gallop towards the slavers' camp.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir waited until husband and wife had finished their private conversation and then went over to speak briefly with Athwen. He bent down to sketch some rough lines in the dirt, pointing out a few scrub bushes not far from camp where the woman could conceal herself until the slavers arrived as well as indicating the direction she might want to take when approaching the camp. He expressed his thanks and then reminded her that the weather and visibility could possibly be quite bad. Dorran remained nearby, carefully committing the map to memory.

Just as the elf was finishing up, a grey pigeon came circling down. landing on the ground in a wobbly manner directly ahead of them. The bird's feathers were ruffled; her wings noticably drooped. Lindir gently took the bird in his hand and removed a small scrap of parchment wrapped about its leg. The message was written in Quenyan in a remarkably delicate and precise script. Lindir stood off to one side while reading the note and then raised his voice to explain so that any others standing nearby could hear the news. "Aiwendil reports the slavers have been sighted. He and Rôg have drummed up some mischief to delay them. However, my guess is that this pigeon had tough going in the air, since the winds are beginning to blow. The slavers may be no more than thirty minutes away. It is time for each group to move into position. Go now, each of you, and tell the others. Be prepared for the slavers but do not forget the weather. Keep your heads covered and try to shield off the worst of the sand and dirt. And may Varda smile on our endeavor."

Slowly, the men and women started to disperse. Lindir bent down to retrieve his bow and slung it over his shoulder starting towards the appointed place where the archers were to meet. As he glanced eastward, the elf could see one and possibly two figures in the distance, both striding towards the camp. It was definitely Aiwendil and possibly Rôg. At the same time, the winds had picked up. The sand on the plain was swirling about in a number of small funnels and eddies, first blowing one direction and then the other. At this point, the winds and sand were no more than an irritation. But they were likely to get much worse before the night was over. Any work with the bows would have to be done early and from very close in, if there was any hope of their arrows actually hitting the mark. Aiwendil and Rôg had been right about the weather, but whether the slavers would get here first or the giant gusts of wind, he could not even guess.

[Folwren]

Athwen and Dorran saddled their horses together. They spoke very little; they had already said what needed to be said. They both noticed the steadily rising wind and the dust swirling in small circles. Athwen patted her horse’s neck when she finished tightening the girth and took his reins. She led him over to Dorran. He turned towards her as she came near.

“You will be careful?” he asked. Athwen nodded. “Where is your sash?” Athwen’s hand went to the white cloth about her neck, tucked into the collar of her shirt. “Is your horse settled in all this wind? It will only get harder and more fierce, Athwen. . .” She nodded again and a smile came to her face.

“He’ll be fine,” she said. “He has carried me a long way as it is and I don’t think he’ll fail me now.” Dorran nodded this time. “I’m going. I don’t want to be late to my post.” There was a short pause. “Goodbye,” she whispered.

He bent and kissed her gently one last time. “Goodbye,” he replied. “You’ll do well,” he added reassuringly.

Athwen mounted her horse without further ado and set him into a trot down the slight slope. She let him pace back and forth in the open land before the camp. The wind was slowly but steadily picking up strength and speed, and her gelding seemed to sense the pending danger. She felt his energy gather beneath her. His trot became quick and stiff, excited and contained with difficulty. She reined him in slowly and made him walk.

Finally, his body seemed to relax some, his attention settled and she sighed a sigh of relief. With a final glance towards the camp, she turned her horse away from it and headed towards the clump of bushes and shrubs that Lindir had pointed out to her. She dismounted there and found her best way into them with her horse. She cleared away some of the small plants so that her horse could stand fairly comfortably. She led him in and left him standing while she went back out to make certain that it would be difficult to see him behind the screen of leaves and branches.

Satisfied, she returned back to her horse and mounted him. Her heart pump nervously and a strange, tight feeling passed through her stomach. She drew a deep breath, clenched her jaw, and stared out through the leaves in to the open plain. Soon their enemies would come and she would burst through those scraggly branches and go flying out before them. . .in peril. Yes, there would be peril. Her throat tightened briefly with fear that she might never return, that she might not see Dorran again. But a moment later, resolve hardened itself within her, and new feeling pulsed through her veins. She sat up higher in her saddle and lifted her chin a little. She would ride to make her husband, and Rider of Rohan, proud.

[Regin Hardhammer]

"I wonder what's here? Makdush isn't the only one who deserves a prize." Ishkur grinned at Gwerr and started rummaging through the objects in Imak's tent. He was disappointed not to find weapons, but almost tripped over a small chest hidden underneath a pile of blankets. It was a sturdy wooden box with a metal chain attached to a stake in the ground. Ishkur jerked on the chain but the stake didn't move. He couldn't carry away the chest without spending a lot of time digging up the stake, and he didn't want to waste time doing that. The wooden box was locked tight. He couldn't see any key, since the slavers' chief probably carried it with him. Ishkur picked up the chest and violently shook it. The box did not open but inside he could detect a pleasant jingling noise.

For a moment Ishkur sat thinking. Then he ran out to the woodpile and found what he was looking for. He came back in the tent carrying an axe that the slavers used for chopping firewood. The orc brought down the axe and the top of the box splintered into pieces. A whole hoard of coins came tumbling out. Ishkur's eyes widened in glee. He had not seen this much gold and silver for a long time. It was obviously the wages the chief paid his men plus profits the slavers had collected from the last haul they'd dragged back to the plantation.

"Well, my friend! We may not agree on everything but we can surely agree on this. We'll be doing these slavers a favor if we empty out their chest. That way they won't have such a heavy burden to lug. You and I could use this. Land up north is free but horses and other things cost money and can be bought from some of the caravans that travel south to Nurn. Now all we have to do is figure out a way to bring these coins with us but keep them hidden. I wouldn't mind sharing a coin or two with a few of the girls, but I sure wouldn't want our friend Makdush to get any idea about this." Ishkur took several swigs of ale and asked. "Alright Gwerr, any ideas?"

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Carl was just empting the last load of dirt from the blanket, which had hauled in the past hour or so and with the help of Stumps, enough dirt to fill the large hole where the tunnel had collapsed, when word reached him. It was time for all to get in their positions. Sweating and red-faced, the farmer stood up, pausing to wipe his forehead. Fortunately, exertion had helped dissipate the embarrassment that had settled on him earlier, when stepping back to admire the trench, he had inadvertently tread on that delicate illusion of solid ground that Vrór had so cleverly engineered, disappearing from view rather rapidly, and painfully.

But by good fortune he was not seriously hurt, except that his pride had suffered a thorough bruising, and even then no one had made him feel the worse for his clumsiness, except for his own exacting conscience. The dwarf had even gone so far as to try to console him, calling it a proper, if unscheduled test that showed the tunnel would work as planned. For if the weight of a hobbit broke the earth, how much more so would that of a horse and rider. So Carl nodded thankfully at Vrór grateful for his perspective, and taking off his vest he set about fixing the problem.

But now when he finally was called to take up his bow and ready himself, the earth was marred with tell tale signs, and rough. And what is more, when he went to pull up his blanket, he found the bottom half deeply buried and much to his dismay quite immovable. The hobbit rapidly took the knife from his belt, and cut the blanket free, leaving a ragged end protruding above the ground.

After quickly tamping down the dry clods with his bare feet, and scooping up his vest and quiver, Carl led Stumps to where a young man stood waiting for him, while the other horsemen were gathering. Handing over the reigns, the hobbit committed the pony into the man’s care, bidding them both to take care of the other. Then turning his back to the faithful beast he went to station himself as planned.

[Undómë]

Zagra clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. ‘Good thing,’ she whispered to her sister, ‘that those men have all left! Those two are loud as piggies in the garbage heap.’

Mazhg gave a soft grunt of assent and plucked at her sister’s arm, indicating she should come along. Ishkur and Gwerr were busy with something in one of the slavers’ tents. The women had watched as he ran from the tent and returned just as quickly with an axe he’d found. They heard the sound of wood splintering beneath the ax-blade as they drew near the back of the tent. And now, pressing their ears against the cloth they could hear the clinkety-clink-clink of metal.

‘Treasure!’ Mazhg whispered, close in her sister’s ear. ‘Coins they call them. You know - those round, pretty metal things the men traded back and forth for things.’ She put her finger to her lips and listened even closer. ‘They’re going to take them,’ she went on. ‘ Oooh! And not tell Makdush.....’

‘He’s big and mean,’ Zagra whispered back. ‘Let’s get away, real quick! I don’t want that one to think we’re in on it.’ Her eyes were big with fear. ‘Squash us like a bug under his thumb if he thinks we did him wrong.’

Mazhg knew her sister would start whimpering if they stayed any longer. She took Zagra’s hand and pulled her to the safety of the slaver camp perimeter. They hid behind a tree, until Zagra felt safe.

‘You know, sister-mine,’ Mazhg spoke low, her mind turning over possibilities. ‘Let’s look quick-quick in some of the other tents along the outside, here. We can find something for us; some small things we can hide in our clothes. Makdush doesn’t need to know about that either and neither do the others. Just a few small things.....as no one’ll notice are even gone....’

Zagra held tight to her sister’s hand as the two slipped quickly through the shadows once again toward the tents.

[Regin Hardhammer]

It hadn't taken very long for the slavers to cross the remaining stretch of land and arrive at the outskirts of the camp. In the meantime, the winds had picked up and darkness was beginning to descend. As Imak pulled his horse to a halt, the sands and dirt were already swirling about in small eddies that made it difficult to see more than a few feet away.

"Captain, the weather has turned bad," one of the men bellowed above the howling winds. "Urlok was right. Maybe we should turn back?"

Imak stubbornly glared over at the offending voice and snapped, "Afraid of a little bad weather? We've come this far, and I swear I'll not turn back. And just to sweeten the pot, there's double pay for every man who follows me!"

The men answered with an approving roar. The wind died down for a minute, and the outlines of the slave camp stood no more than a hundred feet away. "Forward then," Imak cried out and began urging his horse to a gallop, with everyone following close behind.

[Durelin]

It was refreshing to find that his work might indeed serve its purpose, and Vrór’s joy was genuine when he shared it with Carl rather than growing angry at the Hobbit’s clumsiness. Even the small stature and light step of a Halfling brought down that section of the tunnel. But the Dwarf knew anything he built or designed like the back of his hand, and he did not recall having additional supports in that piece when the Hobbit stepped on it. It was nearly in the middle of the tunnel, with about two and a half meters on either side of it, and he had allowed it to serve as a test, though not in the way Carl had made it.

It had been a risk to remove the simple wood structuring that he knew might be the only thing really holding the walls and ceiling up in the tunnel, but he had to test some part of it, to know whether or not he had successfully designed an easily collapsible tunnel, or simply a collapsed tunnel. That section had held up even after the supports were removed, and Vrór was tempted to take away all of the supports. But he could not bear to see his work go to waste like that, lest other parts be considerably weaker than the one Carl had fallen into. And even more so, he could not bear to see the disappointment in the faces of those he worked with: Fellowship and slaves alike.

Never had the Dwarf had to do a project such as this. About the closest thing was his more recent work in Gondor, but that was focused on his expertise of masonry. Balancing stone in arches and walls was one thing – balancing keeping a tunnel a tunnel with making sure the soil above it gave way under a step was another matter entirely. His understanding of soil only went so far, and he was glad of Carl’s help in understanding it, but neither of them were familiar with the sort of ground in Mordor. It was in every way a foreign, wild, savage landscape. Its people, though, were in many ways quite the same as those in the West.

In the West, though, Vrór had not had to face death or destruction in a long time. He had grown quite used to peace, though the idea that Sauron’s shadow could no longer haunt any part of Middle-earth was still a little difficult to comprehend, particularly when he stood on dry earth in the middle of Mordor staring at the Ephel Dûath. His heart was filled with sorrow and pity for this land and its people, through the fear and dread and hatred he could not fully suppress after the darkness of the Eye, and he could not stand to think that he might fail them. Failure to help and protect these people was a failure in fully defeating Sauron and his legacy. This land, and its people, had suffered long enough.

He could imagine what it felt like to stand as one of the few who marched from Gondor with Elessar on that day Sauron was destroyed, not knowing if it would be they who were destroyed or the Dark Lord: he thought he might be feeling quite similar at that moment. Vrór pictured the slavers riding toward him, cruel gleaming gold, and but two-dozen were transformed into an army of thousands. A few of their mounts fell, and they with them, into the trench, and he waited for more to fall, but they kept coming. He could feel the ground shaking beneath his feet.

He just did not know for sure if it would work. The Dwarf had been afraid of any danger befalling those working on the excavation, and so he had not been reserved in giving the walls and ceiling of the tunnel as much support as possible. Surely the strength of horses hooves would force the ground out beneath them, and splinter even some of the thicker planks they salvaged. Surely...and yet he could not be sure. Vrór had always been extremely particular in his work. Nothing was to be declared finished or usable or even allowed to be touched by anyone other than those working on it until he had double-checked and triple-checked that there was no fault to it that might prove dangerous even after decades of hard use. And never had he not been present to see his creation used for the first time: whether it was a door being opened and shut, a millstone being ground, or an archway being walked under for the very first time. This tunnel had only to work once, but it had to, and that made it all the more important.

Vrór knew quite well that, had he told anyone his plan, they would have told him it was senseless. If any part of it would collapse easily under the foot of a Hobbit, with or without supports, it would not stand up to a horse bearing a full grown, armoured man. But with only fifteen feet of a chance for them to cross it at all, there was no way the Dwarf could simply wait and see.

Perhaps he was a little obsessive.

As the winds picked up, Vrór could not help but feel the slavers were nearing. He thought it foolish to think that he would base this assumption on an old man’s prediction and promise, but he shook with fear and anticipation down to his very bones as soon as the sand started whipping up into his face. Wrapping two kerchiefs around the upper and lower parts of his face to cover as much as possible, he left enough so that he could see, and make his way quickly and quietly towards the entrance to the tunnel – which was turned in the opposite direction from which the slavers would be approaching the camp – keeping so low that he practically crawled.

Once inside the tunnel, he cursed himself for not being better prepared, as he had not remembered any sort of light. The brightness of the sky had already decreased as the windstorm prepared itself to really blow, and it would only get worse. Carefully, painfully, he removed one of the first wooden slats that had been placed to keep the tunnel up, holding in his breath. Nothing. He pulled out another, and another, moving down the tunnel. He left a few he saw to be particularly well-placed in, saving them, possibly, for on his way back, for he knew he would hit a wall soon. Then he would have to make his way down the other side.

His lungs stressed and his heart almost sore from all its pounding, Vrór stole his way into the other side of the tunnel, and did as he had on the former. He worked his way down, forcing himself to move only as quickly as he could without becoming careless. All seemed quite well until he found that pulling at a plank, originally a part of a small cart, caused dust and dirt to fall from above him, and then all his fears came rushing back. Perhaps he could just leave it?

The Dwarf frantically tried to come to terms with one of his options, and after wasting several moments, he remembered what the howling outside the tunnel meant. He pressed his ear, frozen, and blocked out the strange whipping and whistling sounds the wind made blowing across the tunnel opening with his hand against his other ear. Vrór waited for a few seconds to hear or sense vibrations in the earth, a sign of the horses drawing near. He could not move until he was sure that he did or did not hear them, and that he practically mistook the pounding of his heart for the pounding of hooves did not help. When he thought he heard something beating at a very different pace from the thing in his chest, he spent a moment in disbelief before rushing into action.

The beating was growing louder in his ears, though he was now no longer sure what to attribute any sound to. Just a few more feet to the spot Carl had filled in, and then back, removing the final pieces as he went... Forced to feel his way now, it was slower work then did him well. He should have left the final board, the one that he had spent too long deliberating over already, and he had his mind made up to...until he passed it once again. Vrór found himself stopping before it and slowly inching it out. It was just a few more feet till he would be able to crawl out and run to safety, anyway. But inch-by-inch soon became centimeter by centimeter. The pounding grew louder. Finally, he gave up and wrenched it away before scuttling as fast as he could toward the entrance.

It worked! he thought as everything grew completely dark and he found himself unable to move. Perfectly...

[Folwren]

Lindir had been right. The visibility was bad, due to the wind. Gusts of strong wind grabbed up sheets of the powdery top dirt and pushed it on violently before it. The branches of the thicket around her swayed and bent in the wind. Momentarily, she doubted being able to see the group of slavers when they came. She felt a horrible feeling as she thought, what if she missed them? She licked her dry lips.

A strong burst of wind brought a new covering of dust that reached even Athwen, protected as she was. She bent her head and turned away from it. When she looked up again, her heart gave a great leap. There they were, as though they had sprung out of the earth. A few agonizing seconds past. The blood pumped in her ears, blocking all other sound. They were so near. . .so near. . .

“Gy’ap!” she cried hoarsely, and squeezed her heels sharply into her horse’s side. His head came up, his nostril’s quivered with indignation, and he bounded forward, through the last few bushes that hid them, and bounded out across the troubled earth. Faster, faster, his hooves pounded in the soft dirt. Athwen urged him on, into a faster trot, and then breaking into a canter. She sat erect and tall, rigid and proud. She let them see her. She let them look.

Straight before their path she cantered. Her horse took the ground with ease, his neck arched and his mane flying in the wind. He was fresh and not tired and his pure blood pumped with excitement through his veins.

Would they follow? Would they fall for this preciously lade bate? Athwen knew there was little space between her and the camp. They would have to turn. . .but would they follow her for such a long distance? She would taunt them, play with them. Gently, she tightened the reins and slowed her horse. He tossed his head, but his feet slowed. They drew nearer. Yes, they were following. How long, though? How long?

So close. Even in the wind and flying sand, she could see their weapons. She gave slack to the reins and he bounded forward. She gauged his speed until they had made the full loop. They were facing the camp straight on now. Ahead of them, she knew the traps lay, waiting for their prey. She could lead them straight to it. They were just behind her, the nearest of them on her horse’s very tail. She bent her body over his neck, her face in his flowing mane, her hands reached forward, giving him everything she could, and she dug her heels into his side.

The horse fairly flew. She heard his powerful breath, but she barely felt the impact of his hooves on the ground. Thus far, she had succeeded in her mission.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The wind thundered in Imak's ears as he savagely kicked his horse's flanks and urged his mount forward at breakneck speed. He had pulled out ahead of the others but then hauled back on the reins and slowed down to a lope to consider their situation. Even with the murky curtain of sand and dust, he had come close enough to glimpse a rough outline of the camp. Imak could make out a few huddled human forms just ahead, but he still could not tell if the defenders of the camp were limited to men. Young women fetched good prices on the market, and, despite his earlier show of wrath, he did not want to forego that source of profit.

Long years of leading this kind of attack made Imak suspect that several of the younger women and children might have been taken behind the lines and deposited in a safe niche. Quickly glancing over his shoulder, he bellowed at Urlok, "Take four more men and swing north. Approach the camp from the back. Look for a grotto where some of the slaves may be hiding. Get rid of the elders and the babes. Grab a few of the women. Then ride south and we'll meet up in the middle of camp. They have so few horses and weapons you should be able to push on without much trouble."

"Aye, Captain," the older man replied smartly, inviting a small contingent to ride north with him. As the band disappeared into the swirling sands, Imak pointed his own horse towards the south, thinking to approach the slaves from the underside of their camp. They would have the captives in a pincer and be able to fan out and surround them.

With that goal in mind, Imak motioned the men to follow and began cantering steadily south. But before he could advance more than a dozen paces, a lone rider came pounding into their field of vision: a young and healthy woman with golden hair streaming down about her shoulders. The slavers had been working on the plains almost six months and in that entire time had seen nothing as enticing as this. Even Imak turned around to stare and had to pull back hard on the reins to overcome his natural instincts to take off to the west and give chase. He yelled out to his men to hold steady. About half the group followed his command and continued in his track But the other half-- men who were young, impetuous and less experienced in battle--gave a mighty whoop. Spurred on by the heat of battle fury or perhaps not seeing or hearing their Captain clearly amidst the swirling sands, they impulsively jerked their horses around and raced towards the attractive figure. Imak cursed and cried out to the men to return, but his words were swallowed by the hard gusts that battered everything in their path.

[Firefoot]

Johari squatted down uneasily near some of the women she had overheard talking the previous night, waiting with them for the battle to start. She wished now that she had paid more attention to the battle plans; she was in the middle of it, whether she liked it or not, and had no idea what was going on or what she would be expected to do, or what these people she had finally settled in with were planning on doing. She should have asked Hadith while she was talking to him, but even the thought of asking him about anything left an unpleasant taste in her mouth.

Her talk with him had ended badly. After her outburst, he had stood there shocked for several moments trying to think of something to say when Johari had interrupted, fighting hard to keep her voice under control. "Right then. You had best be getting on with the rest of the group... the battle seems about to begin." Then she had turned on her heel and left, keeping her pace strictly measured. She wanted to break off and run as she might have as a child or young teen. She didn't know what kind of answer she had wanted or expected from Hadith, or even if she had wanted to hear one. It was as if some part of her wanted only to reject any offer of caring or friendliness as one of those things it was easier and better to live without. Wasn't that why she wanted to find Kalin? To feel as if she wasn't so alone in the world?

You are alone in the world, some voice told her.

Not while Kalin's still out there somewhere, she answered fiercely.

Why not let someone else in? Why not let Hadith in?

He's young - naive - confused - obnoxious sometimes... But they were feeble excuses, and if Johari would admit it to herself, she would realize that she wanted Hadith to come out of the battle all right.

Of course he would. By believing it, she could make it fact, a strategy that had worked well over the years. She had believed she would make it out of slavery, hadn't she? And that had happened. She would find Kalin, and Hadith would survive the battle. Simple as that.

Before she ever saw the horses, she heard the hoofbeats. They were coming. In the gusting wind and gathering darkness, she could not see. She only wished she knew what was going on. She wished she knew as much as Hadith sometimes seemed to think she did.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

They were on their knees waiting. The wind had steadily arisen and the gusts were ever more fiercer. There were five of them in the front row and six in the line behind them. The visibility was reducing from poor to non-existant. There was sand all over, the fine dust of Mordor filled the air around them and with violent breezes it filled their noses and ears. They were silent and they waited.

Joshwan was in the middle, his blade still sheathed as he had a spear in his right hand leaning to the ground tip down so that the line of it could not be seen. As the most experienced fighter around he would lead the way jumping over the tunnel and attempting to bring down one rider who would not have fallen into the trap. Erlech was farthest right. He also had a spear and would go round the tunnel from his side, trying the same as Joshwan. Hadith was at the left end of the row. Beloan was kneeling between him and Joshwan, looking stern and focused. Then there was this bearded and grim-looking former ex-slave Hadith didn’t know by name between Joshwan and Erlech. Hadith took a short glance around the front row. Only five men. Looking backwards he could see Khamir and Adnan behind him and then some others he didn’t recognise by name – albeit the last in the right end of the second row was Fewerth. So this is the best we can muster against a cavalry of experienced riders? Hadith thought to himself shaking his head slightly. He was afraid.

Hadith thought of Johari again, as he had so many times after she had left him with biting words. What have I done wrong to her? He thought for the hundreth time. Why is she like that? What has happened to her? Hadith just couldn’t understand. But the more he thought of her, the more he wished to understand her. There was something in her, some magic, something he could not form an idea in his feelings, let alone describe in words in his mind.

Suddenly he felt a strong urge to go and see that Johari had made it to the safety and was not wandering around alone as an easy pray to the slavers. He should go and see to her. But it was not his will-power that restrained him from springing up and making the dangerous and stupid thing he was wishing to do. His legs just refused to move. They felt like they were made of a mass of trembling jelly over which he had no control.

Hadith remembered Joshwan and Beloan encouraging the men just an half an hour ago. The mood had been different then, although also some grave words had been uttered. Hadith closed his eyes from yet another gust of wind and just dived to the past words.

“The sound of a charging cavalry disheartens even the experienced soldier. It will sound like a thunder of Darkness itself is coming to get you, rushing over you with a force you can not withhold. That is what you’re going to hear. I’ve stood against a cavalry onslaught twice and at the first time I wetted my pants from the sheer horror of it. But I’m alive as you can see!” That had been Joshwan.

“We will be afraid brothers. We will be. But just because of that no one should be ashamed of it! It’s all about overcoming the fear. Show them our hearts are ringing! Show them that our hearts are a mighty-thumping! Show them our hearts are made of iron! We will fight for our freedom!” That had been Beloan in turn.

Hadith remembered the upbeat feeling there had been just a while ago. Beloan had asked him to join the first row, to join him, by his side. Overrun by the enthusiasm of that moment Hadith had agreed. It had been an honour to be called to the first row. He remembered Adnan’s face as he had walked to the first line beside Beloan. Somehow he had felt sorry for the guy.

Now he was getting second thoughts and was more than happy on behalf of Adnan who got to be on the second row. What am I doing here? I’m just a boy! I’ve thrown a knife at a human being once, instinctively. I’ve killed a few deer... I’m no soldier. I’m no warrior. What will I do when the thunder of the onslaught will come? My legs don’t obey me even now.

Hadith didn’t hear or see them coming as the gust of wind deafened his ears and brought the visibility next to nothing. But he felt them. At first it was just a slight trembling of the ground under him, but it grew stronger by the second and in no time the earth had started to shake violently. Then he heard them despite the ever harder blowing wind. Joshwan had been right. Hadith felt his blood rushing away from his limbs and started to tremble himself. His teeth were chattering and he felt dizzy. If his legs seemed not ready to follow his orders a moment ago, now he didn’t even feel their presence any more.

As Beloan’s hand fell on his shoulder he wetted himself from sheer panic that had totally immobilised him. He felt that he had no control over his body. The approaching sound of the hooves filled his consciousness and made even his mind to go on slow motion. Hadith was shaking all over, uncontrollably.

“Courage, Hadith, Courage” Beloan said to him in a low voice, leaning carefully towards him and taking a firmer grip on his shoulder. Even Beloan felt tense and a bit shaky. “For freedom, Hadith. If we don’t fight, who will?”

As Beloan withdrew his hand there was a new and even fiercer gust of wind that filled Hadith’s ears and nose with dust and for a moment the thunder of the oncoming cavalry went off. Then, just without warning the wind ceased for a second. He saw something. There was a lonely rider coming towards them. Just then the rumble of the chasers filled his ears again and he felt the earth pounded under the heavy horses. The sound now even beat the howling of the wind.

This is it then... Courage Hadith, courage.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The journey back to camp had not been easy. With the winds gusting hard from behind, the old man had found it took all his strength and will just to place one weary foot in front of the other and somehow keep moving in a straight line. If it hadn't been for Rôg and his uncanny sense of direction even in the middle of the blowing sand and dirt, Aiwendil would likely have veered off on the wrong path and totally missed the encampment. As it was, their return trek had been frustratingly slow. They had staggered into camp just a few moments before the main body of the attackers came riding into view.

At least he and Rôg had managed to stall the slavers long enough to allow Lindir and the others to complete their preparations for the camp. Nor was it a bad thing to have the slavers caught up in the storm, scarcely able to see more than a few feet in front of them. Aiwendil had spoken briefly with the elf, first telling him what had happened out on the plain. Then he had offered to mount up and go with the group of riders who would be the first to face the attacking slavers. Lindir had responded with a slow shake of his head, "You would be a welcome addition to the riders, of course. If you feel that is where you belong, I will not stop you. Still, something else has been bothering me. Aiwendil, we have unprotected women and children, to say nothing of the elders, hiding in the rocks just west of camp. It is not much cover at all, but we could find nothing better. If the slavers attack head on and we manage to stop them, then all should be well. But how do we know they will all ride into camp on exactly the path we want? Or, worse yet, what if we are not able to halt them? I can not leave those people without the slightest shred of protection. Aiwendil, could you and possibly Rôg go out and join them? If there is an attack from the rear, do what you can to protect those folk."

Aiwendil quickly countered, "I will do as you say. But what can two do against a band of roving warriors?"

"To be truthful, I am not sure. I only know that two are better than none. There are others hiding in the rocks who might be able to help in a pinch. That young man Kwell who was rescued from the pit, the one to whom I gave the dagger, put him in charge of the other boys in case there is fighting. Have them all collect some rocks. Perhaps some of the boys have slings. Anything is better than nothing. And if the battle does come to you, you must call out to me. If I still have breath in my body, I will hearken to your cry and immediately send more fighters down to help you."

"I will do this then. Whether or not Rôg will agree, I do not know. But I will ask him as you suggest." With that, Aiwendil unstrapped his sword from the back of his horse and gave the animal to Lindir, suggesting that it be given to one of the others to ride.

[Brinniel]

As time passed, the storm only grew stronger. The wind howled with a fury and dust blew into Shae's face, causing her eyes to tear. She sat impatiently on top of the horse she had won- a horse she had named Furie- waiting, waiting for what seemed like hours.

As soon as it was announced that a cavalry would be formed, Shae volunteered to be part of it. After only one night on horseback, she had already grown accustomed to riding, and could not bear to part from this particular mare. If Shae had not been enslaved, she would have been an expert rider by now. Her great-grandfather had been a Rider of Rohan, and though they were Gondorians by two generations, her father often took pride in his grandfather's heritage. They owned many horses, and Shae had been taught to ride before she even learned to walk. Her father told her she had natural talent and a special bond with the creatures, and it proved so. By the age of five, she could ride just as well as Joren, who was eleven at the time. But after twenty years, Shae had lost much of what she learned- she could not claim to be anymore than a novice rider. Yet, over the course of one night, memories of the lessons her father gave came flooding back into the woman's memories, and she felt an attachment to Furie that she could not explain. While she was no where close to being an expert rider, Shae no longer felt uncomfortable in her saddle. On top of this horse was where she belonged, and sitting there gave her a thrill she had not experienced in years.

The dust storm only continued to grow in strength, blinding the woman's already poor vision. She began to ponder whether it was even possible to fight in such conditions. Relying on her ears, Shae listened closely, past the wailing wind. And then, the sound she had been searching for: hoofbeats. Clutching her long knife in her right hand and the reins in the other, she eyed the men next to her, who sat on their horses just as anxiously. She gave them a slight nod, listening as the hoofbeats grew louder. It would not be much longer. Her wait would soon be over.

[Folwren]

The camp was drawing nearer. Athwen slowed her horse a trifle again, to make sure that the men following her were not discouraged. She looked over her shoulder. Less than half of the whole group followed her. But, still. . .there might be ten men in pursuit. She looked back ahead. There was a place to cross safely, she knew. But this wind and this sand made it almost impossible to see. Would her trusty horse see the trench to jump it? She knew how he moved and how he sensed his footing. He could feel her excitement, her urgency, and she had not the slightest doubt that he would jump – if he saw the trench in time.

Nearer and nearer they came. Athwen gathered herself up for the leap. She tightened the reins, gathered his head, and lifted herself above the saddle. The trench had to be only a few strides ahead and in a moment he would be preparing for the jump. Now was the time! Now!

The horse didn’t jump. A breathless, gasping whiny of protest burst from his mouth. His feet came to a skidding stop, the open trench just before him. A scream mounted in Athwen’s chest, but her throat contracted in panic and it could not escape. Her forward momentum did not stop and she shot forward, over the horse’s head. She felt herself falling and there was nothing to hold onto, nothing to cling to, except the reins in her hands. Her fingers grasped them convulsively and wouldn’t let go. She landed in the trench, her feet beneath her, her side against the dirt wall, and one arm stretched above her head as her hand clutched the reins.

An instant later, nine horses plunged passed her, their riders unable to stop them. They leaped the trench, and she cowered beneath them as their legs and bellies rushed above her. She didn’t see what happened to them, whether the tunnel collapsed, or what happened to the horses that fell in it. She was gasping and panting for breath, trembling with the aftermath that such a burst of pure terror causes.

The trench in which she knelt blocked most of the wind. The air was still around her and she could catch her breath. She let her hand slide down the reins without letting go, and for a moment she just lay there with the side of her face against the cool dirt.

Suddenly, she felt a touch on her shoulder. She jerked violently, her heart leaping again to her throat. She twisted away and this time the scream escaped her open mouth. Her movement was too late. The man had her arm in an iron grip and he dragged her up from the trench, back into the wind. She tried to struggle, but he had some sort of armor on and it hurt her hands to strike. In her attempt to get free, she let go of the reins and her horse turned and trotted away from the struggle.

“Come on, come on, come on,” the man muttered as he tried to keep his hands on his squirming captive. “Don’t cause such trouble, my sweet.” Athwen trembled from head to foot with contemptive horror. Tears of rage and terror filled her eyes and coursed down her face. She didn’t care if it hurt, she fought and struck out all the harder. She had to get loose, she had to! She would rather be killed than be taken at this point. Her hands were cut – she could see blood on them though she felt nothing – and still she fought, although he dragged her farther on, towards his horse, where he wanted her.

[Folwren]

Where Kwell sat at this point, sheltered as he was with the rocks and bushes and other plants, he could see hear the wind and see the great clouds of dust roll over the hidden shelter for the children and women. Not much wind reached them, though it wailed in a melancholy, ghostly way through the rocks.

He sat apart from the other children, who huddled close to the women and the elderly men who could not go out at fight. His habitual scowl decorated his face as he drew in the dirt with a small stick with one hand, while his other clenched and unclenched around the hilt of the dagger that Lindir the elf had given him the previous night.

Until now, no one had heard any sound coming from the encampment below them. The wind howled over their heads and would have swept any noise away. But suddenly, the wind died momentarily, and Kwell heard shouts.

All of the childrens’ heads raised, and some of the older people who still had somewhat sharp hearing looked up, too. The attack had begun. In a moment, the wind picked up again and they could hear nothing.

Kwell bounded to his feet and crawled towards an opening. He heard a step behind him and he turned sharply to see Azhar.

“What are you doing here?” he asked harshly.

“What are you going to do?” she asked instead. She guessed almost instantly. “Don’t go down, Kwell, you’ll get killed! Stay here like you were told.”

“I’m not given orders any more!” he said brusquely. “You stay here. You’re sick. And you’re a girl, besides, so you can’t come anyway.”

“I don’t want to. But you need to stay here. The order was to keep you safe. You’re just a boy, after all!”

Kwell gave her a poisoned look that told her to hold her tongue. “I can fight,” he said. “I have a dagger. And the elf told me I wasn’t a child any more. Besides, that. . .that dwarf – no, hobbit-” he still had difficulty keeping the two races separate in his mind “-that hobbit is no larger than me and he’s fighting. Let me go!” He pushed her hand away and before she could speak again, he scrambled through the rock and dropped onto the ground. Instantly, he was enveloped in the fierce wind and the blowing sand and dirt. He scrambled as quickly as he could down the shallow incline towards the camp and where he knew that shortly, if not already, men were fighting for lives and freedom.

[piosenniel]

Rôg reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out a bright yellow scarf. It was one his sister had made for him, knowing his love for those bright little birds of their homeland. With a few quick wraps he’d secured it across his mouth and nose. And pulling up his generous hood he brought it forward far enough to deflect at least part of the swirling sands.

The hornets had gone back to their nest, safe from the wind’s stinging debris. Were the situation that his friends and new acquaintances not been so dire, Rôg too would have gone to ground to wait for the sandstorm’s passing. Instead, he lowered his head and trudged with a quick determined step toward where the others were waiting.

Lindil he could see was arranging his meager troops to meet the slavers’ onset. Eyes narrowed, Rôg looked about for Aiwendil. He was not among the fighters. Rôg cast about, looking this way and that as his steps carried him away from the ragtag warriors.

Ah! There was the old man – a covey of women and children taken under his wing. He and they were preparing in their own way to defend themselves if the slavers broke through the fellowship’s armed ranks. Rôg slipped in among them, gathering a few of the younger children in, pushing them in amidst the safety of the larger group.

The others were bringing out their little slings and sharpened planting sticks in preparation for their defense. Rôg’s hand patted along his belt looking for his knife. A smallish weapon, but at least it would be something. Pat as he might, he felt nothing. You bubble-headed fool! he growled at himself. And look, you haven’t even your walking stick to knock the foe about.

He rubbed at the gold stud in his left ear. Some sand perhaps had irritated it he thought at first. His scalp prickled as he touched the flat little oval, whether in anticipation of the coming battle or in dread, he could not tell.

‘Well, if I must,’ he whispered as if to the keening wind, ‘I will. I’ll try to be discreet. Though really I’d rather not at all, if you don’t mind.’ He pulled his hood a little further forward, readying himself for whatever might happen in the attack and the defense.

For just one moment, in a brief lull in the sand and wind’s duet, he thought he heard the rasping voice of the old woman from the eastern mountains. ‘Step up, little one!’ And then only her amused laughter fading on the wind as it rose it force again.

[Tevildo]

For a moment Azhar stood frozen on top of the hill, unable to move or speak. She could not believe Kwell was deserting her and disobeying Lindir's instructions. When the elf had led them into the grove, he had been very clear about what they should do. He had told them to stay and that the older children should try and help protect the little ones.

As Kwell scrambled away without a backwards glance, Azhar darted a few steps forward and cried out in parting, "Kwell, you louse. I'm no child. I'm as old as you. You're just doing this to show off and prove something to yourself. A real soldier wouldn't disobey his captain's instructions, and he wouldn't desert his post, just because he doesn't like the job he's been given."

Azhar stomped back up the hill in a grim mood. Despite her brave words, she felt lonely and deserted. Maybe Kwell was right. They had stuck her here because she was too sick and young to fight. Basically, she was useless. At least Lindir had given Kwell a weapon. She didn't even have that. What if an attack on their position came? How would she protect herself or the younger children if she had nothing more useful than her bare hands with which to fight? Forgetting her fever and the persistent ache in her head, Azhar stood up and slowly began to gather rocks, still feeling utterly useless.

[Nogrod]

"Chaar-rge!"

Hadith had seen the horse stop just before the tunnel. Then there was a gust of wind again and he could only see a vague form of someone flying over the horse and then disappearing from sight. Then the enemy was there, just a good thirty yards ahead of them. The first horses fell into the tunnel they had digged and their riders were thrown from their saddles.

"Grraaaah!"

It was Joshwan. He was already a couple of yards ahead of the others, building up rage within him with his bellowing. Hadith remembered what he had said before they had taken their positions. "Enrage yourselves if you can, you'll feel more powerful... and might forget the fear". Joshwan had smiled wryly after that, Hadith remembered his expression.

From the corner of his eye Hadith thought he recognised the form of Erlech running forwards on his right too. They were all jumping forwards. He had to force his legs to move. They were not willing to obey. Then he shouted with all that his lungs could afford.

"Iaaaiiiyy!"

He was so late to get up that Khamir almost run on him from behind. "Run Hadith, run!" he yelled at Hadith. And he ran. He ran against the wind that seemed to do everything to prevent him from advancing. But now he had to run. They were all running towards the enemy. And now they all yelled as loud as they could to keep the fear aside.

Hadith saw Joshwan jumping over the tunnel, landing his spear down to the tunnel as he went over it, kind of using it as a pole. But there was something wrong. He used it tip down. Hadith did see that. What? He got the answer immmediately. There was a harsh wail of a man that came to his ears from the tunnel, aided by the wind. Hadith saw how Joshwan had to twist the spear a couple of times to and fro before he got it released. Then he disappeared into the swirling dust.

"Watch out Hadith!" Beloan cried and passed him in great haste. Hadith only saw something like a shadow passing him and the swing of the naked blade. Only then he realised that there was a slaver on the ground just a yard or two to his left, trying to rise up and grasping for his blade. Beloan's shape came between him and the slaver. The sound of a blade cutting flesh from that distance made Hadith feel sick. He was sure he would throw up at any second. There was no yell from the slaver, just a dim rattle of death that he barely heard. Somehow it made it feel even more terrifying.

There were sounds of swords clinging to each other on his right. Hadith saw the bearded slave fighting with a slaver who had been dropped from his saddle over the tunnel. Fewerth was joining in to help him. Khamir ran past him and went forwards to jump the ditch. "Hadith! Check the tunnel!" Beloan called him against the wind and also went over, disappearing from his sight as well.

So, I’m no soldier... they all go and they all fight and I’m just slowing down, unable to do anything. Hadith turned to see was there anyone behind him just to see that all the others had slowed down too, looking just as unsure and frightened as he was. Now Hadith! Show yourself to be worthy of the trust Beloan and Khamir have laid on you!

“Freeedoom!”

Hadith turned to a slight angle towards the tunnel to gain an extra yard’s speed and ran for it. He swang his blade in the air and heard the others, at least some of them, following him. “Check the tunnels!” He shouted.

In front of him there was just dust and the frightening sounds of the battle. And into that horrifying unknown of the fight he jumped.

His jump carried him over the trench. After regaining his balance he managed to get a glimpse of a woman being forcefully dragged away by a man to his right. Athwen!, he knew her name. Hadith gathered all his courage and run towards them yelling as he went: “Leave her!”

As the slaver turned to see Hadith running towards them with a blade he hit Athwen forcefully to her face with the back of his hand. She fell to the ground. Hadith saw all this and also how the slaver turned towards him, a long sword in his hand ready to swing. “Come on you little one! Daddy won’t do you more harm than any loving dad would!” the Slaver grinned with the words as Hadith made the distance between them.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

The sand crackled between his teeth as Carl clenched them, tensely shifting his jaw from side to side as he waited. Lowering his bow, he caught the green kerchief covering his nose and mouth and pulled it down, spitting into the sand at his side to gauge the wind. All of those who clutched bows were now poised, alert and frozen as they waited for the attackers to come into view. And with this changing wind they had to be doubly sure of their mark, there were too few arrows to waste, and as Lindir had told them, both Athwen and Dorran might be among those to reach the trench.

All thought of showering rocks upon the enemy as they climbed out of the tunnel, had quickly been put aside. And Lindir had impressed upon them all the importance of not only indentifying just who they were targeting, but also those surrounding them. It made a good deal of sense with this wind whipping about. Shooting long distance was simply too dangerous. But still having to wait while two-dozen armed horsemen came barreling toward them was not easy. Carl could only shoot so fast, and once his arrows were done, he might be done for as well. With no time to even find a hole to hide in.

The hobbit raised his bow again as he faintly heard the rumble of approaching horses in the wind. Aye, he couldn’t think like that. He had to keep an eye out and a few spare arrows for Hamin, the fellow who he had struggled with in the pit. In truth, he was quite anxious that he find the slaver before Hamin could discover where Kwell and Azhar were hidden. He held himself quite responsible for Hamin’s ill temper toward the two children, and even if that where not the case, just knowing what sort he was, made the hobbit that much more eager to confound the slaver's revenge.

Through squinted eyes and stinging wind, Carl looked over at Lindir. The elf was stationed with the other half of the bowmen to the right of Beloan’s men. Lindir’s body turned, as he looked down the length of an arrow, piercing the veil of dust with his keen eyes, searching for the riders in the storm. “There are too few of them here,” he shouted over the roaring wind. “Only a portion has taken our bait.” And Carl watched as Lindir’s group stood down, the elf running easily behind the lines to were the hobbit and a scant handful of other bowmen were positioned to the left of Beloan’s men.

“Carl,” he said in the hearing of all, as he drew up. “As an archer of the Shire I trust you to direct the bowmen around you, while I gather the rear guard quickly. Once the group of riders that is descending on us has gotten past the trench, and its numbers have been sufficiently depleted, let Beloan’s men finish dealing with them. You and your fellows are to fall back, for I believe you will be sorely needed elsewhere in the camp.”

Carl nodded his understanding, as Lindir glanced quickly across the murky plain before departing. The hobbit looked up just in time to see the first wave of horses that jumped the trench, coming into view. Just as their hooves found the earth, it gave way beneath them, and the riders were hurled, slamming against the exposed side of the collapsing tunnel. Carl winced as he saw the first horse somersault into the deep gouge, that was rapidly lengthening. But giving a loud shout he and his men loosed their arrows on the slavers that had fallen in the left side of the tunnel, and were struggling to climb out of the pit. They looked fierce, with eyes smoldering and sand clinging to great scratches and welts, and the hobbit wondered what else had befallen them on their way. Two of his group ran closer to the edge, shooting the at the rider’s below them.

Looking along the length of the tunnel, Carl saw some of Beloan’s group rush forward to jump into it, and fight the young slavers there. None of those he saw resembled Hamin’s bulk and he could recognize neither Athwen nor Dorran in the brown haze that enveloped everyone. But worrying that Hamin might enter the camp elsewhere or that Athwen had ridden off to the side at the last moment, perhaps still under pursuit, Carl shouted loudly over the din. Garnering no response from his archers, he put his fingers to his mouth emitting an ear-piercing whistle at which the archers fell back, and the small group quickly disappeared into the camp.

[Nogrod]

Gwerr (and Ishkur)

Gwerr had been not been too succesful with his findings. The only thing he considered worth plundering was the slaver leader’s bear pelt he found from the bed. It could keep him warm, come winter and the cold days. But he recognised the jingling noise of the coins immediately as Ishkur shook the chest ha had found. Gwerr turned to look at him and grinned approvingly. Then he went on with his search with increased fervour as in the end there seemed to be something worth finding around.

The next thing he came aware of outside his own search was the voice of an axe hitting something solid and the following sound of splintering wood. He turned to see Ishkur exalted with the treasure that now had spread over the floormat.

"Well, my friend! We may not agree on everything but we can surely agree on this. We'll be doing these slavers a favor if we empty out their chest........ Now all we have to do is figure out a way to bring these coins with us but keep them hidden. I wouldn't mind sharing a coin or two with a few of the girls, but I sure wouldn't want our friend Makdush to get any idea about this." Ishkur took several swigs of ale and asked. "Alright Gwerr, any ideas?"

“Oh you moron you! That chest might have done just fine but you had to go and break it, now did you?” Gwerr grinned to Ishkur, but couldn’t hide his satiscfaction with the find. “Don’t tell me you hadn’t the faintest what that chest held in it – and you were just forced to break it to find it out?”, he queried Ishkur, flashing now a cunning but open smile.

“C’mon Gwerr, don’t start again!” Ishkur bursted back to him. “How would you have carried this chest unnoticed by the Uruks? Now tell me!”, he complained and took to his flagon. Gwerr came over to sit by Ishkur and opened his own skin, taking a considerable draught from it. After he had wiped his chin and cheast from all the dripping ale he finally turned to meet his mate. He smiled now.

“I just couldn’t resist it you old bore”. With that he tugged Ishkur between the ribs companionly but hard enough as the orcs had a habit of doing when they were pleased. “Ahh, that’s a pile of valuable things down there comrade” Gwerr said with a half-voice, nodding to the carpet where the coins were among the splintered chest. “ But yes, how to carry them unnoticed... hmmm.” Gwerr straightened his back and started looking around the tent to find something that could give him an idea. Suddenly he fixed his eyes towards the corner of the tent.

“What is it now, Gwerr. Wha'ss up? There is something?” Ishkur asked his mate. Gwerr didn’t answer but rose up hastily and ran for the corner of the tent where there was a rack of slaver captain’s clothes hanging. “This man must love scarfs... and that suits us just fine, pluming on one’s looks really bites one back I say... Ohh, the vain git has made us a favour now.” Gwerr talked as he ripped several scarfs off the rack and returned to Ishkur and the treasure.

“Okay, you master of the maggots. Look and listen. This is what we do.” With that Gwerr kneeled down to reach the stack of coins. He spreaded one of the scarfs open beside the pile and then took two plenty handfuls of the coins, laying them carefully into a heap into the middle of the scarf. After that he collected the four corners of the scarf into his left hand and lifted the bunch in the air. He made a few swings with it over his head like he was using a sling.

“You see this now, light-brained friend of mine?” Gwerr smiled openly, which was rare among the orcs. Then he stopped the scarf-bag in mid air, gave it a twist with his fingers to sned it rolling around, and as it had strained enough, he stopped it and made a tight knot just above the point where the coins were.

“So you see, no jingling any more” Gwerr said and dropped the pouch from the level of his chest. It gave a dull thump and just a faint tinkle as it landed to the carpet.

“Now this kind of bags we can hide in many places. Wrap them in your spare clothes or stuck them into your spare boots – if you have ones. Wrap them into a gold-embroided negligee there and stuck it to your horses saddlebag. Anyone seeing it will think you were going to sell that cloth with a fair price somewhere... or thought you were getting soft! Both ways are fine, aren’t they?” Now Gwerr was laughing, laughing openly. It was not totally evil laughter but something nearing joy. His eyes smiled to Ishkur as he rose up and received a sudden punch to the chest from his mate. Gwerr rolled back to the ground but his laughter only grew louder.

“You know my friend... we’re not only free, we’re rich too!”

[Tevildo]

At the last minute, Dorran had slipped behind the other slavers wearing the plain garb of a traveller, his hood pulled low over his eyes. He'd had to leave his own horse behind and use the one that Rôg had ridden, since it looked far more commonplace than his own mount and allowed him to ride undetected. A hundred times that evening he'd asked himself why he had ever agreed to let his wife do such a dangerous thing. But part of him already knew the answer to that question. They had always worked as a team, each respecting the other. He did not want to change that now when it counted the most.

As Athwen thundered forward across the plain and caught the attention of Imak, Dorran's eyes never left his wife, intent on seeing that she was alright. At the last minute Dorran had jeked at his horse's reins and forced his mount to go forward with the group of younger riders who had disobeyed Imak and pounded on behind the fleeing woman. Unlike the other riders in the band, he knew exactly where the tunnel was and the point where it would be safe to cross over to the other side. He thought of pushing forward at breakneck speed to try and come abreast of his wife's horse. But that would be foolish. It was not only important that he escape detection, but Athwen needed space so that she would be free to maneuver the steed and wouldn't have to worry about running into anyone else. With great reluctance, Dorran pulled back on the reins at the very last instant so the others surged by him. Let them go by. He was more of a rider than any of them and would be able to catch up very quickly if his wife encountered any problems.

Things had turned bad very quickly. To his horror, Dorran saw that Athwen had fallen from her horse. One of the attackers had put his hands on her and was preparing to drag her off. Filled with rage and dread, the young rider of Rohan spurred his horse forward , came galloping on, and attempted to leap over the trench in order to reach the brute who was carrying off his wife. But Dorran had forgotten just one thing. He was not riding his own usual horse who would have been able to clear the tunnel in a single leap. Instead, he was mounted on a placid and nondescript animal that had been given to Rôg whose skills as a horseman were minimal. With all his heart and will, Dorran tried to maneuver the animal across the trench half jumping and half scrambling. But his efforts were to no avail. The animal was not used to the sounds and smell of war, and gave a loud whinny, his eyes wild with fears and his ears pinned back flat against his head. One more lurch and they'd both fallen to the ground. His horse's hind legs were scrambling for support as the dirt gave way underneath them.

Dorran freed himself from the saddle and, clawing at the dirt, began to drag his body out of the pit where so many others lay kicking and screaming. Pushing back the dirt that threatened to engulf him and throwing aside the rotted beams that collapsed in his path, he struggled to find a footing. Then he lunged forward and managed to scramble to his feet calling out to his wife, "I'm here. I'm coming." Already, other fighters had scrambled in and were beginning to battle their way through to where his wife was held. Dorran drew his sword and gave a fierce cry, half of madness and half of hope, as he ran forward across the field, oblivious to any dangers.

[Folwren]

Struggling seemed absolutely futile. His grip was too strong for her to even hope to break, although she struggled and twisted in every possible direction. Where was Dorran? Why wasn't he here? And why was this brute so intent on getting her? Why didn't he go and fight like he was supposed to? She expected any moment to see him draw a blade to wound and disable her with, but he never did. He only fetched a rope out of his saddle bag. 'He probably wishes I wouldn't squirm so much,' she thought bitterly to herself as she jerked one hand free to keep away from the loop of rope. She gasped in pain as his hand on her other wrist tightened with anger.

A man's voice called suddenly from behind them, from the trench. "Leave her!" Athwen twisted to look, expecting to see Dorran. Her expectations were shattered, but not too violently, for she half recognized the face of the young man who came running forward. Her mouth opened to call to him, but no sound came. Before she could speak or cry out a stunning blow from the man holding her stretched her to her full length on the ground. Her ears rang with the shock of the blow and in the few seconds that she lay still, she felt the whole left side of her face grow hot with pain. She gasped once or twice and her eyes watered, but she still struggled to get back to her feet.

A few paces away from her, she saw the young man - he was scarcely out of boyhood - and the slaver. They were not yet fighting. They circled, testing each other's weaknesses. Or perhaps it was only the older slaver who was testing the boy's weaknesses; Hadith almost looked like he was retreating. Athwen could not quite see clearly, nor could she make out the expression on his face. In addition to the sand blowing about in the air, her head spun with dizziness and she could hardly stand straight.

Before the two of them had crossed swords, another voice called out from the wind and blowing sand. "I'm here. I'm coming!" She knew this voice for certain. She knew who came. She lifted her head. Her eyes cleared of spinning lights and she saw Dorran's figure drawing closer. And then the cold sound of steel against steel filled her ears. The slaver had begun his onslaught against Hadith.

[Folwren]

Kwell dropped low to the ground, the wind whistling about him until he could hardly hear or see. His teeth clenched close together and his dry lips pursed to keep the sand and flying dirt out. He ran forward towards the front lines, knowing that eventually he would stumble into someone or some sort of excitement.

He did stumble into what he was expecting, before he expected it. He saw a group of people approaching him as quickly as they could in the wind. His feet stopped abruptly and he looked hard to see if he could make out who it was who approached him. Were they enemies, or friends? Then from his right he heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats. He straightened up abruptly, his eyes staring hard and his mouth opening. He had thought they were supposed to come from straight on. . .come in straight into the camp to fall into the tunnel and trench that they had spent so much time digging. Had they not? Had they simply ridden around it? How had they known that it was there in order that they might avoid it?

The thoughts spun through his head like a grass fire. They were gone in an instant, for he suddenly realized that he stood right in the awy of danger. The pounding drew nearer, the great, dark shapes came closer and he could make out each of the riders. In another moment, he saw their faces.

He had forgotten the first group of men he had seen. They were running forward now, towards the riders, and closer to him. Kwell found himself rooted to the ground, unable to move. He watched in alarm as the riders came rushing forward, and those on foot came running on. And then a horse missed his stride, stumbled, and fell. The rider summersaulted over his horse's head and went skittering across the rocky earth. Kwell gasped and drew back, for the man stopped his tumble very near him. As the boy withdrew, his hand brushed against the hard handle of the dagger at his side. His hand paused for a moment and then his fingers grasped the handle. He stopped to consider a moment and then he drew it in one, sharp movement. His jaw clenched and his face twisted into some horrible, dark expression and he leaped forward with a cry.

When he first plunged the dagger into the man's body, he had not thought of it as actually killing a man. He had not considered him as a person. The face was turned away from him, he could not see his eyes, nor read his expression. But Kwell knew nothing of killing, nor how to use a weapon. The blow that he gave had every advantage of surprise, and the man was still dazed from his fall. The stroke proved useless, however, for he struck at his side and the blade turned on a rib and ran virtually harmlessly down his side.

The man jerked violently and shouted out in pain. He twisted about and Kwell leaped back in alarm. The slaver slowly sat up on his knees and for a moment Kwell looked directly into his face. He recognized the man as one of the guards who had watched over his prison in the pit the previous day and nights.

"Why you little beast! I knew when I first set eyes on you that I should have wrung your little, theiving neck!"

Kwell looked shocked and startled. Evidently the man recognized him, too. In the blink of an eye the slaver had large, curved blade drawn in his hand. Kwell blinked and looked down at the knife in his hand. With hardly an additional thought, he turned and fled, running as hard as he could with the wind towards the group that he had seen advancing earlier. He hoped against hope that there, with others to help him, he might have a slight chance of surviving. And if not. . .well, perhaps he would die helping someone else, instead of being uselessly slaughtered by himself.

[Durelin]

Khamir

It was like no rush Khamir had ever felt, as the trembling in his limbs matched the rumbling of hooves. He caught only glimpses of the riders before they were completely swallowed by the dust, squinting through a small gap in the cloth that protected his face. Blind, the fighters charged in, though he had to scream at Hadith to get the man’s legs working. He was not angry at the boy, nor did he think less of him. But he had to get him moving somehow. Hadith simply obeyed it like a command, and Khamir was grateful. Adnan remained at his right, and would guard the man’s armless side, if all went well. And the one-armed man would not let Adnan out of his sight, if not for that reason.

There were screams, human and not: for moments those were their only targets. But soon some came into view, in and around the collapsed tunnel were men and beasts sprawled out, still or struggling, trying to reorient themselves or simply try to stay alive. Khamir broke off to one side with the rest of those in the rear, to meet what lay in wait in the cloud of dirt. The sand stung his skin, little pinpricks of fire all over his body. He could almost feel it lashing against the arm that was not there, like an itch that would not go away. It had been years since he felt something like that...it renewed his anger. His long hunting knife was drawn, and his smaller throwing knives were at the ready.

Suddenly, as they reached the trenches, Adnan disappeared from his side. Khamir whipped around. The boy had been grabbed by the leg and pulled down. The slaver had let go of him in order to get up, but in a heartbeat Khamir was on him. He tackled the man, regardless of the pain it caused his mostly unprotected body on the armour, and struggled with him, using his legs to try and pin him just long enough... There was a flash of silver that came dangerously close to Khamir’s stomach, but it dropped with a clank as Adnan suddenly drove his knife into the Easterling’s arm that held it. With an angry growl, the slaver allowed his head to fall back as he tried to heave Khamir off, and the Southron saw his opening, sliding his blade across the man’s unprotected neck. Immediately rising to leave the body, Khamir found Adnan already on his feet again, staring down at the dead Easterling. The one-armed man thought he saw a smile in the younger man’s eyes, but he would not believe much of anything he saw in this wind.

But even in the low visibility, what he could see of the slavers and the trenches made him feel uneasy. They did not all fall to the trap. But there was no one on horseback in his line of sight. The count had been at least two-dozen. Where were they? A sudden, dreadful thought fell over him. These slavers, though proud, were not stupid. They had proved cunning enough the first night they attacked, whether or not the slaves had been an easy target. Their leader had to know that though they were technically outnumbered, they actually out-manned the slaves. And, if he had expected any sort of defense, he had to know they did not have enough to spread their forces. But he did...

“Fall back with me!” he called to those on this end of the trench and tunnel, but only three out of the six in the rear came to him, everyone’s eyes darting from left to right and back, watching each other’s backs. Khamir’s eyes darted around, but the thought of his own life or the lives of any present was quite out of his head. Now where had that boy gotten to? Something turned sour in his stomach, and his voice had lost its feeling of command. “Where is Adnan? Has anybody seen Adnan?”

“I think Tareef is gone, as well,” someone said, but Khamir did not really hear.

“I fear we have hardly won the battle. I think something is amiss, and I fear for the lives of the women and children.”

“You mean…” one of the men, Nasim, asked in a rush of air, “from behind?” Khamir nodded. “Come on!” Nasim shouted, and took off toward where he knew those who could not fight lay unprotected. The others followed him. Khamir’s heart was split in two. He trusted the other men, but he knew every man they could spare should return to the women and children. But he also did not know where Adnan was. After a moment of hesitation, he wound his way toward the tunnel, checking the ground and checking the bodies. His hopes were raised each time he saw one that was not Adnan.

Finally he found the boy, kneeling at the edge of the collapsed tunnel, near its end. He was digging. Immediately Khamir rushed towards him to grab him. The man was prepared to berate him when he noticed several gashes, one on his cheek, one on his chest, another on his wrist… When Adnan stopped digging for a moment to look at the older man, Khamir caught a glimpse of the boy’s hands, and he saw that blood mixed with the dirt on the left one. Two of his fingers were missing. The body of an Easterling behind the boy was explanation enough. Khamir could only stare, and he tore his eyes away from the boy only to find them glued to the dead body. Its throat, arms, hands, and face were all bloodied almost beyond recognition. The Southron man knew it had not been the struggle that had caused that.

Turning back to Adnan, his face grave, he found the young man digging again, and with another blink he was cognizant enough to see that he was digging up a body. A glimpse of red hair, and Khamir’s hands plunged into the dirt, as well. Vrór! What had he done? When the Dwarf was at least partially uncovered, Khamir and Adnan each grabbed one of his arms and pulled with all their might. Slowly he loosened from the earth, and from there they took their time dragging him out further.

Vrór was obviously unconscious, and once they had him almost completely out of the trench, Khamir began to fear the worst. He made sure the cloth covered the Dwarf’s face well, and tied it around his head to protect a wound to his head from even more sand and dust. Then, tearing off pieces from the ragged shirt that protected his torso from the elements, he proceeded to quickly wrap Adnan’s hand, and then roughly cover the worst of his other cuts. It was obvious the boy was in real pain, though he did not show it: he did not argue in the least as Khamir took care of him.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Hadith ran towards the slaver shouting a war cry from the bottom of his lungs. It seemed not to impress the slaver as he still grinned and just waited for him to charge. In the end Hadith just slowed down and stopped. The slaver had won the first heat by depriving him of the advantage of the momentum. Hadith was beaten before he got into the action. The slaver looked confident, standing comfortably and having his blade ready to strike. They took a couple of side steps both of them, trying to look at the possible weaknesses behind the defence of one another.

Suddenly the slaver made his first move. The hit came in just as Hadith had borrowed a second to see how Athwen was faring. At the same time they all heard the cry from a few yards away from them "I'm here. I'm coming!"

The hit forced Hadith to take a few steps back. He had time enough to put his blade between him and the swing but was too late to have any strength of his body behind it. As soon as he had balanced himself the second hit came on him. Now it was fiercer than the one before. Hadith still managed to hold his blade in front of the new one, but this time he fell down with the force of the hit.

Hadith was waiting for his death as he had tumbled down on his back. So this is it, this is the way I will die... as he noted the slaver to hesitate for a moment. He was attending to the cry they both had heard just a moment ago. That gave Hadith the precious chance to rise up and to come back to defend himself. He was badly bruised even though he had managed to parry both of the hits the slaver had swinged on him. His back was aching and his feet felt like jelly again. Still he bravely challenged the slaver again.

"Come on! I'm not dead yet and others will finish what I can't!" Hadith called his opponent. The slaver looked unsure for a second but then came towards Hadith with a kill in mind. It was no longer a cat toying with a mouse but a hungry wolf on his pray, ready already to take on the real challenger just behind his shoulder after finishing this easy kill. The slaver was after Hadith's life now, seriously.

Hadith fell into an elementary trick. The slaver seemed to invest all his powers to a strike from up-right to down-left and Hadith tried to counter it with all he could spare, bringing his whole body to take on the impact. But just before the hit the slaver suddenly swerwed his sword from under Hadith's blade and ducked his blade under Hadith's. Hadith was going forwards with full effort, his side open, as the slaver got somewhat back to his balance, from which he in fact had not been far away at any moment unlike Hadith he had tricked into jumping forwards. The slaver hewed his sword backhanded on Hadith's defenceless side, aiming for his throat.

The hit missed Hadith's neck by inches landing on his shoulder. Hadith could feel the bones splintering under the sword. Blood bursted to his face. He felt dizzy and his vision started to darken. He felt the ground as his knees hit it and then his face slammed to the dry sand.

Hadith turned his head to see what happened. The slaver was about to give him the finishing hit when he suddenly turned around. Hadith heard it too. A horse was charging straight towards the slaver! Hadith tried to lift his head to see what was happening but his vision was blurring. He felt the ground trembling from the pounding of the heavy hooves.


---------------------------------------------------------

Folwren's Post

Athwen knew at once that the advantage in this fight would be completely on the slaver's side. He was man, fully built and probably fully trained in fighting. Hadith would go down quickly with no hope of ever getting back up again. She had not a moment to loose in figuring out something to help him with, at least until Dorran reached them. But how? How was she supposed to stop a man twice her size from killing another? She looked around her, hoping to find something that she might use as a weapon.

Her eyes lit upon the slaver's horse. A plan instantly leaped into her mind. She ran forward to him and grasped his rein as he shied away from her. She spoke calming words to him, whispering reassuringly in his ear as she gathered his reins above his neck. As soon as he stood tolerably still she thrust her foot into the stirrup and launched herself upward into the saddle. Once there, her feet could not reach the stirrups, but that did not worry her. She clenched her knees tight against the hard leather of the saddle, turned his head about with one rein and urged him on with her heels in his side.

As the horse made the turn, Athwen could see the two combatants. Hadith was stumbling, his sword arm was far out in attempt to regain the balance he had lost. The slaver stepped forward and his arm swung upwards. Athwen bit back a cry and drove her heels into the horse just as the man's curved blade came slicing down.

The rushing, pounding hooves of the horse seemed to drive the emotion from Athwen's mind. She saw Hadith fall. She watched as he first collapsed to his knees and then fell onto his face in the ground before his enemy. Though the thought that he had been killed before her very eyes flashed through her mind, Athwen did not think to be sorry for him, she did not think of anything, except bearing down on this slaver.

The man looked up, hearing her approach. An expression of surprise filled his face and he stumbled back out of the horse's path. Athwen passed him, but her hand was already on the tight rein and in a moment, she and her horse were turned about again and charged once more upon the slaver.

[Tevildo]

Dorran felt as if his arms and legs could barely move. There had been another time when he had fallen into a pit of mud. It was just like that now. The more he struggled to hurry the slower his body went. One part of his mind calmly saw Hadith hit the ground and slump to the side, while the other was focused only on running forward as quickly as he could.

He saw his wife mount the horse and charge forward against the slaver. The latter stared at her in complete bewilderment. Neither his brain or his ego would accept the fact that he had been bested by a woman with hair the color of gold. Once more she charged and once more he barely managed to swing out of the way. This time, he recovered his wits enough to leer back at her. He dropped to one knee and quickly squatted next to Hadith. Ripping his small knife out of its sheath, he held it directly above the young man’s throat and then brought the tip down to make contact with the skin. Slowly he drew the blade forward leaving a thin trail of blood. He looked up at Athwen and growled. “You’re a feisty one. Come down off that horse and keep me company. You wouldn’t want to see this poor boy get hurt?” He waved his dagger menacingly over the young man’s chest, directly pointing at Hadith’s heart. Athwen pulled up her mount and stared in disbelief, reluctant to dismount but afraid to race forward again.

By this time, Dorran had dropped down and flattened his body against the ground, inching forward across the sand. His head was pounding dismally from the wound he had received the day before but his mind was perfectly clear. A beast like this did not deserve to live.

For the first time today luck was with the Rider of Rohan. The slaver was turned away and had no idea what lay behind his back. Hurtling his body forward with a savage will, Dorran landed on top of the man. They rolled over on the ground three times. Kicking and snarling, the two remained locked in a deadly embrace, each attempting to gain the advantage and sweep in for the kill. Finally, there was a grunt and a cry and the slaver’s body went slack as Dorran thrust his weapon deep into the man’s chest, burying it up to the hilt. .

Without waiting to inspect the man’s body more closely, Dorran immediately raced over to his wife as an avalanche of words gushed out. “Are you alright? Did he hurt you? I couldn’t clear the trench. Thank goodness Hadith was here to help. You didn’t do too badly yourself. This is the second time you’ve beaten me in a horse race. It's a good thing you did..” He turned to embrace her and spoke quickly. “You must get out of here. Hadith needs your help and others as well.” He pushed Hadith up on the horse and straddled his body over the back of Athwen's saddle. the man stirred and gave a low moan.

“Ride now to the grove where the women and children are. You will find some protection there. We will bring you the wounded as quickly as we can.”

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Carl and the others in his group soon became disoriented with camp now covered in ashen dust and sand. They were rapidly separated not only by the blinding gale, but by the rumor of horses around them, which they heard and followed, but could not see. And as Carl pressed himself against the wind, searching for his fellows, out of the brown haze a figure dashed past the hobbit, all the while glancing over his shoulder. It was soon plain to Carl, that the runner was neither archer nor slaver, but the youngster Kwell. And the boy ran with such dispatch, that Carl whirled about, bow ready as he struggled to see in the murk, what ever it was the boy was running from, before it over took him.

That split second stretched interminably as Carl waited with dread. For he had already guessed what this bogy might prove to be, and had until this point, envisioned dealing with Hamin from the comfortably long distance a bow usually afforded, and preferably unseen as well. But unfortunately, all he could do at the moment was hope for the best, for the wind was blowing so hard, his arrows were all but useless. And being no match for the slaver, the best he might do was buy the lad some time.

The hobbit set his jaw. Out of the storm lumbered a huge figure, the silhouette of a curved blade discernable in his bandaged fist, as the man bolted after his prey. At the site of the slaver, a wave of adrenalin coursed through the hobbit’s veins, and he aimed his dart well in front of the pursuer. With all his strength he stretched taught the string and shot into the wind. The arrow sped to its mark, but proved too feeble, for the man slowed down, pulling the arrow easy from his shoulder. “The brute’s an Oliphant!” Carl muttered in amazement, quickly sprinting after the retreating figure, before he had the chance to become lost in the confusion.

He had not gone more that a few yards when he saw that Hamin had closed in once more on Kwell. Grabbing him by the shoulder he spun the boy around roughly, threatening him with his sword. With haste the hobbit stopped, taking aim again, this time targeting the softness of the slaver’s lower back. Creeping up as close as he dared, he let the arrow fly. But the arrow was buffeted by the wind, embedding itself in a more southerly region to cause less harm than the hobbit had hoped.

It was as if Carl had tapped the slaver on the back to announce himself, for Haman whipped around, quickly jerking Kwell in front of him to serve as a shield. And spying the puny archer before him he snarled, “The sand fleas are biting today, are they? But we know how to deal with them! Just squeeze ‘em until they crack open, eh boy?” The slaver gripped Kwell tighter in the crook of one arm, lifting him off the ground, and the boy shut his eyes against the pain, futilely pushing at the thickly muscled arm that encompassed him. Relaxing his hold a bit, Hamin laughed while Carl grimaced, his mind transposing on the slaver the sinister image of joy a cat might experience while playing with a doomed mouse.

The slaver raised his dark eyes, fastening them again on Carl, whose shuttered involuntarily. “Tell me boy, who is this hero shivering in front of me? This fairy orcling, who hasn’t the strength to spear a rabbit with his pathetic skewers!” Now the hobbit’s fear had been quickly overtaken by horror and indignation at the treatment of Kwell, but these words fanned a fury in his heart and set him simmering. He had to get Kwell out of the man’s reach, and he had to keep his head.

Feigning a lighter heart than was in him, for with his arrows spent Carl was at a loss what to do, but he was determined to do something. He dropped his bow to the ground. “I’ve met you before Hamin, and you can’t fool me. No, not for a minute!” the hobbit said with all the pluck he could muster. “For all your swaggering I know you’re good for nothing, not even to play nursemaid to a pair of starving children. See with all these men about, you pick on the smallest among them.”

The slaver’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward as if to have a better look at Carl, the corner of his mouth twisting into a grin. “What a dangerous game this sand flea plays!” he sneered. Fast and gleaming Hamin’s sword suddenly cut through the air where the hobbit had stood. But Carl had many an older brother to hone his reflexes, and he ducked to avoid the blow, springing up again to attempt disarming the brute, as he followed the stroke through. But the hobbit was quickly shook off, and flung to the ground with ease. And just as Carl was recovering, a rag blown on the wind, hit Hamin's face, clinging stubbornly to his head and neck.

Immediately seizing the opportunity, Kwell rammed his elbow into the slaver’s injured ribs, gaining his freedom as clutching his side, Hamin bowed for a moment, his sword dropping to the ground. The slaver pulled the cloth from his face, and was about to set off again to recover the boy, when Carl launched himself, scrabbling up the slaver’s broad back, grabbing handholds in the foul cloths and hair. “Quick Kwell, run!” the hobbit managed to shout to the boy still standing there. But a second later he was hurtled up over Hamin’s head, landing flat on his back.

Carl squinted at Hamin towering over him, but could think of no more taunts to distract the man. For he found he could not breathe, but like a landed fish he lay gasping, helpless. The slaver put his boot on the hobbit stomach. “Who are you, sand flea?” he asked again, slowing applying pressure. Finally, Carl’s lungs filled, and he blurted out, “The fish that got away. I’m the fish that slipped through your fingers, yesterday in the pit!” The slaver growled, pushing down harder, and Carl clutched the heavy boot, hoping that Kwell had gotten away.

[Brinniel]

The slavers approached swiftly, with Athwen leading the way. As if the storm didn’t make visibility bad enough, the horses’ hooves picked up even more dust, making seeing nearly impossible. Shae could see, however, the shapes of the men as they neared the tunnel. Shouts arose as they discovered their mistake, and several collapsed into the trench. Shae wondered for a second what had happened to the healer—she seemed to disappear with the rest of the slavers. But she had no time to worry, for chaos was beginning to ensue all around.

Only half of the slavers actually fell into the trench; the rest were able to stop their horses in time. The half dozen or so men were mostly attempting to calm their frightened steeds—and it seemed to Shae that this small group was in utter confusion more that anything. The timing would be perfect. Without further hesitation, the woman kicked into the mare’s sides, and charged forward, yelling. She could hear the others in the cavalry following, but she did not look back.

Her target was the first mounted slaver in visible sight. Shae took him by surprise as she thrusted her long knife into his right shoulder. Though the man yelped in pain, as she removed her blade, she realized she did not do as much damage as she hoped. Countering her attack, the slaver lifted his own sword in his left hand. As he swung, she lifted her weapon to block the attack. As the two blades collided, Shae swayed backwards, surprised at the man’s strength. Her puny blade whimpered under his powerful hold, and her hand shook as she struggled to keep her grip. The next few swings Shae was able to dodge with simple maneuvers with her horse. She lashed back in response, but every time she lifted her blade, it was met by the slaver’s. The man’s strength was overwhelming, and as she fought him, she could feel herself slowly sliding out of her saddle. Shae tightened her muscles and her left hand clenched the reins as she simply struggled to stay mounted. As she dodged another attack, Furie jolted suddenly, and with her inexperience, Shae lost all control.

She did not remember hitting the ground, but as she lay sprawled out on the dirt, she immediately realized what happened. Warm liquid flowed freely from her forehead and into her left eye. Her left wrist was contorted into an unnatural position, and Shae instantly knew it was broken. The woman blinked several times, still feeling rather woozy from the fall. She barely looked up in time to see the sword coming right at her. She rolled away just in time and grimaced as a sharp pain hit her left side. A cracked rib perhaps. Surprised to find she was still clutching her long knife in her right hand, Shae managed to stand up in time to block the second swing. She found herself face-to-face with the same slaver she had been fighting with, who stared menacingly back. He had dismounted from his stallion and seemed quite anxious to kill her. Though she was now injured, Shae found it much easier to fight on foot, and for a few minutes the two swung and parried in a circle as if it were a dance. He may have been stronger, but she was faster. But before long, exhaustion set in, and the man’s strength and his better weapon were too much. He caught her by surprise and her weapon suddenly escaped from the clutches of her fingers. Shae managed to dodge the next two blows by instinctively ducking. On the third swing, the slaver stumbled and his blade entered the earth. He quickly yanked it out and lifted his sword, prepared for one final attack, but he was not fast enough. As he lifted his weapon high in the air, the main suddenly gasped in pain. He looked down to find a throwing dagger protruding from his heart.

Khamir had always praised Shae for her swift throwing skills and her perfect aim. The woman watched as the man collapsed and died almost instantly. She removed the dagger from his chest and sheathed it. Her long knife was nowhere to be seen. Shae picked up the slaver’s sword and studied it. It was a fine blade, by far one of the highest quality she had ever seen. She removed the sheath from the man’s belt and attached it to her own, placing the sword inside it. During those few minutes of rest, Shae could feel the pain and exhaustion set in. Blood continued to pour from the gash in her head covering the entire left eye. It should’ve been a problem, as she was blind in that eye anyway, but with one eye sealed shut made it even more difficult to see out of the other one. She wiped some of the blood away with one hand, and took several deep breaths in an attempt to rejuvenate herself.

At that time, the woman took the opportunity to finally observe her surroundings. Several bodies were sprawled out in the distance, both slavers and ex-slaves. Not far away, many still fought, struggling for their lives, but Shae could not recognize who was where. As she looked around, Shae was surprised at how few slavers there were. She had seen their camp the other night, and remembered its size.
This can’t be right. I know there were more of them than this. Could they still be coming from behind?
And then a cold thought entered Shae’s mind, sending chills down her spine.
No.
But it was possible, very possible in fact. The slavers weren’t complete idiots—surely they realized that the ex-slaves would do whatever possible to protect the women and children. And if they were desperate enough (and surely they were), they could easily…

Shae gave out a low whistle, seeking out through the clouds of dust for her mare. It did not take long to find her—Furie had not traveled far. She remounted and clenched her teeth as the pain returned. Her wrist was now swollen to twice its size, and though Shae knew the smart thing would be not to use that arm, she needed both her hands. Gasping from the pain, the woman struggled to wrap her fingers around the reins and test what strength and mobility she had left in her wrist. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough. Using her other hand for support to hold onto the reins, she kicked hard into Furie’s sides. Instantly, the horse and its rider were off, heading towards the direction where the women and children were stowed away.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The old man distributed the few daggers he had managed to scrape together and asked everyone to gather rocks that could be used as weapons in case the slavers attacked. Aiwendil appointed Grwell to lead the older youth if an assault occurred, while he and Rôg would try and safeguard the mothers who had young children in their care. Hopefully, the battle would be decided before any of the attackers discovered that the deserted grove of boulders was actually a haven of refuge for those who could not fight.

With the winds churning up so much sand and dirt, Aiwendil could barely make out the shadowy outlines of the women and children crouched silently behind the rocks. It was impossible to see if any slavers were approaching. The noise of battle blew in from the far perimeter of camp. The sounds that had been so discoradant and jarring to those fighting by the tunnel now melted away to a comfortable drone. The old man sat down beneath the shelter of the massive boulder to get out of the storm. With nothing to do but wait, the minutes crept by slowly. Aiwendil closed his eyes to rest; twice, his head dipped and nodded, and then he slept. One anxious roar from across the camp blasted through to where the women and children waited. As the sound tore into the darkness, the old man reluctantly opened his eyes and sighed, struggling to push back his weariness. He still felt uneasy. His cousin Olorin would have known exactly what to do. Of all the istari , Aiwendil had been the one least equipped to deal with war or the high affairs of men. "Why me?" he muttered in frustration.

For years, the wizard had occupied a good piece of his time trying to guess why he had been forced to stay on after the War of the Ring, when all his brothers had vanished or returned home. He had been left behind with no explanation other than a few gentle words from Olorin when they had said their goodbyes in the house of Tom Bombadil. Olorin had ridden on to the Havens, and Aiwendil had been left pondering his fate, something he had done quite frequently in recent years. Before leaving, Olorin had insisted that Aiwendil try and remember the instructions Manwe had given him when they met in the garden of dreams the night before he sailed. Despite Aiwendil's every effort at remembering, that scene in that garden had proven stubbornly elusive.

At least Rôg was with him now. The wizard privately acknowledged just how important the maenwaith had become to him. Plus, it had been Rôg who had pushed him gently onto a kinder path, one where he had not only learned to care for the forest creatures but sometimes also men. Someday he must thank the young man for his gift of friendship. As a second howl went up from the east that was even more urgent than the last, Aiwendil sternly reminded himself that this was not the time or place for woolgathering.

At that instant, hard words had rattled inside his old head, bringing an unwelcome message he had been hoping to avoid. Staying close to the ground as he inched over to where Rôg was waiting, the old man hastily explained, “Bad news. Only part of the group took the bait. The others have disappeared. Lindir has no idea where they are. They’ll try to send a few men through to help us. But nothing is certain. Rôg, could you tell the band of children to remain alert and stick together? I’ll speak with the mothers.” With that Aiwendil turned and disappeared.

[piosenniel]

‘Right, then.....everyone gather round me here. And you older boys and girls, gather up the littlest ones or herd them over.’ Rôg waved his arm at the rag-tag assembly of youngsters, drawing their attention to where he was standing. They came stumbling toward him, the edges of their sleeves or of what served as their thin cloaks wrapped over their mouth and noses, and their eyes half closed against the swirling sands.

‘Let’s get you tucked in here, in the overhanging shelter of this boulder. Can you squeeze in, take a seat with your backs against it. And the older ones, please tuck the smaller ones in against you.’

He pointed to four or five of the older children, one who had brought their sharp-pointed planting sticks along. ‘You, now, let’s arrange ourselves in front of those who are sitting. Keep your sticks at the ready in case any of the slavers come near us. Poke and slash at them is you can, otherwise retreat back beneath the shelter of the boulder, with the pointed ends facing outward like a prickly hedgehog.’ Rôg gave his charges an encouraging smile.

‘It will give me what time I need just in case I have to fight them off.’

He had looked away, toward where he thought the attack might come, before he had time to see the wondering frowns which wrinkled many of the youngsters faces.

[Nogrod]

The thundering of the hooves came back again. Hadith’s mind was suddenly seeing something as last night flashed back to him with vigour. He saw the rider suddenly appearing from the darkness, charging towards him. But unlike then, now Hadith was frozen to his place, unable to avoid the oncoming spear. He waited for a hit which never came as he fell deeper into the abyss of his faltering mind.

There was a vague figure of a man bending over him, quietly calling his name with a soothing tenderness in his voice. Father? Dad? … Don’t leave me alone! Take me with you! … it hurts so much… am I dying? There was concern, a sorrow even in the man’s eyes as he tried to ease the young boy’s anguish: “Fear no more my son, all is going to be well and you’ll have peace.” Then the face disappeared just to re-emerge with a totally different tone. Now the face smiled to him confidently, almost laughingly: “Hold your head up my little, it’s just a scratch! Tomorrow you won’t even remember it. Come now, we’ll go to see mom and fix it right away.”

Hadith felt a hand grasping his left shoulder. “Fath…”, he began, now half conscious. But the word never got uttered to the end as he realised that something was totally wrong. The grip tightened and someone turned him violently around to his back. Instead of a loving face of his father he met the grim expression of he slaver bending over him but looking sternly forwards. Hadith felt the blade on his throat. The slaver said something to someone, threateningly. Hadith couldn’t make out what was said but he felt the tone well enough. Then he passed out again.

Hadith laid on his mother’s lap, his head leaning comfortably to her belly. She held him firmly but tenderly in her arms and her fingers run gently over her neck. Hadith listened to the lullaby she sang in a low, hushed voice.

“Come, come, silent night,
show forth the starry height
of the heavens above.

Come, come, gentle dreams,
show the way to starry beams
that’ll carry you my dove.

Let go my love,
let go my dove,
fly high tonight
to home of the light.”

Suddenly Hadith was brought back to the reality as two men rolled violently over him. Someone’s knee thumped heavily on his wounded shoulder. The pain filled him, it overwhelmed everything. All went black.

Hadith felt himself being heaved on to the back of a horse. He tried to look around but saw only grey shadows. The pain on his shoulder had somewhat eased as he was getting numb. He tried to ask what was going on but couldn’t open his mouth. Finally, after being thrown on horseback he managed to open the curtain and to have some grip of the reality. There was that woman, Athwen on the saddle. He remembered her name. And there was a man, the Rohanian. What’s going on? They shouldn’t waste their time on me! … Hopefully they will get me to safety from here… Hadith was confused with his contradictory thoughts as the horse started carefully forwards. He gave up even trying to think any more and let it go just feeling the horse move under his numb body.

[Tevildo]

Child of the 7th Age: Post for Aiwendil

Aiwendil had spent a long time with the women, explaining how they and their little ones must stay calm and not wander off by themselves in case any of the slavers happened to be lurking nearby. Most importantly, everyone must try to keep their children quiet. The istar gave each of the mothers a few drops of a heady brew he had concocted early that morning. With just one good whiff or a tiny draught placed on the tongue, the child should fall into an immediate slumber.

Aiwendil had reassured the women that he and Rôg would be standing guard outside the grove to dissuade any would be attackers. Most of the women looked pale and wan, while the children clung fiercely to their mothers' skrts. After Aiwendil had finished speaking, one old grandmother approached leading a small flock of children : two girls and a boy. The twin girls were about seven; the boy no more than four. He squalled miserably the whole time the two of them were speaking. The old man ignored the loud caterwauls and, taking the girls by the hand, picked up the boy and headed over to where Rôg was still talking with the older children. He whispered a few words of warning in his friend's ear, and then beckoned for Azhar to join him.

"I've a favor to ask," Aiwendil confided. "There is no one to care for these little ones. Their mother is fighting on the far side of camp. The other mothers and even the grannys have their hands full and can't look after any more. I would be grateful if you could help, just till the fighting has ended. Keep a close eye on the three of them and make sure they don't wander off. "

For a long time, Azhar looked warily back, saying nothing.

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

Tevildo's post

Not this.....anything but this. Maybe I should have gone with Kwell.

Azhar stared down at the ground, biting her tongue to keep from blurting out what she really thought of Aiwendil's suggestion. She hated children. Well,....maybe "hate" was too strong a word, but taking care of children was definitely not something that Azhar wanted to do. Unlike many of the other girls on the plantation, she had never been put to work tending the babies while the mothers went out to do their work in the fields. She had always managed to avoid such duties. Azhar wasn't about to admit it to herself, but she had so little experience with children that they almost scared her. Yet now she was to be stuck with a brood of three in the middle of a field of battle.

"Out loud, she merely mumbled to the old man, "I don't know how good I'll be at this. Maybe you could get someone else?"

"No, no, you'll be fine," he affectionately reached out to pat the girl's shoulder. "The other mothers will help you. Just don't let the little ones wander. Rôg and I will be nearby. We'll keep an eye on everything."

"But what if someone comes?" Azhar objected in a nervous voice. "Couldn't you at least loan me a dagger like the ones you gave some of the boys? Or maybe I could borrow one of the boys's slings. I know how to use that."

"If I had any more weapons, you'd have one," Aiwendil assured her. "But we're pitifully short. Stay close to the other women, Azhar, and keep those rocks you collected nearby. Some of the other women are armed with sticks and knives. If anything happens, they'll tell you what to do. And Rôg and I will be standing guard."

With a sigh, she knelt down and tried to speak with the three children. "What are your names?" she gently asked. Then she glanced back up at Aiwendil and spoke in a solemn voice, "I will do as you say. I give you my promise. I will keep these little ones safe." All the while, the little boy kept howling as if he would never stop.

[Folwren]

Athwen tumbled down from the tall horse as her husband came rushing forward. She stood back, holding one of the reins as she watched the brief fight between the slaver and Dorran. She did not see how he had killed the slaver, for Dorran instantly got up and ran to her side, blocking her sight. His mind was working faster than a horse could run, and his words proved it. “Are you alright?” She hardly had time to nod. “Did he hurt you?” She didn’t know whether to nod or shake her head, even if she did have time for it. “I couldn’t clear the trench. Thank goodness Hadith was here to help. . .”

He hurried on, but Athwen hardly listened. She was thankful that he was there, that his arm was around her shoulders, supporting her. But then his voice changed and he spoke again of what needed to be done and the business at hand.

“You must get out of here. Hadith needs your help and others as well.” Yes, of course. How could she have forgotten? She turned back to the slaver’s horse (her own had wandered off somewhere) and mounted up while Dorran pulled Hadith’s limp body towards her. With only a little difficulty, he heaved the young man up behind the saddle. As he did so, he told her where to go, and that shortly, they’d bring the rest of the wounded.

Athwen nodded and drew a deep breath before turning the horse’s head and putting him into a walk. They rode slowly and carefully around the trench. The horse was skittery and nervous in the wind, an ill-tamed brute who wanted to bolt at the slightest chance. He had worked well for charging his own master, but for this short journey with a wounded man across his haunches, the slaver’s horse was not what Athwen wanted.

Behind the line made by the tunnel and trench, Athwen could make out the images of dark groups in the blowing sand and dirt. At the place of the tunnel, a struggle was still in process, though dying down even as she rode passed it. She could see horses struggling in the narrow trench where the tunnel was, and other horses standing above them on the near side. ‘Those must be our horses,’ she said to herself, and turned to look ahead. ‘Where are the archers? I thought there were supposed to be some on this side?’ Almost as soon as she asked herself the question, she saw another dark gathering almost directly ahead. More horsemen. . .another section of the slaver’s force. They were in combat with another group of her allies, people on foot.

Athwen changed her course. She would have to go around them. She hoped that she would catch no one’s attention as she passed to the left by fifty yards. She ducked her head and with one hand drew up the sash that had been tied around her neck. There was a chance that she would pass unseen. . .

In two minutes she had completed the half circle around them. She urged the horse into a slightly faster walk, being careful that he did not break into a trot. But as she came over the next ridge on the land she pulled him up abruptly. Here the wind was just a bit sharper than below, but the air was clearer and she could see better, slightly. Down below her, far behind the place of the camp, another group of horsemen were cantering across the sand. Another part of the cursed slavers! They were not concerned with the fighting going on now, behind her in the camp. They were looking for a more easy prey. The women, children, and wounded. Athwen felt her heart sink.

The grove where the children and women were hiding was directly to her right. She could reach it with a simple dash. But not just yet. She couldn’t risk being seen and showing them the way. She turned her horse about again and went back down the incline until the slight hill hid her. Then she turned her horse towards the grove and now she risked a trot, hoping that Hadith would stay put. She turned the horse’s head back up the hill and when she reached the top, as quickly as she could she slid into an opening of rock.

Athwen dismounted the horse at once and led him hurriedly across the grove to where she knew the children and women were going to be. Some slight relief came over her as she spotted Rôg speaking with the children. She ran forward and grasped his sleeve.

“Rôg, there’s another attachment of horsemen riding out behind us, looking, I’m sure, for this place! They’ll find us very little time at all and they’ll kill all of them! We’ve got to stop them, we’ve got to-” her voice broke off as she choked suddenly on an unexpected sob. “He’s wounded,” she went on in a voice broken at intervals by her flood of tears and indicating Hadith as she spoke, “and Dorran’s going to be bringing up more of the wounded people, and soon we’ll be assaulted ourselves, and I don’t know what to do! I can’t mend people with all this wind and sand and - and -”

Athwen couldn’t tell herself why she was crying like a child. All she knew was that she had narrowly escaped being captured by a pack of brutes, she had watched a man get cut down like a tree before her eyes, she had been hurt by the slaver’s beastly blow to her face, that she was being driven to distraction by the wind and sand, and that shortly a pack of men would be up to kill helpless women and children.

[Folwren]

Kwell stumbled away from Hamin as the man let go of him. Kwell turned, though, as he heard Carl’s voice call after him. “Quick, Kwell, run!” Run? He would have by all means had he not been reminded that the hobbit was still in danger. But the little man’s voice brought him up sharp and he turned in a flash just to see Carl flung off of Hamin’s back onto the dirt and Hamin approach him again with cruel intent written all over his face.

Kwell’s heart leaped to his throat. The little hobbit was going to be killed! He looked frantically about him. Someone had to help! Someone! But who could? Behind Hamin, the other people who had been with Carl were in a hard struggle with the other horsemen. No one had a spare moment to help Carl. No one except Kwell.

The boy realized it in a flash. Thank the gods that the brute was taking his time about slicing Carl’s head off his shoulders. Kwell had his knife in his hand again in an instant. With it drawn, he ran forward. He didn’t consider that Hamin might see him before he struck, or that he might move and catch him and hinder him from taking his purpose to the end. No thought went through his mind except that he had to accomplish what needed to be done. There was no question, no option. He ran mutely forward. Equally silently he leaped up. Hamin looked up, but only too late. He moved his foot from his victim’s stomach, lifted his hand to block his face, but too late.

The knife plunged into his throat and sank to the hilt. Hamin twisted about without a sound, though his mouth opened and blood gushed out of the wound as a mute cry tried to escape. Kwell fell back as Hamin struck out at him with his hands. He stumbled over Carl’s prostrated figure and fell onto his back. In a moment, Hamin fell, too.

Kwell slowly pushed himself up on his elbow and then he sat up. He reached over and tugged on Carl's shirt. "You alright?" he panted. "You're not dead, are you?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Somewhere amid the swirling sands and raucous sounds of battle, the two groups of archers had become separated. Noticing that one of the slavers had made it over the trench and veered off towards the south to avoid capture, Lindir and two of the freed slaves headed down the same path, braving the howling gusts of wind which slowed their progress and prevented them from seeing very far ahead. The horse on which the slaver was mounted had been wounded in the flanks leaving a trail of blood to follow. From the look of the blood soaked ground, the Elf guessed that the rider would not be able to get very far before the animal’s wounds would require him to dismount and go ahead on foot. That would make it considerably easier for the archers to catch up.

Lindir’s guess had been right. Moving as quickly and quietly as they could, the three had stumbled upon the man’s horse floundering on the plain no more than two hundred paces away from the tunnel. Still, there was something that bothered Lindir. Why would this attacker continue to plunge south with such certainty? Either he was deserting the fight or expected to find something that would help him.

The answer was not long in coming. Before they’d advanced another two hundred feet, they came to a stretch of terrain littered with giant boulders. Even with the howling of the storm, Lindir could make out mannish voices coming from just ahead. The man they were pursuing had apparently found some of his companions. Using a boulder for cover, Lindir peered out and could just make out two men on horseback. The slaver who’d lost his mount had now been heaved up behind one of these and was continuing to talk.

Lindir glanced over at his two companions. The one crouching beside him was a lithe and healthy woman in her thirties, the other a young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Both had been members of the original slave band that had escaped several years before. They were swift runners and experienced hunters, but neither had any training in conventional battle techniques or actually fought in a war.

Lindir made a quick decision, “I would give a great deal to have three horses right now, or to know where our cavalry is. But wishing won’t get us far. We are the only three here, and we need to figure out a way to harass these fellows on horseback, even if we are on foot. We’re not an army, and we can’t attack them directly. But all three of us are used to stalking and hunting creatures. The wind is our friend. They dare not take off at a gallop since they cannot see and would risk falling into a chasm or have their horses pull up lame. Even on foot, we can keep up. Let’s not let them know we’re here. We’ll wing out an arrow now and again and retreat quickly. It would be better if we had the cover of trees, but we can make do with the rocks and low growing vegetation. We’ll have to be careful, quiet, and fast--just as we might be in hunting a large and dangerous animal-- since the slavers are sure to try and get back at us.”

“But I don’t understand,” Gretl objected. “Didn’t the slavers attack us at the trench? Who are these men?”

“The group split before they entered camp. There must be others scattered about as well.” A grim image of the grove where the women and children were hiding flashed across Lindir's mind. But for the moment, he could do nothing about that. He pushed away that thought and added, “I don’t where their captain is, but he’s not here. Gretl, Wulf, now is as good a time as any for our scheme. The rocks will help us. Just let your arrow loose and run like mad to get out of the way. Come now. Let’s hunt some game!” Crouching low and carefully advancing from boulder to boulder, they made their way across the plain towards the spot where the men were talking.

[Durelin]

The wind had died down to a bearable strength, and their visibility was increased for a time. The darkness was now less disorienting, and Khamir and Adnan both felt their heads clear a little. They knew they needed to get moving again as quickly as possible, if only because their help was needed elsewhere. Both their bodies ached, though Khamir knew his pains were nowhere near those of Adnan. He was only fifteen…it seemed against nature itself that he should look the way he did, covered in blood. And the man knew it would look worse in the daylight.

Vrór looked no better, but he at least had a pulse. Khamir felt hopeless, not knowing what to do for the Dwarf. He did know he had to get him out of here somehow, so he could get help, but…how were they to carry him? He was a large man, and he worse his heavy chainmail. And should they carry him? He could have any number of injuries that could only be worsened if they moved him. But they had to do something…

“Can you walk?” Khamir asked, softly, his voice full of concern.

Adnan grunted, but did not look at his companion. Khamir took it as a “yes.”

The one-armed man struggled to pull the mail hauberk off of Vrór. Adnan silently began to help him as best he could. They were both as careful as they could manage, and each stared down at the unconscious Dwarf intensely, their faces creased with worry.

“Can you help carry him?” There was another grunt as Khamir slung the chainmail over his shoulder. He stifled a small groan at the weight of it, and the thought of carrying it any lengthy distance. With many groans and heavy breaths they each took up one end of Vrór, neither thinking even for a moment of leaving a companion behind.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Nasim and the others moved as quickly as they could while trying to make as little sound as possible. There was nothing to say that they would not run into any surprise encounters, and if they were not careful, they would be dead in a heartbeat. With only the three of them, they felt exposed.

With shouts and the deep thudding of hooves, all their fears came rushing towards them. The slaves, regardless of how much they had been thinking about such an assault, were not really prepared for it. For a moment they simply froze, all thoughts bent on what the body should be doing but wasn’t. Then Nasim let fly a sharp bullet from his sling, and the others fell into action, as well. One gripped his long knife, the other his rough spear – simply a sharpened stone point, but it had served its purpose well thus far.

It took longer than it should have for their brains to process, but they observed there were only two riders, and though they had other advantages, numbers weren’t meaningless. One rider was knocked down as he approached, and Nasim felt a rush of hope that they had the upper hand, though his logic told him that they were in far over their heads. He was not a fighter! He drew his small blade, which he had never used except to skin and clean kills from the hunt.

His limbs were growing numb and his hands and face cold with sickly sweat, as all his thoughts focused on his own mortality. It was either death or back to being a slave in the hands of these men, and if he was dead, there would never be another chance of escape. Death had never been so frightening, not until he had escaped and tasted freedom. And now, in just a few months, he could not, would not let it go. He mentally cursed himself for being a coward. Did he even deserve that freedom?

Nasim’s thoughts traveled to who he knew were deserving of it, and a different sort of terror caught in his throat. Those who could not fight were in danger, and he who could fight was thinking of his own life? He thought of the mothers, the old, and especially the children, and he found a purpose to the madness other than fear.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

The hobbit’s eyelids flashed open, and he sat up, looking around him. There was Hamin lying on the ground, a dark pool creeping out from beneath him. And Kwell too was just beside him. Why was Kwell still there? Carl realized he must have lost consciousness. “Am I dead? “ Carl coughed behind his kerchief. “Not yet, by the look of it, though I was well on my way. Picked a fine time to get the breath knocked out of me, that’s for certain!”

“But are you alright?” Kwell asked.

Putting his hands on his stomach, Carl quickly pushed here and there to see if anything was amiss. His abdomen was quite painful and he felt overwhelmingly nauseous, but he guessed it wasn’t anything of a serious nature. Satisfied that he would be fine, he pulled his legs out from under Hamins’s knees extricating himself from the tangle, and stood up. “Someone wise once said that hobbits are tougher than they look. But I’m telling you, even though I didn’t crack, I was sure to pop if that had gone on much longer” He offered a hand to Kwell, and helped him to his feet. “But how are you? Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m alright,” the boy said looking doubtfully at the frantic shadows moving around them in the haze, as if he expected something to leap out at them. He hurried to squat beside the dead man.

“What piece of luck saved our hides anyway?” Carl asked. But as Kwell removed his knife from the slaver’s throat, Carl needed no answer. “Is that what happened! Here I had thought to tell you to return to the other children where you’d be safer. But now I’m thinking that they would be safer. They might be needing a stout hearted lad such as you, just now.”

Kwell stopped what he was doing, and looked the hobbit in the eye. “As you can see,” Carl added, “Not all the slavers decided to enter the camp by the front door. As for me, I need to find me some arrows, or a sword or something a bit bigger than my knife! You go take care of Azhar for me, will you? I have a good hunch you might be better at it than me.” With a quick wink, the hobbit picked up his bow and headed off to see if he could find the other archers.

[Tevildo]

After long minutes of coaxing and prodding, Azhar had finally gotten the twins to open up. She had learned that the girls' names were "Lisel" and "Liriel". Such beautiful names for children born in the horrid confines of a Nurn planatation. Their mother must already have been thinking of the day when she would somehow get free and build a new home for her daughters.

Azhar had found it easier to talk with the girls than she had expected. Despite the mad chaos going on in the camp, she had managed to get the twins to trust her. They were cuddled up at her side listening to a whispered story about the fine palace they were all going to build as soon as they got away from this place. She had even begged some scraps of bread from one of the mothers so that the three of them could pretend to sit down and have a grand tea party. Even more importantly, there had not yet been any sign of the slavers. The grove was quiet and relatively peaceful.

But one problem had stubbornly refused to go away. The twins' little brother whose name was Tom would not settle down. He sat some distance from them in a miserable huddle and sucked his thumb as he called out for his mother and shed many tears. No matter how hard she tried, Azhar could not win the boy's confidence or trust. Even Aiwendil's magic drops didn't seem to work. After twenty minutes of balling, he'd worn himself out and fallen into a fitful sleep.

Finishing her story, Azhar excused herself from the girls and explained that she was going over to the bramblebush where Tom was sleeping. The bush was not more than twelve feet away; one of the mothers had promised to keep an eye on the boy while he slept. Azhar arrived at the bush but to her horror there was no sign of Tom. In the place where he'd been sleeping, the only evidence left was a few trampled weeds and a small scarf that he had been wearing. Azhar darted up and down the rows of mothers, anxiously asking if they'd seen Tom but no one could help her. What had happened was all too clear: the boy had decided to go off on his own.

Azhar felt tears swelling up in her eyes. How could she have been so careless? Here, she had berated Kwell for his lack of responsibility and yet her own behavior was worse than his. She had made a solemn promise to Aiwendil that she would do everything she could to keep the children safe, yet she had not even kept a close watch on Tom.

Taking the girls over to one of the other mothers, she'd asked if they could stay there and rest, explaining that she had to do something but would be back in just a little while. Then she loaded a number of the smaller rocks in her pocket and crept out of the grove softly calling Tom's name. l

[Child of the 7th Age]

piosenniel's post - Rôg


By the Great Winged One! The woman was crying.....

‘.....and Dorran’s going to be bringing up more of the wounded people, and soon we’ll be assaulted ourselves, and I don’t know what to do! I can’t mend people with all this wind and sand and – and.....’

Other than his sister, and mother of course, Rôg had never had many close dealings with those of the female persuasion. And to be truthful, he’d never seen his mother cry; she was much too practical a woman for that sort of thing, or so he always thought. His sister’s bouts of tears were in her younger years. Some frustrating thing or other that had gone awry. The tears were brief, and her mood at those points was not one to invite a hug or encouraging words.

Now had Athwen been a child, Rôg would simply have swept her into his arms and made some reassurances. But she was a grown women, and a married one to boot.

He pulled one of his yellow scarves from an inner pocket of his cloak and handed it to her as he gently withdrew his sleeve from her grasp. ‘For your eyes he said.....and you can tie it about your face, to cover your nose and mouth. It will help against the sand. The wounded.....I don’t know what to say about that. Except that I know you will do the best you can until the circumstances change.’

He paused and glanced briefly toward where the old man stood. ‘Aiwendil will take good care of us. Be assured. And I will help as I can.’


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Child of the 7th Age's post - Aiwendil

"Ah! My lady, do not lose heart." Aiwendil reached out with his hand to pat the woman gently on the shoulder. "Athwen, you have done a most admirable thing, leading these fellows straight into the pit. Truly I say that from the bottom of my heart. And telling us about this band is a big help. Since you have stood this perilous course so bravely, you must not doubt that others will do the same. There is too much at stake here.....people's lives and freedom. We must not give up so easily. I promise you that if these brigands attack, we will have our defenses up. Rôg is too modest, but he has a trick or two up that sleeve of his that he is too modest to divulge. And others will come to the grove to help."

"I have set aside a few buckets of water in the grove that you may certainly use. They are hidden under a large rock and protected from the winds. Plus there are a few herbs set there from my satchel that may do your patients some good. I am no healer of Men but sometimes I work with birds and beasts. So perhaps what I use can be helpful for you. If you have time before the wounded are brought in, you might talk with the mothers and have a look at a few of their children. From what I have seen some have suffered greatly at Nurn and could use the gentle hand of a healer. They may help them as much as potions or herbs."

Aiwendil hastily guided Athwen towards one of the women and introduced them. Then he took his leave, explaining that there was much planning to do. Rushing back to Rôg, he thumped the young man on the shoulder so hard that he spun around This time the wizard did not look or sound quite so confident. "Bad news, Rôg. Very bad news! Two of the women have told me that Azhar took off some time ago. The girl went to search for Tom, a little boy I put in her care who apparently slipped away, and all the mothers think that Azhar may be looking for him somewhere outside this grove. They did not see her go, but it does not look good. I would search on my own, but I mustn't leave when these men may attack AT ANY MINUTE. If you Would go out and do a little hunting, perhaps you could find them both and bring them back."

As to the other," he plunged forward without stopping, "I must speak with Lindir and tell him to bring as many men as he can to help us. I have a bad feeling about this band of slavers Athwen saw, and I wonder how many others are going to be heading here as well. You must hurry back as soon as you can. For we may need a helping hand or wing, whatever is available, once the battle starts. I only hope you can find these children before this Imak creature does....."

[Tevildo]

Azhar climbed onto the flat ledge of one of the larger boulders and hugged her knees to her chest, her body curled into a tight little ball. The wind stung hard against her back. Plunging her head into the folds of her skirt, she rocked gently back and forth in an attempt to find some relief from the tangled knot of her feelings, but her mind refused to let go. Two tears welled up and slid down, leaving dirty brown streaks on her cheeks and chin.

For what seemed liked forever, Azhar had scrambled from rock to rock and peered into the tiniest crevices where a small boy might have hidden. All her efforts had been for naught. There had been no trace of the lad. Azhar had a vague sense that a young woman, unarmed and inexperienced, should not be out in the open while a band of slavers still roamed the camp. But her guilt at having failed Tom was even stronger than her fear of being caught. Aiwendil had shown his trust by giving her an important task. It was the first job she’d ever had where she actually had the choice of saying ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Only she had not done it terribly well, and now there was a little boy lost somewhere on these bitter plains. Azhar would have given everything she had, not even stopping at life itself, to see that child safe in his mother’s arms.

The harsh swirl of the sands made it impossible to see more than a few paces away. The first warning of the approach of the men was the pounding of horses’ hooves. For one instant, the young girl thought of trying to run away. But they were almost upon her and, more than that, she had a dreadful presentiment that this trio might know something about where Tom had gone….better to know than not know, even if the truth was hard.

The one thing Azhar had not expected was to recognize one of her attackers. As the horses drew up and she cowered helplessly behind the boulder, the girl caught a glimpse of an all too familiar face. Imak, cruel as ever, slipped down from his horse and came striding over to where she was, jerked her up by the collar and glared down. Imak’s face went a deadly black as the leader of the slavers recognized the girl who had escaped from his camp two days before.

“What a pleasant surprise!” Imak sarcastically intoned. Then he announced to the other men, “This one is mine. She’s one of the two from the pit. The cause of half our troubles!” He took Azhar’s arm and pinned it against her back while snarling, “By the time I’m through, you’ll wish you were dead.”

In desperation, Azhar peered around hoping to see someone who could help but she was alone in this wasteland. Taking in the other riders, she glimpsed something that made her heart pound: a tiny body sprawled across one of the saddles. Whether the child was dead or alive, she could not see. But it was definitely Tom. The reality slowly hit her. No man would carry along a body of an enemy in the midst of battle. Spurred on by the knowledge that Tom was probably alive, she struggled with all her might to wrench free, kicking and flailing as she struggled towards the boy and called out his name. Azhar hardly knew what she was doing or why. She only knew she had to get over to Tom.

“So you know this one?” sneered Imak, taking hold again on Azhar’s collar and yanking her back.

“No, no, I’ve never seen him.” The girl protested. By now she was shaking with fear.

“That’s funny. I could have sworn I heard you call out a name.” Imak sauntered over to the unconscious child and removed his dagger from his belt, grinning at the girl. “Well, no friend of yours is a friend of mine.” With one rapid movement, he flashed his arm up intending to plunge the blade into the boy’s body.

Everything happened so fast that Azhar, even years later, could never explain how or why the change took place. It was almost like a dream. One moment Azhar was a girl standing there helpless while Tom was about to be killed and the next moment there was a quiet flash of understanding. Yes, mother, that’s how I do it. Faster than Imak’s arm could descend the little girl was gone and instead a gigantic brown bear roared up on his hind legs. Turning towards Imak, the bear reached out with a single swift paw and smacked the man on his side, sending him sprawling on the ground. The bear gave a triumphant growl and turned towards the other men, preparing to charge.

But the bear stopped dead in her tracks, shook her great lumbering head as if she was dazed, and then collapsed on the ground in a tangled heap. One moment the men were staring at a bear, scrambling to get away, and the next instant the little girl had come back.

Imak struggled to sit up, the pain pounding through his side, and then called out to one of his men. “Kill her Urgl. She’s a witch.”

The man turned his horse around and then dismounted, drawing out his sword as he strode over to where the girl lay.

[piosenniel]

Azhar and little Tom are rescued.....

By the time he found her, it was too late to finesse some way out of the deadly situation. From a short distance he’d watched her as she collapsed, resuming her young girl’s form. And now one of the men, his blade raised to strike, advanced rapidly on her still form.

There was simply no time to put a plan in place. In less than a few breaths Azhar would be dead.

Rôg did not relish the thought of killing the man.....the form he took, his clan form, had no such reservations.

The sword melted in the heat of the fiery blast. The flesh on the slaver’s arm caught flame and he screamed, turning as if to outrun the fire’s grip. Reaching out, the great wyrm’s foreleg crushed the man into the sand as if he were no more than a flea.

His great tail flicked round catching the other slaver, still ahorse, as the man turned his mount to escape. Rôg caught the man by the arm and yanked him from his saddle flipping him in a long high arc toward the hard, jagged edges of a rocky outcropping. The slaver’s screams grew distant as he flew through the air; stopping altogether as his heavy form met the earth.

All of the horses had now panicked and fled. The wyrm turned his yellowed eye on the last man, Imak. The slaver was struggling to rise to his feet, though it was clear he was still in some pain from the bear’s attack. Rôg dipped down his great head, clamping his razor sharp teeth on the man’s left arm.

It was a cry from Azhar that stopped him from snapping off Imak’s limb altogether. As it was, his maw slipped down to the end of the arm and with one small but satisfying crunch, he snipped off the man’s hand.

The girl had raised up weakly and was pointing to a small form on the ground where the little boy had slipped off the horse. Despite the fall, he did not seem harmed by his tumble. Only scared.....or perhaps angry, as he had begun to bawl quite loudly.

Flicking the slaver to the side with a brush of his forearm, Rôg started toward the small form.....

~*~

Straightening his robe about him, Rôg gathered up the wailing boy in his arms. His cloak found its way about Azhar’s shoulders to keep the chill from her thin form.

‘Come along, little one,’ he said as she leaned against him. One hand found its way to her shoulder, encouraging her to walk along with him. His other arm held the little boy, still fussing, against his chest. ‘You did a brave thing, Azhar, trying to protect him. A very brave thing.’

‘Later, when there is time, I’ll show you how to hold your form.’ He picked up his pace as he headed them toward where the women and children were gathered. ‘Come now, we must get back to where the others are waiting. I need you to watch him and his little sisters.....until the last of the slavers have been taken care of.....’

[Nogrod]

The first thing Beloan noticed after he had crossed the trench was a fast approaching figure of a man on his right. Beloan turned quickly to face the man and raised his sword ready. The man seemed to have noticed it and altered his course slightly to meet Beloan from his backhandside. He was now swinging his sword around in the air as he approached. And he was coming in fast. Beloan tried to regain the earlier angle to meet him face to face and took some fast steps backwards, turning slightly right as he suddenly recognised the man coming towards him just a few yards away.

“Erlech! No! It’s me, Beloan!” he shouted against the wind and waved his left hand. “Stop, Erlech!”

Erlech heard him at the last moment and managed to pull off his swing towards Beloan. He stopped just some feet from Beloan and stood still a while, breathing heavily.

“Something’s wrong here”, Beloan noted as his pulse had settled enough for him to speak. The men were staring each other, panting. “Where are all the slavers?”

Erlech straightened his back and tried to look around but the sudden gust of wind throwing whirls of sand everywhere had reduced the visibility to just a yard or two. The howling of the wind filled their ears. “Qat and Fewerth were fighting one down there behind!” Erlech shouted over the wind pointing backwards. “I’ve met no one!”

The wind slowed down for a moment. They both heard the sounds of a fight a little further away from them. “It must be Joshwan! C’mon!” Beloan cried and ran towards the noise. Erlech followed and soon passed Beloan. He was the younger and stronger of the two.

Joshwan was fighting two slavers at the same time. His spear laid splintered on the ground and another one of the slavers was bleeding heavily from his shoulder. The slavers were bombarding him with heavy blows from both sides and Joshwan was only parrying right and left as he tried to back away.

“Hang on Joshwan! We’re coming!” Erlech yelled as he and Beloan leapt forwards as fast as they could. A lot of things happened in the following seconds.

The unscratched slaver who was about to land his hit on Joshwan in turn noticed the two coming in and halted his attack for a second to judge the new situation. Joshwan noticed it and decided immediately to go for a surprise. So all of a sudden he reversed his retreat to an attack. In stead of parrying to his right he turned back to his left and towards the wounded slaver who had just hit him. He was just raising his sword for the next blow when Joshwan’s blade went through his chest. He had no time to realise what was happening. His eyes turned around in their sockets.

But the other one had only halted for a second and was quickly back in the tracks of what was happening. Before Joshwan had time to pull his sword back from the chest of the one, the other swang a mighty blow to his now open back. The pierced slaver fell backwards and Joshwan tumbled over him crying from pain.

Erlech charged the still standing slaver with his spear roaring with rage, just to realise that the slaver was not only stunningly fast to recover a defending posture but that he also had a shield! How could he have missed it? But it was too late. The slaver parried the baffled Erlech’s spear easily and managed to duck away from the onrushing man himself. By quickly shifting his place he was able to unbalance Erlech even more, so that with a slight bunch of the shield and a well placed leg Erlech went stumbling towards the ground head on in full speed. And still, after all this, Beloan who had been only a few steps behind Erlech was now facing a slaver perfectly ready for a duel.

The swords hit one another once, two times. On third encounter the blades clinged together, both men meeting the other from eye to eye on close range trying to yield another’s blade down and gain the upper hand. The slaver’s eyes were burning with spirit. “You scum! Take your place, slave!” the slaver hissed from between his teeth. Beloan didn’t answer but just tried to press harder while remaining calm on his face.

Then, from the corner of his eye Beloan saw Erlech rising up behind them. His eyes betrayd him and the slaver managed to back off from the situation. But before the slaver or Beloan had time to take advantage of the new situation they were both distracted by the sound of fast approaching thunder of hooves. Beloan saw the figure emerging from the sandstorm first. It was coming from behind of Erlech and it was coming in fast. And there it was, a spear lowered ready to hit. “Erlech! Behind you!” Beloan managed to cry out before the slaver was up on him again, now even more confident than earlier. He was attacking and hacking with fervour and Beloan had to back away just defending himself.

Erlech who had just risen up from the ground had only time enough to turn his head before the spear went through him.

Happily for Beloan, the wildly charging rider went on straight between him and the slaver he was backing away from thus giving him the valuable chance of pulling himself together and to draw some breath.

In the instance there was yet new movement to Beloan’s right. “I’ll take the rider! Go help Beloan!” thundered the deep voice of the giant man Qat, the bearded escapee, as he ran to pick up Erlech’s spear from the ground. Fewerth, although slightly wounded, was rushing to help Beloan shouting a battle cry as he came on.

The slaver who had been fighting Beloan took a few steps back to re-evaluate the situation and glanced around to locate his riding fellow. Beloan now had his two seconds of thought and yelled at Fewerth: “Fewerth! Get behind him and stay behind him!” Then he charged the slaver straight ahead.

The rider had been able to stop his mount and turned to face the fight again. He had heard bellowing from behind him and saw that something had changed. There was another man rushing towards his comrade. He charged immediately forward, aiming at the newcomer as he was nearer to his tracks. But before he managed to get into the striking distance a flying spear came out from the swirling dust and hit him on his left side. He fell down from the saddle and stumbled to the ground. The spear on his side twisted under the weight of his body but at the same time it swerwed even deeper inside, bringing unbearable pain to him.

The horse had no time to react and trampled Fewerth under it’s hooves as it tried to get out of this madness.

The next thing the unmounted slaver realised was a stern face bending over him. “Here’s for Erlech!” it shouted. The sword went through his throat and then it was over. Black. Nothing. A relief from pain.

After that Qat joined Beloan to fight the last slaver. The slaver had no chance. Beloan was attacking him from the front and Qat from behind. And even as he quite skilfully tried to back out to have his attackers on his sides, the two went on countering his moves. After a few rounds of blows Beloan managed to get behind the slaver as he was engaged with Qat and ran his sword through his back. The slaver fell to the ground face down.

“That was a real fighter...” Beloan whispered between panting. Qat nodded silently, trying to come even with his breath too.

“Erlech is dead, Joshwan is too, I’m afraid. How about Fewerth? We’ll have to check them. And check them fast! If they are alive, every moment counts! Come my fellow, check Fewerth, I’ll go for Joshwan!” Beloan said to Qat and forced himself on the move even though his whole body cried for rest. Qat forced himself to follow Beloan.

Joshwan was dead as Beloan reached him.

“He’s alive! Badly bruised but alive!” Qat called from beside Fewerth’s unconscious body. “What do we do now?”

[Folwren]

Athwen regained her senses and her dignity quickly as Rôg struggled to say a few kindly words. He gently disentangled his sleeve from her clutching hand and she stepped back, suddenly self-conscious. “The wounded.....I don’t know what to say about that. Except that I know you will do the best you can until the circumstances change.”

“Yes,” she gasped quietly, taking the scarf he so kindly offered. “Yes, of course I will. Thank you.”

Aiwendil must have heard the exchange of words, and tears, for he suddenly appeared at her side. His touch and old, kind voice brought new courage to her as he led her quickly away. “If you have time before the wounded are brought in, you might talk with the mothers and have a look at a few of their children. From what I have seen some have suffered greatly at Nurn and could use the gentle hand of a healer. That may help them as much as potions or herbs.” She was introduced to one of these mothers and before she could turn back to Aiwendil to explain that there already was a man who there who needed her help with a wound, he had left. She turned back to the woman.

“Gwyn?” she said, repeating the name that Aiwendil had told her. The woman nodded. “I have a wounded man with me…I think his name is Hadith. Can you show me where the buckets of water have been kept? I have a horse with Hadith on him, can we get the horse there?”

“Yes, I think we can. Go and get him. I’ll wait for you.”

Athwen hurried away to fetch the horse and lead him back. As she went, she folded Rôg’s scarf into a triangle and tied it around her nose and mouth. When her hands were empty again, she had reached the horse, and she reached up to take the reins near the bit. He tossed his head a little at first but, after a reluctant first step, he followed her meekly as she led him towards Gwyn.

“Wait a moment,” Athwen said as she reached her. “I need to get my pack. Hold him.” She handed the horse to Gwyn and then ran lightly away to where she had stored away her things earlier. She came back with the pack of healing herbs and other necessary things.

Gwyn waited for her and when Athwen reached her, she silently handed back the reins and turned to show the way. The women, with their little children pressed close about their skirts, made as much way as possible as Athwen and the horse passed through them. At the very back of the gathering of women and children they came to the rocks that formed the shelter. Gwyn led Athwen directly to a large stone that was slightly hollowed out towards the bottom, forming a slightly convex shape beneath which the air was still. Four buckets of water sat there. Clothes covered them to keep out any stray sand or dirt that might happen to reach them.

Athwen’s eyes lighted up a little when she saw such a place, blocked from the wind and calm on account of it. She brought the horse forward as far as he would come and then she ran about to his side. “Here, Gwyn, help me lift him down, please.”

Gwyn came about and together, the two women pulled Hadith down from his place and to the best of their ability, slowed his downward movement to set him gently on the ground beneath the curved rock. A quite groan forced its way through Hadith’s mouth, proving that he wasn’t quite senseless. An exclamation of surprise broke from Gwyn’s lips when she saw the blood that soaked Hadith’s whole left side and the wound in his arm. She shivered and shrank back.

Athwen, without looking up from her patient, laid her hand gently on Gwyn’s arm. “Easy, Gwyn. Unless you think you can stay and help me, take the horse back out from here.” She paused for a moment. Her mind was not only thinking about what to do with the horse, but also trying to make up its mind if she should be happy about Hadith being almost half conscious or unhappy. If he were still partially awake, that meant that he hadn’t lost as much blood as it had first appeared. On the other hand, if he were out cold, he wouldn’t make anything difficult by struggling against the pain. She blinked and made up her mind about the horse.

“Ask Rôg where you can put him…or, no, Rôg is busy.” She looked up at the horse and then at Gwyn. “Take him out from among you. I don’t know how steady he will be with the winds and when the fighting comes. Tie him someplace to a bush.”

“I will,” Gwyn said, hurriedly getting to her feet and backing away towards the horse. She stopped as she bumped lightly into his shoulder. “Will he – will he be alright?”

“I don’t know,” Athwen said honestly, looking up to meet Gwyn’s eyes. She nodded towards the horse. “Take him along now, before he does something.” Gwyn nodded, her eyes very large and round in her face, and she turned swiftly and taking the reins, led the horse quickly away and through the women and children again.

Athwen sighed and turned back towards Hadith. She wasted no time at all to roll her sleeves up to her elbows and carefully pull one of the buckets of water towards herself. Then she gently set to work clearing away the torn and ragged cloth of his shirt from the bloody mess of his shoulder. A sort of shudder passed through Hadith’s body as she worked and whenever her hand touched the bleeding limb. She pursed her lips at the mangled and savagely wounded arm. As she finished pulling the last, rough bit of material from the wound, she shook her head in wonder.

“My dear fellow,” she muttered between her teeth, “you were one lucky man today.” She reached out for her pack and set to work staunching the blood and examining what sort of damage was actually done.

The sword of the slaver had cut just beneath the collar bone. It sliced deep within the flesh there, cut beneath the bone of the shoulder and Athwen, as she sponged away the blood, could see the white bone of his arm. She knew she did not have long to work before fighting in the grove would break her short time of piece, or before more wounded people were brought in. She grasped for her pack again and drew out a long, sharp needle and thread.

The work was quick and precise. Hadith tried to move and he often uttered a weak moan. Athwen kept on, knowing she could do nothing for the pain at present. She had the wound stitched and bandaged quickly, though, and when it was over, he could rest much more comfortably.

When she had finished, she quietly rearranged her bag and moved it back towards the water. She replaced the bucket and then walked back out towards the open and the wind.

----------------------------------

Tevildo's post

Tom had fallen asleep in Rôg's arms, his head nestled securely within the shapechanger's cloak. The girl trotted alongside her rescuer as the little party of three hurried back towards the grove where the women and children were waiting. Azhar's heart pulsed with a strange excitement. So much had happened since the morning that she barely knew how to make sense of it all. Even now, she was having trouble getting her bearings. In all the tumult and shock, she'd forgotten about the war, her fear of losing Tom, her inability to hold her shape, and even her repulsion at seeing the slavers' bodies lying dead and mangled on the ground. Her head was filled with jumbled images of great bears and flashing dragons, creatures of incredible might who could lash out and in a single instant command the attention of all around them.

The girl's entire life had been mired in fear. She had feared the whips of the orc overlords and the sneering grins of the Easterlings. For the first time since leaving the plantation, Azhar sensed the enticing possibility of leaving that experience behind her. If she could learn to control these abilities, if she could take on the bear form whenever it suited her, then she would be as strong as any Orc chieftain....even stronger. Part of her wished that she had come into her powers many years ago. She imagined swooping down on a band of slaveholders and taking them out with a single blow. The other part wanted to change into bear form and clamber up onto a pile of rocks so everyone could see and admire her mighty muscles and claws.

A brief smile slipped over Azhar's face. Kwell had said that women couldn't fight. She would have loved to see his face when she casually changed her form and slipped up behind him with a loud and menacing growl.

Azhar glanced nervously over at Rôg and wondered. The man was enormously kind; he seemed so mild mannered and unassuming. He meekly acceded to the requests of Lindir and even the elderly Aiwendil, yet he was clearly a better fighter than either of them! If Azhar had been Rôg, she would have slipped into dragon form and glided out over the open plain in full daylight, attacking and decimating the band of slavers before they ever even reached the camp. Why, she wondered, didn't he do that? Then they wouldn't have had to go through this terrible battle. At the very least, she would have made sure that all her companions knew and understood exactly who she was. But it seemed as if Rôg was very quiet about these things, keeping everything to himself.

Azhar would have loved to ply Rôg with a whole string of questions. At the same time, she wondered whether she would have the chance to see the dragon again should the slavers attack their little grove. Unfortunately, this did not seem to be the right time or place to be asking Rôg such hard questions. And she had better keep her own mind on what was going on around her or she would end up dead before she ever had the time to learn how to hold and manage her other shape.

With a sigh, Azhar said her hasty goodbyes to Rôg, thanking him for all his help and promising to look out after the children. She and Tom went back to where the women were waiting, only this time two of the mothers whisked the little boy and his sisters away and reassured her that they could manage to care for the three children. Too nervous to stay hidden in one place, Azhar wandered back to where the older children were waiting. She looked around for Kwell but he still was not back. Then she stared out and saw where Athwen was caring for the sick and wounded. The woman seemed to be having quite a time of it. Darting from boulder to boulder, she came up to the healer and asked, "Do you need any help?"

[Durelin]

It was a struggle for them to try and move the Dwarf, Khamir with only one hand and Adnan with only one that was very usable. They more often all but dragged him than carried him, and though they winced each time the dropped him down to the ground, they knew that it was no good to leave him on the battlefield, even for the time being. They did not fully understand what kind of injuries he might have, and so they were rushing him toward someone that hopefully would. From time to time Khamir would have Adnan stop and they'd check Vrór’s pulse and listen to his breathing for a moment, and after each time the number of minutes between each check would grow smaller.

Khamir thought his breathing was shallow, and that worried him deeply. His heart felt torn to pieces, as he looked from the Dwarf to the boy and then thought of Shae and Hadith and... He had never cared for so many people in his life, and never so deeply even for any one. It made him feel so helpless, so without control. He did not even know where Shae was. He had not seen her for hours. He had not seen Hadith since the beginning of the battle. Adnan had disappeared on him in a matter of moments, and when he found the young man again, he was covered in blood and missing his two middle fingers. And now Vrór, who he had barely known of for more than a day, lay unconscious before him.

“Khamir?” the voice sounded rougher than he remembered it, but it still certainly belonged to Adnan. It was the first time the boy had spoken in some time, and it startled the one-armed man so that he almost dropped the hold his left hand had on Dwarf’s wrists. His shoulder ached, and the slight disruption was enough to cause the arms to slowly slide out of his grip, no matter how he tried to hold them up.

“Drop him!” he said in a strained voice. Adnan obeyed, and they rest Vrór on the ground together. Sliding the chainmail from his left shoulder with a groan, Khamir asked, “What is it, Adnan?” a little more sharply than he meant to. The boy did not seem affected, though. It was strange. Likely he would have at least faltered at such a tone just a day earlier, perhaps even simply an hour ago.

“What are we doing? If we’re worried about the slavers getting to the women and children, what is the point of bringing the Dwarf to where they are?”

Khamir knew he had a good point, but he felt anger rise in him, and the ache of his body clouded his mind. His senses were not around to protect him from himself, and he snapped at the boy. “Do you value his life so little? Do you not have any idea what he has done for us?”

Adnan snapped back at him immediately. He had changed. “No, I don’t have any idea. And you think you do? He just showed up last night!”

“I do know that he had much more to sacrifice than any of us have ever had,” the older man spat, and both of them grew silent.

Khamir growled from frustration directed at practically everything around him. “What are we doing?” is a better question to ask now, he thought bitterly. But he did not know the answer, regardless of when or how it was asked. He did not know what to do. He had always been the one with ideas, people had looked to him to follow him…and he had hated that they did. When he lost that, he hated that it was gone.

Now he was completely lost.

“We just have to get there. For Vrór, and for the others. They’ll need all the help they can get.”

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Nasim was cradling a younger man named Zaki in his arms when Khamir and Adnan found him. Gamal, a man who appeared older than Khamir stood beside him. Blood covered his shirt, but he appeared fine. Nasim had received a gash on his leg, but he paid it no mind as he looked down into the lifeless face of Zaki. His tears mingled with the blood on the dead man’s forehead. They had found freedom together, but they had not seen a new beginning together.

They pulled Nasim away from his friend, and the going was easier with the help of two more men to carry Vrór. No one spoke as they moved, but each of their minds were filled with the same fears. As they carried the Dwarf as a precious cargo toward the rocks, they carried a comrade, not a stranger from a strange land, and repeatedly glanced at his still form with bated breath.

[Firefoot]

Whether she liked it or not, whether she wanted to be there or not, a battle was going on and she was in the middle of it. Johari wished she knew what was happening. Were they winning? Had their plans worked? The sounds of fighting seemed to call to her: the ringing of swords and knives, impassioned shouts, cries of pain.

The question kept coming back to her: why had she decided to sit around uselessly as one of those who could not or had no means to fight? She had been given a knife, after all, and she felt guilty every time she recalled this. It was true she had not wanted to get involved, but it was too late for that. Somehow she had become intrinsically caught up in the affairs of all these people about whom she did not really care. She did not want to fight for them… but as it was, she was letting people fight for her. That rankled.

The battle must be practically over, though! What good in joining now? Perhaps there would be something.

Feeling disoriented and rather absurd (what was she doing, anyway?) she began walking off towards the fighting, or where she thought there was fighting. It was so hard to see in this cursed sandstorm!

She nearly passed right by him. Indeed, for a few moments she thought he was dead from the blood on his clothes and her breath caught in her throat. But her better sense took over and she noticed the bandaging that covered his shoulder; he had been injured, not killed, and already tended. And he had just been left lying here against the rocks; plenty of women and children were around, but no one was paying any attention to him anymore.

“Hadith?”

Did his head turn slightly towards her? Was that quiet moan in response or just from pain? Forgetting her recent resolve to join the battle after all, Johari knelt down beside him. What had happened to him? And would he be all right? Seeing him so helpless like this seemed to evoke another memory just at the edge of consciousness, but she didn’t know which, and she was pretty sure she didn’t want to remember. The thought was quickly driven from her mind.

“You had better not die, Hadith,” she told him, though he didn’t look that near death. She didn’t even know if he could hear her. "You'd better not." I won't let you.

[Durelin]

Khamir noticed Adnan’s steps were becoming heavier and clumsier by the minute, and redoubled his efforts to try and lighten the boy’s load even more. With the four of them to carry the Dwarf, it was not difficult going, but the young man was in horrible shape. Adnan refused to speak a word about his pains, and Khamir respected his wish to push on with them and to try to hide them. He breathed a sigh of relief when they neared where those who could not fight were hidden among the rocks. As they came, women smiled at them, children gazed at them with wonder in their eyes, and the old men nodded approvingly to them. Everyone gave a concerned look to Vrór and then to Adnan.

Nasim and Khamir’s eyes were searching for Athwen, with hopes that she was not too busy with other wounded. They had no idea what sort of devestation had befallen their own ranks, and they were afraid to find out. And they both were uncertain regarding Vrór’s fate. The Dwarf had not moved – not even twitched an eye – and his breathing came and went in the same, slow, shallow rhythm.

When they found the woman, they called out to her almost simultaneously.

“Mistress Athwen,” Khamir called her as she caught sight of them and began to approach them; he remembered such titles from his brief education as a young man destined to follow in his father’s footsteps in a very successful trade. They kept moving, as well. They all silently agreed not to stop carrying Vrór until he could be placed safely before her. The woman was already giving orders, though, and soon at least a couple blankets were thrown down on which the Dwarf’s body could be rested.

“The tunnel collapsed on him,” Khamir said, “I do not know what is wrong, but he has not moved at all. He is breathing, but not so well…”

Athwen nodded curtly, her focus all on the Dwarf, her face furrowed with worry. Khamir glanced at Adnan, who still managed to stand on his own two feet, though he seemed to sway a little. Vrór first, he thought, though he must sit down. He placed the fifteen-year-old down on the ground where he could lean against a rock, and was surprised at how easy it was to put the boy down, regardless of how bad he had thought his condition was.

Khamir joined the other worried faces all around him, standing near Athwen as she tilted the Dwarf’s head back slightly. He had a feeling she was as unsure as he was what to do for Vrór, though she likely had a better understanding as to why things were so uncertain for him.

~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~

Perhaps Imak and his men had underestimated the slaves – and they certainly had not expected to find strange people from the West among them – but the Easterlings were soldiers of a sort, if not the same as those found in Gondor or Rohan. They were in particular accustomed to trapping men like rats and burning them out of their holes, and though most did not put up such a fight, they hardly felt set back. The slaves had focused their attention on one avenue of attack, and though they had successfully led practically half the force into their traps, they had allowed their victory to rest on such an uncertainty.

With both their men and their tricks focused in one direction, the slaves’ rear was left wide open, and Imak knew there were a number of women, children, and elders that would not be able to fight. And where would they find them? Behind their brave defenders, hiding away, just waiting for Imak and his men to pry them out from under their rock. The Easterlings nearly felt prepared to slaughter them all rather than bother with rounding them up alive. They were furious due to their losses, though more for the loss of pride than the loss of lives.

The slaves, mostly women, children, the old, and the wounded, lay in hiding among the rocks, some shaking with fear with the new knowledge that the slavers might indeed be on their way toward them, which had trickled through them all quickly from what one heard for the old man. Some felt themselves begin to grow resigned to the idea of slavery again, but most would cling to their so far short-lived freedom till the end. Aiwendil seemed of little help when they looked at him, but he inspired strength in them, simply from his goodness and his strength of mind and character. He bustled about, and his busyness was somehow reassuring.

They tried to console themselves and each other, saying that the fighters would stop them. Word had reached them that the traps had worked since wounded had begun to arrive, and they felt more secure in the idea that most of the enemy had already been taken out. They knew it likely was not true, and with every wounded person brought in they felt their hopes die a little, but they kept themselves from panic only through lying to themselves, and watching Aiwendil and his friend, a Southern man – which had surprised the slaves – on the move while they sat in dread.

Few warriors arrived other than some wounded, and some of the women and old men began looking for what they could use to defend themselves and their children.

Then they came, with the crashing of hooves seemingly from nowhere transforming into fear on horseback, shining golden like the sun. Most found themselves unable to move, others were prepared to stand their ground, and a few scattered, running for their lives and forgetting about their freedom.

Khamir leapt immediately into action. He had not sat down for more than a second since he and the others had brought Vrór to Athwen, and adrenaline still coursed through him, leftover from earlier battle. He glanced at Adnan, and, not to his surprise, saw the boy trying to get up. “You should not!” the one-armed man said roughly to him, but turned away from him almost immediately. It was the boy’s decision to make, and he was not the only one Khamir had to protect.

[Folwren]

Only a few minutes after Athwen had finished bandaged Hadith, she was called back to her duty. She spotted Khamir and his two companions drawing near, carrying between all three of them the figure of the Dwarf. Athwen’s eyes widened with a sudden feeling of fear and she started forward even before the one armed man called out to her.

She ran quickly before them and prepared a place for the Vrór to be laid. As the three of them set him down, Khamir explained, to the best of this ability, what was wrong. “The tunnel collapsed on him. I do not know what is wrong, but he has not moved at all. He is breathing but not so well...”

Athwen’s mind was already racing. She could only spare Khamir a nod and that was even given without looking up at him. Then her attention fell only to the dwarf. The dear old fellow, usually so vibrant and full of life, usually merry. She couldn’t help but remember their journey together even as she searched for some way to help him.

She didn’t know how to tend someone buried alive. She knew only a little of saving someone half drowned. Remembering that knowledge, she tipped his head back a little. His mouth opened slightly. Her fingers sought for a pulse in his neck, pressing against the vein by his throat. She felt the blood pass slowly once, and again, and consistently, though slowly, his heart still beat. With a slight sigh of relief, she dropped his hand and tended to the gash in his head. In a few minutes, she had done what she could.

“He still breaths and lives,” she said, looking up. “I do not know what else to do for him!” It was both an apology and despair mixed with hope. “I will try to help him more later,” she added, looking back down. “There are others that are in more danger and who I will be able to help.” For in the few breif minutes that she had spent checking Vrór, others had been helped back to her.

Her eyes went first to Adnan who had sat silently a little to her right. He had been one of those who carried Vrór in. She gave him as encouraging a smile as she could muster. “You aren’t in any condition to have carried in Vrór,” she said as she moved over towards him. He made no reply, but moved his eyes towards her. Athwen lifted her hand and turned his face slightly to look at the bloody cheek, and then her eyes dropped towards his chest where blood had seeped through his shirt.

“Let me get water. Can you take off your shirt?” She half turned to get a bucket, but stopped abruptly as Adnan silently lifted his hands to try to undo the buttons. “Good heavens, boy!” she exclaimed as here eyes spotted the mangled hand. “Stop it!” She reached out and gently took the clumsily bandaged hand. Adnan did not struggle as Athwen undid the bandage from his fingers and his wrist. “Sit still,” Athwen commanded when she had seen the damage. “Don’t do anything.”

She turned away and went to move some water and her pack to Adnan. Her hand reached out to take the pack when someone came and stopped by her side.

“Can I help?”

Athwen looked up. It was Azhar, standing with her hands clasped behind her back and her large eyes looking solemnly into Athwen’s face. Athwen smiled a little and as she straightened up, put her hand on the girl’s arm.

“Maybe. We’ll find out and see. How are you doing yourself? Do you still feel badly?” She looked at Azhar’s face and touched her forehead. The flush of fever had gone from her cheeks, her eyes were clear, and no heat came from her face to Athwen’s hands.

“I am well,” Azhar said. “I would like to help you.”

“Very well, then. Come with me.”

She turned and led the way back to Adnan, but before she could say anything at all to either of them, cries broke out, and the sound of pounding hooves faintly reached their ears. Khamir started up to his feet and even Adnan struggled to rise.

“You should not,” Khamir said to him, turning only long enough to say that. Then he went out, leaving Adnan with Athwen and Azhar, as well as all the others who had been brought in. Adnan continued to rise, but Athwen grabbed his unharmed wrist and tugged at him.

“No! What do you think you can do out there, except finish getting yourself killed? Sit down and let me fix you up. Please!”

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Before Carl had gone more than a dozen paces, Kwell called out to him. And turning around the hobbit saw that the boy’s outstretched hands held Hamin’s sword by the hilt. “Take it,” Kwell shouted, his voice muted by the wind. “It’s too awkward for me, but someone else will trade you for it.” Carl knew that the thing would be cumbersome to carry, but responding to the young man’s attempt to better equip him, he jogged back. Taking the weapon with thanks, he paused a moment, suddenly thinking himself cruel to send him off alone. But it was a short lived notion, for in a flash he had dismissed the thought as sentimental. No, Kwell would be better off without him. If the lad wanted company, let him station himself with Lindir or one of the bigger folk who had a chance at defending him.

Parting ways, Carl retraced his steps hunting for arrows. The precious few he found he picked up, trying not to think of their uselessness in the gale. Working his way toward the earthworks, he hoped to find them more readily. But rather than coming across a bountiful crop of arrows, the hobbit found a riderless horse near the collapsed tunnel’s edge, and cautiously crept toward the beast. By all it trappings, it was a slaver’s mount, with quite outlandish gear. And Carl thought that if by chance he could manage to win the horse’s confidence, it would serve to provide a bit of cover for him out on the plain.

Carl looked about him, for a sign of the horse’s master. And the wind, which had been growing more erratic, lulled a moment. In a glance Carl saw that the horse was alone on the littered field, quite the picture of patient misery. Speaking soothingly and confidently to the creature, who tossed his head at the approaching hobbit, Carl pulled off his handkerchief, and wiping the dust from the horse’s face, took the reins loosely, quickly discovering that the horse was surprisingly good tempered. It did not take much coaxing for him to be led along the rim of tunnel.

As the wind shifted Carl saw the crumbled heaps of fallen men before him. Noting that they were slavers, he gave them wide berth and had almost passed them by, when a flash of light lit their clothing bright orange, and a pained wailing carried by the wind soon followed. A chill ran down Carl’s spine, and the horse suddenly reared up. And as the hobbit struggled to calm the animal, whose body and sharp hooves rose over him, he spied an archer half hidden behind one of the corpses, taking aim at him from the other side. “Whoa, Whoa there Dirand!” He shouted at the top of his voice. “Take care, over there! It’s just Carl you’re looking to drop!”

Grim and graying, the fellow slowly stood up muttering. “Whoa yourself! What were you thinking? You ought not hide behind the enemy’s horse if you’re not one of them!” He stalked over, quickly catching the horse’s bridle.

"Well, at least your hearing is sound!" Carl returned. "But what was that flash? Did you see it?"

"Aye, a burst of fire, from over that way," Durand said, nodding toward the back of the camp.

“It weren’t no firecracker, I’ll be bound. Must mean trouble,” Carl said.

Just then yet another archer appeared climbing over the rim of the collapsed tunnel, for he also had emptied his quiver and had sought to replenish his stock from the spend arrows lying around the trench and tunnel. After the two men exchanged a few words in a foreign tongue, the old man seemed reluctant to look back at the hobbit. And Carl was suddenly filled with foreboding as he saw the other archer weighing something in his mind. A hand came to rest on the hobbit’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I’ve bad news for you,” the younger of the two told him softly, so that the hobbit could barely hear him. “We saw your friend with the orange bearded one, carried off by Khamir and Adnan a little while ago. He was in poor shape by the look of things.”

“Not dead though, I’ll wager,” Dirand quickly added, seeing Carl’s stunned expression. “I don’t think they’d bother to move him if he were.”

But the hobbit’s mind had gone numb as the news sank in. “Where did go with him?” he asked. But before he had his answer the three heard the thunder of hooves break out at the back of the camp.

“I think they were taking him toward the shelter over there,” Dirand said frowning, for all three realized that this lay nearby the location now under attack. And the younger of the two archers, not hesitating, immediately sprinted off toward the fray leaving the two others by the side of the tunnel.

Carl handed the old man Hamin’s sword, which until now had been trailing in the dust behind him. Turning his attention back to the horse, he rapidly shortened the stirrup beside him. “What do you want me to do with this?” the man said.

“Use it well,” Carl said. “We are going to ride this horse and fight like we never fought before. Have you ever used a sword?”

“Wait… no! And I volunteered for archery not horses. I don’t know anything about horses… or swords!”

“Don’t worry about the horse,” Carl said moving to the other stirrup. “I’ll do the steering; you just swing that sword with all your strength.”

“But it’s a slaver’s horse!”

“It’s not his fault, you know. And that’s a slaver’s sword as well.”

“You missed my point…”

But Carl had already scrabbled up onto the horse’s back. “Are you coming or not?” he asked as the horse shuffled sideways under him.


“Aye, I’ll come, I’ll come,” the old man said, “Though I think it foolhardy.”

As soon as Dirand, had found his way onto the horse, it lurched forward, and the grizzled man grabbed Carl to keep from falling off. Together they rode into the wind.

[Brinniel]

Shae kept at a steady pace, her teeth gritted against the pain. Would she make it in time? One could only hope. But then, how much damage could she really do? She was only one woman—an injured one at that. Where was everyone else from the tunnel? Didn’t they realize the slavers’ plans as well? Such thoughts rattled through her brain until they were interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats following her own.
Slavers.
Coming from behind, they clearly had the advantage. Shae was not prepared to fight this way and if she were to save herself, she would have to avoid it. Kicking hard, she picked up her pace hoping they would not catch up to her. And then, against the whistling wind came a voice clearly calling her name. Shae slowed, feeling rather confused. Then the shout came again.
“Shae! Wait up!” Slowing to a near stop, she turned her head, surprised to find Reagonn and another ex-slave named Syth on top of their horses. Other than a few cuts and bruises, both remained unscathed. “What are you doing?” the former asked. “This isn’t a race you know.”
“Sorry… I thought you were slavers,” she muttered apologetically. “…Were you following me?”
Reagonn hesitated, then nodded. “What happened back at the tunnel was complete chaos. Everything fell apart so quickly. Among the mess I saw you take off suddenly. You seemed to know where you were going, so Syth and I followed.”
“You were worried for me,” the woman stated plainly.
The man gave a slight smile and shrugged. “You should know it’s never smart to go off on your own like that. Especially in the middle of a battle. We fight together.”
Shae rolled her eyes. “I don’t understand why you men worry so much about me. You all treat me like I’m helpless, or something. You know, the last time I wandered off, I brought back the Fellowship. I’m completely capable of….” She trailed off, thinking for a moment before changing the subject. “Wait a minute…where’s the rest of the cavalry? What ever happened to Ayce and Darren? …Korden?”
There was a pause. “They fell behind.” The response came from Syth, who spoke with a quiet and solemn tone. The look on his face reflected the devastation the ex-slaves had already experienced in tonight’s battle. He continued, “Then we just took off…after you. We left them all behind.” The young man stared accusingly at the woman.
“Only because we had to,” was Shae’s reply. “We’ve wasted enough time…we ought to keep moving.”
“And where are we going, Shae?” Reagonn asked.
Shae could feel frustration taking over. There was no time to explain, and yet she had to. “Do you not understand?” she retorted. “We only fought half the slavers at the tunnel. Where do you think the rest are headed? Our women and children are in danger. I abandoned the tunnel to help them!”
“Of course,” Reagonn nodded, his eyebrow creased with understanding. “If help is what they need, then I am ready. How about you, Syth?”
The other ex-slave nodded as well.
“Alright then.” The woman took hold of her reins and repositioned herself on the saddle, slightly too quickly. A sharp pain hit her left side again, and she folded over despite all attempts to hide the pain.
A concerned Reagonn approached Shae on his horse until they were only a few feet away from each other. In the darkness, his grey eyes wandered from the blood on her forehead to the swollen wrist. “You’re hurt,” he stated simply.
“Well yes, that’s what happens when one fights in a battle.”
“You’re in no condition to fight.”
His comment angered Shae. Who was he to tell her what to do? “Of course I am,” she replied. “Surely you don’t think I’d let a few minor injuries stop me.”
The man would not let off so easily. “Minor injuries you may think, but keep fighting with a wrist like that, and you’ll do permanent damage.”
Shae smiled and held up her injured arm in front of Reagonn’s face. “Are you telling me you know how to fix broken bones now? If so, feel free to set it…”
Reagonn shook his head, slightly smiling. “Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll leave you alone. We’ll just make sure to have Athwen look at it once the battle is over.”
“If she’s still alive, that is.” Both frowned at the thought, but they knew it was possible—no one had seen the healer since she misled the slavers into the trench.
The sound of a loud tear startled the two. Looking up, Shae found Syth, holding out a strip of cloth. “Take it,” he mumbled to her. “It will at least stabilize your wrist for now.”
Surprised at his kindness, the woman thanked him and wrapped the cloth tightly around the swollen limb. When she was done, all three ex-slaves looked at each other. Nodding in unison, they continued on together.

***

Though the storm was clearly not over, the wind began to slow, if only slightly. Squinting into the distance, Shae could see the outline of where the women and children were hiding. They were close. But as they continued on, she heard the sounds of shouting and her heart sank. She had hoped to outrun the slavers, but already a battle had begun. With a yelp, the woman raced on even faster, with her companions following close behind. What she was not prepared for, was what happened next.

There was a flash of something whizzing by, then a loud gasp. Shae snapped her head around to find a spear skewered into Syth’s chest. The man stared at her for a split second, then dropped from his horse, and the animal continued to race into the distance. The remaining two ex-slaves instantly halted and dismounted. It was Reagonn who made it to Syth first.
After checking the pulse, he glanced up. “He’s dead,” Reagonn said, his voice hollow.
Shae nodded, but she was paying little attention. The owner of the spear was approaching quickly. He came at such ferocity, the ex-slaves’ horses began to spook and back away. The slaver shielded himself well, and from the angle they were standing, the woman knew there was no way to hit him with a weapon of their own. Unsheathing a throwing dagger, Shae waited until he was only feet away. With a flick of the wrist, the dagger left her hand and slid into the stallion’s throat. The horse died instantly, tumbling to the ground, taking the slaver with him. There was silence.

The wind began pick up again and much visibility was lost.
“You think he’s dead?” Reagonn asked.
Shae didn’t respond as the two glanced from the heap of the horse back to each other. A movement caught the corner of her eye and she shook her head. Reagonn turned around and approached the dead animal cautiously. “Watch out,” she warned him. Reacting to her sudden comment, Reagonn turned his head at the woman, a mistake that would cost him.

Instantly, the slaver was up. His body was slightly bloody and bruised from the hard fall, but otherwise it seemed little harm was done. Reagonn had no time to react, and in a flash of steel, the heavy blade entered his stomach. Shae yelled in horror as she watched the man she had known for years crumble to the ground. The slaver turned around and rose up his bloody blade as he gave the woman a hideous smile. He strutted toward her, sword still in hand ready to finish the job. Shae released her own newly prized sword from its sheath and used it just in time to block the attack. The two clashed swords and the woman found herself in a better situation this time using a stronger weapon. She used her swift speed to an advantage and this time it was she who knocked the weapon from her opponent’s hand. The slaver stared at his bloody hand in horror—two fingers were gone. Shae looked back at him in surprise, almost laughing at how easy it was to fight this supposed highly skilled man. Then her old injuries took hold and she doubled over as the pain once again hit her entire left side.

Shae’s opponent saw her vulnerable state and immediately charged at her. Before she knew what was happening, Shae was on the ground, her sword gone from her hand. The slaver pressed his bloody hand into her throat, and the woman gasped for air. She kicked and clawed at him, but the man on top of her was too large and too heavy. He raised his uninjured fist and plummeted it into her left cheek. She struggled, but he continued to hit her again and again. Shae was ready to give up, when suddenly the slaver froze in his movements. She glanced up, only to see the end of a blade protruding from his chest. Behind him kneeled Reagonn, growling with both anger and pain, as he grasped tightly onto the bloody hilt. The slaver took several short gasps, then collapsed right next to the woman.

Shae stood up slowly, still shaking from her attack.
I’m a complete mess.
She couldn’t help but think this as she wiped her nose and spit the blood from her mouth. Her face felt sticky from both her blood as well as the enemy’s. A soft groan brought her attention back to Reagonn. He sat clutching his stomach, grimacing from the pain. Immediately, she was at his side.
“Let me see,” she instructed. Reagonn stared back, reluctant to remove his hands. “Please Reagonn,” the woman pleaded. “I only want to help you.”
The man lifted his hands and Shae’s heart grew heavy at watch she saw. The slaver’s sword had thrusted deep into Reagonn’s stomach, obviously penetrating several organs.
“You can’t help me,” he whispered, and Shae knew he spoke the truth. It was impossible for anyone to survive such damage. Yet, the woman found herself unable to face the facts, and instead chose denial.
“Of course I can,” she spoke confidently. “We just need to stop the bleeding.” Shae took off one of his two layers of shirts and tied it around his stomach. “I will take you to where the women and children are—surely the slavers haven’t completely breeched the camp yet. You’ll be taken care of there. There’s no need to worry. You’ll be fine—I’m sure of it.” She stood up and looked about. Her stomach lurched as she was unable to find what she was searching for. “Where are the horses,” she asked, frantic.
“They... probably frightened off…during the fight,” Reagonn spoke softly.
Shae cursed in frustration. “Very well then, I’ll just have to take you there myself.” She grabbed at Reagonn in an attempt to pick him up. But the man was heavier than she, and with only one usable arm, carrying him was impossible. Yet, she could not let herself give up, so she tried again.
“Shae…Shae!” Reagonn struggled to call her name as blood spewed from his mouth. “Shae, please stop already.” She finally listened, and let go of the man. “You cannot save me…You know that.”
“No!” the woman yelled through both tears and anger. “Don’t you say that!” A hand reached up to Shae’s, and Reagonn pulled her down near him.
“It’s okay,” he whispered to her. “I’m ready to go.” Shae’s hot tears splashed onto his cheek. Reagonn coughed. “There’s still a battle out there,” he continued. “They still need you. Don’t….don’t waste all you energy on me.” He gave a small smile. “All these years, I killed in the name of my friend Bornir, seeking vengeance for his death. But no matter how many men I killed…it was never enough…” Reagonn coughed again and gasped several times for air. Then his eyes fixed and he went still.

Shae closed Reagonn’s eyes and whispered a short prayer for safe passage. Standing up, she found her sword buried in sand and re-sheathed it. Staring at her companions’ corpses, she struggled to hold back more tears. Once again, the woman was alone. There was nothing more she could do except continue to her destination where the battle carried on. And hearing the cries in the distance, she knew it was time to go.

With the horses missing, Shae had no choice to walk. Despite her exhaustion, she managed to keep a fairly quick pace, her bare feet trudging through the sand. Not once did she take her eyes off her destination. Sounds became clearer and shapes took form. The battle was ongoing and all those involved fought intensely. Still too far away to identify enemy from friend, Shae continued her steps to bring whatever aid was needed. Suddenly, a sound coming from behind caused her to freeze in her tracks. She whipped around only to find two slavers on horseback coming her way. Glancing around, Shae began to panic. She may be close, but she had not quite reached the women and children’s camp. The only ex-slaves in sight were occupied with their own battles. There was no one to help her.

Shae could feel the sense of dread creep through her insides. Without a horse, she could not turn and run. And her duels with one slaver had been difficult enough—battling two of them at once would be impossible to survive. Injured and alone, she was already dead. Where was help when she needed it? The slaver continued towards her, weapons in hand, and still no sign of help came. Shae had no choice—she would have to face this battle alone. Giving a deep sigh, the woman unsheathed her weapon, praying that her luck would soon change.

[Child of the 7th Age]

For the past hour, Lindir and the young archers had played a game of tag with the three men heading south on horseback. What had seemed like an easy shot just a short while before was actually proving extremely difficult. Lindir would dart out from behind a boulder and try to slip up close enough to let his arrow fly straight and true. Although the winds had subsided to a bearable roar, they were still blowing stiffly. The Elf still could not shoot with any accuracy. Gretl and Wulf were having similar bad luck. Whatever element of surprise they'd had in the beginning was now completely lost. If the ground had been flat and open, the horsemen would have likely run them down, but the great clumps of scattered boulders offered them a handy refuge that the riders could not easily penetrate.

From the plains to the north and east, an urgent note from a rams horn swelled to a crescendo and then fell silent. The slavers stopped for an instant. glanced at each other, and immediately took off in the direction from which they had heard the horn. At the same instant, words of warning came tumbling into Lindir's head. Turning to his companions, he hastily explained, "Imak gathers his men for one final attack. They go to the grove where the women and children wait. Already, they being their attack." Gesturing with his arm to the others, the three took off at breakneck speed sprinting over the plain in the same direction as the slavers, hoping that they could get there before it was too late.

[Folwren]

Kwell watched Carl go until with wind whipped sand hid him from sight. Then he sighed and bent his head towards the wind and headed back the way he had come. He could hear nothing besides the rush of wind, but in his inner ear, he heard Carl’s voice. ‘They might be needing a stout hearted lad such as you, just now. . .You go take care of Azhar for me. I’ve a good hunch you might be better at it than me.’

Then came Azhar’s voice, shouting at him. He had ignored her. ‘Kwell, you louse. I am no child!...A real soldier wouldn’t disobey his captain’s instructions, and he wouldn’t desert his post!’ Would desert his post! Kwell urged his feet onward. Lindir had told him to stay back, but Kwell had thought that he had been told to stay behind so as to keep him out of danger. Could it really have been so that he could fight, when the time came?

He felt something sink in side of him. What if they were attacked? What if people were killed? What if he could have been there to help them? What if . . . what if . . .

But even as his feet hurried onward, his mind began to race to defend himself. They hadn’t told him that there might be danger. Lindir had not said that the women and children might be attacked. They had hidden them so that they would be safe. It was not his fault if they were found and some of them killed.

The excuses ran on in his head, but he could not dismiss the guilty feeling that lay in his stomach like a large stone. He knew he should not have left. He knew he had disobeyed and had done so intentionally.

Something interrupted his thoughts. He looked up and squinted into the wind. He’d gone too far to the right. His shoulders drooped farther, his feet worked faster, and he started again towards the left.

“I have to make it back,” he panted in the wind. “I’ve got to help. I must, I must, I must do something or I’ll never be able to face Lindir or any one else again. No one must die. No one!”

[Undómë]

Zagra & Mazhg


‘Look here,’ Mazhg whispered, lifting up the wadded woolen cloak which served it seemed as the absent slaver’s pillow. ‘Wonder who he killed to get this.’ She picked up the long sharp knife (http://www.france-militaria.net/militaria/france/1945-nosjours/dagues/leveritable.jpg) and drew it from its leather scabbard. ‘I doubt he had enough gold to have it made for himself,’ she went on, looking about at the poorer furnishings in the small tent.

Zagra took the weapon gingerly from her sister and inspected it in a hesitant manner. And more quickly slid it back into its case. ‘Here,’ she said with a shiver. ‘You take it.’ She watched as Mazhg tied the scabbard about her waist.

‘You know, Ungolt will like this I think,’ Mazhg said, patting the smooth, dark leather that hung down to her mid thigh. ‘She can use it with her sword,’ Mazhg went on, starting to look through the slaver’s leather sack tucked in at the foot of his rude bed. ‘I’ve seen the men back at the plantation...practice fighting.’ She snorted, remembering the all too bloody matches fueled by brave words and much strong drink. ‘Practice! Huhhhh!! Remember how many dead fellows they dragged off from the practice rings? Those men – they don’t care who they kill, long as there’s someone to mangle and bleed.’

‘Must be big farms where they breed all those ugly monsters,’ Zagra said, stifling a giggle. She shuddered at the thought. And in a brief moment of empathy, she felt some sort of sympathy go out to those women who must have served such beasts and borne their offspring. ‘Poor mamas!’ she spoke, almost to herself.

Mazhg looked fondly at her sister, the dim light inside the tent hiding her quick show affection. Such a tender heart! She shook her head. Sweet little fool...heart of my own heart... ‘Come Zagra,’ she called, taking her sister’s hand. ‘I don’t think we’ll find much more here. Let’s see what treasures another tent might hold.’

Like quick little shadows, the sisters moved quiet and low along the outskirts of the camp.....

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur and Gwerr spent the hour sorting through their treasure of gold coins and tying them into smaller packets that they tucked inside their clothing and under the saddlebag of Ishkur's horse. They made sure everything was hidden and that no one could hear any jingling noises. All the while, Ishkur dreamed of how he would spend his share of the loot. In his head was a picture of a sturdy wooden hunting lodge with a large herd of horses grazing outside and several orc brats running around in circles in the yard, brandishing small swords. Where those Orc brats had come from, Ishkur wasn't sure but he kind of liked them being there.

On the walls of his lodge hung stuffed heads of boar and bear that he had brought down in the hunt. There were several females living in small, neat huts along the edge of his land. Now and then, he got up and ordered them around. Best of all, there were no bosses to tell him what to do. He could hunt and sleep as long as he wanted and spend the night carousing, and no one would yell or complain.

When the job of sorting was done, Ishkur turned back to Gwerr and grinned, "Well, my friend, a lowly maggot face you may be, but your idea was good. We should have no trouble getting back to camp and the Uruk-Hai will be none the wiser." Ishkur clapped Gwerr on the back. Still, there are two things I still want to do. Let's have at that ale. Those idiots won't be back for hours. I want some hot brew in my stomach to keep me warm in this storm. We can stay inside this tent since it's the sturdiest. It's blowing worse to the west so those fools will be tied up for a while."

"The second thing,....." At this point, Ishkur glanced away. His face was going red. He was having a hard time finding words to say. In fact, he could not remember when he'd said anything like this before. "Well, this probably doesn't make sense. But those females helped me when I was hungry. There's three of them. I'd like to give them a few of these coins--Zagra, her sister, and the one from the breeding camp who sometimes tags along with them." Ishkur could not even say the last one's name. "Yeah, that one," he nodded in reply to Gwerr's raised eyebrows. "She's the one who wants to learn how to use a sword." All the while, he privately thought how useful it would be to have a partner who could actually fight. Seeing the look on Gwerr's face, he quickly added, "Don't worry, Gwerr. I won't take money out of your share. And nothing very big. Just a coin or two. The silver ones that don't bring so much on the market. But when we finally get north, we may need some help setting up things. These women may even know a thing or two that we don't....." Ishkur thought deeply about this possibility for a minute and then muttered. "Probably not, since they're only women, but you never know...." This time Ishkur had a pleasant vision of female orcs complacently doing his laundry, sharpening his weapons, gutting the rabbits, and massaging his feet.

Ishkur turned and grabbed his large bag and started sorting out nine silver coins into three little piles and then tied them up with smaller rags. Then he poked his head out of the tent and looked around. Even with the storm roaring, he could see that there were many in camp. He stepped back inside and reported, "Well, Gwerr, the slavers' fine camp is now overun by our fellow Orcs. The whole band is here. I can see Makdush and his gang, and the women, and lots of others. Why don't you drag that ale barrel back inside the tent so we get our fair share?" Ishkur mumbled one more sentence, more to himself than Gwerr. "After that I'll go and give this money to the females and tell them to keep their traps shut." Ishkur had been talking so fast that Gwerr had not yet had a chance to say anything.

On a last minute impulse, Ishkur turned aside for a minute, untied the large bag and dug out one more silver coin, the smallest that he had. He stuffed it inside his pocket. This one was for that young Orc brat, the one they called Grask. He had no idea why he was doing this. He said nothing to Gwerr because he didn't think his friend would exactly approve....

[Firefoot]

Grask lifted his waterskin to his mouth for another swig of the fiery liquid from Iskur and Gwerr's keg only to find that it was empty. He felt vaguely discontented at this. He had drunk ale only once or twice in his short life, and never a whole skin's worth: only a small swallow snitched from the older Orcs, and typically on a dare. Now his senses seemed heightened and Grask was feeling remarkably carefree and bold, though light-headed. Life was good. He was possibly better supplied than he had ever been in his life; his pack was full and there weren't any other young orclings around to challenge him for it. And even if he were to want for something, an entire empty man camp was spread out before him, ripe for the picking.

He considered poking around the camp to find more ale to fill his waterskin - it couldn't be all that hard to find, as drinking seemed to be at least one thing men had in common with orcs - but decided against it. Gwerr and Iskur would undoubtedly find some more, and Grask could fill up then, if he wanted to and they still felt inclined to let him. And then there was the sandstorm that pricked at his skin and irritated his eyes and nose and mouth. Finding shelter would be preferable to finding ale.

Without making a conscious decision, Grask found himself again near the pit where the man children had been held captive. It ought to serve well; the wind would not reach him there. Grask slowly lowered himself down into the pit, though as he neared the bottom he somehow slipped and found himself sprawled on the ground. He blinked a few times in confusion and tried to clear his head. What had just happened? He shrugged it off.

He was disappointed to find that one of the meat packages he had thrown down to the man children was untouched. Surely they would have been hungry? Didn't they eat the same sorts of food? And that had been a nice chunk of meat. His initial disappointment wore off quickly, though, as he realized that he was rather hungry. He ate the meat himself, savoring the raw, juicy bites. After eating, he decided to explore the pit and quickly found the stream. It passed under the pit's walls and seemed fairly deep. Grask did not swim; he recoiled in disgust from the cool water. But he knew that some orcs could... and he supposed that men might, too. Why not? Could those men children swim? Had they escaped, rather than being put to death as he had previously assumed? So where would they be now? Might he see them again?

But he was not about to attempt a swim, and he contented himself with thinking over these questions while he waited out the sandstorm in the bottom of the pit.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Urlok’s post

Urlok swung his horse about on the rocky ledge and brought her to a halt, staring down on the grove where the slavers had begun their charge. The older man had no idea where his Captain was. A few minutes before, six of the band, almost half of those left who were capable of fighting, had come galloping up to him with garbled accounts of what they had seen. Speaking in fearful voices, the men described a gigantic flying creature that had charged down on the plain not far from where they were standing. One of the men had claimed to hear the shrieks and roars of three comrades obviously under desperate attack, and that one of those despairing voices had belonged to Imak.

Urlok did not know what to make of this. He was a stolid man, experienced and battle hardened, little given to imagination or flights of fancy. In all the years he had fought, he had never seen or heard of any such gigantic flying beast, other than those in the faerie stories that were told to children around winter fireplaces. Even glimpsing this great creature from a distance, his men had been terrified and shaking, fearful that the creature would descend on their heads and strike again. Urlok had roared back at his fellow slavers, telling them to stiffen their backbones and to keep their minds on what they were doing, promising that, if he heard any more about flying beasts, he would personally separate their shoulders from their heads. He had said this in such a way that his men had backed off and begun to regroup for the battle charge.

Urlok knew nothing of dragons or myths, but he did know about fighting, possibly more than Imak. With the Captain nowhere in sight, he had stepped to the front and barked out orders to the men who were returning to the grove in twos and threes. Within a short time, he had managed to organize them, so they were now charging forward into the grove. Despite heavy losses among the slavers, Urlok felt that his band had a decent change of prevailing and dragging off any number of women and children back to Nurn in exchange for gold and silver. He still had twelve stout fighters, all experienced in battle. Although relatively few of the defenders of the camp had been slaughtered, great numbers of them were wounded and totally unfit to fight. Moreover, there were many women and children who, while whole bodied, had no knowledge of fighting. Altogether, Urlok guessed that the slaves possessed no more than fifteen to eighteen fighters who could put up a fierce resistance. Moreover, most of the enemy were on foot, while most of his own band still had their horses. The odds, then, were not bad. With that consoling thought in mind, Urlok kicked at his horse’s flanks and urged him down the rocky slope, his sword draw from its scabbard.

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

Save: Lindir describes the action

Lindir, Gretl, and Wulf raced into the grove a few moments after the slavers' attack had begun in earnest. Aiwendil bustled over to the elf's side and hurried him off to the sheltered cove where Athwen was attempting to care for the injured. It was the one place that was still well protected and they could talk in relative peace.

Aiwendil blurted out a quick report, trying to give Lindir an accounting of what had happened in the course of battle. "It has been hard...very hard. The freed slaves report many losses. Reagonn, Syth, Zaki, Erlech, and Joshwen have all fallen. Others too....more than I can name. And there are others we have not seen, a number of those who were on horseback.....Darren, Korden, amd Ayce. Whether they live or die, we do not know. Many too are wounded. Too many for Athwen to tend easily. Hadith has been brought in with injuries, and Adnan too. Athwen has gotten some of the women to help her."

Lindir glanced over and saw Johari kneeling beside the wounded Hadith. He could also make out Azhar and two other young women helping to care for those who lay wounded, "Azhar is safe then? I'd heard a garbled account that she had fallen to the enemy."

Aiwendil shook his head, "No, she was brought back safe here, but not before a serious scuffle. She went out searching for the lost child Tom. She managed to find him alive but in the hands of several slavers. Rôg rescued them both and did us a service. He took out two of the slavers on his own and injured Imak severely. The man has lost his hand and should not bother us again today."

Lindir raised one eyebrow but said nothing. Glancing up, he saw Dorran dismount from his horse, carrying Fewerth in his arms. The Rider lay the injured man in front of Athwen, explaining that he had been trampled by a horse, and then went off to collect another man who had been wounded. Aiwendil's eyes met Lindir's and , despite the hard surroundings, saw a look of relief. "They both made it back then. I feared for their safety."

"Yes, Athwen told me that Dorran's head wound is bleeding again and, like so many, he can not ride out to fight. But he insists on helping with the injured and bringing those in who need attention. And if this part of the grove is breached, he will fight, wound or not."

Lindir nodded and glanced around. He could see Khamir and Nasim fighting doggedly in the thick of battle. Beloan had also joined them. But others, too many, were missing.

Lindir prodded, "Where is Shae and Kwell?" I do not see either of them. Indeed, I thought Kwell was to be placed in charge of the older children in the grove, but I only see Grwell, standing there beside Rôg. Kwell was at the trench, I know, although he was supposed to be here. But since then I have not seen him. And the woman? Where is she?"

Aiwendil shook his head and hastily replied, "I have no news of Kwell or Shae. I have seen neither since the battle began. But there is one more thing I must show you."

Aiwendil walked gently over to the Dwarf and knelt down on the ground. "Vrór." he said simply.

Lindir slipped to his knees and put his hand on the dwarf's chest. The breaths came slow and halting.

Lindir shook his head and spoke, "This is the hardest, the hardest of all." At that moment he glimpsed one more friend trying to stay alive in dangerous surroundings. A large horse was prancing and snorting on the outskirts of the grove with two fighters precariously mounted on his back. Carl was in the front and was having some difficulty guiding the animal while Dirrand was hacking wildly in all directions with a large sword. They were faced by three slavers, the first tall and heavy wielding a battle axe and the second a much smaller fellow who darted in and out with a small slashing knife. In the distance, just approaching them, was a man whom Lindir knew to be one of Imak's most trusted henchmen. He had riden down the hill and was charging straight for the beleaguered pair.....

Hastily, Lindir stood up, "I must go. Carl needs my help and I can do nothing for my good friend here. We will have to leave that to Athwen and to the ancestors of the Dwarfs whom they say look after their own. Aiwendil, hold the grove. So far the women and children are safe. We must keep that so." Then Lindir turned and sprinted down to where Carl and Dirnan were fighting.

[Tevildo]

For the past half hour, Azhar had tried to do what Athwen told her: running to fetch water jugs, collecting strips of cloth from the ladies in camp to use as makeshift bandages and helping to clean the wounds of a few whose injuries had been minor. The center of the grove, the area where the hospital had been set up, still held fast against the attackers. Several of the freed slaves had formed a ring around that part of the encampment, and up to this point none of the slavers had managed to break through.

On the outskirts, however, the two sides battled fiercely. The area of conflict was clearly widening. Already, one or two slavers had ridden within a stone's throw of those women and children who had hidden in a tangle of boulders set further north, close to the entrance of the grove.

As the fighting crept closer to Azhar, the noise and stench of battle was almost more than she could bear. But seeing Athwen's calm and quiet demeanor steadied the girl and helped her keep her fears in check. All thoughts of changing into a wild creature and challenging the enemy single handed were gone. Azhar instinctively understood that she had no real control over the animal shape and that to try to shift over in the middle of this chaos could only lead to disaster. Plus, as she watched Athwen work her quiet miracles on those who had been injured, the girl sensed that what was going on in this little corner of the camp was just as important as actual fighting. Even Dorran did not complain too much when his wife suggested he use his horse to help bring in the wounded rather than engaging directly in the fighting with the cut in his head reopened and bleeding.

Azhar filled a gourd with water and brought it over to Azhar who had knelt down beside Vror to look at him more closely. After accepting it, the older woman explained, "We need another to help. There are too many wounded for the two of us and my husband is likely to bring in more. A few moments ago, Aiwendil spoke of an older woman who is a midwife skilled in the use of herbs. Her name is Rowenna. Run up by the entrance to the grove and see if she can come back here. But be careful! There is fighting not far from there."

With that, Azhar nodded curtly and sprinted off in the direction that Athwen had indicated.

[Nogrod]

Gwerr

Ishkur asked Gwerr to get the ale barrell inside for them. That sounded fair and reasonable enough. But then all this talk about giving some of the coins to the females, even trusting them to just hold their tongues about it made Gwerr really nervous. He took the few steps needed to get to the doorway but from curiosity glanced back to the tent as he went out just to see Ishkur untying one of his bags and stuffing one more coin to his pocket. Man, you’re losing your grip... Why do you have to go jelly-brained at the moment when we should be our smartest?

The rising wind threw dust on his face as he stepped out of the tent and made him cough. As he was able to open his eyes after a while he noticed the general hassle in the camp. What he could judge from the flickering shades and noises coming from different directions, it seemed that all the others were present, looting whatever they could. The wind was furious, gaining speed every now and then and making nearly all perception impossible.

After a while as Gwerr tried to locate the barrel he suddenly noticed Ishkur’s newly acquired horse stepping to and fro looking very nervous. Oh Morgoth! Well, good I was the one coming out...

“C’mon you!” Gwerr called the horse as he approached it and took the reins commandingly into his hands. He pulled gently but demandingly and the horse followed him, calming down a bit. Slowly Gwerr took the horse to the opening of the tent and then gripped it from the mane, pulling it’s head firmly downwards. “Now you’re coming with me my four-legged treasure-carrier, you come nicely to the inside... You’ll like it more there and we’ll like it so much more to see you and your carriage all the time”. Simultaneously he half pulled, half pushed the animal inside the tent, pulling it’s head downwards so that it fitted in without felling the tent down. Ishkur seemed a bit perplexed with the entry of the two.

“I may have my reasons to believe your overall sanity going bye-bye, but leaving our treasure out there for the Uruk-scum to grasp is just outstanding! What if Makdush and his slimy friends would have noticed this one while we were in here nicely sipping ale and getting our well deserved drinks? What then, Ishkur, What then?” He showed his contempt with an orcish gesture and went back outside. He thought for a second why he had been so angered about the horse being left outside before he realised that it was probably because he himself was to blame as well. Neither had he thought of getting the horse with the loads of coins safely inside in the first place. But Ishkur saw it earlier that the others were around and about... he tried to reason to himself but failed to make himself confident with that.

When he came back in dragging the barrell he could sense the tension in the air. Ishkur was looking at him sternly. Gwerr said nothing, but after laying the barrell in the middle of the tent he took his axe and hewed the top open. The splinters of wood spread all around and considerable amounts of ale splushed over to the mat. As he reached out for a goblet that was lying on the table near him he finally smiled to Ishkur. “Okay mate, you may be becoming a nimcompoop, but whatever. You’re my mate anyhow. Let’s drink!” He filled the goblet from the barrell and handed it towards Ishkur.

[Durelin]

Adnan

“No! What do you think you can do out there, except finish getting yourself killed? Sit down and let me fix you up. Please!”

Finish… The word bounced through Adnan’s head roughly, and in his dizziness he could do nothing but obey Athwen’s command. His vision moving in and out of focus, he looked down at his wounded hand for the first time. Even though it was wrapped in makeshift bandages, he could feel his stomach curdle. The cloth was soaked thick with blood. He stared at it, thinking that it should hurt more, even willing it to hurt. The numbness was worse than pain. At least pain let him know that something was still there. But he knew…he knew parts of it were missing. Parts of him.

Adnan could not say a word, and Athwen wasn’t about to encourage him to. There would be no arguing now. The young man watched Khamir walk away, and then suddenly the tears came. He tried to hide them, and hold them in, but it was no use. The water silently flowed from his eyes, but he watched Athwen start unwrapping the bandages around his hand steadily. His nausea lessened, and his vision seemed to be correcting itself better. The cloud around his head no longer seemed so foreboding.

But the tears still came. He closed his eyes to try and force them back in, but in his mind’s eye he was faced with the bloody image of the man he… Adnan snapped his eyes back open, only to look down upon his naked hand caked in a sickly mix of wet and dry blood, and see and count only one…two…three fingers…

Then all went dark.

~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~

Khamir

Neither the slaves nor the slavers fought by any rules, and both were equally as ruthless. For the slaves, this battle was about survival, and they would do whatever they had to in order to maintain their existence as now free men: that they had an abundance of hatred for their enemy truly meant they would do anything and everything in their means to stop them. For the slavers, it was all about money, about power, about pride. The hatred was thick on both sides, but the slaves still outnumbered the slavers, even if only barely.

Khamir, Nasim, and Gamal fought together, Khamir and Nasim taking on a slaver together while Nasim guarded their rear. Nasim, clearly to Khamir’s eye the sharpest shot of the three, at least, wielded a simple sling, but did a great deal of damage with it. An Easterling on horseback could not land a strike on him or the two slaves he fought with, as he launched dense, rough edged stones at the slaver, pinpointing vulnerable locations, and stinging the horse’s skin when he needed to, causing it to rear up and dance quickly away from Nasim and the others, its eyes wild with fear.

Khamir waited for a moment’s breath simply to aim adequately as Gamal did his best to keep the horseman the two faced busy with his spear. The man was tall and had a long reach, and he had crafted his spear himself of thick wood. He had spent weeks looking for the proper piece of wood, and had spent just as many weeks shaping the weapon. The stone shard that served as a spearhead, though primitive, served well enough. Having taken as long as he could risk, Khamir launched one of his two remaining throwing daggers at the slaver. The man went down, and Gamal was quick to jump on him, thrusting his spear down with all the force of his body behind it. Khamir was just as quick to attack, bring his foot down firmly on the man’s head. Gamal’s weapon ran true, and impaled the man in the throat, sneaking in between the metal plates that were supposed to protect him.

As Khamir pulled his dagger out of the man’s right shoulder, he found himself with a moment to scan the battlefield. He saw familiar faces, but not as many as he would have liked. And not the one he was looking for. He did not have time to think of Shae further, as Gamal had wrenched his spear free of the slaver corpse, and the two then raced over to help Nasim with another gold-plated enemy. But the one armed man fought with more fervor to bring down this man quickly, as the feeling that he was racing against time increased in him.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

As they rode with caution toward the back of the camp, Dirand recited a morbid tally, identifying those dead or wounded they passed, and in doing so quickly spied a dark shadow slipping steadily around those engaged in battle, though he could not tell for certain who it was. The old man lifted his sword, silently pointing the figure out to the sharp eyed hobbit who sat in front of him, and who squinted down the length of the blade raised so close to his cheek, before extending his view past it and through the haze. Carl soon saw that a man, with boots and rather more substantial clothing than that of his companion, was headed straight for the cluster of boulders where the hobbit knew so many of the vulnerable in his group lay hidden. His gait was a swagger that was altogether unfamiliar.

Pulling hard on the left rein, Carl succeeded in changing the horse’s direction, and headed now for the stealthy figure, hoping to run him off. But the slaver, who sensed their approach, and who turned to face them, seemed not in the least bothered by this new development, but firmly stood his ground, as the horse bore down on him. “What are you doing?” the old man whispered urgently, and the hobbit explained that the shadow was in fact, the enemy. “Well I'll be confounded, if that slaver doesn't think we are one of his own!” Dirand exclaimed. This came as a painful revelation to Carl, who realized in a flash that the slaver wouldn't be alarmed by their approach, and that they might actually get very close. Dropping the reins, Carl quickly ducked his head as he unslung the bow from his shoulder.

The hobbit had had no practice shooting from horseback, and struggled to fit arrow to string while being jostled about like a sheep carried to market. Finally ready he raised the bow, but before he could shoot he heard the man in front of him bark something. The horse evidently heard it too, for his ears pricked forward listening as he slowed considerably. “Oh, this is not going to be good, not by a fair margin,” Carl groaned. Dirand too, steeled himself. And letting go his iron grip on the back of the saddle, the grizzled man hunkered down clutching his curved sword with both hands.

At some point the slaver must have grown leery, for he would not be still long enough to let Carl get him clearly in his sites. And he repeatedly called to the horse keeping himself directly in front of it, so that Carl dare not let an arrow loose. When they were but a yard or two away, the horse stopped, and kick as he would, the hobbit could not budge him. Looking up Carl saw the slaver poised with a long knife in his hand, first appearing on this side of the horse's head and then on the other. He quickly took a shot, but missed, and before he could grasp another arrow the slaver sprang at him. Carl tipped his bow down, ramming it unto the slaver's shoulder. The man paused, letting his glance flickered away from the hobbit briefly, but Carl dare not follow his gaze, lest he spring on them again.

As the hobbit pulled back his bow, he heard the ringing of steel behind him. Quickly gathering the reins in one hand, he managed to cause the horse to turn, forcing the slaver and this new attacker onto the same side of them. Carl who had no time to unsheath his knife or even to think, kept busy worrying the men with the end of his bow, while Dirand slashed at them with his sword, catching them with the flat of it more often than not as the horse shifted nervously beneath them. It was only a matter of time before Carl bow was caught, and the little farmer was dragged from his high perch. But letting go of it he rolled between the horse's legs to the other side, and as he turned to stand up, he saw another stout fighter descending on them. Wheeling around, he slapped the horse's flank as hard as he could, thinking to send both the horse and the old man off toward the boulders. But instead the horse reared, pawing the air before coming down with a sickening thud as he landed squarely on the man who had caught hold of his reins, the lesser of the two slavers. Dirand, who had fallen, scuttled away drawing the attention of the second slaver, who followed him. The old man was bravely brandishing his sword as the slaver closed in for the kill. In a twinkling Carl had drawn his knife and attacked. Throwing himself at the slaver's legs, he slit the man's hamstrings, and was still clinging to them as the slaver collapsed to the ground. Dirand scrambled to his feet, quickly driving his sword home.

"There is one more," Carl panted breathlessly. Springing up, he looked around. "A very big fellow too.... Should have reach us by now. Now where has he got to, Dirand? I've grown to dislike surprises!" Suddenly, the horse tossed his head, shuffling sideways. And Carl looked at Dirand, putting his finger up to his lips as he crept silently toward the beast.

[Nogrod]

Hadith and Johari

Hadith had taken the pain bravely enough when Athwen had examined and cleaned his wound but the stiching was too much for him to bear. He fell into a numb darkness.

Next thing he became aware of was a familiar voice talking to him.
“You had better not die, Hadith,” it told him, "You'd better not."

In the depths of his faint consciousness there formed a thought. Johari?

Slowly Hadith opened his eyes. The pain that had been gone came back at the instant he realised being alive again. It was Johari. Hadith recognised her immediately. He tried to smile but the pain twisted his face to an awkward grin.

His jaws were sore and his lips were so dry that it was hard to utter anything, but finally he managed to mumble quietly “I’m allright”.

For a fleeting moment Hadith thought seeing something like relief in Johari’s eyes but that was gone in a wink of an eye. He was confused but tried to pull himself together nevertheless. He was so happy to see Johari alive but at the same time he wasn’t sure if he should say it or how she would react if he would say it. Somehow just her presence felt comforting and he wouldn’t wish to lose that comfort by saying anything stupid.

The silence grew thicker and neither of them was actually looking at each other in the eye. Hadith laid on his back and Johari was on her knees right next to him.

“Good to see you safe and sound, Johari”, Hadith said at last, immediately realising how stupid that sentence sounded in the circumstances. Johari leaned back away from him.

“Don’t go, Johari!” Hadith called her trying to rise up and taking a firm grip of her hand. “Please don’t go...” It was hard for him to find the words. It was hard for him even to understand what he was meaning or thinking in the first place. “I mean, ... I mean, I was worried about you. You aren’t hurt or anything?” At the same time his grip loosened and Johari pulled her hand away as Hadith fell back on his back again the few inches he had managed to rise up by hanging on Johari’s hand.

“No, I’m fine”, she replied tightly.

“Good”, Hadith managed to say biting his lips. He was feeling the pain again. The tumult of the battle echoed from somewhere. Hadith fought against the tears. I should be fighting with my fellows, I should not act this stupidly, I should be braver, I should be... Then his mind got lost again.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur had meant to go immediately and find the three women so that he could give them the small bags of coins. But the smell of ale was so inviting that he preferred not to leave until he'd had a drink or two. He spent the next hour with his arm draped around Gwerr's shoulders. The two of them let loose with loud choruses from a bawdy ballad and made toasts to each other and their good fortune in discovering the chest.

Perhaps Ishkur was a little skittish about searching for Ungolt and her two companions to present them with his gifts. He had never given anyone a gift in his whole life, except for some bribes to an orc commander, and he didn't think that those really counted. He wasn't sure what he would say to the women. The wind had died down outside and the sky was getting darker when Ishkur stood up, scooped up the leather pouches, and without saying anything more to Gwerr stomped out of the tent. As he trudged quickly through the camp, he could see small groups of orcs scattered around and drinking. Some were going through the slavers' bedrolls and stripping out whatever they could find. Others had already drunk too much and were passed out on the ground.

If Ishkur's head had been clear, he would have tried to kick these orcs in the behind or take them by the collar and shake them. It wasn't a good idea for orcs to be lying half dead in the middle of the slavers' camp, even if the fighters were unlikely to return for many hours. But Ishkur was thinking about his gift to the women and his head was already buzzing from too much ale so he just kept walking.

Although he saw no sign of Zagra or Mazhg, he still kept looking. Finally, near the mouth of the pit where the slave prisoners had been kept earlier, he found the young Ungolt sorting through a pile of what looked like junk. She looked up at him warily clutching something in her hand.

"What's that?" he barked.

"Nothing," she replied, slipping her hands behind her back.

"It looks like something to me." He went over to have a look and poked his nose closer.

Reluctantly, Ungolt held out her treasure. "A bow.....it's a bow. Someone must have forgotten about it. The string is broken but the rest of it is fine. And there are even two arrows."

Ishkur ran his fingers over the curved wood and picked up one of the arrows. "They're yours," he grunted, depositing the things back in the woman's lap. "I won't take it. In fact, I'll show you how to make a new string and some more arrows. But you'll have to wait till we get some place with more game and more wood."

"Anyways, that'd not why I came. This is for you....you and your friends Zagra and Mazhg." He dumped three small pouches in Ungolt's lap. She bent down and felt the bulky outline of one of the bags.

"Coins? This is for me?" Ungolt sounded as if she didn't believe what she was saying.

Ishkur grunted in response, "Yah, and for those other two..... your friends. It should help you get started."

Ungolt opened her mouth and then closed it. She wasn't used to getting presents. The only gifts she'd ever gotten from men were in exchange for things she'd done or promises she'd made. But she had made no promises to Ishkur, and she was truly puzzled why he was doing this. She was afraid to accept the gift but she didn't want to say no. So instead she replied, "Some day I will pay you back. Maybe not with money. I am not very good at getting money, but by backing you up or getting you out of trouble." She took the pouches, grabbed the bow, and went off searching for Zagra and Mazhg.

Ishkur couldn't help laughing as he tramped off. He could not imagine a situation where he would ever need the help of a woman in getting out of trouble. He was about to walk away when he suddenly heard a noise coming from the bottom of the pit......

[Firefoot]

It did not take long for Grask to grow bored at the bottom of the pit. He scratched idly in the dirt with his fingernails, but other than that there was little else to do than think. For the first time since they had broken away from the large camp, he wondered where they were going and what they would do there – what he would do there. He was, of course, the youngest of the group, and that made him something of an outcast without companionship or use to the rest of the group. It was rather lonely, really. So why was he here?

The questions disturbed him, and though he tried not to think about them, they kept coming back bearing no new answers.

As it started to grow darker outside, the wind howled less and the sand seemed to be settling. Grask slung his pack back over his shoulder and happily began to climb out of the pit, using the rope that the Men had left, but even with that, the climb up was considerably more difficult than it had been to go down and he wished he had thought of it before deciding to wait the storm out down there.

With a grunt and a last surge of effort, Grask hauled himself over the edge of the pit. A glance around showed a few other Orcs milling about the camp, but closest to him was Ishkur. Grask felt blessed enough by the Orc leaders' earlier good will; no use pushing his luck, and he began to walk in the opposite direction until Ishkur's call stopped him short: "Wait, Grask."

What did he want now? Grask knew he hadn't done anything wrong... they hadn't decided he had taken too much ale earlier? Ishkur didn't sound angry though - the opposite, even. So Grask turned around and stepped forward to meet Ishkur who had walked after him. Grask's curious gaze was drawn first to Ishkur's face, then to his hand inside his pocket, then back to his face. He had never been sought out like this before and wondered what to expect.

[Durelin]

Khamir

Once he, Nasim, and Gamal had finished off their second Easterling, Khamir found his mind torn, and for a moment he faltered. The others were prepared immediately to go help Beloan, but though Beloan was Khamir’s friend, the one-armed man found himself more concerned with another. He had not seen Shae since well before the battle, and he could not stand the pain and the fear of more pain any longer.

“Go help Beloan, I must help someone else,” he said quickly, and took off away from the grove and back toward the trench and tunnel, the first place. That woman always did some of the craziest things, as if she had something to prove, and yet she had always come back alive...so far. He wished she would stop risking her life, at least as he saw it, needlessly. There were plenty of able-bodied men, and getting herself killed wouldn’t accomplish anything. She had nothing to prove, she did not have to remind everyone of her bravery...

Maybe it was the Gondorian in her: the self-righteousness that required she prove to others over and over that she had a courageous heart. And apparently that made her feel like sacrificing her life, dying in battle, defending a cause, was worth it, regardless of whether or not her death could be avoided. He would not have this…he could not…he would…

He heard a woman’s enraged scream and the crash of metal just before he saw Shae surrounded by two slavers. She was alive and kicking. All of Khamir’s worries and fears suddenly turned into guilt as he realized that there had been nor reason for him to assume the worst, and certainly not belittle her abilities as a warrior. He still wanted to be furious at her for the heroics that likely got her into this mess, but he found it difficult.

Before Shae had even seen him coming, he launched his still bloodied throwing knife to land firmly one of the rider’s thighs. The horse was startled, and Khamir leapt forward to slice small but stinging cuts across both the horse’s thighs on the side facing him. The horse, frightened and in pain, did its best to drop its rider, who was too busy trying to get the knife out of his leg to hold on very well. He dropped to the ground.

Shae had pulled the other slaver down, and was wrestling with him on the ground. Khamir began feeling a need for urgency again, which grew with every second. His concerns elsewhere, his instincts did not fail him, and he thrust his hunting knife into the Easterling’s exposed throat before the man could recover from his fall. Then the one-armed man whirled around and leapt forward to help Shae; it appeared to him that she couldn’t tear away from the slaver’s grip…the man would run her through in a moment if Khamir didn’t…

But the Southron stopped in his tracks. The slaver was not moving.

The woman yanked her shirtsleeve from where it had been caught in the golden armour, tearing a small piece of it in the process. She looked a bit flustered, and she was wounded, but she stood steadily. She gave Khamir an incredulous look, as the man could only stare in wonder at her for a moment.

“You’ve wounded your leg,” she remarked, bringing his thoughts back to earth. She did not appear concerned, except for something in her eyes. The Southron looked down to see a gash across his right lower leg, and could not remember if he already had that wound before he had come to find Shae or not.

He frowned as his eyes scoured her body. “And you have two wounds.”

Shae laughed, though weakly, and shook her head. They were both trying to catch their breath. She did not bother telling him he had two cuts on his cheek. Suddenly she began walking away from him. Khamir stood for a moment in confusion, and then ran several paces to catch up with her and grab her by the arm. She looked up at him with frustration, and pulled away. He tried to settle himself, but found his mind wondering how much pain she was in, if she had been afraid she might die… Then he followed her stare down to a body just a few paces ahead of her.

Reagonn…

“He…” Khamir breathed. Images of Adnan and Vrór flashed through his head, and of Hadith who he still had not seen, and looked at Shae, remembering what it felt like to think her dead…and then he stared at Reagonn’s still body, and froze the picture in his mind. So many he…loved. He felt tears come to his eyes, and one fell as he turned his blurry eyes to see Syth, another comrade, fallen. It seemed Shae wanted to cry, but she was too exhausted. Khamir was so exhausted that he could not stop himself.

You child of Mordor…

How could there be so much love in this place?

It had been easier when he was alone, when his number one and only care was himself, his survival. Or it would have been easier, if he had not hated it.

And that was what Shae was prepared to die for, wasn’t it? Protecting, defending what and who she loved. She would die before she was alone. He would have been alone before he died, and died alone…

Khamir stared at Shae as his eyes cleared, but looked away as soon as their gazes met. No, he did not want to be alone.

[Tevildo]

Azhar had picked her way through the crowded grove searching for Rowenna. She had scurried from one small group to the next asking the women and children if they had seen the midwife. No one had been able to answer her. Every step brought her nearer the ring of stones that marked the entry to the small haven where the women and children had retreated. So far, none of the slavers had been able to force their way into that inner ring. Through the dust and haze, Azhar could make out the faces of several of the men who fought no more than fifteen feet in front of her; Rôg and Aiwendil, Carl and Dirand, Nasim, Gamal, and so many others were still locked in battle with about half a dozen slavers. For an instant, Azhar stood still and simply stared out, wondering how and when the bloodshed was going to end and whether the protective ring would continue to hold.

An insistent cry rose from just behind her: not a sound of battle but more like a woman caught in the throes of a tearing pain. Scrambling over to the source of that sound, Azhar ducked down and crawled through the opening of a thick hedge, an entrance almost hidden from outside view. She was surprised to find the midwife Rowenna. On the ground beside her lay another woman who was in the middle of giving birth. The woman's eyes were wild with pain, her hair matted, and her skin rimmed with sweat. The birthing was not going well, but what else could one expect in the middle of this nightmare?

Scarcely more than a girl, Azhar stumbled out of the enclosure, unable to deal with the full meaning of that scene. But before she could turn back to speak with Rowenna, there was a terrible roar and a shaking of the earth. A number of slavers still mounted on horses had broken through the border of stones and were advancing at a gallop, racing straight across the inner encampment where all the women and children lay hidden. As that realization sunk in, Azhar felt her blood run cold.

The freed slaves and members of the fellowship who were still fighting came running towards the rocks, but their feet could not match the swiftness of the horses. A single horseman halted and, glimpsing Azhar, swung his mount about and headed for the hedge. The young girl tried to spring out of the way but was tossed to the side by the impact of the horse as it raced by her; Rowenna and the woman giving birth were not so lucky. An instant later, both women lay silent amid the ruined hedge, their bodies woven in a tangled heap as blood soaked into the ground.

Azhar cried out in horror. Even her life on the plantation had not prepared her for this. She caught a quick glimpse of Aiwendil and Rôg who were running side-by-side, part of the crowd of fighters all surging forward in a vain attempt to reach the horsemen and stop them. Her eyes rivetted on the tall southerner. Words of anger and frustration poured from her mouth, "Rôg! Why don't you do something? They are too fast. Someone must stop them, or all the women and children will die."

What happened next was not what Azhar had expected. One minute Aiwendil was standing next to Rôg, and the next minute he was gone. In his place was a
shaggy wild boar (http://www.birdfinders.co.uk/images/wild-boar-bharatpur-2006.jpg) , weighing at least two hundred and fifty pounds and sporting two pairs of curving tusks, one on top of the other. The boar swung his tail, pawed viciously at the soil, ground together his tusks and gave a loud snort, taking aim at the horseman who was running just ahead.

[Folwren]

Athwen worked as quickly as she possibly could under the circumstances. Azhar helped where she could, and even with the girl knowing nothing, she was still able to save Athwen a great deal of time and energy. But it wasn’t enough time nor enough energy. She felt her strength lagging and there were still so many to tend to. It was then that she asked Azhar to go fetch help. She must have help or men would die.

Azhar hurried away in obedience of Athwen’s request. Athwen heaved a sigh and brushed a stray strand of hair from her eyes. Her fingers left a streak of blood on her forehead over her right eye. She turned to the next patient.

Patient? Athwen grimaced to herself as she set to work on the wounded man. This was like no set of patients she had ever known. Never had there been one after another of cases wherein the patient was half dead. Of course, not all of these men were half dead – there were some cases of broken bones, slashed arms, or knocked heads – but there was a great deal of blood. Even Athwen, with her hardened nerves to such things, had found herself a few times that day shuddering at the sight of some twisted mess of blood, bone, and ligament.

Sometimes she could not save the victim, and she knew it. These were the most difficult to tend to. She hated to leave them in their misery, but what else could she do? To ease their pain would mean spending precious material on a hopeless cause. She didn’t know what to do with them and she longed to ask Dorran what a surgeon on the field of battle would do.

After a time, Athwen began to think that Azhar and the midwife were long in coming. She finished binding a wound and stood up to look out towards the fighting. What happened out there, she wondered? Where were all of her friends? She hoped that they were safe, and at the same time, she hoped that they were killing the slavers.

“Interesting, Athwen,” she told herself, turning with a sigh towards her work. “You, who are here to save lives, hoping that others are destroyed.” It never struck her that she should think it strange that she, being so exhausted and working, should still have time to consider her own thinking.

[Brinniel]

Shae managed to hold back the two slavers so far, but she knew it would not last for long. She was relieved when help finally came, and was especially pleased when it had come from Khamir of all people. She had not seen him since before the battle and had wondered of his whereabouts. The one-armed man had endured much and she was confident he would survive tonight...but then again, she had thought the same for Reagonn.

As Khamir took one slaver by surprise, Shae was able to throw the other off his horse. He lunged at her, but she was ready. Before he even reached the woman, he ran into her sword. The opponent collapsed on top of her, and momentarily Shae was trapped underneath the heavy man. She tore herself free and stood up, her eyes meeting Khamir's.

Was that a look of concern?

Shae observed the man standing across from her, noticing he was just as much of a mess as she was. Khamir still stared at her, almost in wonder. "You've wounded your leg," she remarked casually. His eyes shifted down to discover his new injury.

Shae eyed the man curiously. He had come to her aid alone. Even more, he had come to her away from the camp where the battle was still going. Had he actually come specifically to find her? That thought seemed impossible. Since Joren's death, it mattered to no one whether Shae lived or died. For years, she had accepted that fact. Yet, Khamir's expression just now read otherwise.

"And you have two wounds." The man's words interrupted her thoughts and the woman was brought back to attention. Staring down at her very swollen wrist, she gave a slight laugh at his obvious statement. The laugh was cut short by a sharp pain against her ribs. Shae held her breath, waiting for the pain to subside. She turned away from Khamir quickly, not wanting him to see she was hurting. He grabbed her arm gently, but she pulled away, more afraid than anything.

"He..." the man whispered suddenly, and Shae knew whom he was talking about. She also stared at the bloodied corpse of Reagonn in the distance, still feeling bitter about his death. The two stood for a moment in silence. Then she turned around, surprised to find Khamir's cheeks stained with tears.
"He was a good man," the woman consoled. "He...saved my life...as you just did." She smiled at Khamir in gratitude. The man looked back at her, this time his expression undecipherable. Khamir had always been rather mysterious to her. After eight years, she still knew very little about him and his past. It was something few ex-slaves spoke of- their lives before escape. Shae had always believed that the man's rough life had left him cold and distant...and yet...in these last few days, he had somehow changed... And now, more than ever, the woman couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking about.

The sharp pain on her left side returned, and Shae doubled over dropping to her knees. With the combination of the dried blood, the sweat, and her tired limbs, she had never felt so heavy, and she allowed her body to sink into itself.
Immediately, Khamir was at her side. "Are you all right?" he asked, his tone sincere.
Blinking back tears, the woman replied, "I'm fine," her voice gutteral, but determined.
The pain soon eased, replaced by a dull ache, and Shae struggled to stand. Her good hand was met by Khamir's, and he helped pull her to her feet. The two stared at one another, their faces inches apart. Shae closed her eyes, exhausted. Feeling Khamir's breath against her forehead, short and hot, she realized he was just as tired.

"You're not fine," the man finally said. "You should go see Athwen. She'll take care of you."
"Athwen? She's okay?" The healer had volunteered for a dangerous task, to lure the slavers in, and Shae was pleased to hear she had made it out alive. "Well...I'm sure she has plenty of patients right now who are in much worse condition. ...Don't look at me like that, Khamir. I refuse to rest until this is over."
Khamir frowned. "You just don't know when to give it up, do you? Even when it's for your own good."
"Look who's talking." The man couldn't help but laugh at her comment.

Shae shifted her eyes towards the camp, where shouting still clearly rang into the air. She wondered what other lives had been lost tonight. What had happened to the halfling Carl? And the elf Lindir? She thought about the woman she had given the knife to during a night that seemed ages ago. Had she needed to use it yet? What had become of their companion Beloan? And what of the two children that had only been rescued the previous night? There were so many Shae wondered about, yet she realized there was no time for concern. There was still a bloody battle going and certainly nothing would be accomplished by simply standing around.

Finding what remained of her strength, Shae turned back to Khamir and said to him, "C'mon....let's go find the rest of those scum."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil's talents were modest when compared with those of the other Maier who had accompanied him to Arda. His companions displayed greater depths of wisdom, understood more about the nature of men and elves, and enjoyed a mastery over natural elements or crafts that he had simply lacked. His own duties in Aman had been humbler than theirs: quietly nurturing the flowers and fruits that graced the gardens of Yavanna. But in this one area alone--the ability to take on a rainbow assortment of shapes and colors and forms--the istar had excelled beyond all others of his rank. He had once been able to take on the form of every living thing in Arda, both plants and beasts, and other fantastical shapes.

Sometimes Aiwendil wondered why and how he had been granted this singular gift. It was not due to any merit on his part. Perhaps it had been the plea of Yavanna. The Lady had always been able to look into his heart and sense that her good hearted, bumbling servant who could be so withdrawn and awkward would require a special measure of protection and grace.

Aiwendil had sometimes fallen back on these skills to escape from those he was trying to avoid. Since his sailing across the Sea, he had provided what minor shapeshifting services he could for both Gandalf and Saruman while living in the area that was then called Mirkwood. Most of the time, he had staked out his own path and tried to stand clear of the troubling times. Somewhere, amidst all that isolation and pulling back, he had managed to lose a large chunk of himself, including his memories of what Manwe had originally instructed him to do and his ability to shift shapes.

Only in recent years had some of those memories and skills returned. During his stay in Harad, he had finally regained his ability to take on the shapes of at least some natural creatures in Middle-earth as well as the will to stand up and fight. Aiwendil suspected that his friendship with Rôg had something to do with this change. He still had not figured out what the Lord of Aman wanted by having him stay on in Arda after all the other istari had departed or long ago deserted their cause. But he had instinctively known that going to Mordor had been the right thing.

Now in the midst of a fierce battle, watching as the last remnent of the slavers swept down on the grove intent on doing damage to the women and children, the istar knew he must act quickly. He needed to take on the form of some everyday creature, making sure not to break the rules about the limitations placed on an istar's actions in a world properly dominated by man. One time, he admitted, he had stretched those limits a bit. He could not promise that he would never do that again, but now was not the time or place. Still, it would have to be a creature with enough clout and size to try and stem the bloodshed that was about to fall on the heads of dozens of innocent people who had little means of defending themselves.

With the poor eyesight typical of boars, Aiwendil could barely make out one hazy figure just ahead: a man mounted on horseback who had hurried towards a rock-filled enclosure shielded by a ring of bracken and tangled bushes. He could see a young woman standing near the entrance. She looked familiar, although he could no longer remember her name. Aiwendil's attention was totally fixed on the ruffian on horseback who darted into the enclosure and, without dismounting, tossed the standing woman to one side. Reaching out and down, he ran his sword through the two figures huddled together on the ground with a single swift motion. The man pulled back on the reins, jerked his mount around, and sprinted towards another group of retreating figures, this one composed of several young boys.

Covering the rocky turf with surprising speed for such a large and stiff gaited animal, the boar ruffled his bristles so that they stood straight up like hackles and let out a series of enraged grunts and snorts to warn the offending upstart that he should back off the territory. As sheer rage flooded in, foam slobbered out of the boar's open mouth, the rivulets running down his jowels and chest. Aiwendil lowered his shoulders and head and, coming close to the the attacker, slammed his head and tusks upward directly into the horse's legs and flanks a number of times, leaving a series of bloody trails and filthy slobber. The man reached down with his outstretched sword taking aim at the boar's shoulders, but the blow met a shield of thick cartilage and slid harmlessly off.

With a heavy thud, his horse toppled to the ground, sending the slaver sprawling over to the side. The boys who had been under attack immediately fled. Noise and confusion ran wild, as women and children pushed outward from the grove, struggling to find new shelter. Aiwendil could hear horrible shrieks coming from different parts of the grove. A stong whiff of blood confirmed his uneasy instinct that the two other slavers had also found victims and were dispatching them with speed. His own attention was more limited, like that of the beast whose body he had chosen. Ignoring the cries coming from other victims, the boar focused on the man who was scrambling up from the ground, taking off on foot in an easterly direction. Aiwendil raced off after him across the camp and then out into the plain....

[Folwren]

The wind storm had barely slackened at all as Kwell turned his feet back in the direction of the grove. The wind buffeted him as he pushed his way back. It was difficult to tell if he was traveling in the correct direction. Occasionally, however, the wind dropped and the sand was let down from the air long enough for him to spot the clump of rocks that marked the place. He quickened his pace and his hand grasped at the hilt of his dagger.

As he rushed forward, it seemed to his racing brain that he was traveling slowly. The minutes stretched themselves into unimaginable lengths of time. Precious seconds slipped by as he forced his feet to go faster than a walk.

When he finally reached the glade, his breath was short and he gasped for air. He drew the knife, his only weapon, when he saw ahead of him the struggling figures of the recently escaped slaves and the men who hunted them. He hurried on, his heart beating violently, and searched for someone to fight with.

Ahead of him he could see three men fighting. Two of them were ones that Kwell recognized, escaped men who the slaves that had recently run away met up with. The attacking one was a slaver. The slaver had a heavy staff in his left hand, and a sword in his right, and the two others were attacking with what makeshift weapons they had.

Kwell sprang forward, forgetting his short breath and tiring limbs. He approached the slaver from behind, but as he ran up, he realized that he could not do any good with the dagger from where he attacked. Instead, then, he sheathed the knife again and made the last few leaps forward and reached out his hand to catch the cudgel.

The slaver swung back his arm and Kwell took the chance to grasp it. One hand grabbed it long enough for his left hand to grasp it as well. He clung to it, nearly wrapping all of both his arms about it to keep it down. The man, confused and struggling for a moment with the sudden, extra weight, turned towards him. The two others took the given chance and dodged into his sword range. They tackled the man to the ground and Kwell was knocked to the side and off his feet.

He struggled up onto his knees, his hand reaching for his knife. He crawled over towards the struggling mass of the three men. He scrambled up halfway to his feet and then threw himself at the man’s head, bringing the knife towards his throat.

The slaver quit struggling abruptly. He was dead. The two men fighting him, stopped and backed up. They glanced at each other and Kwell, catching their breath briefly. Then, without a word, one jerked his head towards others fighting, and the three turned to find another man to take down.

[Durelin]

Khamir

“C’mon....let’s go find the rest of those scum.”

A smile passed between them, and Shae’s face became frozen in Khamir’s mind: her brown hair in disarray, blood smeared across her tan forehead, her eyes bright green…he had seen her a thousand times before, in a million different glances, but this time was different. She smiled. He finally realized he had seen her smile. More than once? He thought so… Through his eyes, there was a glow about her. There was a power in her eyes and in her voice, and a bravery he knew he would never understand. Khamir could not stand to remember how he had treated her at times in the past. Perhaps he would have seen what he saw now in her sooner if she had more reason to smile. Or more likely he should have looked.

Shae took off immediately, and Khamir followed after a moment, catching up to her as best as he could. He could feel pain coursing through his leg, though, and it crept up to his thigh, wrapping around his calf and enveloping his knee as it spread. Looking at Shae’s wrist, and listening to her breaths, which were as ragged as his, he wondered what good they would do back by the grove. They had been extremely lucky to bring two men down, and likely was only made possible by his catching them by surprise. Now he had a more serious wound, and it was clear that Shae, though he knew she would not give up nor stop fighting with ferocity, was definitely feeling the pain in her wrist.

But his concern for Shae was perhaps too much. He began to lag behind, though he did his best to keep up. The pain was maddening, and though he fought through it as best he could, as he had fought through so much pain before, he found himself feeling weaker than ever and watched the ground beneath his feet slow in its passing. Khamir had worse wounds before, but he had never been in a battle such as this, where he had not had more than a few moments respite. He had been on the move since the beginning, so many names and faces spinning round in his head – he wanted to help them all. Now he felt he could do little to help himself.

“Shae…” he said, and she slowed as she turned her head to look at him, “I’m sorry, but…I can’t…I can’t move as fast as you right now…” he spoke amongst his heavy breathing.

The woman stopped, and after a brief moment of surprise, she asked, “Do you need help?” She glanced at his leg.

“No,” Khamir responded quickly, as if a reflex. Shae shook her head, but did not move on. She looked at him, waiting.

“I just need you to move a little slower,” the one-armed man stated as quickly as he could. He would not call it help. “Neither of us will do any good on our own,” he added.

“Maybe, but I’d say you’d do worse,” she remarked. Khamir grunted in assent, and the two took off again at a slower pace.

As they neared the grove, it appeared to them that chaos was making the situation more dangerous. The number of slaver bodies they ran into made them feel bits of relief amongst their concern for those they loved and those they barely knew, but it seemed the destruction was not over.

“We should find Lindir,” Shae said. And though Khamir agreed that Lindir, who he had learned was an Elf – an immortal! – would be able to assess the situation (and he was fairly certain in his belief that this Elf would not have been killed by mere Men of the East), the Southron could not simply tell Shae that.

“Or Beloan,” he suggested stubbornly.

[Firefoot]

Johari’s concern for Hadith had largely been forgotten in her discomfort, and so she could not help but be slightly relieved when Hadith faded back into unconsciousness.

It was as if their relationship was losing objectivity and becoming more personal. And his touch – it seemed like so long since she had felt another human’s touch. For years now, she had isolated herself from others, mentally and emotionally, so that even Hadith’s friendly, desperate touch repelled her and confused her. Her hand still felt tingly.

I’m not really that nice of a person, Hadith. You’d probably be better off without me.

The cries of fighting brought her back to the present. It was much closer now; Johari realized the slavers must be attacking here, at the grove. They would be in danger now; if she wanted out of the fighting, she would have to leave now. Instead, her hand went to her knife. She might have avoided the fighting earlier, but she wouldn’t run from it now. She began to stand, then knelt back down and quickly squeezed Hadith’s hand. Then she was gone.

She moved quickly and stealthily towards the screams, her knife drawn. She did not know how to use the knife, not really; with her fists and fingernails she might be as vicious as a wildcat, but the knife felt awkward in her hand. It would be better if she could ambush a slaver, rather than exchange blows.

Through the trees she caught sight of a slaver was chasing two girls, perhaps two of those she had seen gathered around Granny Brenna the previous night. Johari broke into a swift run, aiming to intercept their path. Hatred for the man bubbled up inside her that had nothing to do with the two girls: it was entirely personal. She could easily imagine him as one of the overseers she had only ever been able to offer token resistance to. How many times had she wanted to launch herself at them, strangle them – anything that would do more damage than a smart mouth?

She forgot the knife in her hand. As she neared them, he seemed to hear her footsteps crashing towards them, but his momentum would not allow him to turn enough to meet her with his blade as she jumped on him from the side and landed heavily on top of him. She heard his right arm, his sword arm, crack beneath them. Still he grappled with her with his good arm, and soon was out from beneath her. She launched at him again, swinging her fists. One blow connected solidly with his left temple. She fought furiously, unthinkingly, like an animal. Dimly she realized that the knife in his left hand was her knife, the one she had dropped; she had grabbed his wrist and was digging in her fingernails. A sensation of needing the knife coursed through her. She clawed at his fingers without avail. A hard kick in the shin loosened his grip enough for her to knock the knife from his grip. Both lunged for it; Johari reached it first and swung the blade blindly in his direction just as he came down on top of her. The blade ran straight through his chest. He was dead.

Suddenly weak and breathing shakily, Johari crawled out from under him. The fury was gone. She could already feel aches forming all over her body, and her arm was bleeding, but she remembered receiving none of the injuries. In fact, she remembered very little of the fight at all after she jumped on him the first time. She had killed him; only that mattered. Or it ought to matter. At the moment, Johari did not feel anything, not anger or satisfaction or grief or victory. She only leaned back against a tree and closed her eyes.

[Regin Hardhammer]

"Boy, come here." Ishkur barked out the words in the gruffest tone he could manage. Then he waved at Grask and indicated that the boy should come over and stand beside him.

"Here." Ishkur shoved the bag of coins close to Grask's face and explained. "Just a few coppers and a silver penny or two. Put it away and don't let the Uruks see it."

The boy seemed to be nervous. He stood completely still so Ishkur took the small pouched and placed it firmly in Grask's hand. This time, he softened his voice. "Go ahead. It's yours. You might need these someday. Just remember who gave this pouch to you. You're growing up, and someday I may need you to guard my back."

With that, Ishkur turned around and tramped back across the camp to return to the tent where his friend waited with the open cask of ale.

[piosenniel]

‘Ladies! I want you to put these rocks and scrubby bushes between you and the slavers.’ Rôg reached out an arm to grab a young child who’d wriggled out from the press of legs and cloth that surrounded him. ‘You, too,’ the man said, plopping the squirming little lad into the nearest set of arms.

His ears brought him the news that the slavers had breached the entrance to the grove. There were the loud shouts of the warriors as they came pell-melling in toward their prizes, the harsh tattoo of their horses’ hooves, and the keening sounds of the increasingly frightened women as their eyes took in the murderous advance of the slavers. ‘Put the children behind you!’ he shouted to the women, his voice barely rising over the frenzied tumult. ‘And your staffs, get them ready.....your staffs!’

Rôg turned just as two of the slavers crossed the halfway point in the little clearing. From the corner of his eye, he saw the great boar chasing one of the men, now unhorsed, from the grove. He swung his own staff about as one of the slavers urged his mount toward the clutch of women and children. It was a well meant defense, but ineffective against the muscular chest of the horse. The animal swerved only slightly, and that was more at the direction of his rider whose long thick club came round in a brutal arc toward Rôg.

With a whooshing grunt, Rôg exhaled forcefully as the club connected with his midriff. Doubled over from the force of the blow, his legs nearly gave way. He tried to rally, motioning all the while for the women and children to run. The slaver turned his horse and headed back toward the stricken man. Again his club came up and swung round to catch Rôg hard at the back of the skull.

Some of the women had run forward toward the slaver, striking his horse about the head and legs with their staves. It was enough, but barely, to keep the club’s second strike from being a killing blow. Rôg’s mind went blank......dark.....He fell to the ground in a heap.

~*~

‘Over here!’ shouted the slaver to his companions. Another one had come into the clearing, and now the three of them came rushing toward the little flock of women and the children just beyond. ‘Take ‘em!!’ cried the first slaver. ‘Catch and bind them.’ He leered at the women and their meager defenses. They would bring good coin in the slave markets. With a yowl of triumph he urged his fellows toward their prizes.

[Undómë]

Brenna

Just like a scarecrow in the planting fields!

That was Brenna’s fleeting thought as she watched Rôg crumple to the ground. It was only a momentary consideration, though, as she hurried forward with several other of the other women toward the fallen man.

‘Catch and bind them!’ she heard the slaver who’d clubbed Rôg shout. ‘No!’ she heard a loud voice cry out. Her own voice, she realized as she raised her sharpened stave in her hands to fend off the approaching slavers. Gwenith and Nia darted out from behind her, scrambling forward to get close to where Rôg lay.

There were loud shouts to either side of Brenna now as others of the women yelled out their anger at the slavers. ‘You’ll never take us back, you sons of dogs!’ The women rushed forward as the two girls dragged Rôg’s limp body to what makeshift safety the scrubby bushes would afford him.

The ranks of the women swelled as the cries against the three slavers grew louder. With a bravery born of anger, the group coalesced into a wrathful army, rattling their sticks at the would-be captors. There were far more of them than the horsed trio. But number and heightened emotion could only last so long against men trained in fighting, in murder, in the hunting of others of their own kind.

Brenna was one of the oldest of the women. She struck out at the slaver with her sharpened stick, drawing blood from his thigh where the sharp point of it pierced his flesh. She fell to the slaver’s sword; his heavy, fatal blows fueled by his anger at her boldness, her temerity. Nia and Gwenith ran forward to throw themselves between her and the man’s blade. They, too, were cut down.

‘Hold!' came the cry from one of the men. ‘We need them alive if we’re to sell them. Dead, they do us no good.’ He sheathed his blade, trading it for his club and net. In like manner his two henchmen put up their bows and their own swords. Urging their mounts onward, they trampled the three fallen women and began to swing their clubs at the others that still stood clustered on the small field. The blows from the slavers’ clubs were glancing, just enough to knock the women down. Once downed, the slavers threw their nets in an effort to entangle, to capture them.

The women were soon in disarray. Panic overtook their boldness. Panic fueled by fear. Some of the younger children, the littler ones cried and screamed as they watched their mothers struck with the clubs. They ran toward where their mothers lay and were themselves caught up like little birds in the nets.

‘Get them! Round up the rest!’ shouted the lead horseman once again.

Like frightened animals, the remainder of the women grabbed up their children, and those who were childless took up those little ones who stood crying in the flying dust. They ran, as fast as their legs would carry them from the hunters.....splitting up into small groups of twos and threes, running wildly in many different directions.

The three slavers, smug in their confidence they would prevail, split off from each other to pursue their separate quarry.

[Brinniel]

Eirnar stood at the center of the chaos, his shirtsleeve torn and bloody from a cut on his shoulder. In his right hand, he clutched a knife already stained from use. Throughout the night, he had followed his fellow ex-slaves from the tunnels to the camp, defending himself in every way possible along the way. Standing now covered in sweat and blood, the man could not help but feel overwhelmed. This night seemed to be lasting forever….how long had it been since the battle first begun?

Another ex-slave nearly slammed into Eirnar as she ran by, apologizing briefly as she continued on. Eirnar turned his head in the direction the woman had come from where several slavers began to pursue their victims. The man watched in horror as the slavers slaughtered women and children before one cried out, “Hold! We need them alive if we’re to sell them. Dead, they do us no good.” The men then began to club the women, and one by one they went down. One of those who fell victim to the clubs was Aedhild. Instead of running away from the charging men, she ran towards them, shrieking furiously. One slaver swung his club, then she too went down.

Panic set in Eirnar. During the rush of the battle he had completely forgotten about the poor woman. He had been hesitant as Aedhild’s protector at first, but it was a role he had slowly accepted, and seeing her fall, the man sensed failure for the one task he was meant for.

Pandemonium was in the atmosphere as women and children ran past Eirnar, fearing for their lives. As the slavers rode their horses after them, Eirnar took this opportunity to rescue Aedhild before she fell completely in the hands of the enemy. In the confusion, the man managed to reach the older woman and pull her into the brush without being seen.

Aedhild laid unconscious, blood pouring profusely from a deep gash on the side of her head. Apparently, the slaver had gotten slightly carried away when he clubbed her. Eirnar tore extra cloth from his shirt to help staunch the bleeding, but it seemed to do very little. The woman had suffered from so much, and already she was beginning to look rather pale. Eirnar looked around frantically. Where was the healer? Aedhild needed proper care…and soon.

Eirnar flinched as a set of hooves whirled by, nearly trampling the two. Still applying pressure to her wound, the man gritted his teeth in frustration, cursing into the darkness. “Don’t you die, Aedhild, I won’t let you,” he said aloud. “You live through this and I promise…I won’t ever fail you again. If I am to be your protector, then protect you I will.”

Eirnar could not understand why he felt so attached to this pathetic woman, why he so desperately wished her to live. For so long she had been a burden to him…and yet, at the same time….she had given him something else. For the first time in years, the man had a reason to live, an actual purpose to his own pitiful existence. As Eirnar cradled Aedhild in his arms, he came to realize that he needed her just as much as she needed him. And that in itself was enough of a reason for both of them to survive the night.

The shouting was slowly dying down and there was no longer a slaver in sight. Aedhild’s wound continued to bleed, and Eirnar knew she could not wait much longer. Wrapping his arms around her, he snatched up the surprisingly light woman and took off in the direction where the injured lay, searching for the healer.

[Tevildo]

Azhar's post

The noise and smell of battle threatened to overwhelm the girl as she struggled to open her eyes. With great effort, Azhar reached out and latched onto a small limb of a bramble bush that was growing nearby. Ignoring the thorns that left deep scratches along the back of her hand, she labored to pull her body into an upright position and stared out across the grove, straining to see what was happening. The sky overhead was dark and bleak. This time it was not the storm that painted the heavens a murky black, but the fact that they had been fighting so hard for so many hours. Azhar stared upward, seeking some sign of consolation, but not a single star was visible above.

The girl's head was pounding with hurt and confusion; her side ached horribly, where she had slammed against the sharp edge of a rock. Yet that pain was nothing compared with the sight that greeted her eyes. There was chaos and tumult everywhere. The bodies of three women littered the ground, and the dread horsemen had not left. They galloped from one fleeing party to the next, swords and nets in hand, attempting to round up more of their victims.

Rôg, where was Rôg? Where was the great dragon that could sweep into the heavens and chase away the riders? Azhar quickly glanced around. But Rôg had fallen, huddled in a ball of pain and blackness. She could make out his shape and form concealed by a scrub bush just a short distance away--- a tall gangly man, dressed in robes that seemed more like those of a scholar or scribe than a warrior in the midst of battle. She could not even tell if the southerner was still alive. Nor could she guess the reason why he had not taken on another form to save himself. Her stomach lurched, and she wretched on the ground.

Her first thought was to try and do something to save those who were fleeing and could not fight for themselves. But even if she had the strength or will, she had no weapon of her own. A bright image of a great bear rising up from the ground slipped inside her mind. But it was nothing more than an illusion. No matter how hard she concentrated or how much she tried to pour herself into the form, her body did not respond. She was a small human figure on a bloody battlefield, seemingly deserted by all her friends.

She quickly drew herself to her feet and started to sprint out of the grove, but a sharp pain in her ankle told her this would be impossible. It was only a simple sprain, something that would clear up with a good stiff bandage and a day or two of rest. But right now she had neither of these. Unable to run away, she nervously looked around, her eyes widening in fear and surprise as a single rider came sweeping in her direction. The slaver galloped up, slid off his horse's back, and, with one swift motion, grabbed her by the hair and forced her head back. For several minutes, Azhar struggled, screaming and kicking in a desperate attempt to get away. She managed to yank herself forward and, by violently twisting her neck to one side, positioned her head to clamp down on the man's arm, biting as hard as she could. The slaver howled in pain, then reached down and drew out a long glinting dagger, brandishing it threateningly an inch from her neck.

Helpless and defeated, Azhar let go and slumped to the ground as the man tied her wrists together and clamped on an iron bracelet with a long trailing chain . He remounted his horse and began loping forward, as she stumbled along behind him. "You'll fetch a good price on the market." he crowed, sounding entirely pleased with himself.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Post for Lindir and Carl

Reaching the section of the grove where Carl and Dirand were fighting proved more difficult than Lindir had originally envisioned. The ground was so littered with battle debris that the elf found himself clambering around fallen bodies and the discarded remains of broken weapons. More than once, he stopped to ward off an assault. While the number of slavers fighting was much smaller than earlier in the day, those who remained were pushing their attack near the entrance to the grove and were pouring into the sheltered area where the women and children had hidden. Plus, the knot of combatants crammed into the small grove made it difficult for anyone to push through the crowds.

By the time Lindir reached the spot where he had first seen the two fighting, Carl and Dirand were scuttling about on foot. Two of the slavers lay dead on the ground. With a manner almost as graceful as any Elf, Carl had managed to glide up to the skittish mare and, by using a soft hand and voice, calm her enough that the pair could remount. Yet before they could gain a secure seat in the saddle, the third slaver had come galloping up with a sharp glaive tacked onto a long pole. He waved this threateningly under Carl’s nose. Dirand’s wild whacks with the sword came up short of his target, while the hobbit had to pull back abruptly on the reins to swing the animal around to avoid the slashing menace of the broad knifelike blade. With a mighty heave, the slaver aimed the glaive directly at Carl’s left shoulder. The blade glanced off, but ran down the length of the hobbit’s forearm, leaving a shallow gash marked by a thin trail of blood.

Lindir had sprinted the last stretch of ground and came within fifteen feet of the pikeman just as the latter was howling in satisfaction at having scored at least a minor victory. Ripping out his bow and putting two arrows to the string in quick succession, the elf let go of his shots one after the other. The first whizzed by within a hair’s breadth of the man’s head; the second barely grazed the horse’s flanks and caused him to whirl about in pain, changing the direction of his attack. Man and horse took off at a gallop, heading straight for the grove where the women and children were running about in panic. Lindir glanced over his shoulder at Carl and gestured with his hand to show they needed to head in that direction.

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

Post for Aiwendil

The boar had chased the slaver far out on the plain until he had lost the human scent. At that point Aiwendil stopped for a moment and gazed up at the dark night sky, half expecting to glimpse a gigantic flying beast silhouetted against the empty heavens. But the wyrm was nowhere to be seen. Nor could he sense the presence of any prey close enough to hunt or even a small patch of vegetation for a quick snack. Hungry and irritated, the istar let the boar form slip away, morphed into the familiar guise of an elderly man wearing long brown robes, and began trudging back to where he had left his friends. Even in man form, his stomach continued to complain. Moreover, Aiwendil was embarrassed at having chased the slaver for such a long time without actually catching him. He was at least five miles away from camp. The fighting would likely be over by the time he had returned to the point where he’d started.

His original path had led him several miles north and east of the battle site into a territory that was strange to him. Behind his back were the shadowy peaks of the Mountains of Shadow that curved down from the north on either side of the entrance of the Plateau of Gorgoroth. The ground was littered with rocks and debris. He walked quickly and steadily southward, as his mind replayed several of the earlier battle scenes and wondered whether they should have done things differently. Aiwendil was so engrossed in these questions that he almost failed to notice the steady, rhythmic vibration of the soil beneath his feet, as if a great distant army was on the move.

Plopping down on the ground to rest for a moment, the old man finally awoke to his danger. The earth throbbed with the tramp of heavy footsteps, regular and even and definitely heading towards him. He flattened his body behind a large boulder and waited. Closer and faster the vibrations came until they were nearly upon him.

Afraid to lift up his head too far, Aiwendil remained prone, but could make out the words that were being tossed back and forth between those who now marched only fifteen feet away. It was the Black Speech: the pure Black Speech that Sauron spoke at the height of his power. Orcs did not speak like that. They used slang and often mixed in words from Westron. The only creatures who talked in this manner were the wraiths and spirits within Sauron’s inner circle, plus a chosen few of the enemy who had been taught language and twisted lore by the Dark Lord himself. Aiwendil felt a cold chill pass through his body.

Determined to get a closer look, the istar inched his body upward and was surprised to find that this was no army. It had not been the number of marchers but their size and scale that had caused the earth to shake. There were five shadow creatures encased in hard scales with forms that were taller and heavier than any Elf or Uruk that the old man had ever seen. These giants carried battle hammers in their claw like grips. Each member of the hunting party bore two or three animal carcasses slung haphazardly over his shoulder. As the last of the party tramped by and vanished in the distance, Aiwendil saw with sickening certainty that two human bodies hung casually amid the trophies.

So discouraged was the old man that he could not even bear to utter the words of Black Speech by which these monsters were called. At the same time, he tried to convince himself that this could not be happening. Gandalf had reported that, once released from Sauron’s control, these vile and cunning creatures had scattered mindlessly, wandering off without direction. Yet the members of this party clearly knew where they were going and, from the few words of the Black Speech that the old man could make out, expected to join an even larger group of cohorts in the north. Worst of all, if these were the same creatures that had terrorized Mordor in the late Third Age, their home lay in the exact spot where the fellowship and rebels had planned to establish a settlement: the foothills of the mountains within the Plateau of Gorgoroth. Right now, exhausted and battle weary, neither he nor anyone else from their own camp would dare to give chase and challenge them. But one thing was certain: if the freed slaves and fellowship continued on to the foothills, the two groups would eventually collide. With a long sigh, Aiwendil continued his slow trudge back to the sport where his friends were fighting, wondering how and when he would break this news to Lindir.

[Firefoot]

Don't let the Uruks see it… Just remember who gave this pouch to you… someday I may need you to guard my back. Grask was too young to understand the finer points of the politics within the Orc band, but after Ishkur had spoken to him, he understood one thing loud and clear: the Uruks weren’t really their allies. He shouldn’t trust them.

And he realized something else: he belonged to a group; he was important to the Orcs, or at least to Ishkur. First they had let him partake of their ale, and now he had been given some coins. Even though Ishkur had told him to put them away, Grask couldn’t help but opening the little pouch up first and seeing the coins for himself. It was just as Ishkur had told him: seven coppers and two silvers. Grask felt rich. He put them away quickly, though, stowing them in his pack. Then he wandered off, wondering just how it was that he would be able to help.

[Folwren]

Athwen knew at once when the slavers burst in upon the women. The shouts and screams of anger and fear alerted her. She quickly finished up bandaging the wound on which she was currently working. Then she stood, glanced about her at the forms lying stretched out on the ground or huddled in a sitting position, and went to her personal pack. Beside it lay a slender belt with a dagger and sheath attached to it. She picked it up and strapped it around her waist. What good it would do her, she didn’t know, but she did not want to be without something to use as a weapon and the dagger was all she had.

The wind had dropping dramatically between the time she had first started working on the wounded and now. But by this time, it was difficult to see not because of the blowing sand, but because of the darkness of night. It was not altogether black. Athwen could make out the forms of people running hither and thither and she also spotted the few men on horseback that still rode confidently among the women and children.

Where were the men? And where were her friends – the members of the fellowship? Where was Dorran? In the dimness, she could not see anything that could answer any of these questions, unless the people she wanted to find were those bodies crumpled on the ground.

But one of those bodies was moving. It rose slowly, grasping a scraggly plant for support. Athwen, walking forward, recognized Azhar. The girl seemed dazed and hurt as she looked about her. When she tried to walk, Athwen noted a severe limp.

Before Azhar saw Athwen and before the woman could catch the girl’s attention, a tall rider seemed to materialize out from the darkness. He leaped down just beside Azhar and Athwen was forced to witness the mostly one-sided struggle. She ran forward, threading her way through rocks and bushes as best she could. In the darkness, she could see no path and no way through, and it took her too much time to reach the slaver and Azhar.

As she ran, doing her best to reach them, she watched with frantic eyes Azhar’s hands were bound. The man remounted his horse, leaving the girl on the ground, and turned the animal’s head, starting away. Azhar stumbled behind him, limping painfully on a week or hurt foot.

Athwen cleared the last bushes. She ran forward, unsure of what she would do when she reached them. Stop the horse first, she imagined. The horse was only walking quickly, he wasn’t even trotting yet. Athwen quickened her speed. She darted about the rider’s knees before he realized she was there, and she grabbed the nearest rein and brought his head about.

“What?” the slaver cried, looking down at her. He swore violently and his hand reached for his curved sword at his belt. He drew it in a flash and swung towards Athwen. She dodged beneath the horse’s neck and onto the other side. As she went, her hand reached for her own blade. The dagger flashed out and as she passed the rider’s other leg, she slashed out with it. He turned half way about, swinging his sword up again, regardless of her blow.

Athwen dodged away again, but the slaver had his horse’s head again and he was turning him about. Athwen cried aloud for fear of Azhar, still bound to the animal.

But before she could think of anything to do or where to go, another figure on horseback dashed up. She looked up and a great throb burst in her chest. She recognized the proud and handsome profile of her husband as he raised his sword and met the slaver’s blade.

Athwen turned and ran towards Azhar. The girl was sitting on the ground, her head down and her hands held gently against her ankle. Speaking gently to her, Athwen made quick work of cutting the ropes around the girl’s wrists, but the iron bracelets made her stop. She looked down at the trailing chain and picked it up. The slaver must have dropped the end while he drew his sword. She was glad of that. Azhar was at least free to go.

She turned towards the girl and knelt beside her. “Azhar, are you alright?” she asked. Azhar shook her head and lifted her face towards Athwen. Tears shown on her face and her voice sounded a little choked as she answered.

“My ankle hurts! I can hardly walk.”

“Let me help you then. Come on.” Trying hard not to sound as worried and shaken as she felt, Athwen continued, “We’ve got to get away from those two before we’re trampled on.” She helped Azhar up, slipped an arm under Azhar’s arms to give her support, and then slowly led her away.

[Tevildo]

Dorran breathed a sigh of relief as he glimpsed his wife and Azhar slowly pick their way amid the wreckage of the battlefield and return to the corner of the grove where the slavers had not yet managed to break through. The sick and the injured still lay safe within that protected circle. With luck, they would be able to beat back the last of the attackers and keep them from doing much more damage. The toll of lives had already been heavy, and he had no wish to see it grow.

All this flashed through his mind in the space of no more than a few seconds. The rest of his attention was rivetted on the man who now slashed and fought opposite him. An experienced Rider of Rohan, Dorran would normally have been able to take out a fighter such as this one without too much difficulty. The man was bold and brash and wielded a great broadsword, but he lacked the discipline and patience that was the hallmark of a truly effective warrior. The two leaned out and exchanged a series of volleys on horseback, with Dorran gaining ground stroke by stroke and forcing the slaver and his horse to retreat a few feet at a time. He had maneuvered the man and his horse over to the ring of boulders that stood at the edge of the grove and was almost at the point of finishing him off when a chance blow caught him on the side of his temple.

Fire and pain rang through Dorran's head. The blow was in the exact spot where he had been wounded the day before when he and Shae had first ridden out on the plains. Struggling to keep a grip on the reins, Dorran saw a thousand stars flash before his eyes. A grey curtain descended as his body slumped to one side and he slipped from his horse, falling to the ground with a thud.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir's eyes widened in alarm as he turned to the side and caught a glimpse of Dorran toppling to the ground. He dashed forward across the grove as only an elf can do, intent on reaching the fallen man before the slaver could react. By the time Lindir made it to the boulders, the slaver had already whipped out a large net and taken aim for Dorran. Once the snare had tightened, he eagerly reached out and prepared to drag his captive onto the front of this saddle. One good heave and he had accomplished his goal, whipped his horse around, and begun to gallop off with his prize.

Lindir again pulled an arrow from his quiver and took aim at the man. Being careful to avoid Dorran's body, which was still encased in the net and hanging lengthwise across the horse's withers, he put the nock to the string and let the arrow loose. An instant later and the slaver had keeled to the ground, the shaft protruding from his back. For the second time that day, Dorran fell with a thud, tumbling off the horse onto the rocky ground.

Lindir sprinted over to where Dorran lay and cradled the Rider's body in his arms, heading towards the back of the grove where the injured had been taken. All around him noise and confusion reigned. At least two more slavers, the final ones still standing upright on the battlefield, had joined their original three companions in trying to assault the inner grove. But slowly and gradually, the freed slaves and members of the fellowship were beating back the attack.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl and Dirand rode off in the direction Lindir indicated, following the slaver’s horse toward the grove. And as he renewed his grip on the reins, Carl’s forearm burned mightily, but he kept his eyes fixed on the black horse in front of him as it reappeared between a large stone and the scrub brush, arching its way through the chaotic landscape. In pursuit, the borrowed mount amazed its ungainly riders, closing the distance with sure footed agility, so that the hobbit fancied the beast’s own heart were set on defeating the slavers. But in truth the horse was accustomed to hunting men, and had been trained to it, becoming well-versed in what was required to follow such wily prey.

Unfortunately, neither the old man Dirand, nor Carl had the benefit of such training themselves, and poor slavers they would have made. For when the horse in front of him suddenly leapt into the air in order to clear the rambling bushes, Carl was horrified to see a knot of cowering children directly in front of him, held captive there in a heavily tangled net. He closed his eyes and pushed his heels down, leaning forward to take hold of the blowing mane, as his own horse jumped over them. At the same instant he felt Dirand slide off the horse behind him, followed by a chorus of shrill cries. Then there was a sharp jolt as the horse found the ground again, and the hobbit too, fell from the saddle.

Bruised, but in one piece, Carl stood up to find that he had fallen next to the body of an older woman. ”Brenna,” he exclaimed in disbelief, “Aw mercy ...not Gwennith too!” he said, feeling it as a blow to his heart. And as his focus widened, he saw that the small grove was strewn with bodies, and the fighting continued. Carl quickly knelt beside Brenna and her two companions, hoping to find some sign of life in them, but they were already blanched white, and it was rapidly apparent that he should tend to the living.

Getting up once more, Carl ran to the other side of the brush where Dirand was trying to free the children from the net with one hand. He wore a grimace on his face as he hacked away at the plant with his sword, his other arm dangling limply at his side. “Careful with that sword there man!” Carl said. “Are you all right?”

“I've done something to my arm, Carl, and it hurts like nothing I've known. Can you get these youngsters out for me? I can't manage it,” Dirand pleaded, handing the hobbit his sword. Carl took the took it from him, but quickly set it aside, asking to see the old man's arm. He could clearly see that it had been pushed out of joint at the shoulder, and so taking it he pulled, twisting it carefully until he heard it pop back in it's place.

“Your sure to be sore after that one, but a lucky man you are that you didn't break it!” the hobbit said taking his belt and quickly tying Dirand's arm to his chest. Together then, they both finished cutting the net free, releasing the children, who looked to them for direction. But Carl didn't know what to tell them.

“Go lay on the ground near the stones, and play like you are dead. Don't move and don't speak,” Dirand instructed them. “Not until the fighting is done. And watch out for the horses!” the old man added, as an after thought. Carl realized grimly that if he and all of his companions were dead or captured, these poor children would inevitably be discovered by the slavers. But neither could they fend for themselves in this rough land, so fleeing was as good as a slow death, and Dirand's advice was sound. But how many might already be scattered out on the plain?

The wide-eyed children did as they were told, and the hobbit and the old man ran to enter the grove again, were the fighting was thick. Five slavers and the riderless horses were milling about the small space as old and young alike sought to rout them.

Carl was dismayed to see that Dorran was down. But Lindir, who had made it back safely had reached him, and was carrying him away. And spotting a particular fight quickly going sour, as a strong young man was expertly drawn away from the others and cornered with his back to a rock, Dirand and Carl quickly joined the fray, plaguing the rider's horse, so when it reached around trying to bite them, the man was able to extricate himself. Together the three of them followed that horse, as the slaver turned to join the others, and where the slaver that Carl and Dirand had chased, was now yelling something roughly to the others, in a language Carl could not understand.

[Durelin]

The dead bodies Shae and Khamir came across as they entered the grove were frightening, and they began to think the worst. He saw a woman and a child, and he knew that the slavers really had attacked those most helpless. With what strength they had, the two former slaves headed toward the sounds of battle, though the sensible parts of their minds tried to instruct them otherwise. As the screams and shouts grew louder, the two saw two other figures ahead of them, obviously slavers, heading in the same direction. Khamir marveled at how deep into the grove the Easterlings had managed to get, and he felt sick not only because of his wounds and exhaustion.

“Let’s try to be quiet,” the Southron whispered to Shae, “If we can sneak up on those guys, we’ll have a chance.”

Shae nodded in response, and they crept farther into the grove, in the footsteps of the golden-clad men. When the two slavers suddenly lurched forward, weapons raised, Khamir and Shae raced forward, as well. The one-armed man screamed in pain as he leapt off of both his good and bad leg, but he managed to propel himself onto one of the enemies, plunging his knife down as he did, forcing the blade into the back of the Easterling’s neck.

As the man fell before him, Khamir stumbled forward himself, and he found his eyes watching the ground, the dying body, and the other end of his dagger come at him, knowing that his reaction would be too slow to stop himself from…

Something suddenly crossed into his line of vision and he felt himself hit something soft, and felt a strong grip on his arm. He was righted, and found himself staring into the eyes of Beloan. Khamir could only smile in gratitude, and his friend smiled back. Then they both turned to Shae, to see her sheathing her own knife, the other Easterling dead at her feet with stab wounds from both Beloan and the woman, from forward and behind. Khamir smirked: his two friends were already on the move again, and he was left to slump to the ground next to his latest kill.

There came a shout retreat from one of the slavers who still persisted in battle: “Retreat, these dogs can bite!” The Easterling raged in his own tongue as he broke away from confrontation and took off out of the grove, almost stumbling over dead bodies as he went. The others followed as best they could. Some of the former slaves who still had fervor in them chased after their enemies or fired at them with their bows. But it was clear that even all of the energy these fighters had left wasn’t put into this effort. Khamir smiled. They were not like those Easterlings, they were better, and they had won…

A groan shook the form he had thought forever-still in front of him. His heart leapt, and as if by reflex he reached for a throwing dagger. The blade was drawn, but Khamir did not move into action, even as he watched the slaver wrench the knife out of himself and struggle slowly to his feet. The Southron had worried there was not enough force behind his blade, and he had not gotten to finish the job…but he did not regret it.

The Easterling gripped Khamir’s knife as he turned around to face the one-armed man. The enemies’ eyes met, but neither attacked. The slaver threw the blade onto the ground and took off after his companions. Khamir watched him go, and did nothing. He looked up, and saw Shae looking at him, her face startlingly blank.

“We are free!” Beloan roared, his voice louder and stronger than his friend had ever heard it. The response was loud and heart-felt, if a little ragged.

Shae and Beloan did their best to help Khamir to Athwen and the wounded, as his leg began to refuse to support his weight at all, but each helped support the other just to keep them standing, all three exhausted and hurt. The one-armed man was relieved to see so many of his companions alive, if not all very well. Lindir was carrying Dorran, but reported he was still alive. Vrór was still unconscious, but his breathing was slowly returning to normal. Carl was wounded, but still on his feet, and Athwen was still fine. Rôg had only recently awakened, but it seemed he was recovering nicely. Khamir could momentarily forget the dead.

But the Southron had left Adnan conscious, so when he saw the young man lying still on the ground, he broke away from his friends and stumbled towards him. And though he found the boy was breathing, he sat down beside him and would not leave.

The battle was over, but as he looked around him at Vrór and Adnan and others lying bandaged and suffering, he knew the fight was not over, and remembered that their journey was far from it.

Now he knew they could do it, though – and they would make it. They could be free people, together.

[Durelin]

Khamir and Adnan

The movement and sounds around him, from shouts of joy to grieving sobbing, blurred as Khamir felt his mind drifting and his eyelids willing themselves shut. Shae was alive, Adnan was alive, Beloan, Hadith, Johari… It was over, and he could rest now…sleep now…

“Where’d they go?” a hoarse voice asked beside him. His eyes snapped open to meet Adnan’s. Khamir smiled, glad to see the boy awake. He snorted a laugh as he watched Adnan try to sit up, shaking his head.

“They’re gone. We’ve won. So there will be no more heroics for you,” he grinned, but the young man didn’t smile back, and looked away.

“I did nothing heroic,” Adnan murmured bitterly, obviously finding it difficult to allow the words out of his mouth. “The…the way…what I did…” he turned his eyes back to Khamir, “It was wrong.”

Khamir sighed and frowned with concern. The way the boy had…slaughtered that slaver had scared him, he knew. Perhaps the blood he saw cover Adnan, who had put childhood behind him by only a few years, had made him stay his hand in the end, because he had grown so sick of it.

“But that’s what makes you different from people like them,” Khamir told the young man with quiet severity and sincerity, “from those slavers – you know it was wrong.”

Adnan was silent for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was strangely hollow, the obvious emotion missing from its tone. “He used to beat me and laugh. He was an Easterling. I hate them. All of them.”

The younger man’s confession made his actions suddenly clear to Khamir, and tore at his heart. “And how does vengeance feel?” the one-armed man asked. More silence followed, while Khamir listened to both his and the boy’s ragged breaths.

“Terrible.”

[Nogrod]

Gwerr (and Ishkur)

Gwerr had gone through Imak's tent just to be secure there wasn't something worthy of plundering left. But there wasn't. Then he went to Thunderclap and patted it slightly deep in his thoughts. Ooh, what a name... Please Ishkur!

Gwerr wasn't basically a friendly fellow. The millenia's he had lived had learned him not to be. But horses were his weak spot or at least as weak as anything could get with him. They were powerful and independent but still manageable creatures. Once a horse had saved his life... or he had saved his life with the help of a horse. It was how you looked at it, back then in Dagor Bragollach... Those were times... he sighed quietly to himself and took hold of Thunderclap's reins.

"Fine creature you are for someone who's not an orc", he whispered to it's ear. He worked with the horse easily enough so that it didn't fear him anymore but was settling down from all the excitement it had had earlier.

"Cool boy... cool boy, just relax mate. You're our treasureholder now and we wish you to stay calm... easy and calm..."

Suddenly there were noises outside the tent and soon Ishkur was back in looking curiously at Gwerr tending the horse.

"So Gwerr the cold, loving the beast or the gold now are you?" he smiled as he walked to the ale-barrell.

"Oh, shut up you sunshine!" Gwerr replied tightly and left the horse. "So mr. good-will, have you already spread all of your gold in a whim of human generosity?", he added as he came to the barrell as well.

The two looked at each other deep into each other's eyes, measuring their feelings and relative positions yet again.

"Just leave it Gwerr!" Ishkur said at last, taking a long draught from his goblet, after which he belched loudly and then laughed. "We're cool now. Don't you worry my friend. Take some more ale!" With that Ishkur sat down, looking satisfied.

Gwerr emptied his goblet and filled it again from the barrell. He studied Ishkur for a while while still standing but then settled down to sit beside him. He played with the goblet in his hands for a moment, took a sip and then addressed Ishkur in a more serious manner. He had been thinking about this for a time now.

"Now tell me my troubled mate, when are the slavers coming back? And is this Elven-king coming back as well?"

"How the blazes I would know that?" he replied from instinct but immediately thought better of it: Gwerr looked concerned and Ishkur had now noticed it.

"You're right, most of the males are drunk as Mordor. Zuhut and Griwzan have more or less passed out already and a couple of the Uruk-brutes were on their way to it... Colagar was half to his senses, I guess."

The two orcs looked at each other. The situation was not a good one and they both realised it.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Have you fools lost your minds?" Makdush glared at Illak and Kurrak, picked up one of the empty ale flagons that someone had tossed to the ground, and sent it hurtling in Illak's direction. The cup nicked the Uruk on the side of the temple and elicited an immediate response. Roaring in discontent, Illak drew out a sword and stumbled forward towards Makdush, waving his weapon wildly. The taller Uruk pushed the blade harmlessly to one side, toppling Illak to the ground and sneering at him, "You're drunk. both of you, drunk and worthless. What happens if the slavers return or those who fight them? You're just asking to have your skulls cracked open. Gah, you make me sick."

Makdush stepped back from the firepit where they had been sitting and stamped off through the camp, looking for any orcs who had managed to keep their heads clear and their wits about them. His search was singularly unsuccessful. The women and younger orcs had seemingly disappeared, but every one of the warriors were deep in their cups and unable to stand upright, let alone attempt to fight. It was only when he got to the largest tent in the middle of the campsite, the place where he had stolen the sword that belonged to the slavers' leader, that he heard coherent voices coming from within.

Pushing back the flap of the tent, Makdush stuck his head inside and saw two familiar figures: Ishkur and Gwerr. Scowling and cursing, the Uruk pushed his way in and immediately turned on Ishkur: "This is your fault. You brought us here. Have you seen what is happening? They are all roaring drunk....Uruk and orc warriors alike. And the women? They must have taken to their heels and run. They're nowhere in camp. So what do you propose to do if the slavers return? Or what if the slaves are victorious and they come for their spoils?" Makdush glared straight at Ishkur all the while cursing himself for having taken up with such a worthless band of ill disciplined and empty headed fools.

[Tevildo]

For the second time in less than two days, Dorran found himself lying flat on his back, struggling to make sense of the tumult and confusion that assaulted his senses on every side. The grove was a muddled mass of people running back and forth; their buzzing noise only exacerbated the throbbing sensation inside his head. Dorran's fingers inched upward to his temple where he discovered the edge of a dressing that someone had bound neatly about his temples.

Considerable numbers of the injured lay stretched out on the ground waiting for someone to come and care for their wounds. Dorran pushed against the foggy haze that threatened to send him reeling back into darkness. He could remember the last frantic minutes of his struggle with the slaver and how Athwen had managed to untie Azhar and lead her away. Slowly and with some pain, he scanned the grove looking for a familiar face. He immediately noted that all the slavers had been killed or driven away. Despite his discomfort, the Rider reacted with the quick instincts of an experienced fighter. He wanted to learn how their own group had fared and, just as importantly, what their next step would be. Where was Vrór, Carl, Rôg or Lindir? Had Azhar and Shae and Kwell made it through the battle? And, most important of all, exactly where was his wife? Dorran groggily sat up and called out with an unsteady voice, trying to get someone's attention.

[Folwren]

Athwen let Azhar slip quietly to the ground with her back against a rock as soon as they came to the place where the wounded were gathered. As she straightened slowly, Athwen passed a quick hand over Azhar’s forehead, checking once more to see if any remnant of a fever had returned with the girl’s recent excursion. Besides the heat of movement, there was no unnatural, feverishness there. Azhar winced and drew her leg back so that she could wrap her hand around it. Athwen nodded in approval. Pressure would help the pain.

“Azhar,” she said. “You stay here and wait for me. I must see to the more pressing wounds over here. You can wait, can’t you?”

Azhar looked beyond Athwen at the figures of wounded men, some sitting in a hunched position, other lying flat on their backs, and still others lying in twisted forms in their attempts to relieve pain of wounds. She nodded, understanding, and Athwen turned away.

She walked forward to resume her work once more, but her footsteps halted suddenly as she saw Lindir walking slowly into sight, encumbered with the body of Dorran held tightly and carefully in his arms. She dashed forward with beating heart and reached them just as Lindir was lowering Dorran to the ground.

“What’s wrong? What happened? Is he killed?”

It was really her job to find out, but she had forgotten that for an instant. But as Lindir spoke as assuringly as he could that Dorran was not killed and that he thought Dorran was only knocked out, Athwen’s wits came back to her at once. Quick observation told her more than Lindir could - Dorran was still breathing quite steadily and his blood still pumped.

“Silly man,” she murmured, as her fingers gently explored the new bash on his head. “You would go and bump your head again.” She skipped up to her feet, took a few steps away to reach her bag and came back immediately. She drew a strip of bandage from it and quickly and gently bound it about Dorran’s bleeding head. Lindir was still standing nearby when she had finished. Athwen stood and turned to him. “Lindir, what else needs to be done? Is the fighting over?”

“I believe it is,” Lindir replied, turning and looking out. “The last of them have been repulsed and have ridden away. We must gather the scattered women and children and then decide what is next to be done.”

“If there are still some of us who are not wounded and not scattered, can they not help me?” Athwen asked. “I have run out of water. And if there are any more wounded out there, they need to be brought back.” Her eyes strayed passed Lindir to watch Khamir as he was helped, limping, back to the grove. “If there is anyone who knows a single thing about such work as this, or anyone who is smart enough to learn, I’d want them, too,” she said, looking back at Lindir.

“Well,” the elf began doubtfully, “I’ll see what can be done.”

“Thank you,” Athwen replied, smiling slightly, and then she turned back to work and Lindir went out. Athwen walked forward, checking on each of the people there, taking stock of what she had done and what she had yet to do.

Beside Adnan, who had lost consciousness (Athwen was more likely to believe it was from loss of blood than from faintness of heart) while she had not yet finished tending to him, Khamir now sat, leaning heavily against the wall of rock. His eyes were shut and his face seemed almost relaxed. Athwen knew that his leg was hurt - he had limped badly as he came - but she did not know to what extent it was wounded.

Near those two, Vrôr lay. He had not moved at all since he had been first brought on. Last Athwen had checked, his breathing had evened out. She thought he would soon be coming to himself.

Then there was Hadith, the first one she had dealt with. He, too, had not really come back to a real waking. Her eyes continued to sweep the small enclosement. Two she did not know were sitting in miserable silence, enduring as mutely as they could their wounds. One had had an arrow through his calf, rendering him almost useless in any attempt to chase anyone and fight. He had made it back to the grove slowly and painfully, helped part of the way by a companion who he said had been killed. The other had been knocked down by a horse and then trampled upon by another one. Athwen suspected at least one broken rib as well has a broken collar bone and arm. She shook her head and her eyes passed on as she thought, ‘You are actually rather lucky...’

There were three who had died of their wounds - the blades that had cut them or the arrows that had pierced them had either caused so much blood to flow before she could stop it that they died slowly, or had struck upon those important portals of blood that carried the human life and they had died quickly and surely. Her eyes lingered on one of those. He lay with a look of peace on his face now. It had been a long struggle that had ended only a few minutes earlier. She had tried to fight for him, to help him, but to no avail. He had died with her hands still struggling to preserve his life.

There were still others that she had not yet fully tended to. Their wounds were painful, but once she had seen to it that the bleeding would stop, they were not so dangerous as to be rushed to immediately. Now she had time, but no water.

Her eye suddenly caught a movement. She looked across the short space sharply and saw Dorran moving. His hand lifted to his head and he touched the new bandage. He lay there a moment, seemingly trying to see about him. Then, to Athwen’s astonishment and disapproval, he sat up. One hand was pressed against his head, but his eyes were open and he was calling.

Athwen thread her way carefully through the bodies between her and Dorran and then ran forward and knelt before him on one knee. Her hands pressed against his shoulders, urging him to lay back down.

“What do you think you’re doing, dearest?” she asked, with only the slightest sound reproval in her voice. “Stay down. You’re trembling like a leaf already with the attempt of sitting up.” It was only a slight tremor, true, but enough for her to make an excuse to keep him down. “Dorran, it’s not good that you got hit again.”

“I can’t say it was my idea,” Dorran answered with a grimace.

“Sure it was not. But it was yours to try to sit up. Now, will you promise to lie still until I’ve had a chance to assess the damage done to your skull?”....

[Child of the 7th Age]

One part of Lindir’s mind was filled with relief. Despite the slaves’ lack of battle experience and their assortment of ragtag weapons, they had actually managed to prevail on the field. They had killed or driven off the last of the slavers who had threatened to wrench away their freedom. For the moment, they could rejoice in their success.

Yet the hours immediately following a battle are never easy, and this time was no exception. Three companions of Lindir--Vrór, Rôg, and Dorran--lay among the injured, while Aiwendil was nowhere to be seen. Aiwendil’s disappearance did not surprise the elf. His earlier dealings with Gandalf had taught him that wizards have a way of vanishing at the most unexpected times. He supposed that the old man would soon reappear but where or when that would be he could not guess. Still, it was a bad time for Aiwendil to be missing. Carl was a tough fighter and had suffered only a minor scrape, but he had even less experience in the conduct and aftermath of war than either Aiwendil or Rôg. The temporary loss of Vrór and Dorran was even harder to take. Lindir missed both their counsel and friendship. .

Lindir had spent the past hour doggedly trying to organize the camp. He had done the practical things that were necessary: securing helpers for Athwen, bringing in the wounded from the field, and beginning the difficult job of collecting the bodies of those who had died. But the latter had proven to be an overwhelming task for the solitary elf. Gathering up the bodies of the two children who had been killed, he had carried them over to the makeshift byre, placing them gently amid the tangled boughs. They were too young, even by the standards of a mannish lifespan. Born into slavery, these little ones had come so close to winning a real life, but had been denied at the last moment. Could he have done something differently to stop this terrible thing from happening? Lindir’s mind circled feverishly as he asked himself this question.

Gloomily he reflected that there would be no grave or memorial for any who had fallen in today’s battle. The best that could be offered was a pile of cold ashes in a distant land. Lindir felt old shadows return: ghosts of memories from bitter wars fought in the First and Second Age that refused to slip away. In those hard times, there had been young victims too. He remembered one in particular: a young friend wrenched away from his mother’s arms and carried off or slain by one of Morgoth’s raiding parties. Sometimes it seemed as if the cycle would never end.

[Folwren]

Kwell felt drained of all strength by the time the last living slaver took to his heels. The world was dim, but not as dark as it had been when night first fell. The clouds that had covered the stars were slowly being torn apart and were sliding quietly away in tatters and shreds. The wind below had dropped and the sand and dirt stayed in its rightful place - on the ground. Kwell drew a deep breath - the first in seemed since that morning - and slumped down on a rock.

He was not allowed to sit thus for long. Someone passing soon urged him to his feet and he was given a bucket to go fetch water for the healer. He was kept busy for a while, with other random and small tasks. Soon, the only duties left to be done were gathering the dead, helping with the wounded, or searching and bringing back whatever wood or brush they could find. Kwell set out with some others and began to search for dead bracken, bushes, or trees.

During this simple bit of work, though his hands were busy with the wood, his mind was free to roam. The territory it walked over was not kind to him. His thoughts were darkened with guilt and self-loathing. He could not help but think that at least some of the deaths among the women and children might have been prevented if he had been there.

He came back to the place of the battle and as he laid his load of fuel, he looked at the dead that had already been gathered near. Lindir was there now, setting the limp body of a child down. Kwell looked at the little boy’s face and then slowly lifted his eyes to the elf’s. Lindir was not looking at him. Kwell thought he might not even be aware of his presence. The two of them were fairly alone - the others worked at a small distance. Kwell wanted to speak to him. He had to approach him, he had to apologize, and above all, he must know what Lindir thought now. Kwell was more ashamed now than he ever had been before. Ashamed and not a little apprehensive of what the elf might do when addressed. But Kwell must speak, he must.

He slowly came about the pile of wood. His feet moved slowly and uncertainly, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. Lindir did not turn or make a movement or sign of being aware of him until Kwell was just a few feet away. Then he turned his head and looked down at the boy.

Kwell stopped his feet abruptly, shut his half open lips and looked back at the elf’s eyes. “Sir,” he finally managed to bring himself to say. “I am. . .I am sorry for leaving the glade. You told me to stay and. . .” he looked down towards the ground as he felt his heart sinking. “I didn’t stay. I went down to try to meet the battle down at the camp.” He was too miserable to try to say anything else and he shut his mouth and waited with his head bowed.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Kwell? That is your name, I think." The boy's sense of guilt and shame was written clearly on his face. "At first I wondered where you'd gotten to. Then I saw you fighting beside the trench but it was not the time to speak. Ah. lad.....how do I put this?" Lindir stopped for a moment and turned away from the boy, staring at the great byre on which the bodies were laid. He continued staring at the byre as he talked, "You are a lad caught up in things that should not be: things that are hard even for a full grown man or Elf to deal with. No, you should not have left without speaking to me or at least to Aiwendil, who was in charge of defending the grove. If you had explained what you wanted to do, I would have thought hard on your words and very likely agreed. That way, I would have known where you'd gotten to. A man fights best where his heart lies but it is also important that those in charge know where their people are."

He turned from the byre and gazed down at the boy. "The important thing is that you are alive and well and did everything possible you could. No one could fault your conduct in battle. Others have mentioned to me that they were amazed anyone so young could fight like a grown man. Next time, just ask. I wish I could tell you there would be no "next time" but I can not.

"We all regret some of our decisions....things we wish we could change. When I look at what happened in this grove, I wonder if we should have told the women and children to march out last night from this place so they would have been far away when the fighting occurred. Or we might have sent more men out on the plain for a surprise attack on the slavers before they ever got to the camp. Questions like those are eating away at me. If anyone bears responsibility for what happened here, it is not you, Kwell, but those in charge."

Lindir put his hand on Kwell's shoulder before going on, "You will never forget what happened here. No man or elf forgets his first battle. But when you think on these things, also remember this. No battle is completely "good", even with victory. Victory can not bring back those who died. Their loss pulls at the heart no matter whether you are the one in charge or not. I too wonder if I should have done some things differently. But I am only an elf, not one of the powers on high who understands the music. So the only thing left for us to do is go on and live our lives in a way that brings some meaning to their loss. I do not know if you or I could have prevented deaths by doing anything differently. But I am very sure this battle was worth fighting, even if the price was high."

"Kwell, you are young. Decide differently next time. But do not let your grieving stop you from doing something even more important.....learning how to live with your mistakes, if mistakes they be, and going on from there. I am afraid both of us have spent too much time dwelling on things set in stone and not enough time thinking about what we can and must do next. What say you, boy? Will you help me out? Run through the camp and deliver a message to each of those who can make it to the spot where the central campfire burned last night. We must decide what to do next if we are to keep this group safe and go forward to the north. Looking on the ruins of battle can only tear at a man's heart. We must begin thinking about tomorrow....."

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

Folwren's post for Kwell


The elf was gentle in his reply. Kwell had expected anything – anything except this response. The elf seemed to understand, and where he could not understand, he forgave. At first, even Lindir’s gentle words could not clear away the shame and regret Kwell felt. But as he went on, Kwell’s head began to lift a little more, and he felt he could look Lindir in the face.

Kwell promised himself that next time (for Lindir thought there must be another time), he would do better. He must do better, for he felt he had to deserve this elf’s trust and his forgiveness. He didn’t deserve them now. He had never done anything to deserve any such kindness, and the thought made his head droop again.
" If anyone bears responsibility for what happened here, it is not you, Kwell, but those in charge." It was not the deaths Kwell mourned, though. He knew so few people. It was own guilt. Yet, maybe Lindir knew that. Kwell felt Lindir’s hand rest on his shoulder. "You will never forget what happened here."

It was then that the tears first entered Kwell’s eyes. He swallowed, but for some reason, he did not feel the usual anger at crying like a maid. There were reasons to cry now. Forget what happened? The images of his companions who had died, and even of the men he had killed, rose before his mind’s eye, even his physical eyes were blurred beyond vision. He listened in silence to the rest of what Lindir said.

“I am afraid both of us have spent too much time dwelling on the thing set in stone and not enough time thinking about what we can and must do next. What say you boy? Will you help me?” Kwell’s head began to come up once more. “Run through camp and deliver a message to each of those who can make it to the spot where the central campfire burned last night. We must decide what to do next if we are going to keep this group safe and go forward to the north. Looking on the ruins of battle can only tear at a man’s heart. We must begin thinking about tomorrow.”

Kwell reached forward impulsively and grasped the elf’s hands. “Yes. Yes, I will, sir! Thank you, thank you so much!” He could say no more. His voice choked, and he let go of Lindir’s hand as he turned to rush away and take his message to every able man and woman.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Once the immediate threat of the slavers' was dispersed, the heavy cost of the battle made itself keenly felt, and Carl walked about the camp stunned by what he saw, as all were trying to recover a sense of equanimity. He searched for his friends only to find them missing, or injured. So few were unscathed. But most distressing it was to learn that Vŕor had spent the initial assault buried in the tunnel, while he himself had stood just a few yards away, absorbed as he was in leading his handful of archers. Oh how his mind fixed on the fact, as so many regrets rose to his mind while his thoughts drifted.

But when Lindir spied the hobbit's aimless meandering, for Dirand had by now left him to look after his own friends, the elf had quickly set Carl to work with the others who could still heave and carry. Together they gathered all the dead, along with the shields and weapons they found strewn about the camp. And a morbid debate quickly broke out over whether they should distribute the such items as the dead slavers' boots or tunics. The hobbit shuttered, shying away from speaking his thoughts on the matter. And he quickly left, seeing the young man in whose care he had left his pony Stumps. But the dark haired fellow could not look the hobbit in the eye, for he had lost track of the animal through no fault of his own. And the sad tale soon spilled from him. Very early on in the battle, the confusion proved too much for the docile natured beast, and he had been so nervous that the man admitted, he could not afford to ride him, and so had dismounted. Terrified Stumps, once free of his burden had fled toward the east.

Carl closed his eyes and hung his head for a moment, before lifting them again to meet the young man's apologies. Quickly dismissing the former slave's acceptance of responsibility, the hobbit declared it his own fault. He should have reckoned on the old farm horse not taking well to battle. Frankly, he felt as if Stumps was not the only representative of the Shire to be of that disposition today. Walking slowly back to were the pyres now blazed in the dim light of dawn, he stood watching the flames, as he fingered the stone in his pocket. He should never have assumed any of them would have been safe. Taking out his replica of the old woman's stone, he looked at it, his heart brimming with bitter sorrow. Just then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“What are you doing with one of Brenna's stones?” Dirand asked gently.

“I don't know anything anymore” Carl answered. And moving forward he laid the stone that he had made when sitting beside a cheerier blaze, in the embers at the base of the pyre before turning to his new friend again. “I had hoped that I could have learned about her and why she made such a stones. Any chance that you know why she did?”

“No, not really,” the old man mused, shaking his head. “Perhaps out of some sadness?”

Carl nodded mutely, and after a moment he spoke again, “You were good Dirand, to try to help those children even when the bones of your arm had gone so awry.”

“Nay Carl. I'm not so good. And is any one of us, when it comes down to it? After all who as else is there to look after me in my old age, but those self same children.” And as the hobbit stared up at him in disbelief, Dirand's sober expression bloomed into a mischievous smile, and he winked at the farmer.

Carl smiled weakly. “I think you are a far site kinder than you pretend to be, Dirand. And you'd make someone a good gaffer some day, though I have my suspicions you'd act all unwilling at the start! You're as soft as a downy chick, you are!”

"Well, you can think what you like about me, today. But don't say I haven't be straight forward with you. And if you think that I'm all that soft, then I think you the most simple soul I have met in a long while. No offence, mind. It is a good thing, by all acounts."

[Regin Hardhammer]

"Yes, I've seen it. I have eyes in my head. But how is this my fault? Am I the one who is making them act like fools? I told them to come up to the camp for a drop of brew, not to drink themselves into the ground. I've had my share of ale but I know when to stop. As for the women, how should I know where they are? What do you expect me to be.....a nursemaid?"

Ishkur glowered at Makdush but neither orc nor Uruk drew out their weapon. There was silence in the tent. Finally, Ishkur grunted and spoke, "Makdush, I don't know what you are going to do. But Gwerr and I were leaving. Neither of us wants to be here after the men return." Ishkur threw a warning glance at Gwerr hoping that he wouldn't open his mouth and blab that they had never even talked about that. "Now, if you'll get out of the way, Uruk, I have to mount my horse."

Ishkur turned to his friend. "Gwerr, if you like, we can ride double. Let's head back to camp. As to you," Ishkur glared at Makdush. "Do what you want. Stay or leave. Just stay clear." Ishkur flashed a look over at Makdush that was halfway between a grin and a grimace "And don't forget. Right now there's two of us and just one of you!"

With that, Makdush backed out of the tent.

[Durelin]

Vrór

It was tugging at him. Something was tugging at him, pulling him back toward the surface. He crashed through another layer of thin glass, sending ripples throughout his body, jolting reminders of living, breathing, and bleeding. Breaking through the next layer brought awareness of extreme pain, and he found himself trying to claw his way down to no avail. Luckily a veil of numbness fell with the next layer, and then the rest of the senses began falling into place. The ground was gritty. He could hear again, and he heard so much painful groaning that he was almost afraid to open his eyes, when a million blurs slowly began to focus. Colours poured in until there was a starry sky above him, and greens and browns flooded the peripheral.

Vrór realized that his mouth was open, and the groans were his. He quickly shut his lips, and ground his teeth together to keep himself silent as he adjusted his mind to this rediscovered awareness of his body, and all the aches and pains that went with it. His breath huffed and puffed out of him, and next he tried to regulate it. But his heart was beating, blood was pumping, air moved in and out of him, so his mind could move on to the more complex parts of his consciousness.

Why in Middle-earth does my head hurt so bloody badly? he wondered.

Khamir and Adnan

When the young boy Kwell delivered the message that Lindir called for the able-bodied men, to bring them together for planning, Adnan immediately began to rise. Khamir laughed, and reached out to place a hand on the boy’s chest, pushing him softly back down. It still did not take much force; the younger man was clearly still quite weak.

“You may be all patched up as best as you can be,” the one-armed man told his young friend, “but you’ve lost a lot of blood. Moving around is going to push your recovery back even further.”

Adnan let out a frustrated growl, and Khamir grinned at him. “With that spirit, as long as you resist any foolishness, you’ll be back to fighting the baddies again in no time.” The older Southron was still a little surprised at how optimistic he could be, and how playful, but it had become clear to him that Adnan was bringing out a lot of qualities in him that he stubbornly admitted he liked.

‘Taking care’ of the young man was good for him, and kept his mind off of his own pain, physical and otherwise. The boy was living and breathing, and regardless of how he appeared, fairly happy. Others were not so…lucky? Was it really just that Reagonn and Zaki and Tareef and so many others were unlucky? They were sacrifices, he decided. It sounded cold, but it meant much to him.

Sacrificing for others was something he was never good at. It had always been most important to him that he live. It was his life, and it was all he had, and…it was his. But now he realized that because it was his it was also his to give. Perhaps Reagonn and the others had not planned or wanted to give their lives, but they had all chosen to risk them. That was sacrifice. Not anything glamorous or extravagant, not even a deep emotional decision to make.

Maybe it was just…for a moment you forgot – it was a moment of insanity.

Khamir had not thought of his life only because he did not have time to, with all the other faces that filled his head and his heart with concern. And looking at Adnan, battered but alive, he could smile, he could even feel proud. They had accomplished much this night. And it was not quite over. Khamir slowly rose, keeping his teeth clenched to not let a sound out.

“What about you?” Adnan demanded angrily.

The one-armed Southron placed his hand on the boy’s head and ruffled his hair. Adnan sneered. “I’m bigger than you still,” he said teasingly, “I have more blood.” With teeth clenched he limped over toward Lindir where the others were beginning to gather. It made little sense to Adnan, but he was for once not in the mood to argue much. He about pounded at the ground with his fist, but luckily stopped himself before using his…partial hand, as he thought of it. He looked down at the bandaged mass, and marveled at how he could not feel that anything was missing. Of course, he could not feel much of anything at all.

When he heard some very low, gruff grunts and groans from nearby, Adnan pushed himself up further as best he could to look around. He noticed a large object moving beneath a blanket, and soon recognized from the greying orange hair that it was the very short…man, or whatever he was, named Vrór, who he had helped carry to safety. Was he awake? Did that mean he was going to be alright? His heart jumped as his eyes darted around. Had anyone else noticed? What if the small man needed help, needed water, or…

“Athwen!” he called, “Miss Athwen! Somebody! It’s Vrór!” Hopefully the healer had time to see him, at least, to make sure he did not need anything immediately, whatever that anything might be.

[Child of the 7th Age]

A small brown thrush, a bird rarely seen in Mordor, angled his way across the heavens, heading back towards the camp where his journey had begun. Aiwendil was so intent on rejoining his companions that he almost missed the handful of riders approaching from the west. They had been riding hard but were now stopped for a moment of rest. Curious about the men, the thrush flew in that direction and flitted down to perch on a nearby crag of tumbled boulders. The cliffs rose straight up from the plains and totally encircled the land, making a kind of small canyon where travelers could take shelter from the wind and weather. Aiwendil was close enough to hear the men and see what they were doing. He immediately recognized them as the last bedraggled remnant of the once proud band that had attacked their camp earlier that day. The istar let out a sigh. If these were the final men left alive, as they appeared to be, then his companions had prevailed, and the people were safe.

The riders were arguing among themselves; one stood up and drew out a dagger waving it menacingly in the other’s face. They had decided to go back and retrieve their belongings but there was more than that at stake. Aiwendil caught snatches of heated conversation about a chest stored in the captain’s tent reputed to contain many gold and silver coins. Even in these outlying parts, gold had real value, and a stash of money would make a wonderful resource to help fund the settlement on the Plains of Gorgoroth.

Aiwendil considered what to do. He did not want these men to continue on and remove the chest before Lindir made it over with the scouts. Yet the istar was bone weary. He had risen at dawn and spent the past seven hours in the midst of battle and giving chase over the plain. Home in Valinor, Aiwendil could switch from thrush to lion and even to giant eagle in the merest flash of an eye. But here, inside the bounds of Middle-earth, things were not so easy. His incarnate shape, that of an older man, was subject to the same pains and weariness as any other mortal. In order to chase off the slavers, he would have to appear as a large and threatening animal, something he could not presently do. It was not a lack of will or knowledge. He simply did not have the energy required for such a task.

He tilted his head to one side and tried to think, but, whether it was the limitations of the small thrush brain or the simple weariness from which the istar suffered, no good ideas came to mind. He was almost ready to admit defeat when he felt the vibrations throb beneath the rocks. He listened and caught the same ominous noise that he had heard before when the great hunters had passed him by. This time, however, the sound was amplified a hundredfold, as if an army of a thousand men was on the move and heading in their direction.

From that point on everything happened very quickly. The small bird fluttered his wings and flew as high as he could go. A band of trolls was approaching the spot where the men were now deep in conversation. This was no small hunting party but an organized army that was racing forward in tight formation. Finally awake to their danger, the slavers scattered in panic and tried to scramble on their horses, but were not quick enough to escape the stone soldiers who rushed forward with pikes and axes. The slaughter took only a few moments and was far more devastating in its ferocity than anything Aiwendil had witnessed earlier in the grove.

As the last ounce of his strength receded, the small bird plummeted back to earth and landed in a soft heap of feathers. One moment there was a thrush, the next an old man rubbing his eyes, struggling to rise. Aiwendil was trapped inside his body. Too weary to take on any other form, he ran and hid beneath the overhang of the rock cliffs. The army of trolls ground to a halt while the leader barked out orders in the black tongue. Aiwendil peered warily from behind his enclosure. To his dismay and puzzlement, the group was setting up camp. He wondered why they did not travel at night as was customary for their kind. Then he remembered. These were no ordinary trolls but olog-hai, completely immune to the hot rays of the sun. Apparently, they had decided to sleep through the night and continue on the next morning. With a groan, the old man buried his head in his hands. He was trapped within the canyon with no way to get out until the brutes resumed their journey. He sank down defeated on the ground.

_______________

[Child of the 7th Age]

As darkness descended over the plain, all those who could manage to walk made their way to the central firepit to discuss what should be done. Lindir already had several large kettles of soup simmering so that those in attendance could help themselves and carry provisions back to the others in buckets and pots after the meeting was ended.

Although the slavers had been defeated, victory had come at a price. There was protracted discussion in hushed tones about brave friends who had been lost and the many who now lay injured. The latter would require some time to heal before the group could resume its journey northward.

It was Lindir who first suggested that a party of scouts be dispatched to the slavers' camp to retrieve usable supplies: "We would need ten or twelve to ride over," he noted, "They would leave in the morning and get a look at whatever was left behind. Last time we were there I had Aiwendil check. The camp was fairly well provisioned. He turned up stockpiles of food, barrels of ale, and basic items like blankets and tools. All that could be helpful for the journey and even to establish the settlement."

"But how will a small party carry back so much?" Beloan queried. "Plus, there is the danger of running into those who were not killed but ran away from the battle."

Lindir nodded in response. "It is a danger. We'll must travel armed. Still, only a handful of slavers lived to run off, and I don't expect they'll be looking for a fight. But we will need to keep our guard up and also leave some able bodied fighters here to keep an eye on things, just in case. As far as getting things back here, we are in luck. Aiwendil found one large wagon that the slavers had that could be used to transport the supplies. And once those items have been distributed to families or placed in sacks and tied onto the backs of horses, we could use the wagon to help carry anyone who is still gravely injured once we start our northward trek."

Beloan reflected for a moment and added, "We'll need animals then, as many as we can muster. I thought so. There are a number of horses still loose on the plains. I've already had several of my men out searching for them. Those same men will rise early and round up the last of the strays for the use of the scouts. But they won't be coming with us. They will be staying behind to help guard the camp."

"Good planning. Dorran and Athwen also are staying here. Neither of them will be fighting or guarding but, should any problems arise, your men can get with them, to make decisions. Have your men set up a rotating watch on the perimeter just to make sure we get no surprises. As to when the scouts leave, there is no rush. We can take our time getting off. But I don't want to leave that camp sitting unguarded any longer than one night. I'll be riding with the scouting party and you too I hope." Lindir glanced over at Beloan who indicated his agreement. Then the elf looked around the circle and added, "What I need now are volunteers, preferably those who could manage on the back of a horse. Anyone who is gravely wounded must remain behind in camp." Lindir smiled wryly. "Indeed, if Athwen finds out that some of you have dragged yourselves over to this circle, I expect to see her here any minute demanding that you retreat back to your pallets for rest, and frankly she will be right. Before the meeting started, I managed to draft five strong, able bodied fighters who will act as our guard on the trail should any problems arise....Gall, Tomba, Grell, Drindl, and Bor." He nodded in their direction and then added, "But I will need others. I know there are a few of you who would like to come with the scouting party, despite the fact that you bear minor injuries. I will not say no. Right now very few in this camp are totally sound, aside from a handful of women and children who did not fight and managed to avoid the attack in the grove. If you do want to come along, just make sure you have enough strength for the ride. Who then should I add to the list?"

A babble of voiced was quickly raised by those sitting around the circle, some men and women posing questions and others asking to be included among the scouts. Within a short span of time, Lindir has accumulated his list of volunteers, "This looks to be it." he noted, calling out the names of those who had agreed to go, "Azhar, Shae, Johari, Kwell, Qat, along with Beloan and myself, and the five that I already mentioned. That makes twelve in all, which should be enough if things get tight. We'll set the funeral pyre ablaze later tonight and say our goodbyes to our friends. After that, those of you who are going should get a good night's sleep and meet back here by mid-morning when we'll parcel out the horses. The rest of you will have plenty to do while we are gone, helping to tend the sick and prepare things for the road."

Lindir stood up to leave but then hesitated a moment and turned back with one final comment. "Everyone in this camp has much to be proud of. You fought as though you'd been doing it your entire life. As tough as things are now, let's not forget that we've come a long way. If the winds of chance blow fair, we will be moving north and reaching the new settlement in the space of only a few weeks. There is a life waiting ahead, a life you can be proud of, if we can just pull together on the journey."

The elf turned and walked away from the circle, when Azhar ran up to him and tugged on his sleeve, "Lindir, what's happened to Aiwendil? I have not seen him at all since the battle in the grove."

"I am not sure. I wish I knew. But Aiwendil has a way of disappearing and then turning up again, so let's hope that he will do so soon." What Lindir did not tell the young girl was that he could not even sense the istar's expected presence in his mind no matter how hard he searched, a fact that was both puzzling and troublesome.

[Folwren]

Athwen and Dorran were still speaking quietly together when Athwen heard a call from one of her patients. “Athwen! Mistress Athwen! Somebody! It’s Vrór!”

“Vror,” Athwen whispered, looking up. She glanced down at Dorran. “I’ll be back when I can. I’ve been hoping he’d wake up.” Dorran nodded and Athwen quickly got up and moved towards the dwarf and Adnan, who sat near him. The young man looked up at her as she came, looking anxious and excited.

“I heard him groaning or something and he moved,” Adnan said.

Athwen gave him a smile and met his eyes briefly before kneeling beside Vrór. “Vrór?” The dwarf was silent, but there was a pinched and contained look on his face. He just might be half conscience... “Vrór?” she said again.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

When Carl walked up to him, Lindir appeared as though he was looking past him, so lost in thought he was. And honestly Carl marveled at how the elf was able to keep his mind clear, getting everyone organized despite all that had befallen them. Those eyes must have seen a good deal of this before, if what he'd heard about elves was true, Yet Carl smiled to think that they overlooked the hobbit in front of them. Clearing his throat, he shifted his weight.

“Ah, Carl,” Lindir said without looking at him. It took only a moment for the hobbit's weary brain to realize it had been ridiculous of him to think Lindir hadn't noticed. To be sure he noticed. He was an elf after all, even though he really didn't seem the same sort of elf Sam had gone on about. He didn't seem the sort to sing. But just as Carl's mind was beginning to ramble off into those curious corners it frequented when he was most tired, Lindir brought him round again. “How is that arm of yours doing?”

The hobbit looked down at the dried blood that streaked his arm, and grasped it lightly with the other. “It stings a bit, not too bad though, but that is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“About your arm?” Lindir asked.

“No, not really. I'm not hurt bad you know? Like a lot of these folk here are. And I'm no good at sitting around fussing with bandages, mopping foreheads and what not, when there are provisions out there to be got that might make them feel easier.” The elf nodded as he listened to Carl. “What I mean is,” the hobbit began again, trying to be more direct, “I'd like to go with you to the slaver's camp. I can heft a stack of corn as good as the next man, and this scratch won't keep me from it.”

“Yes, but it seems you have lost your pony. Would you be willing to ride the slaver's horse into the camp when it is quite likely slavers might greet us there?” the elf ventured.

“I'd much rather have Stumps and that's the truth, and I hope the poor beast is found, for Mordor's a foul place to wander off. But until then, I must ride the slaver's horse, for good or bad.”

“Ah right then, we'll have one more to ride out with us!”

“Thank you, Sir! I just want to keep busy, if you know what I mean. Thinking too much, just sitting here like this.”

“Yes, I do,” Lindir replied, “though we might require you to think as well. But in the mean time, we need more hands to help carry food to those who can't get it for themselves.”

“Aye Sir, I'll see to it,” Carl said, relieved that he was to set out again soon.

[Durelin]

His mind was prepared to slip back into the empty darkness when one sound broke through a myriad of noises, muddled together and distant, and emerged clear and focused in his ears. Vrór recognized it as a voice, and though he did not really hear what it actually said, he associated himself with the sound. Something was calling to him, and his vision slid back into focus.

Awareness came crashing down on him, and he blinked. He knew that voice… Vrór… She was calling his name…Athwen.

“Athwen,” he tried the name on his lips, but it came out a muddled “Ah-win.”

“He is awake,” came another voice, male, but young. Vrór could not place that one, not yet. Maybe with time…with time…now he had to rest….

“Vrór.”

The Dwarf’s tired and ragged body and mind wanted him to fall back into a long sleep, but as he was snapped back and reminded of the pain in his body that came along with the rest of his awareness, his mind was forced to cling to reality. He groaned. Reality hurt.

Why did it hurt so bad; why did he hurt so bad? His memory flashed back to the tunnel, and soon he found it difficult to focus. There was not much there to remember. He had been checking it, to make sure it would work, make final adjustments, because it could not fail…

“Did it work?” Vrór asked, with considerable urgency, particularly for how weak his breath and voice still was, naturally expecting fully that Athwen would know exactly what he was talking about.

[Folwren]

Vrór’s head moved slightly and Athwen saw his eyelids flutter. His lips opened, and weakly, a sound came out. “Ah-wen.” She smiled a little and pressed her hand against his hot forehead.

“He is awake!” Adnan cried from behind her. The smile slowly left her face, though. Now that he was awake, the dwarf was clearly in pain. His whole body seemed rigid and his face didn’t relax, nor did the tightness in his jaw. He strained to open his eyes - Athwen saw the grey of his irises - but then shut them again quickly.

“Did it work?” he asked suddenly. Athwen’s hands paused in the air. Her eyebrows drew slightly together. Then they relaxed and her lips twitched a little at the corners.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, it worked perfectly, Vrór,” with the utmost gentleness. Perhaps it hadn’t stopped all of the slavers, but it had done its job as best it could. “You did a good job. What were you doing under there? Never mind,” she added quickly. “Vrór, are you in pain? What can I do to help?”

[Durelin]

“Yes, it worked perfectly, Vrór…”

Vrór was so pleased to hear those words that he almost forgot his pain for a moment, and the corners of his lips twitched up slightly into a semblance of a smile. It had worked, and they had won, as he knew they would. He had known it… He tried to focus on the rest of Athwen’s words, though he found himself imagining the rumbling in his ears that he remembered as one of the last sounds before…

“Vrór, are you in pain? What can I do to help?”

Pain, yes…the real aching came mostly from his left arm, though most of his body felt sore. It felt like he had been beaten, though he knew that was not right. He tried moving his left arm, but found himself wincing in pain when he attempted to pull it up at all. His upper arm, maybe his shoulder, was on fire. Vrór then tried to move his other arm, and with a little more force than he knew typically necessary, it rose from the ground an inch or two without much difficulty.

“My arm…left one…it’s probably broken somewhere,” he muttered, “the upper part and shoulder really hurts.” He sounded very curt, as for some reason talking just did not feel good, and he was unsure why. He felt disoriented, staring up at the dark sky. But the stars…oh, the stars…they were so beautiful…the stars even in Mordor were so beautiful…

Vrór found it a little difficult to focus again, like when he was imagining the rumbling in his ears that he remembered as one of the last sounds before…the tunnel had caved in. The tunnel had worked, hadn’t it! The tunnel trap had worked, right?

“Did the tunnel work?” he asked Athwen fervently.

[Folwren]

He asked again if the tunnel worked. Perhaps he thought she hadn’t understood. A shadow crossed Athwen’s face. Her hands had immediately flown to his tunic to see if she could get to the left arm, but her fingers froze as her eyes darted again to Vrór’s face.

“Yes, Vrór, yes. The tunnel worked just fine. I told you just now, you know.” She couldn’t get the tunic loose enough, so she reached for her knife and carefully went at the shoulder seem. “The slavers on their horses followed me right up to it and when I stopped my horse, they went right on and down they went, plunging right into it.” She opened the seam and realized that she had another difficulty. His mail hauberk lay between her and the damaged arm.

“Vrór. Do you think you can get up and let me help you take this off?”

[Durelin]

“Yes, Vrór, yes. The tunnel worked just fine.”

The Dwarf smiled. Just fine. All his work had indeed paid off, and the battle had…well, it must have gone well if he was alive, Athwen alive, and… Who else? The smile disappeared. He had not even thought of everyone’s safety yet! Where was his mind? Only on himself? Well, on his work, anyway… Vrór opened his mouth, trying to form a question on his lips, to voice his concern and affirm his hope, but Athwen continued.

“I told you just now, you know.”

Vrór’s lips remained parted for a moment, and his brow furrowed in both confusion and worry. He wanted to ask if she was sure, but he knew that made no sense. The Dwarf was a very practical person; it was foolish to think for a moment that a young woman wouldn’t know whether or not she said something.

But…he hadn’t known…he hadn’t heard, or…something. She was not more than a couple feet from him! How could he not have heard? Vrór tried to remember what she had said just before he asked about the tunnel, but he just felt like he was getting more and more lost in a fog.

“Do you think you can get up and let me help you take this off?”

Still wondering about this “fog,” the Dwarf did not take this as a question but rather a command, and started to try and rise before he even considered whether or not he could. Using the arm he could move, he planted his hand on the ground, and began pushing himself up, his arm trembling as he did so. He felt Athwen’s strong helping hands on him. The firmness of her touch allowed him to look at her with clearer eyes.

“Thank you, Athwen,” he said, “A hundred, thousand times thanks.”

With the woman’s help, Vrór very quickly was sitting up, though some of his dizziness returned so that he desired to fall back again and shut his eyes. Something caught the Dwarf’s eye, even through the haze, and suddenly a young man, one of the slaves – or former slaves, rather – was beside him.

“Do you mind, sir,” the boy began a little hesitantly, “if I help you stay up? I mean…you’ve got to need it after that…” he trailed off.

“Thank you,” Vrór said, sounding a little breathless. It was much harder work than it should have been to keep his torso up. He definitely needed the young man’s support from behind, and could hardly argue with any help he was given, from anyone.

Soon his mail hauberk was removed, and he felt considerably more freedom of movement. He winced and had to grind his teeth together to keep from crying out, as it had been impossible to remove the garment without jostling and moving his bad arm a bit.

When the hard work, at least for Vrór, was over, he glanced around, and seeing some familiar faces he tried to remember what it was he wanted to ask Athwen. Then he was lowered back down, and he really felt the memory escape him. The young man sat next to him again, and the Dwarf searched his face looking for some sort of reminder. Soon he returned to his confusion surrounding his question about the tunnel, though he did not know what it had to do with the boy, and he frowned.

“Athwen,” he began quietly – subdued, “Did I ask you about the tunnel before, too?”

[Nogrod]

Ishkur flashed a look over at Makdush that was halfway between a grin and a grimace "And don't forget. Right now there's two of us and just one of you!"

With that, Makdush backed out of the tent.

Gwerr remained silent until he was certain that Makdush was far enough. "Okay you sparrow-brain! I hope you were not actually thinking what you just said about leaving."

"We had to get him out from sneakin' around somehow, you know that well enough!" Ishkur snapped back. But it seemed Gwerr was not listening.

"I know that my fool. But did your tiny little brain just tell you that we'd leave? What if the slavers come back? We can't leave our bloody mates, how witless or drunk they are. Listen to me now! If we two are the only survivors from this we will just become renegades with some money... But the dream we had! We need those others to build a settlement even they'd be lunatics and idiots... maybe we can raise more intelligent folks from their children when the time comes? But now we need them and can't leave them! So come up with solutions better than running away!" Gwerr looked at his mate seriously, challenging him to answer.

"It's one bloody disaster if the slavers come back soon, however concerned you choose to be about it", Ishkur replied sharply to his friend's outburst.

Gwerr let off the reins he had picked while Ishkur had been challenging the Uruk and lowered his head shooking it slowly.

"You're right my friend", he mumbled and then lifted his head to meet the gaze of his mate yet again. Suddenly a grin flashed on his face. "Think about it, Colagar fighting anyone right now..." He laughed and Ishkur laughed too. But it was a tense laughter to ward off the ghosts from their troubled minds.

Gwerr took hold of Ishkur's shoulder and started towards the ale-barrell dragging the not so reluctant Ishkur with him. "Fate stuff...", he said as they reached the barrell. "If they come, they come. And there's nothing we can do about it. You're right. So let's just hope the slavers won't come back until the sun has awaken those idiots and forced them to get back to the shadows." Gwerr picked Ishkur's goblet from the floor and filled it from the barrell. "I think this is a better place to wait for our fortunes than getting out anyhow". With that he handed the goblet to Ishkur and reached for his own.

"You ever been in a weak flank of an army?" Ishkur asked thoughtfully as he had taken a sip from the beer. Gwerr was filling his goblet but froze with the question. He nodded slowly. The memories were running through his mind forcing him back to that day of blood, sweat and tears.

But Gwerr recollected himself for a moment. "Yeah, the same feeling it is. If the enemy general has decided in advance that he will go for a breach on your side and then the cavalry attacks that weak flank... Well, there's nothing else to do than trying to stay alive then... It kind of redeals the future for you... But you can always hope beforehand that it doesn't happen."

Gwerr was still immobilised, stuck in those painful memories filling his mind. After a while Ishkur broke the silence. "So you were there then? At that grievous day? On the right flank?" Gwerr nodded lightly but remained silent, his head bowed down.

Now it was Ishkur's turn to grab his mate from the shoulder. "You're alive still my friend... I was in the center falangs that day but I heard about what happened and it made me feel sick and pained." Gwerr trembled a little but yet pulled himself together. He filled his goblet and turned towards his friend. "It was horrible... we were plain butchered there."

[Folwren]

The hauberk came off and Athwen, with Adnan’s help, gently helped the dwarf lay back. She smiled at Adnan, thanking him silently, and then her hands went to the dwarf’s arm again. She glanced up at the dwarf’s face now and again, wondering what he searched for as his eyes moved about.

Yes...that arm was broken, and his shoulder was badly dislocated. Something probably fell on him. She would have to set it, wrap the shoulder and splint the arm. A painful operation for Vrór. She had better set right to it.

“Athwen,” Vrór said quietly, stopping her abruptly. She looked at him quickly. “Did I ask you about the tunnel before, too?”

What was it that plagued him about that tunnel? She reached across him and took the hand of his uninjured harm and pressed it reassuringly. But she paused to reply. What was wrong? “Yes, you did. You asked me about it twice, but that’s alright, Vrór. You’ll be fine. Now wait here. I need to get somethings.”

She got up before he could answer and walked briskly away. She would need bandage and something to work as a splint. She would need help, too.

In a little while, she found someone to give her a helping hand, and she also hunted up a flat piece of wood nearly four inches broad. “It will have to do,” she said with a sigh, tucking it under her arm. She followed her helper back to the grove where Vrór lay waiting for her. There, she prepared her bandages, and checked the wood again. It was smooth and without splinter, worn so by wind and sand. She dusted it carefully and rinsed it with a little water to clean off the bits of sand that clung to it.

When she came again to Vrór’s head, he found the dwarf once more too unconscious to speak or be spoken to. It was better that way, Athwen figured.

With the help of the young man, she set the bone and bound the wood splint close to it Then with the utmost gentleness, for the dwarf had come back to his senses during the short operation, she set the arm in a sling and tied it up around his neck.

“So you don’t move it,” she told him as she bent over him. “No doubt you will move it anyway, if you're like any other man I know, but this will at least keep the movement limited.”

When she was through, she carefully gathered and wound the remaining bandage and tucked it away in her bag. She made Vrór as comfortable as she could and then left him alone so he could sleep and she went back to Dorran.

[Child of the 7th Age]

With the moon high overhead, Makdush had meant to take off from the camp and head back across the plains to the rock strewn cove where they had bedded down for the past few days. The Uruk had expected Ishkur and Gwerr to do the same. To his surprise, that had not happened. The two orcs had stubbornly decided to hang out inside the camp. They showed no signs of leaving, though it was now only a few hours more until the sun would rise.

Somehow Makdush could not bring himself to head out on his own. He kept his distance from Ishkur and Gwerr and sat by himself at the central campfire, occasionally peering over in their direction. This was more from curiosity than any feelings of anger or hostility. He had also kept away from the other Uruk-hai. He had even thought of hunting out a few of the women to find out what was going on with them. But the females and younger orcs were nowhere to be seen. He hoped they had not totally disappeared. Sometime after midnight, a few more horses had come straggling back into camp and Makdush had managed to snag one of these for his own. The horse was a rather ungainly creature, stocky and battlescarred, lacking the grace and power of Ishkur's mount. But at least the creature provided him with a way of getting around. The horse was brown in color with a thick black mane and tale daubed with mud and dirt. The Uruk had started calling him 'Grunge'.

Makdush still could not shake the feeling that someone would be coming back to the slavers' camp sometime later that day. He decided to go out and have a look. Mounting up on Grunge, he kicked the horse in the flanks and sent him galloping out of camp. He rode off in a westerly direction while keeping a sharp eye on the distant horizon.

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

Lindir

Lindir rubbed his eyes, stretched, and sat up in his bedroll. They had talked about leaving later in the morning, but several of the riders had expressed a desire to get on the road early, while there was still some cover of darkness. He gulped down a hurried breakfast of spring water and a small square of bread, girded his sword to his side, and quickly made his way to the eastern edge of camp where the riders had gathered and were now mounting up.

Lindir glanced apprehensively around the group. Several of the scouts still looked tired, wearing bandages, favoring an ankle, or rubbing at a nagging injury. Even the horses did not seem to be up to their best. The Elf gazed over at Azhar and Carl who had stopped to talk with each other. Both of them had strained expressions on their face, as if they were in pain or worrying about something. The girl was riding behind Kwell. He hoped the boy had learned his lesson, and there would be no more instances of someone running off without letting anyone know. Now, however, was not a time for lectures. Once Lindir had made sure they were all there, he beckoned with his hand that they should follow his lead. The group trotted out onto the plain, heading slowly but steadily towards the slavers' camp.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Makdush had ridden no more than half a mile when he noticed a small copse of scrub bushes and tumbled rocks, a sheltered enclave on the plain that offered a safe vantage point from which he could scan the entire horizon. Quickly pulling the horse inside and positioning his body behind the tangled curtain of boughs, he stared fixedly towards the west and immediately observed a cloud of dust no more than a mile distant. Someone was fast approaching the camp and, from the size of the dustcloud, this was more than a party of one or two lonely riders.

The immediate problem was what to do. Should he turn now and ride back to camp to warn the others of their immediate danger, or was it better to continue to wait and gage who these intruders were and what they intended to do? The party could be slavers returning to camp, or even a contingent of slaves, but it was also possible that they were simple traders making their way from the north back to the plantations in Nurn. Plus, if he pulled out now, there was the danger that the advancing party could not help but notice a large orc on horseback riding so closely in front of them. It would be better not to give them a warning like that.

With some misgivings, Makdush decided to stay and see what was happening. With most of the orcs drunk and asleep, there was little possibility that he could rouse them quickly enough to get out of the way before the men actually entered the camp, if that was their intention. Gwerr and Ishkur were in a different position. They were alert and awake and on the far side of camp, and he should have enough time to get back to them even if he waited to get a glimpse of the party that was approaching on horseback.

Makdush waited for the party to approach. He could see a small troop of men and also several females, all of whom had iron weapons strapped to their sides. The latter puzzled him greatly, Orc women did not normally carry or use swords or great throwing daggers. From what Makdush could gage, these people were slaves coming back to retrieve booty from camp. He decided to wait till they had passed and then skirt around to the south and approach the camp from that direction, heading straight back to Gwerr and Ishkur, who would hopefully still be in their tent.

[Durelin]

The party had set out as early as they could, though still weary from the previous day’s battle, and some also from the tears that followed. Those still able-bodied had collected the bodies of their fallen friends, and had placed them with deepest care and respect on the funeral pyre whether they had known them or not. Many still could see the flames when they closed their eyes, and Beloan wondered if any of his companions had slept any better than he had. He had slept, and it had not taken long for him to fall into empty dreams, but it had been far from a restful sleep.

When they set out it was still mostly dark, and no one welcomed the sun as it crept up above Ephel Dûath. They were guided by Lindir back to the slavers’ camp, and Beloan tried his best to be optimistic not only about their victory but also about the opportunity it had opened up to them. The Easterlings were not only looters of men but of anything that might be of worth, and there was no doubt they had left most of it behind. The former slaves and Fellowship would have to travel light as they continued their way North, but perhaps there would even be a cart of use to them, even a pack animal? Beloan hoped there would at least be food and water.

Despite their weariness the scouting party arrived at the slaver camp while it was still quite early in the day, a silent pride helping to maintain their strength. They had after all defeated their foe, even though such a battle was part of what they were trying to escape. The group’s spirits were high as they entered the camp, but an uneasiness spread quickly through each person when Lindir motioned for them to stop. Beloan softened his steps but did not stop moving, until he caught sight of bodies lying on the ground in the middle of the camp.

“They’re orcs,” Lindir whispered.

Beloan’s hand immediately reached for his knife. “Dead, or…?”

“Just asleep, it seems,” the elf replied.

Beloan crept forward, to see better for himself, and came close enough to see without doubt that the creatures were still breathing. He considered stepping from one body to the next and slitting their throats, knowing that if they woke up he and his companions might easily be overcome. He counted the orcs, and determined that the Men, Elf, and Hobbit would be in a dire situation if they had to fight: six full grown males against their tired twelve, which included younger members, was undeniably necessary to avoid. But he could not kill a sleeping enemy, particularly when this enemy had not attacked him yet. That would be too much like them, too much like these orcs, or worse.

It did not take long to realize why a group of orcs was passed out on the ground in the daylight, as Beloan noted the empty jugs and bottles around them. He smirked at the thought of how many men would be disappointed to learn that they would not be getting anything to celebrate with out of this camp. Suddenly Lindir was beside him, and Beloan was lucky he only jumped slightly, producing only a slight scraping noise from his boots. “Drunk,” Beloan whispered, and Lindir nodded. “Hopefully drunk enough to be hard to wake,” the man added.

The two quietly slipped back to the others, and were immediately faced with questions. Beloan gave anyone a murderous look who thought they should raise their voices above a quiet murmur, and his eyes darted around them and his ears strained for any sight or sound of possible friends of the sleeping orcs’. Lindir checked their surroundings as well before informing everyone of the new occupants to the camp they thought they had won.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Makdush waited till the company had passed and climbed up on his horse, heading in a southwesterly direction. Once he was out of eye range from the company, he spurred his mount in the flanks and raced forward to the tent where he had seen the two orcs earlier that day. Makdush quickly retraced his steps and then leapt down to the ground, running across the compound. By now the other riders would probably be entering the camp.

Throwing up the leather flap, the Uruk cried out excitedly to Gwerr and Ishkur: "Riders! Riders in camp! A group of twelve to fifteen. Men and women. Slaves or slavers, but probably slaves." Makdush's words tumbled out in quick succession. He did not even stop for an answer, but growled under his breath. "They're here for plunder and probably to stick knives in our backs. We need to get out now and save our necks!"

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur heaved himself up and stared blankly at the tall Uruk who had unexpectedly stomped into the middle of their tent. It took a moment for the meaning of the words to penetrate his brain.

Ishkur's first impulse was to tongue lash the Uruk for trying to play a foolish game on them. Ishkur glanced over towards Gwerr and, seeing a look of complete bewilderment etched on his companion's face, stuck his head through the opening of the tent and stared westward. Barely visible on the far fringes of the encampment was a small contingent of horses and mannish riders that had already reached the portion of the camp where the other orcs were sleeping.

Ishkur's second impulse was to agree with Makdush, grab up his things, and hightail it out onto the plain to the south, putting a very large distance between himself and these intruders, whoever they might be. He wanted and needed to protect the gold they had found. That money held the promise to a new life. But before he could open his mouth and yell at Gwerr to leave the tent, another image came tripping into his mind. What good would all that gold be if he and Gwerr were on their own with no other orcs beside them? What kind of a life would they have? There would be no orc women to wait on him or do the cooking....no possibility of a mate of his own. Lately, Ishkur had been thinking about that a lot. He had also been thinking about how nice it would be if he and Gwerr could be the acknowledged leaders of the other orcs. To be truthful, he had really enjoyed the few times he had been able to stand up and speak for the group and get the others to go along with his ideas.

Turning towards Makdush, he growled, "You lowly toad.....afraid? Just like a Uruk...all talk and no action. Afraid that a bunch of riders--WOMEN riders--can take you down? I'm not leaving here. We came here to start a group of our own, a place where the bosses can't push us into the mud. Maybe you've forgotten that. I haven't. Maybe we can't save all the others. But I think we can make enough trouble that we can save some of them, maybe steal some of their horses, and get out of here, or maybe even run them through clean and take everything they have." Before Ishkur could say anything more, Gwerr had also joined in the argument.

[Nogrod]

Makdush, Ishkur & Gwerr

Gwerr was probably the most surprised himself as he realised he was siding with the Uruk in this. But what Ishkur had just proposed was total foolery to him.

“Now listen to me you maggot! Twelve to fifteen of them... on horseback! What are you thinking with the birdbrain that’s given to you my friend?” He glanced at the Uruk from the corner of his eyes and saw him grinning to this new developement. Gwerr was trembling with anger and was already reaching for the hilt of his axe before he came back to his senses and concentrated to his fellow again, now with lower and more tempered voice.

“Okay mate. I know you have had hard times, we all have. I also know you have acted somewhat weird lately. That’s fine with me. It’s your own stinking life anyhow. But do I...” he glanced back to the Uruk once again, giving him the most challenging stare he managed, “...do we have to hammer sense into your empty head?” he spat the word we. “So you think we three should run to them over the open, right? We’ll stand no chance that way. Can’t you see it?”

Gwerr took Ishkur from the shoulders and came close to his face. “Listen to me. We get out of here and we do it fast before they come close enough to find us. Right? Then we search for the females and the brats... After that we reconsider. We may try a surprise attack to save some of them later – if they leave any of them alive in the first place – or to rob them of everythnig they have. Whatever... But that's then. Not now! With the females we have a force enough to beat them. But the three of us? No chance in an open attack. You know it.”

Taking care to show his back to the Uruk Gwerr winked an eye to Ishkur and nodded very carefully towards the horse. Without a sound his lips formed a clear articulation of the word “remember”.

“What are you two doing? We’re in a hurry. They are inside the camp already!” Makdush called them from near the entrance where he had slipped to follow the developement of the situation in the camp.

“Just hold a second, big-boy!” Gwerr said and drew his axe. With two steps and a single blow he cut the backwall of the tent open from as high he could to the ground. “We leave from here. Now let’s move!”

The three rushed from the tent. Makdush went first, Ishkur led the horse and Gwerr came last. Smootly they disappeared to the sparse thicket beginning from behind the slaver-commander’s tent and in a moment they were already outside any visibilty from the encampment as the few larger boulders and the low hillocks hid them neatly.

After a short walk Makdush climbed a small mound and tried to get a view back to the camp.

Ishkur and Gwerr both stopped. “Hey brute, what’s going on back there?” Gwerr asked the Uruk.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

As Carl’s horse joined the knot of riders that gathered on the very verge of the slaver’s camp, he noticed that Beloan was casting looks about that were very dark indeed, quickly silencing anyone that so much as dared to whisper. The hobbit looked questioningly toward Lindir, and following the elf’s glance, guided his horse to the edge of the group in order to see what it was that held his attention. There just a few yards before them was not the camp’s guard, as he half expected, but rather an assemblage most grotesque. Misshapen forms sprawled in the dust, and Carl assumed they were long dead, their mouths gaping. But as he looked closer, the deathly pallor of some appeared broken by splotches of rosy red, where the sun had scorched them. And here and there the hobbit saw a jaw move, or an arm flail out at some invisible insect, and he came to the realization that these must be orcs. Strange ones sure enough, basking like cats in the sun.

Carl absently pushed back the curls that clung to his forehead as he digested this latest twist. He hadn’t reckoned on meeting any orcs so far from the mountains. Judging by all the accounts he was familiar with, he had only associated them with mountain passes of one sort or another. And to find them here came as a most unwelcome surprise. Frankly, after all the fighting and worry and sorrow, not to mention the empty stomach that groaned in his belly, he had neither the caution nor good sense he might have had otherwise, but waxed angry. No doubt the filthy brutes had rummaged though anything worth taking back to the injured. And most likely they had pawed through the food as well. Spitting as his stomach rumbled, he thought of their own limited supplies.

If only he had some notion of how deeply orcs dream! His eyes darted about the littered camp, seeking scattered stores. Perhaps he and the others could quietly gather what they needed and be off before they were discovered by the bleary-eyed monsters. Finally, spying the barrel that lay beside the orcs, his own weary eyes became fixed upon it as he awaited some direction to be given by those more familiar with the creatures than he.

Ah what a sorry shame this is! he thought to himself, as he wondered if any other casks might yet remain untouched…perhaps there in that tent sitting far away from the slumbering creatures. No, that plumb was sure to have been plundered! Bound to have been some leader’s quarters, with maps maybe…and medicine?

[Folwren]

Kwell sat atop his horse with Azhar mounted behind him. He could feel her leaning to one side so that she could see and hear Lindir as well as he. Her arms around his waist pulled at him slightly and he shifted his weight to counter balance hers.

Lindir told them in very few words the situation of the matter. Drunk orcs, Kwell thought with distain. His eyes flicked beyond Beloan and Lindir and looked towards the camp. Now that he knew what to look for, he saw the bodies of the beastly things.

“Why don’t we just kill them and have done?” he asked, the words slipping gruffly from him before he could stop to think about them. He paused briefly. There must be an explanation to his words, he thought. He looked at Lindir and said as though in defense. “They won’t do us any good!”

[Firefoot]

Johari

Had Lindir not motioned for them to stop, Johari would have continued to heedlessly ride on into the camp; her mind had been focused on other things: at first, how nice it was to be away from the camp, and, yes, away from Hadith for a while, and the conflicting emotions he brought to mind, but now mostly her thoughts turned to how very uncomfortable her horse's back was. No matter how she shifted, she could not find a comfortable position on the hard leather saddle. She had never ridden a horse before, and it had not occurred to her when she volunteered for this expedition that they would not be walking but riding. On finding out, she had initially been non-plussed; it had not seemed that difficult of an affair. Already, though, she could tell that she would soon be sore, despite their slow pace, and she still had a ride back to endure.

The sight of the Orcs caused her to forget her present discomfort, however. While her primary hatred was directed towards the slavers and her old plantation overseers, she bore Orcs no love. A flame stirred in her eyes and her hand immediately strayed to her knife hilt. When the boy Kwell spoke for killing them, she readily agreed. "Even more than that, they may do us ill! If we kill them in their sleep, it's no less than I reckon they would do to us! We have already fought one enemy, and most are too weary or hurt to face another. Let us be done with them!"

[Durelin]

Khamir

Since the scouts had left early that morning, Khamir had been up and about, limping around the little camp they had thrown together, and resuming many of the same duties he had when they were still in the cave. They were not as great in number, but he thought they were stronger. At least they were more together now than ever, and all of the former slaves had welcomed in the new additions, even though they were outsiders.

At the moment, all were especially quite taken with Athwen and her skills, her hard work, and her simple kindness. The idea of someone taking care of them, particularly when that someone had no obligation to, was not something most of the former slaves had experienced in a long time. They had cared for each other in bits and pieces as necessary, and some of the older had taken the younger under their wing, but…it had been all about them depending on each other for survival. If only they had realized sooner that they all were dependent as part of the whole.

Khamir did his best to round up some more people to help Athwen, and gathered up those capable to help pack up their small camp so that they’d be ready to move when the scouting party came back or other word came. As they were not sure what they might find in camp, perhaps they might need extra hands to carry it all back? Many were excited about the prospect of fresh food or water, though some were convinced that anything those Easterlings ate could not be edible to any normal person. And all in the back of their minds liked the idea of what things of value might be found. Of course, only the young actually shared those hopes aloud.

Doing his best to ignore the sharp pains in his leg, Khamir helped gather things up onto the small cart that had survived their travels thus far largely intact, with limited repairs. The number of those who could actually do any sort of manual labor was depressingly few to the one-armed man, and so even what he could do was of help. But more than that, he hated being left behind. He knew very well that no one thought him worthless, and that with his injury he would have been a burden, but that did not mean he did not feel worthless.

After a time, though, even he had to admit that he could do no more until he had rested a bit, and so he limped his way back to where Vrór and Adnan were still recovering. Both had been sleeping all morning so far, thankfully. It was all they could really do to help their recovery along. Khamir had been so glad to see so many alive he had feared for, particularly Hadith. The last time until well after the battle he had seen the young man was at the battle’s start. Why was what it he suddenly worried about so many people? It was rather…annoying.

When Khamir sat down a little more roughly than he meant to in between the Dwarf and Adnan, Vrór turned his head to look up at the one-armed man.

“Good morning, Vrór,” Khamir said in a voice little above a whisper. The Dwarf smiled slightly in response. “Did you manage to sleep alright?” the Southron asked.

Vrór’s smiled disappeared, and he wrinkled his brow in thoughtful confusion. It took several moments before he answered with a hesitant, “I don’t quite know…it sounds funny, but, I really don’t think I remember…”

Khamir frowned with worry. “Do you remember when you woke up?”

There were another few moments of silence, and then Vrór barked a small laugh. Khamir thought there might have been a twinge of bitterness to it. Then the Dwarf spoke, “Khamir, I think I may have a…problem.”

[Tevildo]

Azhar's grip on Kwell's waist tightened as the meaning of the words sunk in. She hardly knew what to say. She had no special love for orcs. They were dirty, and they smelled and looked too different. Frankly, they scared her. She had heard terrible stories when sitting around the campfire late at night how orcs devoured the flesh of men and attacked without even the slightest reason other than an overwhelming lust for blood.

Yet there was something about Johari and Kwell's eagerness to kill that made Azhar uneasy. The few orcs she had known on the plantation were little different than their Easterling overlords. She had felt the sting of the whip from both. If Kwell and Johari had found unknown Easterlings asleep in the camp, would they have run them through in their beds without even a second thought? Azhar did not think so.

As a tiny child, she recalled the haunting words of one old granny who always spoke about how things would be better now that the Dark Lord had been defeated. The slaves on the plantations would be freed and, ever so slowly, Easterlings and orcs would change their ways. Azhar had not believed the grey headed one then, although part of her had wanted to. Intervening years had only confirmed her opinon. No one had come to strip off their shackles; the Easterlings and orcs kept acting the same way they always had. But Azhar could not forget how the old granny's eyes had brightened when she spoke about the possibility of change.

And then there was the puzzle that Rôg presented. She was still worred about how he was feeling and had not had the chance to talk with him after the battle. But she had seen once what he could do. The great wyrm could probably slay a troop of fifty men unaided, yet Rôg had chosen to act only when someone was directed threatened. Azhar instinctively sensed that these two problems were somehow connected, though she couldn't have put the meaning into words. The uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach was not going away.

Seeing the hard look in the eyes of both her companions, she turned around to address Lindir in a muted voice, "Kill them? Run them through in their beds? But isn't there any other way?"

[Firefoot]

Grask had been napping in the shade beneath one of the wagons - a nice, out of the way spot, as he thought - when he was woken by the sounds of hoofbeats and voices. At first he was afraid, thinking that the slavers had returned and now he was trapped beneath one of their wagons in mid-day.

But their voices did not sound like the slavers' voices. They were quieter, more furtive, and they seemed to have stopped rather than dispersing into the camp.

As quietly as he could, Grask crept to the edge of the wagon and looked out. The angle was awkward, and he could only see the riders' backs, but it became quickly clear that these were not, in fact, the slavers. For one thing, there appeared to be females among them, which struck Grask as peculiar. More importantly, he realized that the two who were riding double were the man-children who had disappeared from the pit. They were alive! Grask did not know why this should make him so happy, but it did. They did not frighten him, and their presence made him also fear the rest of the group less.

Now one of them spoke, the male child. Grask thought he was mishearing. Kill them, he'd said! And then a woman's voice spoke, and she agreed with him! Grask began to tremble with both fear and anger. Hadn't Grask tried to help the pair in the tunnel? Hadn't he? And the boy said kill them! And if they would kill these Orcs in their drunken sleep, he knew that they would not stop at killing him, if he was found. He could not be found here! He backed away and in his agitation missed the gentle words of the female child. He crawled out from under the wagon on the side opposite these merciless Men. It was only a short dash to the cover of vegetation; Grask took a deep breath and ran, his feet making only the slightest noise on the dusty ground. Within seconds he was vanishing into the vegetation. They mustn't find him. Without really thinking about his direction, he headed for the Orc-camp. Perhaps the females would be there; they seemed to have disappeared from the slavers' camp quite some time ago. They ought to be told of this, Grask thought, especially if all their males were to be killed in their sleep... but not Ishkur, Grask hoped. He had not been drunk like the others. The thought of this Orc who had shown him some kindness almost made Grask turn and go back - hadn't he said that he might need Grask's help someday? - but he continued on his path. He would tell the females first, and then maybe he would go back.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Hold your swords! Johari, Kwell. Azhar is right. Put the weapons down." Lindir did not speak loudly, but his tone and look brooked no hesitation. He quickly went on to give a series of orders. "Unsheath your daggers and get the heavy rope we brought. Bind them all and throw them into the pit where you were imprisoned earlier. Get others to help you." He nodded directly at Kwell and then explained at greater length. "We'll keep them chained to the wall so they can't escape through the hole in the pit. We need these orcs alive. For all we know, they're an advance party coming through for a great troop of soldiers. If we slay them, we may doom ourselves to not knowing that. Work quickly and quietly so they do not awake until they are well bound."

He walked up to the halfling and spoke, "Carl, get someone to help you bring rocks and debris to plug up the hole in the back of the cave. We don't want them doing what we managed to do. And could two of you go out and search the plains around the camp to see if there are more orcs nearby?"

Lindir had heard the hesitation underlying Azhar's plea. He felt little different than she did. Running through an enemy who was asleep in bed was something he preferred not to do. He assumed the orcs were enemies. What else could they be? But there was no declared war, and these particular orcs had done them no damage. He could not simply slay them without warning or provocation. And the need to gain information was not just a ruse. Orcs generally travelled in large bands. If these few were here, there were undoubtedly others somewhere close by, and they needed to find out that information.

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

Makdush barked back at Gwerr, "Shut your mouth. I can't see." Taking a few strides forward and pushing the overhanging limbs of a neaby scrub tree away from his face, he stared down at the western fringes of camp, standing perfectly still on the ridge. The men in the distance were not looking in his direction and seemed totally absorbed in what they were doing. He was too far away to make out the words that were passing between the riders but the scene in front of him was not hard to decipher.

He called over to Gwerr and Iskhkur, "Good thing we got out of there. They've found the others. They're still dead to the world."

"Dead? They're dead? They've killed them." Ishkur muttered a curse under his breath.

"No, you moron. Not dead....still sleeping. They must be drunk as all get out. Actually," and here Makdush grinned broadly, "these riders must have hearts of mush. I'd have run the sleeping idiots through by now. They are standing around arguing with each other."

"They haven't killed them yet?" Gwerr sounded as if he couldn't believe his own ears.

"No. Two have unsheathed their weapons but do not strike. They keep babbling at the mouth. They can't agree on something. What fools!" Makdush added under his breath, unable to comprehend why anyone would hesitate to kill in such a situation. The Uruk thought a moment and then suggested, "Maybe they're not running them through because they plan to torture them later and find out about their companions." This was not a pleasant thought.

Ishkur shrugged his shoulders. "Could be. At least they're still alive. But who can figure out men. Worse than Elves, I say. Maybe it's the soft hearted women who can't bear seeing blood."

Makdush shook his head, "I don't think so. One of those holding a sword is a woman. Oh, yeah, not only have these fools brought women with them, it looks as if they've dragged along one of their little brats."

At these revelations, Ishkur looked totally shocked. What kind of warriors would do such a thing?

Makdush turned back towards the camp. This time it was his turn for shock. "By the bloody eye of Sauron! The one stopping them from striking isn't a man. Too tall to be a man, even a man of Gondor. It's an elf." The Uruk spat on the ground and fumed, "Elves....I hate them. Every stinking headache has an elf at the other end."

"Well, at least they're alive," countered Ishkur. "We still have a chance. Any sign of the women and the brats."

Makdush shook his head, "No, I can't see them in camp. Someone needs to go out and check the area."

"I'll do that." Ishkur countered. He turned to leave the grove, still leading the horse behind him, but not before stopping for one instant to confide something in Gwerr's ear.

"Watch your rear!" Makdush grunted as Ishkur left. "Looks as if they're sending out a party to look for us."

[Tevildo]

Azhar's eyes widened as she watched their party spring into action, carrying out the orders that Lindir had laid down. She could not tell from the look on Kwell and Johari's faces whether they were still upset or were content to go along with what the Elf had said. Personally, she felt relieved. She wanted absolutely nothing to do with the orcs. Even their looks repulsed her. But neither was she comfortable running them through with a sword while they lay asleep on the ground.

She slipped over beside Lindir and spoke quietly to the elf, "Thank you. I hadn't thought about other orcs being in the area. I just didn't feel comfortable slaying a sleeping orc when he had never done us any actual harm. But do you think that there are more of them?" She gazed nervously out towards the plain, her eyes sweeping the horizon, and shuddered slightly before she spoke again. "Lindir, if there are more of them, what would we do? And what if they come upon the spot where our main camp lies? Maybe we should leave to go back and warn the others."

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Can you handle a wagon?"

Azhar looked up puzzled at the question Lindir had posed to her. "A wagon?" she echoed.

"Yes. Have you ever driven a wagon before? Could you harness up a brace of horses to a good sized cart?"

Azhar frowned, reflected a minute, and then replied. "I think so. I did not have to work in the fields. But the overseers often asked me to run errands and bring out loads of supplies."

"Good. Get one of the other men to help. Have him bring along his horse. Walk over to the far side of camp. You'll see the slavers' wagon sitting near the campfire. I was going to use it to convey the supplies back to our main camp. Now it will serve a different purpose. Hitch up the horses and start driving west. I need you to return to the others as quickly as you can. Once you're there, speak with Athwen and Dorran to explain what has happened."

Lindir stared off in the distance, as if searching for something, before turning back to explain, "The plain truth is I can't answer your questions. I don't know why these orcs are here. Orcs travel in gangs. That's how they live, and that's how they are controlled. It's easier to influence a mob than someone standing off by himself who's able to think on his own. Sauron and even Morgoth before him made sure that none of the orcs ran off to grab anything of their own. Being an orc means blindly following the group. You have to keep your mouth shut and do what you're told. You can't think too much and never, never separate yourself from the gang. Some Elves used to say there was a tiny bit of goodness left even in orcs. A few orcs still dreamed of having lodgings of their own out in the wilds where they could hunt and fish and thumb their noses at the bosses. Not a very lofty dream, mind you, but better than going around the countryside slitting throats. But I never met an orc with that dream, and, I do know orcs don't go roaming on their own." Lindir again stared off in the distance as if he was trying to find something.

"What does this mean?" Azhar prodded.

"Either these orcs were separated from their band and are looking for a second one to join, or they are the advance party for a large military troop making its way to or from Nurn. If they don't report back to their troop, the whole band will flood this area to find out what's happened, looking for blood. Orcs are lousy trackers, especially on a plain like this. They are as likely to stumble over to our main camp as they are to come towards us."

"Tell Dorran and Athwen these things. Tell them we must bring the two camps together. I thought of having us ride back and just desert this place. But this camp is better stocked and can be more easily defended than ours. Our best chance for safety is here. Have Athwen put the most severely wounded in the wagon. The rest must walk. Have them start tomorrow morning. They must not delay any longer than that."

"They're not going to like this," the girl objected.

"No, I don't suppose so. Athwen will be understandably concerned about having to move the wounded and the others so quickly. And Dorran..... Dorran will not be pleased that our new camp will have a pit full of living orcs. Be that as it may. I will not run through a sleeping man or orc when I have no declared war against him. As to getting further information out of these orcs, I have my doubts. I am not prepared to torture them, though I will try to put the fear or Mordor into their hearts. Orcs have strange beliefs about elves and perhaps we can use that to our advantage. But for now, we must get the others here. Run now, be careful, and may you come back safely."

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

It seemed to the hobbit that everyone was itching to do something about the orcs, and quickly. And being so, the search for a volunteer to help remedy the flaw in their lockhole, by means of filling it in, became unnecessary. For one of the settlers came forward directly, eager to lend a hand. It was a hand that Carl readily accepted, and together the two of them started for the dark mouth of the pit passing through the camp as silently as they could.

But when they came to a spot were it appeared some smithy had been at work, Carl motioned the settler to go on ahead. Then walking gingerly around the lengths of heavy chain that were stretched out on the ground, he picked up one of the many hammers, and a metal rod as well. And seeing a torch also, he tucked it under his arm thinking that it no doubt would come in handy. Looking around one last time for any other useful items, he put a few more things in his pocket and left, quickly rejoining the man who stood waiting at the opening to the pit. Together they slipped down into the chamber and out of view.

“It was still the dank musty place that Carl recalled, but it was a good bit cooler than it was out in the sun, and as the hobbit reached in his pocket for the flint, he vaguely hoped that the torch would not give off too much heat. The retreating darkness revealed the man once again, as he turned around to examine the walls of the pit, casting a huge shadow behind him as he searched. “Looking for the hole? It’s down over there,” the hobbit said nodding toward the back of the pit where the stream still flowed.

“Under the water!” the man summized. “How are we to keep the stream from washing away our work? All we have to bar its way is sand and gravel!” He bent down to try and scratch the floor of the pit with very little success, while the hobbit watched.

“True, true. You have a point.” Carl admitted, scratching his head. “It’s no good building a dam if it’s bound to burst, now is it?” He took a deep breath as he thought wistfully of Vrór, certain that the dwarf could easily have found some simple solution that he had been overlooking. But suddenly a thought struck him, and his eyes sparkled brightly in the torchlight as a grin grew on his face. “You aren’t a feared of dark places now, are you?” he asked. The man gave a mock frown and shook his head. “Nor water...nor small spaces?” the hobbit pressed.

“Nay, they give me no cause to be afraid,” the man replied, wondering what the small fellow before him had in mind.

“I thought as much,” Carl declared merrily, as he wedged the torch in the rocky wall. “Here, heft me up and out of this hole. I’ve an idea.”

[piosenniel]

Back at the main camp....


Rôg was still somewhat sore from the encounter with the slavers. His ribs ached if he moved too quickly, but he could now at least take in a decent breath without sending sharp little stabbing pains ricocheting through his chest. It was his head that bothered him the most. The gash at the base of his skull had scabbed over; tender only when he prodded at it.

Something, though, seemed to have come loose in whatever gave him a steady bearing. If he stood too quickly, turned his head too fast, the world would begin to spin a bit, his vision become slightly unfocused. Dizziness followed....and if he tried to walk, his legs would go all wobbly as if his feet could not find a steady place to put themselves. As such, he had begun to use a broken off stave with which to hobble about.

He joked about it to the others who’d stayed behind when the scouting party had gone out. ‘It’s like the old-wives saying,’ he’d tell whoever asked about his new reliance on the stick. ‘Four legs in the morning; two legs in the afternoon; three in the evening.’ Then laughing, he’d add, ‘Of course, with Athwen’s good ministrations I’m hoping time will turn back on itself soon and I’ll be able to walk about as before.’

I hope, at least, that will be the case! he often thought to himself. He could not imagine how he might manage a shape-change. The idea of some dizzy bird trying to fly, much less land somewhere dismayed him. And should there be another attack....A grimly funny picture ballooned in his mind. A large something....oliphaunt, perhaps – looking fierce, intimidating, even; for the briefest of moments. And then it would begin to wobble and totter; its eyes going all googly. The foe would begin to snicker and laugh....

Ah well....maybe they would laugh themselves silly and fall off their horses. He shook his head and laughed a little himself.Or maybe, I could just fall on them....

Laughter bubbled up at this conjured picture and he lost his balance as he shook his head again. Rôg crumpled down onto the dirt, his stick skittering away to the side. Others, he knew, would be looking at him rather oddly. Still chuckling, he sat up, brushing the dust from himself as best he could.

[Undómë]

“Hssst! Quiet, now!”

Mazhg gathered her sister close as they crouched in the underbrush where they’d been resting. Through the spaces in the leafy overgrowth of the bushes which gave them some semblance of shelter they watched; their dark brown eyes darting furtively at the loud intruders.

It was an oddly assorted group that had come clattering into the area where the males lay in their drunken stupor. Males . . . and female, too . . . all ahorse. A kind of raggedy looking bunch. But still, they were armed and they were Men.

And there was that tall one, bossy seeming, who looked particularly menacing . . .

“Keep still!” Mazhg whispered low in Zagra’s ear. “There’s nothing we can do for that drunk lot.” The sisters hunkered even lower among the leafy bushes. “I’ll keep you safe." As she circled Zagra’s shoulders in an assuring hug with one arm, her free hand was grasped tightly about the oaken handle of the sharp-edged spade beside her

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur hides the gold

Ishkur advanced cautiously over the plain and was careful that the intruders in camp could not see him. He spent almost an hour searching for the women orcs. Gwerr was right about the need to find them. Their was always greater safety in numbers. He especially thought about Ungolt and hoped that she had not been hurt. He did not think she was among those who had fallen asleep after drinking too much.

After making a circle around the entire camp, checking every spot that he could think of, Ishkur finally gave up. He wanted to keep looking but he had other things he had to do. It was simply too dangerous to delay any longer. He swung back to the outsirts of their original camp site. There were two tumbled piles of rocks right beside a stream. Since he had no shovel, he had to find someplace to hide the gold that did not require a lot of digging. He looked over both piles of rocks and chose the one that offered the most protection. Then he went over to the pile of boulders and, using all his strength, removed one of the rocks, placing the gold into the hidden niche and covering it up again with the heavy stone. He scuffed out the ground to make sure that there was no trail leading to or from the treasure. Then he got on his horse and rode back to where Gwerr and Makdush were waiting, explaining that he could not find the women, although he had scoured the plain in all directions. He pulled Ishkur over to one side, some distance away from Makdush, and grunted a word or two in his ear to let him know where and how the gold had been hidden.

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

Ungolt

There was a rattling sound in the underbrush that made Mazhg and Zagra turn and nervously stare at each other. Then they heard another female orc whisper, "Sisters, is that you? I have Urga and Gwella with me." Ungolt's head popped out from behind the bush. She was immediately followed by the two orcs Gwella and Urga, the first younger, the second older, who usually walked together on the road.

"I found them," Ungolt explained. "I thought we'd better stay together. There's a good hiding place near the brook. Not really a cave but the rocks are piled up. There's just enough room for us to crawl inside. I think we'd be safe there. It's not far."

"But the others," one sister asked, "what's happened to the rest?"

"I crept down to the camp. I saw what happened. I don't know about Grask or Makdush. I haven't seen them or Ishkur and Gwerr. But the rest have all been thrown into the pit where they used to keep the slaves. There are big rocks....too big for me to move. I can't help them." Ungolt sadly shook her head.

"What should we do? I took this to help." Ungolt held out an old battle sword, but then confided. "I don't really know how to use it. Ishkur showed me once but I still have a lot to learn. Should we hide, or keep looking for the others? Should we just wait till it's dark and try to run away?" She softly added, "I don't care so much about Makdush, but I was really hoping to find Ishkur and Grask and Gwerr. How can we make it all the way north without someone to help us? I wanted to get back to the mountains. But now everything looks so bad."

[Durelin]

Beloan

The varied responses of the scouting party confused Beloan even further in his feelings. He would have liked it if all the orcs in Middle-earth had gone with Sauron to a final grave when the War ended, but it still felt…wrong to take a blade to any sleeping form. It seemed like…well, something they would do - orcs. And they were not like them.

Beloan was surprised by Lindir’s lack of hesitation when it came to sparing the creatures’ lives. He admired the Elf’s honor, but he could not say he did not understand Johari and Kwell’s desire to be rid of the orcs. Shae appeared to be fuming and shocked by the idea that they would be kept alive. Well…for now.

The Elf did not hesitate in giving orders, either, to imprison the orcs and notify the others of the discovery. This discovery indeed complicated things, particularly because as Lindir and many of the others well knew, six orcs just wandering the country was not right. There were more somewhere, or there was something else going on. Either way, they needed to be careful.

What Beloan found most surprising about the Elf was that he was entrusting a great deal to a young girl. Khamir would have a fit, he thought a little fondly. But Azhar had proved a very strong person, and she certainly always had her wits about her. Beloan had heard she had done something quite heroic during the battle, and wondered if Lindir had been witness to it. And it was undoubtedly wise to keep as many men, and women like Shae, in the slavers’ camp as possible with orcs to guard and be on the lookout for.

“Other than that, I suppose all we can do is sit it out until the others arrive,” Beloan commented to Lindir and the others, “With our numbers, most of us should be keeping our eyes on these orcs all the time.” Most of them... He turned to look at Azhar, who appeared all prepared to get a move on with her orders. “Would you mind my help, Azhar?”

[Tevildo]

"Help? Yes." The girl's first words were brusque and short, but then she added in a softer tone. "I could use help, but you'll need to bring your horse to the other side of camp so we can hitch them both up to the wagon." Azhar gave a brief indication of the direction she was going with a wave of her hand and, without waiting for an additional response, began hurrying over to the spot where the wagon was parked.

Along the way, she was stopped by one of the other scouts who offered a temporary loan of his sword to ensure their safety on the road. She shook her head and immediately dismissed the offer, explaining she would do just fine with her trusty slingshot and knife.

Privately, Azhar was not sure about having Beloan come along. Although Lindir had suggested she find someone to join her in the wagon, she had been considering slipping out of camp totally on her own. She almost wondered if Rôg had confided something to Aiwendl or Lindir about what had happened during the battle, since the elf had not questioned her ability to fight. In any case, she would not try to wield a weapon like a sword of which she had absolutely no knowledge. If things got tough, she would opt for her animal form, as inexperienced as she was. Hopefully, none of this would be necessary. They would make the trip in a short time and arrive safely at the home camp.

Azhar was not sorry she was leaving. Orcs made her uncomfortable and nervous. Moreover, someone had to get a message through to the others, and she would be able to find out how Rôg was doing and perhaps even talk with him about what had happened earlier. She needed to talk with someone.

They hitched up the horses and climbed into the wagon. "You can drive, if you like," she indicated to Beloan. "To tell the truth, I am so tired from staying up half the night, I'm more likely to fall asleep. She crawled into the back and stretched out on a pile of old blankets, staring up at the skies as the wagon rocked gently along.

[Folwren]

All was dark and still. The hour was just before dawn. The party of scouts had left a little while ago, and all of camp was silent and seemed to be asleep. For a while, Athwen passed like a wraith from one patient to the next, but at last she, too, stopped her restless stirring and sat down next to Dorran. With her back to a rock, and her hand lying on Dorran’s hand, she fell asleep.

She woke again to the sound of rumbling wheels and the clopping of trotting hooves. She stirred and lifted her head. The last few stars were burning out as light from the rising sun climbed higher and higher into the sky. A cold, grey dawn was breaking, and a gentle, chilling wind began to sweep the plain.

Athwen looked around herself, taking note of the wounded around her. They were all sleeping peacefully it appeared. Dorran had moved in his sleep, evidently, and folded her hand between his two. She smiled, and gently pulled free so that she could stand and go see what was coming.

She went to her bags and picked up her traveling cloak. Putting this around herself and drawing it close, she started out, away from the grove of rocks, and towards the open plain to where the wagon must have stopped.

She came out into the open and made her way carefully down the slight slope. Where the ground became level again, a wagon had indeed stopped. Two horses stood harnessed to it, looking glad for the rest. On the seat, still holding the reins, sat Beloan. Athwen didn’t really know him, but she figured there was some reason for him to have come back. She approached and stood beside the wagon, looking up at him.

“Good morning, friend,” she said, “how is the scouting party going? What have you returned for?”

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

By the time Carl revisited the spot in the camp where the metal work had been done, and had returned once more to the pit, the man named Tikam had waded into the stream and busied himself gauging the size of the crevice. “Watch yourself there,” the hobbit whispered hoarsely overhead, before dropping down a few more pieces of metal that clanked as they hit the chamber floor. The man looked up to see Carl's silhouette briefly obscured as the smithy’s leather apron followed, fluttering down heavily.

It was only as Carl hesitated, staring at the apron below him that he realized perhaps it would have been better had he tossed the things a bit further off. And reading the hobbit’s expression, without a word Tikam strode out of the water and moved the things aside. "Many thanks friend," Carl puffed as he dropped to the floor of the chamber himself. Brushing the dirt from his hands he picked up the large piece of leather and began rolling the other things in it. "So now, do you think you could fit through that chink in the wall?" he asked leaning back on his heel as he appraised the man's bulk.

"Surely, it would run too close to try," Tikam replied. “But if it proved too tight for me then so much more so it would be for an orc.”

“Well let’s hope they fit as well as the bung in a cask of Nurn’s finest. Sadly I don’t know a twig’s worth about orcs, but I hope their bones are made of ivory and not willow wands, otherwise they’ll slip through anything we do to stop them, like a mouse.” Carl said pointing to the tiny opening high above the stream. “How are we to fill that?”

“I don’t believe the smallest orc would fit there. Anyway, they are more like gutter rats than field mice! But they’ve flesh and bone same as you and I. ”

“Have they now?” Carl mused as he climbed into the water. Truth be told, he didn’t care to think too closely about the comparison. “Well one thing I do know for certain is that this chink here in the water is bigger than it seems. Are you sure you won’t have a go at it? There is a cavern on the other side and I figure it's best block it off from over there.”


Tikam held up his palms as though to ward off the very idea. “I do not like the idea of drowning overly much. But I will try to hide the openings on this side, if that would be of help.”

“If I can't do anything to change your mind, that would be the next best thing,” the hobbit said, sloshing into the water. Tikam suggested that he pass the bundle of leather through the hole once the hobbit had had the chance to reach the other side. But thinking about it Carl insisteded on tying the bundle to his ankle so that he could drag it along behind him.

The water was cold as the hobbit summoned the courage to travel once again under the stones. Then, disappearing suddenly under the water he pushed through the current that streamed through the hole. In a few short moments he emerged on the other side. Black as pitch it was, and Carl had a trying time freeing his ankle from its burden in the dark. All the while he hoped fervently that no orcs were lurking in the cavern waiting to strangle him. But when he had loosed himself from the apron he opened it and spread it over the hole, holding it in place with the metal rods he had found.

Blindly, he heaped loose stones against the wall, and silt over that, until he was too tired to do anymore. It seemed sturdy enough. Trudging weakly out of the water he plopped himself down on a dry rocky seat in the wall, resting awhile. He had not been there but ten minutes when he noticed his toe was in the water, when it hadn’t been a minute before. This was easily dismissed as his imagination. But in a few more minutes the dark water was lapping at his heel. “Oh glory, the dam is working. The water must be rising already!” he muttered, realizing that given time it would overwhelm him. Jumping back into it, he found that even now it was thigh high, and so hurriedly he began his sodden and stumbling march up the dark passage until he could see the opening onto the old stream. It shone like a beacon in a miserably flooded burrow, and Carl made for it with haste.

[Undómë]

Zagra clasped tight her sister’s hand. Ungolt’s telling of the happenings down in the camp had scared her. She whimpered a little, but at a shake of the head from her sister she stopped.

Mazhg was of two minds about the captured Orcs. On the one, she and her sister were safe.....why should they not strike out on their own, leaving those males and their problems to sort out themselves. Others of the women might be persuaded to travel along with them. Yes, that was a possibility.

But.....she looked to where Ungolt held the old sword. She wondered if Ungolt had ever used a weapon against another person. And as the woman had confessed, she really didn’t know how to use the weapon. Mazhg wondered, too, if any of the women could defend themselves if set upon. She put one arm around Zagra’s shoulders and drew her shivering sister close.

In the end, her considerations for her sister’s and her own safety won out. They would be safer in a group. And not just of women, but of men, she grudgingly conceded, whose stronger arms and skills with weapons could assure that safety.

‘Let’s make for that cave you found, Ungolt,’ she whispered, rising as quietly as she could from she crouched. She reached down a hand and pulled Zagra up alongside her. ‘I think we might be safer there for now.’ She cocked her head toward where the male Orcs had been captured. ‘Maybe when it gets real dark, we can sneak back and see if there’s anything we can do.’

[Tevildo]

Azhar sat quietly and listened while Beloan repeated Lindir's words: that everyone in the camp must make haste to gather their belongings and leave in the morning to venture across the plain.

"But why?" Athwen had prodded, "Why so soon when many lie sorely wounded?"

This time, it was the girl who responded, "In the camp, we found orcs....six sleeping orcs that the scouts seized and threw into the pit."

At the mention of the word "orcs" Dorran stood up and hurried over to where his wife stood. "Six orcs? But were there others? Orcs rarely travel in small bands."

The girl nodded her head in quick affirmation. "Yes, that's just what Lindir said. He fears they may be the advance party for a battalion of warriors coming across the plain. It's not safe here. Perhaps not safe anywhere, but it is better that we come together in a single camp. The wagon will help us. We can use it to carry anyone who cannot walk or ride."

"Orcs!" Dorran grimaced and spat on the ground. "Lindir is right. If these six are scouts, the main party will not show for a day or two. We still have a small window of time to act. It's important that we leave early in the morning and travel as swiftly as possible." He looked down at this wife and asked, "You know the state of the wounded better than I. Is this thing possible? Can we make it?" He glanced over at his wife.

[Durelin]

Khamir

Khamir was shocked when he heard shouts that “they were back,” and immediately was afraid something had gone wrong. They? The entire party, or...? When he limped over to find a cart pulling in to the makeshift camp and saw only Beloan and Azhar in it, the Southron was not sure if he should be relieved or dread even more. He was glad to see his friend, at least, and he gave the man a nod in greeting.

Beloan’s message was not bad news for the scouting party, at least, but it was for those at the camp, with so many wounded and weak to move. It would be a longer trek than it should to get all of them to the slaver camp. Athwen seemed particularly concerned, and perhaps as angry as the gentle-mannered woman could get about the matter. Khamir had hoped they would get moving again as quickly as possible, though. He hated this waiting around...waiting for more trouble, more setbacks, and more death.

“In the camp, we found orcs....six sleeping orcs that the scouts seized and threw into the pit.”

At the girl’s words Khamir felt nearly every muscle in his body tighten from a mix of fear and rage. Orcs...and so few...but their presence and their numbers was not the biggest shock: rather, it was the fact that they were captives. Orcs did not take prisoners unless they were specifically ordered to. They were animals; they didn’t show mercy. And Khamir knew that was what this was. Mercy. If that Elf knew so much about Orcs, why was he so soft?

It took a great deal of effort for Khamir to keep his mouth shut while Dorran spoke, and he broke in after the man was finished, though the Southron knew he was cutting off Athwen from answering.

“The Orcs are captives?!” he shouted angrily from behind some of the others who had gathered to greet the wagon. “They had best be dead before I get there, or I’ll have work to do…”

After his outburst, and a sigh that helped release some of his anger, he glanced at Athwen apologetically, a little ashamed.

[Tevildo]

Anger bubbled up inside Azhar as she turned to face Khamir, "They were asleep. What would you have us do? Run them through without a second thought? Lindir hopes to get them to talk. Perhaps to find out whether there are other troops nearby. But surely you would not kill someone, even an orc, in his sleep!"

Azhar whirled around to Athwen and explained. "I will go help the others prepare to leave. Darkness comes and we must be ready to move out in the morning. Hopefully, people will be in a better mood by then." With that she turned and stalked away.

[Folwren]

Athwen was stunned to silence by more than just one person’s words. To move the wounded would be difficult and possibly dangerous work. Some of the wounds, if jarred and reopened, could bleed badly, and for some of those men, to loose any more blood would likely mean losing their very life.

And then the news of the orcs was surprising, too. Dorran’s reaction was shocking to Athwen and it made her heart beat with nervousness. Dorran was rarely so obviously angry and disgusted and it nearly frightened Athwen. But Khamir’s words...pure hatred rang in his voice and his words revealed murder. Athwen’s head snapped about and her eyes flashed, but it was Azhar who responded.

“They were asleep! What would you have us do? Run them through without a second thought? Lindir hopes to get them to talk. Perhapts to find out whether there are other troops nearby. But surely you would not kill someone, even an orc, in his sleep!”

What did she mean, Lindir hopes to get them to talk? Surely he did not intend. . .

“I will go help the others prepare to leave,” Azhar said to her, interrupting her disturbed thoughts. “Darkness comes and we must be ready to move out in the morning. Hopefully, people will be in a better mood by then.” She leaped down from the wagon and started away. Athwen sent a single, reproachful look at both Khamir and Dorran, and started after Azhar.

Dorran had asked her if it was possible to move the wounded, but Athwen had not answered. Khamir had interrupted, and quite honestly, she didn’t know if it was possible. But orders were orders, and Lindir would not have given such drastic ones if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Besides, Dorran himself had said that it was necessary.

She stopped on the edge of rock sheltered hollow in which the wounded lay. Her eyes scanned her charges, her hands rested on her hips, and her lips pursed themselves together. Most of them, she decided, would make it just fine. One or two would be in possible danger. A couple would have to walk, but they would be able to manage it.

“Azhar,” she said to the girl waiting by her side. “Run back and tell them to bring the wagon is as close as they can. Then send Dorran and Beloan and any other man who can back here, to help these wounded.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

post for Lindir

Lindir stood motionless on the western edge of camp staring out across the plain. He was still worried about Aiwendil. The old man would surely have understood to meet them in the slavers' camp. Yet, despite all the elf's efforts, he had not been able to sense the wizard's presence or convey him any message. It was as if the istar had purposely shielded his mind to keep anyone from finding him. He did not think the old man was dead, but why he had done such a thing Lindir could not imagine. Perhaps Aiwendil had chanced upon a group of strangers in the wild and was trying to keep from being detected. For one instance an image of a large troop of orcs rose up and assaulted Lindir's mind, but he quickly dismissed that possibility. Orcs, even the brightest and most powerful, could not mind read.

Whatever the reason for Aiwendil's absence, the old man was sorely missed. He could have been sent back to the base camp with Azhar and be able to report back to Lindir what was going on there. As it currently stood, the elf could only hope that Beloan and Azhar had made it across the plain without meeting any orcs and that the entire camp would be arriving safely the next day.

It was the moment in the day just before darkness fell. Lindir still had enough light to traipse along the perimeter of camp and check to make sure that everything was alright. He had almost finished surveying the entire area surrounding the camp and had swung back towards the pit where the orcs were imprisoned. He could hear curses and angry cries coming up from the bottom of the rocky chamber, but the prisoners were securely fastened by heavy leather thongs and had no chance of escape. The elf reminded himself to station at least two guards on the outskirts of their campsite, more to make sure that no one was invading the camp from outside than because of any fear that the prisoners themselves would try and escape.

Lindir stood on a hillside that looked down on the pit, one that was covered with rocks and thick bushes, a perfect place for anyone to hide if they wanted to get a closer look at what was going on. Bending down to inspect the underbrush, the elf saw something that sent a bitter chill through his heart. Tracks.... Clear signs of tracks that had been left not by a man or orc, but by a horse. The tracks were fresh and deep and purposeful, suggesting that the horse that had stood here had carried a rider on his back, and a heavy one at that. A second look at the dirt only confirmed his fears. There were scuffed footprints belonging to several large two-footed creatures. At least one pair of tracks was too large to be man sized.

Lindir's fingers tightened momentarily on the hilt of his sword. Then he deftly removed the bow from his back, selected an arrow, and swung around, searching for any sign of the orc creatures who had come here with the horse. Seeing no one, he dropped the bow to his side and sprinted back to camp, calling out to everyone to join him near the fire pit. There was a heavy mist in the air that seemed to suggest a rain was coming. Quickly, the elf explained, "It is just as I feared. There are clear signs that several orcs stood gazing down on us no more than a few hours ago not far from the pit. Worst of all, they had at least one horse. I can only presume that these orcs were additional scouts who have gone back to warn the others. I am afraid we may get some visitors tonight. I only hope it is not too many." He looked around at the men and sighed, "I wish I could say otherwise but there'll be no sleep. We must station ourselves behind boulders and in the thick of the brush. We must greet them with a hail of arrows and rocks near the mouth of the pit, for that is surely where they will go. then we must charge in and attack them directly. Let's just hope their numbers are not too great."

He was about to dismiss the group when one of the men called out. "You do not know these parts. But often the windstorms come at the start of the rainy season. Already, I can feel the weather shift. The night rains are coming. I just wanted to warn you that it may be hard to see if we get a heavy rain. But there is another thing. If we find it hard to see, they may find it hard to get a good footing. That may be in our favor sisnce we attack from afar."

"I did not know that. Your words are wise," Lindir responded. "And perhaps,, just perhaps, we can help nature along. There is water in the creek, and we have several buckets. Go quickly now. Carry some of the water back to the mouth of the pit. Try to soak the ground, and then lie down a thin layer of cover, enough to hide the mud but not enough to give them real traction. The rest of you go and gather rocks along with any bows and arrows. Check the camp to see if any were left behind. Do your work quickly as we have little time before night falls, and I do not think our guests will be late."

With that the group dispersed and went to their duties.

_________________

post for Makdush

"I tell you I heard this not more than an hour ago," protested Makdush. "Two men talking, saying that the rest of their band will arrive sometime tomorrow. Who knows how big that group is? This time Ishkur is right. If we are going to free our comrades, it must be tonight. The man fools are tired. They do not know we are coming. I found a heavy rope in camp that we may draw them up one-by-one. We should only have to kill one or two guards. Surely we can do that. What will it be then? Are we soldiers or do we sit here like women " He glared over at Gwerr and Ishkur.

It was Ishkur who spoke first. "You know how I feel. From the first, I wanted to strike at these vermin and rescue the others. I say go."

Gwerr's response was longer in coming, "I do not like it. Being a soldier is one thing. Keeping my neck from being slit is another. But if what you say is true, this will be our last chance. And I would not travel north and leave them behind. We need more than the three of us to make it safely to the north. I will go. But Makdush," and here Gwerr glared, "you'd better be right about this."

"We'll leave the horse here, and other things as well," Ishkur muttered softly to Gwerr, giving no explanation as to what he meant by other things. Makdush wondered about that but there was no time to ask. The three set out towards the camp as soon as darkness bathed the plain. The rain was already coming down in a steady sheet.

[Durelin]

Khamir

Khamir knew he was wrong to interrupt Athwen, but he could not and would not feel what he had said was wrong. And certainly just words couldn't be wrong in that way. He was right, justified in his anger. And orcs were creatures. They were not like Men or even the Elves, Dwarves, and Hobbits who were strange to him. They did not have the same sort of heart or soul, if they had one at all. He knew this from what he had observed with his own two eyes, and the pain he had received at the hands of monsters.

He had thought of the slavers as monsters, too. They were men, like him, just from the East... No, that was different, he told himself, forcing away the exception that might break his rule.

Khamir worried that Athwen would have some stern words for him, but he was surprised that instead the girl spoke up again.

"They were asleep," Azhar began, her voice stronger than he expected from such a young child - particularly a girl. "What would you have us do? Run them through without a second thought? Lindir hopes to get them to talk. Perhaps to find out whether there are other troops nearby. But surely you would not kill someone, even an orc, in his sleep!"

Anger boiled up again in the Southron. This girl dared to judge him, dared to give him some kind of lesson in what was fair and right and just. He had heard it all before: all this nonsense of not attacking a man when his back was turned, not touching those who are innocent, using only what force was necessary. Rules like that were nice in a game, when fairness was a part of what kept it fun, but life was not a game. And life in...this land...this dark place...there was nothing fair to it. Herd animals left behind the weakest, and predators attacked the weakest of the herd...the creatures of Mordor of all types behaved in this way, and men who lived by any other way were the weakest left behind.

Khamir opened his mouth without words prepared, and without any concern for whether or not he might regret what would emerge, but then he caught Athwen's disapproving glance. It was like the look his mother had given him on countless occasions when he would return home late, usually battered and bloody, and sometimes with a new possession in his hands that did not really belong to him...and, even now, it was enough to quiet him, though he was unable to listen to what the woman said as his mind was plagued with hatred. Khamir left in silence to inform Adnan and Vrór of the news, and help them and others prepare to leave.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Lindir’s pronouncement that they had already been spied upon by hidden orcs, along with his speculation that some stealthy visitors might appear in the night left Carl feeling distinctly on edge. And the hope of rain after the oppressive and seemingly endless dry weather, normally would have been welcome news to the farmer, but now it only added to the tension with its uncertainty and timing. If only those orcs would pipe down! the hobbit thought as he struggled to follow his thoughts to some sort of conclusion while a commotion and howling jeers emanated from the pit.

Try as he might, Carl’s anxious mind couldn’t get a firm grip on the reasoning behind Lindir’s decision to spare the orcs for now, when so many around them had suffered from their likes. But his brain kept circling back to the notion instilled it him that they were myth-like, filled to the very brim with evil. Surely those very beasts would skin and salt Man, Elf or Hobbit, free or imprisoned, given half a chance…make sport of it too! The slavers had been a hazard, to be sure, but at least you might have the hope of reasoning with them. But Orcs? The hobbit shuddered pondering it, and took his place in the line forming to transport water to the edges of the pit. He couldn't help but wonder if the decisions of elves were to be trusted once they had been around for more than a few hundred years, or so. He for one, couldn’t sleep a wink while those orcs were in the camp. But then again, Lindir didn’t appear to need much sleep, did he?

It was not long before water was being splashed about the pit, garnering more loud shouts and jibes from the orcs trapped below, as the small rivulets snaked their way under the grate that covered the hole. The imprisoned creatures’ pointed words were all the more injurious for the grains of truth that they bore, as their barbs condemned their treatment at the hands of their captors. So effective this tactic was to the uninitiated that hobbit quickly excused himself, saying that his injured arm was not yet ready to heft the large buckets of water, let alone buckets of buckets. But the truth of it was that the insults had struck his conscience, with a sting greater than the one in his arm.

And so as the first raindrops fell, he took to searching about the camp far from the pit, gathering what he could to help defend against the anticipated attack, and ever mindful that he should keep on eye out for what they might need should they see the light of day again.

[Nogrod]

The three orcs advanced towards the camp in the thickening rain. They had drawn their weapons and were approaching the camp fast and quiet. Makdush had refused to take the lead and so Ishkur was in the front. Gwerr came a few yards behind to his left and Makdush was at level with Gwerr to the right. Gwerr was checking the left flank and left-behind Makdush the right flank and right-behind, Ishkur took care of the front. They worked as a team now as they were forced to do it.

They had just passed the slaver captain’s tent and were fast approaching the pit when Ishkur suddenly stopped and raised his hand up. The two halted immediately and went down. All three were trying to hold their panting and kept motionless for a moment just listening and sensing the envirovement.

As soon as Gwerr realised that there was no imminent threat to them but that Ishkur had halted for some other reason he started crawling slowly forwards. From the corner of his eye he could note Makdush reaching the same conclusion. The rain was getting ever heavier making the coming darkness even deeper.

“What is it?”, Gwerr hissed from between his teeth when he was close enough.

Ishkur turned around to address both of the two now close behind him. “The pit is there, see? But there are no guards anywhere to be seen...” Ishkur looked at Makdush questioningly.

“Now what is this crap?”, Gwerr grouched in a low voice looking at Makdush sternly.

They were silent for a moment as they all were gathering their thoughts on this sudden change in the situation. They had been ready to attack and kill and then free their friends but now there was no one to be seen or heard from the pounding rain. They were eyeing each other in disbelief.

“I can smell a rat here. I say we pull back”, Gwerr whispered at last. He was looking at both his companions seriously. “There is something wrong here...”

“No Gwerr. We need to rescue our friends... and his...”, with that Ishkur nodded towards Makdush. “We need everyone now and you know it. And we have no better chance for it but now. You remember what Makdush told us? There will be a band of humans around here tomorrow so it’s now or never.” Ishkur seemed to be both focused and determined.

Makdush seemed to have fallen deep into his thoughts but was soon to react to what was said. “They’re humans... They’re taking shelter from the rain, you know those skinless spindleshanks...” He glanced at both the orcs. “I say we’ll go for it, now”.

Gwerr realised that he was left alone with his reservations and grunted. “I see your point Ishkur my friend”, he said without even glancing at Makdush. "But let’s do this carefully. I just don’t like the smell of this... Remember that they have that elf with them”. Gwerr studied Ishkur’s expression for a while and then added. “I’ll go and have a look around. You two go with the rope. I’ll meet you in a minute”. With that he sprang to his feet and disappeared into the gathering darkness and rain from the sight of the two. Ishkur nodded to Makdush and they started approaching the pit slowly.

Gwerr was furious but tried to calm down as well as he could. He almost wished to discover humans hiding behind the nearest bushes ready to attack them just to show the others that he was right, but surely it would be much better if Makdush would be right and they could just free their friends with no fight. The warmongers and those keen to fight were usually those who hadn’t actually tasted a battle in their lives – or fools. Gwerr had had his share of fighting during his lifespan of a few thousand years and had grown wise enough to avoid any if he could. Funny I’m still alive, he thought to himself while these ideas sprang through his mind.

Gwerr started searching the nearest thickets and bushes around the pit. He paused beside a larger bush for a while as he thought he had heard movement from within it. He was streching his senses trying to focus to the bush while maintaining an ear to the surroundings as well and filtering the occasional noises from his comrades from behind him. Apart from the rain it was quiet.


*** ~ ***
Ishkur and Makdush had reached the pit only to discover the door to it being ajar. Makdush pulled it open and Ishkur kneeled to the ground to address their companions.

“Are you there? It’s me, Ishkur. We’re here to get you out”, he hissed as loud as he dared.

“Ishkur, by Mordor it’s good to hear you!” Colagar shouted back from the bottom of the pit.

“Quieter you idiot” Ishkur hissed back. “We’ll throw you a rope and you’ll climb up, okay?” Ishkur called back careful not to raise his voice over the falling rain.

“Throw us a knife first as we’re tied”, Kurrak called from the bottom of the pit a lot quieter than Colagar had done.

“Ohh, you stupid drunkards...” Makdush muttered as he unsheathed his knife and gave it to Ishkur.

“Okay, here it comes. I hope someone of you gets hit, you idiots”. With that Ishkur dropped the knife to the pit.


*** ~ ***
Gwerr thought he saw an odd dark shape beneath the bush. It might be a boulder as well... he thought to himself but decided to have a closer look anyhow. He turned a couple of branches away from his sight and readied his axe when he heard Makdush calling him.

“Gwerr! C’mon and give us a hand. We need to pull these drunkards out from there.”

Gwerr hesitated for a moment but backed away in the end. It's probably a rock anyhow and we need to get away from here as soon as possible...

When Gwerr reached the two Makdush was already lowering the rope down to the pit and Ishkur was on all fours following the rope with his eyes.

But then the rocks started falling on them. Lots of sharp rocks thrown or slinged on them from all around. Most of them went astray and crackled to the ground around them but a few hit as well. Gwerr got a nasty hit to his upper back and fell down to his face from the impact. He rose up shutting the pain down only to see a band of fierce looking humans coming towards them their blades revealed. And there were more rocks speeding on their direction from behind the men that approached.

Gwerr had just gotten to his feet and turned to face the men coming towards them when a rock hit him to the forehead. All went black in his mind for a second. He tried to hold his balance with pure instincts but the ground was too slippery and he fell back over Ishkur who had been - alarmed by the sudden attack - trying to rise up behind him. Gwerr realised himself tumbling down on his mate but then there was nothing under him but air. He was falling.

[Folwren]

Kwell worked with a will, when it came to sloshing buckets of water around and over the pit opening. He had obeyed Lindir and not killed any of the drunken orcs, even if he had wanted to, but to be able to make them even more uncomfortable than before was wonderful to his mind. He nearly laughed as the water and mud splashed and dripped down into the pit and they sent up curses and horrible imprecations. They did not cause any fear to start up in him, as they used to. Their threats were empty. Their hands were bound and had no whips clutched in them.

But soon, Lindir said it was wet enough, and they must retreat and take cover until the other, sober orcs came in. The rain was quickening. The mud was thick, slippery, and as ready as they could make it. They retreated and gathered stones and sticks before finding a hiding place.

They waited. Silently. Kwell wondered again and again if this would actually work. It was risky - and all for the sake of not killing the orcs. He didn’t understand why they just could be shot. Why bother throwing them down into the pit with the others? Were there not enough orcs to get information out of? He couldn’t comprehend Lindir’s thinking...

After a long while of silence, intermixed with the steady patter of the rain, Kwell saw dark figures moving in closer. Kwell shifted his weight and picked up two rocks. They were over the pit now...leaning down to reach the ones inside...

The first rocks were thrown. Kwell stood up and hurled first one and then the other with all his might. He bent again to get more and then, as he continued to throw, those with swords and other, longer weapons charged. Kwell continued to hurl as many rocks as he could, over his friend’s heads and hopefully at the three orcs, but as the humans got closer, he ceased his bombardment, for fear of striking someone in his side.

[Child of the 7th Age]

One minute Makdush had been laying prone at the mouth of the pit, letting out the rope inch-by-inch to those who waited impatiently at the bottom. The next minute they had fallen under a steady barrage of rocks and arrows. Struggling to rise, Makdush saw Gwerr go down just to his left. He could not be sure whether his companion had simply slipped and fallen in the muddy morass or actually been struck by an arrow. One second later Makdush watched as Ishkur followed Gwerr into the depths of the pit, apparently struck in the thigh by a two large rocks that had come hurtling in their direction.

Determined not to repeat his companions' mistakes, Makdush let out a cry and lumbered to his feet, searching for sound footing and lunging for the sword still strapped at his waist. But his efforts had come far too late. There was no time to react. Within a second four figures had run forward: three men and an elf. It was the elf who reached out and ripped the sword from his hand. One of the others retrieved the dangling rope and began to wind it around his body and legs, knotting it tightly in many places. Makdush tried to kick and scream but there were too many for him to get away. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw a man jerk a dagger from its sheath and rear back, aiming towards his neck. He expected the downward thrust to come swift and fatal. Instead, the elf barked, and the man snatched back the blade, complaining under his breath but complying with the order. A second later and he too had joined his companions in the pit.

"Ishkur, Gwerr?" he cried out in frustration, cursing the moment they had decided to try and rescue their companions.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Both Ishkur and Gwerr lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the pit, too groggy to answer or to try and loosen the bonds of the other orcs. Soon after Makdush was hurled into the cell, the wooden grate was again thrown open. This time, the tall Elf and two of his companions lowered themselves down on ropes, binding Ishkur and Gwerr with tight leather straps and rope. The uruk and the two orcs were thrown against the cave wall and their leather straps secured to metal rings. Finally, the three jailors were again pulled up to the surface. The pit was silent and black, but no darker than the feeling of rage and frustration that assaulted Ishkur's mind.

By this time, he was awake and miserable. Ishkur wished he had never suggested helping anyone. He should have listened to Gwerr. Next time, if there was a next time, he must be more careful. He called out to Makdush and Gwerr and to anyone else in the pit who was awake, "I hate elves. Those monstors must each have ten pairs of eyes and ears. This one knew we were coming. He knew it before we even got to the pit. His men were sitting up waiting for us." Ishkur kicked at the wall in frustration and felt the leather strap pull tight against his side and prevent him from moving any further.

There was another reason why Ishkur was angry but he wasn't going to tell anyone. He didn't know how or when but he had seen that pushy elf before. He was sure of it. Probably they had fought on some distant battlefield, but he couldn't remember anything more. He covered his feeling of uneasiness by snarling at the others, "If they drag us out of here to get us to talk, I'll say nothing. At least nothing important. I'll hang my head and play along with their game. But I won't believe anything they say or promise. They're all liars. And at the last minute, when I have a chance, I'll make them pay. If I go down, some of them are going with me." There were growls of agreement from every corner of the pit.

Ishkur slumped against the hard stone rock. Strangely enough, what he thought about were the women and young ones who were still loose on the outside. Maybe they'll get away, he reflected. Yeah, sure....and maybe they'll sprout wings and turn into balrogs. That utterly ridiculous suggestion of women sticking out their noises to help the men made him grimace. It would never happen. Women were useless. They couldn't fight and had no sense of standing beside a buddy. Yet Ishkur still regretted the loss of his hunting lodge and the women lined up to wait on him. When he finally slept, there were no dreams, only an empty black hole.

[Tevildo]

Azhar had followed Athwen's instructions and spent the remainder of the evening preparing the wagons to depart the next morning. Everyone who could stand on their feet had helped gather and pack away the supplies that needed to be transported the next day. They had lined the back of the wagon with soft blankets, assembled packets with flasks of water and food, and made sure that all the healer's supplies were readily available for the trip.

The journey was not a long one, and those who were most seriously injured would be accomodated in the back of the wagon. But the going would still be slow since so many bore minor wounds and would need to stop for frequent rests. The plan was to load the wagons immediately, have everyone get a full night's sleep, and set out the next morning very early. If there were no complications on the road, they should arrive at the new camp by mid-day.

Despite the hard work, many took time to share the latest news. The revelation that orcs had been discovered and were being held in the new camp spread like wildfire. Azhar heard both muttered threats and expressions of dismay that left her feeling uncomfortable. Even those who were injured had retrieved their weapons or gone searching for stones to take along on the trip if a fight developed. While many were frightened to hear what had happened, some seemed almost eager to get into a fight once they reached their destination. Almost no one could understand why Lindir had not given the order to slay the sleeping orcs. Dorran had been outspoken in his dislike of the situation but he was not the only one. As the packing finished and the camp settled down for the night, Azhar lay awake in her blankets unable to sleep as she worried about what would happen after they reached the camp.

[Child of the 7th Age]

At last the camp lay quiet. The orcs were secure within the pit, and, since Lindir required less sleep than the others, he had volunteered to take the remainder of that night's watch. Moreover, he was having trouble sleeping and wanted time to reflect on the strange happenings of the day and what should be done after the rest of their party arrived. That event should occur by mid-afternoon. He was keenly aware that, even within his own small group, several of the former slaves thought him addled or soft for not running the orcs through as they slept, since there was bound to be trouble once they were freed.

Perhaps these men were right, the elf regretfully mused, but he could not bring himself to slay someone who lay in a drunken stupor. Lindir could agree that Orcs were vile, dispicable creatures, yet he did not know what to do. If he set them loose on the plain, they could later reappear and make him regret his decision. But was it right to execute an orc simply because he belonged to a particular race that had done great injury in the past and presumably might do so in the future? An uncomfortable memory from his own boyhood flitted through his mind, which he hastily pushed aside. In any case, he objected, the decision was not his to make. He could suggest or try to persuade, but the group would ultimately determine the fate of the prisoners.

A stirring in the bushes caused the elf to stare out into the darkness. His fingers tightened about the hilt of his knife as he leapt up for a closer look. There was a second rustling, and the bushes parted to reveal a familiar face. "Aiwendil? Is that you?" Without waiting for a response the elf darted forward to embrace his friend. His words came spilling out. "Where were you? I could not sense your presence or your thoughts since you left the battle." He added in a chiding tone, "You should have told me you were safe."

The old man shook his head and struggled to explain, "Lindir, I am sorry, truly sorry, but I had no choice. I found myself in a strange predicament. The slightest mistep could have cost me my life. And not only my life, for I knew I must return to give a warning to you. So I kept my thoughts close for fear that others might overhear."

"Overhear? What kind of threat lurks on the plains that could read the mind of an istar?"

Aiwendil was silent for a moment before responding in a cryptic tone. "I have learned some things since my departure that may affect our fortunes. I do not know all with certainty. Many questions remain, but I heard enough to let me guess what must have transpired in Mordor over the past few years and what may yet befall us in coming days. It does not make me easy, and I will share all in good time. But first you must tell me what has happened here.....how we fared in the final minutes of the fight and who is with you in this place. How are our friends who still wait in the old camp? And Rôg? Can you tell me of his fate? For I have been troubled with disturbing dreams and strange forebodings whose meaning is unclear."

Although Lindir wondered what Aiwendil had glimpsed on the plains of Mordor, he did not press for an immediate answer. Instead, he did as the old man requested, sharing what news he could and adding the details about their strange encounter with the orcs. Aiwendil seemed as baffled over the latter episode as Lindir had been. The istar could not offer any explanation for the behavior of the orcs or understand why such a small party would be travelling on its own. Nor did he have any idea how they should handle the prisoners.

Finally, once Lindir had finished with all his news, he pressed Aiwendil to describe what he had seen, "Could these orcs possibly be connected with the threat you saw on the plains? If so, we would be better off slaying them and, by doing so, prevent news from reaching the others."

Aiwendil shook his head, "Anything is possible. But I do not think so. What I saw on the plain had nothing to do with orcs. Indeed, I did not see a single orc. The threat seems of a different type. Do you remember in the last battle of the War of the Ring how the forces of the olog-hai were scattered to the winds? Those great giant creatures, so full of cunning, were among the worst of Sauron's monstors. So mighty were they in battle that none saw them fall on the plains of Mordor. In fact, some doubted that they could even be slain. But with the destruction of the Ring and the demise of its master, these stone creatures fled the field of war as if they had lost their minds, and have not been seen since that day. That is....none have seen them until two days ago when I beheld a gathering of the olog-hai just north of here. I saw and could not believe so I stayed in their camp to learn more...."

"Olog-hai?" Lindir interrupted. "But is that possible? Most have said that these creature cannot act unless they are directed by a mind greater than theirs. Once Sauron died, they disappeared into the hills."

"So I thought as well. But this much I can tell you. They travel north to the same mountains and foothills where we are heading. They intend to gather their forces there. Now there are only twenty or so, but many more are expected with the slow turning of the seasons. What I do not know and can not guess is whether another mind lies in back of their actions, or they have come up with this plot on their own."

"But what is their intention? For what purpose do these olog-hai gather?"

"I can not say with certainty. But I heard the name of Elessar cursed many times, and all in the camp spoke of the need to head west to attack once they establish control over Mordor. Exactly what their plan is and when it will be put in operation, I do not know. Even so, I am sure of two things. It will never be safe to settle on the Plateau of Gorgoroth until these creatures be gone from there. We are doomed to fail as long as they live. And the longer they live and plot, the greater the threat is to Gondor and to all the free peoples of Middle-earth."

"But we are too few, too few to face such a threat," Lindir countered. "No rag tag band of travellers can hope to defeat a threat such as this." The elf's voice was solemn.

"Yes, that has occurred to me as well. Perhaps we should just stay here and send messengers back to Minas Tirith to ask for an army to help us clear the way. But there is also danger in waiting too long. It will be many months before a request can arrive at court and a convoy of soldiers be sent into Mordor. Who knows what damage the olog-hai can do in that time? Now they are twenty...by next spring their numbers may swell to a hundred or more. That is the danger of waiting."

"We need allies then....immediate allies," observed Lindir with a shake of his head. "Preferably troops with battle experience. But where do you propose to get such reinforcements within the next month?"

Aiwendil grimaced, "That is what I hoped you would be able to tell me. So shall I pass on this news tomorrow when we are gathered to judge the orcs, or wait until another day when tempers are cooler?"

"To be truthful, I don't know. Let us wait till tomorrow and see how things go. We may need to remind the others of the need to keep a cool head and not to split into many factions. One more thing, though, before we turn in. Aiwendil, earlier you spoke of someone overhearing your thoughts. Why did you say this? The olog-hai do not have that ability."

"I'm not sure. Only at moments I could have sworn that there was a mind, a great mind, pressing against my own, almost willing me into submission. That is when I decided to lay hidden and not draw attention to myself even by a stray thought. No, I find it hard to believe that any olog-hai could do that. I am not sure. Perhaps it was only my imagination. Sitting in the middle of a camp of gigantic stone creatures is not good for the nerves. But still, if it is possible that there is a greater force directing these olog-hai, then that force might have the gift of reading thoughts as well as other magical abilities."

"But who could do this?" Lindir prodded.

"I do not know, and you can probably make a guess as good as mine.... There are a few of Sauron's friends who were never accounted for."

"The Mouth of Sauron?" Lindir asked in a flat, dead voice.

"Yes, or perhaps one of the two istari who disappeared in the East and were never heard from again. I hope this is not so for then we would face an even greater fight. Let's handle one problem at a time. Let's figure out how to deal with this handful of orcs before we go on to other things." With that, the Lindir and Aiwendil parted. Lindir stayed to guard the pit, while Aiwendil found a spot to turn in for the few short hours that remained before sunrise.

[Firefoot]

In the past couple of days, Grask had run a full gamut of emotions – adventurousness, nervousness, curiosity, trepidation, satisfaction – but not until this point had he felt any true fear. His search for the females had been outstandingly unsuccessful; he had not even found a footprint or a bag left behind. To all appearances, they had simply disappeared. Grask wondered if they might have simply up and left, tired of the males’ drinking and lazing about. Up until a little while ago, he could have cared less, but now, with all the males held captive in the pit, it meant he was alone.

Completely, helplessly, alone.

Not to mention wet and miserable.

He had hunkered down beneath a squat thorny tree after his initial failure to locate any of the others, both in hopes of remaining hidden from the men and as at least a token shelter from the rain which had begun to fall steadily a little while ago. The tree was no match for a nice, dry cave however, and before too long Grask felt soaked to the bone and chilly.

Then he had heard what sounded like Orkish voices not too far away and felt a gleam of hope return. Before he could get up to join them, however, he heard more shouts and a commotion in the direction of the camp. After that he heard no more Orc voices or rustling in the bush. He could only guess that Ishkur and his mates had been captured like the rest.

And he could only guess that all the Orcs that had been captured would be killed. He did not know why they simply had not already killed them and had done with it, if that was what they were going to do anyway, and Grask saw no other alternative.

So where did that leave him? Even if he were not found, he would be left on his own out here in the wilderness. He had no idea where he was, and was not even sure of the direction from which they had come. Oh, sure, he could survive out here for a while, but without a larger group he wouldn’t last long.

He might die out here.

He was afraid.

[Tevildo]

Before stretching out to rest in her bedroll, Azhar helped Athwen care for the injured and made sure that the supplies were packed on the wagon so they could get an early start. Despite her exhaustion, she had difficulty falling asleep. Ghostly images of battle and menacing orcs came crowding into her head. She could not imagine what Lindir would do to appease all the different opinions in camp and make sure that the prisoners would not become a threat. Even if the elf agreed to have the prisoners executed, the main column of soldiers would turn up on the doorstep of their camp, curious to see what had happened to the missing scouts and likely hungry for blood.

To make things worse, a steady drizzle had fallen through the night, leaving the ground littered with puddles while the residents of the camp tossed and turned in discomfort trying to get some sleep. Azhar was not surprised by the weather. The wet season in Mordor was short and intense. Once the storms began, it was not unusual for there to be a steady downpour punctuated by intermittant storms three weeks or more. The rain had made it difficult to pack up quickly and get out of the camp at sunrise. By the time the long caravan had actually left camp, it was already late in the morning. With most of the party on foot and many still suffering in the aftermath of the fighting, it had taken them nearly three hours to cover the seven miles between the two camps. The steady drizzle had gotten worse and was now a heavy sheet of rain.

Wet and bedraggled, Azhar trudged into the slavers' camp, immediately presented herself to Lindir, and hastily explained, "We're here. All of us. I don't know how, but Athwen's managed to get everyone safely across the plain without losing any of the injured. But I have to tell you....there's one thing." Azhar's voice trembled as she struggled to find the right words. "It's the orcs. There are a lot of upset people in camp. They can't understand why you let the orcs live. They say it can only mean trouble. Lindir, I agreed with you. I didn't think it was right to kill them when they were lying there drunk. But what are we going to do? What can we do?" She looked up at the elf with a pleading look in her eye hoping to find some answers.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir looked Azhar squarely in the eye and chose his words with care, "I'd be lying if I told you that I had all the answers. I am not sure what we're going to do, but I do know this. I could not live with myself if I had run those wretches through in their sleep. Elessar would have done no differently. All of us, myself included, are ultimately under his rule."

The elf sighed and continued, "You know, Azhar, sometimes what seems like the easiest course is not always the wisest. We'll have to go forward one step at a time and slowly try to figure things out. We haven't come this far to end up with swords at each other's throats. Otherwise the sacrifices made on the battlefield will have been for naught, and none of us want that. Plus, there's something else. There are dangers on the plain we have yet to face....perils which may be far more deadly than a pack of drunken orcs. Last night Aiwendil returned with some grim news, and it is this that I will share with the others when we consider what to do with the orcs."

"Go now," he added. "Run and tell the rest of the camp to gather near the entry to the pit that we may begin our discussions."

Azhar ran off and did as she was told. Within the space of an hour, a large group had gathered near the pit to talk about the fate of the orcs and to hear the news that Aiwendil had brought.

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

Aiwendil had spent most of the morning sleeping, trying to regain strength after his hard trek over the plain with little food or rest. Now, he stood up to face the crowd. He hated speaking before large assemblies, but Lindir had asked him to tell the others what he had overheard about the threat of the olog-hai. Although the worst of the storm had passed, the rain continued to fall. The quiet stream that flowed beside the prisoner's pit had risen so high that the water was nearly out of its banks.

When the istar gazed out at the throng, he saw a number of sullen faces. Folk seemed to be in ill humor. The old man did his best, trying to explain the threat awaiting the group on its journey north. He spoke of the great size and strength of Sauron's trolls and how these giant creatures could withstand the rays of the sun even in the middle of the day. A few of the onlookers seemed openly skeptical, since none of them had seen trolls of this type. However, when the old man said how the trolls mentioned the need for more troops, several of the ex-slaves exploded, demanding to know if these trolls could already have sent for an army of orcs to help them.

Aiwendil shook his head, "We also wondered about this. Lindir and I asked if there could be an alliance between orcs and trolls, but neither of us believe this has happened. I heard nothing about orcs during my hours in the camp....only that more olog-hai would be gathering soon. Remember that there is no love lost between the different groups who fought us in the War of the Ring. Sauron could force orcs and trolls to cooperate, but that is not how they normally act. They naturally hate each other. If there had been an army of orcs coming into camp, I would surely have heard something. Most likely these orcs were telling the truth, or at least we can say this one thing they told us is not a lie.....there is no army of orcs. For some reason, this small group has set out on its own. Perhaps they are making their way back to the plantations in Nurn after finishing some errand in the north. That seems like the most likely thing. As such, they pose little threat to us."

At this juncture, Lindir stepped forward and spoke in support of Aiwendil, urging the group to come to some agreement. "You see how important it is for us to deal with these orcs quickly and go on to prepare for this larger threat of the olog-hai. I have thought about this problem at length. I recommend that we blindfold these orcs so they cannot see where they are going and then take them out a ways south of here. We leave them, bereft of weapons and horses so they can not do any harm even if they should stumble upon us by accident. At the same time the main camp heads out and continues the trip north, saving our energy for the larger threat that awaits us in the foothills of the mountains. I see no other way. My party was sent out under the command of King Elessar, and I am sure he would not slay even these despicable creatures, since they have done us no direct harm......"

[Durelin]

Khamir

It seemed a miracle to Khamir that they arrived at the slaver camp in one piece, but it hardly felt like a triumph. There was too much fear and hatred looming over them all for any small victory to matter, and the rain which would typically be welcomed as respite from the heat and the dry did nothing to help their spirits.

At least both Adnan and Vrór were doing well for what they had endured. Khamir, with Adnan’s help, had kept the Dwarf from walking as much as possible, though that was not always an easy task. The way the shorter fellow went on about how hardy Dwarves were, the Southron man was surprised that he had yet to try and get in on all the planning that seemed to be going on, mostly led by Lindir and Aiwendil.

Apparently Beloan had even made way for the two, which Khamir had to admit he did not find that surprising. He was too soft sometimes, too...accepting of whatever was. I suppose that was the only reason he ever listened to my command, the one-armed man thought.

So maybe this was the purpose of the elf and the old man: to lead and rule these poor lost slaves who have no order to them otherwise. With their wisdom they of course knew what was best for these people of Mordor. But they had already proven they knew nothing about this land, as there were nine orcs alive in this very camp.

Finally, though, it seemed they were going to do something about it. Leaving Adnan with a now sleeping Vrór at the back of the crowd, Khamir went to stand along the edge of the throng nearer to the front. Lindir would undoubtedly grant them his wisdom on the matter once again, but Khamir hoped now that with all the surviving slaves here sense would prevail, and he was prepared to make sure it did.

Expecting to hear only more about naïve and soft-hearted ideals, when Aiwendil spoke of yet another terror, Khamir felt all those lovely ideas of hope, freedom, and unity destroyed. Trolls? No…olog-hai. First monsters, now demons… At least orcs were of a size with men, but those… So those that were left, broken and bloodied after the Easterlings were defeated, who had already watched the lifeless bodies of their companions burned, were to have their bones crushed to dust.

And with less than a heartbeat’s pause in between, Lindir moved on to talk about just another of Sauron’s creatures as if they had rights, as if they deserved to live and breathe the same air as any of the good Men who sat here, most of whom had suffered much at the hands of the same animals.

Khamir almost laughed. It was suddenly all so absurd. Free slaves; Free Peoples sparing orcs’ lives; an Elf, a Dwarf, a Hobbit, and some strange old man from who knew were in Mordor; little underlings of ‘Elessar’ playing sovereignty in the land of Sauron; Sauron destroyed, and all over the Wester lands they had rejoiced and were thriving, but here…

“King Elessar’s laws do not apply in this land, much less his wishes,” Khamir spat angrily, not caring if he cut anyone off in their own attempt to speak up. “How can you think so carelessly, so selfishly? Is your ‘honor’ more important than an innocent person’s life? Can you really, with pure and noble conscience – far purer than my own, it must be – simply put those creatures somewhere else, to hunt and kill someone else, so you can sleep at night? Few other than who deserve whatever comes to them at the hands of orcs have weapons or horses.”

In a moment’s pause, though, Khamir’s raging diminished to a bitter laugh as a thought came to him. “If you are so concerned about keeping your or my or everyone else’s hands clean, then we do not have to kill them…but we can at least make use of them.”

The man smiled slightly, fond of his idea. “If we do run into those olog-hai, then surely it would be better for us if the monsters were interested in orc meat rather than our own?”

[Folwren]

Athwen busied her hands immediately when they reached the camp. She found the most sheltered place that she could and used it to the best of her ability while organizing the wounded. They were all tired after the journey between the two camps and they all moved quietly to obey her when she directed anyone anywhere. Soon, they lay in bleary heaps, trying to sleep in spite of the rain.

Athwen passed through them one more time, checking each one to make sure she could do nothing further for them, and then she turned and walked back towards the gathering of people grouped around one of the fires.

She drew near to the edge of them in time to hear Khamir’s upraised voice. He sounded angry. . .too angry, considering the circumstances. Why would he want to argue now?

“King Elessar’s laws do not apply in this land, much less his wishes. How can you think so carelessly, so selfishly? Is your ‘honor’ more important than an innocent person’s life?"

Athwen gently began to push her way through the crowd, saying nothing as she squirmed like a child between people's elbows. Khamir went on with his lecture. "Can you really, with pure and noble conscience – far purer than my own, it must be – simply put those creatures somewhere else, to hunt and kill someone else, so you can sleep at night? Few other than who deserve whatever comes to them at the hands of orcs have weapons or horses.”

Was the man actually making fun of Lindir and Aiwendil? Athwen reached the front now and she could see the elf and wizard standing close together, looking at Khamir as he spoke to them. Her brows drew closer together in confusion. How could anyone mock them? What had they said? But the sarcasm in the words ‘pure’ and ‘noble’ and a couple others had struck her ears rather violently.

Yet then his tune seemed to change suddenly. “If you are so concerned about keeping your or my or everyone else’s hands clean, then we do not have to kill them…but we can at least make use of them.”

Athwen stiffened instinctively. She disliked it when people discussed getting ‘use’ out someone. Especially when a person like Khamir was the one speaking. She waited, just like everyone else, in silence, feeling certain she would disagree with his idea.

“If we do run into those olog-hai, then surely it would be better for us if the monsters were interested in orc meat rather than our own?”

Athwen’s impatience with such hatred burst forth in an aggravated but quiet “Oh!” Her blue eyes flashed and her hands balled up into small fists and she was preparing to say more, when Aiwendil took it from her, speaking sternly, and looking as none of them had ever seen him look before.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Despite the sheets of rain, which had covered him through out the night, and despite too, his own conviction that he simply could not rest while the orcs remained in the camp, Carl had slept as soundly as one of the many stones that lay strewn on the dirt of Mordor. So deep was that slumber, after the tumult of the last several days, that the hobbit slept far into the morning, curled up on the modest heap of items he had scavenged in the night, as if he were some utilitarian dragon that lay guarding its hoard. Azhar had done her best to wake him, so that he might be present when the group discussed the hard decisions that faced them, but he had waved her away with drowsy irritation, not realizing fully who she was, or indeed where he was. Folding his arms about himself, it was only when he rolled painfully onto his side that he again remembered the orcs that had stealthily crept into camp at night. That, he recalled, hadn't been a dream. The hobbit's eyes snapped open, and he heard the growing rumble of voices, with the familiar tone of Aiwendil's rising above the them. The old fellow had found them again!

Carl tried to spring to his feet, but found that every inch of his body ached as he rose stiffly, listening to the istar's discourse from a distance. Hearing the old man's tale of the olog-hai, he soon forgot his discomfort. Olog-hai? It was a word he had never heard, though it was not long before he substituted the word troll for them in his mind. Sun hardy, great lumbering trolls, and a bumper crop of them! Well now, if it isn't one thing, it's another! he muttered as Lindir stepped forward to add his thoughts on the matter.

Listening with interest, the hobbit was heartened to hear the elf propose that they carry the orcs away, to leave them unarmed on the plain south of here. Glad not only because he did not trust the orcs, but because it restored his confidence in Lindir. Last night in his weary agitation, the hobbit had been none to sure that the elf was in his right senses when he kept the men from dispatching the orcs while the creatures were in their stupor. But now that Carl himself had slept, he saw how shameful it would have been to kill the orcs when they had been given no cause to attack them. It weren't as if they were a war on, now was it? Still, he didn't care to share camp with them. No good would come of it. War or no war orcs weren't to be trusted, not in the least, and the sooner that they were sentoff, the better. Lindir was right.

Just as the hobbit began feeling contented with the plan, one of the men at the edge of the crowd stood up, and Carl saw that it was that grim fellow Khamir. He had been sitting with Adnan and Vŕor, the latter of whom seemed presently to be dozing. Overjoyed to see his friend the dwarf with the others, not in some sickbed, Carl worked his way over to him, even as Khamir strode forward to address the group. But he had no time to ask Adnan how the dwarf was doing, for Khamir's words stung him soundly. “Strider's wishes don't apply in this land?” the hobbit muttered, scornfully. “That's fool's talk, ...and Strider ain't no fool!” Carl glanced quickly over to Adnan wondering if the lad felt the same way as Khamir, and then forced himself to concentrate on the man's words again. He certainly didn't mince them, but he did have a point. If they let the orcs loose, yes they might cause mischief to someone else. Carl felt as if there had to be a balance here somewhere, but he was quite confounded. And his confusion was replaced by repugnance once Khamir suggested keeping the orcs to appease the Olog-hai. As much as he disliked the creatures, the sheer cruelty of the idea was alien to him, and he felt fleetingly thankful for the King's insight in barring men from the Shire. But reading Athwen's face, he was reassured that not all of mankind stored up their bitterness in a heart of stone. And so the hobbit hung his head, worried what sort of decision might be reached by such a group as this one, and if he'd be bound to follow it.

[Child of the 7th Age]

“If we do run into those olog-hai, then surely it would be better for us if the monsters were interested in orc meat rather than our own?”

Aiwendil's eyes flashed with fire as he heard the words from Khamir's mouth. Despite his mounting anger, he checked his temper before slowly turning to confront the slave leader. The meek old man, the confused but good hearted tender of animals who had been with them for most of the journey, had totally disappeared. In his place was a tall, stern father, who admonished his children with a long wooden staff that seemed to glow and pulse as jagged brown shadows fell over the assemblage.

"No, Khamir, no. You do not know what you say. To turn the orcs loose, even to kill them for crimes they have undoubtedly committed in other times and places......that is one thing. But to keep them with us and hold them as bait to snare our enemies to their death? If we do that, we become no better than they. We stoop to their level and play their games and, by so doing, become part of what they are. Do not speak of such things. It is not a matter of Ellessar's laws or some false notion of honor. There are laws that govern Arda whose roots lie far deeper than that. We are here, all of us, because of those dictates.

"Khamir, of all those who stand in this circle you know how easy it is for those in Mordor to lose heart and soul. What you suggest would set us on a perilous road from which there is no return. Persuade me that these ruffians deserve to die because of past acts. That I can believe. But do not suggest a plan that would have us become like the vermin of the Shadow Lord."

"I will tell you the truth. If we are going to defeat the olog-hai, we must have allies at our side. Alone, we will be powerless. Where we will get these allies, I do not know. Would that we had run into a troop of soldiers from the west rather than this pack of orcs! But such is our doom. Decide then the fate of these orcs: life or death. But do not speak of bringing them along to use as bait....."

"Aiwendil is right." There was a stirring in the crowd as Lindir stepped forward to address the group. "I can accept a judgment of life or death, but I will not have these orcs dragged along as live bait. Remember, one time in the distant past, before Morgoth twisted their lives, each of these poor creatures was actually a man.....or an elf. Whatever they have done, nothing can erase that fact. Let all who wish to be heard speak their mind as to whether these orcs should live or die. You already know my feelings on this. But this decision must not belong to only one. If most in this company vote for death on the grounds of the foul acts these orcs have committed in the past, I will not stand in the way. Speak then, one by one, and we will make a tally.

[Nogrod]

Gwerr and the orcs

Gwerr’s mood was darker than the cave they had been imprisoned into. He scorned himself for being an idiot but the thoughts he had of the others weren’t much nicer. Seeing Ishkur fall asleep finally made him burst out.

“Okay, let’s all just sleep on this, right? They will but kill us a little after we awake! Or maybe they will give us some of their ratios – and a lot of ale – after granting us this shelter from the rain, uh? Now let’s...”

Gwerr’s voice died suddenly as he had just caught a glimpse of something.

“Colagar, you old fool! What is it there next beside you on the left? In between the two rocks.”

Makdush was immediately aware of Gwerr’s finding.

“How could I forget that? It’s my blade which Ishkur dropped here for the others to cut themselves loose with...” Makdush looked at Gwerr and then at Colagar who was only slowly coming back to his senses after being dozing his hangover off. Then Makdush addressed the waking orc quite harshly: “Pick it up Colagar. Now! Start doing something useful.”

Gwerr couldn’t believe his ears. They had a blade here and everyone who knew it – which was everyone except Gwerr - had just forgotten it. Cursed be the day I joined with these scroundels with a memory matching that of the fishes!

“Speed up Colagar, they may be back any minute now! Cut yourself free and then give us a hand. And don’t cut the ropes into pieces if you can, we may need the ropes yet.” With that he turned to Ishkur and kicked him to the side a few times. “Allright you hero of the ladies, time to wake up and do something! We need to do some planning now.”

While Ishkur was struggling to awake and to get grips with the overall situation Gwerr turned to Makdush. Now he seems to be the only sensible person here... how can I think it this way? He’s an Uruk anyway...

“Now what do you say big-guy? If we just wait here we may be able to kill the first few who come down to get us but after that they will rip us to pieces with their arrows and slings securely from high-up there. So we must act first... If two or three of you Uruks would stand firmly together two of us could get on to your shoulders and then a third might climb on theirs to reach the top with a few ropes. With all of us up there we might break the door and make a charge... At least we would die fighting instead of being plain assassinated. Better to try than to rot here, or what do you say?”

At the moment he heard Ishkur rising up behind him.

“And what say you Ishkur?”

[Regin Hardhammer]

"What do I say?" Ishkur squatted on the ground and retrieved his sack, which had fallen into the mud at the same time that he had been thrown into the pit. He gripped the cloth bag in two hands and began wringing it out. His vigorous wringing produced a considerable stream of water that spilled over his hands and splashed onto the ground.

Looking sideways at Gwerr with an expression halfway between a grin and a grimace, Ishkur ruefully intoned, "I say go for it. It's better to die trying than to lie down and take whatever they dish out. If we don't attack, we're goners......just like my poor sack." He stared at the bedraggled canvas bag and frowned, "Either we get our necks wrung like dead chickens, or we drown here in this pit. I don't know if any of you idiots happened to notice but things are getting a little damp."

Ishkur pointed towards the pile of rocks at the back of the cave. Water was beginning to seep in from the outside; at least five inches had accumulated on the cave floor, and the level was slowly rising. I hate swimming," Ishkur snorted in explanation. "I'd rather take my chances on the outside."

"Well, Makdush, what'll it be? Care to give one of us a hands up on your back?"

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Due to Athwen’s medicines Hadith’s left arm was totally numb. Even if it did make him feel himself the most vulnerable in this envirovenment that seemed to offer violent surprises by the day it was still better than the pain of the last night. Athwen had insisted that he should stay with the other wounded under the makeshift shelter to keep the wound as dry as possible. But Hadith would have none of it. As he was now back to his senses he would also want to know what was going on and so he slipped out from the hastily assembled tent for the wounded as soon as Athwen turned to other patients.

He soon got to the crowd gathering near the pit and after spotting Beloan went to stand beside him.

“Well my lad, you’re feeling better already? I’d like to hear your story of the battle but I think the meeting is starting in any minute now... Are you allright Hadith?” Beloan had looked at Hadith delightedly at first but while he spoke a cloud had started to form over his expressions. The boy looked so pale and weak...

“Yes I am, Beloan”, Hadith answered but avoided meeting Beloan’s eyes.

The older man looked at Hadith quizzically but then decided to not press the question any further for the time being as Aiwendil was coming forwards to start the meeting. Instead he took his cape and folded it a few times and set it then on Hadith’s shoulders.

“Keeps you warmer and drier...” he half-whispered as Aiwendil had just started his speech. He smiled to Hadith caringly and then turned straight to hear what Aiwendil and Lindir had to say.

Hadith was most confused. This man who had showed concern about him and who had trusted him from their first hunting lessons onwards - which it now seemed were ages ago – felt like a father Hadith actually never had had but as flashes of memories from his very early childhood. Suddenly Hadith felt an urge to hide himself in Beloan’s lap and be secured of all the evil the world was throwing at him, all those a father would wash away from a child. But Aiwendil’s words froze him.

The Olog-hai? Those from the tales of the War of the Ring?They really exist? And they’re here waiting for us in the north? Hadith was all fear now. He sure had heard of those monsters. There had been two gamlings in their barracks when he was very young and they used to tell stories of valour and evil of the past great wars. The stories about the battles in front of the Dark Gate and those of the Pelennor Fields had been some of the favourites of Hadith when he was a child, stories he would insist the gamlings to tell over and over again. But that monsters of that quality would be actually alive and real and near them... Hadith’s knees were trembling as he listened to the old man and the elf.

He remebered the stories now vividly. The Olog-hai’s skin could not be penetrated but by an elven blade he remembered the other one of the gamlings, Trucwadh, telling him. They could sweep ten armoured man at arms down with one blow the other, Golondor, had said. They were tall like three men standing on above each other, they had teeth like lions but only three times larger and sharper. No arrow, no sling-projectile would bother them more like a mosquito bite does a man. Ten of them had went through a legion of Gondorian footmen like a party of adults might be shooing little children away from them... How could we, a bunch of rugged slaves with a few aids ever match a horde of them? This is folly!

After Aiwendil had answered Khamir’s passionate words with presence that sent chills all around Hadith’s bruised body he gathered his courage to answer to Lindir’s plea for everyone to speak their minds.

“My mother and father were gruesomely killed by plantation-orcs. They even made me watch my mother dying when I was a lot younger than I am now. I have no pity for these foul creatures and will be one to volunteer in killing them... if my strength just allows it. But what you say about these Olog-hai bothers me even more.”

Hadith made a pause to recollect what he was about to say.

“I mean... even if these orcs would not be baits but would actually fight besides us, what chances would we have against that mighty an enemy even in that case? Wouldn’t it take an army of hundreds or more likely thousands of fully-clad and battle-hardened men at arms – or elves - to fight them? So shouldn’t we just kill the orcs that they may do no more harm to anyone and head west instead out of the way of these mosters? If king Elessar was ready to send a fellowship to help us, maybe he would then grant us a refugee in the west somewhere? And there are people here who could claim a place or another his or her home down south... Maybe he would listen to our pleas?”

[Tevildo]

Dorran listened carefully to what Hadith was saying. His fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword as he heard the ex-slave describe how his parents had been killed by orcs. That was something the Rider could understand. Yet, despite loss of family, Hadith had not lost his head. He was setting out a scale to weigh the danger of orcs and olog-hai and trying to figure out some way that the two could balance out.

Dorran caught Lindir's eye. The Elf nodded to indicate that the Rider should respond to the questions that Hadith was raising. From the very beginning of the journey, he and Lindir had known this was always a possibility.....that the forces against them would seem insurmountable and that they would feel the need to call upon Ellessar for help of a different kind.

"The questions you raise, Hadith, are not easy to answer. Before leaving on this journey, Lindir and I stood in court with the King and asked him these very things. Ellessar made it very clear. He would not turn away people with no place to go; nor would he turn a deaf ear if a call came in for more help. There are lands in the west that have the ability to support more folk than they are doing now. My adopted homeland of Rohan is like that. The number of people grow, but slowly. There is good pastureland for raising herd animals. That is all possible."

Hadith's eyes lit up with hope, but Dorran raised his hand as if to indicate there was more to the situation than that. With a sigh, he continued on, "Unfortunately, the other side is not so easy. There are many problems. It would take weeks to get a message through to the court, and weeks more before an army could get here. Meanwhile, we have many people to feed and care for. We can not stay here in the middle of a half empty plain, especially in the rainy season. Game and foodstuffs are not plentiful enough. We can not travel east, since too many Easterlings lie in that direction. I hardly think they would welcome us. That leaves just three possibilities: west, south, or north."

Dorran stared Hadith directly in the eye, "None of us wants to go back so I think we can eliminate south. West is possible. that way you could end up settling in Rohan or another land. Still, it isn't easy. First, we must get over the mountains that circle the west of Mordor. There are only two ways of doing that.... One would have us turn back to the south and cross the hills where the River Poros comes in. Once we get to the river our going will be smooth, but there is a sharp ascent and descent to cut through to the water. We came that way, but it was not easy. And I can tell you this for sure.....the youngsters will likely not make it over. Plus, they will still have slaving parties out looking for us, since that area is close to the plantations. Our other course is to cross near the Tower of Cirith Ungol and Minas Morgul. But that land lies far north. In fact it lies even further north than the land you were going to settle. Surely we would run into the olog-hai. In my mind it would be better to attack them from the security of a sure camp than somewhere off on the road when we do not know when and how they are coming at us."

"I will tell you what I think. Do not despair at the mention of the olog-hai. As I understand it, they are only a small group yet. If we could hurry north and get there before the reinforcements arrive, I truly believe we would have a chance to defeat them. There are things other than brute force. There are tricks and strategems we could consider. I have seen men bring down one of these creatures. It is possible. Meanwhile, we could send a messenger through to the court at Minas Tirith and ask for help. Perhaps, if we are lucky, the extra troopers will arrive in enough time to help us, or at least to beat back the reinforcements if they should arrive at the last minute. The key to this plan is speed. We would need to travel as fast as possible. Fortunately, the way is flat and the injured can be brought on the cart or carried on horseback."

"As to the orcs," Dorran shrugged his shoulders. "I too lost my parents and a brother to orcs. I vote for death. They are not worth the time we would lose in taking them out someplace on the plain. There is only one thing that bothers me. From what Aiwendil has said, it does not appear that there is an orc army on the loose, nor are they allied with the olog-hai. Orcs hate the olog even more than they hate men. I would dearly love to know why a small party of orcs is crossing the plain of Mordor in the rainy season. Only a fool would do that, or someone who had a very compelling reason. But what that reason would be I have no idea. The orcs aren't talking, so I guess we'll never know. But it's possible---just possble, though most unlikely---that if someone could explain to me why they are out here, I might consider letting them live. Otherwise, I say death....."

[Child of the 7th Age]

"All right! All right! Hold yer horses," snapped Makdush. "Let's not be stupid. Those addled fools are taking their time. If it was orcs and uruks with a man in tow, how long would it take us to agree on a sentence of death? No more than it would take us to down a draft! I smell something fishy. Maybe they can't make up their minds."

At this point, the uruk grinned slyly. A new thought had occurred to him. "Hey, maybe we have some admirers out there. Men are unpredictable....elves are even worse. One minute they'll run you through, and the next they'll be cooing like a bunch of babies. If we're lucky, the fools might even come to blows with each other. If it looks like a fight, we might want to hold back for a minute. We'd have a better chance of bolting if they were busy knocking each other up. Anyways, let's think before we bolt. Right now I'd like to hear what's going on up there."

He stared up at the top of the pit and then gestured to Gwerr, "Go on. You or Ishkur get on my back and crawl up to the grating. You want to be careful. It has to look as though the leather straps are still in place. See what's going on. Then we can decide if this is a good time to make a break or not."

[Nogrod]

Gwerr

“I agree with the point… It’s taking too long.” Gwerr glanced at Ishkur and then turned to Makdush again. “So how about you wonderboys get together and we’ll do some climbing?”

Gwerr turned around to see that Colagar was still releasing the last orcs so he addressed two of those already freed. “Zuhut and Griwzan! Come here climb on the backs of these wizard-children. I will then climb on you. Gimme a hand Ishkur.” With that he went to search for the ropes he deemed the most intact and winded them into a coil.

The three Uruks formed a circle beside the wall and took firm grips from each others shoulders. Zuhut and Griwzan got on top of their shoulders and grasped each other tightly. Finally Gwerr climbed up aided by Ishkur and Colagar who had now untied the last orcs.

Gwerr crawled carefully towards the grating and took a look. There was indeed quite a heated debate going on. Someone was talking about using them as baits to the Olog-hai. Olog-hai? Weren’t those brainless brutes out of this world already? But I can see their point now… They might kill an Olog or possibly two if they can trap them and using us as a bait then is not so bad idea… So, we must get out of here! The sooner the better.

Just as Gwerr was turning back to crawl to the brink he froze. Chills were going through him as he looked back outside. It was an old man whose voice and presence radiated something Gwerr hadn’t encountered for a long time. It was a power, It was something that did not come from the flesh of the gamling. That’s no mortal man… whatever it is. First an elf, then Olog-hai and now this… You’ve been in tight spots before my lad but this is not looking nice either.

Gwerr’s brain worked now quickly as he started planning how they could escape and fast. Fear paralyses most people and orcs but some get an extra boost from it. Gwerr clearly belonged to the latter group. Without that quality he probably wouldn’t have lived through the centuries he had. Although his full concentration on the task at hand totally numbed his ears and so he had no idea how the discussion developed outside.

Soon Gwerr noticed some good news. Our weapons are there just beside the gaging. Too far to reach from here but after we break the grating they are just a leap away. They really seem to be confident we’d stay down there… Gwerr smiled and went back to work. Slowly and quietly he tied the three ropes he had with him to the very bottom of the bars of the grating and carefully scraped some mud to cover the knots so that if someone glanced towards the grating he would not notice anything out of the usual. Surely if someone was to come and take a closer look their plot would be revealed immediately but they had no choice now. The humans were going to use them as baits to the Ologs and they’d have to escape now.

After finishing with the ropes Gwerr crawled back to the brink and threw the other ends of the ropes down. He himself glided down one of them to the pit.

“Okay mates. Good news and bad news. The good ones are that our weapons are just beside the gacing outside. We’ll pull ourselves up and charge the grating, leap to our weapons and run for it. We should split in pairs or something and meet somewhere farther away.” With that Gwerr glanced quickly at Ishkur who nodded inconspicuously to show him that he had gotten Gwerr’s idea. They still had their horse and the treasure it carried to pick up.

“The bad news are that the human trash seem to be in their right minds even if some here suspected otherwise…” Gwerr looked at Makdush and grinned. “The problem is that there seems to be an Olog or two somewhere around… at least that’s what they speak. And they’re going to use us as baits. And to top it…” Gwerr made a pause to hammer down the point.

“There is not just the elf but there is also an old man I could bet my life is no man. I’ve seen enough these timeless creatures to identify one when I see one. The problem is I haven’t a faintest about what he might be… But whatever he or it is I’d rather take my chances escaping him and the slaves than face the Ologs as a bait.”

[Firefoot]

Johari could not help herself: after the rest of the ex-slave contingency had rolled into their new camp, she had made her way past the new tent for the wounded, her pace a too-casual stroll. She told herself that it was only idle curiosity, but in truth, she wanted to make sure that Hadith was still doing alright. But she was disturbed to find that Hadith was not among the wounded. Inexplicable worry, and, yes, perhaps some panic, rose up from her gut. Sure, he had been unconscious last time she had seen him, but he had been getting better! His wound had not been so bad!

However, she was still mindful of being caught lingering around the wounded when the rest were all gathering for the meeting on the Orcs. She made her way over to the group, but the greater part of her mind was still focused on Hadith. He hadn't somehow been left behind, had he?

He means nothing to you, remember?

She placed that thought firmly at the forefront of her mind and tried to focus on what was being said about the Orcs, crossing her arms across her chest stubbornly at all the words about letting the Orcs live - even trusting them to fight with them. After being so roughly told off earlier, she was not about to open her mouth again unless she felt something absolutely had to be said, but she did nod in agreement with Khamir's bold statements. And after all, he had been the chosen leader of the ex-slaves - who was this "Fellowship" to come in and tell them what to do and how to manage their affairs? And this wasn't the first time they had done so, either. Usupers. How were they supposed to understand?

But her head jerked to the left when a new voice spoke up - a familiar voice. Hadith! But what was he doing out here? Oughtn't he still be in with the wounded?

But to her surprise, she found herself agreeing with some of his statements - at least when they weren't mixed with his hesitant idealism about how much the western king Elessar cared about them and the aid he might send. As he talked, she edged her way along the borders of the crowd until she was standing right behind him. She leaned close and said quietly into his ear, "Perhaps you are able to learn."

[Nogrod]

”Perhaps you are able to learn.”

Hadith was startled by the sudden whisper as he hadn’t noticed Johari slipping to his side. But he was also happy to hear that familiar voice. He still didn’t know what he should think about her but she was one of those few he had gotten to any contact with and thence her presence felt good to him. Although what she said about learning felt really confusing and distracted his mind. Able to learn… what? What does she mean?

"Sorry about the last time... I was a bit... well, confused and in pain. I'm not sure I remember what was it I said but it clearly annoyed you, didn't it? I'm sorry about that." Hadith managed to utter after a short silence. He was still ashamed of his conduct when they last met.

Johari nodded slightly, a strange expression on her face. If he didn't remember it well... that was good. She half wanted to forget the exchange herself.

"Forget it", she said sharply.

An awkward silence fell over them for a short while. In the end Hadith braved himself to address Johari a new.

"You're alright then?"

"Clearly." Johari answered bluntly but her voice had lost some of its bite.

"Did you kill anyone?..." Hadith asked troubled by his own thoughts on the matter. "I mean like a day or two ago - I tend to meddle with the days - I had never killed anyone, only seen people killed. But now I've done it myself, twice. It feels awful and strange, like it's not me I'm looking at when the images come to my dreams... and still I wish the orcs should be killed before we go on."

With those words, Johari found herself marvelling at Hadith's basic humanity. When had she lost her own? She had felt no guilt at the slaver she had killed, nor in her desire to kill the Orcs.

"Yes, Hadith, I killed a man in the battle." She paused, then felt as if the next words were ripped from her throat. "I felt... feel... no guilt."

"You don't? You don't feel anything? How? Those images do not come to your dreams?" Hadith's voice was raising as he was honestly perplexed and started wondering whether he was an odd one among these people.

All-but-forgotten memories seemed to niggle at Johari's mind.

"No!" she replied sharply.

Their conversation, and in particular that vehement outburst, was beginning to draw glances from those nearby, and she lowered her voice again. "No." And what did that make her?

Hadith was confused once again but realised from Johari’s behaviour that they were watched now by people near them in the crowd. As he turned to look at Beloan he felt like a little boy who had gotten caught of something that is embarrassing. He then falled to himself, partly because of the glances but partly because Dorran was speaking and Hadith was also eager to hear what he had to say.

But he couldn't concetrate on Dorran's speech. So he turned back to Johari once more.

"I was worried about you during the fight... Were you..."

Afraid of where this question was going and the answers it might invite, she cut him off. "I was fine, Hadith, and so are you, now. It's over."

Johari had been becoming increasingly uncomfortable with this conversation, whether Hadith realised it at the moment or not. Hadith did sense an aura of reservation in Johari as well and didn’t try to press the question either.

Hadith frowned almost imperceptibly and turned back to listen to Dorran. His head was just too busy to really understand what Dorran was saying. Either she cares about me or then she plays me a fool… which I am… But why does she play this game on me? And what is over? The fight and the death is over? Anything between us is over? And what is it – was it – between us anyway? And what should it be or not be?

Dorran was saying that he would vote for the killing of the orcs. That was where Hadith came back to his senses. He approved Dorran’s judgement and was ready to applaud when he glanced to his right. Johari had slipped away to the crowd… Hadith turned left to see Beloan. His face looked grave and concerned. Something in Dorran’s speech had clearly made that. Hadith thought whether he could brave asking Beloan about what was it.

[Brinniel]

Shae folded her arms, irritated. After all this time, her head still throbbed, and this endless debate was not helping. The decision was obvious...why couldn't the others see?

She flashed her eyes towards Aiwendil, feeling particularly angry with him. He had completely disregarded Khamir's words, treating him no better than an animal. What did he or any of the Fellowship, save Dorran who indeed spoke wisely, know of how they suffered...often in the hands of orcs. For fifteen years, Shae had been deprived of half her eyesight, so ashamed of her disability she had kept it a secret from nearly everyone. And it was all because an orc, so cruel, so heartless, didn't hesitate to beat an exhausted ten-year-old unconscious. For years, Shae wanted all her pain and suffering to be put to justice. She wouldn't dare let herself pass up another opportunity for revenge.

"This is ridiculous," she spoke up, breaking the silence, "to even consider sparing the lives of these monsters. Orcs have no hearts...they do not know love the way we do. Instead, they take pleasure in torturing and slaughtering innocent victims. Would an orc ever consider to spare one of our lives? Of course not. They are selfish...they only care about themselves.

"How dare you think lowly of Khamir or any of us for wanting justice for our pain and suffering...do you not think we deserve it? Many of us still wear scars...gifts given to us by orcs. These things..." she pointed to the pit, "are no better than beasts, beasts who should be hunted down and killed. Before they become a danger to those around them. Really, I would rather not see anymore innocent lives lost if we can avoid it. So let us kill them now before they have time to find that chance."

Shae was then silent once again. But she kept her head high, for once ever confident of her own words. Scanning the still silent crowd, her eye met Khamir's...and for a second, she thought she saw a smile.

[Nogrod]

Beloan listened closely to the discussion. There were many points with which he felt he should break in but he held his temper and listened. At some moment he was distracted for a while when Hadith’s and Johari’s discussion became louder. Looking at them he managed to caught a glimpse of Hadith’s eyes looking at him ashamed like a ten-year old’s… Oh, Hadith… Sometimes you feel like a good man with a good heart… and sometimes like a little boy lost in this world we live in… Maybe these are no contradictory statements… after looking at the world we live in… Beloan shrugged and turned his attention back to Dorran. A sudden melancholy had taken over him.

After Dorran had stopped a weird silence fell over the people gathered around the elf and the old man. It seemed to Beloan that everyone was pondering the different possibilities Dorran had opened to them. As no one spoke in a while Beloan took the few steps needed to break out from the ring surrounding the two and walked towards them. He nodded to them both and as they indicated their will of wishing to hear what he would have to say he turned around and faced the ex-slaves and the rest of the fellowship.

“Friends, my fellows! Knight Dorran here speaks wisely. We have no other way but to go forwards. And we can not stay here even if it feels now that through a fight that took it’s toll and made us all suffer things most of has ever met we have earned our peace… It sadly seems we haven’t earned it yet…There will be no peace here.” He looked around the crowd with compassion. He was as sad of the situation as anyone else but he felt it possibly a bit deeper than many around him because he already understood there was no hope for them if they just stayed and rested which clearly was what most of them wanted.

“I know this sounds harsh to you… it sounds harsh to me as well. I’d like to sit back and enjoy the things we have found from this camp of the slavers and just to forget everything else… But that would be with the cost of our peril!” Beloan’s voice was raised as he pronounced the last words.

“We need to go forwards… not today but possibly tomorrow depending on how well our wounded are to travel and how can we carry them… There are orcs around as we all know. If there were these ten so would they be here alone? There probably are more somewhere very near… And as there was this slaver-party there will the next one soon enough… We need to continue! Let’s show we have not struggled in vain this far! Or that those who have given their lives or gotten themselves wounded fighting for our common dream have not suffered for nothing if we fail their sacrifice!”

Beloan’s eyes were on fire now. He quickly glanced at Lindir who nodded to him politely. Searching at the crowd for Dorran he finally caught him nodding approvingly as well.

“So there are some Olog-hai in between us and our dream? I know many of you have heard stories about those monsters. Now just remember, stories are stories and reality is reality.” Suddenly he got an idea and turned himself towards Dorran.

“Now think about your image of a knight of Gondor! What a magnificient fighter that is in the stories…” He pointed at Dorran while looking at him apologetically under his brows wishing he would understand why he was doing this… he would explain this afterwards if it needed to be done.

“Now look at Dorran here! A king’s chosen Rider of Rohan! A great soldier he is indeed! But many of you saw him in battle as well as us “worthless ex-slaves”… Now do you say he was riding over the battlefield with a flying horse leaving all of us others and the enemy in shade? Was he the invulnerable all-defining key to victory? Was he the one who alone lead us to victory? No and no and no! He fought bravely… and possibly worth two of us… or even more…” He glanced at Dorran once more hoping he was not upset with what he was saying. “It’s just that he’s no creature from the lore that beats everyone whenever he wishes… and neither are the Ologs! They’re flesh and blood just like Dorran… or just like you and me!”

Beloan had to take a breath. He felt so bad now having spoken against the special honour of a rider of Rohan and against his own fears about the Olog being really insurmountable enemies to them. And anyway he thought he had clearly overdone it. He just hoped it was foor the good. These people needed encouragement in the face of the inevitable… and with their only chance. That much Beloan had understood from Dorran’s speech.

“A final word, if you may?” He glanced at Lindir and Aiwendil and as they didn’t seem to protest too much he continued. “But what comes to the orcs… After seeing their brutality… indeed the evil and sick malice of them for too many years, I remember that from my first experience on I knew I was different from them. I would never fall to their level… But this situation is a bit different…” With this he turned to face Lindir and Aiwendil straight on. “I think I understand what you speak of being just or following an order larger than this world – at least a bit of it. My mother told me stories about that kind of things when I was young and I kind of believe in her still. At least I wish I could believe in them in this world.”

The ashamed face of Hadith came to his mind and he frowned. “So I hope you forgive the feelings of my friend Khamir, the many of us – myself included – who have suffered under the most cruel and savage rule of these ruthless creatures… Many a rightful vengeange would take place if we’d make them our baits and if that would help us overcome the Olog-hai. But I’m hesitant with this scheme… Anyhow, we just can’t leave them alive or free, they’d backstab us with their friends lurking around the next night… So I say we kill them and leave in the morning.”

With that Beloan bowed to Lindir and Aiwendil and walked back into the group standing around them.

[Folwren]

“Oh!” This time the explosion of vexation was loud enough for most of them to hear. Athwen pushed her way forward to the very forefront of the crowd, her face red and her eyes flashing blue sparks. “You speak of justice!” she cried, motioning towards Khamir, “and you throw it in the face of our honor! You talk of rightful vengeance,” she fumed, looking at Beloan, “as though vengeance and revenge were all that mattered here! You - my very husband - talk about killing them simply because long ago some other orcs killed your family. And you! You, a woman,” turning savagely on Shae, “a girl - you speak like a hardened warrior - or murderer - yourself! Ridiculous? To consider sparing their lives? Why? Do they not breath the same air as we? Do they not drink the same water? Do they not bear children and bring them up, in their own time and way? Beasts? Even a wild beast has a right to live when it has done nothing wrong!

“Oh, you all make perfect sense. ‘Let’s kill these because sometime ago some others of their race hurt and killed us.’ Perfect reasoning!” Athwen threw her arms up in the air. “Morons! Brutes! You’re as bad as they are! I’m not quite so oblivious as you may think,” she went on, her voice shrill with emotion. She stared hard at a couple who wanted to interrupt her as she continued to speak, and they shut up and withdrew. “I’m not quite so as untouched and unharded as you imagine. I, too, once lost everything I ever held dear to me. Every single thing and every single person. And not to orcs, but to men. Do you suppose we should despise and kill all men then? According to what your saying - yes, that’s exactly what we should do.

“And you may hate me if you like, after this. I’ve said what I have to say, but I wasn’t about to keep it all shut in. Their blood won’t be on my head, do you understand me? I won’t be-” but her voice suddenly broke and her mouth clamped shut. Sudden tears bleared her eyes - tears of fury, loathing, and fear. She saw someone approaching her slowly and the next moment, Dorran took her gently by the hand and drew her away from before all those people. They stood on the fringe of the crowd, and she huddled close to his chest, protected by his gentle arms. Perhaps he thought she was going mad, perhaps he imagined it was exhaustion taking over. He’d be wrong if he thought such things.

“Dorran,” she sobbed quietly, “Dorran, it’ll be just as bad as what they claim the orcs did to them. Can’t you see that? They can’t be pure if they kill the orcs now - not without a fair trial, at least.”

[Durelin]

Khamir felt the unbridled hatred he had allowed to fester for years - a deep-rooted hatred not only of Orcs, but of the day he was born and the family he was born into, the life he was forced to lead in captivity and then as a killer and a thief, the people of the West who sat in their ivory towers and thought of him as scum like the rest of his people - he felt it rise in him, wanting to explode. He hated so much of what defined him, he was only glad it left no room for him to hate himself. It filled him up, it kept him going.

It was obvious that simple words were not going to get through to this old man who Khamir was, who these creatures were, and what the laws of Mordor were. The only sort of person who could be so concerned with hierarchies of morality was one that saw the world through eyes distorted by wealth and intellectualism: exactly the sort of condescending do-gooders Khamir had expected to come from Elessar.

If he had to endure this much longer, he would kill every one of those Orcs himself, with his bare hand, with his teeth…he would make sure they felt pain.

But before he could say more or act on his anger, Shae spoke up, and Khamir felt his eyes glue themselves to her, watching and listening to her strength. Seeing her own anger was soothing, and the man found himself smiling. She…she defended him, stood up for him. He met her eyes for a moment, and found it difficult to turn away. His focus was still on Shae even when Beloan began what would surely prove a speech.

The man had some charisma, that was sure. He put value in inspiration as a leader, something Khamir never really did. He was practical and perhaps reckless, and was accustomed to having natural purpose driving him that did not need to be justified, explained, or encouraged. He supposed Beloan was more the sort of person many of these former slaves needed.

But was he ever kissing up to those Westerners, as if they determined who may speak, who may think. And at the word ‘forgive’ and at the way his name was used, Khamir’s rage was fully renewed, and he felt like a cornered beast in a mad world, not knowing who his friends or his enemies were. The one armed man’s breaths were quick and deep, and his hand was itching to tear something apart.

And then the woman started…the brainless, spineless woman who thought she could speak to them that way, who could not stand the weight of killing even someone or something out to kill you.

They didn’t know when to stop. They would persist with their nonsense until he broke. They were provoking him.

Morons! Brutes! Their blood won’t be on my head…

Her voice was loud for one so weak. Khamir would have almost pitied her, had she not also turned her lofty, insulting tone specifically on Shae.

“You can show me as much disdain as you please in your self-righteousness,” he exploded at Athwen, “and you can call me all the names a child would, but you do not insult my…my people! Shae speaks like a hardened warrior because she is one, and an excellent one at that. You watch your own tongue, girl!”

Suddenly Khamir felt a hand grasp his arm not roughly but tightly, and he turned to see Adnan staring up at him. The one armed man froze in surprise, and in that moment the younger man spoke softly.

“And how does vengeance feel?”

~/*\~

“Enough!” Aiwendil shouted with even more power in his voice than when he had spoken to Khamir. “We will decide this as people and not as animals. It is left up to us all, no one can avoid the responsibility of this decision…and so I call for a vote.”

As the old man called first for those who wished to spare the Orcs’ lives and then for those who thought they should be killed, Khamir watched those around him with a troubled mind. Holding up his hand as part of the second group, he did not need to count to know the verdict. But he could not feel smug. No, this was not the sort of battle that had a winning side.

“Sense prevails,” he muttered to Adnan.

“Then it is death,” Lindir announced, for Aiwendil stood in silence.

[Tevildo]

For the past ten minutes, Dorran had been struggling to find the right words to bring some small comfort to his distraught wife. As upset as he was about the orcs and the even more difficult prospect of confronting the olog-hai, these problems seemed to dwindle in his mind as he saw the depth of feeling that underlay Athewen's hard words and bitter tears.

"There is no easy answer here," he whispered softly under his breath. "These creatures have done bad things......terrible things. I have no doubt. I have seen this too many times. I am willing to bet my life on that. And I am truly not sure that they could ever change their behavior. Still, even I would like to know what they are doing here in the middle of a barren plain with no orc army anywhere in sight. But what else can we do, my sweet? How would we feel if, two nights from now, a child was struck down in sleep by one of these orcs who returned to our camp? Could we look each other in the eye, all the while knowing that we had the monstor in our hands and yet did nothing to stop them from such an evil deed."

Dorran looked hopelessly down at his wife. None of his pleading words or soft gestures seemed to be doing any good. She continued to stare at him with a hard look. At that moment, there was a slight pull on his sleeve. He turned around to see Azhar, whose frozen face held the same message.

"I feel no different," the young girl spat out her words in an even sharper tone. "But I will not stand here and watch the punishment given when I cannot even agree with it."

Azhar turned towards Athwen and spoke, "I do not think the children should see this. I plan to take them down by the stream to play. Will you come with me to keep an eye on them?"

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Carl was sitting next to Vror, no more than a yard or two from Khamir, when the vote was cast. And the hobbit shook his head in disappointment as he heard the disfigured man's aside, followed quickly by Lindir's pronouncement. He had had the chance to do some of his own thinking, as he listened to the others. And the conclusion that had been reached by the group, the hobbit envisioned as their own death sentence. Moved to speak, he stood up pulling himself as straight and immovable as a rather stubby fence post, and shouted over the commotion.

"So we move from the King's justice to the justice of Mordor. Death it is then, and I'm the last to begrudge you for it, as I haven't a share in your grief. But before you go burnin' that particular bridge, I feel I should remind you all that if you choose to live by such justice you will be judged by the same measure. And I hope you all plan to grow in number and strength right soon, as you're fixing to place a brimful of hot coals under any orc that hears tell of it. Unless of course you see fit to route them out of every corner of Mordor like so many spiders, before you get down to the business of living. I personally don't think that it can be done, or that the orcs will take well to our ragtag group, who go around executing them every chance they get."

Carl relaxed his stance a bit, bending under the weight of frowns and sharp glances directed at him, and he thrust his hands in his pockets. "You certainly must think me mad or deaf, but think on it. When you're walking, your bound to fall if your eye is always fixed on what's behind you and you are not looking ahead. Like Beloan said, look ahead... past these orcs and past the Olog-hai too, if you can see past them! What your doing now with this decision might be sowing the salt that blights your very future."

Greatly discouraged, Carl turned to go, wondering if this whole journey would turn out to be of no use at all.

[Durelin]

Hardly to Khamir’s surprise, various members of Elessar’s envoy voiced complaints regarding the decision, but it was done and even they knew it. He, Shae, and other familiar faces marched dutifully to the pit, some seeming more eager than others. Khamir avoided looking at Shae perhaps so she would not see the confusion in his eyes and take it as a sign of weakness.

The silent consensus among the volunteer executioners seemed to be that the deed would not be done in the pit, but rather a little ways outside their camp. If they moved the living bodies away from where they would sleep, there would be no need to drag the corpses very far. It would all be very logical, very practical from here on out. The sensibility of the plan was obvious to Khamir, but he could not completely ignore a feeling that he was going through the motions of some ritual. His knife felt particularly heavy in his hand.

But the Orcs were not prepared to have their throats slit as simple prisoners. Something did not feel right about the apparent resigned nature of the orcs to their fate, and then Khamir noticed...ropes? “Look down there, at the low end of the bars!” he shouted with great urgency, and Shae, Qat, and Beloan were quick to follow his discovery to the same conclusion.

“The orcs are on the loose! We need more men here!” Beloan cried, keeping his head and realizing that they needed more than one man to each Orc to manage them now they were free and desperate to save their lives or bring down as many men with them as possible. Khamir’s own desperation drove him far more than his anger or loathing.

The fight ended with the Orcs recaptured and some of them much worse for wear. Even Khamir agreed with Beloan when he spoke of dignity when he saw what shape Makdush was in at the hands of the former slaves. Surely many of them had seen men and women brutalized in such a way at the hands of Orcs - though also likely at the hands of certain men - but…that was what Orcs did. Beginning to feel he was getting too close to agreeing with Aiwendil, Khamir fell back into focusing on the recaptured Orcs and the knife in his hand.

Weapons drawn and held close to the victims, the Orcs were led away, the men and women who were not their executioners still standing by with their own knives, bows, slings, and spears at the ready. They all understood that any animal was most ferocious when it was cornered.

The general quiet as the Orcs were marched a short distance from the camp made the situation darkly awkward. The heat in the air from the passion and anger of the debaters had dissipated, cooled to a chill. Nothing seemed to be fueling the ceremony: no hatred, anger, or fear; and no spark to light them. A number of people followed the party, but very few threw out the rare jeer or justification, and even fewer paid them any mind.

Sweating, aching, light-headed, heavy…oh yes, Khamir remembered, that’s what it was…tired. They were all so tired, weren’t they?

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, typically curt and gruff. Agreement was voiced among the spectators - or the guards, or the witnesses; whatever they might be called - as a final verdict not on the guilt but on the fitness of the punishment.

Man liked lines and order, they liked having a system to things. So the Orcs were haphazardly lined up, then forced on their knees. The scowls, the snarls, and the snapping of the cornered animals were ignored, and instead each creature was given the privilege of a personal executioner. Man watched each other, learned from each other, copied each other. Once one or two held their knives at the throats, the rest followed suit.

For a moment the Orcs were suspended just before the end as the Men waited for the word, the sign; and the first laceration of flesh; and perhaps even the last, vain effort of the captives to alter their fate.

But none of it came.

[Firefoot]

Grask had watched the entire proceeding with increasing anxiety. The subtleties of conversation had been over his head, but he had caught the drift: there were a few who wanted to let Ishkur and the others live, but most of them had voted for murder. He did not know why he had hoped at all; the stories were true, it seemed; Men were just as vicious as they reported Orcs to be. What would he do? Where would he go? His path had been bound up in those of these Orcs that were about to die.

Their meeting broke up; the Men hauled up the Orc males from the pit none too gently. Grask strove to catch Ishkur’s eye in hopes of some guidance, but to no avail; Ishkur was not looking for him, and even if he was, Grask was too well hidden. The Orcs were marched out of the camp, and Grask, seeming to have no will of his own left, trailed behind as far as his cover extended. They were lined up; knives and swords were drawn.

Grask’s heart beat wildly and he looked around frantically. What should he do? Somebody must do something! But he was alone - where were the females? Help – he needed help! They needed help!

Suddenly Ishkur’s words to him thudded strongly in his mind: “Someday I may need you to guard my back." Without any thought of what he was doing, Grask hurled himself from the brush, a war cry of utter anguish sounding from his mouth. He fumbled one of his long knives from his belt as he ran, then held it point first in front of him. He had to stop them. Ishkur was depending on him.

[Folwren]

Azhar had asked for Athwen’s help with the children and Athwen had gratefully agreed. Perhaps the girl knew the way she felt and something in her told her to give the woman a way out. She quietly slipped away from Dorran, ignoring the reluctance with which he let her go.

“Azhar,” Athwen said, her voice somewhat hoarse with the recent overflow of emotion, “go and get the children, they should not watch the execution. I need to check on the wounded.” Her voice trembled towards the end, but it did not break, nor did more tears come to her eyes. She turned away and went to her charges. She made her passes and when she was satisfied that they were as comfortable as possible, she went out again to meet Azhar.

The girl had with her five children, all younger than eight. Athwen summoned up a small smile to give them before asking, “Is this all of them?”

“Three more are sleeping over there,” Azhar pointed. “And Kwell didn’t want to come. He wants to watch the executions.” Her voice was bitter and Athwen sympathized with her feelings.

“Kwell is just a boy,” she said quietly.

“That doesn’t mean he’s not just as responsible as any of the men,” Azhar said sharply. Athwen blinked and made no reply.

“Come,” she said instead. “Let’s not speak of it.” She stooped and took two of the children’s hands and led them away around the hill, out of sight of where the orcs were being hauled up from the pit and led to the edge of camp. They circled the slight rise of the land and came behind the embankment, where a few nights ago Carl and Vrór had dug Kwell and Azhar out of the pit. The girl pointed towards the embankment.

“That’s where we got out,” she said, “that night we were rescued from the slavers.”

Athwen nodded. “Let’s go and let the children play on the slope there,” she said. “I will sit and watch.” They did as she instructed and before very long the children were occupying themselves with a game. Athwen sat and for a while she did watch the kids. But slowly her awareness dropped. Her eyes lowered and she sat in silent depression, waiting for some noise from the proceedings of the execution to reach her and dreading it all the while.

[Nogrod]

When Lindir had announced the verdict a bunch of self-chosen ex-slaves took themselves towards the pit to execute the decision. None of the fellowship took part but stood back watching with the majority. Hadith tried to make for the company of willing executioners but Beloan’s strong hand landed on his shoulder to stop him.

“You’re a good man Hadith... and young. You have your life ahead of you unlike many of us. Don’t blood your hands and conscience with this.” He looked at Hadith with stern gaze. Hadith was about to open his mouth but Beloan cut him short. “This is an order Hadith. You will stay back here!” With that he took after those making to the pit.

The crowd was following the executioners' silent but resolute walk with an uneasy feeling when the party came to a sudden halt some ten yards from the caging.

“Look down there, at the low end of the bars!” Khamir said and pointed with his finger.
“Ropes! Tied to the bars...”, the giant man Qat continued.
“So they’re free and planning for escape”, Shae concluded.

Beloan had just caught up with the group and turned quickly around. “The orcs are on the loose! We need more men here!”

Hadith didn’t hesitate. After all Beloan had kind of cancelled his own orders. A dozen of the men and a few women came forwards unsheating their weapons as they walked.

The skirmish was short. The orcs had no chances as only Ishkur, Gwerr, Colagar and Makdush had had time to climb up over to the brink. Unarmed they were no match for the now furious ex-slaves. The four were beaten badly. Colagar’s left arm was broken and Gwerr’s eyebrow was bleeding heavily after a blow from Qat’s staff. Makdush was being forced to his knees by four men who kept on kicking him to the head and sides untill Beloan managed to make them stop. His body was bruised and his face was swollen.

“Let’s have some dignity! Beating and kicking someone to death is orc bussiness. We’ll behead them somewhere away from the sight of the children!”

The rest of the orcs had been climbing up when they heard their leaders caught and getting beaten. Griwzan and Zuhut made it to help their friends and were soon overpowered by the furious men. The five orcs left dropped down to the bottom of the pit but came up when threathened with burning. They showed no resistance after they realised that six already had been caught and tied.

The silent party of the executioners walked the orcs some hundred yards away from the slavers camp away from the crowd – even if some of the crowd did follow them to see the execution more closely.

“Let’s get this over with!” Khamir said in his straightforward manner. The orcs were lined up and forced to their knees. Behind every orc there was a man ready with his blade to perform his duty on the mark.

Beloan’s eyes met Khamir’s. The two men looked at each other waiting for the other one to give the order. It’s been a long journey from our childhood Khamir... We always stood side by side, you and me... what has happened to you these last days?... what has happened to us? It’s yours to give Kahmir, do it! The two stood silently their eyes nailed to each other. The men held their blades on the orc throats steadily but many of them started looking around in confusion.

Suddenly there was a weak and childlike wail that came from the thicket. Grask ran forwards with his revealed blade and shouted from the bottom of his small lungs trying to look as furious a nine-year old orc-child could.

Everyone froze. Had the situation been different it would have been a cause of a lot of merriment and produced a roar of laughter among the men and the women wittnessing the scene. But somehow it seemed to have almost the opposite effect of disquieting them all. It was a child. An orc child but yet a child. And a brave child trying to save his elders, his father perhaps? Beloan felt disturbed with the humanity of the act the little orc was making. Hadith was even more shocked. I didn’t brave to try and help my mother as they killed her in front of my eyes... but this one runs to a certain death to try.

Qat hadn’t ever been a tender-hearted man and he had no children of his own. On top of it he was already a bit frustrated as someone had managed to take Gwerr on his blade while Qat thought Gwerr belonged to him. With no one at his hands he frowned at the silent crowd around him and walked towards the onrushing orc-child. “I’ll take the little brat then”, he muttered as he went.

“Don’t kill him!” Beloan and Hadith called in unison after Qat. They looked at each other confused about their simultaneous reaction.

Qat didn’t seem to listen but dealt Grask’s swordhand a mighty blow with his staff sending the blade flying yards away. Grask screamed and was stunned with pain. He fell forwards to the ground. Qat picked him from the neck and easily raised him off the ground with his strong arm. “To the end of the line with this little vermin it is then?” he yelled back to the crowd with a smile. But the mood had changed.

There was an uneasy silence that had caught both the men and the orcs. Grask was groaning with pain silently as he hung in the air. There was a tear in Ishkur's cheek as he watched things unfold in horror, even Gwerr felt uneasy looking at the little orc been hung by the giant man. Lindir and Aiwendil were just coming forwards when there was a second surprise.

Out from the thicket from the other side of the gentle slope Grask had come from emerged two female orcs waving their hands in the air.

“Save him... save them... save us!” they yelled as they came forwards. Many a hand reached for a weapon in the crowd but no one made a move while the female orcs walked towards the execution company.

As they reached the kneeling orcs and their executioners they fell on their knees as well facing the male orcs a few feet away from them. They hung their heads low and knelt there in silence. The fellowship and the other onlookers had crept nearer to witness what was to happen. Even Athwen had rushed to the place.

Slowly the older one named Urga raised her head and let her gaze wander around the stern and confused faces of the men holding the orcs under their blades. Finally she found Beloan's face and looked straight at his eyes addressing him.

“We’re on the run like you are... we’re alone in this cursed land and afraid like you are... we just wanted to get out from the plantations and to live in freedom, as I believe you did.”

The other orc, Ungolt, broke in here. “We are just a small bunch of renegades. We tried to escape with a larger group but the guards of the plantation found our plan and caught the rest... They are dead now, our friends.” She swallowed as if searching for the next wise thing to say and then continued. “We will give you all we have plundered from this slaver-camp if you let us go. We have meat, bread, ale... valuables... just pick what you wish or take it all... But if you kill the males you’re practically killing us too as we wouldn’t survive the wilderness the five of us... or with the kid.”

“In that case you’d do well to kill us right here yourselves and not leave us to die to the hazards of the wilderness.” Urga added.

“Please, we have done you no harm. And the males were just trying to rescue their mates.” Ungolt said quietly.

Qat dropped Grask to the ground and took a twohanded grip from his staff.

Grask ran to the females and hid himself behind them weeping silently and shaking with fear.

[Child of the 7th Age]

There was an omenous growling from Gwella's stomach as the young orc crouched behind a large rock not far from the entrance to the pit and debated what to do. In all the commotion and excitement, she had become separated from the others. Her first instinct was to turn and run as far from this spot as her powerful legs would carry her. There was something terrible happening on the outskirts of camp. The entire circle of men and women had moved from their original spot and now stood some hundred yards downstream. The horrible man creatures were shouting and shrieking and brandishing weapons. Gwella could hear moans and cries coming from the male orcs and uruks who were now completely surrounded by their attackers.

No one paid the slightest attention to a solitary female who was so good at hiding in the shadows. If Gwella had been a year or two older, she would have had enough sense to disappear into the night and never return to this awful place, ignoring the others to save her own skin. But she was young and hungry and, because of that, she hesitated. When the others had been out pillaging the night before, the men had shoved her aside from the best prizes. She had not even managed to get a decent meal in her belly. She had begged a scrap or two from the other females, but it was not enough to appease the terrible gnawing inside her stomach that was becoming worse with each passing hour.

Just as Gwella was about to give up her search for food, a small group of man creatures ambled down to the stream bed not far from where she hid. These particular specimens did not look half as bad as the others who were yelling and screaming on the outskirts of camp. None were carrying weapons. A band of small ones scurried ahead while two others followed behind, looking to be slightly larger. Perhaps, thought Gwella, these were the ones in charge. The one older woman went and sat by herself, staring stonily towards the north, but had later leapt up and ran off in the direction where the larger crowd was gathered. The other woman was still trying to keep track of the children, but doing a poor job.

Gwella was fascinated by the mischief of the little ones who seemed to enjoy more freedom and less discipline from their elders than any orc child she had known. The boys had found a rope near the pit entrance and had retied it to the grating for a makeshift swing. One by one, they climbed onto it and dangled resolutely over the mouth of the cave. Another girl quickly joined their game and, daring the others to follow her, let go of the rope and dropped down inside the actual pit. It was only a short drop from the end of the rope to the muddy floor so that it would not be difficult to crawl up to the top again.

Gwella, however, was even more encouraged by the actions of the young woman who carried a bag over her shoulder. The woman opened the satchel and set out several portions of meat and bread on top of another nearby rock. Then she stalked over to the pit entrance, stared down at the children, and said they should shinny up the rope immediately and have something to eat. Gwella's eyes widened with delight as she considered the small feast spread before her. It was more food than she had seen all night. Her stomach growled appreciatively. The woman's back was turned. Even if the whole party came back, Gwella reasoned that she could easily fend them off. She was half uruk, half orc, and considerably heavier and stronger than any of the children or even the woman. On an impulse, she sprang up and hurried over to the boulder where the bread and meat had been set out, greedily snatching up the food with one hand and using the other to stuff about half of it inside her mouth.....

[Undómë]

Zagra peeked out from behind her sister’s shoulder. Her dark eyes went wide as the little drama unfolded. In a voice ragged with fear she whispered in Mazhg’s ear. ‘Bad men! Bad men! Cut their throats!’ she pointed a trembling finger at the kneeling line of Orcs, the last of their lives balanced lightly now against the men’s blades. ‘Kill them! Find us - kill us, too!!’ Zagra’s eyes rolled wildly as she clung tightly to her sister’s arm.

‘Quiet, little beetle!’ Mazhg drew her sister in close cradling her head against her shoulder, Zagra’s eyes shielded from the soon to be bloody scene. She pulled her down into a crouch, their small forms shielded by the leafy tangle of undergrowth at the base of the rocky outcropping. Sha! she spat out, contempt for Orc males infusing her features. ‘Stupid, drunken globs!’ she muttered. Mazhg’s eyes narrowed as she considered the possibilities.

Her first urge was to sneak quietly away with Zagra as quickly as they could. Light out on their own. Her head nodded at this answer. ‘Get away from these males,’ she reasoned to herself. ‘Man and Orc. Always trouble.’ She looked at Zagra, wondering how long the two of them would last on their own. Mazhg’s hand tightened on the haft of the sharp spade, her weapon a comforting feel in her small fist. Aside from that was just the little knife tucked in the waistband of her breeches. With a sigh she turned her mind away from thoughts of flight. Much as she disliked it, she and her sister would be safer traveling with a group.

But what could she do? Rush at the men with her spade? Foolish! Who would care for Zagra if . . . no, when she was killed. A distraction, maybe. And one leaving her and her sister enough time to run. That might work. If the dung-brained males would take advantage of it and run themselves.

‘Zagra!’ she hissed, giving her sister a little shake to focus her attention away from the fear. ‘See those biggish rocks there . . . on the ground by the bigger rock.’ She tipped her head, drawing Zagra’s gaze toward the stones. ‘Pick up a bunch.’ Mazhg gathered up the front of her tunic, indicating Zagra should do the same – use it like a little basket for the rocks. ‘Remember how we used to keep the crows from the fields? Remember how good your arm was. You always beat me . . . remember?’ Zagra’s mouth curved up in a smile, her simple thoughts relishing that recalled game. ‘We’ll throw them toward the men. Make ‘em drop their blades away from the males. Throw ‘em fast, and hard. Hurt the men just enough to make them squawk. Maybe that Ishkur isn’t so stupid and can figure out he needs to run. And then we run, too, Zagra . . . fast, fast!’

The two sisters crept as close as they could to the execution site, keeping a fair distance still for their own escape. With a nod to Zagra, Mazhg stood up, indicating her sister should do so, too. Her hands occupied, Mazhg’s spade lay on the ground behind her. Her arm drew back, making ready to let the first rock fly.

Crack . . . A twig snapped somewhere close behind them. A strong hand clasped her tunic tight about her neck. Wriggling wildly, she could see her sister pinned in a similar manner. Mazhg tried to reach down toward her spade, but the man’s boot was planted firmly on it. Eyes blazing, she glared at their captor, half wondering why he hadn’t simply killed them. For her part, Zagra was kicking furiously at the man’s nearer leg, a few hearty blows finding their target.

‘Nice plan! But I don’t think it would work. You’d all be dead at their hands, I think.’ He hauled them down, his grip still firm on them. ‘Now listen . . .’

[Tevildo]

Azhar stared down into the pit and waited until the one of the boys walked over to the rope and began to climb up. She could see his feet and legs were wet. Azhar sighed but couldn't bring herself to scold the first girl who had encouraged them to drop down into the water. The children had been so excited in those early days when they'd left the plantation, but since then had found little time to play. Azhar stepped away from the mouth of the cave and started back to the rock where she had set out the food. But she got no further than two steps. Immediately, she stopped, her mouth and eyes wide open in shock as she took in the young orc who stood stuffing food into his mouth. Fighting to keep her panic down, she glanced back towards the pit and in a stern voice ordered the children to stay exactly where they were.

Azhar's immediate thought was to look for a weapon to defend herself. Before she could actually do that, the young thief stuffed another handful of bread and meat into his mouth and began to dart off. With a shock Azhar realized the boy was no older than herself. She had seen the look in his eye many times before.....a child so hungry that he or she would do anything to swipe or beg a little food. Instantly she felt ashamed. The orc gave no sign that he was going to attack. She was no better than the ones down the river who had voted to execute the intruders even though they had done them no harm. "It's alright, boy" she called out. "I have more in my bag. Plenty more. There's enough for us all." I must be crazy, Azhar thought. If only Athwen was here, she'd know exactly what to do.

Gwella stared at the young woman who was approaching, not sure whether she should leave or stay. The girl did not look like much of a threat, and she was still very hungry. She stood unmoving on the plain. Not more than ten feet separated the two figures. Finally, the orc snapped back, "I'm no boy! I'm a girl. My name is Gwella. Throw that stuff over here if you mean it." Gwella imperiously jerked her thumb towards the canvas bag.

Azhar stood in absolute shock. A girl? She never would have guessed it from her looks. But what shocked her more was that this creature had a name. Somehow she had never imagined orcs having real names. Azhar wondered who had given her a name. Then she took three steps over to the pouch and drew out a small loaf of bread and tossed it towards Gwella. The orc did not step forward but neither did she run away. Gwella bent down, snatched the loaf, and began to gnaw at the end, still glaring suspiciously at the other woman.

Azhar was wondering what she should do next when something happened that put the orc out of her mind. A sharp childish voice filled with panic sounded from the bottom of the pit: "Help! Help! The rock moved. Ina's trapped. There's water....lots of water..." A tangle of childish voices and cries was followed by a deadly silence. Meanwhile, up the river some hundred feet, the meeting continued, with no one even aware of what was happening at the entrance to the cave.

[Folwren]

Athwen, sitting on the opposite side of the hill, heard the disturbance in the executions. She had not meant to listen. She didn’t want to hear, but she couldn’t help it and her ears latched onto every sound. Finally, with a quiet word to Azhar to keep an eye on the children, she stood up and hurried in the direction of the execution.

A strange sight met her eyes as she came around the rise of ground. There were the orcs, lined up and ready to die, but not yet killed, and behind each of them stood the one who thought it a privilege to kill them. But before this neatly formed line knelt two new figures, unbound, unrestrained. Athwen’s feet slowed as she stared in wonder, and then, seeing that something odd was truly afoot, she sped up and hurried down the slope in time to hear the first orc’s plea.

“We’re on the run like you are… we’re alone in this cursed land and afraid like you are… we just want to get out from the plantations and to live in freedom, as I believe you did.”

Athwen drew in a sharp breath between her teeth. She had been right after all. Against all odds, her guess, her plea in defense of the captives had been the nearest to accuracy. She stood back away from the other group of ex-slaves and listened as the two female orcs unfolded their story.

As the second one finished speaking, Athwen saw first the child that she referred to. He still hung by the cloth of his collar from Qat’s hand. Her eyes grew a little wider as she looked at him. He was just a child! It was obvious that he was just a child – and yet he was being treated abhorrently. Not even a young wild animal would be handled so. She felt disgusted, and the loathing that had risen in her earlier came back.

At that moment, while Ungolt made her last plea, there came a faint cry from the direction of the children. Athwen stood farthest back of all the people there, and she may have been the only one to hear. She turned about abruptly and looking back the way she had come. What was going on?

Then she heard it more clearly, the cry for help. Her heart gave a small leap and her breath caught momentarily and she instantly began to run back.

[piosenniel]

The verdict the others had reached sickened him. He’d followed the group out of camp, hoping that there would be a change of heart somehow. Change of heart! Wishful thinking. Pride drove men's hearts more than compassion.

Guilt drove a greater portion of his thoughts. He never was much of a speaker and he hadn’t spoken up when the judgment had been made....as he should have, he knew. And the fact that he still hadn’t felt well, that his mind was still a little muddled, did nothing to assuage his feelings of complicity. I could step in..... he supposed. But what would that accomplish? I’d be cold-shouldered at best for the rest of this expedition, or thrown out of this traveling fellowship altogether, at worst. Perhaps he should return home, he thought, as he’d turned away from the execution site.

So, you're as full of self-pride as those you would accuse, eh? he chided himself sharply.

Rôg’s wanderings had taken him a space away from the camp and the killing grounds. His thoughts his main company as he struggled with what he could, he should, he might do. The buzz of husky voices drew his attention outwards, as he walked along the periphery of the site where the men prepared to kill the captives. He stepped nearer, focusing hard on what was being said.

Foolish boys! he growled to himself as he heard the one’s plan unfold. Two disheveled looking youngsters were preparing to escalate the events with rocks..... Rocks!!! Good intention.....brave, even, but in the end they would be killed, too. Rôg shook his head. He’d done nothing before, perhaps he could do something now. Think, man!!!

Intent on reaching the two before the first stone was hurled, he trod unawares on a dried twig. The two young males startled, dropping their rocks. Rôg moved in quickly, grabbing them by the necks of their tunics. They twisted madly in his grip like little wildcats, one of them landing a few hard blows against his shins with her frenzied kicks. He hauled them down, in a crouch, hissing himself at them to be quiet and listen.

‘Nice plan!’ he began, offering as friendly a look as he could toward the two. ‘But I don’t think it would work. You’d all be dead at their hands, I think.’ He hauled them down, his grip still firm on them. ‘Now listen . . .’

With a few quick whisperings he laid out his scarcely thought out idea. It was a slim chance it might work, and he could see the one boy, the one who’d done most of the talking, thought so as well. But, too, there came a calculating gleam to the fellow’s eye as Rôg rambled on with his reasonings. In the end there was forged an agreement, if a grudging one at best. Rôg released his grip on the two, hoping not to be soundly whacked in the head by the perilous looking spade now held firmly in the grasp of the one young lad.

‘Right then,’ Rôg said, preparing to stand up. He unfastened his belt, indicating the fellow should secure his hands, so that Rôg would appear to have been captured and bound. The trio stood up and advanced a little ways toward the men and Orcs.

Mazhg held one of Rôg’s arms and threatened him with her knife held against his side. Zagra held his other arm, brandishing the spade as they drew nearer to the site. For his part, Rôg stumbled along as if beaten, and indeed his breeches’ leg was torn and the leg bled where he’d been so soundly kicked at first. They stopped short of entering the execution place itself. Mazhg shook Rôg hard, pushing him to his knees. She glared at the men holding the male Orcs, and nudged Rôg hard on his shoulder, pricking him a little with her knife.

With what he hoped might pass for a grimace of pain, Rôg looked beseechingly toward the men and in as beleaguered a voice as he could manage he spoke.

‘They’ll trade me for those Orcs you’ve got,’ he began. ‘They only want us to leave them be to find their own place to settle. That’s all they’re asking.’ His plea hung in the air between the two groups.

Great Winged One! he appealed in silence. Don’t let them think I’m just another expendable soul like the Orcs.....

[Undómë]

Zagra’s grip on the strange man faltered as her attention wandered. She was nervous and getting more so, standing out here so exposed. And there was too much to remember . . . keep her face grim, mean-looking, Mazhg had told her. Hold up the spade as if she would wallop him should he move too much. Keep your eyes on those men. And remember to sneak looks at Mazhg. ‘If you see me rub my cheek,’ Mazhg had said, ‘then get ready to run. And when I yell “run”, you light on out of here. Quick as if the Dark Lord himself is at your heels. Run and run and hide where we did beyond the bend in the stream . . . like we did that once. You remember, right?’ Mazhg had made her repeat the instructions and the landmarks for the hiding place. ‘I’ll come for you . . . soon’s I can. You stay hid.’

She felt Rôg’s shoulder twitch slightly, reminding her to keep contact. Her eyes flicked toward Mazhg. Her sister’s eyes were on the men and Orcs.

Mazhg called out to the captive males in a loud voice, the harsh, guttural sounds of Orkish tongue breaking the tense silence.

‘Sha! You big, dumb, snagas! Getting caught!’ She stopped herself, biting back the string of epithets ready to tumble off her tongue. She spit in the dirt for final emphasis. ‘Don’t mess this up, globs-bubhosh!

[Child of the 7th Age]

Gwella followed behind Azhar as the girl stumbled over to the entrance of the pit and stared down into the hole. With the shifting of the largest rock, the water had broken through and was now flooding the interior of the cave. Gwella could not see very much but she could hear the sound of swirling water and desperate splashing noises made by small hands and legs as five children struggled to keep their heads afloat.

"Stupid, stupid," the orc girl growled. "Rain comes. Caves flood. Rocks move. Even chicken-brains know that. " Azhar did not reply but latched onto the rope that still hung limply from the grating and was about to lower herself into the pit. Gwella growled again and shook her head, yanking the rope from Azhar's hands. "No.... You help me. Don't like water but I do it. Then your bag is mine.' Gwella pointed toward the satchel still bulging with food. It was also evident from the orc girl's disdainful tone that the she did not think much of Azhar's slight frame or lack of real muscles. With a single leap, Gwella propelled herself onto the rope and shinnied down inside the pit. She landed with a large thud and splash as the weight of her body caused the rope to come loose from the grating and spiral downward into the water.

[Firefoot]

Cruel men! Horrible beasts! His right forearm throbbed and was virtually useless to him, but at that point such was the least of his distresses. He could feel himself dangling there, held by his neck. It had not only been painful, but humiliating and frightening. In the hands of that large brute, there had been nothing he could do. Never before had he felt so helpless.

And then, to be dropped to the ground like a sack of potatos - no, not even that, for one would take care that the potatos were not bruised. He had been dropped in a heap like so much expendable filth. It was a miracle he had enough wits about him to run away.

The females had come though, that was what mattered - two of them, anyway. He ran to them and crouched behind them. The tears that had been forced to his eyes from the trauma were already beginning to dry, though his body was still shaking uncontrollably. From behind Urga's shoulder he looked out warily at the crowd of men, watching with particular distrust and fear the man who had picked him up.

Two more females soon arrived, bearing a man between them, a captive. Quietly Grask watched the drama unfold, wondering if he should slip away. As a rule he had always kept himself clear of grown-up affairs, but it was a little late for that. He would stay for a while anyway - he seemed to be out of danger for now, though the men still had their blades pointed threateningly at the male orcs' throats. Whatever the verdict, it was out of his hands.

----

Johari

First a child orc, and now females. Her desire for the male orcs' blood to be shed slackened but did not wholly abate. While less strong than the males, the females were no more to be trusted, she was sure, and as for the child, he would soon grow up to be as much a beast as the Orcs they were now about to kill. Already he was savage - foolish, perhaps, but savage, swinging his little sword about like that to kill those that threatened his elders.

And when had Orcs stopped at killing women and children? Could any blame them for protecting themselves? This would be revenge, revenge for all those merciless years she had spent at Orcs' bidding. Revenge for her mother's death. Revenge for a stolen childhood. Revenge for the theft of her hope. Revenge for... revenge for Kalin.

She could almost hear Hadith's words though - how much killing is enough? What had the child done to deserve death?

The only responses she could think of sounded trite and unfounded even in her own head. Responses that would make her little better than an Orc herself.

Perhaps that's what this land does to us, though - makes Orcs out of us all. You do what you have to to survive, and live the only way you know how.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Not wishing to be a witness to the executions, and judging himself in too sour a frame of mind to help divert the children's attention, Carl had gone off alone, to see about storing the things he had scavenged during the night. The wagon was sure to be almost as full of wounded when heading out, as it had been when bringing them into the camp, so if he was to salvage anything at all, he must find the extra space for it somewhere, or carry it himself. And the practicality of the puzzle appealed to him, serving to calm him considerably, even though he had kept up a fiery soliloquy at first, threatening to pack himself up, and leave the group in order to search for Stumps, who he was convinced had more common sense then the lot of them.

Still, making no move to carry out such a threat, he sat on his hunches searching through the bits of iron in the heap he had assembled, until he had found four good sized brackets with loops formed in them. They were just the sort of thing that a slaver might think to fix to his wagon, so that he could pull several lines of chained slaves behind it, while the slavers remained free to harry them. But the hobbit had a far better use for them. Crawling underneath the wagon he fastened one to each corner, singing so that he would not fall into the gloomy business of speculating on the nature of the sporadic noises of the camp that reached him. It was hard work, for he had to make his own bolt holes in the tightly grained wood, and that proved far from easy. But when he was done, he thought to tie a corner of strong tent maker's cloth to each of the four loops, letting it sag in the center like a sling. And into that hammock would go all that the cloth would bear without braking, the rest he would have to find another place for.

Unfortunately, his fingers weren't as nimble as they might once have been, and it was a struggle to attach the stiff cloth. After quickly dismissing his original idea of making small slits at the corners of the material, so that he could tie the two edges together around the bracket, he settled on stuffing the whole of each corner through the loops and making a knot the size of his fist on the other side of the loop, to hold it in place.

Once finished, Carl stretched and stood back for a moment to admire his handiwork, before he began the tedious business of sorting the scraps, and carrying them by the handful to the wagon. Absorbed as he was, he remained by force of will quite oblivious to unraveling of events that were unfolding all around him.

[Folwren]

Athwen came over the rise in time to see the orc child preparing to lower herself into the pit. Azhar stood quite near - Athwen could have sworn they had touched hands briefly - staring downwards with wide eyes and open mouth.

“What’s the matter? What’s going on?” Athwen called out as she continued to hurry forward.

Azhar turned about. “Athwen!” she cried. “The water’s rising!”

“Water!” Athwen reached the opening of the pit and looked down in horror. She took stock of the situation instantly, even the broken rope. At least four children were in there...more, including the other creature. Could she save them? Not alone, she instantly realized.

“Azhar, run back as quick as you can and get help!”

The girl set off immediately. Athwen looked down into the pit again. The water was dark. She heard frantic splashing, but no more cries. “What can I do?” she asked herself viciously. She needed rope, but there was none near. If she were to leap down into there without rope, there would be no purpose. She could not save all of them alone. But she might be able to save some of them...if there was anything to hold onto down there, just to keep their heads above water.

Athwen did the only thing she thought she could do. After tearing off her boots and pulling off her extra shirt she lowered herself down into the pit below and dropped into the water.

The scene below was strange, dark, and chaotic. For a moment, Athwen clung to the rock edge, getting her bearings. And then she struck out towards the nearest child in distress. The little boy, as soon as he felt her hand on him, turned towards her and clung frantically to her. His arms went around her head and her neck and they both were submerged.

Athwen twisted in his arms, turned her head and pushed him free of her, and then she approached him again, from behind. This time, she was careful that he could not face her as she swam both of them to the edge.

“Grab hold,” she gasped in his ear. “Quiet down, you’re alright, take hold of the rock, you feel it?” His panic calmed as his fingers clung to the rough rock. “Stay here,” Athwen commanded. “Wait for help.” And she turned to find the next child.

[Nogrod]

Looking at the trembling orc-child running to find cover from behind the females after being dropped by Qat Hadith felt a tear coming from his eye. Even if they had seldomly met orc-children in the plantation it wasn't hard for Hadith to figure out that this one was around ten. A bit younger he himself was when his mother had been executed. Was one of the two females his mother? Was one of the males in the line his father? Strong emotions were tearing Hadith apart but he stood silent as all others.

Hadith had hated orcs from as long as he could remember. They had been behind everything that was wrong and foul in this world... and they had killed his parents, they had beaten him in the plantation, they had run the place and enjoyed the human misery there. But the events of the last few days had sowed a seed that was now growing articulate enough to come forwards. What about the slavers? They are human and seem no better... maybe they are even worse as these orcs are trying to fly away from them and the plantations? Hadith had never thought of that before. Did all the orcs actually like it in the plantations? What if they were slaves as well, just in a different role? He glanced at the orc-child once again.

Any justice that condemns that child to death is no justice at all. And a justice that robs him from his parents is no better. Hadith felt a sudden urge to speak out what he had just thought but someone else got vocal first.

"Helping your mates these males were... indeed. And what then? Some throat-slitting, right? And then maybe piling up more valuables as you say?" It was Qat who was walking steadily towards the females and the child while he spoke. "We know your kind too well to fall at that."

Guilledean who was holding Zuhut at his blade joined in. "How do we know you're all here now? Your friends are dead that is? Maybe some are... but how many of you are still lurking at the thicket? Why should we believe you?" He booted Zuhut to his back forcefully sending the orc to fall flat on his face to the ground.

"How many of you are still skulking around?" Khamir asked the females in a stern voice. Many faces in the crowd started looking at the surrounding thickets uneasily. The grips on the weapons were tightened yet again.

"Now stop it! Everyone stop it!" Beloan's voice was sharp and commanding. He tried to glance sideways as to what Lindir and Aiwendil were up to but couldn't spot them from the crowd at the moment. "Now listen to me! If they had a horde of them skulking around us they wouldn't have staged this! Right? I'm willing to believe them at the moment." He looked around the crowd and frowned. "Not that it changes anything in the end..."

Suddenly there came yet another noise from the thickets and three figures emerged walking steadily forwards. Finally another one of the orcs brutally pushed the man to his knees and pricked him with the knife.

"They’ll trade me for those Orcs you’ve got," Rôg began. "They only want us to leave them be to find their own place to settle. That’s all they’re asking."

The one who had thrown Rôg down yelled some harsh words in orcish. Those were clearly addressed to her fellows.

Qat was about to run at the orcs when Beloan's call made him freeze. "No one kills anyone before this is settled!"

Qat turned to face Beloan and cursed loudly. "Don't you see! This is the way the orcs "ask" for things! In a minute there will be fifty of them and same amount of us as captives!"

"Does anyone know where the wounded and the... children are?" Khamir swallowed the rest as he realised the sudden danger.

The crowd was upset about the thought of their children being caught by yet other orcs lurking around just to rob them of their children.

This doesn't make sense anymore... Hadith was confused. He didn't know what was right or wrong any more. Just a moment ago he would have been happy to free the orcs and now all he wanted was to get rid of them and get rid of them quickly.

[Tevildo]

Azhar gave a tiny sigh. Relieved that Athwen had returned, she sprinted off to find help as the older woman had suggested. Her first impulse was to speak with someone from the large crowd that had gathered on the riverbank. Azhar was smart enough to realize that shrieking out the news to the entire group would only create an unorganized stampede that could do more to hurt than help. She had to pick out a specific person and enlist their aid. Still, the group was a long way down river, and the debate on what to do with the captured orcs was still going on. With so many angry people packed so close together, Azhar wasn't sure if she could make herself heard above the noise, or even who to approach. She glanced over at the crowd, attempting to catch sight of Lindir or Aiwendil or Dorran, but it was impossible to pick them out from a distance.

For a moment Azhar hesitated, uncertain what to do. Then she turned sideways and spotted the supply wagon. She saw a familiar figure leaning against the back gate.....someone who was good in a pinch and who seemed to have a knack for coming up with practical solutions. She charged over to where Carl stood, grabbed the hobbit by the shoulder and blurted out: "Please. Come. The children are in the pit. The water's come up. One of them can't move. An orc girl went down to help, but she has no ropes or anything."

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

“Water's in the pit?” Carl looked at the girl, with a pained expression on his face. “Children and an orc, you say?”

Azhar nodded rapidly, and eager to return to the children's aid, she pulled on Carl's shoulder. “Quickly! One of the children is stuck and can't move,” she repeated anxiously.

“Aye, very quickly!” The hobbit said, turning this way and that, looking for anything he might have on hand that could help. His first thought was to find some sort of weapon, for the cunning orc no doubt had somehow duped the girl, perhaps to hold the children captive in order to bargain their lives for his fellows. His second thought was for stout rope. “Azhar, go search the camp for rope, blankets, cloaks anything we can lower down for the children to scamper up. ”

“What about this one under the wagon?” she began.

“That's the way to find them!” Carl said, impressed by her resourcefulness. “But this one here's too stiff. If the children get tangled up in it when its wet, they might drown. Now hurry off and bring what you can.”

Azhar needed little encouragement, but had already set off on her search. Carl then bent under the wagon, and reaching in the hammock, pulled out a length of iron just a little longer than his arm. Still squatting, he hit his palm with it testing it's weight. Good and heavy, it would have to do the trick.

Running then to the edge of the pit, he was surprised to hear Athwen's gentle voice emanating from the darkness, as she spoke moving among the frightened children. He had assumed that she would have gone to get Dorran or Lindir's help. But where had the orc gone, that Azhar had mentioned? Carl looked about him and seeing nothing extraordinary, kneeled cautiously to peer into the hole. He could hear splashing and an occasional echoing voice, but could see only the little circle that was illuminated by the sunlight overhead. And what he saw troubled him greatly. A bedraggled and wide-eyed child clutching a boulder looked back at him from the murky water that covered the floor of the pit. What could have happened? Carl's mind raced as he tried to assess the situation. Was the plug leaking? And if that was the case, then the pressure of the water behind it could cause it to completely collapse at any minute. If only he could swim, he might be able to make a patch somehow, but it was impossible now. The water in the other chamber must be well over Lindir's head, let alone a hobbit's.

“Carl!” he heard Athwen call out from the darkness.

“Oh, Miss Athwen I'm so sorry for getting you in this mess!” I shouldn't have been in such a hurry before. But we have to get you and and the children out of here as soon as possible! What can you tell me? Is the water raising fast? Is everyone alright?”

“We are alright for the moment, but the water is rising quickly, and one of the children is pinned by a rock near the wall.” Even though the woman's voice remained calm and even, he knew she could sense the jeopardy they where in.

Tucking the iron bar through his belt, Carl lowered himself into the hole, so that he hung down precariously holding on to the edge of it. And pausing just a moment he dropped down in to the pit, quickly finding that it deeper than he had thought. When he surfaced again, Athwen had a hold of is arm, keeping him above water with one hand and holding the fallen rope with the other. Seeing his mistake, he spluttered “Azhar's gone to find more rope, or something else we can climb out with. But we have to get that youngster free first before we can shinny up and out.”

Athwen guided him to the back of the pit, to the place in the rock wall where Ina struggled to keep her head above the water. It was woefully dark, and removing the iron bar from his belt, Carl could not see where to place it in order to pry the child free. Athwen and he tried many places, but between the dark and the difficulty caused by the water, they had no success. Just a Carl was becoming discouraged, he heard a low rumbling noise behind them that waxed into speech. “No brains, no strength, just jumping in the water like drowning toad.” Gwella said approaching them, her eyes naturally accustomed to the dark. Carl was at a loss how to respond. This was obviously the orc Azhar had mentioned, but why hadn't Athwen warned him that one was in the pit with them. And held up in the water by the kind lady, he was aware that he must be a comical site. Still he brandished the iron as menacingly as he could manage.

“Here, you squash little bug this way.” Gwella said twisting the iron from his grasp easily. And as she moved toward the child with it, Ina gave a the most terrified scream at the orc's approach. His heart rent, Carl broke loose from Athwen's grasp, trying unsuccessfully to catch Gwella. But Athwen quickly rescued him, catching him up again.

Reaching the child, the orc rammed the bar under the rock and began pushing it down with all her strength. Still the stone didn't budge. After a few moments, the lady moved to help Gwella, and before long orc, woman and hobbit where all working together, and the rock finally gave way, rolling to the bottom of the pit. Scooping up the child before they could stop her, Gwella lumbered toward the pit's opening, the frightened Ina howling in her arms all the while.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir and Aiwendil

After the two women had spoken, Aiwendil had pulled Lindir over to his side and growled impatiently. "The free peoples of Arda do not strike down those who ask for mercy. You heard what the woman said....that they fled the plantation and are searching for a place to call their own. Can we deny them what we ourselves seek? This is how we respond to another's quest for freedom? What does that make us? I, for one, will have no part of it."

Lindir doggedly shook his head and stared over at the spot where the orc captives were pinioned on the ground. "My mind is little different than yours, although I have trouble believing this is taking place. In all my years on Arda, in all the battles and skirmishes I have seen, not once has this happened. Never has an orc made such a request. And, to be truthful, this is the first time that I have heard a female orc speak in public. Perhaps there is some shred of hope for a peace that not only binds men but at least a few of those who go by the name of orc."

"But Aiwendil, how are we to do this? For you and I to talk so lightly is one thing, but many here bear scars on their bodies from the daggers and lashes of the orcs. I can announce that a request such as this must be met with mercy. But do you think that all these men would agree? And if only one lashes out and strikes a blow, I fear it will be the beginning of a blood bath. Even if each of us in the fellowship come to an agreement, I do not see the former slaves following along so easily."

There was a long moment of silence. Lindir was about to admit defeat, but was suddenly stopped by Aiwendil who grabbed his shoulder and whispered excitedly, "Look, look over there.....our answer." There was a sly grin on the older man's face as he pointed towards a sight almost as strange as that of two female orcs begging for mercy. A scruffy looking Rôg was being prodded along, seemingly threatened by two tough looking females and the younger orc.

"Don't worry. He's alright. They won't hurt him," Aiwendil reassured the elf.

"Perhaps it would be better to say "can't hurt him". Lindir's eyes fleetingly met those of Aiwendil. It was the first time the two had acknowledged that they shared a piece of information that was not known to most of the others who were gathered on the plain. "I suppose if anyone could pull this off safely, it would be Rôg and it does give us what we need...."

Stepping to the front, Lindir spoke with authority, "Enough Qat. Beloan is right. Khamir too. Our minds have been too long on this. And which of you would act differently than these women if you found your families under attack? This whole escapade has taken our minds off what it should be on: protecting our women, our children and finding a piece of land. There has been enough killing in the last two days. This handful of orcs poses no real threat. If they come against us in an attack, we will teach them a lesson. But for now let them go."

"Swords down, step back!" Lindir commanded the men who still had the male orcs under their control. "And you!" He pointed towards the two females. "Let go of the man, or I will personally make things very unpleasant for you."

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

Gwella

"You be Ina?" Gwella eyed the child in her arms. "Shut up nice, and Gwella will get you a big piece of horsemeat once we get loose. Just hold on now. I'll make sure you stay dry." The female orc lifted the child onto her back and urged Ina to put her hands around Gwella's neck and shoulders. Whether the child was pacified by the orc's explanation or was simply too tired to keep yelling, the crying in the cave actually stopped. Ina clung to Gwella for dear life, but kept her eyes closed so she didn't have to look at her rescuer's face or body.

"Where's Azhar? Where's the rope?" Gwella complained as she tottered on the ledge. She clung to a small indention in the cave wall that was located above the water line but far below the actual exit. "I can't climb higher without a rope. Stupid little man, " she glared at Carl, "bring rope next time!"

[Undómë]

‘Let go of the man, or I will personally make things very unpleasant for you.’

Zagra quailed at the tall man’s threatening words and demeanor. Having no knowledge of Elves, she made no difference between him and the other men. Rather she sorted him into what she knew, what was familiar. ‘Overseer,’ she whispered, dropping the shovel in the dirt. It sent wisps of dust curling up her legs as she drew in upon herself, trying to make herself small, unnoticeable. She whimpered, shivering where she stood.

‘Overseer! Sha!!’ Mazhg snorted, motioning for her sister come stand beside her. She put her free arm protectively about Zagra. ‘Great big stupid man! Big yeller, that’s all he is. Pretty face windbag. All talk he’ll be.’ She put on her fiercest face, wondering all the while if perhaps she and Zagra should just take to their heels right now.

‘You . . . man,’ she hissed under her breath at Rôg. ‘Are we done now? They going to do what that loud one tells ‘em?’ She nudged him with her knee. ‘Maybe you take the first step, huh?’

[piosenniel]

‘Swords down, step back!’ Rôg raised up his head and looked toward the ragged line of Orcs and their would-be executioners. The men did not respond at once to the Elf’s command. Their eyes, instead, seemed to flick from one to another and linger then with a certain distaste on the Orc males. Rôg’s own eyes slid up with a quick glance to see how his two captors were taking in the threat Lindir had made to them. Taking in their appearance and attire he wondered what sort of unpleasantness anyone might think could exceed that which they had already endured.

‘You . . . man,’ the fiercer one had hissed at Rôg. ‘Are we done now? They going to do what that loud one tells ‘em?’

‘I don’t know,’ he spoke low. He dared a small, warm smile up at the more nervous of the Orcs. ‘I think you’re right, though,’ he went on quickly, to the other one. He lumbered up to his feet, making it look as if it took an effort to do so. ‘I’ll make the first move.’

He took a few stumbling steps away from his captors, waving his arms in the air to show he was no longer held. The hesitation previously seen by him seemed to fade away as he drew nearer. Some of the men stepped forward to lend him support and others of the fellowship stepped away from the Orc captives, their knives no longer threatening. Though, not all put away their blades altogether. What the Orcs were doing, he could not say. His view of them was blocked as some of his companions gathered about him.

Somewhere to his left, an anxious and insistent voice called out loudly. The attention of the group turned toward the source as they struggled to sort out the reasons for such alarm.....

[Nogrod]

Gwerr knew that humans could be weird. Sometimes the humans acted straightforwardly and reasonably - like these men who were to execute them and to be done away with them. That was the kind of thinking Gwerr understood. If there was a problem you dealt with it the most efficient way. Plain and simple. He had killed too many during his life to think of it as anything else than just a natural thing. When there's a conflict of interests too deep one kills or gets killed. This time the dices had rolled finally against him, Ishkur and Colagar who had managed to evade death so long. Anyway it had to happen one day and this day was no worse day for it than any other.

But then there were these other humans who complicated matters and took their considerations to absurdities.

Sure one lived and let live. Gwerr was too old and experienced to enjoy killing at whim or to be reckless with decisions concerning letting others live. The amusement of violence had faded away millenia ago and he had learned that with bad luck a haphazard kill might haunt one afterwards as real threats. But if there was an actual threat then getting rid of it was as natural as scratching an itching part of your body. A natural law of life and death.

What was the most astonishing to Gwerr was that some humans seemed to waver between being sensible and fools. Like this Beloan who seemed to be somekind of a leader here, or his kind of apprentice, the young guy. That was not the case with the one-armed man and the bearded giant. They were men he understood and which he could respect as enemies.

But then everything went crazy. First there was Grask. He could be apologised as he was both young and fool and as his act showed some spirit. But what about these two females, Urga and Ungolt, what were they thinking? Pleading for mercy? Giving themselves up to the mercy of the enemy without a fight? Had they lost their minds? Had they become these wavering humans? Did he know them anymore? Why had they been picked to their runaway bunch in the first place?

Then there was the show Zagra and Mazhg made with one of the men. That was more like it even if it was downright weird and Gwerr couldn't fathom the logic there... Why take the risk as they could've just followed these humans stealing goods every now and then to stay alive until they reached safer environments?

But it gave Gwerr the hope. It gave him the hope of a chance to avoid death one more time...

As soon as Rôg had taken his first wawering steps towards the crowd and wawed his hands the men took a step back releasing their blades from their throats. Gwerr decided to take his chances and stood up as well. As he went up he shoved Ishkur as hard as he could with his shoulder with his arms tied behind his back.

"Quickly now you maggot... they may change their minds. We should be the first ones clear of this", he hissed from between his teeth. "We should not let that female mock us that way another time..."

He stood upright and started walking towards Rôg. He heard Ishkur was following him so he didn't need to look back. There was no sound of any human coming after him.

They walked towards Rôg. Gwerr could sense that at least some of the other orcs had stood up as well. He looked at the man coming towards him. Rôg looked like a tough man who clearly was in command of himself. Too much indeed! There's something wrong here!

Gwerr went to his instincts. They called him to stay calm and to continue. There was something that was very wrong here but it was not against them.

There was a loud yell. "So we just let them go like that?" It was Qat who watched the orcs starting their silent march away from the execution. "Was there a deal we'd change them to this easterling, now was there? I never made one!"

Just a few steps... just a few steps... pass this man and then I can make a run...

[Tevildo]

Azhar had scavanged through the camp and then raced back to the pit carrying a short length of rope and several blankets. She attached the end of the rope to the grating and then tied on the blankets, but was disappointed to find that her contrived ladder only reached half way down.

Azhar called to Athwen and Carl that she was going to get help and then sprinted over to where the rest of the camp was gathered. Pushing into the middle of the circle, she grabbed Dorran by the shoulder and blurted out an explanation, "Athwen and the children. They're in the pit. There's too much water. Carl came but there's no rope and no way out. The orc girl rescued Ina, but now she's stuck too...."

Before she could explain anything more, Dorran hurried off towards the cave. Others raced around to search for supplies and then followed in his footsteps. The first thing that registered in Dorran's mind was that Athwen and the children were in danger. After that, he fleetingly considered that Azhar must have been confused, since he knew no orc would ever save a human child.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl stared back at Gwella's glimmering eyes in disbelief, a wry smile rising to his lips despite the unusually pressing situation they were all caught up in. “Aye, the next time I set about being stuck in a floody hole with an orc and a gaggle of children, you may be certain I'll bring all the rope you could possibly want! But just now I'm highly curious if there might possibly BE a next time!”

“Shh, Carl,” Athwen cautioned the hobbit, as she helped the children searching for higher finger holds in the walls. “You'll frighten them even further.”

“Yes, hobbits are infinitely more frightening then goblins!” Carl muttered, his fingers aching as he clung to the stone wall near Gwella. The bitterness in his speech was prompted by feelings of a responsibility that went deeper than even this most candid orc had touched on. He was painfully aware that if anything were to happened to Azhar, it was very likely that most if not all of them would drown, for the meager finger holds did not appear to extend all the way to the opening. And so it came as a great relief to see the young girl's face peering down from overhead, unfurling the lengths of dusty cloth she had found.

Too short! He could hardly believe it!. But at least now if the water were to grow too high they could hold on to the blankets like so many fish on a string. But of course the weight of all those fish might make it hard to remove the grate....

When Azhar had disappeared again, it seemed that he could hear the panting breath of everyone, echoing in the darkness. Oh Azhar, he thought fervently, Please bring back someone big and burly like that fellow Qat, and not another stupid little man!

[Folwren]

Athwen darted like a worried mother duck from one child to the next. She only stopping when short breath and burning muscles forced her to, and only for the slightest pause. The rate of the rising water alarmed her, though, had she stopped to think, she would have known that it would not have completely covered them in many minutes. But all the same, those minutes were swiftly running out and as yet, no one had –

Her head turned suddenly upwards towards the opening. She heard her name called by that dear, familiar voice. Dorran was coming quickly, and calling her as he ran. She pushed off from the wall and struck out to the other side so that she could perch right below the opening.

“Athwen!” he called out once more, stopping at the pit’s mouth.

“Yes, Dorran, I’m down here. Quickly, have you more rope or anything?”

“They’re coming with some. Who is down there with you?”

Athwen looked over her shoulder, trying to count quickly in the dimness. “Six – seven, I think,” she said. “Four children, an orc child, Carl, and me.” A shudder shook her body. She had not realized before how utterly cold the water was. “Hurry, Dorran,” she said, slipping away to help the children keep above the rising water. “We don’t have much time.”

[Durelin]

A small figure, a small voice though there was power behind it…it was just a child. An Orc, but a child. Khamir’s confusion and internal warring paralyzed him. He had no time to recover any of his wits before it was clear they were facing women and children, those that even men who spent the majority of their lives in the wastes of Mordor considered somehow naturally…innocent, bystanders, non-combatants. There was pleading, and talk of desiring peace, from creatures Khamir thought incapable of human, much less humane, emotions and desires.

They had always been animals to him. He guessed he had understood that they must procreate somehow, but he had never faced the possibility -- or the probability, rather -- of females, of children. They had not even been animals to him, really. They were even less than that, as even their instincts were corrupted. But…now what?

“How many of you are still skulking around?” he demanded, not ready to drop his guard. This had to be some ploy. They knew the females and children could distract them, confuse them. Beloan quickly pointed out that if there were many more around, the creatures wouldn’t have wasted their time with all of this. But only moments after the man had spoken, two more females arrived.

To make the scene more absurd, the new orcs apparently held the strange friend of the old man, Rog, as a captive. It was the man himself who spoke for them, declaring they wanted to trade prisoners. Ridiculous. Khamir let his eyes wander a moment, as if he was watching the scene unfold in an audience. He looked into the faces of Rog and his captors, then turned his eyes back to the other females and the male child, and then he looked down at the orc whose throat he touched with his knife. He seemed surprised, too.

Khamir laughed, though it sounded more like a cough or a grunt. It was a short laugh of release, and he let his arm drop. So many things didn’t seem to matter anymore, even if the orc whose throat he had been ready to slit turned and took him by the throat.

“Does anyone know where the wounded and the...children are?” he said with some difficulty. What were they doing? What were they going to do? It had been such an easy decision. It had…

Before anyone could respond, Lindir spoke up with command in his voice. Khamir eyed him and his eyes flashed with anger. He did not like this elf ordering his men around. My men? he asked himself, and felt he should be laughing again. The elf then ordered the orcs holding Rog to release him, and the man walked away from his captors after only a moment or two. Surely they weren’t really making the trade! Khamir didn’t even think of putting away his knife.

Khamir thought he heard someone shout or scream somewhere distant, but he was again distracted from what might be going on elsewhere in the camp. Some of the orcs who were to be executed only a short time ago began to get up and walk in the direction of the two females who had held Rog. No, this could not be happening. They were just going to let them go? How many lives were truly involved here? Not just the orcs, not just Rog’s…their actions here and now would affect the lives of other men in this land.

The one-armed man suddenly felt a great amount of urgency. He stood, gripping his knife, almost physically wavering between charging the formerly captive orcs and racing back to the camp to make sure all was safe.

When all was finally quiet for a moment - as uneasy a silence as when the men waited on Khamir’s signal - he was sure he heard a cry from the direction of the pit. Now he was sure.

“That is where the wounded and the children are,” Adnan spoke up, his voice louder than he thought it could be. Khamir was shocked to see the young man. He had been here? He would have seen…?

With one last glance toward the backs of the male orcs, Khamir rushed off in the direction of the pit, almost wishing for the days when he had no one to care about but himself.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

It was the oddest sensation. Carl, who at this point was not much more than a head bobbing in the dark water, was just theorizing to Dorran on why the plug in the wall might be leaking, and speculating on whether or not the orcs might have had an inkling last night that this might happen, when a violent surge of water and stones suddenly dragged his feet abruptly and painfully out from under him, forcing his face into the current. Pulling himself upright with an effort, he coughed fitfully and tried to brace himself against the onslaught. A curtain of water fell about him like rain, and shaking his head to clear the stream that flowed into his eyes and mouth he saw one of the children drifting before him. As his arm darted out to grab the child's ragged shirt, he caught hold of the youngster only to have the powerful current pivot him around quickly, throwing the child against his chest. And like a door on well-greased hinges, the hobbit continued to swing until his back slammed against the unyielding stone wall.

It happened so quickly. As the furious water rose, Carl found it harder to concentrate. He heard the voices of Dorran and Athwen shouting to one another over the din, but he did not have much hope for the situation. Strong as Dorran was, he was the worse for wear after the battle, and their were so many of them in the pit, they certainly didn't have much time for dilly-dallying. Still urging the young boy who clung to him to clamber on to his shoulders, the hobbit closed his eyes against the darkness, and dizzily tried to find a better handhold, even if just a little higher, for the water was rising at an alarming rate.

Suddenly, the weight on his shoulder's lessened, and opening one eye Carl saw nearby a rope dangling. Clinging to that rope was an orc who held the boy briefly by the upper arm before flinging him up into the blanket which was also suspended, but much higher well above the water. The orc soon found Gwella and Ina next in the inky blackness, treating them in much the same rough manner. When the pair of glinting eyes caught sight of Carl, the hobbit had both his open, and quite wide they were. But before the farmer could protest, he was thrown into the blanket, hoisted up into the daylight and plucked out of it again - just as quickly, though perhaps less roughly than he was placed in it. And with a kind word or two he was set down next to Ina, to squint with her in the sunlight, grimacing at the discovery of a painful lump on the back of his head.

[Nogrod]

Gwerr was just about congratulating himself from almost making the escape when he heard the screams and the talk behind him. An orc child in trouble with humans?That Gwella it must be.... He glanced at Ishkur and it seemed the two thought about the same thing. Whatever muscles the Uruk have they don't have brains. Farewell Makdush... we're going to live and claim our treasure, you rusty old pile of bones. They nodded at each other and abruptly turned on their heels running as fast as they could... back towards the men.

The men around were just stunned of their sudden act and barely managed to react before the two orcs had gotten past them and towards the pit where all the screams were coming from. "A rope! A rope!" Gwerr shouted as they ran.

A young boy of half southern origin was making it towards the same goal and turned around when hearing the orc-calls from behind him. His name was Hadith.

"There!" he yelled just obeying the commanding sound of the cry and pointing towards a pile of ropes left by the building of the first-aid tents. Only then did he realise they were orcs who were calling for the ropes.

For a moment he was about to draw his sword but the orcs passed him by too far away changing their path towards the ropes he had pointed to them. What? Have I blundered now? Hadith drew his sword and ran after the orcs shouting wildly "Take them! Bring them down!"

But the orcs were much quicker than he was and even if his yelling reached the people around the pit before the two orcs managed their way there the sight of two unarmed orcs with ropes rushing towards the place didn't exactly make them feel like attacking the two - even if they felt quite uncertain about the situation.

"Wait, wait! The ropes are coming!" Ishkur cried as the two came forwards and the few humans who had got blades raised lowered them.

Whilst running the last meters Gwerr had already started to tie the other end of the rope he carried around his waist. As they reached the spot they elbowed themselves room enough through the stupefied humans and Gwerr called Ishkur to either tie the rope or get help - and he was gone from their eyes, jumping down to the pit.

Some of the men ran to help Ishkur and together they managed to halt the rope. Gwerr was hanging a few feet above Carl and the boy he was carrying.

"Gimme some! Two feet!" Gwerr shouted and the rope was loosened a bit letting Gwerr fall down enough to get a tight grip of the boy's shoulders. There was a blanket suspended by a pair of ropes some people had tried to lower to the aid of those in the pit that now served as a rescue vehicle. Gwerr flinged the boy to it and called for the people up to loosen the rope.

He went down the wall into the darkness smelling, listening; feeling his way towards Gwella and Ina. "Here you are you little... treasure you!" he whispered to Gwella as he hoisted her on his shoulder after he had picked Ina to his other one. Gwerr tugged the rope with his teeth and then yelled up. "Get me up! ten feet!"

After he got a hold for his feet a few yards from the top of the cliff he threw the two little ones to the blanket and called for it to be hoisted up finally turning to the hobbit. "Loose again!" he shouted and went down.

He met two inquisitive eyes soon enough but it was no time for wondering... he sure had not seen that kind of eyes before and it bothered him. But he took the creature by his outstreched arms and flinged him to the blanket that had been meanwhile lowered down again. He saw the blanket slowly rise upwards and finally disappearing over the top of the cliff and into the light.

Gwerr was listening. He was smelling the cave. He was feeling the cave. He was even seeing around a bit even if not too far.

"Any more in here?" He yelled to the darkness. He turned to look upwards. "Are there more here?"

Suddenly he realised he had quite outstreched his powers. Surely it was in a way no deal to him as he had made greater deeds and fought in the greatest battles this world could tell a story of - and even in those there were no stories about - but somehow that sudden action had quite drawn all his energy and he felt he was not able to hold it much longer at that narrow step he was standing at just a feet or two above the still rising waterline.

"Any more here?"

He was not going to ask for them to pull him up though. A decent orc would not beg for help to himself.

[Undómë]

‘Stupid men!’

Mazhg spit in the dust as if to clear the word ‘men’ from her mouth. It was an inclusive comment taking in both Men and men. This was not how it was supposed to have gone. Once the Orc males had been freed by the Men they should have gotten away as quickly as their big feet could carry them. Far away from the stinking Men and their problems.

‘Got plenty our own problems,’ she muttered as her eyes followed the unfolding events a little ways away from her. ‘Not good be taking on theirs, too.’

‘But Mazhg...’ Zagra nudged her sister on the shoulder, moving close beside her. She peered through the thin branches of the scraggly bush they had crept behind when the commotion had started and their plans gone awry. ‘Not just Men’s problems. Girl there, too. Ours.’ Her thin finger pointed to where the rescued children had been drawn up, followed now by a little man. She raised her chin peering intently at the rim of the hole. ‘Where he is?’ she asked, furrowing her brow. ‘That Gwerr.’

‘Got his own hide stuck down that hole now I’m thinking.’ With a snort, Mazhg spit emphatically once again. ‘Stupid men!’

[Durelin]

Khamir

The women, children, and wounded were not in danger from orcs – there was no ambush, there was just…water! Khamir was trying to find the best way to lower himself down into the pit, or at least a point where the fall seemed shortest, when a rope was thrown next to him and lowered down toward the rising water. Before he could take a step toward the rope, reaching out with his one arm, an orc appeared between him and the rope. His hand brushed against the orc’s arm before it lowered itself, grabbing onto the rope.

Khamir almost reached for the knife at his belt, but another reflex overcame that instinct, and he grasped the rope above where the orc held it, bracing himself at the edge of the pit along with several others. The Southron felt strangely calm as he watched the orc retrieve Carl and the children, including a young orc, one or two at a time. He obeyed every one of the orc’s commands with the others who helped hold the rope behind him. He was empty. He felt tired, though his grip never lessened. The orc had two arms, two hands to grab the trapped children and hobbit. He would not have been of as much help, not with one. It was common sense. He was doing what he could.

Finally it seemed that the orc was alone in the pit, and for a moment or two Khamir simply watched the water rise around the creature. It stood, as well as it could, the water quickly approaching its shoulders, and seemed to avoid looking at those above the pit. Khamir watched, as if simply curious. They could just let it drown here, and be rid of one of them. It was a shame that they had moved the orcs out of the pit to kill them, wasn’t it?

“Grab the rope!” he heard a familiar voice shout from behind him. It was Beloan. “Give him a bit more; get it to him!” Khamir obeyed.

“We’ll pull you up!” came another voice – Adnan’s.

Adnan recognized the stubborn pride in the orc, and knew he needed telling.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Vrór

Vrór had done his best to help Athwen and the others from the start, though he had felt simply in the way until someone thought to try lowering a blanket that Carl and the children could grab onto. But it was not long enough and the water was rushing in fast and fiercely, quickly making it nearly impossible for those trapped to maintain any sort of footing.

The Dwarf was very startled by the sudden presence of two orcs. He realized with some surprise that the orcs had been held captive in the pit. Why had they been taken out? And what…? Vrór felt fear rise in his chest, but the orcs charged up to the pit not with fists bared – one carried a rope.

Determined to be of use, Vrór’s grip remained tight and he worked diligently with the others to catch the rescued and pull them out to safety. When the others slackened their hold on the blanket as it seemed the consensus was that all those trapped were out of the pit, Vrór went to see to Carl, finding another blanket to bring to the hobbit. Of course someone had already seen to that, but he offered the blanket to Carl and the poor girl sitting next to him.

“You alright, Carl? By Durin’s beard, what happened?” Vrór was pretty sure he knew what had happened, and he felt responsible for letting it. He should have checked on the soundness of the plug hours ago, but no – he had still been lazing around in his blankets. He was not that weak, that he could not at least do a simple inspection! But as the rush of urgency wore off, the Dwarf plopped down by the hobbit and breathed heavily, his limbs aching and his head clouded.

[piosenniel]

The crisis seemed well in hand. At any rate Rôg felt he would most likely be nothing but in the way. He skirted the edges of area looking for a place to keep an eye on things and remain inobtrusive.

Ah! What’s this?

Rôg came up softly behind the two Orcs and hunkered down on his soles just a little way behind them. ‘Stupid men!’ he heard the one say, the same one who had seemed in charge beforehand. From what he followed of their harsh and grating talk, he understood that they were unhappy with how events had unfolded, and especially with how ‘the men’ had handled things.

He frowned, wondering at the disparaging use of the word ‘men’ by the one young male. Not a comment it seemed on the actions of the Men, but more likely on those of their own Orc group. Odd! And then there was the way in which the two young males crouched down close to each other, in a familiar way. Brothers? Is that what they were?

‘No!’ The explanation hit him suddenly. These two were female orcs!

‘Ladies?’ he ventured.....

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

What happened?” Carl echoed to himself as he took the dry blanket the dwarf offered. With a painful twist, he reached around to replace the soaked blanket Ina still held wrapped about her narrow shoulders while the dwarf settled himself beside the two of them. The hobbit's mind still reeled. Turning back to face Vrór again it was with bleary eyes that Carl searched the familiar red-whiskered face, weighing just how detailed an answer to the question his friend was willing to hear. Deciding that the dwarf might understand his concerns better than most, he confided in a horse whisper, “I have come up with quite a few fine technical sounding reasons for this mess, and have spouted them off to Dorran too. Could have been a cloud burst over Ephel Duath you know, or some foul blockage downstream that didn’t let the other underground chamber drain properly, that sort of thing. But the more I think on it, and I've had plenty of time for that, the bare fact of the matter is I was a good site more worried about keeping the orcs in that pit, than keeping the water out of it. It was nothin’ but pure idiocy on my part. Not proud of it either! Not now. Never thought these young ones would be at risk, never in a million years!” He scooped up Ina’s small hand in his, as if he might lose the waif yet. Then catching sight of Dorran leading his wife away from the edge of the pit, he lapsed into silence, his shoulders sagging.

Vrór was silent for a moment too, and whatever the dwarf’s thoughts were regarding his confession, the hobbit could only wonder. And so Carl sat there quite miserable in his self-reproach, dreading and yet resigned to weather the scorn of his friend. Finally he heard the dwarf's voice rumble beside him, “If it had occurred just last night, I’m certain many would have declared the flood providential; a quick solution to a difficult dilemma.” The hobbit looked up and what he saw surprised him. It was not Vrór but Ina who frowned at him. She had been listening to the conversation much in the same way as she had the opinions that had aired around camp all morning. And though she might not understand all of it, the general feeling was unmistakably clear.

Letting go of Carl’s hand the little girl stood up and left them to search for Gwella in the crowd. Once she had been found, Ina took the blanket from her own shoulders and placed it gently around the young orc's, like a mantle. The little girl smiled self-consciously before she grabbed the orc's rough arm, patting it awkwardly. Well she remembered Gwella's crucial help moving the rock that would have caused her to drown, and she would never forget it. Carl bristled slightly when he saw Ina's display of trust, thinking it unwise to say the least, though he dimly remembered Gwella as somewhat helpful-natured, for an orc, though highly patronizing. Even then, would she be as mild now that she was free and among her own kind? The hobbit tried to spring to his feet to bring Ina back, but he never made it. The dull pain that had radiated through his skull became sharp with the sudden movement, and quickly saw to it that Carl was seated again, his head in his cradled in his hands.

“That is a sound blow you've had” Vrór announced after a quick search through the hobbit's mousey curls. “You've grown a knob on your head.”

“Aye, I have no doubt I'll live in spite of it! But for the life of me I can't reckon how it came to be there," Carl said, gingerly confirming the dwarf's observation with calloused fingers. "Now you don't suppose that orc had anything to do with it?” he whispered nodding toward Gwella, as Ina rapidly returned with the orc in tow. Vrór cleared his throat, but had little time to answer him for Ina had stopped in front of the two. She introduced Vrór to the orc announcing with the fierce sincerity of a young child, that Gwella was her best friend in all the world, and had kept her from drowning.”

Carl's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Had the lass been shown so little kindness that she would mistake Gwella’s actions for caring? Who knew what that creature’s motives were. The orc stood warily before him, and uttered a noise that to Carl’s ear sounded mid-way between a bird call and a low growl. Ina piped up whirring herself. “Oh yes, Gwerr too!” she said pointing to yet another orc, this one at the edge of the pit. "He kept me from drowning, and Mister Carl too."

As the hobbit tried to digest what Ina meant by this last bit of information, Vrór rose unsteadily to his feet and bowing politely to the young orc, thanked her for her help. But still unconvinced, Carl looked dubiously at the little girl’s new friend, while asking Ina if she noticed just how he had been hurt while underground.

As the hobbit tried to digest what Ina meant by this last bit of mystifying information, Vrór rose unsteadily to his feet and bowing politely to the young orc, thanked her for her help. But still unconvinced, Carl looked dubiously at the little girl’s new friend, while asking Ina if she noticed just how he had been hurt while underground.

"Don't you remember?” Ina returned, amazed.

This wasn't the response he had hoped for. With an offended air, for he felt rather ridiculous, the hobbit admitted stiffly that he in fact, did not recall.

Gwella's eyes narrowed at this. Not put off by the hobbit’s insinuations, she abruptly cut in to fill the gaps for him, “When the water burst out, you made grab for scrawny boy, and water smacked you hard against the wall.” The young orc clapped her hands together to demonstrate.

“Ah…the rock wall…” the hobbit muttered, reaching back to rest a hand on his head. “Well, that would make sense, I suppose.”

“Then Gwerr came down and pulled us all out,” Ina quickly added.

There it was again! “An orc saved us?” Carl echoed incredulously, looking at the dwarf who affirmed it.

“It was an orc who handed you up to where we could reach you, Carl. It seems he goes by the name of Gwerr. “

“So we all were saved by an orc?” Carl repeated again, not easily coming to terms with the outlandish notion that he owed his life to the devilish looking brute.

Ina stayed just long enough to nod. Then she took up the orc’s hand once more, and was off to find something to eat, showing Gwella her other friends along the way. Vrór and Carl silently watched them weaving among the staring people.

“But why?” the hobbit finally murmured.

“Hate and mistrust have been bywords for many here who know orcs better then I, but in Ina it appears that tide is turning,” the dwarf observed. “I’m as confused about it as you are Carl, though I saw it with my own eyes. Perhaps the flooding was providential after all.”

“Aye, and if Gwella saved the girl’s life, I'd say by the look of it, Ina's bound and determined to return the favor!” Carl replied. “I only hope no harm comes from it ...or this strange friendship!”

[Undómë]

Mazhg wanted simply to ignore the intrusive voice. She hunkered down even further and focused her attention on the rescue scene, willing it all to be over and they on their way. It was hard to ignore the fellow, however, especially with the nudge in her side from her sister’s elbow drawing it all the more to her attention. A sharp jab . . . and what was that sound? She turned her head, glaring at Zagra. ‘Sha!! What is wrong with you?!’

Zagra’s mouth was pulled up in a wide bow, and she’d raised her hands in an effort to cover it. The little fool was giggling!

‘He said ladies! Us . . . lady you, lady me!’ Zagra glanced quickly toward Rôg and back as quick again at her sister. ‘You know, Mazhg, like that tall lady . . . worked in the fields when we were little-little.’

Mazhg frowned, furrowing her brow at the elusive memory.

‘Her eyes were that ashy color . . . and hair like our color but long. Now you know, Mazhg?’ Zagra sang, in a high raspy voice, some nearly unrecognizable song. She leaned up against her sister, wrapping her arms about herself. ‘She used to smile at me ‘n’ you . . . and sometimes she would sing that little song to us . . . til she went away . . .’

'til she went away . . .

Mazhg had not the heart to tell her sister the lady had most likely been killed. ‘Yeah, I know who you talking about now,’ she said nodding her head. Mazhg put her arm about her sister’s shoulders and drew her close. Zagra hummed bits and pieces of the song, a happy look on her face.

Shifting her position a little, Mazhg looked toward Rôg, her brow raised in question. ‘You, man! What you want with us . . . ladies?’

[piosenniel]

‘Nothing, really,’ Rôg said, sitting fully down, cross-legged, on the sparsely grassed dirt. He leaned forward, elbows on knees; his chin resting on the palm of his left hand. ‘Just to talk, I suppose.’

The fingers of his right hand tapped out a rhythm on a small patch of grass and weeds. ‘You know,’ he went on, humming a little to his fingers’ rhythm. ‘I know that song you’re singing.....Zagra, isn’t it?’ He could almost recall the words, he thought. They were just on the tip of his tongue.

‘Where did you learn it? Do you remember what it’s about?’

[Undómë]

What are you doing?’ Mazhg hissed as reached up to grab at her sister’s wrist. She was not quick enough. Zagra had unfolded herself from where she sat on the ground and started across the small space between her and the odd man. The odd man who somehow knew the song the Lady had sung for her and Mazhg when they were little.

‘Yes, yes, that how it goes,’ she coaxed him. ‘Know words?’ she asked sitting down cross-legged close enough to reach out and touch his leg lightly.

Mazhg crept closer to the pair, amazed at the boldness of her sister. What did Zagra see in this strange fellow that she would trust him even a little?

Ah Bare eth thar en nuu ee I arr...

Zagra’s voice rasped out the mis-shapen sounds, her brow furrowed in concentration as she sang them. ‘The Lady say them about a pretty-pretty Lady, live far away, cross great water.’

She watched Rôg’s face for some glimmer of recognition. ‘You ‘member now?’

From the waistband of her raggedy breeches she fetched out a small object and leaning forward she held it out to him on the palm of her hand. It was of some sort of metal, quite tarnished and encrusted with much dirt. Through the layers of grime, though, some small stone set in it glittered hazily in the light.

‘This was for her hair...the Lady’s. Gave to us,’ Zagra offered shyly, nodding toward her sister. Mazhg’s face softened a little, the old memory rising of one small tender moment in the midst of their harsh lot.

[piosenniel]

‘Why, it’s lovely!’ Rôg brushed some of the grime from what remained of the hair clasp, smiling at the intricate working of the silver filigree. A few more swipes of his sleeve revealed the pale blue color of the stone set in it. He smiled at its loveliness imagining it set against a women’s raven hair....or then again, against some golden tresses. He wondered idly how the Elf had managed to keep this from her captors.

His countenance clouded, a growing sense of horror shifting the lovely scene to one of complete repulsion. Her captors! What had happened to her beneath their cruel handling? What foul hands of Orc and Men had sought to sully her beauty, her spirit? And what had happened to her in the end, he wondered, recalling the sisters’ talk of her in the long-past tense.

He narrowed his eyes, raising them up from this little piece of beauty to the figures of the two Orcs who sat by him. And how is it that the lady had managed in the midst of what must have been nearly beyond bearing to her to reach out to these two?

Rôg rubbed the little pretty thing against the front of his tunic, removing as he did so a few more willing layers of dirt. ‘She must have been lovely....’ He spoke low, his voice a bit husky as he passed the precious trinket back to Zagra.

‘You know, I do remember that song! I first heard it far in the north. Near the mountains and the river where the Wood Elves live.’

He closed his eyes and began to sing, interspersing the Elvish and the Common Speech. His voice, a pleasant, if plain, tenor, was hesitant at first and then grew more confident.

A Bereth thar Ennui Aeair!
O Queen beyond the Western Seas!

Calad ammen i reniar
O light to us that wander

Mi 'aladhremmin ennorath.
Amid the tree-woven lands of Middle-earth.

A Elbereth Gilthoniel
O Elbereth Star-kindler

I chin a thûl lín míriel...
Your eyes and breath are like shining jewels...

[Durelin]

Vrór

Vrór nodded silently at Carl’s words, not sure what was left to say, especially as tired as he was and with so many thoughts filling his head. He watched Ina and Gwella, combinations of fear and anger disturbing him, along with wonder and guilt. He also looked back to the pit and watched as the adult orc who had helped in the rescue was pulled up from the pit by the men. He watched as one young man took the orc by the arm – and slippery as it was he held his grip – to help him out the rest of the way, while the other men simply observed, clearly uncertain.

Uncertain, uneasy was exactly how Vrór felt. He was afraid of what might come of all this, whether or not it was a peaceable outcome. He could only imagine how these men felt, slaves and inhabitants of Mordor, if not by their own choice, who had lived with orcs such as these even as their taskmasters. He was surprised by those who took it so well, such as the young man who helped the orc fully free himself from the pit by his own hand – Hadith, he believed his name was. It did seem the youths were having the easiest time interacting with the creatures. Perhaps he should not think of them as ‘creatures’, but it would be a hard habit to break.

“Clearly there is no longer the question of execution, but few if any will be as quick to…friendship…as Ina.” Vrór frowned. “I hope she does not become too attached to this ‘Gwella’…or Gwerr, was it?”

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Khamir

Khamir was prepared along with the others to pull the orc up. He still held onto the rope as the creature took hold of it, and for a moment or two he put his strength into his one arm and pulled with the other men behind him. But as he watched the orc’s face quickly grow closer, and found himself simultaneously drawn to its eyes and repulsed by the idea of looking into them, he let go of the rope. Khamir rose, glancing at Adnan as he did so that their eyes met, and took several paces toward where Athwen and others cared for the children, as if he wished to check on them.

The Southron saw then one of the children, a girl, her clothes still clinging to her from being saturated, holding hands with the orc child. Or an orc child. Was it even the same one, that had burst from hiding to interrupt the execution? How many were there of these things, hiding around their camp and now walking among them? Khamir turned sharply back to see the one male orc out of the pit. He was not even sure where the others were, or the women.

The children were huddled in blankets, men and women tending to them, helping to dry them off and sharing with them their body heat as the sun was becoming low on the horizon. The Dwarf and Hobbit sat together nearby, talking. Everyone was so calm. It was so quiet. Khamir wanted to scream.

Then he heard Beloan speak, raising his voice even though he specifically addressed only Gwerr. “Tell your companions that you are free to go, and that we will give you what supplies we can to help you on your own journey. And that I give you my word that we will not trouble you should we meet again.”

Khamir strode over to his old friend and grabbed him tightly by the shoulder, forcing him to face him. “Free to go? Just because they have not yet done us harm – and for a time that was only because we did not allow it! – that does not mean they will be so kind to others, especially any who travel in fewer numbers. They are orcs, Beloan, and you are parleying with them? You would help them?”

“They have helped us,” Beloan replied simply, his voice quieter. He seemed to look at his friend with sadness. It made Khamir feel ill. He turned from Beloan with anger and walked away.

Khamir walked a good distance beyond the southern edge of the camp, until finally he collapsed, as if from exhaustion. And he was exhausted – physically, he was tired, but the weariness went far beyond aching muscles. His very will had been extinguished. His will, his reason, his purpose had all been slowly disintegrated in a matter of days. His words no longer held any meaning to anyone, no one followed his judgment anymore. He had lost men, good men…

What had they set out for? A new life, a new beginning, away from the plantations, where they could labor only for their own sakes, their own nourishment and comfort. For the first time Khamir tried to imagine what his role would be in that new life, what he would do. He knew no craft, he could write but only very simply, he had physical strength but was without his right arm… He remembered how greatly his value as a slave had decreased after that orc’s act of blind anger. It had been punished, too. Khamir had been treated worse and worse from then on, as he was no longer really worth keeping alive.

Those orcs had given him nothing but scars, they had only taken away. And yet he lived to see his friend, his friend through it all, let creatures of Mordor walk away untouched, laden with gifts…

But he lived. For what, he no longer knew, but he lived.

[Firefoot]

Grask had been completely forgotten in all the chaos. He’d curled up in a ball by himself at the edge of the brush, cradling his broken arm against his thin body. His sobbing had mostly quieted, though an unbidden tear still sometimes leaked from his eyes. The cruel, cruel men, how they had hurt him! His arm was useless now, completely useless, and any movement would send another shock of pain straight through it.

But none of the rest of them cared. See how he had tried to stick up for Ishkur, yet Ishkur had no thought for him now. And the females, what did they care for just another young Orcling, nearly old enough to be counted among the men? And the Men - ! Grask’s eyes darkened at the thought. He was lucky they had not killed him straight out, and would be lucky again if they didn’t hunt him down now that the activity seemed to be dying out. It occurred to him to move deeper into the brush to hide, but he had neither the strength nor the will. He had not even fetched his short blade from where it had landed earlier when the big brute broke his arm. He had another, though. With just one blade, he was no worse off than he had been before they had stumbled across the Man-camp in the first place.

Contemplating these things, Grask at some point began to shiver, whether from shock, fear, or a sudden chill, or all three. But then, for some inexplicable reason, a soothing sensation came over him. Was that a song? Yes, a song, and far different than any he had ever heard. No Orc could sing like that. It must be one of the Men then… but that thought, rather than invoking more fear, brought only gentle peace to his young heart. Suddenly exhausted, Grask fell swiftly asleep, the song of the Elves in his ears.

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~


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~*~ Pio