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

[piosenniel]

–¤– Khamir –¤–

The slaves snuck glances as the boy was brought back out to the fields. He had been gone for only minutes, but the rest of the slaves had been at the mercy of the whip if they even thought of pausing in their work while they were forced to listen to his screams. What they had done to the child the overseer would have liked to have done to all the slaves, but the survival rate was not good enough to risk losing so many of the laborers. The plantation owner would have his heartstrings for a necklace if he ever put his power and wealth at such risk. Neither was very abundant in Mordor since the defeat of Sauron, particularly wealth. Those who had any wealth or power were those who lived without the constant worry of what to fill their stomachs with. And who had control of the few sources of water.

The boy’s mother put herself at great risk, leaping forward to get to her son, dropping her work. The Orc who dragged the boy out to the fields kicked her down onto her hands and knees. There she groveled and begged just to hear that her son was alright, even though she knew he wasn’t and never would be. She had no hope for his future. She felt terrible guilt for even having given birth to him. He had not deserved it. Her son was completely silent. He had been since even before they brought him out.

“Tell the sow you’re alright and get her to shut up.” The overseer and the Orc holding the boy howled with grating laughter. The boy turned his head to look at his mother. There was a moment when the two’s eyes met and the boy opened his mouth. Nothing came out. His lips moved, but no words were formed. No words, no sound was heard. His mother collapsed to the ground, wailing, not rising even for the stomping and kicking of the other guards, so consumed by her grief. Her son’s tongue had been ripped out, and his vocal cords removed or made unusable through a procedure involving a hot iron. The mother cried and screamed as two guards, one a Man and one an Orc, forcibly pulled her up and dragged her toward the rough shed. She would be taken care of in much the same way, but she did not cry for herself.

The two had been among those who had tried to escape during the short-lived rebellion of the desperate slaves against their master. Mother and son had probably tasted some kind of freedom for a few hours, but they had been recaptured and were being punished and used as tyrannical symbols of fear because of the forbidden fruit that had bitten from. They had not been alone as escapees, though. There were of course others who had shared and would share similar fates, but there were also those who had made it to the mountains. The looming natural barricade of the mountain range seemed to mock them, and yet they saw the peaks as soaring freedom. Some actually planned to scale the mountains and escape to the world beyond; others simply wanted to get as far from the plantation as they could, and toward the southern range of the Ephel Dûath was as good a direction as any that were not back.

Four days after the rebellion, fifty-six of the escapees had collected themselves into a group, looking for others who had escaped and anyone who they could call an ally. Few, as they approached the mountains, actually considered climbing them, no matter how nice they knew or had heard the world beyond them was. For several days, the mountains acted as a hiding place for the fifty slaves that still lived, and become more of a cage than ever. But on the seventh night after their escape, they woke up to find themselves surrounded. Luckily, their stalkers were allies, and useful ones: a gang of ex-slaves, free for varying numbers of years, and staying alive mostly through theft from their former masters. Fierce fighters and superb survivalists, they brought more useful skills to the group. Some of them were truly thieves and killers, but they all had or remembered having family in various forms. They welcomed more hands, even if it meant more mouths to feed. And the two groups discovered quickly, if they had not known it from the start, that there was really very little separating them: both were more than ready for change.

Most had heard, though at least a year later than they should have, that Nurn actually belonged to them. Several years after Elessar’s declaration, word had spread to practically every being in Mordor that, according to the King of Gondor, the slaves were free. And yet they were still being whipped, chained, and treated as animals in the very land they were supposed to own. It was that knowledge that had given the slaves enough hope to risk rebellion, and it was what pushed them now to journey across Mordor to the southern reaches of the Plateau of Gorgoroth. A new wilderness meant a new beginning.

Khamir sat outside the caves in which the rest of the camp slept, the pitch black of night not intimidating in the least, and the crisp rushing of the river not loud to his ears. It was his watch. Every night, he had the last watch. It was just his way, and very few liked to stand in his way. He knew that the night around him could betray him at any moment, but he sat calmly, resting his mind in dreams without sleep. So many nights he had sat up in the same way amongst the sharp rocks at the base of the mountains. What made this night any different? For one thing, the company was different. There were now sixty-four men, women, and children sleeping nearby. It was no longer just the gang, and they no longer only had to worry about themselves. More was not necessarily better, but this group…they brought hope, something that Khamir had long given up on. It felt good to have it back.

He knew he was happier than he had been in years, though he did not smile. He knew the journey ahead would be the roughest he had ever taken, and he feared the numbers they might lose. He knew he had never had to figure out how to feed sixty-five mouths before, and hoped someone else had leadership in mind. He knew all of this, and yet he found peace lingering somewhere in the night air. Very soon he would be able to see the sun inching its way up the horizon. Perhaps it was hope of such a sight that kept him still. He knew hope was a powerful force.

But what he did not know was that, miles away, that same force drove a group shockingly similar to his own. The Orcs, the cruel masters, the savage monsters, the mindless followers of Sauron…they had families that they cared for. And they knew that it was time Nurn was abandoned, along with the old ways. They sought a new way, a new home, and a new beginning. Fifteen Orcs, male and female, young and old, would find a fresh wilderness just as attractive as sixty-five men, women, and children would. Neither knew they had dreamed the same dream, and neither would believe it if they were told so.

But if hope could be shared, why not a journey, a land? Why not a new beginning?

That morning, Khamir found what he could to write a letter that would show just how hopeful recent events had made him. He planned to write to the King of Gondor himself. It was he, Aragorn, Elessar, who had not forgotten the slaves. Perhaps this would be just another reminder? Was it a cry for help, a beseeching of aid, a simple report of the situation? Khamir found himself unable to write a single word for almost an hour, but when he finally started to write, the letter became all three of those things. He told of the slaves’ escape, of he and his fourteen men’s troubles, and of their plan to start anew together. He also told of the difficulties they faced daily, and how they would only double if they ventured to leave the safety of the caves and to a complete wilderness. The word ‘help’ was not there, but it was in every way implied. The letter was given to a trader heading back to Minas Tirith, and Khamir found himself praying for the first time.

Now all they had to do was wait in hope for some kind of answer: preferably one that did not come only in writing.


--- Durelin

[piosenniel]

Brinniel's post - Shae


All slaves sentenced to death were to be executed publicly. Joren was no excuse- he was to be made an example of. The slaves of the southeastern quarters had only been asleep for a couple hours when they were reawakened and ordered to watch the execution. The hundred or so of them rubbed their groggy eyes and gathered around the wooden platform. Shae stood in the front. Joren had been there for her, through good and bad, and she would do the very same until the end. Her brother was dragged onto the platform, bleeding and his head hanging. His ears and tongue were gone, as were his fingers. For several minutes, the guards taunted Joren as they beat him. Then they pulled him to his feet. The executioner sharpened and positioned his blade. For a split second, Joren’s eyes found Shae’s. His expression was not one of fear, but of sincerity and regret. And then it was gone. The blade ran swiftly through his neck and then it was over. The slaves all trudged back to their quarters until there was only Shae left. Hands clenched into fists and feet planted to the ground, she found herself unable to take her eyes off her brother’s body. Then something in the dirt- a shine of silver- caught her eye. Shae reached down and picked up the item. It was a necklace- Joren’s necklace. The small symbol of the White Tree glowed dully underneath the stars. It was the last bit of her brother she had left. Tonight was the first night Shae was completely alone.

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

Shae woke suddenly, clutching the necklace, her forehead beaded with sweat. Taking a deep breath, she allowed her senses to return and opened her eyes. All around her, bodies were sprawled out inside the cave, fast asleep.
Great, she thought. It’s still night.
Shae was tired of having the same dream. Almost every night she witnessed Joren’s murder over and over again. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get her brother out of her head.

Shae sat up and unwrapped the rag on her left hand. Scars covered her palm and the most recent wound was only beginning to heal. Shae unlatched a dagger from her belt and used it to reopen the wound. The familiar pain felt soothing to Shae and as the blood poured from her hand, so did the memories of Joren’s death.

As Shae rewrapped her hand, one of the slave escapees kicked her foot in his sleep, startling her. Shae was not used to the large size of the group. For over a month, there had been only fifteen of them. She enjoyed the small number- all could carry their own weight and most were quiet and kept to themselves. Last night, the ex-slaves stumbled upon a large group of slave escapees and suddenly the number jumped from fifteen to sixty-five. There would be no privacy.

Outside, Shae could see a line of pink on the horizon. Dawn was approaching. No point in trying to go back to sleep now. Brushing back strands of tangled hair, she stood up and stepped outside, waiting for the sun to rise.

“Couldn’t sleep again?”
Shae turned around to find Khamir, as usual, on the last watch of the night.
She shook her head. “No. Too much to think about.”
“I know what you mean.” Khamir paused a moment before continuing. “We have sixty-five mouths to feed. I think we need to have a hunting party go out this morning. You up to it?”
“Of course,” she replied. “Aren’t I always? How about you?”
“No,” he said, scanning the sky. “I have a letter to write.”

[piosenniel]

Orofaniel's post - Reagonn


There was a blaze of heat. Reagonn awoke in his shelter discovering that it was filled with thick, dark grey smoke. He quickly noticed the wave of panic that spread among the slaves and soon cries of agony and horror filled Reagon’s ears. Still half-asleep, he managed to get up and at this point, his instincts were quite clear: he felt the urge, or moreover the necessity, to escape from this place. Nevertheless, as he got up he could feel the years of labour finally sink in, and he became utterly disorientated and confused. The legs beneath his crippled body now seemed to fail to support him, and he fell slowly to the ground with a short thud.

The blaze was now spreading rapidly, and he could feel his senses weakening as he inhaled the poisonous smoke. Feeling suffocated, he witnessed the masses of slaves running past him as they hurried to get out, he tried to cry out for help, but his voice failed to cut through the loud voices and the sounds of cracking building material. The ceiling in the left corner of the shelter now started collapsing, and Reagonn could see two slaves running as fast as they could to avoid being trapped beneath the burning wood – all in vain. They cried out as the heavy material hit them, and although chaos surrounded him and the air was filled with voices, Reagonn could somehow feel the vibrating silence from the left corner of the shelter. As he crawled further towards the exit, he knew his last minutes had come. Feeling trapped, Reagonn felt helpless and utterly alone. Yet, the situation did not distress him, like it might have distressed others. On the contrary Reagonn now felt somewhat relieved; finally, he was to be realised from the pain…the suffering…the agony in which he had lived for years. Reagonn had waited for this moment.

Nevertheless, the fright that suddenly struck him was not at all unexpected.

“Get up,” someone cried.

Alarmed by this command, he came to his senses, and trying to regain his balance, he stood up. Walking more steadily now, he felt that things were clearer. Almost all the slaves had evacuated by now, yet he could still hear cries, although he could not conclude whether they came from inside the shelter or outside. Reagonn turned and watched the flames surround him and the lifeless bodies on the ground; They were victims of this ruthless fire... In the life-threatening situation, Reagonn did not have much time to think, yet he could not help feeling sorry for these slaves. He had laboured with for many years and now he was witnessing the miserable fate they had faced.

Would this be his destiny as well?

Witnessing this he realised that it was time for his second attempt to escape. Not only from the fire, but from the plantation.

**

The palm of his hand felt sweaty against the pale skin of his face. He was half-asleep, half awake. This dream, which he had dreamt so many times before would not leave him. These shadows, these nightmares, from the plantation tormented him, and continued to confuse him. And always, near fully awaking, he saw the same face…the same smile and the very same expression in front of him – in the redish monstrous flames. A younger self started back at him, almost identical, yet some of his features shared no resemblance with his own, whatsoever. He was around Bornir’s age, his only friend in life whom had been brutally punished by the plantation’s master - yet it wasn’t him. Thinking about Bornir he could felt enraged, yet this time he felt a wave of pure hatred and rage build up inside of him like never before. After that was just the bitterness...The bitterness he was used to.

Who was he? There was no answer, just a blur of confusion, a foggy maze with no beginning or end. More questions rose, only to be forgotten again while silently awaking from this horror of a nightmare. Like so many times before he awoke while clutching his knife and gasping for air. His eyes were wide open filled with dread as he felt the pearls of sweat running down from his forehead.

[piosenniel]

Nogrod's post - Hadith


Hadith heard of the plan two days before it was going to be put into action. It was not a clumsy one of his own making, but a realistic one embedded in the grander scale rebellion that had been talked quietly for months all over the plantation. Kurrah and Zilin, the influential elders in their barracks were the minds behind it. Their barracks would not take part in the rebellion but would use the opportunity to just go for their own. Kurrah and Zilin thought the whole idea of a common rebellion to be pure madness and fantasy of the hotheads. It would just lead to more suffering: many would die and the rest would in any case be rounded up and the conditions would turn even worse with lots of new tougher rules and regulations, not to talk of some general punishments everyone would have to bear after the uprising. But the general disorder could be used for their benefit. They could sneak out in the overall confusion by first giving an impression to the guards that they were not involved.

The rebellion broke some moments after midnight. All the doors of the barracks were bursted open with the forordained signal from one of the barracks and the angry slaves ran out from them, challenging the guards on duty. There was a general alarm and in an instant the frenzied slaves saw the orc and easterling soldiers rushing in to bring order to the plantation and cut the rebellion down to its beginning.

Kurrah and Zalin had waited a short moment after they heard the uprising had begun and then carefully opened the door of their barracks. As their door had stayed closed when the mayhem started, only three orc-guards were left to keep an eye of their barracks. The others had rushed to help in the fight that was now in full flare. Kurrah and Zilin had distracted the orc-guards by quering them about the situation when the general uprising had begun. While their guards were busy trying to have an eye of the general situation and explaining it to Kurrah and Zilin, the others from the barracks had a chance to sneak out. Soon the guards got hang of what was going on, but then Kurrah and Zilin attacked them with forks and spoons. All items one could call a weapon were left to those who would try to escape. Hadith had not been given a weapon as he was deemed too young to claim one with the shortage of them, but he had his sling and the crude knife that he had made himself in the general anticipation of the rebellion.

Those two older men sacrificed themselves to get the others out that night. And they made it. Some of the other older men – and a few women - had decided to sacrifice themselves too, and that really made the difference as they entered the battle between the two older men and the three orcs. The orc-guards had no chance to report that the “peaceful“ barracks had done a runaway as they had to fight for their lives against a dozen of elderly people armed with kitchen utensils. The heroism of these elders saved the others of that barracks on that night. The fleeing slaves heard their cries as they ran away from the barracks.

Before long one easterling chieftain noted the escape of one of the barracks in the middle of the fight. Even though bringing down the general rebellion tied up lots of the orc-forces and the Easterling guards, some horsemen were sent to trail them too. Soon the escaping slaves heard the horses coming after them. Hadith looked back to see the whole plantation lit and full of movement. Other slaves fought bravely but most of them were fast rounded up and beaten back to their barracks. Two small groups of riders sent after them both were seemingly taking a wrong direction.

Hadith’s heart was thumping and his hands were trembling from excitement. They were free! Or at least they might be! After they had crossed the fields, the small hills and knolls covered them with the aid of darkness spreading over the plains. They had actually escaped! The thought kept crawling into his mind, and everytime he tried to push it away. It’s not sure yet, anything could happen. It was an idea so huge he couldn’t just take it. To be free! To be not pushed around, to be not told what to do. How could he decide what to do? Like for example tomorrow morning? Whether to wake up or not, whether to dress or not? It was fantastic and scary at the same time. Well the remaining elders will tell me what to do and where to go, he thought to himself, a bit saddened and relieved at the same time. There was some order in his life anyhow.

A riding search-party of the Easterlings actually spotted them on the next day, but they were so clearly outnumbered and being so far away from any reinforcements, that they didn’t even try to round them up but let them go. That was the confirmation for Hadith. They actually were free now.

During the same day some individual escapees from other barracks who had escaped the searching parties joined their ranks. They were welcomed, but there were no great hurraahs’ about. After a couple of days they were taken unawares by a small group of other ex-slaves. They seemed a ragged and tough party of people. To Hadith they were heroes – and he was thinking, that he would too become like them. A hero, no longer a slave. A free man.

[piosenniel]

Firefoot's post - Johari


Rebellion, they had said. Escape. Johari hadn’t cared about much more than that, not about how the rest of them planned to get out nor even if they would be successful. Only one thought occurred to her: Kalin. Now would be her chance to find him. She didn’t care about the rest of them, but she would escape. She would find him.

There was no hope involved in her determination. Hope was like water, Johari had once decided: once you learn to live with plenty of it, life becomes all the harder without it. And hope died slowly: it was more like a thousand little deaths that wasted you away until you were nothing. Johari had seen it happen in her mother and had experienced it herself; it was better simply to live without hope. Then you were never disappointed, as you surely would be in this forsaken land that killed all hopes. No, her determination resulted from the conviction that eventually she would escape and that she would find him. If not this time, there would be a next time. There would always be a next time.

It was a fact, and therefore required no hope or effort to believe in. It simply was.

The night came. Chaos reigned supreme. Slaves, singly, in pairs, in mobs, all ran, fueled by the hope and promise of freedom. Only some would make it away – only some would survive; the rest, hopes quashed, would be returned to their barracks and to work the next day. Johari did not think of this. She did not think at all. She just ran.

She avoided their dogs, more out of instinct than conscious decision. She did not stay and fight, she did not stop to help the others. She just ran.

Towards the mountains. Kalin was a smart boy. He would have taken refuge there. Rumors even existed that other escaped slaves were living in those mountains; he might have found them. She shifted her course, practically flying through the fields - not caring whether she trampled the growing crops - into the hills beyond: already farther than she had ever traveled in her life. It was only now as she reached this comparative safety that she slowed her pace. Her legs and lungs were burning, and her make-shift pack thumped uncomfortably on her back. She did not stop completely, though, but kept moving, always listening for pursuit behind her. At one point she heard hoof-beats, but she stayed in the shadows and never saw them anyway.

On into the night she walked, never once feeling the ecstatic rush of freedom that might be expected. For her, escape was not the realization of hopes and dreams. Once it might have been; now it was only fact fulfilled.

In the next days, she found a group of escaped slaves and was welcomed into their fold. It did not occur to them that Johari was content, happier even, to travel by herself. She did not feel heartened by their presence; she did not care that they, too, had escaped. She had a purpose, and these ones would not help her with it… especially when they started discussing settling down and hiding in the foothills of the mountains while they decided what to do. Johari already knew what she wanted; she didn’t care what the rest of them did. Nevertheless, she had reluctantly decided to at least stay the night there with them; she wouldn’t get any farther in the dark.

The next morning they found themselves surrounded. Johari quickly realized, as did the rest of the escaped slaves, that these tough-looking strangers were not trying to capture them but help them. Maybe they would know about Kalin – she would certainly be asking…

[piosenniel]

Novnarwen's post - Aedhild


"Everywhere! They are everywhere! The devils!" Aedhild shrieked and cursed. It was early morning; the wet grass under her feet witnessed of the damp night air. The sun hadn't even rolled over the horizon, and yet, the ex-slave was up, growling. Her shrilly voice echoed; as the sound of her voice hit the stone walls of the caves, it sent out a wave of roars and noise, awakening the rest of the camp. With a peculiar expression, she jumped up and down, sprang from one side to another, twitching and shaking. The excitement reflected in her eyes seemed to belong to a being of another world; her movements were awkward and alien.

Few of the ex-slaves didn’t know that Aedhild was a highly unusual character. Already from the very beginning, they had noticed that she was different from most other they had stumbled upon in life; not only did she act irresponsibly and without thinking, but it had also become known amongst them that it was impossible to predict how she would respond to any given situation. In some cases, they would find her sitting quietly, completely avoiding eye contact, and keeping silent for hours and in rare cases days at a time. Occasionally on those particular days, she would perhaps mutter a few words, but no one could make out their meaning. Other times however, she would scream, curse, yes, act very much in the same way as she was acting now. These times, she would narrow her eyes suspiciously, walk about, and snap at people who appeared in any way she didn’t like or approve of. Unfortunately for everyone else, no one knew exactly what she did approve of. On these walkabouts, threats would roll any of the ex-slave's way, regardless of whether she had set her eyes on them before or not. The rest of the slaves had come to an agreement; though not spoken out loud, everyone seemed to share the same view on this particular matter; in sheer fright that Aedhild would do harm to anyone, or herself, sharp objects such as knives and daggers were kept from her.

“Lice! They are everywhere!” Bleary eyed and tense with excitement, the woman looked wildly around at the small group of people that surrounded her. Pointing fingers at all of them, she cursed violently, accusing each and every of them of conspiracies; her paranoia seemed endless. “You! You traitor! You have come to give us in, you sneaky scoundrel! Hand us over to them, think you are?!” As she spoke, saliva rained from her mouth. Her voice was cool and desperate, the volume increasing by a notch for every word: “He did this!” she continued, pointing directly toward a bearded youngster. “He spread those foul creatures, sent them to drive me mad! You filthy sc-sc...!!!!” Her words drowned in her screams as she sprang forwards; both her arms outstretched, she aimed for him. Terrified by this extreme behaviour and unexpected turn of events, the man named Eirnar took a few steps back, desperately looking around for a helping hand.

No on knew exactly where Aedhild came from; none of the slaves recognized her from the plantation they'd served, and even Aedhild hadn’t been able to explain in detail where she had worked and about her origins. Of appearance, she was a short, skinny woman, her skin dark, something that definitely could suggest that she was a Haradrim or of similar heritage. Other features gave another impression however, and since most people were growing tired of speculating about other slaves’ origins, Aedhild remained like many others; a slave with no past, who had just recently found freedom, the latter being obviously the most important point of focus. Aedhild was neither remarkably ugly, nor remarkably pretty. Her once perhaps handsome face seemed aged with the hardships she had endured. Her cheekbones had become slightly too prominent in her face during the last couple of years to make her appear beautiful, but her mouth was delicately formed and gave if not a pleasant appearance at least a hint of kindness. Sadly, the pallor of her face was sickly, and her pair of unusually grey, glossy eyes seemed to dominate her face altogether now. As her age was starting to show, her once dark brown hair was thinning with a hurried pace, and the bald spot on the right side of her head seemed to become more and more obvious. Years of abuse and beatings had marked her, more than she would ever come to realise herself.

As she came nearer, she closed her right hand into a fist. Still screaming, she hit him with all her might. It is difficult to say whether it was the power of that particular blow or if it was the shock of being hit by a stranger, a supposed ally, that made Eirnar stagger for a moment; regaining his balance however, he quickly managed to manoeuvre out of her way, avoiding a second blow. With one hand caressing his already red cheek, he grasped a hold of the short woman with the other. Aedhild wailed in horror; she kicked, spat and cursed, trying to loosen the man’s grip; “You traitor! You want to take me back! ”

Their eyes met for second; her grey eyes cool, but still empty of emotions. With a quick blow, Eirnar struck her unconscious. She never heard the man uttering a few words: "That will calm you down." Only those close by could hear the heavy heartedness in the tone of his voice.

[piosenniel]

Child of the 7th Age’s post - Elessar


Elessar set down the letter on his desk, walked over to the window, and stared off into the distance. Here at the summit, he could look down and see the gleaming white towers and six lower tiers that characterized Minas Tirith, the chief city of Gondor. The streets were far more crowded than they had been a short while ago, since the city's population continued to grow. This was only one of the many accomplishments in the past ten years. The ancient lands of Gondor and Arnor had been reclaimed and reunited. The Hobbits of the Shire, the Elves of Greenwood, and the Ents of Isengard could be counted among the many Free Peoples of Middle-earth who enjoyed complete self government with freedom to maintain their local customs. Representatives from the king had even managed to reach a rough understanding with their long-time enemies, the Easterlings and Haradrim.

Despite the return of peace and prosperity, one troubling problem remained. Early in Elessar's reign, the king had declared that the lands of Nurn be gifted to the slaves of Mordor. This edict had proven difficult to enforce. In the region south of the Sea of Núrnen, most of the slaves had revolted and secured their freedom, setting up fortified villages where they could defend themselves against Orc attacks and till their fields in relative peace. In the region north of the Sea, the situation was different. With Sauron's restraining hand removed, local strongmen with armed retinues continued to repress the slaves and deny them freedom. Eager to extend their authority and gain more land, these tyrants engaged in constant warfare both among themselves and against the Orcs who roamed throughout the region. Gondor had sent soldiers to try and topple these petty rulers, and the troops had scored an easy victory. But the moment the armies were dispatched back home, another strongman emerged and reasserted control over the slaves.

Elessar had once hoped that the slaves could flee the plantations and find refuge in the fortified villages to the south. Given the chaos that dominated the area, it was very possible for slaves to slip off into the night and simply disappear. But the neighboring communities were too young and fragile, and lacked sufficient stores of food to offer a home to more than a handful of deserters. What was needed was a safe haven for the refugees to go, someplace where they could begin a new life. They could not remain in the area near the Sea of Núrnen or even on the Ash Plain to the north because of the presence of numerous gangs of Orcs. More than one group of escapees had managed to elude the dogs and posses of the slaveholders only to perish at the hands of Orcs. The slaves of Mordor were now a forgotten problem that no one had the knowledge or heart to resolve.

For the first time, however, after reading the missive, Elessar felt a tiny glimmer of hope. The letter, for all its rough and ragged appearance, had been written by a slave leader who understood the problems of his people and had some notion how to solve them. Though the message had been penned by one who could barely read or write, its meaning was unmistakable. A group of fifty slaves had raised an armed rebellion, managing to escape and take refuge in caves along the foothills of the southern mountains. There, they had been greeted by fifteen other men, the beleaguered remnants of an earlier band of run-away slaves.

Both groups agreed they could not stay in their temporary shelter. The ex-slaves were insistent that the situation was too dangerous, since brutal Orc attacks had recently become a frequent occurrence. Yet where could the refugees go? It was one of the new escapees who came up with an audacious plan to head north to the southeastern corner of the Sea and then across the Ash Plain, making for the southern reaches of the Plateau of Gorgoroth and attempting to establish a village there. The petitioner had written this letter, humbly requesting that Gondor send representatives from the Free Peoples of Middle-earth to help protect them on the journey, individuals who could also teach them the skills needed to forge a new community.

Aragorn shook his head in amazement. It was at once a bold and utterly perilous suggestion. As far as the King knew, no party had made it across the Ash Plain in recent years. Roving bands of Orcs and other outlaws made the passage dangerous as well as unnamed shadows that had been unknowingly left behind when Sauron departed the earth. At the very least, the journey would be a challenge. Even if they made the crossing, there was no certainty of success at the end. The Plateau of Gorgoroth was uninhabited, a veritable wilderness. Farming would be difficult at best, since there were no substantial bodies of water nearby.

Still, if the feat could be done, if a new community could be established, the possibilities were enormous. Freed slaves from other plantations would finally have a place to go. Aragorn conjectured that, once the village was well established, it could even send couriers back to encourage other slaves to revolt, guiding them across the Ash Plain to the safe refuge that lay beyond. Half-way camps could even be established. One village could multiply and eventually become a whole network of thriving outposts. So much suffering could be avoided! The image was simply too appealing for Elessar to resist.

The King felt a strange yearning to join the group himself. What an exciting and worthwhile endeavor it would be. But that was no longer possible, since his own responsibilities as well as the presence of his beloved wife and children required him to stay in Minas Tirith. This adventure would have to go to others.

Aragorn quietly began humming the tune of an old ballad as he wrote out the orders for each individual whom he would ask to join the group. Dwarves, Elves, Men, and Hobbits--they must all be included. This might be the last time that all the Free Peoples were called together in a common goal of such great importance. The soul of Mordor was at stake. It would take a fellowship--the Fellowship of the Fourth Age--to rise to such a challenge and guarantee a new beginning for the people of Mordor.

[piosenniel]

Child of the 7th Age's post – Lindir and Aiwendil


The old man sat huddled at his writing desk, spluttering and fuming under his breath as he fixed his attention on the paper in front of him. The message had been written on the finest parchment. At the top of the sheet he could see the seal of the King. In his intense concentration, Aiwendil had bent his upper body so close to the letter that his nose almost grazed the tabletop. The Istar had piercing blue eyes and a mop of dishevelled hair with grey locks falling forward into his face. An owl perched on his left shoulder and occasionally leaned over to nibble affectionately at his ear.

Rereading the message for the twenty-third time, Aiwendil sat upright, waggled his finger in the air, and glared across the room, trumpeting for the attention of his friend. He directed his words at an Elf who stood by the window gazing down on the buildings of Minas Tirith. The latter was called Lindir. He wore a travel stained cloak and plain brown breeches. Anyone observing this unassuming figure from a distance could easily have mistaken him for a Mannish farmer or even a tradesman. The only telltale hint of his origin was an intricate silver brooch clasped near his throat, a piece of amazing craftsmanship passed down from countless ages before.

The Elf had initially paid no attention to Aiwendil's obvious consternation. He was clearly used to his companion's whims. Now the Istar's voice rose sharp and insistent, "It says there is to be a Fellowship to rescue the soul of Mordor." Aiwendil fixed his eyes on Lindir and grimly shook his head, "Tell me. What have I got to do with Mordor? Does this assignment make sense? I know nothing about the slaves in Mordor. Plus, this is a mission for an army of young men, not for an old birdwatcher like myself."

Lindir's response was affectionate, almost as if he was humoring a child, "But you have just spent the past hour telling me how you found meaning in Harad and had decided to stay in Middle-earth to see if you could help. Frankly, I can think of no one in Arda who needs help more than these slaves of Mordor. The conditions there are appalling. They are in desperate need of someone to guide and protect them."

"Yes, that is the problem," the Istar countered. "There is this little matter about protection. Even in Harad I did not have to face a crowd of angry Orcs."

"It is dangerous. I cannot deny that. But if it makes you feel any better, I also received an invitation from the King, not an hour before, and I intend to say 'yes'."

"You too? What are we to have.... a First Age reunion? A pack of greybeards turned loose on the worst problems in the Reunited Kingdom? At least you look to be younger and in better shape than I am, though you lack the looks of Legalos."

At this point Lindir grinned broadly at his companion. But before the Elf could respond, Aiwendil had continued, "Couldn't the King have come up with some young blood? Or perhaps Aragorn has decided that we two are expendable." There was a wisp of a smile on the Istar's face.

"Aiwendil, I am ashamed of you! Look at this list. There is no lack of young healthy folk in our party. I expect that Aragorn felt a little seasoning was needed to keep these enthusiastic adventurers from running off a cliff. And surely the slaves we go to help could also benefit from a cool, sage head. I, for one, am looking forward to this. You are going, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am going," spluttered the old man, almost sounding offended. "How can there be a Fellowship without an Istar? And you didn't think I'd let you go off on your own with something as important as this?"

"But what about your manservant, that young fellow you speak so highly of? Is he also coming?"

"That is the interesting part," mused Aiwendil. "The last time I was at court, Rôg had the chance to speak with Elessar. The King talked with him some time and was so impressed that he has added his name to the list of adventurers quite apart from my own. I cannot say why for sure. Rôg has some unusual gifts. But I would suspect it is his knowledge of Harad and the East that impressed the King. The largest group of slaves in Mordor hail from those parts, and most men of Gondor know little of their ways. In any case, whatever Elessar's reason, it is a wise choice. Perhaps Rôg will come by before we leave and let us know his decision."

Lindir raised his eyebrows sharply. "And you were the one who said you knew nothing about the slaves of Mordor?"

"Perhaps I exaggerated a bit," the Istar responded drolly. "In any case, I will surely know more a month from now than I do today. We must leave in the morning. One other thing....it would be best if there was no mention of my background or homeland. For all practical purposes, I am an old Mannish teacher who will be teaching slaves their sums and their letters."

"But what if you have to show your hand one day?"

"I'll deal with that then." With that terse answer, Aiwendil went over to the shelf, pulled down a book of maps, and began tracing out the route with his finger.

[piosenniel]

piosenniel's post - Rôg


The young man, Gaerion, knocked firmly on the smooth wood door, then stepped back a pace, hearing the footsteps from within draw nearer. He looked about the little courtyard in which he stood. It was lush with flowers; many of them he knew were of the sort which attracted little birds. He smiled, knowing the one who lived here would be pleased that he had managed to recall this bit of information. Gaerion had delivered many messages here and never gotten away yet without some small lesson on this or that.

Rôg peeked through the small, barred peephole in the door, wondering who had come for a visit so early in the morning. Gaerion! Fresh faced, his black livery spotless, boots gleaming from the polishing he must have given them just this morning. His grey eyes were clear, and shone, it seemed to Rôg, with a spirit of hope and the expectation of a life open to possibility. It was a welcome sight to Rôg’s eyes. There had been too many years, he thought, when hope lay under shadow and possibility was thwarted by despair.

‘Come in, come in!’ He opened the door wide and ushered Gaerion in, pointing towards the small table near the window where he’d just sat down to eat his morning meal. ‘There’s plenty,’ Rôg said, motioning to an empty chair as he sat back down in his own. ‘Fruit, cheese….and here, let me pour you a cup of wine. It’s from the south. Very light, very refreshing.’

‘What’s this?’ He took the slender roll of parchment from Gaerion, exchanging it for the basket of thick sliced bread he’d passed the young man. Rôg untied the thin ribbon and unrolled the parchment. His eyes scanned the writing; he smiled as he read the signature written boldly at the bottom. ‘From the King,’ Rôg said.

Gaerion nodded as he stuffed a fig into his mouth. He bit back a grin at the obviousness of this conclusion. A swig of wine followed, a delighted smile affirming the young man’s pleased approval. ‘Delivered one to the old fellow too.’ He looked chagrined as Rôg raised a brow at him. ‘Aiwendil, then,’ he said, making an apology of sorts. ‘The Elf fellow was there, too.’ Gaerion took another sip of wine. He supposed he should be discreet; the King’s man had not made mention of what the messages said, only that the King wanted them delivered as quickly as possible. But, he was young and curious, and so he asked Rôg outright what the King had written.

‘It’s about the land across the river. Mordor. The King has received a request for aid from some of those who live there. He’s sending a group of us to look into it and give them assistance.’ Rôg took a small cluster of fat red grapes and plucked one off. ‘Though I wonder what he thinks I can do.’ He popped the grape into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘Most likely he wants me to keep the old fellow out of trouble.’ Rôg grinned at Gaerion who’d raised his brows in mock remonstrance of calling Aiwendil ‘the old fellow’.

Breakfast done, the farewells made, and Rôg returned to his chair to peruse the King’s letter again. In a hastily scrawled note at the bottom of the page, Elessar had mentioned men of the East, slaves at one time in the Dark Land, were among those who had asked for assistance. And would Rôg, in addition to using his knowledge of wells, and irrigation systems, be sure to look to any special needs that those of his homeland might have. He frowned; the thought of any of his clan or kind, under the will and whips of the Dark Lord, and after him his as-cruel minions made him shudder despite the increasing warmth of the day.

It took very little time for him to pack. Other than a change of clothes and his pens and notebooks, Rôg had few essentials he couldn’t live without. He thrust his hand axe through his belt, to which he’d also secured his knife. Last of all was his walking stick; once in his hand he strode out the door of his little apartment and closed it securely. Gaerion had agreed to look after the little place while he was gone.

In a few moments he was at Aiwendil’s rooms, entering the door without a knock. The old fellow was bent over a book of maps his finger tracing the way for the Elf who stood at his side.

‘Well, I’m ready!’ he looked from one to the other of them as he banged his stick on the stone floor. His gaze settled on Aiwendil. ‘Just promise me this trip will involve no travel by water….that’s all I ask.’

[piosenniel]

Durelin's post - Vrór


“Oi, watch that end of it!”

Two men were hoisting up a block of stone to find its place among the hundreds of other blocks that were almost seamlessly sealed together to form a great wall. Above them, the Tower of Ecthelion gleamed in the sunlight. Sweat glistened on their brow, and their skin was a soft brown from all the time they had spent in the sun the past few weeks. Working under the command of Vrór, they had received very little time out of it. But they did not grudge the Dwarf for it. He was just as hard working as any of them, if not more.

And in testament to this, Vrór was of course hard at work with hammer and chisel, shaping a chunk of marble that had begun as a block and was now far from cubic. Turned away from the two men pulling up the stone, he had caught out of the corner of his eye the block slipping to one side in its harness.

“So he has eyes somewhere behind that mass of hair,” the one muttered.

“And ears, too!” came a quick response from the Dwarf. It came as a gruff bark, grating with what many might call anger, but the two workers knew better. The one only rolled his eyes, while the other tried and failed to stifle laughter.

Vrór smiled as he heard the stone block clack safely into position, but did not pause for a moment in his work. He seemed to know exactly where to make the next chisel, and truly, he did. He had drawn out models and blueprints and charts, and even carved out a smaller version of this creation. Perhaps he wasn’t the speediest of workers, but it was obvious to anyone that he got the job done, and the finished product was perhaps even better than one had expected. “It always does look better up to scale,” he would say, obvious in his modesty, and perhaps even more obvious in his pride.

So engrossed in his work, he did not notice when he was approached from behind. “Excuse me, sir?” came a voice obviously nervous about disturbing a Dwarf in his work. “I have a message for you, sir.”

Putting down his tools, Vrór turned to look at the man. He seemed fairly young, still rather rosy cheeked, and probably had just recently lost his baby fat. Looked to be shaping up to be a fine looking young man, though. He was dressed in the fancy attire of one of the King’s servants. The White Tree emblazoned on his tunic, shining practically brighter than the sun with the light reflection off it. The Dwarf grunted.

“They’ve even got the messengers all dressed up these days? Well, I’ll be. I suppose this,” he gestured with his hand only slightly, but in a way that obviously pointed to the man’s entire outfit, “is a sign of prosperity.”

He paused for a moment, and was met only by silence from the messenger, though the workers found his words rather amusing. The one that could not resist laughter before didn’t even try to this time. The other spoke up, “Gondor will only get richer, but I’ll always be stuck with these linens.”

Vrór grunted again. The young man in front of him coloured slightly, and seemed to feel more awkward by the second. The Dwarf smiled at him, shaking his head. “We’re only teasing, lad. I’m surprised to see such a young man already in such a fine position,” he said with kindness and sincerity. “Now, what have you got for me?”

The young man smiled back, and with a short bow, he handed a piece of paper with the King’s seal to Vrór. “Well, now, don’t I feel special,” the Dwarf remarked, seeing the seal.

He opened the letter, and, as he read it, his eyes widened. It was indeed from the King himself, and… A Fellowship? Vrór let out a snort. And he supposed he was the token Dwarf for this venture. It noted his skill as a stonemason, and now he grunted at the paper before him. He scanned the page. No, nothing about his metalwork. Reaching the end of the message, he let out a sigh, shaking his head.

“Well, lads,” he called out to the two Men who had paused in their work, both still surprised that they had not been yelled at to get back to it, “do you think you’ll be alright without me?”

[piosenniel]

Folwren's post - Athwen


“Mistress Athwen, will it be alright?” the little boy asked.

Athwen smiled sweetly without looking up from her work. “Yes, it will be fine, so long as you do as you’re told and don’t touch it.” She gently swabbed at the cut with a clean, wet cloth. “That’s a nasty scratch you got yourself, lad,” she said. “How did you manage it?”

“My brother got me with a stick,” the boy replied. With his unwounded arm, he drew his sleeve across his nose. “Mum can’t stand the sight of blood and it hurt something awful. Are you sure it’ll be alright?”

Athwen nodded again to his urgent question. “Yes. Especially after I wrap it up. What was your brother doing with a sharp pointed stick?” She knew better than to add ‘he could have killed you with something like that!’, though it was obviously clear from the cut the child’s stick had inflicted. She asked herself mentally if all Gondorian boys were so violent.

“We were playing battle. Our father fought years ago in a great war and he tells about killing trolls and all kind of things. Berl was supposed to be the troll and I was Father because I’m smaller, but he didn’t like being the troll and he got mad.” Athwen nodded understandingly. She held the arm gently in her hand while she put down the wet cloth and picked up a roll of bandaging cloth. “Will that hurt?” her young patient demanded, stiffening. “When you wrap it around it, won’t it hurt?”

“Actually, it will feel good. I promise you it won’t hurt. Now, hold your arm out for me. I need both my hands to do this.” The boy obeyed and Athwen wrapped the arm from the wrist to nearly the elbow. She tied it on, securely but gently. “There you go, my man,” she said, stepping back. “You’re all patched up.” She smiled at him before turning away to talk to the boy’s mother, sitting nearby. “I’ve bandaged it up. The wrap will stay, so long as he doesn’t touch it. It will not stay on tonight when he sleeps, though, unless it is re-wrapped and re-tied carefully and he doesn’t toss and turn much in his sleep.”

“Will he be alright?” the woman asked anxiously, standing up.

“Yes, he’ll be fine. I cleaned it out and you came to me directly, so no infection had already settled in. I suggest you take away the sharp play things from your boys, though. You might have worse things to handle next time. Tomorrow morning, wash it again with soap and clean water. If you have any oil from the olive or any lavender, put that on it, and then wrap it with new cloth. Keep it wrapped gently until it scabs, and then be sure that he doesn’t pick at it.”

“We will. Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome,” Athwen replied with a smile. She nodded goodbye and waved to the boy as the two of them left.

Athwen turned to wash her hands and then clean up her work place. She was fastening the lid of the box with bandages and ointments when a knock came at the door. Her hands paused in their work, and then with a sigh, she stood up.

“I didn’t want another patient just now. I want Dorran.” But she still prepared a smile as she opened the door.

Instead of a young mother holding the hand of a crying child as Athwen half expected, there stood on the doorstep a young man wearing the black and white livery of the Citadel. She blinked in surprise.

“Lady Athwen?” the man asked. She nodded, expectant. “I was to deliver this to you.” He extended a letter and she reached out to get it.

“Thank you!” she said. He bowed and turned to walk away. She watched him go until he went out the gate into the road, then her eyes turned towards the letter. On the front of it her name had been written in black, swirling ink. Turning it over, she saw and recognized the impression of the king’s ring in the sealing wax. Again she had cause to blink her dark lashes at it.

Without looking up away from the letter, she closed the door and walked to the same chair that the boy’s mother had sat in. She lowered herself into it and then gently broke the wax. The fine, cream colored parchment made a soft crinkling sound as she opened it. The king’s seal was at the top and the letter that ran below it. She read the entire thing over once. . .twice, and then she put it down on her knees. Her blue eyes scanned the room in front of her. They passed over the table and chairs where she and her husband ate, the cupboards where dishes and food was kept, the pitcher of water standing on the counter, and the door leading back to another room. Then she picked up the letter again and read it a third time.

‘. . .to go with the fellowship to cure and to heal as your skills are required along the way. . .’

“To free the slaves and help them live on their own?” Athwen whispered. “He wants me to go? Clearly that’s what he’s asking. . .” She sat upright and refolded the letter. It would wait until Dorran returned and they could talk it over. His name was written on the list beneath the letter, but she didn’t know if he had accepted. They would discuss it when he returned home. Would he accept the mission himself? She knew what he had gone through in his past and she also knew how horrible it was for old memories to be stirred up. If he did not go, he would not want her to go, either, and she would not wish to go alone anyway.

She stood up and put the letter on the table. There it would wait until Dorran returned. Athwen put her hands to work, cleaning the house that was practically entirely clean already. Her mind turned the contents of the letter over and over again. Alone, though, she could not make up her mind of whether she wanted to go or not. But was it even a request? Or was it an order?

Whatever it was, it would wait until Dorran was home.

[piosenniel]

Tevildo's post - Dorran


Dorran carefully threaded his way through the crowded streets and byways, reining in his mount so as not to collide with any of the citizens of Minas Tirith who were going about their business. The slow pace did not suit him. He was anxious to get home to his wife and discuss with her what had happened at court. He glanced down at his side to make sure the message from Elessar still sat securely in his pouch.

Dorran and his wife were supposed to be returning home in a few days. He had come to Minas Tirith as a messenger of the King of Rohan. Eomer had asked him to present four prized stallions as a gift of friendship to the people of Gondor as well as to convey a personal letter to Elessar. Dorran had made sure the horses were settled in the stables and that the king's servants understood how to train and care for them. This afternoon, Dorran had been formally received at court. He expected to deliver his message and be courteously dismissed to travel back to Edoras. He had been totally unprepared for what happened next.

The King had invited him to join a special band leaving the next day on a matter of supreme importance to both Gondor and Rohan. Dorran was not surprised that Gondor had enlisted his aid. There was a personal understanding between Eomer and Elessar that messengers to either court could be called upon to help when urgent needs arose during their stay.

What surprised Dorran was the nature of Elessar's request. The King had asked him to join a mission to Mordor, helping a band of slaves who had escaped from a plantation found a new community on the Plateau of Gorgoroth. Even more alarming was the fact that his wife was also invited to join the Fellowship. Although Athwen had amazing gifts as a healer and would be an asset on any mission of mercy, his wife lacked skill with weapons and often shrank back when he described to her some minor skirmish in battle from which he had escaped unscathed.

It was not only fear for Athwen's safety that made Dorran hesitent. More than any other member of the Fellowship, the Rider of Rohan knew just how dangerous it was to try and cross the Ash Plain and establish a settlement on Gorgorth. He had spent his youth as a slave in Nurn and made the treacherous journey out of Mordor in company with his sister. Once before, in the years immediately after the fall of Sauron, Dorran had returned to the Plains of Gorgoroth to try and clean out some of the vilest of the Orc gangs. His knowlege of Mordor, its twisted hills and lava-filled plains, had been one of the chief reasons that Elessar had included him in the new mission.

Dorran found it difficult to sort out his own feelings. Part of him feared a return to Mordor. The physical dangers of the trek were considerable but even those paled beside his own dark dreams of childhood. If those dreams afflicted him in Rohan after so many years, how much more likely were they to claim him if he journeyed deep into Mordor? Sauron might be dead and gone, but not for one moment did Dorran believe that the land had been cured of all its ills. Too much darkness remained.

Still, he could not turn his back on this mission and the possibility of helping slaves find a new life. He had sworn once that he would do all within his power to free others from the bondage that he and his family had endured. What better occasion than this? Nor could be deny his wife the chance to accept the king's commission. She might be uncertain at first, but Dorran was convinced that Athwen would never forgive herself if she passed up this chance to lend a hand of healing. It was up to him to help her believe in herself enough to accept this new challenge. There was no question what he must do.

With these thoughts reverberating through his mind, Dorran raced down the street and bounded into the house, running forward to sweep up Athwen within his arms. He leaned down and kissed her on top of the head; his words came tumbling out in excitement, "You have heard the news? The Fellowship of the Fourth Age..... It will not be easy, but how can we say no? There is so much need. Great need, and you and I will face it together just as we did long ago when we travelled the road to Edoras to secure help for the villagers who were threatened by orcs. Come over by the fire, and sit with me. We will talk."

Dorran gently led his wife over to the fireplace. They sat down near each other on the floor and spoke at length, sharing their hopes and fears. By the time the flames in the pit had dwindled to silver ash, their bargain had been made and sealed. Both Athwen and Dorran had agreed to give their consent to the king and journey to the distant land of Mordor in hopes of bringing help to the slaves.

[piosenniel]

Hilde Bracegirdle's post - Carl


It had been two weeks now since Carl had hand delivered a rather bulky packet of papers to the Citadel at the top of the city. As it turned out Sam Gamgee’s carefully folded message to King Elessar had also included a letter of introduction for Carl and, as the hobbit also saw, a note addressed to the king and queen in his niece Elanor’s fine script. Carl was surprised when the King had bid him stay as he took his time over their contents, and after exchanging a few words with the hobbit, to ask Carl questions regarding The Thain for the most part, he smiled his gratitude, telling a tall fellow who stood nearby to make arrangements for this special messenger. He was to be made comfortable and stay as long as he wished before returning home.

Perhaps it was the easiest victory that Elessar had ever had, having won the hobbit over unknowingly within minutes, the monarch’s good-natured ways and Sam’s high regard largely contributing. And so Carl was happy to stay, though he asked if it might be on the Pelennor rather than in the city, for the grandeur of Minas Tirith, with its high white walls of cut stone, had nearly taken his breath away when his pony Stumps emerged from the fields to plod up the causeway. And the hobbit had waxed wide-eyed and apprehensive, upon approaching the tall gates.

After having had those two weeks among the farms in the shadow of Mount Mindolluin, Carl had grown somewhat accustomed to his surroundings, settling in nicely. Truly he enjoyed walking through the fields spending his days learning about new crops and the methods used to propagate them. And his host seemed to enjoy showing the newcomer around, slowly loading the hobbit’s baggage down with hardy and exotic seeds to try once he had returned to the Shire.

But at the end of two weeks Carl naturally began wondering just how much longer he should stay. He had half expected that he might be given some message to take back to the Shire, though the King’s response to Sam’s had been quite clear without it. He knew Elessar would be only too happy to have The Mayor and his family make the long journey south to Gondor. And so Carl sat on a stone outside the farmer’s house, figuring, after his large breakfast, just what he should do, when a fine young man in a heavily embroidered uniform appeared, walking briskly up the road. Heading straight for the hobbit, he stopped with his polished boots just within the shadow of Carl's seat. “Master Nibs?” he inquired.

Carl looked up from the boots, amused that the stranger knew the name, one which Sam no doubt had used in his letter of introduction, he replied, “Yes, that would be me,” as he slid off the large stone. He had noted a scroll in the fellow’s hand from a distance, and was feeling rather more cheerful now. The decision over his departure evidently had been made for him. “Is that for me?” he nodded in the direction of the man’s right hand.

The Gondorian handed Carl the scroll. “A message from the King.”

“Ah, I have been waiting for this!” the hobbit announced, taking the missive and placing it in his trouser pocket.

The man’s expression quickly clouded. “You knew of it? But how could you?”

“I’ve eyes and ears you know. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together,” the hobbit remarked. “To be honest, I thought it might have arrived a bit sooner than this.” At that the man looked puzzled.

“But it is still early,” he murmured.

“Never mind,” Carl said hurriedly. “You may assure the King that I will leave just as soon as I gather what I need for the trip.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself, all preparations have already been made,” the messenger informed him, brightening. “I don’t know the full details, only that you will be traveling with a group the King has himself hand picked.”

“Is that right?” Carl said slowly. He hadn’t planned on being in a group, but it did sound like quite an honor, and he didn’t want to make himself look ungrateful by refusing such gracious hospitality. “Where and when am I to meet this group?”

The messenger hesitated. “We have been instructed that the travelers are to gather outside the royal palace shortly before sunrise tomorrow."

“Then I will be there,” Carl said. "Before first light."

“You might want to look over the message, before you set out,” the Gondorian advised in parting. “To see if you have any concerns.”

The hobbit’s face quickly soured. “Don’t you worry about me,” Carl said gruffly, wondering if it was standard Gondorian practice for messengers to read the letters they carried. He withdrew the scroll from its place in his pocket, turning it over in his hands before carrying it inside and placing it gingerly in his pack, unopened.

His host came over wiping his hands on a rag as he looked out the doorway at the straight back and black uniform of the retreating messenger. “I haven’t gotten you in trouble with the king’s men, now have I?” he whispered.

“Oh, no. He'd come here to deliver this,” the hobbit said, reaching back and withdrawing the scroll again to show to his host.

“Aren’t you going to read it then? It looks important.”

“Read it!" Carl was suddenly fiercely indignant. “Does everyone here always read what is placed in their care? I will take it back to The Mayor, and he can read it!”

The Gondorian farmer reached out and lightly tapped his index finger on the black ink of the document saying meekly, ”But that's your name there Carl, and not your Mayor's.”

"It is?" Carl looked at the parchment, his anger dissolving, “For me? But I never learned to...,” The hobbit didn't finish his thought, in truth he was feeling a bit lost, realizing that he would be leaving soon and empty handed. “Here then, would you be kind enough to read it for me? I can’t for myself you see.”

The farmer willingly obliged, and speaking slowly and haltingly his face registered with emotion as the letter went on.

“Mordor? Mordor!” Carl said weakly when the farmer had fallen silent again. “And here I told the man that I’d go, thinking it only back to the Shire.”

“But it is a noble task you are called to do,” his host said. “Those slaves could have been any one of us, or of our kin.”

“Aye,” Carl breathed. “I am honored to be called upon, but just hope I’m up to such important business.”

“You are, and you must be!” the man said. “The King has called you to be.”

Carl nodded, lapsing into thought.

[piosenniel]

Regin Hardhammer's post - Ishkur


Ishkur glared angrily at the small rock that he had been kicking around the dirt path. He was beginning to regret requesting advance guard duty. Ishkur hated waiting for others particularly when he had absolutely nothing to do. His mission as he vaguely recalled was to scout out the best path of leaving the orc encampment and guide others along it until they were safely out of range. A few hours ago, Ishkur had quietly slipped away and found a trail hidden by the cover of a grove of small trees not far from the southern edge of camp. He had told the others and now waited impatiently for the exodus of rebellious orcs to begin.

The minutes and hours dragged on. It was the women, he thought in exasperation. They always took a long time to move anywhere. Most of them were slow and weak and only served to drag down the group. It had been better when they were kept on separate breeding farms. The longer he waited, the greater the chance that their plot would be detected, and they would all be killed. A group of fifteen orcs fleeing the encampment was ample cause for suspicion by even the most inept captain in a bunch of dim witted misfits. Ishkur would have preferred simply leaving with a small group of male warriors, a much faster and safer plan, but such a dream was not to be. Even Ishkur grudgingly recognized that if their group had any hope of surviving on their own they would need more than a few male warriors. Numbers meant strength and safety. Individual orcs had always been regarded with disdain.

In all his years on Middle-earth, Ishkur had never before been part of a group that ran away from the orc band to which they were assigned. Of course, Ishkur was not participating in this little experiment just to be noble. No, he simply could not stand being lorded over by the pathetic Uruk-hai, the arrogant and overbearing leaders that controlled every facet of life within camp. The idiots thought because they could tolerate the harsh rays of the sun for hours on end they held some sort of superiority over the other orcs. His commander barked orders to his men with an air of marked contempt. He treated Ishkur as inferior, a class below him in intelligence, strength, and capability. The plain fact was that Ishkur was probably a match in fighting with any Uruk-hai and definitely had more brains.

Ishkur had tolerated such vile treatment far too long until he had finally decided to act. He would go with this new group, and they would stake out a territory far to the north of Nurn. From the moment he heard whispers about the expedition in the late hours of drinking around the campfire, he knew that he must join them. They would have the opportunity to go hunting and raiding on their own and would have no need for anyone to approve of what they did. He volunteered to be an advanced guard because he did not want to stay behind and help the weaker ones escape, but he found waiting ahead of the group agonizing. Ishkur returned to kicking the rock, hoping that it would be more interesting than staring in the direction of the orc encampment and wondering how quickly the others would come.

[piosenniel]

Child of the 7th Age's post - Makdush


The sky was still dark when Makdush set out on the path to join the rebels. He had decided not to wait for the females or the other orcs, but to leave early and make his way to the meeting spot where the advance guard was supposed to be.

Makdush's thoughts centered on the battle that was expected to take place in the next day or so. He regretted missing the chance to crack open a few heads and pick up some booty. Still, there was no use staying in camp. Makdush had to admit that no matter how many men he killed in battle, the higher-ups in Nurn were unlikely to reward him in the way he wanted. With Saruman, it had been different. He had ruled over a throng of orcs.

If only the Uruk-hai had been victorious at the Hornburg, things might have turned out differently. By leaving Nurn, he could at least stop being a water-boy for the current commander's favorites. Grimly reflecting on his situation, he muttered to himself, "It's better that I die on the trail than submit to such a disgraceful fate."

As Makdush strode along the path and came to one of those rare groves of scrub trees that grew in Nurn, he spied the advance guard standing in the distance. At first he thought it might be one of his Uruk-hai comrades, since the orc looked to be the same height as a man. But on coming a little closer he saw that the guard was Ishkar, nothing more than a common orc.

Best be friendly and say nothing to insult him, at least for now. He can be prickly. He fancies himself as good as a Uruk. But how a common orc can grow this tall I'll never know.

Still, he wanted no confrontation with Ishkur, who was reputed to be a good hand with the blade. He decided to slink back into the bushes and wait a while for the rest of the group to gather.

[piosenniel]

Undómë's post - Zagra & Mazhg


‘Scared . . . big scared.’ Zagra’s voice, hushed and strained already, trailed off into silence. She leaned against Mazhg as her sister chopped at their shifts. Mazhg was shortening them with a knife she’d stolen from the cook shed, making them into what she hoped would pass for boys’ tunics.

‘I know you’re scared,’ Mazhg, whispered back, nuzzling Zagra’s cheek with her nose. I’m scared too! she thought to herself, though to her sister she spoke in an assured tone. ‘Things will be alright. You just stick to me . . .,’ she said, smiling at Zagra.

‘. . . like a pink tail on a rat!’ Zagra finished. She scooted around so that she could lean her back against her sister’s. ‘Tell me . . . tell me again, Mazhg. What we doing under old white face t’night.’

Though she’d heard it already several times, Zagra’s eyes went wide as Mazhg retold her story of stealing two pairs of breeches, each from two different sides of the camp. And how she’d managed to slip into the cook tent and the storage tent near it – to take a knife from the one, and dried meat and travel-bread from the other.

What Mazhg hadn’t made part of the adventurous tale was how one of the Uruk who was hanging about had spied her crawling out from under the back of the tent. And how he’d hit her hard with his club on the small of her back. The blow had sent her flying. She’d barely scrambled to her feet before he got to her. By some stroke of luck or his own laziness, he’d elected to hurl insults at her retreating form, rather than expend the energy to run her down. She expected he was most likely drunk. Quite drunk, from the smell of fermented mash spirits that hung in a thick cloud about him.

Many of the men were drinking. Getting up their courage for the coming battle against the Easterlings. In the distance, on the other side of the camp, she could see many little fires dotting the plain, and the shadowy forms of Orc men, big and small, wavering in the garish light. Drums, too. They beat loud and louder as the night progressed. A booming heartbeat, strong and mighty; savage it was meant to seem . . . to make the Easterlings’ blood run cold with fear.

Mazhg snickered. She was in no way fond of the Easterlings. But she hoped their knives were sharp and would slit the throat of every man-Orc. She brought her attention back to her sister.

‘Once we’re dressed like I told you, we’re going to sneak off on an adventure. Me and you. To a place where we’ll be safe. Together.’

‘Try this on, Zagra,’ she said, handing one of the shortened shifts to her sister. ‘Let it hang loose about you.’ Mazhg pulled her own on hastily, modeling it for Zagra. ‘Like this.’ She nodded in approval as Zagra stood before her. ‘Come here, now. Let’s put this pouch over your head.’ Mazhg flattened the leather strap that held the rough made pouch across Zagra’s chest. ‘This has a little skin of water in it, some meat and some bread. Now throw your blanket over your shoulders . . . like the boys do.’ Mazhg reached for the ends of the blanket scrap and tied them in a loose knot so that material fell about her sister’s form like a little cape. She handed Zagra her stick, telling her to hold tight to it.

Mazhg quickly got herself ready to go, tucking the knife into a raggedy sort of sash she’d tied about her middle. She picked up her spade, checking one last time in her own pouch for the sharpening stone.
With a quick smile of assurance, Mazhg took her sister’s hand firmly in her own and let her eyes dart about the nearly empty northern part of the camp she’d staked out as their little place. Most of the others who bedded down in that area were at the fires in the southern part of the camp.

The moon was bright on the eastern horizon. Fat and bulbous like some great swollen spider, it hung in the dark sky. Its light ate the little lights of the stars, swallowing whole it seemed those ones that had the ill luck to be near its web.

Hunched over, skittering like dark little bugs from one pool of shadow to another, the two sisters headed west. They hurried as fast as their legs would take them; away from the madness of the coming battle and toward the meeting place the loosely organised group of rebels had agreed on . . .

[piosenniel]

-o- Out of the Caves -o-

Durelin - Khamir


“He said two months, right?”

Khamir sat on a large rock that sat along the stream’s edge and stretched out into the water. The moving current had shaped it and smoothed it after hundreds of years of beating against it. The water merely babbled across the rocky bed, though perhaps at one time it had rushed in the form of a large river. Still the boulder stood strong and unmoving, forcing the current around it. Somehow water always found a way to get through. Khamir had to wonder, watching even such a small current, how the beaver ever managed to build such effective dams. Fire, water, and air – all pushed and shoved until it found a way to get through. For fire, it was perhaps simpler than pushing and shoving, but it still seemed to flow, if considerably faster than any water rushing over stones.

The one-armed man nodded in response to Reagonn’s question. There was a feeling of restlessness throughout the group that could not be ignored. Khamir shared the feeling, even though he expected he minded spending hours out of the day and night in a cave less than most of the others. He was used to caves and sharp, imposing rocks, and trying to sleep on ground or on stone that would never be comfortable, knowing that there was always the chance of being discovered, and forced to rely on whoever was on watch. That was one of many times when a man had trouble trusting anyone.

“We have a decision to make,” he said simply. Leaning forward, he kept his balance so that he remained on the boulder as he dipped his hand into the flowing water. Scooping tiny puddle out, he splashed it on his face. Even the least bit of water did wonders. He poured another small handful of water onto his head, and ran a hand through his thick hair. That was one large thing he would miss when they did head out: the river. They would be hard-pressed for finding water on the journey until the reached the wilderness farther north.

It had been over two months since the King’s letter reached them, informing them that help was on its way. The message had asked the Mordorians to wait two months for help to arrive, and they had sent a message back agreeing. Even if this ‘help’ had not left Gondor until after they received the message from the former slaves, they should have been here by now. Sentiment had been that they were not coming at all from the start. Few felt like really trusting Gondor. It seemed their only hope other than each other, and some rather far off wilderness, was in that country though, in that King.

As a Haradrim, Khamir was raised to have no love for Gondor. But it had been years since the man really thought of himself as a Southron, or as a person with any sort of allegiance. He had severed all ties almost as soon as he was landed in Mordor, and since then, he had buried the remnants of any links. They reminded him too much of chains.

His years as a slave had hardened him, making him callous to all kinds of death and hardships. But, it had softened him as well. It had taken a great deal of his own suffering for him to realize a great many things. Now more than ever, he cherished what good things life had to offer. And he cherished freedom in all its forms. There was no way he could have denied any help he and his men could give to those runaways. And now…they were sixty-five strong, and it seemed they might have a future.

With the help of Gondor, of the seemingly generous Elessar, or not, Khamir would count himself among those who ventured to the northwest. Suddenly rising from where he sat, Reagonn could only watch as the Southron made his way to the small cave opening, and crawled down inside through vegetation that hid the entrance formidably from the outside. The surprisingly large cavern was lit by several torches, numerous side tunnels branching off from the open room that most of the group camped in. He nodded, waved, and said a few words in greeting to those that were gathered inside. They only ever went outside in small numbers, and a sort of unspoken order to things came about in which everyone got a ‘turn,’ whether it meant they were on watch, were gathering water or food, were taking some children outside for fresh air and sunlight, or actually had a short time of rest to themselves. He left the cave with a bag in hand to sling over his left side, so that the bag itself hung at his right hip. Once outside, he pulled several skins out of the sack, and began filling them in the river.

“Tell everyone that who wants to can leave with me in the morning,” he said, turning his head to look at Reagonn while he held one of the waterskins under the flow, “It’s not yet midday. That should give us enough time to prepare.”

Reagonn hesitated, but the darker-skinned man knew that it was not because his comrade was not paying attention. He was similar to Khamir in a good number of ways, one of which being that he was always focused, even when he did not appear to be. The gang leader found him to be a good person to have guarding his back, though different things drove each of them on.

Khamir’s lips twisted slightly in what could only be called a smirk, though anyone who knew him in the least bit, like Reagonn, knew there was only either or kindness or amusement behind it, or both. “Unless you want to stay here, that is.”

[piosenniel]

-o- The Fellowship Arrives in Mordor -o-

Child of the 7th Age


The sun beat down on the weary travellers as they cautiously guided their horses through the rocky foothills of the southern mountains. By all accounts, they were a strange assortment: one Hobbit, an Elf, and a middle-aged Dwarf, plus two younger men and a woman who was apparently a healer. Near the rear of the group rode a tall greybeard with a staff strapped to his saddle and a snowy owl perched firmly on his right shoulder.

They had been journeying over a month. Elessar had seen them off from Harlond, the harbor for Minas Tirith, and they had sailed down the Anduin to Pelargir where horses were provided for their eastward trek. The group had travelled along the Poros River and finally arrived at the tiny pass that crossed over the Ephel Dúath. Getting through the mountain pass had taken longer than expected; they were now five days late in meeting up with the slaves.

Coming onto the flat plain of Nurn, they had headed south to the hills until they sighted a small mountain stream that had a surprisingly large group of trees growing on the bank. The ground was covered with vegetation, bramblewood patches and tangled thickets of shrubs that obscured their clear view of the land. From the description in Elessar's letter, this had to be the location of the caves, the place in the mountains where the slaves of Nurn had promised to meet them.

At the front of the column rode two scouts: Lindir the elf, and the young man Dorran who was a Rider of Rohan. Yet, despite their sharp eyes and ears, they could see no sign of the cave or hear any noises other than the normal babbling of the brook.

"This is it. I am sure....the place described in the letter. But where are they? And where is the entrance to the caves?" Dorran looked over at his companion.

"It has to be here," Lindir replied. "But most likely the slaves would choose a place well hidden from Orc eyes. I expect the caves are partly underground with their entrance concealed by thick shrubs or grass. The slaves may even be hiding inside, thinking that we are intruders. Still.....I wonder. They were supposed to post a sentry who would guide us in."

Dorran mumbled in frustration, "What we need is a dog to pick up their scent, or a small burrowing animal! We'll never find them this way, and night will come in a short time."

At that moment, there was a clip-clop of pony hooves as Carl Cotton rode up behind them and politely interrupted, "Excuse me, sirs. Maybe I can help. I do have experience with small holes in the ground." Carl dismounted and disappeared in the brush. Within five minutes he had returned, one of his sleeves hanging askew, torn by a thornbush, and a puzzled expression spreading over his face.

"I think I've found it. The cave is sunk into the ground just as you said...very cleverly hidden. Only.....something seems very wrong."

The hobbit turned and beckoned to the others to get off their horses and follow him into the thicket and over to the entrance of the cave.

[piosenniel]

Rôg was glad of the chance to slip off his horse. She was a pesky thing, the dun mare was. And like many of the female persuasion, she seemed to have it in for him. It was not that he demanded much…just to keep up with the others and preferably have a relatively smooth ride while doing so.

But she was twitchy; her skin seeming able to move quite independently of her bony frame. And she knew when he was just drifting off into a doze, his attention lax. She would flick her hide, like a series of roiling waves moving across a treacherous sea…then, snicker yes that was the word, not nicker as a proper horse would do. But curl her great hairy lip up off her prominent teeth and seem to laugh at him…wickedly… And were he to actually lose his seat and fall from her, as he had on a few occasions, she would stop and glance down at him. Her dull brown flanks spasming as if she were laughing to herself. On such occasions she’d give a decided snort,too…confirming her low opinion of him.

‘I’ve ridden far better than you,’ he growled at her as he swung his leg across her back and slid down to the ground. ‘Camels, they were. Great Ships of the Desert. And high spirited and independent as they might be, still they were in no way as obnoxious and cantankerous as you, madam.’

As he walked toward where the others were gathering at the discovered entrance to the cave, pointedly ignoring her, she stretched out her neck and nipped him hard on the hip. He hobbled the remainder of the way until he reached the edge of the group.

Rôg peered down into the darkness of the cave, seeing no movement. Nor did his ears pick up any sounds of life within, save for the faint skittering of a rock dislodged perhaps by the retreating footsteps of some lizard or small rodent. There was a faint, lingering scent borne on the dank air from the cave, a mannish scent, but it was old.

‘Well, it does seem quite empty, of those of the two legged variety,’ he said, stating the quite obvious. ‘They were here and have headed out,’ he went on, his eyes flicking about the area for any hint to their direction. ‘Should someone go in? Would that be helpful, do you think? Might there be any clues to where they’ve gone? Or should we just look about for tracks and see if we can follow after?’

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

“I’ve just had a bit of a look around, Mister Rôg, and you’re right. It is empty. Not too deep into the hill either,” Carl piped up, “Just goes around a bit of a bend before the ceiling and walls come around and greet each other. In that dim light though, I admit I could easily have missed a hint, had one been left us.” The hobbit looked again toward the entrance thinking that what he missed must have been obvious, so surprised he was at Rôg’s quick conclusion that the group they had come to help had simply moved on.

The cave opening was a jagged slit in the ground among the thorny plants, a mere fissure it looked, but when he had slipped through, the floor of it had fallen away sharply, spilling down into a broad slanting chamber that reached back into the hill. It had been pleasantly cool Carl had noted. In truth it would have made a nice large and dry home with a little further excavation to straighten out the floor and let more air in. But as it was, the hobbit saw that it had been occupied not long ago, and guessing by the lack of refuse, that the former residents were not likely to have been a band of orcs.

“Any sign that the cave might have collapsed or been unstable?” the dwarf, Vrór asked, as he drew up to them.

“No, none as I could see,” came the hobbit’s response, “or feel, for that matter. It’s all as solid as well...as rock. And I caught no sign of a struggle in there either, unless it’s been cleaned up, of course.” Carl glanced around them at the hills. “But two months is a long time, and maybe the struggle was for food more than anything else. At anyrate, the more eyes the better! Chances are something’s to be found I’ve missed. As Mister Rôg said, tracks and clues might have been left for us to find, and I’m no expert in either.”

[Durelin]

Vrór

Spending well over a month with such an assortment of people was an interesting experience for Vrór. He had seen elves in his lifetime, both in Dale and Minas Tirith, but he could not say he had spent much time in one’s company until now. Certainly all Dwarves’ feelings towards the tall, pointy-eared race had softened since the stonemason was a child, and those living in Erebor had learned more quickly to risk some trust with the few elves that still remained in Mirkwood, but the stonemason found himself curiously nervous around the elf. The old teacher who seemed to be well acquainted with the elf, Lindir, was a very interesting fellow, though.

The spunk that Dorran and his wife had was charming, and the Hobbit, Carl, was a gentleman if there ever was one, only solidifying Vrór’s view of Hobbits in general. It was a man that the Dwarf actually found a little difficult to trust: the Southron, Rôg. There seemed to be nothing strange about him, and that he appeared to accompany the old man was reassuring, but Vrór couldn’t help but wonder whose side he was on. The mason had not lived too long before the War of the Ring, but long enough, even if the War itself was not enough to make one wary of Southerners.

When the group, the ‘Fellowship’ as it had been dubbed, though this time around ‘of the Fourth Age,’ finally arrived in Mordor, their energy seemed renewed for a short time as they drew nearer to beginning the fight for their true cause, though they were not really prepared to fight any battles. The excitement was there, their quest finally really beginning, but there was also a great deal of dread still associated with those high spiky mountains that still stood, and the ground that still seemed forsaken. Vrór did not like the feeling of the dry, hard dirt beneath his feet. There were moments where he felt that the land itself was aware of each step he took, and was watching him, waiting for the right moment to…to…he did not know what, but he could almost convince himself that it was going to do something.

Venturing along the foothills of the Southern Mountains, the Fellowship knew it was approaching the meeting place, the caves. When Lindir and Dorran, acting as scouts stopped ahead, Vrór and the others were hopeful. Carl, on his pony, was the first to meet up with them, and by then, the confusion was clear. The Hobbit had disappeared by the time the Dwarf approached, one of the last to arrive. He had refused any sort of mount, and was beginning to regret it. When Carl’s face emerged again, flushed with heat and exertion, a troubled look on his face, Vrór felt himself tensing up. Were they there? He knew they had been late, but in what way had they been too late?

Rôg reiterated what everyone was thinking, possibly the only one who yet had his senses about him enough to do so. The Dwarf only grunted in answer following Carl’s words.

“Any sign that the cave might have collapsed or been unstable?”

The Hobbit responded that he had seen no sign, and Vrór decided to trust his vision for now. It certainly would have been obvious if it had collapsed.

“Well, at least it seems someone in that party has a good head on their shoulders to make this their hiding place. You’re right to doubt they were forced to leave by any dangers,” he said with more certainty in his voice than he really felt.

Striding over past Carl, Vrór made himself the first one to enter the cave after the Hobbit. He felt something stir in the pit of his stomach as he forced his way into the thicket. One last check behind him and he pushed his way through. Little trickles of sunlight leaked in just enough so that Vrór could make out the general size of the cave, and a few details immediately before him. A piece or two of debris made it clearer to him that this definitely had to be it. But he was sure that there was no doubt in anyone’s mind, including his own, that these caverns were empty, and had been for at least a day or two. The quiet seemed to have sunk into the very walls and floor. Feeling relatively at home in the cool, earthy darkness, and with sturdy stone surrounding him, Vrór reached out to give the nearest part of the rocky ‘wall’ a good hard pat, the smack of his hand against it echoing through the dim expanse.

It certainly wasn’t going anywhere. He tried to judge the age of the caverns, the size of it – it wasn’t deep, the number of tunnels that shot off from the main opening, and where they might lead to…he wanted to keep his mind busy with anything except the realization that what he was really looking at was a dead end.

[Durelin]

Khamir

The former slaves began their march a little before dawn, and had continued a slow but steady pace throughout the day, stopping as little as possible, and mainly being forced to pause during the midday heat. They moved slowly, more slowly than Khamir and a number of the others, would have liked. But with about fifty men, women, and children in addition to the one-armed man and his comrades, there was little hope for a quicker pace. Most of the large group carried a small bag or an article of clothing that acted as one, most of the supplies divided up among all of the men and women. Men and women – whoever felt up to it – helped pull along a very small cart pieced together from wood salvaged from boxes and barrels Khamir and his gang had whisked away from different plantations, and from scraps they snatched from any trash piles they could find. There was enough room in it to carry some more supplies and a couple children who needed some time off of their little feet.

There was only one good thing about all the difficult labour the slaves had to endure on the plantations: a long day in the sun, constantly moving, was not as daunting to them as it would be to a person not accustomed to such harsh lifestyle. And now that they had been slightly better fed and hydrated for the past two months, they were able to keep from allowing much of anything from dragging them down. About the only thing that managed to do that was the realization that Gondor had failed them once again; the King’s promises were still empty. Khamir was bitterly unsurprised, and yet he felt a pang in his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger – he had long learned to ignore that feeling, and this one was more persistent.

By early on the second day of their journey, with a destination somewhere in the northern wilderness, Khamir felt himself begrudging the decision to help this group of escapees. Their determination and hope was admirable, and had been refreshing, but there were so many things about them that were both saddening and frustrating. Some of them had been affected by their lives as slaves much more than others, and in ways that Khamir knew could never be healed. And the Southron man often felt at a loss for how to deal with many of them. Slowing his pace a bit, and allowing a few people walk past him, he matched his steps with Shae’s, one of the Mountain gang, one of only fourteen others Khamir trusted with a weapon. He had taught her a bit about throwing daggers, though she had been a quicker learner than he ever expected. She had a sharp eye and quick hands, steady hands…even with the cuts on her palms.

“Do you regret our decision yet?” the one-armed man asked in a low grunt, leaning his head down closer to her ear. He expected she knew what he referred to; all of the gang should. Khamir had never said he regretted throwing his lot in with the fifty slaves they had found huddled among the foothills of the mountains, and he had not yet thought it, except when bitterly cursing the hot sun or the burden of sixty-four other presences, particularly when he was expected to take on any role that resembled leadership. But the kind of ‘joke’ had lasted well over two months now. Khamir and his…thieves, looters, bandits – they had been called many things…enjoyed being able to laugh over the situation. Well, at least Khamir laughed, though often silently.

He only hoped it would all remain in jest.

[Firefoot]

Johari

They were moving on. Finally. For Johari, the weeks in the caves had passed slowly and uselessly. It had quickly become clear to her that Kalin was not among these ex-slaves, nor had he ever been among them, as a little questioning had revealed. For a while she had held out that he might have somehow heard of the large group of them living in these caves, and finally her thoughts had turned to those coming in from Gondor. Perhaps Kalin had made it so far away from the plantation as to arrive in that strange land – but this possibility seemed unlikely at best. Those Gondorians probably weren’t even coming. Why would they care about slaves in a forsaken land?

Johari did not know why she had continued to stay in the caves, when it had become clear that Kalin was not and would not come. She half-doubted that they even would have let her leave. That did not matter anymore, however, since they were moving now. Perhaps, if she was lucky, they were even moving in Kalin’s direction.

Her thoughts turned slowly back to the present situation. Looking over the large group of people, she could not help but notice that even after two months spent together, the large group was still roughly divided: the slaves more newly escaped, and those that had found them. Those fifteen… they weren’t exactly outright cold, but they did keep to themselves and didn’t exactly encourage conversation.

She glanced over at the young man she found herself walking beside – Hadith, she thought his name was. “Rather insular bunch, aren’t they?” she commented, indicating the two walking closest to them as an example. “I’d like to know what makes them so much tougher than the rest of us.”

[Brinniel]

It had been two days since Khamir made the ultimate decision to abandon all hope of a fellowship ever arriving and leave their temporary home in the caves. Shae disliked the slow pace, yet it did feel rejuvenating to be traveling again.

Though two months had passed since they discovered the escapees, Shae knew very few of their names. She kept herself busy hunting for food with others and sitting in her corner of the cave shaving off her sorrows with the edge of a knife. Even now as they traveled, the fifteen ex-slaves walked close together, keeping to themselves as they had for years.

“Do you regret our decision yet?” Khamir grunted as he walked beside her.
Shae did not respond, only briefly glancing at the man as she dug deeper into her thoughts. Did she regret it? No. The addition of fifty people, all varied in age and strength, may be a burden, but she could not wish them to disappear. The slave escapees reminded Shae of herself, when she was still a girl, weak and trying to find her place as she struggled behind a larger group. The escapees weren't all that different from the fifteen- all had suffered horrifying pasts and have lost loved ones. The only difference was that Shae and the fourteen others had more experience in freedom and knew how to survive on their own. In time, the fifty escapees would be just as capable.

Shae glanced up at the sun which was now directly overhead. Midday. They had already been traveling for almost six hours today. Though it felt good to be making use of her feet again, Shae couldn't help but feel as if they were making a mistake. It was something that had been weighing on her since yesterday morning. She could no longer resist asking.
Glancing back at Khamir, she asked, "What do you suppose happened to the Fellowship? Why did they never show?"
Khamir shrugged. "I guess Elessar had better things to do than worry about some silly ex-slaves."
Shae couldn't help but groan at his comment. For years, Khamir made it clear he thought little of Gondor, and as a former Gondorian herself, Shae was beginning to grow tired of it. "Look, Khamir," she said quietly. "I know you don't think much of Gondor, but I have heard many stories about the King and he is one of few men you can trust. When he wrote that letter I'm sure he had all intentions to stay true to his word."
"Then why did they never come?" The man gave her one last look before picking up his pace and walking ahead of her. Shae sighed as she watched him head towards the front of the group.

"I wouldn't dwell too much on it- it's just how he's been raised." Reagonn stepped to her side.
"You think we're making a mistake, taking off like this?" she asked him. "What if something happened to them?"
Reagonn gave a slight smile. "Well, I certainly hope not. Surely the King would form a fellowship capable of getting through Mordor." He paused for a moment before continuing. "Shae, we waited for them longer than planned and no one came. The area was no longer safe. We had no choice but to leave."
Shae nodded. She continued walking, taking in every throb in her feet. Yet, no matter how hard she tried, Shae could not shake off the feeling that their sudden departure from the caves was a terrible error.

[Nogrod]

Hadith
The time spent at the caves had felt like an eternity because everything was new and different. There were lots of things to do and no one could have said that they had been idling around, but still it was not like working full hours at the plantation. It was something they did for themselves, not to any Easterling lord or someone else. And there were no orcs with their whips and iron boots. Even if they lived in hiding and their conditions were possibly even rougher than they had been in the barracks, Hadith had enjoyed his freedom to the fullest.

And he had already learned some new things. A lot of them indeed. This Khamir, who seemed to Hadith to be something like a leader amongst the group of fifteen that had found them, had come with another man, Beloan, to pick up the healthy males who were over twelve and under thirty the next day. All twelve of them were first checked and questioned through. Then they had been taken in pairs to follow Beloan, one pair a day, to learn the basics from setting traps to hunting deer. They had also been instructed for guarding duties.

Not all of them had made it to the end of the training, but most of them had. Hadith was one of them. He was a little proud of the fact that he had been trusted on the night guard on six nights already. He had also managed to fare somewhat well in hunting. He had killed one deer by himself. It had been a hunting party of four, but he was the one to kill that deer. His traps had produced just a few squirrels, so there he would have something to learn still. But the one thing he was really proud of was one net-trap he had been setting with Beloan. They had managed to catch a total of 41 little birds from one single tree. And Beloan had praised his handiness afterwards. He really treasured those praises.


On the second day of their march he suddenly noticed that this strange woman, Johari, was walking beside him. He had taken note of her a couple of times during their stay at the caves. Mostly she spent time on her own and when not, she was easily drawn into rows. But there was something in her face that had made Hadith more curious than scornful, as most of the others seemed to be towards her.

“Rather insular bunch, aren’t they?” she commented suddenly to him. She had indicated two ex-slaves of the Khamir’s group walking closest to them. “I’d like to know what makes them so much tougher than the rest of us.”

Hadith was about to jump in praising them and their greatness, but at the last moment when the burst of words were already on his tongue, he realised the real question. To that he had no immediate answer. He coughed a bit to conceal his embarassment, only carefully glancing towards Johari. She looked at him with keen dark eyes.

Hadith was wrestling with his ideas. They were tougher than the newly escaped, but why? They know things, they manage things, they are independent and self-relying, they don’t have to ask for everything, they make decisions... but why? He was confused.

But then he remembered when he had been on guard the first night after being instructed on it. He had been afraid of every sinlge sound that came from outside their camp – even of those that came from inside. Every crack of a branch or small whistle of the wind had made his blood froze and he had wanted to run back and ask Beloan what to do. With six nights of experience he was already very confident in the thing. He knew things, he managed them, he was independent with them and relied on his self in it so as not to feel any need to ask anyone. And he could make decisions concerning his night watch – when to check and when just leave be.

His view of his own skills might have been overtly optimistic and groundless, but nevertheless, he felt so.

“I think it is because they have lived free so much longer than we have and they have gotten used to things” he answered to Johari quite enthusiastically. “And you know what?” he turned to meet Johari’s face, his eyes gleaming with passion that was aroused by his own ideas: “We will be like them one day!”

[Nogrod]

Gwerr

”Maddness! What did I say you?” Gwerr was cursing at Colagar and for a reason. They were running away from the remnants of the skirmish they had just taken part in. “You bird-brain! I told you this!” he continued, still exclaiming, spitting the words from between his teeth.

Colagar had insisted that even though they had agreed upon a general meeting place, it should be only the second choice. Ishkur had volunteered to go there beforehand to guide those who might come on their own and that was enough. They would have to escort as large party in one group as they could. Might would become handy if they were to get into any trouble, he had argued. It would also guarantee the best result as some, especially females and children, might not find the right place if all would be going to the meeting place on their own.

That had been proven wrong. So wrong. They had made too much noise as Gwerr had feared and were spotted by the guards. In the end they were forced to fight their way out. So from the initial group of 24 they had only three others with them able to hack or slip through the guards. It was a disaster. I hope some others have had brains enough to get there on their own, Gwerr murmured to himself as they continued their flight.

When the five in the end reached the meeting place they first met with Ishkur’s disturberd expression. “Don’t even ask, Ishkur!” Gwerr spat to the ground, still enraged and tense. “It was a bloody disaster, that it was, I say! This dim-witted orcling and his grand ideas!” he continued exclaiming but cooled down fast. There were many orcs that had already gathered there. It’s not all lost! He made a quick count. Fifteen all. That was about half less they had thought enough to put up a new settlement of their own but there seemed to be nothing to be done to it at the moment.

Colagar had clearly made the same calculations. “Quit standing! Let’s hit the road! Fast! They still might be on our tails!” he called and turned to run north, north-west. Gwerr glanced at Ishkur and frowned. The group set off after Colagar, running at an easy and efficient pace.

Glancing around to check that all were with the group, Gwerr made a terrible find. Uruk-hai! Now where did these baby-scum pop in? And of all the annoying Uruks there was Makdush, just coolly running behind Ishkur! Now what is he doing here? This is our rebellion, not theirs! It was quite near that Gwerr actually turned to face Makdush and his follower Uruk-hai to address these questions openly, but in the end he had enough brains not to.

Gwerr kept running but thought about it at the same time. So they will use us to defend the group as we are on the road and then they would do away with us and take the females to themselves... I see their game. But that remains to be seen. This orc is not going to be taken advantage of without a fight... And maybe we just outwit them? They are just inexperienced toddlers the whole bunch, breeded quasi orcs! Ishkur has brains too, unlike that cursed Colagar at times. We’ll have to come up with something before they strike...

[Durelin]

Khamir

Khamir had great respect for Shae, but the strength of that respect was tested whenever he was reminded that she was a Gondorian. And even though she had been a slave most of her life, she still held on to this idea of allegiance. It was pathetic to him, almost pitiable. But he saw it as a weakness. If only she could break free of those memories that tied her down to that nation. That nation that had abandoned them, had abandoned her. Sure she was a Gondorian. But to Elessar, the mighty King hundreds of miles away on his throne, that hardly mattered. She was a slave. She had been and she always would be. Mordor was her home now. Her home and her prison.

The one-armed knew it was the same for him. But he did not bind himself to any land. Mordor was home only because he lived there, at this moment. And if that ever changed, so be it. If it never did…

There was a way they could get out of this prison. And that did not necessarily mean leaving the land.

Khamir had always been about defiance, and there were scars all over his body to prove it, in addition to a missing limb. As a slave, he had exerted his freedom as a sentient being at every chance he got, and, once free, he exerted it in a way that he saw as fitting. He had been showing those who had once imprisoned him just how free he was over and over through the raids he and his gang performed regularly. To him, they were not so much about survival through stealing as they were about proving something. And he had never hesitated in killing anyone not a slave on those plantations, especially not Orcs.

For years before his escape, he planned it. But his plans did not center around escape; that was a later addition. They began as plans of revenge, to take the life of the creature that had taken away Khamir’s freedom beyond the chains of slavery. The Orc had taken his arm off in a rage, and the Southron later took the monster’s life because of it. He had almost died because of his lost limb, infection almost took him, and the master of the plantation was almost prepared to kill him, as an ineffective slave. Luckily for Khamir, he couldn’t afford it. What could be repaid the master was taken out of the Orc’s hide, but again, the master couldn’t afford getting rid of him either.

So Khamir did for him, and solved both problems.

“I’ve got the boys all picked out,” Beloan suddenly spoke from beside the Haradrim man.

Khamir grunted in response, still bothered by Shae’s defense of Gondor.

“I’ll point them out to you the next time we stop.”

Again the only response came in a wordless form.

“There’s one of ‘em right up there,” Beloan continued, ignoring Khamir’s seeming disinterest, and lowering his voice a bit, “that one.” He pointed to young man with dark hair ahead of them who was talking with a young woman, another one of the escapees.

“You really trust that fresh-faced boy with a weapon?” Khamir asked, finally voicing a thought. Beloan laughed knowingly as if he had been expecting those very words, and indeed he had.

“How many of us weren’t fresh-faced the first time you or anyone else handed us one, or found one, or even made one for our own?”

Khamir was silent for a moment, and Beloan waited patiently for a response. “How good is he?”

“First time on the hunt, as a hunter, and he bagged a kill. The only one, out of a party of four. He’s got a good head on his shoulders. It was his trap that caught the 41 birds.”

The Southron raised his eyebrow at the man walking beside him. “You got a spare blade?”

Beloan laughed again: Khamir had seen through him. The former had made sure he had a spare long-knife on him before he said a word to the gang leader. He had grown fond of the boy, and couldn’t help but have confidence in him. And he knew Khamir wouldn’t be able to argue with him. They weren’t in the position to be choosy about who was capable of being among the group’s defenders. Those in the gang were the ones with the weapons, so they decided who could bear their own. But even they knew that they would need all the help they could get if there was any kind of attack. Even a small unfriendly band could do a great deal of damage if the large group was caught unaware. And Khamir was not the only one who expected that to be when any attack would come.

Beloan handed Khamir the knife in a rough sheath that had to be tied around the blade because it was too big for it, and the Southron asked for the boy’s name. He smirked at the idea of the boy’s nickname being ‘Apples,’ but only called out to this Hadith.

“Here,” Khamir said once the boy – who seemed to be of southern heritage, though there was something odd about him – had turned around, and the one-armed man tossed him the knife.

[Undómë]

Zagra and Mazhg


Zagra loped along easily, her small form like a shadow to her sister’s. Mazhg, for her part, had run fast just ahead of her twin, her quick stride eating up the dark distances. She hardly wavered from the course she had set in her mind, though she had only heard of where the meeting place was to be and of a few of the general landmarks along the way. She had that feral sort of sense which guided her steps; that untamed, innate reckoning by which beasts, or those who live close to the land, know where they are bound.

There had been the scent of the lifeless sea, of course, to one side, and the sweeter scent of what small pools of water might lay along the way. In the distance was the rushing scent of some river as it wound its way to the sea. And the soil itself smelled different as the elevations changed, the water grew more scarce; or if it lay fallow or untouched, or had been cultivated.

It was the dark night sky with its white-faced moon and its pinpricks of stars, though, that was Mazhg’s surest guide. The bright orbs glittered in the dark pools of her eyes as she swung her head from side to side to check directions.

‘We almost there?’ Zagra spoke softly, increasing her pace so that she drew up alongside her sister. ‘Zagra hungry.’

‘Chew on this as we run,’ Mazhg had whispered, dipping her hand deep into her breeches pocket. A ragged piece of dried meat, unrecognizable as to its original source, was soon offered to Zagra who took it eagerly.

The miles had sped by in silence between the two, broken only by the soft slap-slap of their feet against the ground. Just over the final rise, they stopped, looking down at the group gathered there. Three-hands’-fingers’ worth, Mazhg puzzled out, counting the heads in the dark distance.

With a sudden start, the Orc group moved off at a run.

‘Come, sister!’ Mazhg hissed low, grabbing Zagra firmly by the hand. ‘The edge there, at the back, where the line is ragged. That’s where we’ll slip in.’

The two small, boyish looking figures quickened their pace until they inched in among the other runners. They kept their heads low, avoiding the flying elbows of their new companions and squeezed into a small opening further inside the fast moving group.

[Folwren]

Kwell walked alone on the edge of the group. His shoulders hunched slightly forward and his head was lowered. Silently, in a dogged fashion he walked forward, stumping along with the rest. His heavy staff beat time on the bare rocks. Muttering, he counted. Three steps to each movement of the cudgel. His mouth pulled itself down into the accustomed frown. What a miserable pace.

He lifted his head scarcely an inch and his dark eyes flicked around at the people to his left. How could they walk in groups, talking like that? Some even smiled. Very small smiles, he noted with a little bit of satisfaction, but they were smiling all the same. What right did they think they had? His eye settled on one particular girl for a moment. Her black curls hung limply around her face, somehow framing it in an oddly attractive way. His scowl became even more fierce as he looked at her bright shining eyes and her laughing face. Yes, laughing. With two older women who looked positively taken with the girl’s cheerful conversation and witty talk.

Kwell snorted in disgust and looked away. There was Khamir, the evident leader of the slaves who had escaped long ago, speaking with Beloan. Beloan had taken all of the men fit and able enough to do what needed to be done out and taught them certain skills of many different responsibilities. He had gathered the boys, too, and of them all, Kwell had been the youngest and the smallest. There were two or threes boys younger than he, but they had not been old enough for the work.

He had hated those days of training. Not for the work - that was a relief in the days of boredom. Certainly not because of the work. No, it was because of the very fact that he was youngest and everyone treated him so. Was he daft? Stupid? To need to have more explanation so that he could understand it? He could watch one or two of the previous people be taught how to set a trap and then do it himself. Regardless, each time, Beloan had come up to him and explained it all over, not allowing him to touch the ropes until he had shown him - again - how it was done.

Kwell wasn’t a brilliant boy, but at least he was observant. Those wasted minutes of useless explanation had rankled his temper and caused him to be tight lipped and tense. It had been made worse when he, Beloan, and two others went out to hunt. Kwell attributed it to sheer luck that the other slave had brought down a deer seconds before he would have. Beloan had praised him for it - he went on for a ridiculous amount of time, according to Kwell’s thoughts. Nary a word to Kwell, though, not even a glance, even though his bow string had already been drawn back, too, and the feather of his arrow had tickled his cheek. He would have killed it.

Kwell lifted his staff and struck savagely at twisted thorn bush. The branches crackled under the ferocity of the blow. He didn’t care, he decided. What did another man’s good will and praise matter to him? Nothing - until it was given to another person who didn’t deserve it.

[Firefoot]

Johari

“But why should being free longer make them tougher than us?” retorted Johari. “If anything, they have endured less. Perhaps they do know more, but they treat us as if we were simply to be managed, like lesser beings rather than equals. They are no better than us, but they treat us as if they were.”

Hadith appeared thoughtful and paused before answering. “But maybe we're not their equals yet?” He shrugged, a gesture that briefly annoyed Johari. Didn’t he care?

"Not their equals in skill, maybe. But that does not give them the right to lord themselves over us." While she really did think these things, she knew in the back of her mind that she did not really have to sound so argumentative - but the rest of her really did want to provoke him.

Hadith bit his lip and took even longer supplying an answer this time. Johari was starting to become impatient when he finally said, "Maybe it's better that they answer for our security as they know things... and they have then to make orders so that everything goes well?" He appeared thoroughly pleased with this answer.

"I don't suppose I mind if they act as leaders," Johari regretfully conceded. "A group this big needs one. But it's the way they do it, acting as if we're more trouble than we're worth and it's only their duty to help us. I doubt they really want to at all, and if that's the way they feel, maybe they shouldn't. They managed, after all. Who are they to say that we couldn't do so as well?"

Hadith nodded hesitantly. "But they help us fare better?" he questioned, still appearing slightly puzzled.

Johari sighed. He so much wanted to believe in and admire them… at that moment, however, he was tossed a knife from Khamir – just the argument she needed. No wonder he is so taken by them. Johari almost hesitated in speaking further. Almost.

“There now,” she said quietly as he caught it. “They treat you as a favorite dog to be rewarded when he has done well. Why do you think you were not given a weapon before? Have they given any others knives to use?” She paused for a moment to emphasize her next words. “Because they do not trust us. They only ‘reward’ the ‘worthy’.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

The elf watched in silence as Carl emerged from the cave, shaking his head in bewilderment and exchanging puzzled glances with several of the group who now huddled together, peering down into the dark entry hole. Unable to add anything remotely helpful in this situation, Lindir slipped away and systematically began to investigate the rocky terrain, keeping an eye on the surrounding vegetation, sometimes stooping to kneel and inspect something that caught his eye on the ground.

Despite his methodical search of the area, he seemed to be getting nowhere. The ledge was blanketed with thick thorn bushes and clumps of tall grass that largely obscured the ground. It was impossible to see anything more than a foot or two away. The stoney surface made it difficult to walk and, even worse, concealed whatever footprints might have left an impression from a few days before. On the verge of giving up, Lindir suddenly remembered the stream they had passed as they'd approached the foothill. Sprinting back down the hill, the elf soon came to the water's edge. As luck would have it, the surrounding bank was still soft and muddy from the heavy rains that had fallen nearly a week ago. For some time, he walked eastward along the sloping bank.

If anyone had come this way, they had made an amazingly successful attempt to tred softly and leave no hint of their presence. But still there were one or two indications that human feet might have approached this brook and crossed over to the other side no more than a week before. A less experienced tracker might not have noticed the single footprint still embedded in the mud or the grasses on the opposing shore that were ever so slightly crushed and flattened.

After taking in these images, Lindir squatted down to inspect the greenery that grew where he was standing. It was then that he glimpsed it: a dull and lifeless scrap apparently discarded on the ground. A few yards away, higher on the bank, were the remnents of a small fire pit. In all his years on Arda, he had not seen an object exactly like this before, but it appeared to be something that a man or woman had crafted. There was one person, however, who might know enough to tell him more.

With his first glimmer of hope that the slaves might still be found, Lindir hurried to the top of the hill and called out eagerly to Dorran, who stood talking with his wife. He beckoned to the two. "Come with me. I found a footprint on the stream bank, far from the point where we originally crossed. A group of slaves might have come down this hill, splashed through the water, and then headed north." Lindir held out the mysterious object and pushed it into Dorran's outstretched hands. "Have you seen anything like this before? It looks to be a device crafted by men. Could it have belonged to one of the slaves, and does it tell us anything about what happened?"

[Folwren]

Athwen and Dorran stood together, each holding the rein of their horse. Neither of them said much as Carl came out of the cave, empty handed and with a look of disappointment on his face. Athwen sighed and looked down before lifting her eyes to Dorran's face.

“We’re too late, aren’t we?” she asked, barely speaking above a whisper. She didn’t want to spread doubt to the others, though she imagined they probably were thinking the same thing she was. Only her husband heard the words. He looked down at her and shrugged slightly.

They watched silently as Vrór went down into the cave. Athwen sighed very deeply and sat down on a large boulder nearby. Her horse tugged at his reins, reaching for a tiny clump of prickly looking grass. She looked at him and extended her arm just a little so he could reach it.

“What can we do now?” she asked herself. “How can we follow them in this hopeless terrain? There can’t be any tracks left!” A voice hailing from a hill above them caused Athwen to emerge from her thoughts and look up. She spotted Lindir, the elf, standing and waving with one hand as he called Dorran to come up to him.

Dorran looped his horse’s reins around a branch of a twisted tree and started up. Athwen watched him a moment before rising and deciding to follow. She tied her horse beside Dorran’s and started up the ascent.

As she approached, Athwen saw that Dorran held something in his hand. Both he and Lindir were looking at it as Lindir spoke. “Could it have belonged to one of the slaves," he asked, "and does it tell us anything about what happened?"

Athwen reached Dorran and silently she took his arm and looked over at the metal object in his hand. She said nothing, because she had nothing to say, and wondered if Dorran would be able to tell them what it was.

[Firefoot]

Grask’s rapid breathing was finally starting to ease as the threat of impending death drifted further from his mind. He had been tagging along with the group of Orcs who were intending to escape, slipping along very quietly and not catching any of their attentions. After all, no one had ever actually told him about their plan; he had only overheard, and he didn’t want any of them asking why he was there or sending him back. He didn’t want any place in the big battle.

Besides… wherever they were going was bound to be much more interesting than the camp they were in now.

He had not expected that this escape would involve a battle of its own! Swords were drawn, and soon blood was being spilt – and Grask was right in the middle of it. He had watched little fights and tussles before; he had seen Orcs kill other Orcs. That did not bother him in the least. What did bother him was being far too close to the action. They could hack him down without a thought; to them, he was little more than an obnoxious gnat. He needed to get out of there, and quick! He wasn’t supposed to die!

He had drawn his short sword as a just-in-case; after all, that was what he was supposed to do in a battle, right? But he was more concerned with running away and dodging the swinging blades than killing anyone. Once an Orc seemed to just appear in front of him with a sword; he had ducked and hacked at his leg as he continued to run past.

And suddenly he was free of it. He kept going in the direction that they had been heading before the fight, hoping he would figure out where they were supposed to be meeting. The fear that had engulfed him in the midst of the battle was already starting to subside; he had done it! He had survived – and even stabbed one of the big Orcs! That was no mock up battle like he had played in with other young Orcs – that had been real. He really could have died.

There was a new swing in his step as he arrived at where he supposed the meeting place was supposed to be, as there were already a couple of Orcs waiting there. A few more straggled in and then they were on the move – and at quite a fast pace, too. Grask didn’t dare complain; they would probably send him back. He wanted to ask how far they were going, but realized he did not know how to do so. Orcs like him just didn’t address the older Orcs; his like didn’t get to close, and they ignored him – simple as that. So as hard as it was for him to keep his mouth shut, he decided to wait until he knew which of them might actually listen to him.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Johari was pressing Hadith with too many too difficult questions. And she seemed not to be satisfied even though Hadith had managed to supply her with answers. Hadith was puzzled with all that she said to him and how he was responding to them. There was something new and strange going on in his mind. It was both exciting and distressing at the same time.

But all of a sudden Hadith was called for. He turned around to see Khamir and Beloan walking less than ten yards behind himself and Johari. “Here!” Khamir called out, throwing something towards him. He realised what it was just a moment before he catched it. It was a blade in a sheath! For a fleeting moment he wasn’t quite sure whether he should believe what had happened or not, but managed then to raise his head to look at the two old stagers. “I promise to be worth this!” he said attempting a firm tone. He then nodded to them quickly and turned around not to show his excitement.

Johari was saying something but he didn’t axactly hear her words. There were too many emotions rushing to and fro in his mind at the moment. He only heard the last one: “They only reward the worthy”, but not being able to catch the sarcasm in Johari’s tone of voice.

“I think so too” he answered Johari somewhat absent-mindedly, staring emptily forwards. “Although I’m not sure whether I’m worthy yet” he managed to half whisper, but then continued more purposefully: “But I’m going to try and show I am.” Johari seemed to have given up with him and didn’t answer.

He continued walking immersed in his thoughts and feelings. He knew that Beloan had been approving of his demeanour in hunting and guarding duties, but he had gotten the blade from Khamir himself. He could have exploded from pride! This really was his token of acceptance and he would pay back the trust. Hastily he opened the cords to have a proper look at the weapon given to him. The handle was worn out and quite crude, much cruder than the blade itself. But even though it was a bit ragged and simple, it allowed for a firm grip. Hadith swang the long-knife in the air a couple of times just to find out how it felt. Then he took a closer look at the blade itself. It shone in the sunlight, dazzling where it sent the rays of light. It seemingly had been well kept lately although time had made its marks on it. Still the edge of the blade was sharp enough, sharper than any scythe, sickle or knife Hadith had ever used on the plantation. It had somewhat an Easterling feel to it as the handle felt more like orc-work. Hadith decided not to puzzle his head with that, at least for the time being.

But in the middle of his private rejoicing other thoughts crept back to his mind. The discussion with Johari had stirred his mind and now those waves of unfinished thoughts rushed back to him with irresistible force. He glanced quickly to his side just to notice that Johari was not there any more but was walking a bit further away from him. Alone as usual.

It was only then that he became aware of it. Normally at the plantation people had discussed and done things together most of the times. Surely there were loners and all the discussions weren’t friendly, but still. And yes, most of the people here were from the same barracks, the barracks where he had lived too. He knew most of these people and they knew each other well enough. And it was so quiet! Like everyone were sticking to their own and only those who were really close walked side by side or changed an occasional word. Like Khala and Cuáran, the older women who were quietly talking as they walked together some yards in front of him. They were one of those people who had taken care of him when he was just a kid and his father had died and his mother had to work at another location. For a second Hadith thought of taking up with them and showing them the blade, but then thought the better of it.

Something was wrong here, but Hadith couldn’t see, what was it. And Johari’s questions and his own answers to them kept insistently coming back to his mind. He had never been this free and this self-assured before, but at the same time, he had never been this trapped or unsure of everything around him – and including himself. Puzzled he was.

[Tevildo]

As Dorran stared down at the cold metal object that lay quietly in his hand, dark and brooding memories came flooding back. A long-dead scar on his left forearm began to ache and throb.

Yes, he had seen this accursed thing before, and he certainly knew what it was, even if Lindir and his own wife did not. This was the branding iron of a slaver, the bounty hunters whom the owners paid to feed new victims to the plantations and recapture anyone who tried to flee. Some of these gangs were notorious, known throughout all of Nurn for their cruelty and the abilities of their dogs to sniff out anyone within a hundred leagues. Most bands were small, run by fierce fighters who at least had enough brains to bring in their prey comparatively undamaged. Each group had its own unique brand so there would be no doubt as to who should be rewarded for capturing and turning over a particular slave.

Most slaves in Mordor hid their brands unless the marks were on their face or hands. It was no badge of honor, but an open acknowledgment of servitude and shame. Sometimes at night, men and women sitting around a firepit spoke in hushed tones about their experiences, reliving the exact moment that they had been hauled in and marked. Even those children born into slavery, as Dorran's sister had been, bore the brand of whatever bounty hunter had originally captured their mother. The slavers lost no chance to ply a pretty penny on their trade, and this included the right to brand the offspring of those they had been captured many years before.

Struggling to keep his voice calm and to stop his hand from quaking, Dorran turned towards the elf to explain. When the young man had finished talking, Lindir responded in a worried tone, "But what does all this mean for the slaves who lived in these caves? And who are these bounty hunters?"

"Sorry but I can't help you on the last one. I know a number of the brands that belong to the Easterlings, but this one means nothing to me."

At this point, the trio reached the stream. Dorran held Athwen's hand in his until they arrived at the stretch of land where the metal object had been discovered and where the grass was slightly trampled on the far side of the bank. Carefully surveying the landscape, Dorran nodded towards the elf in agreement, "Lindir, you're right. The slaves came through here and headed north. I do not think the slavers got them, at least not at this point. There would be blood and more evidence of fighting. But still, I don't like it. Those thugs could be on their trail as we speak, or they might have even caught up with them already."

At this point, Lindir and Dorran exchanged grim glances. They had already been joined by several other members of the fellowship who'd made their way down the hill and were now passing the dreaded metal object from hand to hand.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur grew anxious as he waited for the group members to walk in front of him down the path. He waited for a long time, but only a few came. He started to worry that something had befallen their party and the rebellion would be stifled before the group could even leave Nurn. Someone must have been foolish and alerted the leaders to their departure. Even if that was true, Ishkur hoped some remnant of the exodus would survive such a battle. But every minute Ishkur spent kicking his rock, at first done for entertainment and now to alleviate fears, made him more nervous. He could never return to that infernal camp now that he had separated himself. Even if no one ever found out that he had participated in the rebellion, his mind would not let itself be enslaved again. No, even if every other orc had been killed, Ishkur must escape to the wilderness and live by himself. Hopefully, he prayed, some of the stronger orcs would survive the attack and the group would press forward, albeit much reduced in number.

Suddenly, orcs began trickling past him, running frantically away from the camp. They stopped only momentarily to acknowledge Ishkur’s presence, and make sure that they followed the correct path, but never gave him a word of explanation. They seemed to be running for their lives. The first to arrive were women, followed by male orcs with their weapons drawn, freshly stained with blood. So I have guessed correctly. Indeed, they have fought a battle.

Ishkur suspected that the Uruk-Hai commanders were responsible for the assault on the escaping orcs. Then, to his horror, he saw two Uruks running in the same direction as the rest of the group. At first he suspected that these creatures were merely a force sent by the commanders to eliminate those who fled. From the way they ran, however, it appeared that these Uruk-Hai did not intend to kill the rebels, but to join them. This realization disturbed him. Never had anyone mentioned that any Uruk-Hai would be joining them. Ishkur had always assumed that the escape consisted of pure orcs only. One of the reasons that Ishkur had joined the group was to escape from the haughty Uruk-Hai and never see them again. Their presence now infuriated him, but he had already made his decision to leave. Not even the stupid Uruks could change his mind now.

Ishkur waited as long as he could to make sure that every orc and even the Uruks knew which way to go. After a while he decided he must flee and that any stragglers would have to find a way on their own. After all, if the final orcs had not made it out of the camp by now the Uruks had probably killed them. The group didn’t need any orcs who could not take care of themselves in battle so the casualties did not hurt them much. He began to run hard in the same direction as those he had guided and in a little while caught up with the others. About fifteen total had made it, including three Uruk-Hai who had pushed their way to the front of the group. Even out here, moaned Ishkur, they continue to be a thorn in my side.

Underneath the new moon in the cold dark sky, the rebel orcs ran down the path to the west as quickly as they could. Many of the orcs looked exhausted. The battle had drained energy from them and caused them to move sluggishly. But Ishkur knew they could not stop now, so close to the encampment. The Uruk-Hai commanders had probably sent squads of troops after them who were following their every footstep. The group continued marching without torches to guide their way through the blackness to avoid being detected. Ishkur well knew what a fine target a torch made to enemy pursuers even from long distances. He had signalled to the whole group that they could use no torches if they wanted to avoid being seen. Ishkur wanted to establish himself as one of the group’s leaders and their obedience to his suggestion pleased him greatly.

From the corner of his eye, Ishkur saw his old battle companion, Gwerr. They had fought together for longer than he could remember in various confrontations against the enemies of Sauron. Although the two had never been in the same unit, over the years they had developed a tentative sense of trust. Ishkur knew that Gwerr would be joining the group, and had even spoken with him secretly about it, but this was the first time he had actually seen him in a while. He gave a quick nod to Gwerr and looked him over to make sure that he had not been wounded. After assuring himself that Gwerr looked completely healthy and appeared to have survived the battle without injury, Ishkur continued to run alongside him.

Later on, the first rays of the morning sun appeared over the distant horizon. Soon the sun would rise high into the sky, and the journey would become uncomfortable for the orcs. Ishkur hated the sun with a passion and could not stand to be out in it for long. Ishkur knew that as soon as the day began in earnest, all of the orcs would start to feel extreme discomfort. Now was the time to set up camp.

Ishkur yelled, “Stop the group. The sun is coming soon and the bad light will burn our eyes. Now we must set up camp and sleep. We cannot continue anymore tonigh.t”

He waited to see how the group would respond, hoping that they would heed his wise advice and set up camp.

[Folwren]

Athwen felt Dorran’s tenseness through his hand as he led her down towards the water. His grip was still gentle - he always seemed careful with her - but a certain rigidness in his hand told her what he strove to hide in his calm tone of voice. Now she understood that strange mark on his forearm. It was not visible to anyone, but often her hand had passed over the very slight indentation. She had wondered about it, but never asked.

In a few minutes, they were joined by the others. Their horses had been led down and Dorran and Athwen both reached to take their mounts’ reins. Lindir explained some of what had passed to them and handed the iron to Vrór. It went from hand to hand and Athwen watched it.

After a moment, she turned to Dorran. She laid her hand on his arm, and he slowly turned his eye away from the object and looked at her. She stepped closer. “I’m sorry, Dorran,” she said very softly. “Maybe, if they haven’t caught them at this point, they hadn’t at all?” she said with hope. “Are you going to be all right?”

[Tevildo]

Guiding Athwen over to a quieter spot, Dorran pecked her lightly on the cheek and gently laughted. It was the second question to which he responded, "Spoken like a healer. Always worrying about folk under your care, even if one of them happens to be your husband. You know me. I'll be fine. Anyways, the past is done and buried. What we have to worry about is the slaves."

"I wish we had a seeing stone to tell us what's going on. But since that's unlikely, we'll just have to wait till we catch them on the trail. At least we know the direction they're heading. And their numbers are in their favor. The slavers work in small bands. They're used to dealing with four or five escapees at most. Hopefully, even if they manage to find the slaves, they'll be scared off by the size of the group."

"Come on now." Dorran added with a wave of his hand. "Let's get back to the others. Maybe someone will have some ideas. Plus, the sun should be setting in an hour or so; I'm not sure whether we'll decide to push on or settle for the night."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Makdush stormed over to Ishkur and jerked him roughly to one side, cursing him in a low, gruff voice. "Fawning fen-snouted boar-pig! Are you mad? The dogs from camp will still be on our trail. Stay here and you risk getting your throat slit while you sleep."

"Anyways," grumbled Makdush, "what's wrong with a little sunlight? Ishkur, you're so lazy and incompetent that you'll use any excuse to stop working. I thought you orcs would learn once we'd gotten out of camp. But you haven't. You're still a pack of worthless cowards."

"All right, Ishkur. Get everyone on their feet. Drag the women back. Everyone on the trail now! Put some muscle into it. We can be fifty miles north of here before we make our camp."

Makdush turned and glared menacingly at the rest of the group, but few showed any signs of moving.....

_______________
Nogrod's post for Gwerr

After Ishkur had called for the group to halt, Gwerr turned to Colagar, intending to haul him over the coals for his plan once more. But then they both saw Makdush rushing to Ishkur and challenging the call for rest. They didn’t hear the heated exchange of words exactly, but the main idea was clear. The Uruk accused Ishkur and the other orcs of being lazy and incompetent. “That did it!” Gwerr yelled and grasped Colagar by the arm. “C’mon! We have some things to settle with that bully of a toddler!”

With that he ran to the quarrelling pair, calling for Zuhut and Griwzan whom he passed to join them as he went.

“Have you lost your marbles, Makdush?” Gwerr shouted to the Uruk from a couple of yards away. Colagar, Zuhut and Griwzan were tailing him. The Uruk turned to gaze at the smallish but sturdy orc. They knew each other well enough to mutually dislike each other. Gwerr took instinctively a grip from the handle of his axe and continued.

“When we were fighting at Angband you were not even conceived of! What do you think you are, you lousy maggot of a mere wizard? This is our party and I don’t have the faintest what are you doing here. But if you are to stay with us with your ruffian friends, you just shut your newborn mouth that only coos and babbles nonsense.” Gwerr had gotten really angry, inflamed by his own words. The veins in his temple swelled when he tried to cool himself down.

“Take shelter everyone! We rest now!” He called loudly to the other orcs not involved in the quarrel. But all the females were already out of the sight, taking shelter wherever the sun couldn’t extend its rays.

“You see. We rest now. You sun-lovers may run as long as you wish to.” Gwerr added in a lower tone, looking at Makdush challengingly but being somewhat calmed down already. Still he held a firm grip of his axe, and Ishkur, Colagar, Zuhut and Griwzan had all taken a hold of their weapons too. The last two male orcs had also finally realised the situation and were walking firmly towards the center of the dispute.

Makdush glanced at his fellow Uruks and nodded lightly to them, and then took a few steps back.

[Undómë]

Zagra and Mazhg


The one called Ishkur had yelled out. ‘Stop the group. The sun is coming soon and the bad light will burn our eyes. Now we must set up camp and sleep. We cannot continue anymore tonight.’

Mazhg had pulled her sister aside quickly, holding Zagra’s hand tightly as she made her way to a little rise she’d spied - one with a few rocks that would afford them some shelter…and some small measure of safety, she hoped. They burrowed in beneath the overhanging rocky ledge; Mazhg pushing Zagra in first, saying she would keep watch. ‘And not for any who might be chasing them,’ she thought to herself. ‘Sha! Lazy dumb dogs, the lot of them. Now that no one drove them on with whips of fire and threats of lash and club, they would easily turn back. Easier to stay put, talk big, and thump those close by with hand and club.’ No, her eyes would be watching for any of the males in this group who came too near the little space she and Zagra had laid claimed for the day.

It was her hope that once the group had gotten to a place that seemed safe to settle in, she and Zagra could strike out to find a place of their own. Until then they would take what advantage there was in numbers to keep themselves safe from any challengers, any foe, who might seek to bar their way.

Mazhg flicked her gaze about the others in the group, watching where they were settling down. One of the bigger males, an Uruk, seemed to be challenging Ishkur. The two sisters were far enough away they could not hear what passed between the two. And truth be told, Mazhg did not care, either. They could have all the words they wished, even draw blood from one another…as long as they kept their distance from her and Zagra.

Her eyes tracked the two other women, wondering if they felt any need to make themselves secure from the males. She tugged at her tunic, hoping her and her sister’s boyish masquerade had not been seen through.

Turning her attention back to her sister, Mazhg rolled up her own raggedy cape, making a pillow for Zagra. She adjusted Zagra’s cape over her sister’s reclining form, tucking it about her like a blanket. A piece of dried meat and a small, hard biscuit made for the evening meal. All washed down with a few swallows of water from one of their waterskins. ‘Go to sleep now, little beetle,’ she whispered, rubbing her sister’s cheek.

The long, bright-hot fingers of old yellow face were feeling their way across the plain. Mazhg snorted, looking on with a sneer at the majority of the men as their faces reflected their fears of the rising sun and their gripping need to hide themselves away from its bright light.

Zagra and she had been made to work in what passed for fields…tubers of all sorts they’d cultivated, weeded the hot peppers, harvested the bitter-root and onions that seemed the mainstay for Orc cooking. And any fool knew goats wanted to wander around in the day light and sleep when the moon was up, the sky dark, as for that matter did chickens…

She settled in, chewing on a stick of dried meat. In a few days the supply she’d managed to get would run low. From one of her pockets she pulled out a ratty looking ball of twine, little pieces knotted together from bits and pieces of string and thin leather thongs that others had thrown away. With her fingers, she began to weave a small net; good enough to catch lizards or unsuspecting birds…..

[Durelin]

Vrór

Hearing the Elf question some of the group about footprints, Vrór crawled up from out of the cave, huffing and puffing. He rather regretted climbing in there, but he just had to see such a thing with his own two eyes. A good bit of wasted energy was all he felt he had managed. The others didn’t seem much interested in what he had to say about the cavern. They should know that they should only trust a Dwarf when it come to rock and stone. They should, though Vrór wouldn’t be surprised if he was the first Dwarf some of these people had ever come across. His people weren’t always the most social type, and considering the young couple was from Rohan, and the Hobbit was…well, just a Hobbit, it was likely that they at least had never spent much time with a Dwarf.

Brushing spare brown, crusty leaves and a few tiny thorns from him, he looked around for the Elf. He wasn’t going to be left out of a discovery. His hopes rose a bit as he thought of what this talk of footprints might mean. Perhaps there were more signs. What he wanted very badly was some kind of sign that the slaves left the caves of their own free will, and were headed in a direction that was not back to the plantations they had escaped from.

A few voices from over a small hill could still be heard over the babbling of the nearby creek, but Vrór could not make out any words. Carl still stood near the cave entrance, having managed to clean himself up a bit after his own venture down into the cavern. The Dwarf glanced at him.

“Have any idea what the Elf’s found, Master Carl?” he asked the Hobbit with an air of polite curiosity. If there was one thing from his childhood that Vrór rarely forgot, it was the manners that had been ‘beaten into him.’ The only times he didn’t remember them was when it was convenient.

Vrór found it a bit difficult to stand still, and he began to rock back and forth slightly on his heels. Maybe the slaves had even left a sign for them, to let the Fellowship know where they went? Or perhaps these were tracks that showed they had already begun the journey north? Or…what if these were not even tracks from the slaves at all? What if this was the wrong place? The Dwarf felt that was pretty near impossible, but then, he did not know the topography of Mordor very well, nor did he think anyone else in the party did.

But that was nowhere near the worst possibility. Vrór doubted that he would ever be able to forgive himself him if the slaves had been recaptured, or killed. If they were indeed dead or back in the hands of their former masters, then this Fellowship had already failed. His mind could not give up on the idea that all sixty-five of them were dead. It was Mordor. To him, such a slaughter was just the sort of thing that would happen in such a land. An evil had dwelt in this place far too long.

“Perhaps we should see for ourselves,” Carl responded, and the two made their way over the hill. When Vrór saw the couple, Dorran and Athwen, off away from Lindir, the Dwarf glanced at the Hobbit, and made his way over to the Elf. Looking up at the tall, pointy-eared fellow, he hesitated for a moment, seemingly clearing his throat.

“What have we found?” Vrór asked simply, keeping his voice low, not wishing to bother Dorran and his wife. He nervously stroked his beard, and eyed the stream, avoiding the Elf’s gaze.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

They halted for a meal in the middle of the plains. Hadith took his part of yesterday’s leftovers distributed to everyone - roasted deer accompanied with water - and chewed them hastily. He had to find this Johari again. He was already gnawing the bones of his share when he realised feeling still hungry. He was alarmed by a sudden thought. Where will we find food for all of us tomorrow, the day after that, or the day after that? There were birds around today, no other animals or eatable plants on our path. He paused chewing, taken by his thoughts. Well, the old stagers will know the answers... I’ll just have to find that Johari now.

His mind had been bursting with questions ever since they had talked earlier on the day and he was eager for some answers. If someone can answer these, she can... Hadith thought to himself optimistically. He would ask her.

He found her soon enough. Johari hadn’t yet finished her meal and was chewing her share of the day’s ratios at a tranquil pace. He approached her carefully, coughing gently to gain her attention. “The ‘worthy’ one? What do you want?” she asked sarcastically, swallowing the bite she had been chewing.

“Well... erm... I mean...”, Hadith was not quite sure how to address the woman. After all, what he wanted to ask was a bit embarrassing.

“C’mon, speak up lad or get lost” Johari broke in, taking a long draught of water and settling herself to a more comfortable position.

“We discussed today. And after it I have spent lot of time wondering some things I think you could answer me” he managed to say, not knowing where to look or where to put his hands. There was something in that woman that made him interested in her but also very nervous. She seemed not to be like most others he knew.

Johari took another bite of the meat and chewed it slowly, taking her time. Hadith was almost ready to turn away as she suddenly answered, still masticating the last bits: “Fine. Talk.”

Hadith closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He tried to shun her gaze as he went on. “Well, I don’t know if I even know myself what I’m asking, but I thought that you could help me with it.” He kicked a stone from the ground and fumbled nervously with his fingers. Johari didn’t answer but gave him a look that he could interpret easily enough. Speak or go, it said to him. Hadith gathered all his mental strength and got on with it.

“I mean, if something is broken you just fix it. And if it fixes, that’s right then. Or if you have a problem, like getting bricks to a 15 feet high platform in a construction site, you just make a winch and pull them up with a rope. And that’s right.” He draw breath and tried to concentrate, fiddling the cords of his newly gotten blade’s sheath with his fingers. “So if you solve a problem, then it’s right.” He managed to utter after a short pause. Johari was looking at him more intently now, with a quizzical expression.

“But after we talked today, I started thinking that maybe all solutions are not right even though they work or make sense.” He paused again for a while, just trying to word his confusion. “But that doesn’t make any sense either!” He was clearly baffled by his own reasoning and indeed started feeling ashamed bringing up the whole matter. He looked down towards his own boots and tried to have a glance for Johari’s expression.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

“What have we found?” Vrór asked Lindir in low tones. Carl watched as the elf extended his hand to give the weighty object over to the dwarf, who in turn stopped smoothing his beard only just long enough to accept it. To be honest, the hobbit felt that he appeared to be avoiding the elf’s glance. “I bit of iron work, I see. And a rough one at that!” Vrór said, looking it over with a critical eye. “It has been well kept though, and oiled frequently. Rust has found no foothold, so it couldn’t have lain long.”

“May I see it?” Carl asked as he strained, peering along his nose to snatch a glimpse at it. Vrór obliged him, and Carl saw that it appeared to be a branding iron of sorts, seemly out of place on these mountain slopes. The lack of both shepherds and flocks hadn’t escaped the hobbit’s notice since arriving in Mordor. He had simply put the absence down to the likely presence of orcs in the mountains, and so had slept a little less soundly than usual --the puzzle manifesting itself in the form of the goats that featured often in his dreams. Not actually appearing, for it was only their bleating he heard in the distance. He had thought no more of it, until now.

“A branding iron?” Carl said. “How strange to find one, miles from flock or fold!”

“It is not for animals, but for slaves,” the elf spoke gravely.

“You don’t suppose the slaves would have taken such a thing with them when they left?” Carl asked hopefully, but seeing Rôg shake his head almost imperceptibly, the hobbit's thoughts grew somber. He remembered the words of the Gondorian farmer so many weeks ago. “Those slaves could have been anyone of us,” he said with a shudder, giving voice to the memory. “You don’t suppose that they have been found, now do you? It’s far too clean here for there to have been much of a fight,” he said thinking aloud, as he handed the brand back to Lindir. “But maybe they are they being followed, eh? And if that is the case, we had better move more quick like, don’t you think? Keep those dirty wolves from attacking them!"

“Yes, but how many wolves, and which direction did they go?” Lindir said.

“My guess is that they didn’t go deeper into the mountains, there’d be no point to that, no good land that way and there’s too many orcs in the mountains,” Carl said as he wandered off. He was desperate to make himself useful, searching the brush for any token that would tell of the folk who had sent the letter. Walking carefully in amongst the thorn bushes and grasses, he combed through them searching for cloth or perhaps a wisp of hair among the grasping barbs. It was all he could think to do. True, Lindir had discovered this something that spoke of the slaves, but it certainly wasn’t the sort of find that they had been hoping for.

[Firefoot]

Johari

“You always think this much?” asked Johari as she tried to sort through Hadith’s comments. She thought she understood and agreed, although she had never put it into so many words. He fumbled about for an answer to that, but she cut him off. “Never mind. Look at it this way. There’s always more than one way of doing something. Using your brick example, you could make a winch, and that would be the best way to do it. But you could also just throw the bricks up one at a time and hope the person at the top could catch them.”

She almost laughed at the incredulity on his face. “But that would be foolish!” he said. “People would get hurt that way.”

“But it would work,” Johari countered. “Just because it works doesn’t make it the right or only way to do something.”

This was beginning to feel like entirely too much thinking for Johari. It had been a long time since she concerned herself with why’s and how’s rather than what’s, and now didn’t seem like any time to start. “Anything else?” she asked dryly. “Your whole life story, perhaps?”

[Firefoot]

Grask

50 more miles! And in broad daylight, no less. Grask thought he might keel over if required to run so much farther without a rest. He silently thanked those other Orcs, Gwerr and Ishkur their names were. He had thought it would end there; Gwerr seemed to be the leader and he said time to rest. Grask had already picked out a little indentation for himself, facing northward so no light of sun would disturb him.

But now they were drawing weapons – why were those Uruks so keen to be away? Look how far they had already come! At least, it seemed like a great long way to Grask: all night they had run. He hoped it would not come to fighting; the Uruks were quite outnumbered anyway, even if they were bigger and stronger.

Then Grask realized he was a bit closer to them than might be wise, and backed off into his little ‘cave’. They wouldn’t bother him here, hopefully, and he could watch without drawing their attention.

[Durelin]

Novnarwen's post - Eirnar

After days of marching, Eirnar was starting to recognise a feeling he was all too familiar with; exhaustion. Having escaped from the plantations more than three years ago, he had thought and hoped that the years of slavery had vanished from his mind and that he would never have to be reminded of those years he had spent in turmoil. For a great period of time, he had indeed forgotten, or rather ignored, the marks these years had imprinted on him, but as he struggled to keep up the pace, despite his relatively young age, it was all coming back; working long days on the fields and the punishment as soon as he’d shown weakness; this heavy, dark cloud that hung over him them, also seemed to overwhelm him now. Those years could never be fully ignored, Eirnar realised bitterly, having defined who he was today. Eventually, he would be forced to accept it however, no matter how long he had tried ignoring and postponing it.

Looking around, he spotted Aedhild. She had arrived a few weeks before their departure from the caves. She had been in a terrifying state; her eyes bleary and wild with exhaustion. He had also discovered something else, which he believed had become obvious to most of the ex-slaves in due time; a fragility and a sadness he couldn’t recognise in any of the others... and madness… Oh! he still wasn’t sure. Somtimes she was like thunder itself on a sour, dreary autumn day, and other times she was completely calm. No one had been able to learn where she came from, and he doubted Aedhild knew it herself. For the last couple of days, ever since she recovered from unconsciousness, she had been silent, hardly muttering a single word to anyone. Her only question to Eirnar when she awoke had been whether it had been a fit again, “…this time it felt so different,” she had added weakly. “Yes, it was a fit… Don’t worry. You will be all right,” he had lied, biting his lip. He didn’t regret having lied to her; he feared the consequences the truth would have; would she then have a fit? Would she attack him once more? Would he be forced to strike her unconscious again? Shortly after, a man named Raegonn had asked why he had lied, obviously having overheard his reply. At first, Eirnar had been unable to answer, ashamed... but yet, not ashamed, he’d been… terrified, yes, that was it. He had indeed been terrified about this... life, what this life had done to him. “Had I really any other choice?” he’d finally asked, in truth referring to both the fact that he had struck her and then lied about it. At this, Raegonn had shrugged, waited and tapped his shoulder soft with his hand, as if in approval. No one of the others had spoken a word of the incident, and of that Eirnar was glad. Aedhild would never know the truth, and though he would and could never be proud of his actions, as hot-headed as he had been, it would be best if it remained this way.

As they approached the camp and made ready to settle in for the night, Eirnar couldn't help noticing how some of the children and the elderly were struggling. They were beyond doubt the most vulnerable. Naturally, this was to be expected. In an unknown country, where there were no obvious places they could quickly hide or take shelter, they were all easy targets for the enemy; in truth, in this landscape, they were complely lain bare for the enemy to see. It surely was insanity, and whose idea it had been in the first place, he did not know. Personally, he hadn’t been delighted by the suggestion of leaving the caves behind, he had been horrified. They had been waiting for the promised aid from Gondor, and although it had not arrived in due time, Eirnar had no doubts in his mind that King Elessar wouldn’t fail them. He had heard stories of this man, few of course, but they were enough to stun the most sceptic of men; he was a real King, who lived and breathed for his people. Both a Gondorian in flesh and heart, he had no right and would in truth be ashamed to think otherwise.

“Raegonn!” he called, breathing heavily. The dark haired man turned to face Eirnar.

“Are you all right?” he asked, slowly. “You look rather dreadful if I may be so bold to say so..” Raegonn hesitated, as if wanted to say something more.

“Heh. I’m good. No worries, though the marching does seem to bring back a lot I hoped I had forgotten…” Eirnar fell silent, not knowing how to proceed; how he hated these embarrassing moments, where he couldn’t quite find the right words or the right tone to say them in. Raegonn seemed to think the same, and being a polite, young man, he nodded in understanding.

“Makes you wonder,” Eirnar suddenly said, “who suggested this in the first place,” he continued with something that was supposed to be a laugh. Noticing himself the lack of sincerity and seeing Raegonn narrowing his eyes (whether intentionally or not, Eirnar didn’t know), he added quickly, “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t… ehm.. strike anyone...” This seemed to break the ice somehow, and Raegonn smiled faintly.

“Mhm. I first heard it from Khamir. A good man, with great dreams. A born leader.” Raegonn's pale cheeks seemed to glow for a moment, although Eirnar could might as well have imagined it.

“True. Surely, we all have dreams… I was just curious about where we were heading, where our dreams and hopes are to be fulfilled…” Eirnar said grinning.

Raegonn chuckled and turned away to prepare for the night.

***

Though the night had enclosed on them, Eirnar lay half awake. The pain of his aching limbs didn’t seem to bother him as much anymore; something quite else was on his mind.

Eirnar was not a particularly bright man, nor was he stupid either. He had observed Khamir and the others from the very beginning, but he had to admit that Khamir, especially, had caught his attention. Although he had failed to see the extraordinary leadership skills he supposedly possessed, Eirnar had observed him with interest; it seemed that the young Southron in some way had managed not only to gain trust, but the others also seemed to respect him for reasons yet unknown to Eirnar. In which situation had Khamir so clearly stood forth and thus earned this respect? How had he come to be the one deciding to leave the caves? How had he managed to convince them all to leave? The caves had been their shelter, the only safe place they had known for months and months, and now, this man, had taken them away from it. Eirnar couldn’t quite understand any of it; why the men, women and children’s eyes, when gazing upon him, were filled with such warmth; it reminded him of an admiration close to idolization. Undeserved, Eirnar concluded, he must surely have manipulated his way to their trust and respect. Painfully was also the fact that he was a Southron. Was there any of the other escapees who recognised him from the life at the plantations… as a slave…

Although, Eirnar didn’t know at this point, there was something, something which he couldn’t quite define with words yet, and so all of it would remain thoughts. For now.

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

Durelin's Post: Night

It had been a long day of marching for the former slaves, and though their bodies were tough and their minds determined, the weariness was clear on practically all of their faces. When the sun was a fireball above the distant mountains to the West, Khamir began looking for a place to rest for the night. When he could, he tried to find a place that was somehow indiscriminate. He knew the night was not safe; the day was not really either, but the night was different. It was in darkness that most Orcs felt comfortable, and it was in darkness that every type of being tended to do evil.

There was little to choose from for a place to rest, and Khamir was forced to settle with an area in between to small hills. The gap between the hills was large, plenty large for sixty-five people to settle down around a few different fires. Beloan had pointed out more of the men and boys that he determined could be among the defenders, and each was now equipped with some kind of knife, spiked club, or rough axe that was meant for chopping wood, and used for that too. It took a great deal, but Khamir was persuaded to let at least one or two of the boys take one of the watches that night. The one-armed man had divided up the night into five rough sections, five watches, and he determined that by the start of the third watch, and at the latest before the start of the fourth, all fires must be out. There was no sense in leaving a beacon. They didn’t need any kind of rescue you find in Mordor.

Adnan, fifteen years old, was on the third watch. He had spoken so boldly about how he wanted to take one of the watches, and how he would protect the camp, how nothing would get past him, how he would lead the defenders to drive back any forsaken creatures that attacked… Beloan had told him not to get his hopes up. Now, Adnan dearly wished that man was beside him again. He curled himself up, drawing his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs. One hand gripped the knife he had been given as if his life depended on it. If there was one thing to be sure of, it was that the blade wasn’t leaving his hand. Whether or not he would be able to use it, though, was an entirely different question.

The kind of quiet that settled on Mordor in the night was not the most peaceful one. And with the moon in its second week of waxing, there was enough light to play tricks on anyone’s eyes. Adnan jumped at any noise, any sign of movement, for what felt like hours. His body was tense, every muscle overly prepared to move. Over and over, the boy wondered what would happen if he was unable to warn the camp of an attack. His throat was dry, it felt swollen shut, and he had to force his swallows down. He was certain his voice would fail him when he had to call out. He wouldn’t even be able to scream before his throat was slit and the Orc marauders, the Easterling bandits entered the camp and slaughtered the rest. And all because of him.

All the fires were out, as Khamir had ordered. Adnan really was alone. His only comfort was found in the soft rhythm of breathing, the sound nearest him. Focusing his ears on the beat helped his own breathing slow, his heart rate drop to something a little more normal, and his sight begin to blur. His head felt heavier and heavier until he felt no more at all. His breathing matched the rhythm of the night around him, and the moonlight disintegrated into pitch…

[Folwren]

“Yes, but how many wolves, and which direction did they go?” Lindir asked no one in particular.

Athwen and Dorran had heard the last several exchanges. Carl began to talk, half to himself, and half to his companions, as he wandered off in search of some way to follow them. Athwen couldn’t help smile after him momentarily. Regardless of how astonished he would be if she ever voiced her opinion, Athwen couldn’t get it out of her mind that hobbits were absolutely adorable and it was a very difficult thing to take him seriously. She stifled a chuckle at his eager attempt to be useful, and turned to the others.

“Dorran just told me that the slavers don’t move in large groups,” she said. “And if there are a lot of slaves, perhaps they won’t attack them immediately. If that’s the case, we may have a chance to catch up. Carl’s right, though, we do need to hurry. And he is also probably right and they wouldn’t go into the mountains.”

She stopped a moment to think. In her opinion, as they had already searched for tracks and found none except for those that Lindir had found, they should waste no more time looking, but continue riding in the most likely direction. However, she knew next to nothing of these matters and so she kept her mouth shut. They didn’t need a woman telling them what she thought would be best and what wouldn’t – much less a woman know didn’t know what she was talking about.

So, instead of continuing to talk, she left the planning to those who knew more about it, and followed Carl. She caught up to him as he peered and poked through the dry plants.

“Tell me what you think you might find and I’ll help you look,” she said.

[Tevildo]

Azhar had staked out a small plot to call her own, a good distance from her nearest neighbor. The young girl could not stand being hedged in between so many tightly packed bodies. Tired of hearing her neighbors snore, she had gotten up and walked to the edge of camp where very few were sleeping. Finding what looked like a comfortable place, she had lain down again and curled her body into a tiny ball. Yet even here, she could feel the sharp edge of every twig and pebble that lay beneath the grass. Even removed from the snores and grunts of the others, Azhar found it impossible to sleep. She tossed restlessly from one side to the other.

Today had not been easy. Her own life on the plantation had been comparatively soft. Azhar had hauled buckets of water and delivered messages, but she had not been forced to do any backbreaking tasks. Moreover, unlike the mass of field slaves who had only the crudest of shelters, she was allowed to bed down in a pile of soft hay within a sturdy building where the horses were stabled. That way, she was close by when the overseers wanted an errand run. The young slave had managed to beg or steal enough food to keep her belly full and had a decent pair of shoes to wear. A few of the Easterling guards had been fond of her. They had liked her pretty face and been taken with her cheerful chatter. One of them had even gifted her with an agate on a leather thong to string about her neck, making her promise that in a year or two she would come back to visit him in the barracks. Still young and innocent, she had laughed and given her promise.

Out on the trail, things were a lot different. There was no privileged status here. She ate and drank and slept exactly like everyone else. Azhar wasn't used to that. Her body ached from too many miles walked, and her stomach growled incessently with hunger. Once today, during the long and miserable trek, she had even wondered if it might not have been better to stay back on the plantation rather than running off after a wild dream that was unlikely to come true.

But it was too late for second thoughts. Like it or not, she was stuck here. Maybe, if she was lucky, things would get better. She glanced over at her nearest neighbor who lay several feet away. His outline was shadowy and barely visible in the dark. It looked to be Kwell, a boy about her own age, but one who seemed as hard and silent as any rock. Perhaps she just didn't belong here. Sighing and feeling very alone, Azhar gathered the few scraps of her blanket tightly about her body and willed herself to sleep.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Two men sat on the hillside, eagerly peering down on the encampment of slaves. They were dressed in the garb of Easterlings. It was clear from their clothes and weapons that they were neither poor slaves, nor rich landowners. Rather, they were traders--traders in human flesh--who captured slaves and other lost remnents of humanity, dragging these unfortunates back to the planations for which they earned a rich reward.

The younger one spoke first. "Look at them. So many! I wish we'd brought along another twenty men. There's money here for the taking.'" The slaver Nimag squatted behind one of the larger boulders on the hillside, greedily rubbing his hands in anticipation of the gold and silver coins that would fall into his pocket, if only the men could bag a rich prize like this.

"Hold on," growled Imak, leaning over and smacking the younger man on the back of the head. "I'm in charge here. Keep your stinking mouth shut. I say when and where we go. You're a fool if you think seven men can go against a pack of over sixty. We'll end up with our throats slit, and little good to show for it."

Imak sat back on his heels, thought a minute, and then barked out orders to one of the riders who'd just approached them from over the hill. "Take the dog pack with you. Have four of the men attack the far side of camp." Imak indicated the direction with a hasty jerk of his thumb. " Just go and create a ruckus. Maybe slit a throat or two, or make off with some belongings. Make sure to take that idiot Nimag with you. Just get him out of my sight. Anyways," he added somewhat apologetically, "you'll have no trouble getting away on horseback."

"While that uproar is going on, I'll take the other men and nab two or three slaves. There's easy pickings down there. These fools have hardly any weapons and don't even know how to guard a camp. We'll take the captives back with us. Once we show the others, they'll come and clean out the rest of this vermin. We'll need the whole gang of thirty men to do that right. After all, we don't want to have to kill too many."

The rider looked up warily. "But, sir, why let them know we're here? Just go back now and get the others, and then take them all at once by surprise."

"Wait and do nothing? Nah." Imak grimaced and shook his head. "You don't know these thugs like I do. No good bounty hunter will go for the kill unless you show him some of the loot. If I come back with some cock and bull story, and not a slave to show for my efforts, they won't believe me. The men will only come if they see fresh meat up for sale, and they know I'm not just giving them a tale."

"But the guards? Aren't there guards on duty?"

"Nay," Imak laughed. "Just look over there where our men would come out. They've got a stupid young fool who's asleep." The Easterling's voice was full of disdain. He could not stand incompetence, whether in his own men or others.

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

It did not take long to carry out the plan. The dogs went howling into camp from the north side where the young guard had fallen asleep. The men were mounted on horses immediately behind them. Within seconds, the slaves in the camp had been jerked out of their sleep. Some raced over with clubs and makeshift swords to try and combat the threat; a large number, terrified and weaponless, merely attempted to run away. Everywhere there was noise and chaos.

At the same time, Imak and his chosen friends had quietly slipped in on the opposite side of camp. These men didn't have to ride very far to find what they were looking for. A young girl, about twelve, a pretty face, seemingly of eastern origin; plus a boy about the same age, hard and scarred, obviously used to working in the fields; both stood directly in their path. Imak reached over and scooped up the girl, hoisting her up onto his saddle. She was too frightened to resist. With the boy it was different. The slave hit and clawed and kicked, but in the end Imak gave a swift club to the side of his head and got him to quiet down that way. Within a space of a few minutes, the entire gang had finished their job and turned their horses around, intending to head back towards the Ash Plains where the larger band of thugs awaited.

[Undómë]

Brenna


If you see the Moon at the end of the day
A bright Full Moon is on its way
If you see the Moon in the early dawn
Look quick, look quick...t’will soon be gone.

The night was warm, no fires were needed. Not for the warmth, that is. Though, the light would have been more than welcome here in this unknown land. Brenna folded her tattered shawl into a little cushion and lowered herself onto it. The small thickness of it cushioned her thin hips against the hardness of the rock she sat on. She took off her right sandal and rubbed at the ball of her foot. A stray rock had lodged there in the last mile or so of their trek that day; a tenacious and unwelcome hitchhiker despite her attempts to shake it from her sandal as they walked along.

‘Going to have a blister, old woman,’ she admonished herself. She moistened the hem of her skirt with a little spit and cleaned the area as best she could. Tomorrow before they started off again, she would wrap a strip of cloth about her foot to cushion it against the assault of the new day.

She put her hands behind her and leaned back on her arms, looking toward the waxing moon. She fingered the small hand scythe she’d laid on the ground by her side. The swollen crescent of metal echoed the shape of the bright moon. May you mow down those who would hinder our way she whispered into the night air.

Her bones, her muscles were tired, aching from the long day of walking. The older she got, though, the less easy it was just to lie down and rest her body, to sleep. Her mind was wide awake, and would be she knew until the wee hours of the night. It was then that sleep would find her for the few short hours she needed.

She lay down on her back after while and traced the stars in the dark bowl of sky above her. Somewhere, she knew, her brothers were sleeping beneath the very same moon and stars…or perhaps, as she liked best to think, they were awake, thinking about her as well.

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

The sharp, insistent sound of the dogs drew her attention. She leveraged herself up from her resting place and saw the invaders as they entered the sleeping camp from the north. Panic and confusion blossomed about them as the sleeping men roused up to fight in their meager fashion while others of the group simply ran from the invaders as fast as their feet would carry them.

Brenna grabbed up her scythe, thinking to wake those on this side of the camp, to get them out of harm’s way before the invaders made their way to them. Before she could utter a word, a number of men on horses entered quietly in from her side of the camp; ten fell riders. A young boy was taken, clubbed senseless so that he lay limp across the horse in front of his abductor as if he were a sack of flour. And a thin girl, very young was hoisted up in like manner, though she was weaker and needed no persuasive beating to make her be still.

Oblivious to the pain in her foot, Brenna rose up and ran at the riders before they turned and headed out of camp. If only she could pull one or the other or better yet, both, of those children away from the abductors. The riders were too strong for her; their horses too quick as they turned away from her.

She took a quick, hard swipe at one of them, slicing along the back of his exposed leg as his horse leapt forward, toward the north. Another of those with the man hit out at her with his club, knocking her hard on the shoulder. Brenna fell, a cry of anger and frustration flung after the riders.

[Brinniel]

As night began to close in, the slave halted and made camp for the night. Shae quickly found her own space on the ground. She drew a large circle around herself in the dirt and scowled at anyone who dared to cross the line.

Shae was in a foul mood. She was still angry at Khamir's comment from earlier and as the day passed, the uneasiness she felt only weighed down on her more. Not to mention, by late afternoon a pesky migraine burdened Shae further and even hours later, it refused to leave. The pain had become such a nuisance, the young woman was tempted to throw rocks at any slave who made too much noise.

Bending her head between her knees, Shae closed her eyes and took deep breaths. She received headaches frequently, and through the years had learned the best cure was relaxation, a technique that had always been difficult for her. As the pain began to subside, Shae opened her eyes and spotted a large beetle crawling near her feet. Using two fingers, the woman plucked the insect from the dirt and examined its hard, shiny green and black shell. This species of beetle was rare and considered a delicacy. Back on the plantations, slaves would give up their most prized possessions for a taste. Shae placed the beetle in her mouth and let it crawl on her tongue before biting down on the shell with a loud crunch. The juices from the insect dissolved on her tongue as she took pleasure in the unusually sweet flavor.

By the time Shae's headache had completely disappeared, most of the ex-slaves were asleep and the first watch was nearly over. Shae had volunteered for the fourth watch, and though it was hours away, it would come before she knew it. And when that time came, she would need to be alert. Nestling her body into the hard ground, Shae closed her eyes and reluctantly let sleep consume her.

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

Shae awoke suddenly, bolting upright from her spot on the ground. Her senses were clear, yet her thoughts fogged. She could not recall any nightmare, so why had she awoken so sudden? And then she heard it- the sound of horses approaching. This time it was not a dream that had awoken her. A shout rang out, and unsheathing her long knife, Shae ran towards the unwelcome sounds.

[Folwren]

Kwell had not been knocked senseless when Imak had clubbed him, but he did lay still. His hand pressed against his head and he felt the blood trickle slowly between his fingers and course down his arm before it was soaked up into the dirty fabric of his sleeve. Through clenched teeth, he uttered horrible imprecations against both his back luck and the rider of the horse.

More than anything, he wanted to continue to fight. He dwelt on those scarce seconds of struggle, but found it impossible now to continue. His head buzzed and rang and the world spun around him every time he tried to move. The bouncing jolt of the horse made everything worse. The splitting head ache was getting worse every step and at the same time, his confusion and questions were rising.

Kwell thought he knew who these men were, but he wondered how they had ever found them. After weeks of hiding in the caves and not finding any sign of being tracked, followed, or discovered, it had seem reasonable to hope that they would never have been found. Of course, though, this would be just their luck. He ground his teeth in vexation and pain. Oh, great - now there were tears.

Angry with himself and his weakness, Kwell moved his hand away from his bleeding head. He braced it against the moving shoulder of the running horse and tried to push himself up. He would do his best to cause as much grievance as possible.

A hand grabbed the back of his neck and pushed him back down. The grip was strong as iron and hurt. Kwell winced and his hand flew to the man’s hand to try to push it away.

“Stay where you’re put, boy, and it’ll be better for you,” his captor growled. “No reason to make it worse for yourself.” It entered Kwell’s mind to obey and remain still – even to tell the man he would, so long as he let him go. The next moment he shut such thoughts out of his mind completely, once more clenching his jaw and causing his teeth to grind against each other. He would make no agreement, he would admit no defeat, and he would certainly not obey. But he found to disobey was impossible now. The hand did not move, and his head pounded as though all of his blood were trying to get there all at once. He grew dizzier at every passing moment and the rushing images in the dim world of night confused him even farther.

How long would this last, he wondered? And what would happen when it was over?

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Hadith was walking as an advanced guard as the plains transformed suddenly to a sparse thicket and then a forest appeared from nowhere. He took his long-knife and continued, hacking the vegetation down as he proceeded, even as others were calling him to come back in fear. Someone would have to do this and I will surely show them that I can brave it! The wood thickened with every step and the air grew damper. He was sweating. It was getting darker too, even though it was still daylight hours. But then in a flash, he was in the middle of the night, armed with just his self-made knife that was no good at all. He heard his heart bumbing ever faster. There was a howl of the wolves, loud and clear! They were coming towards him from a wide sector from before him. He didn’t know where to focus his attention as they seemed to come from both left and right and from straight ahead...

“Beloan!” he called the older man to his help in his sleep with all his might, just to realise that a great hound leapt over him and that he had become entangled with his blanket. He was more than awake now. The dogs were rushing over them, one was gripping a young girl from her side with its teeth just a few yards away from him. The girl yelled in pain. He managed to free himself from the sweaty blanket and tried to disentangle the cords of his long-knife, but as it was dark and he was nervous, it took its time. Meanwhile he heard the girl’s initial yell dying into a merely quiet moaning with occasional shrieks. How frustrated can you get!? Everything seemed to be on the move around him: shouts, cries, rushing footsteps...

And then came the riders. He could hear the earth responding to the hooves of the horses, shaking it under his butt. Blasted cords!

In the end he managed to release his blade and to stand up. A rider was just coming towards him with his sword ready for any target of opportunity. Without thinking, by pure instinct, Hadith docked down and evaded the rider unharmed. A long-knife against a swordsman on a horse. He had done well to yield. Now where is the girl who yelled? he thought to himself as he crawled up. He immediately noticed where. Her body lied motionless just three feet from him and the great easterling hound was looking at him, it’s muzzle smeared in blood. It gazed him with its ears and tail put back. In a fraction of a second it was on him.

Hadith had had time to just lift the blade towards it to defend himself as the dog came over him with all it’s mass. Hadith felt a strike of claws on his left shoulder and right forehead but managed to control the pain. The dog’s fangs missed him. It howled in anguish. Something warm spluttered over him as the dog’s weight overpowered him and sent him falling to his back. He got some bruises to his thighs from the claws of the dying dog that tackled him and his back ached from the fall. Hadith fastly pushed the still trembling body of the hound away and ran over to see the girl. She was dead. Or so it seemed.

Dratted cords! He was breathing heavily and full of excitement, smeared in the dog’s blood, dripping his own to mix with it from his forehead and shoulder. But he was quite ready to go on, his wounds were not bad enough. It was just that there were no targets for him to reach at sight. The riders were creating havoc too far away and even the dogs had disappeared to the darkness of the night – even though their sudden barks made an indication where they were. They were too far away from Hadith. All was chaos, and blood kept dripping from his forehead into his eye. He tried to sweep it away but it always came back.

Then he heard the riders thundering back, the dogs coming in front of them with their heavy panting. The rumble of the hooves were as scary this time, but now Hadith had time to prepare himself for it. The dogs emerged first from the darkness to his field of vision. Not one coming straight to him but passing him by a couple of yards. But then he saw the rider. Fully clad in armour, a real soldier to Hadith’s eyes, and he was just coming towards him, noticing him. He's got a lance! A drop of blood blinded his right eye. Happily the easterling also noticed Hadith at the last possible moment.

Hadith just dived again, escaping just narrowly the tip of the lance. After he had rolled around on the ground to evade the spear, he got a whim he didn’t exactly know where it came. Hadith threw his blade to the easterling’s back as he passed him and the Easterling fell to the ground. Before he could come to his feet he saw other slaves coming from all around, from nowhere where they had been hiding, hacking the fallen Easterling with anything they got: clubs, pans, sticks...

One of them, Fewerth, claimed Hadith’s blade to himself as the Easterling was killed, but Hadith had been strong enough to rise up and meet the ring of slaves around the mutilated body of the Easterling. His shoulder and forehead were still running with blood, even more than before. Seeing his wounds, most of the other slaves withdrew, leaving Hadith and Fewerth looking each other in the eye over the body of the Easterling that had been clubbed into a cruel death. Hadith knew Fewerth well enough. He was a thirty something, some fifteen years older than he was; one of those who never took risks but were always ready to take advantages from the risks others had taken.

“Hadith, you little brat! What are you doing here? This is my blade! Get off here! I gave this foul mongrel the initial blow!” Fewerth called with a loud voice, trying to assure the others of his claim. Hadith tried to argue back but was losing blood too rapidly to counter his argument with any strengtht.

“No! That blade is mine, given to me by Khamir himself!” Hadith managed to answer before he fell down to his knees. Fewerth grasped the long-knife from the body and took it with him. Many of the other slaves rushed to help Hadith who was tumbling down, while a few others stood by trying not to involve themselves with the case at hand.

“You see! Who would give a weapon to a kid like that who can’t even stand blood? I killed this guy!” Fewerth bellowed before disappearing to the shadows of the overall disarray.

“That’s mine! He failed the tests! He’s lying!” Hadith managed to call before he almost passed out. Happily Khala and Cuáran were near enough. They helped the couple of other slaves to bind his wounds and managed to put Hadith in to an upright position, waking him up with some water to come conscious of the familiar voices. “Khala? Cuáran?” he came to his senses gradually again. “Fewerth took the blade that was given to me! I tried my best!”

“Cool down child, everything’s going to be put right” Khala said, not herself believing a part of what she said in the middle of the havoc they were into, trying to soothe the young boy. But the voices of the horses and the cries were getting more distant with every minute.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil walked over to the edge of the brook and, with great purposeful strides, splashed through the water to the other side where a large stretch of grass was slightly matted. Only a few days ago, sixty-five hungry and desperate people had crossed over at this exact point probably heading north. This is what the slaves had told Elessar in the letter, and from the look of the land, they had honored that promise.

Aiwendil partially blamed himself for the dillema they were in now. Too many times on the trek, he had asked Lindir to slow down and give him a chance to rest. Too many mornings he had been chasing after strange migratory birds only to delay the entire group from leaving for the day. If only he had not had his wooly head in the clouds, if only he'd done what he was supposed to do......

But "if onlys" did not correct their present situation. What made it even worse was what the slaves must now think of Ellessar and the free men of the West. Most of the slaves were from the south and east, but they had freely extended a hand, requesting help and seeking friendship. Only neither of those things had arrived on time.

What must the slaves have thought when the fellowship did not materialize? That the group from Gondor was late because it had encountered some troubles on the trail? Not likely, the wizard conceded with a sigh. With a trail of failed promises behind them, the slaves must have believed that they had been purposely deserted, like so many times before.

Aiwendil gave a shudder and groaned. This was just the kind of thing he had been hoping to avoid. Ever since his trip to Harad and the strange events he'd battled through with Rôg, the istar had sworn to pay closer attention to creatures in need, human as well as animal. He had promised to pay careful heed to what he was doing and not merely to count the days until Yavanna allowed him to return home. Most of all, he had sworn to try and remember the task that Manwe had laid on his head just before he'd left for Middle-earth. Aiwendil still couldn't remember exactly what that task was, but he was sure it had something to do with Mordor. And failing these slaves was not a good way to begin.

Aiwendil shuddered again as he remember the cold, cruel brand that he had held only a few moments before. He'd said nothing to the others, but the metal itself had practically burned his hand and almost caused him to wretch. He hated when such things were used on beasts. How much worse was it then to use a brand on a man? If the slaves were recaptured, that and even worse would shortly await them.

And it wasn't only the slaves who were calling out to him. It was the very earth itself: sterile and abused, even in the great agricultural plantations that ringed about the Sea. And how much worse the abuse of the land had been on the Ash Plains and the distant Plateau of Gorgoroth!

It was amazing that the slaves of Nurn could grow anything at all, given their miserable, destructive methods of farming. Land like this should be able to yield a bountiful supply of crops without requiring the labor of massive slave gangs. But the slaves continue to do as their masters ordered, and the land continued to fade. It was a horrible cycle that needed to be broken. What we really need, mused the wizard, is a whole army of hobbits to help restore life to the land.

Aiwendil's reflections were suddenly broken by the trill of a small bird who bobbed down on his shoulder and then came and perched on his fingertips. It was a warbler (http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.skopelos.net/birds/images/sardinian-warbler.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.skopelos.net/birds/sardinian%2520warbler.htm&h=240&w=320&sz=21&hl=en&start=3&tbnid=FSxfh0PT647h9M:&tbnh=89&tbnw=118&prev=/images%3Fq%3DSardinian%2Bwarbler%26svnum%3D10%26hl %3Den%26lr%3D%26ie%3DUTF-8%26sa%3DG) , the rare brave bird who thrives on scrub and in the vicinity of volcanos, a perfect resident for the land of Mordor. The bird tilted his head and began to speak with Aiwendil. The speaking came not in words but a series of images flitting across the wizard's mind. What he saw was appalling, much worse than the smallish slave band that Dorran had described. The istar spluttered out his thanks to the bird before releasing him back into the air.

Turning and sprinting back up the slope much faster than he'd come down before, Aiwendil halted abruptly in front of Lindir. Athwen and Carl were off looking for more signs of the slaves, but a number of the party were standing and talking with each other. Without waiting for an opening in the conversation, Aiwendil blurted out his news, "I've seen them, or rather the warbler has."

"Seen who? the slaves?," one voice demanded.

"No, no. Not the slaves," Aiwendil curtly replied. "The bounty hunters. There's twenty-five or thirty men armed to the hilt, excellent fighters all, gathered about thirty miles north of here. I don't know if they've found the slaves, but I do know they are out hunting for bodies that they intend to take back and peddle for gold. If they haven't found the slaves already, they'll surely be hunting for them tomorrow."

Aiwendil grabbed Lindir's soldier and shook it gently, stamping his staff on the ground for emphasis. "We can't make camp. We can't wait. As soon as Athwen and Carl finish going over the grounds to see if there are any more clues, we've got to mount up and ride through the night. We have to reach the slaves before that gang of thugs and miscreants do, or I fear there'll be no one left."

[Durelin]

Khamir

One slash to the man’s arm, just one – that was all Khamir had been able to manage before all of the attackers were gone, and he did not think slitting open a dog counted for much. Easterlings: almost as bad as Gondorians, and perhaps worse even than Orcs, in the Southron’s mind. He wished he had been able to do a lot more damage. Wiping droplets of blood off his blade into the grass, the man was reluctant to investigate the scene further. He didn’t want to know how many were injured or killed or…

“Gone! Gone!” a woman wailed, and Khamir’s heart sank even lower in his chest. It was far too heavy to hold up, now, so he gave in. It seemed only sensible that first priority be taking care of the wounded, and so he called out for those who he knew were at least adequate healers, even if their work was rough, having had to learn the hard way. He gave quick instructions that everyone was to search the camp for the injured or dead. Then he found the woman who had cried out. She knelt on the ground, and was unable to speak for several minutes, but Khamir waited patiently.

“The two children…the two beautiful children… Oh, they were so little! And they’re gone…”

“Dead?” Khamir asked, though he regretted it almost before the word fully escaped his lips. The women sobbed harder than before, and again he was forced to wait until she managed an “I don’t know,” clearly disturbed by the fact that she did not know where these children she had at least kept an eye on for the past couple months, if not more. It was unlikely that either was actually her child, but she cried and tore at herself as if they were the last things left that she loved, and most likely they were.

If two children were missing, that had been the attackers’ purpose. The Easterlings were after their bodies. They could make a fortune if they managed to recapture a good number of the fifty that so recently escaped, no to mention if they recaptured the entire group. The bounty for escaped slaves was normally as large as the master of the plantation could manage, which, from what Khamir had heard of this one, was probably quite a bit. There was no doubt in his mind that they would be back.

He rubbed his hand over his face, feeling at a complete loss. Luckily, the group was good at taking care of each other, and any divisions among it were lost in such an event. They all had been forced to live hard lives with strangers, and had to learn to keep each other alive somehow. Perhaps there was even a reason for slavery, if it was enough to break all such borders. Khamir gritted his teeth. He had to keep a calm head.

“Khamir!” came a sudden shout, and the one-armed man literally growled, not even bothering to turn to the sound. He heard heavy footsteps from someone running coming closer, and he doubted he would have to ask the person to say what he or she wanted to.

“Khamir! The blade you gave me has been taken! Fewerth took it!” Out of the corner of his eye, Khamir caught dark hair and brown skin, and easily connected to voice to a face: Hadith, the boy that Beloan had so much faith in. So the kid wasn’t even able to hold on to his knife? Fewerth…it took a minute for the Southron to recognize the name. Fewerth was closer to his own age, though the two had nothing else in common. He seemed mostly rotten, and apparently had not grown out of some childhood tendencies.

“I don’t have time for this, Hadith,” he said, turning to the boy and looking him in the eye for but one moment, just to make sure he understood that he was serious. The boy had been wounded, apparently, bandages wrapped around his head. But were they injuries out of bravery or foolishness?

Turning away from Hadith, Khamir went to locate his gang. All fourteen seemed pretty much unscathed, except for the occasional dog bite. He was not as concerned about them, though, as he wanted to make sure they were all prepared for long days and long nights ahead of them. They could not allow another attack like this. If the goal had been only to take a few, then the attack itself was merely a diversion, and it was likely that next time, the attack would be much larger and would hold more of a purpose. When the bounty hunters did come back, they would be prepared for the big catch, so the slaves would have to be prepared to. But even before that, there was an important matter that needed attending to.

“Who had the third watch?” Khamir asked, looking over those from his gang who were nearest him. It was only a matter of minutes before the young man of the third watch was brought in front of the one-armed Haradrim. Adnan still gripped his knife in his hand. His eyes were dry, but opened wide. He hardly blinked, and he stared at the ground with a look on his face that could only be described as horror. Khamir tore the knife from the boy’s hand.

“What did you do?” he asked Adnan simply.

Adnan did not reply.

“Answer me.”

“It’s more what he didn’t do,” one of Khamir’s men spoke up, an edge of bitterness to his voice.

“You did not hurt anyone yourself, boy, but you did nothing to keep anyone from being hurt. And we can’t risk that ever happening again.” He held up the knife. “And if I cannot trust your eyes, I will surely not trust your hands.”

Khamir avoided Adnan’s eyes for a reason, and that reason pained him. But he had a purpose.

“Hadith, come here,” he called the boy to him, and gave him he knife he had taken from Adnan. “If you lose your knife again, to anyone, I cannot say you’ll get another.”

Turning back to the members of his gang, he was slightly taken aback by the absence of Adnan. The boy had disappeared in a flash, and without the one-armed man taking notice. Perhaps he had made a mistake….

Khamir shook his head, gladly scrambling some of his thoughts. “How long do you think before we can get all of them moving again?” he asked no one in particular, though with a glance he caught the eyes of Shae and Beloan, among those standing nearest him. He ignored any stares he received for asking the question at such a time, only minutes after an attack. He would not feel even the least bit at ease until they were on the move again.

[Regin Hardhammer]

The group had not stopped for very long before Ishkur’s stomach stated to rumble loudly. Amid the confusion of leaving the encampment at Nurn, Ishkur had not stopped to eat. While they moved, he tried to ignore the pangs of hunger as much as he could, but now that they had stopped, he had time to dwell on his empty stomach. Oh what he would give for a large juicy leg of meat! He had a particular weakness for horse and donkey, but would settle for some game. In his mind he could see a delicious pony rump turning on the spit, sizzling in its fat and juices. Ishkur looked around to see if someone else had food he could swipe, but no one seemed to have brought very much. Two of the women had gone off to weave a net for catching lizards or birds, but even if they shared their catch, which was highly doubtful, such a pittance would not satisfy him at all. It seemed, to Ishkur, that the only thing left for him was to go hunting.

Although morning was approaching, it was still dark outside when Ishkur left, the perfect time to hunt game. Ishkur walked some distance away from camp and began searching the field for something to kill and eat. Before, he had always been able to go to the mountain footholds and find at least some creature that he could kill. Out here it was different. There was no game to be found. The land seemed desolate, as if nothing had lived there for a long time, and smelled of dust and ash. Even the grass itself grew thin and short, clinging to life on the desolate plain. Nothing flourished here, no animals, except for a few starved rats. To his right, Ishkur spotted a patch of berry bushes, but he did not pay attention to them. He would rather starve than be forced to eat those vile, disgusting things; tubers were one thing, but berries were women’s food. Ishkur had not sunk low enough yet in his hunger to eat berries. No, he truly wanted meat; either roasted or raw would be fine.

Ishkur returned to camp and began to think of ways that the group could get food. They could not survive long without something to eat, and Ishkur had doubts as to whether any beasts would come walking their way. Why was the Ash Plain so devoid of wild creatures? Ishkur had no idea; he only knew he was hungry. If they could not hunt for any meat, they would have to get it other ways. He knew there were gangs of orcs and groups of mannish bandits that sometimes traversed the great plain. Perhaps, if they could find another traveling party out here, the orcs could relieve them of a few pack animals, or even one of the members of their party. The Uruk-hai tended to be the ones to prefer manflesh, but when Ishkur felt so terribly hungry he was not particular about what he ate.

Before the orcs slept, Ishkur spoke to a group of them about this problem. “We are all hungry and have no meat to eat. I have searched, yet there are no animals to hunt. If we do not eat soon, we will become weak and unable to travel. Tomorrow, let us seek out another group of men or elves that we may feast upon their flesh. Or perhaps, we can swipe their horses instead. Whatever the case, we must find meat. Otherwise all our work will be for nothing because we will all be dead.”

[Tevildo]

At some point during the wild dash over the plains, Azhar blacked out and did not awaken until after the slavers' band had arrived back in camp. When she finally came to, she was no longer straddled over Imak's saddle but confined inside some kind of makeshift holding pen, sitting by herself in total darkness. Her hands had been restrained with thick ropes that were secured behind her back. There was a shackle around her left ankle attached to a short metal chain that had been embedded in the prison wall. Her skin was chaffed and raw where the cruel metal anklet had rubbed against her leg.

Azhar's heart thumped wildly against her chest. At first, she could see nothing and when she frantically whispered in the darkness to find out if Kwell was nearby, she was met with ominous silence. Minutes passed, and then an hour, and still no one came. Lying down to sleep that evening, she had almost been ready to give up, complaining about the miserable conditions and wondering if it wouldn't have been easier to stay behind and simply beg the guards for the scraps that fell from their plates. Yet, strangely enough, here in the most dire circumstances she had faced, Azhar refused to despair. There was something inside that could not believe her dream would die inside this bleak fortress without a shred of hope or the gentle touch of a human hand.

How many times had she sat around the firepit and heard stories about the men and women of the West who had risen up to overthrow the might of Mordor? She'd memorized all those names: Aragorn, Gandalf, Faramir, and especially the Lady Eowyn. Those stories were shared in hushed voices in the middle of the night, passed along at great risk since there was always the chance that a guard might overhear.

Now, all alone in the blackness, with every rational hope extinguished, Azhar was beginning to wonder if she could possibly be a small part of that same story. All she wanted was a chance to live without the guards always telling her what to do. The young slave swore to herself that she would no longer agree to carry water. She would adamently refuse to roll over and die like some old dog that been kicked in the ribs and left along the roadside.

For the first time ever, Azhar was angry and aware that the slaves had suffered a great and preventable injustice, although she could not have put that feeling into words. At least she wanted to be able to defend herself. It was wrong that only the male escapees had been allowed to practice with weapons. She was as smart and nimble as any of them, and what she lacked in strength, she made up for in speed. Azhar swore that, if she ever got out of this pigsty, she would persuade Khamir or one of the other slave leaders to teach her how to use a bow or sword.

In the midst of all this thinking, a grating noise sounded above her head, like a latch being drawn back and a wooden door being removed. Craning her neck upward, she could just see the shadowy outline of a few stars twinkling in the night. They seemed to be beckoning her onward, offering her a tempting promise of life beyond this miserable cell. Her gentle dream was abruptly terminated when Imak's glaring face stared down from above. Suddenly, a body was hurled down into the pit, the hands and ankles bound with rope. As the shapeless form hit the ground, there was a mighty thud and then it rolled helplessly over to the side wall. To her great relief, Azhar heard someone cursing.

She waited a minute and then spoke, "Kwell, is that you?"

The answer came back sharp and acerbic, "Well, who else did you think would be visiting you in a place like this?"

[piosenniel]

Durelin’s post


A man who can converse with the birds?

Vrór, growing up under what was once the Lonely Mountain, had heard the tale of Bard on many occasions, and how the man could actually speak to and understand the thrush, though it was said that those birds could understand most speech. Now there was something the Dwarf had always wondered when told those stories – was it only the Common Tongue it could understand? But Vrór could only stare at the old man, and did not really hear a question asked. Were not men such as Bard long deceased?

“We have to reach the slaves before that gang of thugs and miscreants do, or I fear there’ll be no one left.” Vrór’s conscious return to the conversation was not a pleasant one.

He opened his mouth, but found it impossible to form words, or any sound at all. No one left? All…captured or dead? He truly felt that he would prefer death to being recaptured and forced back into chains, and that thought disturbed him to the bone. It was not natural for one to wish death on oneself. It was a horrible thing indeed that anyone would be left with two options, one worse even than being forced to leave this world in brutality and pain. Vrór certainly didn’t want to have to make that kind of choice, and right now, he did not even want to be faced with the decision of what to do next. It seemed Aiwendil had decided for them, though, and that didn’t sit too well with the Dwarf. He was sure that the old man was quite wise, but Vrór couldn’t help but thinking he was a little far off his rocker. Age could do that to you, among other things.

He waited respectfully, if a bit anxiously, for the old man to return from speaking with Rôg, who had pulled him aside. Vrór also couldn’t help but strain his ears, though he felt as guilty as a little boy peeking at his present. As soon as the two were finished, and the Haradrim ventured off on his own – something which Vrór spared a second to wonder about – immediately piped up. “But surely we can’t leave…now? We have naught but a general direction, and I…I’d be a warbler if any of you think you can track this group across Mordor, particularly when we’ve presumably got at least two different tracks on our hands. We’re no help to those slaves if we get ourselves into as deep a trouble as they, according to you, seem to be. With no offense meant to you, Master Aiwendil.”

Vrór couldn’t help but be gruff with his words. He was disturbed by this suggestion. Simply running off across Mordor was not what he had signed up for, nor did it seem rational enough to him. A headlong charge of a rescue mission wasn’t going to get them, or the slaves, anywhere, as far as he was concerned. Still, he regretted the harshness that might have been behind his words, and was glad that he had not added in any mention of a threat to give up on this Fellowship. It would have been an outright lie, anyway.

The Elf’s rather candid explanation of what the device they had found was had opened Vrór’s eyes, and though the understanding he came to of how much pain that single chunk of iron represented was a great one, he wished he had never laid his eyes on it, and for a good long moment, that he had never stepped foot in Mordor. But how could he, or anyone, abandon a being to such a fate as…that. Being branded like an animal, and treated like a disease. There was already so much sickness in this land that Vrór doubted could be healed. If they let just one more thing end as it would without intervention, they would perhaps be worse than the slavers themselves.

He felt strongly about doing good in this world, and though he rarely thought about other worlds, he was an idealist at heart. But he also felt strongly attached to the earth, particularly to rock and stone, and never let idealism whisk away his sensibilities. He desired direction, a plan, a map, a blueprint…something other than an ideal. But with an Elf and a man who could talk to birds, he doubted he would get so much as a push onto the determined path.


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


piosenniel’s post

Aiwendil was in one of his agitated moods. They didn’t happen often, but when they did, Rôg tried to keep a close eye on the old fellow. There was a vein near his left temple that throbbed when a situation was critical. And as Rôg craned his neck for a better view of the happenings, he could clearly see the thump-thump of the vessel beneath the skin.

He stood as quietly as he could, waiting for Aiwendil to finish speaking to Lindir. As was usual, he could not read the Elf’s response to Aiwendil’s urgent pleas. Elves . . . very odd creatures he thought. And this opinion despite the number of those he’d met in the old man’s company. Study them as one might, it was impossible to get a clear read on what was going on behind those finely chiseled features.

At a small pause in the mostly one-sided conversation, Rôg plucked lightly at the sleeve of Aiwendil’s robe. ‘I could,’ he said lowering his voice to an imperceptible level, ‘well . . . take a look-see around, you know. If you want, that is.’ He raised his brow to Aiwendil. ‘I’d leave it to you, of course, to explain where I’d gone off to.’ He paused and pursed his lips, thinking. ‘They most likely think I’m odd enough as it is. I suppose you could tell them, I’ve recently taken up the study of some, oh, say . . . bat, perhaps . . . hmmm, yes, one that’s indigenous to Mordor . . . that should do, don’t you think? Up to you, though.’

Rôg stepped back a half pace, giving Aiwendil room to consider the offer.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil peered evenly at Rôg and then beckoned him over to the side. Despite the potentially dire situation, the old man was clearly struggling to keep from smiling. For more than a minute, Aiwendil said nothing, apparently weighing a number of options. When he finally responded, his voice sounded mildly approving.

"Ahem.... Really not a bad idea at all. I had not quite thought along those lines. Of course, I might go study those bats too." The thought of the bats seemed strangely enticing to the old man. "But that might not be wise. Both of us can't simply disappear. I suppose it wouldn't take you very long?"

Rôg nodded mutely in agreement.

"Well then, it's settled. Plus, Elessar concurred it was important that we make a thorough listing of the birds and beasts who managed to survive all this ruin and ruckus over here. Who knows what you might find?" The istar gave a conspiratorial wink and then added one additional note of assurance, "Carl and Athwen haven't finished their work. The group can't leave till they are done, even if we should decide to ride out tonight. So just make sure to return in a little while or you may find yourself.... ah....shall we say....running to catch up."

[Novnarwen]

Aedhild

Screams of terror stirred Aedhild from her slumber. Her first impulse was to run, run as far as she could, convinced that her fears were about to become reality; the terrible creatures from the plantation had found them, and the chase had started. Her first attempt to run failed however; the days of marching had unfortunately been too harsh on her, and her legs could not carry her. "The devils," she shouted, before falling to the ground with a thud. She cried in despair. "Let them take me! Let them take me! They'll see what an old hag can do in those fields!" Her voice both bitter and desperate, it seemed to pierce through the air. She couldn't tell where the other slaves were positioned; when camping for the night, she usually withdrew to a quieter place, to be by herself, preferably as far away from the others. Now, she could only hear them running and shouting.

"We have to go after them!" A man called out. With further thought Aedhild recognized the voice of the man named Eirnar; he had been one of the slaves who had experienced freedom longer than she had, having run from the plantation and slavery years before and lived in the caves and waited for the right opportunity to seek out his dreams ever since. She liked him; his sincerity witnessed of a kindness that she had not known in anyone else. When she woke from consciousness after her fit, he had been there. She smiled at this memory.

"Go after them?" she muttered. Who in their right minds would go after those foul creatures! ... if I know them correctly, they will come back.. with a whole band.. they will force us back to slavery and to death. Heh.. I say, run! She wailed in horror.

Suddenly, a feeling that she knew all to well, but was not quite able to define pierced through her and took complete control. It was as if she was standing before her body, watching how something alien and not herself was taking possession of her. She could not resist it, and without realising it herself, the calm and quiet Aedhild vanished as if she had never existed.

By the devils she would go back to that place. No! It was as if she had been given new energy, as if she wasn't able to feel weakness anymore. Rising steadily, she rushed forwards; her eyesight not as keen in the dark, she ran forwards without aim or purpose, hoping to... in truth, not hoping for anything in particular. She simply just ran, like she had dreamed of so many times. She let her legs carry her, although they were far from fit to do it. Again she heard Eirnar's voice, eager and anxious at the same time. It seemed that he was trying to convince someone else to run after them. "Quickly! We must follow their trail! Khamir, we cannot just stand here! We must do something!" There was bitterness in his voice, even a trace of reproach.

Narrowing her eyes, Aedhild ran for the voice. What was this man thinking? She didn't care if it was Eirnar. Who was he, other than the man who had been there when recovering from her fit? "A t-t-traitor!" she called.

The sight of her was a horrid one. Again, the woman seemed to leave all her sensibility behind, only to rush into a situation she would be better without. This was something that the others couldn't understand, even if they wanted to, they couldn't. Aedhild didn't understand it either, nor was she able to comprehend it; she wasn't aware of how she seemed to change, all depending on the nature of the given situation; she could not, because in truth, it was suspected that there was no real Aedhild. Whether this had been caused by the hardships of slavery, or her background, which she herself could not recall, no one knew.

"Who? Who is a traitor?" A strong, firm hand grasped her by the arm. For a moment, she resisted, trying to hit back, muttering curses. The one-armed man's penetrating eyes didn't scare her, but they were enough to make her feel weak again and her legs were aching as badly as before.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

It was not long before Carl, gazing intently at the ground, noticed a long shadow slip over the stony soil beside him. Looking over his shoulder he saw that Athwen had joined him, an earnest expression on her face. “Tell me what you think you might find and I’ll help you look,” she offered.

The hobbit sighed deeply. “If only I knew, Miss,” he said, shaking his head. “Not a trail of cherry stones or cake crumbs, of that much I feel reasonably certain. But hopefully something will turn up if we look carefully.”

Reaching for a branch of yet another spiny and unfamiliar plant, Carl twisted off a leafy sprig. He looked at it absently, and out of habit crumbled a leaf to smell its fragrance. “These prickers ought to be good for something other than catching hobbits.” And seeing Athwen’s questioning look, he lifted his torn sleeve as evidence, for her to see. “I figured if I got caught on one, chances are someone else would too. They might have left us a flag, so to speak. And then maybe we will find something to cheer us, eh? Footprints or some such thing.”

Athwen nodded her understanding, and the two decided to divide the area north of the cave. Tucking her golden hair behind her ears, Athwen searched to Carl’s left while the hobbit continued in the direction he had been going. He was glad for her help, and together they quickly made their way toward a ridge that extended from the mountains like a giant rocky root. The stream turned to follow the ridge running along the rough shingle at its base. They were about to give up when Athwen gave a happy cry, and Carl ran to her, his bare feet scattering stones as he went.

There at Athwen’s feet lay a smooth stone, no bigger than the hobbit’s palm. And on the stone a rough symbol was lightly scratched, a tree with the moon to one side of it. Four small marks also were carefully drawn within the moon’s crescent.

“It’s the white tree of Gondor,” Athwen said smiling. “Someone has left us a sign!”

“A treasure you are, and your eyes too! How is it that you managed to see that small stone out of so many!” Carl said, picking up it up. “but I wonder what the moon means and the marks that are in it? It looks for all the world like a little chicken’s foot!”

“The moon might stand for Ithilien,” she answered, “but I’m afraid that the bird foot is a mystery to me.”

Carl looked at the drawing closely. “You know,” he said, “This reminds of a game I saw the children of the Pelennor play. They hide; leaving such tokens to help the others find them.”

“Yes, I have heard of it. But hadn't we better let the others know what we’ve found,” Athwen said.

“Of course, you are right!” And Carl bounded heavily over the terrain, like a awkward puppy running before Athwen, waving the stone over his head and shouting excitedly to the others, “Hey, hello! Miss Athwen has found us something.”

[Nogrod]

Hadith

I’ve lost my knife! I’ve lost it! After they had lightly bandaged his head and shoulder, Khala and Cuáran had left him alone to help with the other wounded. This is so humiliating! How I hate Fewerth!

The Easterling’s mutilated body lay face down a couple of feet from him. He had had a beautiful dark reddish brown coat that was now ripped and smeared all over with his own blood. He had had boots too but they had been taken away from him by someone. Hadith couldn’t see his spear either. I tiny shimmer of hope entered Hadith’s conciousness. If they haven’t turned him around, he might still have his knife! It might be even better than the one Khamir gave me! With that he rose quickly, feeling a bit dizzy at first from the effort but then went to the body to take a closer look at it.

He turned the body around. The fear that had frozen in his eyes was something Hadith couldn’t quite face. The man was young, not much older than Hadith was. Hadith could see it even though his face was bruised pretty badly. For a short while he was just embarrassed. The Easterling didn’t look like a mighty warrior or brutal villain, but like an ordinary young lad. He studied the corpse in haste. There was nothing left. Everything of any value had been ripped off him already.

Hadith turned the corpse back face on the ground and stood up. They trusted me with a knife and what did I do? I lost it! I’ve betrayed their confidence in me, I’ve totally bungled it! He felt desperate. There was no way that he could save himself from the humiliation now. They would find out sooner or later that he had lost his knife. So he should confess his shortcomings preferably know than later. On the plantation one always got over with easier punishment if one confessed early. Hadith had learned this just too well. Fewerth was always good at that! He suddenly remembered and his anger towards Fewerth rose again. Maybe I should just go to him and demand my knife back? Khamir could testify that it is the one given to me. Hadith was still standing by the side of the dead Easterling. He bit his lip, not knowing what to do. A single teardrop ran slowly down his dirty cheek.

But one didn’t peach against others. Not if they were true men. Hadith’s mother had been firm with this lesson and Hadith had taken it to his heart. Even as Fewerth had had been the one who had acted foully, he would not let on him. He would settle the matter with him, though. But as he was not sure when or how he could make it, he realised to his horror that he still would have to go and make the humiliating confession to Khamir.

With a heavy heart he started looking for Khamir. Will they ever trust me with a blade again? They will think of me not worthy any more...

“I don’t have time for this, Hadith” Khamir had answered him as he had addressed him with his troubles. That had been even more humiliating. And to top his anguish, he had gone and slipped Fewerth’s name to make his claim. He had been so nervous! He had planned all he would say when he would meet Khamir, but what happened? Just nervous mumbling and betrayal.

But it was Khamir’s words that made him actually to realise the situation. Many people were wounded, some might even be dead. How about that young girl who was attacked by the dog? He hadn’t checked or even asked about the girl after the skirmish was over. He had been so full of his loss of a knife he had forgotten about other people. Now he was not only humiliated but also ashamed of himself. His first test at being a worthy man and a defender of others had proven a disaster.

Suddenly he heard Khamir addressing him: “Hadith, come here,” he called him and gave him the knife he had taken from Adnan. “If you lose your knife again, to anyone, I cannot say you’ll get another.” Hadith was quite baffled of this new twist of fate. He took the knife and bowed to Khamir, but as he was trying to open his mouth to thank for the confidence or to promise to keep this one more carefully, Khamir had already turned away to address the others.

Hadith took his leave without asking as Khamir clearly seemed busy. I should do at least something right today, he thought to himself and took to looking for the older ladies. He found Khala and Cuáran soon enough and helped them with an older man who had a nasty cut in his side. But his mind was mainly preoccupied with solitary reproaches.

[Nogrod]

Gwerr

“You are right Ishkur. And the less we have food, the more eager those Wizard’s Wonderboys are getting rid of us.” Gwerr answered Ishkur while Colagar was nodding to both of them. The sun had already risen and the cold morning light painted the plains farther away. The line between light and shadow was moving towards them with a pace one could almost see.

“But coming across a group of others in here? We would be lucky indeed!” Gwerr continued after a short pause. “Who would be travelling here? The trade caravans yes, but you all know how heavily guarded they are.” Gwerr’s words didn’t sound encouraging and they weren’t meant to. They had very little meat indeed and he didn’t see any easy way to get more any time soon.

Gwerr took his piece of dried meat and carved a bite from it with his knife. He was slowly chewing it as he noted Ishkur following his eating with a gaze that could not be misinterpreted.

“Haven’t you eaten anything tonight?” Gwerr asked him a bit concernedly. Ishkur was important to them as he had brains and experience, and against the Uruks they would need all the able orcs when it would come to a confrontation. And they had been around so long that it felt somewhat wrong to see him starve. “And you have none with you?” Gwerr continued, quite not believing what he saw. I’ll have to rework my ideas about him and the brains...

Frowning he cut another bite of the meat and handed it towards Ishkur. “Eat, we don’t need you dead.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Wizard's Wonderboy, is it? That's enough Gwerr, if you want to live." Makdush's hand slipped to the hilt of his sword but then pulled back. "At least I'm not a lice ridden maggot the way you are. And keep your mouth closed about Saruman. He had a brain, which is something you lack."

"Anyways, you should listen to Ishkur. I hate to say this, but the orc spawn has a point. There's no game here, and we don't have enough food. I also went hunting, and all I bagged were two starving rats." Makdush held up the rats by the tail and then threw them on one of the women's laps. "Add these to the stew pot, girls. Share and share alike. But we're going to be mighty hungry in a few days unless we bag some real meat."

"I know these parts well. Number One used to have me lead orc gangs north from the plantations. Ishkur's right. Some people do make their way across the Ash Plain. Yes, the caravans are guarded. But a smart orc can outwit a guard and cut a throat or steal a horse while everyone's asleep. It's hard but possible. Plus, you've forgotten something.....runaway slaves who stupidly flee north instead of south....not that they last for very long. They're a bit stringy but easy prey. Three or four slaves without weapons. It's almost like child's play." Makdush licked his lips and rubbed his hands in anticipation.

"So what do you suggest?" Ishkur's voice was cold, but he did not turn away from the Uruk.

"Suggest? I suggest we get up tomorrow and head north, looking for tracks. We can't go back. None of us, unless we want our throats slit. Don't expect to find a large group of travellers these days but we'll find something. And, right now, a single man or pony is looking awfully good."

The camp was absolutely still. No one said a word. Of all the strange events of the day, this one was the strangest. Ishkur and Makdush....bitter enemies....were actually agreeing on what the group should do.

Ishkur quickly stood up and barked out an order, trying to cover up the fact that, for the first time, an orc and a Uruk had actually agreed on something. "Finish up and bed down. Women, clean up this mess near the firepit. Tomorrow we head north to hunt whatever happens to cross our path. And once we cross the plain, we go west, to the foothills of the mountains where there's plenty of game."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil's response to the Dwarf was immediate, "Vrór, you are right. It would not be wise to venture north if we had no idea where the slaves went. Yet, we already know a good deal more than just a little while ago. And I believe it is enough to get us started."

Aiwendil pointed towards the sloping riverbank. "That place where the grass is matted..... Surely this is where the slaves crossed and headed north. Whether the slavers followed behind them, or were even driving them forward, we can't know for sure. But I am convinced if we follow those tracks we will eventually find the slaves. We also know they are going to the southern reaches of the Plateau of Gorgoroth for this is what was written in the letter to Elessar. Surely, they would not go too widely off track. We are fortunate to have in our company two of the best scouts in all the west." Here the wizard's eyes rested on Dorran and Lindir.

"Plus, there is another thing." Aiwendil stopped a moment uncertain how much more he should say. "My servant Rôg is amazingly talented. At my request, he is going off to have a look at some wildlife while we are collecting ourselves here, a special survey that Elessar asked us to undertake regarding the birds and beasts in Mordor. But Rôg is amazingly observent, and I don't doubt that if there is anything special to see or be discovered that will help us, he will handle himself quite well. Indeed, we may know more when he returns, though I cannot say for sure."

At the exact moment when Aiwendil finished his cryptic speech, Athwen and Carl burst into the group. In Carl's hand was a small stone that he immediately gave to Lindir. The Elf examined it closely and then turned to Athwen with a smile, "You have done well. No slaver would have owned such a thing. Surely this belonged to one of the slaves." Lindir held it up in the fading light and peered at the shapes more closely, "The White Tree of Gondor, and is this a moon of Ithilien? Amazing, just amazing. Perhaps our tales of the great war are known even here. But what is this?" Lindir's brow furled down but he continued talking, more to himself than to anyone in the group. "I really have no idea. How strange. A bird's foot? Perhaps a representation of an Eagle? But no, the claws are not sharp enough."

Lindir handed the stone back to Carl, shaking his head. "I do not know what this means. But surely it is an omen of goodness left behind, whether intentionally or not. Let us do this. We can not leave at this minute. Make a fire and we will have some supper and wait for Rôg's return. We have had nothing all day and can not keep pushing on without a moment's rest. Then we can talk and decide whether we will leave now, or wait till the morning. But I do believe we have no choice except to head north."

Without waiting for an answer, Lindir pushed Aiwendil over to the side, "What is this about Rôg? Just where is he going?"

"I am not sure," Aiwendil honestly answered. "But he is very observent and if there's something to be seen, he will see it."

"Aiwendil, is there something you're not telling me?"

"Aye, Lindir, you know something of my past, more than most of the others here, and you know there is much that I do not speak about."

"No, no. That's not what I mean. I was referring to your manservant. I need to know the strengths of every member of this group, and yet I know very little about this Rôg."

Aiwendil shook his head, "As to that, I can not say. If you have any questions, I would suggest that you speak with him. I can only say that he is one of the most competent men and most loyal friends I have known. If I were in a spot of great danger, I truly cannot think of another person that I would rather have at my side." The last phrase was spoken with a hint of dry humor that left Lindir scratching his head.

[Firefoot]

Johari scowled and rolled her eyes in frustration with the whole group of them. Did none of them see the obvious problems that this incident had brought to light? Or did they simply choose to ignore them? Either way, Johari decided, they were fools. This situation could not be allowed to continue as it was.

“I do not care,” she began loudly to draw attention, “whether we go after the children or not. But I do care about what happens when those beasts of slavers come back after us. It ultimately will not matter how far away we have gotten or how fast we get there; a group this size will certainly leave tracks, and they are on horseback. And they will come after us, probably with even more people; look at us! We are a huge group – to them we must look a feast,” she said, spitting the words out. “And what will happen then? They will take even more of us captive, and it won’t even matter how well our guards watch because they will still be able to take us by force. How many of us are there? Sixty-something? And how many of us have weapons? Twenty? Twenty-five? Maybe thirty? Less than half! Closer to a third. And once they come back with more people, not to mention their dogs, we don’t stand a chance! Too many of us have no way of defending ourselves besides with our fists and fingernails – small compensation against mounted warriors and blood-thirsty dogs.

“The problem is not that we have lost two children tonight. The problem is that we are not changing anything. I have put up with the organization of this camp until now, but obviously it will not work. You cannot continue to treat all of us as children to be looked after. And I want to know what you propose to do about it.”

There! See how he and the rest of his high-and-mighties handle that.

[Novnarwen]

The camp was in chaos, in utter confusion. It was a rather strange scene, Eirnar admitted; all around, people were running like ants, either withdrawing to a 'safe' place or gathering in the centre of the camp. At first, the Gondorian had refused to believe what had happened; Two children, kidnapped? How? It didn't take long before last night's thoughts came to him again, and a rage he was unfamiliar with took him. "Quickly! We must follow their trail! Khamir, we cannot just stand here! We must do something!" he had cried out, only to find Khamir standing close by. Soon after, the mad-woman Aedhild had come, springing forwards, her eyes wild with excitement, screaming 'traitor;' though the minute Khamir had grabbed her by the arm, she had fallen silent and her eyes went glossy once more. Eirnar didn't know whether the woman was referring to Khamir or anyone else, but perhaps she was not the mad-woman they suspected her of being after all. If she spoke the truth or not, he probably would never know, but after tonight, he would certainly watch her moves more closely.

Strange and unexpected events seemed to have become normal. A woman named Johari had suddenly made her voice heard, speaking very freely of what she thought of tonight's events and a possible reaction. Eirnar’s first response to what she had to say was of reproach; he didn't approve of her words in the slightest. So, she didn't care whether they went after their children or not? She seemed to take much for granted that woman. This decision could determine the fate of all of them; if they went to rescue the children, they could risk bumping into a much larger band of bandits, and they would surely be killed. A gang of hungry and thirsty slaves, not to mention exhausted slaves, could not fight and win. It would be impossible. If they chose to sacrifice the youngsters, and leave the camp now, they could make it. However, this too, could fail. If the bandits chose to follow them, the slaves would be forced to pick up the pace, and ultimately, the bandits would tire them out and strike, vulnerable as they would be. Their ruin would be a fact; they could forget about their freedom, their hopes and dreams. No, this decision was too important for anyone not to care.

He wanted to interrupt, to make her stop; a fierce tongue was all she appeared to have, but then she did seem to have a strong opinion after all. Whether she really cared or not, Eirnar couldn't possibly tell for sure, but her words seemed to bend into a direction he hadn't expected from her opening lines. Letting his gaze wander, he watched some of the others, their eyes fixed at the woman. Sure, she had charisma and she governed her facial expressions so that they seemed pleasant, passionate and sincere.

"You cannot continue to treat all of us as children to be looked after. And I want to know what you propose to do about it.”

Immediately, he shot a glance at Khamir. Although, his face didn't reveal what he was thinking, he stood glued to the ground, his mouth half open as if about to reply.

"No! Let him not propose a single thing more. Here we are, in the middle of this dark land, as unsafe as ever... and who led us here?" Eirnar breathed heavily, not knowing what to say next. He paused for a minute, biting his lip before continuing.

"No, two children are missing and we will have to do something. Our decision on what we choose to do will without a doubt have great impact on what becomes of us.. so... in other words, one man is not going to decide what we are going to do! And if we are children to him... well, he will see that we are not..."

[Tevildo]

"Are you alright?" called Azhar to Kwell.

"Alright? What do you think? They tried to get information out of me. Information about the slaves....where they were going and how they got here. I guess they think they'll get extra money if they return us all to the plantation we're from. That malt-worm Imak threatened to have his dogs tear me in pieces if I didn't speak up. I spat in his face and wouldn't tell him anything. He said I'd better talk tomorrow."

"So what are you going to do?" interjected the girl.

"I'll talk. I want to get out of here alive. But I'll tell them a pack of lies with a straight face. They'll never know the difference."

"It's dangerous Kwell. What if they find out?"

"They won't find out. I'm too smart for that. And what if they do?" Kwell shrugged his shoulders. "Anyways I expect tomorrow they'll start on you." Then he added bitterly, "I don't expect you'll last too long."

Azhar's face blanched white as she considered the possibility of having to stand up to a brute like Imak. For all her new found resolve and desire to start over, she felt Kwell had a point. She had no idea if she could hold out.

There was silence in the pit for some time. Azhar could feel her stomach growling, and she was pitifully thirsty. The maddening thing was that just to her left, in what was apparently a side tunnel, she could hear the sound of water gurgling. Azhar thought it might be possible to use the rocky footholds to climb up to the top of the cave, but the slavers had sealed off the entrance with a grating and stationed a guard immediately outside.

Suddenly, there was a small insistent noise, almost like a sawing, coming from the far side where Kwell was hunched over near the wall.

"What are you doing" she demanded.

"Trying to get these cursed ropes off. I've found a sharp rock, and I think I can do it." For the next half hour, there was more sawing and then a muffled cry of triumph as Kwell burst free of his restraints. He slipped the ropes off his legs and ran over to where Azhar was bound, using the same sharp edge to cut through her cords. Then Kwell put the rock inside his pocket, thinking it might come in hand for any number of interesting purposes. Freed from their restraints, the two children crept noiselessly over to the brook and drank their fill.

"Ugh look!" As Azhar finished drinking, she pointed to a slithering snake that was making its way down into the water. It was less than a foot in length.

Kwell looked at her and grinned, "I have an idea." Azhar shrank back in horror as Kwell took the snake by the tail and, still holding it, began to clamber up the side of the cave, using the rocky ledges and footholds to make his way to the top. She could see Kwell peer into the darkness; it was quiet in the encampment and the guard had fallen asleep. The boy tried unsuccessfully to move the grating. Although it was securely fastened, he was still able to put his hand between the wooden grates and feel about with his fingers. Azhar waited below, not sure what he was doing. At one point, she actually thought he heard him squeal in delight. When he came back down, he had a wider grin on his face, and the snake was gone.

"What's going on? What happened?"

"Never mind, you'll find out tomorrow. Now tie the ropes back on but loosely. Just make it look good so they think we were tied up all night."

Just before falling asleep, Azhar whispered to Kwell, "When do you think they'll come for us? The other slaves?"

"You must be joking. They won't come. They'll only care about their own necks. In this world, it's everybody for himself." For the next few minutes, Kwell could hear the soft sounds of sobbing from across the cave. He looked up and said something that was out of character, "Hey, Azhar, don't worry. We'll make it alright. Stick with me, and I'll take care of you." The sobbing stopped and there was silence as both children fell asleep.

[Undómë]

Brenna


Old habits die hard, and especially for one who has been under the thumb…the eye..the lash of others for so long. The old feelings came up, shouting Danger! Be quiet; be small! Invisible…

Brenna was rooted to the spot she stood on..and that standing a precarious one from the blow she’d received from the slavers. Her eyes were cast down, shoulders hunched, arms hugging herself, as if to make her already small frame smaller still. There were angry words flying about and strong gestures and posturings. She shrank away from the hot words, the fiery waves that flashed from person to person.

Brenna withdrew to a small rise apart from those who were talking. And while it brought her some feeling of safety, it brought only a cold comfort. Two children were gone, snatched back by foul hands to that hateful life they had hoped was left behind.

‘Kwell…Azhar…’ she spoke aloud. Naught but the night and a small bird, a nightjar she thought, perched on the twisted limb of a stunted tree nearby could hear her. ‘I remember now.’ Their faces emerged from the crowd of those on the dusty trail of their escape route. ‘Those were their names; the ones those fiends took away,’ she said aloud again, making them more real to herself. ‘Kwell and Azhar. They were just at that twist in the road leading on to being a man, being a woman.’ She rubbed at her eyes. ‘Those demons should have taken me. I’ve spent all my life under the lash. What would a few more years matter.’ She rolled up her ragged sleeve, baring her left arm. The skin of her forearm bore an old scar, nearly lost amid the old bruises and scars left from hard work and punishments. It marked her as a slave, as someone who belonged to someone, somewhere.

She held her arms up in the moonlight. ‘But not forever…not forever…’

Brenna sat back down, her hand straying to a small flat rock lying near. ‘Bran, Nevan,’ she sighed, bringing her brothers’ still young faces into her mind. She picked up the stone, turning it over and over in her hand. ‘If only you would find me. You would stand up for the two taken, I’m sure of it. You would shout we should go north and take them back.’ She took out her small scythe and began to scratch a design into the stone’s surface. A few tears fell on the marks and she hastily wiped them away with her sleeve. ‘But I can’t…I can’t…’ She balanced the rock carefully on a pile of twigs near her little camping space.

Pulling her ragged shawl about her thin shoulders, she looked up toward the moon, wishing it were the sun instead and they were up and on their way to somewhere. Running or rescue…either, as long as they were moving along, no time for thinking. The small, plain bird hopped along the branch, craning his head at her, one bright black eye giving her a considering look.

‘Little Bird,’ she murmured, rocking back and forth a little on her haunches. ‘That’s what they called me…my brothers…when we played our games of hide and seek…’

[Nogrod]

Hadith & Johari

Rebellion! This is rebellion! Hadith was shocked for what he heard. Johari had started it and then Eirnar had followed. Now many others were murmuring and exchanging angry glances around, searching for a culprit. Why are they rising against those who try to help us and without whom we would be lost? Hadith just couldn’t understand. We wouldn’t have any weapons, we wouldn’t know what to do... During his two months of freedom he had learned that there were lots of things he knew nothing about or didn’t understand at all, but still the reality managed to surprise him time after time, especially this day.

And he was even more puzzled of Eirnar’s calls. If one or two of the wisest old stagers shouldn’t decide, then who should? Surely I couldn’t decide, neither could Eirnar, or the children for that matter... Too important for just one man to decide? But how could we decide it together as we all are with so different minds about what to do?

Hadith rose up leaving Khala and Cuáran to take care of the older man. The older women exchanged looks shaking their heads. “He’s too young and naive to meddle with this kind of things”, Khala said to Cuáran quietly. “Should I call him back? His mother would have.”

“Maybe you should, but he might learn something from this.” Cuáran answered thoughtfully, handing the last clean linens to Khala. “If there is time for anyone of us to make use of what we have learned in life...” she muttered, watching emptily to the horizon. Khala nodded and secured the last knot on the bandages of the older man.

Hadith spotted Johari some twenty yards away from him. She was standing straight, looking around her defiantly, seemingly pleased of the reaction she had roused. “Johari!” he shouted and ran towards the woman, not giving a second thought of what he was doing.

“What are you doing?” he called to her in anguish, panting from the run as he approached. “You are not helping us, you are making things worse!” he yelled at her as he finally reached her. He was more than agitated but tried to remain as calm as possible. He saw many heads turning to hear this exchange of words. To his horror he noticed that also Khamir was near enough to probably hear what he was saying.

“Why, Johari? Why?”

"Making things worse?" Johari raised her eyebrows skeptically. "They are already bad, and need to be fixed. How others choose to react is not my responsibility - all the better if they listen."

Hadith was again totally baffled by her answer. He just couldn’t see the link between fixing things and arousing unrest in a time of trouble. "If we just quarrel here and rise against one another, we'll surely be lost!" he exclaimed fervently. "How do you fix it without those who know better than we do?"

Exasperation was clear in Johari's face. "Without them? I never said that. I told them to fix it."

Hadith was speechless for a moment. In his passion he probably had mixed the calls of Johari and Eirnar together to a one dangerous idea that could turn all in chaos and against which he would have to fight. But it was also true, that he seemed to be a bit confused when he talked with Johari anyway. Her answers were not the ones that could be anticipated and thence it was really hard to discuss with her as easily as with others. Still, that didn't change his basic frustration.

"Don't you think they are thinking about what's best to us already?" he asked her in the end. "Do you think that rousing all the people helps them with their thinking?"

"What are you now, their spokesperson?" asked Johari, rapidly becoming annoyed. "Whether they're thinking of our welfare or not, what they're doing is not working, and I do not intend to be unprepared when the slavers come back for us. You may have been 'rewarded' with a knife, but look at the rest of us, why don't you? I'm looking out for myself, Hadith, and I don't care too much about what the rest of the people here make of it." Her dark eyes glittered dangerously, daring him to challenge her further.

Hadith saw the fire in her eyes and took a step back just to be on the safe side. This woman really has temper. How are you supposed to get on with this kind of people? Hadith was quite at loss.

But something she had said had hit him and hit him hard. The way she uttered the word 'rewarded' brought all his self-accusations and his own insecurity to the fore. Against his better judgement he answered, seeking so calm tone of voice he could amidst the maelstrom of his feelings.

"There is only certain number of arms around. They have given them to those they have deemed able to yield them to secure us all. Is there a more reasonable way you would have distributed them?" A certain defiance had crept into his voice as he uttered the last words. He looked at Johari firmly but was totally panicked inside.

Hadith had pushed Johari beyond reason. Who was he, barely more than a boy, to deign to tell her what to do? Annoyance giving way to fury, in a single movement she stepped forward to close the gap once more and drew back her fist, punched him squarely beneath his eye, and watched in satisfaction as he staggered backwards. "And how are my actions any business of yours, oh worthy one?" she spat, turning away from him coldly.

All seemed to black out for a second for Hadith but he regained his balance. Had Johari been any of the men in the camp, he would have jumped after him and given the punch back, preferably a couple more. But being raised by one’s mother and other older women that possibility never actually passed his mind. He had been taught that women should never be hit or mistreated physically and he had learned it well.

Hadith just bit his lip and swallowed his tears. He felt so powerless in front of all this. Why didn’t anyone just tell everyone else what to do and get them to safety? He would gladly do his part if someone would just tell him, what that part was. Even though it had been hard to think, he had been enthusiastic about the possibility of there being no one right answer to all things earlier in the day. But now as the insecurity and uncertainty was so real and imminent, he felt just frightened and alone.

[Nogrod]

Gwerr

Gwerr couldn’t raise his eybrow because of the metal plate that had been stiched over his eye. But had he been able, he surely would have done it. So Ishkur, you’re hungry and you get a piece of meat – from me! - and immediately you are ready to make brothers with these travesties of an orc who promise you more! Gwerr couldn’t believe his one eye or his ears. Just like a puppet echoing the words of his master! Just what they want from you!

It was bad enough that Makdush had overheard their discussion, but he had actually come forwards with his brutes to show a muscle. Gwerr was boiling over with anger. He groped for a curse strong enough but failed in it. In his frustration he only managed to whisper to himself: “Oh darn you dratted rise-and-shines!”

And hey! This getaway was my idea! Well, mine and Colagar’s, but whatever... These Uruks are just hang-arounds, vermins on board! And what is Ishkur thinking? He joined the already made plan himself and now he tries to act as a leader with an established peace-treaty with these over-muscled baby-boomers!

It took a few thousand years of experience from Gwerr to stay silent and just to grit his teeth to Makdush and his fellow Uruks as they walked away. As the Uruks had gone, he looked at Ishkur in the eye, his eye flaming. “You just beware. For your own good... and ours. Those are no mister nice-guys and they mean us no good!” by that he went off, searching for a pit or hole to protect himself from the sun that had already reached them over the plains.

But Gwerr couldn’t sleep. He was too agitated for it. He feared the Uruks coming to slit their throats if they would fall asleep. And they had made no arrangements to have guards in the first place! So he remained in the shelter of a depression on the ground he had found, but kept being awake. Tomorrow we will have to talk this over with Colagar and Ishkur – and I won’t be sleeping if there is an Uruk left guarding our sleep! But the longer he laid there awake, the more he started pondering the words of Makdush. He actually seemed to know something about the traffic on these lands and surely they could do with some additional meat. He himself had provided himself for a long journey but clearly all hadn’t. And as the initial plan had bankrupted, the situation was different now. With this small group, all the few females were important too, even if they would have not taken care of their preparations.

So maybe we should follow Makdush’s idea tomorrow? Oh, darkness under! What foolery! Gwerr was getting irate again. But if he knows, he knows. And if he’s hungry, he might lead us to some food. Maybe Ishkur is not so dum at all, maybe he’s just faster than me? The thought was at the same time worrysome and relieving. An orc with nothing to eat for a long journey... Gah! But maybe he still had his brains left? We must discuss this as the evening comes along. Even though he tried to avoid it, he fell asleep in the end.

[piosenniel]

It was quite easy to find his way back to the where his companions had made their camp. Two fires had been lit, more to drive back the darkness that was coming than for warmth he thought. He smiled in the darkness, enjoying the warmth of the night. The heat the breezes bore reminded him of the southern lands where he had spent much of his young life.

Rôg stood in the shadows looking for Aiwendil. He moved into the flickering light of the fire, just at the faded edges of it and motioned to the old man the moment he caught his eye.

He hastened toward Aiwendil, the excitement of his find evident in his bearing. Noting the faces of the some of the others that had turned toward him as he hurried toward Awendil, he paused, composing himself to give his report.

‘Those bats! I believe I’ve found the colony,’ he exclaimed loudly taking the old man aside. He pitched his voice lower, noting most of the others had turned back to their own discussions. ‘Step over here,’ Rôg said, taking Aiwendil’s elbow as he maneuvered them both away from the fire. He took out his knife and squatted down, motioning for his friend to do the same. He smoothed out the dirt in front of him and drew a crude map. Using the point of his blade he pointed to various areas as he spoke to Aiwendil, pausing often to answer questions.

At one point his face grew angry, disgusted, as he spoke. And the two fingers he held up to emphasize a point were accompanied by a shaking of his head and a narrowing of his eyes as if he were considering an abhorrent subject.

Rôg turned a questioning face to Aiwendil when he’d finished speaking. ‘So, shall I?’ he asked as he stood up. He scuffed away the scratchings in the dirt with his bare foot and looked away, to the north, awaiting an answer.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur woke just before the sun set over the horizon. If they expected to travel very far tonight, the group needed to start running now. With any luck they would find something to eat before the sun rose again. Ishkur could not believe that Makdush had agreed with his plan to head north and look for travelers to steal from. He wondered if the sneaky Uruk had some special reason for going that way or another secret plan, but Ishkur felt much too hungry for his suspicion to stop him from going. Ishkur was upset that Gwerr, whom he had thought of as a friend, would not embrace his plan as much as a true enemy like Makdush had done. Even though Gwerr had given Ishkur a small strip of meat to eat, his stomach still grumbled. But they would not find food at all if they did not leave this desolate, empty plain and head north immediately.

Most of the others were still asleep. Shouting and stomping, Ishkur managed to wake everyone and get them ready to go, even the troublesome women. Some of the orcs flashed him menacing glares as he passed, angry at being roused so early. Ishkur completely ignored them, since he was not much concerned with how the others saw him but very determined to get food soon. He merely grunted back at them, screaming at everyone to get on their feet and start moving. After a few minutes the camp was taken down and the orcs began their march north.

The march north was long and boring. The ground stretched out in a flat plain for miles on end. To make matters worse, Ishkur’s stomach only increased its growling every mile that he covered. Their pace was fast, spurred by the stark necessity of finding food. Once, Ishkur even stopped and shoved some berries in his mouth that grew on a bush they passed. They tasted bitter and did not look appetizing, but he forced himself to swallow them in one great gulp. To have been reduced to eating berries made Ishkur feel ashamed, but no one else seemed to be looking at him as he swallowed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several others do the same.

Suddenly Ishkur and the others heard the braying of donkeys and the neigh of horses just ahead. In one of the rare hills that dotted the plain there was a small wooded copse where it appeared someone had set up camp. Eagerly the orcs raced forward to see if, in fact, their guess was right. To their delight they saw that they had stumbled upon a camp of twenty to thirty men. The metal traps with jagged teeth and heavy rusted iron collars lying around the camp declared that these men were slavers. They captured humans and then sold them off to large plantations for forced labor. Ishkur had once acted as an overseer for slaves on one of the plantation on Nurn. It seemed that although he had escaped from Nurn, his experiences at Nurn continued to follow him. He never really liked the slavers; they often insulted the orc overseers when they came to sell. Very often they cheated the orcs by concealing blemishes on the humans they sold and charging the same amount as for healthy workers. The Uruks, who usually were the ones directly involved in these transactions rarely caught on, but Ishkur could see when they had been duped into purchasing damaged merchandise.

Ishkur forgot all about his past however, when he saw that the slavers had brought some donkeys and horses with them. Ishkur drooled slightly as he gazed longingly at the plump donkeys that were tied up in the corner of the camp closest to the orcs. He could not have imagined a more perfect scene. The slavers, tucked away in their tents and fast asleep, would not even hear if the orcs stole a few of their pack animals and ate their tasty meat. The slavers had stationed a guard outside of the camp, but he stood on the far side and did not see the group approach. The group now stood so close to the unsuspecting beasts that Ishkur almost could almost taste that donkey rump in his mouth.

[Child of the 7th Age]

A distant coyote sounded and, with a start, the prison guard awoke, stretching and yawning. Khanun cursed his bad luck for having fallen asleep. Half panicked, he peered down through the open grating into the murky darkness of the pit, and was relieved to see that the slave children were still bound in ropes and sleeping. Lucky for that, he grimly reflected. since Imak had little tolerence for mistakes.

Khanun scooped up his water flask, which had apparently slipped from his hand while he was asleep and rolled over to just outside the entrance of the pit. He had forgotten to give the prisoners water as Imak had ordered. Though not adverse to laying on the whip or threatening the captives within an inch of their lives, Imak repeatedly warned his men that the merchandise must arrive in usable condition. For a moment, the guard considered climbing down into the pit and helping the pair drink from the flask as he'd been told. But a moment's reflection dispelled that idea. It was too much effort to put forth, and one night without water surely wouldn't kill two captives, especially one as young and sassy as that confounded boy who'd put up such a fight. Khanun rubbed the spot on his arm where the imprint of the boy's teeth were still clearly impressed and decided that the two could go without water for a little while longer.

Still, it would be better to empty the flask so that Imak would think he had followed instructions. He wasn't particularly thirsty and at first considered pouring the contents onto the ground or perhaps into the pit itself to give the children a drenching. But water in these parts of Mordor was precious and, even to a cut-throat brigand, this seemed like an unnecessary waste. Khanun stretched and yawned for a second time and decided that the water could be put to much better use. It wouldn't do to fall asleep again. Undoing the stopper and rasing the flask upward, the guard began pouring the contents over his head.

[Folwren]

The water splashed refreshingly over his face and neck but he only emptied half of its contents before something solid fell with the water. Khanun jumped with the first initial surprise and then started back with half a cry of fear as he realized what it was. A small, thin, cold and wet snake twined its tail about his ear and his body about his nose. Khnaun jerked back, dropping the flask of water, and yelled again. He tilted his head back forward in a wild attempt to knock the snake off as his hands struck at it, but instead of falling to the ground, the small reptile half slithered, half fell into the loose and open neck of Khanun’s shirt.

The guard leaped to his feet in a panic. Poisonous snakes were not uncommon in Mordor and an uncontrollable fear of being bitten by this thing filled all his sane mind. He jumped about frantically while his hands struggled to untuck the shirt from his breaches. Unmindful of the sleeping men nearby and the children beneath him, often random yells burst from his mouth, though he didn’t actually say anything. Finally, with shaking and trembling hands and a face blanched white beneath the unshaven beard and layers of dirt, he got the shirt free of his belt and the snake dropped to the ground. In a moment it had slithered off to safety among the rocks and bristling plant life.

Only at that moment did Khanun realize that he had awoken everyone in the camp. He looked up with wide eyes at the other men. To his great surprise and furry he saw that they were laughing. Laughing! There was absolutely nothing funny about the thing. He might have been killed! Worse than that, he now saw, was that he had made himself out to be an idiot.

“Who did it?” he bellowed with a passion. “Who dared to put that thing into my water?”

One of the men guffawed loudly. “Gar, I wish it were me who’d thought o’ it,” he laughed. “What a spectacle you made!” He stood up and began to jump and flap about like some great rooster courting a hen. The others howled with laughter. All of them, that is, save Imak. He stood up and caught the dancing mocker by the collar and brought him to a stand still.

“In all seriousness – who did do it?” he asked. “There’s no time for pranks like that. If the thing was poisonous, someone could have been hurt. Who was it?”

Everyone was silent. Khanun stood glaring at them all furiously and Imak looked coolly from one face to the next.

“Nem – you?” he asked sharply. The man mutely shook his head. He looked to the next man. “You?” In turn, each of them denied the charge.

[Durelin]

Khamir

A growl formed in Khamir’s throat as he did his best to ignore the many voices around him. This was why the one-armed man had never asked for any kind of leadership. As soon as anything happened, he was the one everyone was going to complain to. It was as if he had invited the hunters into camp. He had heard a woman’s voice cry out something about a ‘traitor,’ but Khamir knew that was insanity, in more ways than one. The bounty hunters needed no help from the inside, and probably would never take help. It would be too shameful for the Easterlings to be helped by the trash that slaves were. Plus, the woman who was so certain of treachery was always certain of such. Unfortunately, Khamir’s sympathy for the woman was running out. She was mad, and quite more than the group needed to deal with.

He caught sight of her, and broke towards her at an immediate sprint. The madwoman was tearing after Eirnar. Apparently she had not liked his idea of going after the bounty hunters, either. This came as a sarcastic thought to him. It was always him. And to think the man was the one who cared for her, the only real reason she was not yet dead, having killed herself or been killed in defense of an attack from her. Catching up with her enough to reach out and grab her tightly by the arm, he tugged and brought her to a halt. Looking into her eyes, mostly clouded, he was always surprised at how human they looked, even though her mind was in many ways monstrous.

“Who? Who is a traitor?” he asked, playing along with her nightmare. Perhaps it was wrong of him, but he did not know what else to do. Her only response was to stare with those distorted eyes. It seemed a few words were enough to calm her down, this time.

He heard another female voice rise above the rest, coming from behind him somewhere. This one was a younger voice. Turning, he recognized the girl as Johari. He had seen her and Hadith speaking before. She was just a little girl with a big mouth, complaining that ‘they’ were being treated like children, whoever ‘they’ were.

And Aedhild may have actually been quiet for several moments, but Eirnar had something to say. Just like everyone else.

Hadith burst in to speak to Johari, his words passionate. Listening to the two have their little spat was interesting to the Southron, and he filed some things he heard away in his mind. He would remember to watch out for Johari even more, and find out more about what had happened to Hadith this night. Perhaps Beloan had been right about everything. He shot the man a glance, but found him looking in another direction.

Waiting for a chance to break in, Khamir did not waste any effort in hiding the bitterness in his voice.

“I do not know who you speak for, Johari, but I do know that everyone will be treated like children as long as they continue to do nothing for themselves.” He turned to Eirnar. “Was anyone behind you with a whip, forcing you onto the same path as myself? One man does not want to decide what we are going to do. You decide what you do,” he said, then, turning back to Johari, he said to her, “and you decide what you do.” He looked to others standing nearby, and whether they were listening or not, he continued “and you, what you do; and you, what you do …”

Letting go of Aedhild, Khamir found a rock to lean against, sitting down in the dry grass in front of it. “But you will not,” he said with finality.

He was preparing himself for a long wait. A long wait…it already felt like he had his head on the block and he was waiting for the axe to fall. Perhaps he had made the wrong decision; these people might be the death of him.

[Durelin]

Vrór

The Dwarf had been anticipating a ‘but’ as soon as he heard the word ‘right’ escape the man’s lips. This time it came in the form of a longer list of what they knew than Vrór had been able to form in his own head. So by the time Aiwendil was finished talking to him, the Dwarf was silently and bitterly accepting that this old man had a sharper mind than him, and beginning to accept that they were heading north. Going north, chasing after one or the other of two rather ambiguous groups. Chasing! That meant a fast pace, which Vrór was certain he was not up for. If only he had accepted a pony for the trip. But he just could not bring himself to sit on a plump little pony with the Hobbit while the others had their strong, large, beautiful – quite large, and very tall, which was of course a problem for the Dwarf – horses.

Suddenly he could hear Carl’s voice, shouting that ‘Miss Athwen’ had found something. The two had gone to scour the place for any last clues. Vrór felt excitement rise in his chest thick enough to choke him. Perhaps this would be a clue that would allow him to put his full heart into this seeming wild goose chase. The Dwarf would believe in the best scouts in all the West when he saw them. Until then, he needed something he could see prior to the need to follow the trail of sixty-five men, women, and children across the wasteland that was Mordor. Something other than the disturbing imagery of a brand, an object that might lead them down a terrible and unexpected path.

Vrór could make out a small stone in Carl’s hand, and then in Lindir’s as it was passed to him. The Elf pointed out some interesting facts about its appearance. Gondor? The Dwarf had thought most of these slaves were from the South and East. And even those in Mordor itself had heard about the great war? It was hard to imagine this land as anything but cut off from the rest of the world. In all truth, it was really a world of its own in Vrór’s mind, and he was sure others held the same mentality as himself. It was another smack in the face for him, and he stood watching the stars around him for a moment or two, full of awe, terror, sadness, even guilt. Had he really thought of abandoning these people to whatever fate awaited them? He recalled what the brand looked like, and imagined how often and in what violent ways it had been used, in what violent was it was meant to be used, it had to be used…

Mordor was not a world separate of his own. Middle-earth did not end before the Ephel Duáth began and start again where they ended. These people were among the Free Peoples of Middle-earth; they all were now that they were free of the terror that was Sauron. And yet they were not free, not free of the bonds of slavery or of the violence. It was a terrifying thought, venturing across Mordor after these slaves. But how much more terrifying was it for them? How much more terror had their lives been filled with? Vrór gripped the head of the work hammer at his side on his belt. It was more natural for him to reach for that than to reach for his axe. And he hoped to use the former much more than the latter.

Stepping over toward Athwen and Carl now that Lindir and the old men had stepped aside to talk in low voices, the Dwarf peered at the stone himself. There was no doubt that was the White Tree – and Vrór had seen it enough since he had arrived at Minas Tirith a good number of years ago. The other symbols he was not familiar with, though he recognized what the Elf had referred to. An odd token to find in this land, even now, long after the defeat of the Dark Lord. Vrór shook his head, thinking of all the children that would never have to know what living under that horror was like. It brought more warmth to his heart than he had felt in days.

“This gladdens my heart,” he said, sharing his feelings as he looked Carl at Athwen both, “to find this here…perhaps there is hope for this land, yet.”

[Tevildo]

It was Athwen who pulled her husband into the group and, taking the stone from Vrór, entrusted it to Dorran. The young man cradled it in his hand and carefully ran his fingers along its etched surface. He stared at the stone intently as if mezmerized, seemingly unable to turn away. Dorran's eyes held a faraway look, as if the man of Rohan was remembering something hidden and secret from his own boyhood past, some tiny spark of life that had persisted even in the bleakness of the Black Lands.

After what seemed like an endless silence, Dorran glanced at his wife and spoke, "I had never thought to see one of these again. I knew men and women who carried such stones with them in their pockets or secured by a leather thong. They carved them at night in the few moments they had for rest. They would take a rock with a sharp edge or sometimes the blade of a scythe to etch and remember what was dearest to them. They made symbols of home or family, usually someone who had been wrenched from them, or sometimes they recorded images from the stories that were told around the campfires.

Dorran shrugged his shoulders, "As to why this was left in the vicinity of the caves, whether by accident or intentionally, I can not say. But I do know that a rock of this type is a token of remembrance. Slaves kept such stones as personal reminders of who they were. But I have also seen slaves leave behind an etched rock as if passing on a dream or tiny seed of hope to someone who might come later. I remember once...." Here Dorran stopped, his words slow and broken. "It was so long ago. A young woman was forcibly taken to another plantation. The last things she did was toss a small rock like this onto the ground. She hoped her son would see it and understand that she had left him the only piece of herself that she could."

"One way or another, that is what this stone represents: something that was too important for someone to forget. So now this becomes our job to bring together the dream and the dreamer. " Dorran turned to Lindir, speaking almost like the child he had once been, "Please, let's take this stone with us. Perhaps we will be able to put it back into the hands of the man or woman who crafted it and even to help that dream come true. That at least would be worth doing."

[Child of the 7th Age]

In the background, Aiwendil could hear the earnest voice of Dorran who was speaking to several of the others, explaining the meaning of the stone that Athwen and Carl had found. His own attention, however, was focused tightly on Rôg. He was careful to memorize the chief points on the map that his friend had sketched in the earth and to embed in his mind each of the landmarks that would mark the way.

When Rôg raised his final question, Aiwendil's answer was sharp and immediate. "Shall you? Of course. Neither of us could live with ourselves if something were to happen. At the very least, you will find out where that....that second colony of bats lives. Who knows how important that information may prove? But you must hurry. Leave now and try to get back before we break camp, although I can't even tell you when that will be. But if you can't get back in time, just meet up with us on the road. You know the route better than I do."

Seeing the worried look on Rôg's face and how the young man still lingered, the istar brusquely reassured him, "Off with you now. Leave the rest to me. I've been around a few years longer than you have. I'll figure out a way to break the news to the others and cover for your absence." Inside Aiwendil was not quite so confident of his ability to do either of these things, but it was clearly imperative that Rôg leave camp as soon as possible. The old man had at least decided that he should probably approach Lindir first, the only other member of the party who understood something of his personal origins. Aiwendil was hopeful that the Elf might possibly accept a vague explanation without a slew of embarrassing questions and simply accept the fact that the istar instinctively knew where they should go. He waved a hand towards Rôg, like a man who shoes off an irritating fly, and indicated to him that he should go.

[Undómë]

Zagra and Mazhg


Zagra stifled a giggle at the sight of the men wolfing down handfuls of the berries. ‘Look, Mazhg! They’re eating sour-berries! Stupid, stupid!’ she whispered. ‘Why would they do that?’

Mazhg snorted as she looked to where her her sister pointed. ‘Well, they’ll learn soon enough, won’t they? When their bellies begin to grumble bad.’ She reached into her bag and pulled out a little dried meat and a leathery concoction of mashed fruits and honey. ‘It’s no wonder they don’t know anything…they never bent their backs in the fields, did they?’ she handed her sister a piece each of meat and berry-leather. ‘Serves ‘em right, the ugly slugs!’

‘Don’t talk about slugs that way!’ Zagra whispered. ‘I like slugs!’ She laughed, seeing her sister’s look. ‘On a stick, roasted!!!’ She laughed aloud, stifling it as some of the others looked at her. ‘Zagra made a joke!’ she whispered, drawing near to her sister.

‘Good one!’ Mazhg clapped her sister on the back and the two hurried on.

«--»

‘Come with me,’ Mazhg said, pulling Zagra to the back of the group. ‘The men are going after the donkeys and maybe a pony.’ She drew her sisters close, whispering. ‘I saw the cook tent, just around to the west. I want something more than meat.’

The two sisters slipped away in the darkness.

Zagra stood watch, her club held ready to thump any who nosed around at the back of the tent. But the slavers, for the most part, were gathered in another part of the camp, yelling and shouting about something. There was no guard at the cook tent, and why should there be? Who would think of intruders there? Mazhg quietly cut the back of the tent, just enough for her to wriggle in and begin to pass out packets of journey bread, a large bag of dried meat, and a basket of small tubers.

[piosenniel]

A slender shadow, long and fleet, rippled across the moon. Or so it might have seemed had one looked up quickly and caught it from the corner of the eye. Then it was gone, dipping down toward the earth, fields of stars winking out and winking on again with its passing . . .

~*~

In the darkness it was difficult to tell how many there were. The slavers were gathered within the bounds of a camp. A score or perhaps a few more. And there on the fringes, like dark ants swarming to a food supply were . . . Orcs. Quiet, efficient Orcs, not attacking, simply plucking out a horse here, donkey there, and slipping into tents . . . foraging . . .

About the grated entrance to what was most likely a pit stood a number of men, arguing. Their eyes and attentions were more on one another than on whatever the pit held.

~*~

Psst!

A small voice quite near the girl’s ear sought her attention.

Azhar, hold on to hope. Help comes . . .

Voices above the pit were louder now. Sharpness mixed with some anger.

Be like a bear in spirit, strong and patient. Help comes . . .

The small voice faded away until naught but the slavers’ voices cut the natural quiet of the night . . .

[Brinniel]

Once the intruders disappeared, Shae had thought the worst would be over. With only two captured and a few slightly injured, she considered themselves lucky. Yet as the night continued, the atmosphere only became increasingly chaotic. Listening to arguments being thrown back and forth, and the blame pointed at the fifteen, particularly Khamir, Shae could feel her headache gradually returning. She was beginning to regret following Khamir's orders. After many years of being part of the gang of ex-slaves, following them had become automatic. Yet, Shae was beginning to wonder if she would've been better off staying behind- even if it meant staying alone.

It took several minutes for the one-armed man to find a response. Finally, he spoke out, saying, “Was anyone behind you with a whip, forcing you onto the same path as myself? One man does not want to decide what we are going to do. You decide what you do.”

As Khamir sat down, Johari opened her mouth, ready to retort at his comment, but without another thought, Shae stepped in.
"There's no point in even trying to argue this, because Khamir is right."
Johari frowned. "Well, of course you have to defend him- you're one of them."
"I'm not defending him," Shae replied, making her voice clear. "I'm merely making a point. None of us were forced to leave the caves. We all chose to follow Khamir, and though he made a mistake in leaving, we are all to blame for choosing to let him drag us along."

Shae turned to Khamir, who looked surprised to hear the normally quiet woman speak out.
"You know, you brought some of this on yourself," she said to him, lowering her voice. "Johari wasn't entirely wrong in her argument- you do treat them like children. If you don't want to be a leader, don't act like one. You have no right to tell the others who may or may not handle weapons. Adnan made a mistake. We all make mistakes- yes, his was more costly- but nevertheless, it was a mistake and it is how we learn. But how will he learn from his error when you take both his weapon and his dignity away? I made many mistakes my first few years, but if I had not been given a second chance, I would not be who I am today. Everyone in this group- old, young, male, or female- deserves a chance to fight. By telling them who can have a weapon or who can have a night watch shift, you are only enforcing their opinion of how you consider them. Just as Johari said- like children." She paused a moment before continuing. "Tonight, I want to put an end to that."

Scanning the crowd, Shae sought out Adnan and handed one of her four daggers to him. "Like anyone else, you deserve another chance," she told him. "But please, just don't mess up again. I won't be around to defend you every time you make an error."

As the woman stepped back into her place, she handed a second dagger to Johari. "I've listened enough to your fiery tongue tonight and know you are completely capable of handling this blade," she said. "Be sure to use it well."

[Orofaniel]

The attack, or the kidnapping, had not come as any huge surprise on Reagonn. It sounded cynical, but he was a man who had experienced a lot throughout the years. He knew that a big party of over fifty men, women and children, would not be able to walk and make camp without being seen. This was only the beginning he concluded.

He had listened carefully to the things that had been said, and he realised that Khamir found himself in a very unpleasant situation. He was seen upon as their leader, yet it was clear that he was unwilling to take any responsibility for dragging the group out of the caves.

Sighing, he glanced over to Eirnar. He stood motionless, as if in deep thought. Then Reagonn glanced on to the person standing next to him. It was a man, or rather a young man, he had not seen before. Yet, Reagonn found himself staring at him, suddenly feeling akward and quite uncomfortable where he stood. Had they been slaves at the same plantation, labouring together, side by side, without really having noticed until now? As vague and silly it sounded, Reagonn could not get rid of this feeling that they knew each other, or had once known each other. Who was he?

[Firefoot]

What, so now I too am deemed one of the ‘worthy ones’? But for once, Johari held her tongue and accepted the blade warily, eyeing first the gift and then the giver. Johari gazed openly into Shae’s face, expecting to see there the same condescending benevolence that had typically characterized the fifteen in the past weeks but not seeing it. Instead, she found a certain straightforwardness that said the blade was not given as to a pet or child but as to an equal, or at least something like. This more than anything allowed Johari to take the blade, her thanks expressed only in the form of a curt nod and a hint of a smile.

After a moment, Shae moved on, and Johari attached the knife’s sheath to her belt and adjusted the unfamiliar weight in the most comfortable way. The weight embodied a certain new feeling of power she felt over her own situation. She could stick up for herself and thereby accomplish things. Though she was bound to this group by necessity, she had the means now to take care of herself within that group; she would not have to rely on the rest of them for personal protection or care. Of course, she still could learn from them - no sensible person would deny that – but she did not have to rely on them. And she had noted the looks on others’ faces, on those of both groups: no longer was she an anonymity, but somebody to be reckoned with. Not a child. Not a pet. A person.

And that would do. She did not want to be a leader or an advisor or everyone’s friend. She did not even care really if they ignored her most of the time, so long as they did not look down on her – or try to bully her, as Hadith had.

Hadith. Johari had nearly forgotten him and now spared a glance in his direction to see how he was bearing up. She wondered why he had not come back after her. Not intimidation? Or – because she was a woman? This thought actually amused her. Yes, from what she knew of Hadith, this probably had been his reasoning. Just as well – she did not really want to fight him, and already her fury was subsiding. She regretted her action not at all; he had earned it, in her perspective. He also needed to know that she was not here to be his friend or teacher, much less his student. She did not think he would make the same mistake twice.

And she was satisfied.

[Novnarwen]

Aedhild

Aedhild had no recollections of having moved to this particular spot. Tilting her head, she frowned, trying to extract a memory of the last thing she had done. "The devil knows who has moved me," she muttered under her breath. Closing her eyes, she tried envisioning how she had come to sand here, surrounded by the other slaves. They were talking, "the heavens knows only about what," some more aggressively than others. In the darkness, she couldn't clearly distinguish their features, nor was she able to recognise anyone she knew. She had fallen to the ground. She remembered now. She had heard shouting, "the heavens knows ..." she repeated, slightly irritated. It didn't explain however why she was here, among strangers, not asleep with feet aching as if she had run a hundred miles.

Nearby, the one-armed man had settled in the grass. She eyed him suspiciously. "Do you know what they are quarrelling about? she asked, approaching with light steps.

At first he didn't answer, just raised his eyebrow as if in surprise. Then, after a few moments, he erupted with laughter. Several moments went by, before he was able to control himself, and only then did Aedhild realise what had happened.

"Young man," she said sternly. "you laugh mockingly at an old woman!” she said horrified, still seeing the tendency of a faint smile on his lips.

“Did you mother never teach you ---” voice cracking, her anger grew, “respect?” she continued hotly, trying to resume her lost dignity. Her body shook with anger. The urge to give this youngster a serious beating, to teach him a lesson, seemed overwhelmingly tempting, but she managed to restrain herself. Even in this darkness, anyone could see that the otherwise ghostly white pallor of her face had been replaced by gloriously red; her cheeks seemed to burn under the cool, night sky. Taking a step closer, her mouth trembling, she straightened; her relatively small figure seeming to double in size as she did so.

Though, Aedhild did not possess any significant charismatic skills to intimidate her victims, she did seem to know how to make her fragile figure seem more frightening. Whether she straightened her back in these kinds of situations intentionally or not, no one would know, but it did seem to have an effect on the person she faced; in doing so, it seemed that she possessed an authority that only women her age can have; not even her wild appearance, which bordered to the humorous, could stop her from seizing this authority when she took a completely straight posture. However, knowing about her condition, what many slaves now dared call ‘madness', the others didn't take her seriously, and the authority she supposedly gained by this little trick had at least weakened if not completely been put to ruin.

“Shh! Take your anger elsewhere, woman,” the Southron replied at last, casting a last gaze upon her skinny figure body.

Gasping, Aedhild pointed her finger at him. This… this scoundrel of a man… disrespectful creature… Her body seemed to explode with the anger and tension she had tried suppressing. “You! You child of Mordor!” she screamed, but her words hardly escaped her lips before her all of the muscles in her body seemed to relax – at once. Dropping to the ground, hitting the wet grass, Aedhild lay motionless, her eyes wide open.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

As he watched the shadowy figure of Rôg speaking to Aiwendil beyond the firelight, Carl couldn’t quite understand how they, or the king for that matter, could be so taken with a of survey of bats, as to put aside all else. He didn’t particularly care if Rôg had had found a whole nation of bats that rode horses and had their own postal system They would likely still be there, hanging upside down from their trees, like great winged cats, a year from now. And after all, bats had wings whereas slaves did not, and they need not be overly concerned with slavers like these people must be. He shook his head in disbelief. How could he be expected to understand the ways of the educated, when they seemed so often to make no sense what so ever?

The hobbit gradually became aware that his face had pressed itself into a frown, and he made an effort to find a more appropriate expression, for the dwarf had just confessed to them a certain gladness of heart at Athwen’s discovery, which the hobbit indeed shared. And so Carl smiled at Vrór, adding his own thoughts to this sentiment, as the lady slipped away quickly bringing her husband to them. But when the man took that item which his wife handed him, rather than finding cheer in it, he seemed burdened by memories and his words added immeasurable weight to the stone he held. Once again the hobbit felt the urge to ask him how he had managed to escape, but with difficultly held his tongue, judging it improper to make inquiries of such a personal nature. And so though the stone did little to give them direction, it still served to bring the hobbit at least, closer to those people they were to help.

Carl’s attention turned away from the others as he steadily became preoccupied with his own thoughts. A rapid adjustment had taken place in the hobbit’s heart, very unexpectedly, and with it came a pang of sorrow. He felt it sharply. For all the while he and the others in the company had traversed the land, he had never ceased thinking about those poor folk who they were to meet. And when the purpose of the branding iron was revealed, it chilled him to the core, to see evidence of the hardship that they must have endured in their lives. Indeed it was but a happy chance that they were not in fear of the slavers themselves. Or perhaps they should be! For if a man was black hearted enough to treat folk worse than the shoe he steps on with each stride, who’s to know if he’d care for anything at all beside his own good pleasure. Even the power of a just king and the might of arms might not give him pause, for he would be one wolf among many just as ruthless as he.

But still those former slaves, had always been held in his mind as a helpless, hapless group, a single entity to be pitied and to be lifted out of their misery, as if together he and his companions comprised the key to some invisible prison. The stone along with Dorran’s words shattered this notion as effectively as if he had hurled the thing at a flowerpot. Suddenly, it became clear that these people were individuals, like Dorran. And perhaps differed just as much as his own group.

A single hand had drawn that handsome tree, and that person’s presence shone evident in each scratch on it. Who was it that first thought to leave this sign behind, this bit of themself? Was it a group decision, or an individual one? Perhaps the very same hand that wrote the letter to King Elessar sketched it out. Soon the former slaves began to become well populated with intelligent and practical persons in the hobbit’s imagination, but most of all the stone provided a palpable link and fragile bond to at least one of them. And the hobbit felt compelled to find its author.

Turning to Athwen who again possessed the token, in a voice soft with emotion, Carl asked if he might have the honor of carrying the stone with him, to better keep it's source in mind. She agreed, handing it to him, and he quickly slipped it in his vest pocket, before addressing the dwarf. “It seems to me. Mister Vrór, that we will have to travel more quickly now than we have up to this point. And while I don’t mean to cause you any offence, I’d like to let you know that if you’d care to, you are more than welcome to ride with me. Stumps is even tempered beast and while not the fastest thing on four legs, he is sure footed and as strong as they come. That is how he came by his name, after all. No pony better in all Bywater for helping pull out tree stumps. He’s all muscle in there, a real hard worker and I’m sure he’d be just as pleased as I’d be, if you took up the invitation.” The dwarf looked doubtfully at the well-padded little farm horse. “Don’t worry. You just think on it a bit, Mister Vrór,” Carl reassured him, seeing his offer wasn’t immediately accepted. “I wouldn’t want to rush your decision any.” And with that the hobbit walked over to the red pony, and after stroking the side of the animal’s neck, he rested his hand on the stone that lay in his pocket.

[Folwren]

“One way or another, that is what this stone represents: something that was too important for someone to forget. So now this becomes our job to bring together the dream and the dreamer.” Dorran’s voice was heavy with emotion and Athwen understood why. She looked silently down at the white stone she had picked up. It lay smooth in her hand, warm now from her own touch, and appearing to glow in the swiftly gathering dimness.

“May I take the stone?” asked a voice at her elbow. “For safe keeping, Miss Athwen?” Athwen turned, half startled. She smiled slightly to see Carl standing there, his hand half raised to take it. She nodded and handed it to him.

“Yes. Do keep it.” She handed it to him freely. He slipped it immediately into his vest pocket. She wondered that he would want to keep it himself. It made no difference to her, but she had expected Carl to be the type of person to leave such things in the hands of someone more obviously in charge - like Lindir or Aiwendil.

Athwen turned back towards her husband. Dorran stood where he had turned to speak with Lindir, but neither the him nor the elf were speaking now. She stepped towards them.

“Does this discovery of mine give us no idea of which direction to go?” she asked. “Can’t we be on our way? We were not planning to stay here, were we, really?”

“I don’t know that we can go anywhere until Rôg returns, Athwen,” Dorran replied, looking back at her.

“Rôg? Where’s he gone? I didn’t notice him leaving. Why did he go?”

“Don’t know exactly, but he left some while ago. I don’t know what we’re doing next.”

They were all silent a moment. Athwen looked over the entire company. Her eyes rested on each face and noted every expression. She tucked them quietly away inside. “Well, while we wait, there will be little harm in getting something ready to eat,” she said quietly. “Will you help me, Dorran?”

[piosenniel]

piosenniel's post


Rôg hurried in to the camp, straightening his tunic, tucking it neatly into his breeches. ‘Aiwendil – where is he?’ he asked as he spied the Elf and ran up to him. Lindir looked askance at him, his grey eyes glimmering with questions left unvoiced as Rôg put an anxious hand on his sleeve. The old man was pointed out and there followed a hasty conference as Rôg huddled with him, his face serious, gestures animated.

~*~

'We have to come to some compromise, beast.' Rôg approached his horse slowly, his eyes fixed on the creature's face. Just as warily, or perhaps more with humor as it's difficult to read a horse's expression, his mount eyed him. 'There is a need for compromise as I must ride you . . . soon and in haste.'

The dun mare flicked her hide seeming to consider his words. She snorted, though in a less unfriendly manner, he decided and nodded her head at him.

He could not tell if it was a dare or a compromise. With a sigh he approached her.


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Folwren's post


Athwen bent over the fire and stirred the stew with a wooden spoon. Steam rose up gently from the open pot and she extended her head just a little bit to get a whiff of the tempting scent. Very soon it would be quite ready for eating. She knocked the spoon against the rim of the pot until most of the water and broth from the stew had fallen away from it and then laid it carefully across the top.

She gathered her skirts and stood up. She looked towards Rôg and Aiwendil, who had sat for some little time together talking. Rôg was standing up now, though, and a last word passed between the two of them before he turned and walked away from camp.

Athwen’s eyes followed him. She saw immediately that he was going to where the horses were picketed for the night. She stepped away from the firelight so that she could see out into the darkness after him.

Rôg slowed his walk down to a very slow approach. From where Athwen stood, she could only see his back, but she could picture his face, and his eyes fixed steadily and warily on his horse. His body was as rigid as a pole and Athwen was inclined to laugh.

Walking quickly but quietly, she followed him and before he had touched his horse, she came to his side.

“Look, most of your problem is the either that you know next to nothing about horses or that you’re afraid of her. If you’re afraid of her, then you’re really not going to get anywhere with her because she knows it and will either take complete advantage of you or will become frightened herself. Now, look. Instead of being shy and slow and entirely too stiff, you need to loosen up a bit and get to know her and let her get to know you.”

She stepped towards the mare’s head and put out one hand towards her nose. She stopped a couple inches short and waited. The horse looked at her a moment and then after a pause stuck her nose forward and nuzzled into Athwen’s cupped hands. Finding nothing, she snorted and drew back. Athwen stepped up directly beside her and slipped her other hand underneath her cheek an fondled the head gently. She stroked the fury face and crooned soft words in the horse’s ear. After a few moments of such attention, the mare grew tired of it and shook her head. Athwen let her go and stepped back.

“Now, Rôg, she’s a gentle animal and won’t hurt you. Come up here and pet her and then once she lets you handle her head as I did, run your hands over her.” She gentle stroked the horse’s neck as she spoke, looking at Rôg all the while.


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piosenniel’s post


Look, most of your problem is the either that you know next to nothing about horses or that you’re afraid of her……you need to loosen up a bit and get to know her and let her get to know you.

Well, there she was…Athwen, that is…looking at him…expectantly. And how was he to handle this, he wondered. Of horses, he knew more than he wanted. And she, the dun mare, knew more of him than any in this little group, save Aiwendil.

She simply did not like him. The mare. And who could blame her really. Seeing as how her kind had been hunted by his sort and eaten. No use trying to explain to her that this was no longer so, of course; the mare again, that is. It was something imprinted so deeply in her that no overtures of gentleness or offer of good fellowship, cooperation, camaraderie would win her over.

‘Well, I do thank you for your kind instruction, Mistress Athwen.’ Rôg gave her a somewhat embarrassed smile and put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘But I haven’t your gift for working with horses, it seems. They simply do not care for me. It’s always been so.’ He shook his head in a decidedly resigned way. ‘The best I can hope for is that when it comes time to ride she will allow it without too much of a struggle.’

Rôg lifted his nose and sniffed appreciatively at the savory smell of the stew. He put out his hand in a gesture of invitation. ‘Perhaps I will feel differently once some of that delicious stew is in my empty belly.’ He glanced round at the mare. ‘And you, of course, feel free to have your own supper. We will resume our negotiations later.’

‘Shall we join the others, Mistress Athwen?’

[Child of the 7th Age]

The voices at the entrance to the pit had become increasingly loud and contentious. Accusations flew back and forth as Khanun confronted each of the men and accused them of planting a snake inside his water flask. At one point he came perilously close to exchanging blows with another member of the band. The two were spitting and fuming and calling out curses as they circled each other, their hands instinctively dropping down to pull out their knives.

Hastily jumping in between the combatants, Imak put an immediate stop to the ruckus. "Enough! I will have both of you in neck collars before this night is out! Think, Khanun. Even someone as dull witted as you should realize it wasn't the men. You were supposed to give that water to the captives. Why would the men pull a trick on the slaves? No, you sluggard. Your complaint tells me that you failed to follow my orders, and used the water yourself. In fact, if I had to guess, I'd say that you fell asleep and somehow one of the prisoners, probably the boy, stuffed the snake inside."

"But.....but....that's not possible. They're tied up." Knanun pointed weakly towards the bottom of the pit."

"We'll see just how secure your knots are. Ghila, go down with two of the men and bring up the slaves." Imak glanced over at Khanun with a sadistic smile. "This should be fun. If I am right, you've earned yourself ten lashes."

Within a few minutes, Azhar and Kwell had been removed from the pit and forcibly dragged into the presence of the bounty hunters. Imak bent down to examine their bonds, but before he could get a close look, there was an outcry from the other side of the camp, and the man who cooked for them came bounding up to Imak.

"Captain, something's wrong. Two of the donkeys are gone. The grass is matted, stained with blood. It looks as if one great brute, maybe more, came smashing into camp."

What more could go wrong, Imak mused. Things were spinning out of control. He'd best act and act quickly. Imak barked out his orders, "Ghila, you and your two men keep an eye on these slaves. We'll deal with them later. Khanun, don't leave my side. You men look over the camp. Make sure everything's alright. If there are any problems, sound your horn. Meanwhile, I'll check out these missing donkeys."

With that the group split up and went about their duties.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The members of the fellowship sat chatting and laughing in the fading light of the cooking fires, their faces relaxed as they temporarily set aside the worries of the day. Dorran and Athwen had finished preparing the meal. A pot of fish stew simmered over the coals, alongside a smaller kettle of mushrooms, a delicacy they'd discovered growing in one of the tunnels of the cave.

Aiwendil had waited till late in the evening to pull Lindir aside and speak with him. Partially, this was because the wizard did not know how he was going to convey his news in a way that would make sense, yet still respect Rôg's right to keep certain matters private. This was not the only reason for his delay. With the possible exception of Lindir, everyone needed time to rest. It made no sense for the company to push forward without at least stopping for dinner.

Aiwendil and Lindir walked together down the stream bank, confiding to each other in low voices. At one point, the istar knelt down and, using the end of his staff, etched something in the dirt, taking time to explain what the different scratchings meant. The Elf peered skeptically over Aiwendil's shoulder and shook his head in disbelief, "How can you possibly have learned this? Even the brightest birds in Mordor could not have described these landmarks with such precision. I know you are from the West, but I find this difficult to understand."

Aiwendil spoke with quiet confidence, "Lindir, trust me. This information was freely given. I am certain it is true. Indeed, I am prepared to stake my own life on it and the lives of all those in this company. The slaves are here; the slavers there, just a few miles apart. The slavers have captured the two children, imprisoning them against their will. We must leave now, not wait an instant longer. When the sun rises, the bounty hunters may well ride back and attack the slave camp. Although the slaves outnumber their pursuers, they lack the weapons and experience to stand against a trained band. Many of them are too young or old to defend themselves. And who knows if they can agree among themselves, or possess the heart and will to fight? Cruelty and bondage can do strange things to men."

With a sigh, Lindir shook his head, "I believe you, Aiwendil. You have spoken the truth. But, as Elessar has said, I am the one who must make the hard decision whether this group should go forward under these difficult circumstances, a journey that will likely end in combat. I must think on this further. Aiwendil, go back to the others. I will return within the space of an hour once I decide what we must do."

"By the way...." the Elf interjected a hasty afterthought, "Is Rôg back from the bat colony?"

"Yes, over an hour ago. The lad had great success, but I believe he was having a problem with his horse and wanted to attend to it. Now he has rejoined the others at the fire."

Lindir nodded his head, turned away, and continued walking up the stream bank.

[Folwren]

Kwell’s body ached, but his head was clear. They had been dragged out of their prison by their own captors, and before the brutes could discover the loose bonds, they had been left with only three men as guards. Kwell looked carefully from one swarthy face to the next. Two of them had their eyes following their captain who was bounding away into the darkness at a terrific rate. The last one, Ghila, he thought, looked at them carefully.

Kwell’s eyes settled on this one. He caught his eye and then looked away. He knew very, very well that no other chance like this would likely show up in the future if they stayed with these men. Their ropes were loose and easily removed and not even a handful of men had been left to watch them. But what to do?

His eyes darted about, hoping that anything would help him or at least spark some plan of escape. They lit on the slaver’s dagger and the rock he had found came back to his mind. He looked back up at Ghila. The man’s eyes had wandered in the direction of the donkeys, just as his companions, but only briefly.

Kwell edged closer to Azhar and leaned his mouth towards her ear. “Take the ropes off and run. I’ll keep them back. You just run, understand?” He hoped she did. In fact, he knew she did, but he didn’t know if she would obey. Oh well, if she didn’t, that was her affair, not his. His hands twisted out of the ropes and just as Ghila turned back to him, his hand dodged into his pocket and pulled out the sharp edged rock.

Ghila gave a shout and started forward, his left hand drawing his dagger and his right hand extending forward. Kwell bounded backwards and hurled the stone with as much force as he could muster at the brute’s face. It struck the man above the right eye and brought him up short.

“Run!” he cried. “Go!” He stooped to get another rock. He straightened and threw recklessly. The two others were bearing down on him. He scrambled hastily for more rocks and pelted them mercilessly. But these rocks weren’t as well aimed nor as dangerous as the first. He managed to halt their advance momentarily and he turned to try to escape. He didn’t know where Azhar was or what she had done, but he hoped she had run. He bounded forward into the darkness-

“No you don’t, you little rat.” A hand caught his arm and he was jerked back. He went sprawling onto the ground, one of the men stood above him, his foot on his stomach. “Get up. Get up!” He reached down and grabbed a handful of his hair. Kwell struggled up to his feet as he was pulled upwards. Hardly were his feet underneath him before he was struck down again.

“That’s enough,” a voice growled behind the man. Kwell remained on the ground, one arm wrapped about his head, the other around his middle. “Get him up and bring him here. Where’s the girl?”

[Firefoot]

Grask had merely watched as many of the older Orcs had ventured into the man camp to steal livestock and food. He did not hunger as many of them probably did at the moment; even while back at the main camp, Grask had always carried around his little pack that carried a fair amount of meat and was restocked whenever he had had the chance. Thus, he had eaten reasonably well earlier and did not feel the need to rush into the camp with the rest of them, potentially getting in their way. Nor did he need to steal an entire donkey; he had no use for such a large animal. His chances would be better to first figure out what was going on, and then get into a supply wagon.

So he had skirted the camp, approaching slowly from a slightly different angle to where they had their own food stocks. He caught sight of a pair of female Orcs doing similarly, but he had no desire to get involved with them either. One of them had a fierce looking club. Studiously staying in the shadows, Grask found a wagon containing food and lifted himself into it, rooting around quietly until he found a barrel of dried meat, which he began stuffing into his pack.

Before he slipped out of the wagon, he glanced around to make sure no one was watching. No one was; they were all near the other side of the camp – and making quite a fuss about something. Now, had Grask been smart, or perhaps just less curious, he would have left them where they were and left. But he wanted to know what was happening. These were not other Orcs – these were Men, and Grask had had little enough contact with the strange race. Merciless killers, he had heard: Orc-haters. These would be even more likely to kill him than the older Orcs. The danger of it made Grask shiver pleasantly. After all, he had survived his first battle now; he would be up to it.

He crept away from the wagon carefully, looking for a spot where he might watch unobserved and easily escape from. He found a different cart nearer to the men and ducked just underneath it, and just in time, since a new outcry was bursting out in the camp. Donkeys missing… blood… They were discovered now. Grask should leave, seek his protection with the others. No. He would be seen now; the men would be looking for them and watching their camp. Besides, the Orcs would have no reason to protect him. He served them no purpose. So he remained hidden in the shadows beneath his wagon, watching the men run off to the other side of the camp and now able to see the source of their original excitement.

Grask was stunned at what he saw and at first he thought he was mistaken. But no, there was no mistake. There were human young ones. Well, of course such things must exist, as they had to come from somewhere, but such had never occurred to Grask. Were they as vicious as the grown ones were said to be? They seemed to be trying to escape; what had they done to earn the wrath of the older ones, Grask wondered, that they had to be tied up? And if they were such an annoyance, why had the older ones simply not killed them? Such confusing creatures, these Men must be. He only knew that he certainly did not want to be found by one, and that his hiding place was becoming thoroughly uncomfortable. He wondered how soon the camp would settle down so he could escape. And he wondered if the other young ones would be able to make their escape as well.

[Tevildo]

Azhar was used to taking orders. Even here in the middle of the Ash Plain, it was hard to shake old habits. When Kwell had commanded her to flee, the girl had not questioned the decision but immediately gathered up her tattered skirts and scrambled away as fast as her bare feet would take her. The terrain was rocky and the footing unsteady. She had ended up falling to her knees, half skidding and rolling to the bottom of the hill. Only after colliding with a young scrub tree did Azhar stop and cautiously peer back, gingerly rubbing the palm of her hand over her knees, which were already oozing blood.

The girl's heart pounded furiously against her chest, as she tried to make out what was happening at the top of the hill. She wanted to be sure that Kwell would follow. In this part of the plain, the bushes grew in tightly packed clusters, providing ample cover if she chose to remain low and slink away into the darkness. The dogs had been diverted to hunt for the culprits who'd stolen the donkeys so it was unlikely the guards would be able to find her.

Flattening her body against the ground to avoid being seen by anyone, Azhar watched as the slavers confronted Kwell and sent him sprawling on the ground. Her immediate response was disbelief. Kwell could do anything. He was bright and knew how to fight. She had really believed that he would outwit the men and get away. But now the unthinkable was happening; Kwell was being dragged back into the pit.

A thousand contrary feelings competed in Azhar's mind. She did not know whether to stay or leave. Freedom was just a few steps away. All she had to do was remain silent, and she could wiggle out of this situation, just as she'd wiggled out of many others. Everyone was too busy hunting for the robbers to pay much attention to her. But a second voice told a very different story inside her head. How could she leave not even knowing whether Kwell lived or died? Maybe he needed her help. She remembered his promise inside the pit: that he would not leave her to perish on her own. Azhar had sensed that Kwell did not often make such promises. How could she turn away now that he was the one in trouble?

This welter of emotions rushed through Azhar's mind in the space of only a few seconds. But in the end it was not Kwell's promise that helped her decide, but the distant voice that had comforted her a few minutes before, a voice offering assurance in the midst of darkness and despair, one that sounded strangely familiar though she had never heard it before. Whether dream or reality, that voice had promised help was on the way, and she believed what had been said. She had not even had time to tell Kwell about it. She could not slip away and leave her companion behind, injured and most likely bereft of hope. If help was coming, it would come for both of them, and this is where she must stay, doing what she could to bring some comfort to Kwell, who would undoubtedly be furious about what had happened to him.

From some dark recess of her mind that Azhar had never visited before, a shadowy figure emerged, taking on shape and laden with meaning: a powerful image of a mother bear refusing to desert her cubs no matter what dangers lay before them. Awkwardly lumbering to her feet, Azhar stood erect, rooted to the ground, patiently waiting for the slavers to come. When they finally reached her, she kicked and squabbled and bit but then went limp as they dragged her over to the pit and threw her inside right behind Kwell.

[Folwren]

Kwell could not believe his senses, and for good reason. They were disoriented, at the least, at this moment. Yet he couldn’t defy the fact that someone (and he knew who) had been added to the pit just minutes after him. He wanted to cry and curse and yell all at the same time, but years of forced silence kept him quiet. For the moment, at least, it was not difficult to say nothing. They hadn’t been gentle, bringing him back and throwing him down, and he thought that saying anything or moving an inch would hurt. So he lay in silence, curled up on his side, both his hands pressed to his pounding head.

A slight movement from behind him caught his ears. Azhar was crawling towards him.

“Kwell?” she said, half whispering. “Kwell, are you alright?”

“You fool,” Kwell hissed in return. His chest heaved with anger. “You idiotic fool! Why didn’t you run? I gave you everything! I gave you all the time in the world - I even was distracting them - and you didn’t run! Given half the chance you were given, I would have taken it, but you came back. What good do you think it does me having you here? You’re just a little whelp I have to look after when I could be spending all my attention on myself and getting me out alive.” He growled in frustration and pain.

“I thought,” Azhar said timidly when Kwell paused a moment, “I thought you’d be able to escape, too, and when you didn’t-”

“I can’t escape when I have three grown men on top of me!” Kwell snapped, twisted about to face her. But that movement sent stars shooting up before his eyes and daggers of pain up into his skull. His hands clapped to his head again. Azhar darted immediately to his side.

“Kwell, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just hit my head, again. They pounded me, ‘s all. I’ll be alright.” Perhaps this was true and he would be alright. His head throbbed as though it would burst, though, and each time he moved himself enough to make the slightest jarring, the pain redoubled. He didn’t doubt, though, that half of the head ache was caused by the fact that Azhar hadn’t taken her chance and had been brought back. He couldn’t understand it, and it angered him to the point of infuriation. He had been willing to suffer for her, so long as she escaped, but now it all seemed useless.

Untwining his arms from his head so he could look up towards her face, he asked her: “Why didn’t you run?”

[Undómë]

Undómë's post - Zagra and Mazhg


‘Oh! What’s this? From a tall basket, covered over with a clean cloth, came a most enticing smell. Mazhg’s belly growled, remembering a similar odor in the cookhouses near the plantations. It was something for the men from the south who managed the slaves. Mazhg’s brow crinkled as she sought to remember the name. Wheat-bread! Yes, that was it. It was said to be soft and tasty. The Orc women and children, though, were never allowed to have any…only to grow and harvest the grains that went into it; grind them to fine flour while lashed to the wheel that turned the stones; fetch the wood for the ovens… Well, she and Zagra would have it now, wouldn’t they?

Mazhg piled the dried meat, the journey-bread, the tubers, and the basket of man-bread by the slit at the back of the tent. She peeked out her head to see that all was well. Zagra nodded to her, though the nod was followed by a quick twist of her head to the right. Mazhg crawled out of the tent to look where her sister had pointed. There, crouched down by some leafless bushes was one of the other women.

‘Must have followed along behind us,’ Zagra whispered to her sister.

‘You! Girl!’ growled Mazhg in a low voice. ‘Get over here and give us a hand!’ She re-entered the tent and began to quietly shove the food through the slit. She was about to make her exit when some colorful pieces of cloth caught her eye. Bright, swirly patterns shone softly in the light from the single candle lantern that burnt near the door. Soft cloth and finely woven. She remembered seeing the southern men wear them wrapped about their heads or tied about the tops of their breeches as they snapped out orders to the slaves and flicked their whips. Mazhg grabbed up several from the neatly folded pile and stuffed them in the waistband of her breeches.

The three women hurried away from the tent and in the shadow of the trees shoved as much of the stolen food as they could into their traveling bags. The girl, they had not asked her name yet, was given the basket of bread to carry along. The trio made their way back to the rocky encampment.

‘What’s your name, girl?’ Zagra asked as Mazhg divided up the spoils they’d made away with, giving a fair portion to their helper. The two sisters had already given their names. But before the woman could answer, Mazhg hauled out the silky sashes, and let them stream out in the night breeze.

‘Not just things for inside the belly,’ she laughed, her teeth flashing in the moonlight. ‘Look, look! Pretty things, too. Just for us!’ She handed each of the other two women one and wrapped one about her waist, tying it in a clumsy knot.


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Regin Hardhammer's post - Ungolt


Once they’d finished tying on the sashes, the younger orc replied to the two sisters meekly, “My name is Ungolt. I followed you so that I could get some food, because I am very hungry. I have been forced to work in breeding colonies all my life up on the northern plain. After the fall of the Great Eye, I ran away to Nurn. I joined the rebels because I didn’t want to be hurt when the Easterlings made war on the orcs.” Thank you for the pretty scarf. I especially like the rich colors. I have never seen anything like this before.

Ungolt looked up uncertainly, “Perhaps, we could help each other. I don’t know how to forage for food or steal because I never had to do it. But I am good with my hands. I weave baskets, carve wood, and shape clay pots and am even good at making horseshoes on the forge. You see, I used to sneak in when the smith wasn’t looking. Oh, yes, and I can run like the wind. I am faster than most of the men. I’ve had an awful lot of experience running away. Someday, I’m going to learn to fight, just like the men. If you could help me get food, I would run messages for you or make you pots and baskets and other things you’ll need when we get to where we’re going.”


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Undómë's post - Zagra and Mazhg


Zagra whispered hurriedly to her sister. And Mazhg’s eyes flicked often to the young woman as her sister spoke. Nodding her head, Mazhg stepped forward when her sister had finished talking and went slowly around Ungolt, looking her over.

‘So you want to stick close with us? Hmmm, I see you’ve got a nice big club. That’s good. We’ll be needing another strong arm for what we want to do.’ She narrowed her eyes and thought for a moment. If this woman had spent all her life in the breeding colonies as had they, then perhaps she was of a similar mind as them.

‘I heard we were going up north a bit to find a place for ourselves; have our own land to farm and hunt in.’ Mazhg looked at her sister. ‘Now, me and Zagra aren’t of a mind to hitch up with any of the men like some of the other women are thinking of doing or have done. We want our own little place to grow crops on and I have some skill with little traps for smaller game. We don’t mind doing some trading with the others, we just don’t want to be under any man’s fat, hairy thumb. If you worked in the colonies, you must have learned some things about planting and growing and harvesting. We could work our own piece of land once we get it and you’d be welcome to join in.’

Zagra nodded her head, and smiled shyly at Ungolt. ‘I can help you make your baskets. I’m good a gathering sweet grass, and shredding bark into strips. I used to do it while we watched the babies. The older women would weave them into baskets for the babies to sleep in.’ Zagra cast her eyes down, then looked up hopefully. ‘And maybe you could teach me how to make baskets, too.’

‘Anyway, we’ll keep you in food,’ Mazhg went on. ‘And I’m sure if you stick close, you’ll pick up a few tricks on how to keep yourself from going hungry.’ She grinned at Ungolt and Zagra. ‘With three pairs of hands we should be able to get along just fine.’

[Durelin]

Khamir

At first, Khamir was surprised that Shae would stand up, and actually defend him. But it quickly turned for the worse, and even more quickly the man’s surprise turned to anger. Foolish woman; she would’ve gotten herself killed by now if he hadn’t been looking after her. And right now he felt that the others weren’t any better. To think he had trusted them for years, guarding his back. He had allowed himself to sleep at nights, even next to a man he knew was armed, because he trusted them. Perhaps he was just lucky to be alive. Maybe trust had nothing to do with it. Maybe it was all a matter of survival.

And that was all his goal had been, for years...until they showed up. Those fifty wanderers. He had let himself go soft, let himself get caught up in dreams while reality was rushing past him, and now he found himself left in the dust. It was back to mere survival. And his chances weren’t great. Shae’s gift to Johari didn’t help increase them much, either. That girl with a knife...Khamir nearly shuddered. If she got fed up with any of them, he would have no doubt she wouldn’t hesitate to slit their throats. And in such a large camp, there was a good chance there would be no way to prove she had anything to do with it. She certainly seemed capable of coming up with a reason for doing it, though.

Khamir stared at Shae as she walked away, his one hand gripped tightly into a fist. For several moments no words would come out. At least even in his rage the Southron had a good head on his shoulders. He knew to think before he spoke. Another thing he had to learn to survive, though it seemed insignificant. But even if words were about to come to him, he did not have time to speak.

“Do you know what they are quarrelling about?” came a voice from somewhere above him. It seemed the mad woman had some kind of wits about her again - at least enough to speak. His eyebrow raised as he looked at her, he lasted but a second before he succumbed to laughter. Completely oblivious, though not ignorant, unfortunately for her. Still, it seemed likely to Khamir that she was the least mad of anyone present.

The woman’s response seemed to betray remnants of a woman who had lived a normal life, had been a mother, had loved her children and scolded them because she did. It made Khamir feel even sorer at heart, which in turn helped his irritability along rather than softening him. He snapped at her. And then came words the echoed in his mind for moments after, imprinted there, and so able to be recalled at any time, even unto the very sound of her shrill voice as she spluttered and shrieked. Her frozen body on the ground was a testament to how the one-armed man felt.

You child of Mordor!

He had been born Haradrim but he had forsaken that country long ago, and he would never say he belonged to any other. He was the man he was because of a need to survive and a desire for revenge. He had allowed this land to shape him in more ways than he had ever realized; he was not a man built by his choices in life, he was one formed by the very things that tried to bring him down. He had not gained his freedom. Would he ever be able to?

Perhaps it was time he tried.

He helped Eirnar pick up Aedhild and move her to where she could be cared for, but Khamir returned to the same spot where he sat, though he stood now.

“Johari,” he called out to the young woman. She hadn’t moved on yet, though he expected she would try and get away from everyone ask quick as she could, if she didn't have anything left to say. “If I were the man I wanted to be, everyone would be the same to me. But I will tell you now that I see uses for people. If you think that is wrong, then so be it. But I am here to survive, just like you, just like everyone else. I am here to help everyone survive that I can. Maybe I would be smarter if I only looked after myself...like you...like everyone else in this forsaken land.”

His voice was even except for his final words, which he spat violently as a curse. He turned away, prepared to escape the turmoil in the camp somehow, though he knew how unlikely it was he would be able to do that. Suddenly he felt a tug at his shirt, and turned to see Adnan. The boy held out his knife to the man, and Khamir looked down at him for several quiet moments between them that dragged on.

“I don’t want it,” the boy finally said. Khamir could tell he was trying very hard not to cry. Adnan looked down at his feet, his eyes glistening.

“Keep it,” the one-armed man said, turning away. The knife fell with a small thud into the grass.

“Pick it up, boy. You’ll need it, and you’ll use it well,” he looked back down at the boy, with a warm twist of his lips. “You’ve got the third watch tonight.” The blade was back in the boy’s hands, and he looked up at Khamir, a smile starting to form in his face. But then he ran off, gripping the blade in its makeshift sheath, wishing to hide even tears dashed with joy. With a sigh, Khamir settled himself back down in the grass. He wouldn’t be able to escape this mess, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

[Child of the 7th Age]

By the time Lindir reached the camp, a carpet of stars glittered overhead like a panoply of sparkling jewels. The fires burned low on the grassy slope, where the members of the fellowship now sat in silence, awaiting word on whether or not the group would ride through the night and what their destination would be.

Slowly approaching the circle, Lindir squatted beside the fire pit, gently prodding the soft golden embers with a long pointed stick. He watched as a single tongue of flame glowed red and leapt up from a half charred log, illuminating the weary faces about him, and then receded just as quickly. Pausing once to meet Aiwendil’s eyes before he began, the Elf turned to the issue at hand. "We will camp here for a few hours. We can not ride on without some sleep. Since I have less need of rest than some, I will keep watch and awaken the camp before sunrise. Keep your packs and weapons close by. Be prepared to ride hard before the first light of morning."

Aiwendil nodded at Vrór, "I am afraid this means you will need to double up with one of the riders. Athwen, make sure your healer’s satchel is well stocked, for I do not know what we will find at the end of our journey.”

“But how can we ride hard in the night when we do not even know where we are going?” . The Dwarf threw Lindir a puzzled glance.

“Ah, but that is the beauty of it. Thanks to Aiwendil, we now know where both the slaves and their pursuers are camped as well as the fact that the slavers have kidnapped two of the children. I am certain that, with Dorran’s help, we can ride swiftly over the Ash Plain and rescue those who are imprisoned. After that, we will make our way back to the slave camp and see what help we can offer them.”

“Any questions? If not, the rest of you should get some sleep. There's only a few hours until we must ride again." The Elf turned to go to his watch position on the outskirts of camp, while fervently hoping that no one would stop to question the information he had provided.

[Tevildo]

"Why didn't I run?" Azhar repeated the question out loud as if she was considering it for the first time. Then she turned and glared furiously at Kwell, her words edged with bitterness. "I knew you wouldn't understand. I knew it. I thought you were hurt. I thought you needed help. Those monsters had hurt you, and I wanted to help. But I guess you can't take help from anyone. You've got to do everything yourself."

Azhar privately wondered whether all young men were as stubborn as Kwell. She seriously hoped not. "Look, I am sorry," she added. "I know you're angry because I didn't take the chance to get away. But sometimes it's more important to stand by a friend. Anyways, I had to tell you something that couldn't wait."

This time Azhar's voice was considerably more upbeat. "Kwell, everything's going to be fine. We just have to hang on. There's help on the way. Someone is coming to rescue us."

Kwell had remained silent through Azhar's tirade. But at this point, he could no longer hold back. "What are you talking about? What help do you expect to get in this forsaken wilderness? The slaves we were with couldn't have found us. Don't be ridiculous!"

"It's not ridiculous. I heard the voice with my own ears. They sent someone to tell me."

At this disclosure, the boy's eyes widened in disbelief. "Sent someone? Azhar, what are you saying? You must be going mad. No one's been anywhere near us except for the guards."

"All right. Don't believe me then. But when help comes, you'll see."

Azhar closed her mouth abruptly and refused to say anything more. Her own face looked almost as sullen as Kwell's. Vainly she tried to find a comfortable sleeping position, wriggling first to one side and then the other in a futile effort to stop the rope from chaffing against her legs. Her eyes flitted up to the wooden grate as she searched for some sign of the rescuers who were supposed to be coming soon.

Azhar looked once and then twice, scarcely believing what she was seeing: two eyes, dark and intent were staring down at them. "Kwell, look. The grate!" she announced with a flourish. She was sure those dark somber eyes definitely did not belong to the men who guarded the pit. "Kwell, maybe they're here," Azhar whispered triumphantly. "Maybe our help has come."

Already half asleep, Kwell could barely understand what Azhar was saying. From the few words that he heard, it seemed that the girl was still going on about help being on the way. Extremely tired and deeply concerned about getting enough rest to regain his strength, Azhar grumbled out a protest. "Maybe you're dreaming. For goodness' sake, can't you do it quietly?"

Azhar snapped her mouth shut, drew her knees up to her chest, and huddled helplessly against the wall of the pit, wishing that she could disappear. Still, when she inched her head back and peered up towards the grate, the eyes were still there, staring back at her.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur dragged a fine fat horse away from the slaver’s camp. At first, the beast resisted vehemently, kicking and snorting angrily, eyes wild with fear. Ishkur wondered if the dumb animal knew the grim fate that awaited him after they’d reached the rest of the orcs. This plump one would make a delicious meal for the whole party. Eyeing the left hindquarters longingly, Ishkur reserved this piece secretly for himself and resolved to kill anyone who tried to take it from him. He was the one who stole the beast, so he deserved the best portion of meat. No orc would take his portion, especially not the Uruk Makdush, who could not be bothered to steal any animals himself.

He heard loud shouting followed by the heavy thud of footsteps heading in his direction. Ishkur forcefully pushed the pony into a thick patch of bushes and ducked behind it. He placed.his left hand securely over the horse’s muzzle to stifle noises. With his right he positioned his scimitar next to the beast’s throat in case the creature started to make any noises. If the beast became a distraction, he would be forced to slaughter it and drag the carcass back to camp. Ishkur could not risk being discovered and taken prisoner or even worse. From behind the bush, he peered out and saw several dogs that apparently belonged to the slavers. They were sniffing around trying to find something.

Hearing the dog’s frantic yips, the Mannish leader grunted, “One of those horses must be around here somewhere. The dogs can smell it. Come on you idiots, step it up. Whoever took it will feel great pain.”

Three of the men wandered perilously close to Ishkur’s hiding place. Ishkur tightened his grip on his scimitar as the group approached. His heart dropped and he remained perfectly still, making sure that neither he nor his companion made any noise. The leader stood almost on top of him and stopped for a second, so close that Ishkur considered thrusting his scimitar into the man’s stomach, but then thought better of it. In addition to these two, others were probably coming. With a final cry of frustration, the leader turned back and wandered over to search the next grove of trees, looking extremely disappointed and puzzled. Ishkur could now hear more footsteps and loud voices echoing from the slaver’s camp. He had escaped detection barely once, and Ishkur did not wish to try his luck again. He rose quickly and, still yanking the horse forward, ran without stopping until he reached camp.

Inside the rocky encampment, a space partially enclosed by large boulders, he finally began to relax a little, but not before he had told everyone what he had seen.

“I have important news,” Ishkur howled, “The slavers have discovered their animals missing. I ran into some men with dogs. They did not see me. From now on we must all be careful and avoid being seen at all cost. Now, let us eat and bury the bones of the horse deep in the dirt to hide them.”

Ishkur slaughtered the horse and took the left hindquarters for himself. Many of the male orcs came over and helped themselves to meat. Then he carved out a generous portion of rump meat for the two female sisters whom he thought were called Mazhg and Zagra. He rarely thought much about the women but they all needed to be able to keep up on the march.

“Here,” he grunted, “Take this. You’ll need it to stay strong on the road.”

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Not only was his enjoyment of a delightful supper tainted by the bitterness of worry, so that he hadn’t the heart nor the stomach to volunteer to “clean” the pot, as was his usual habit, but sleep also eluded Carl. And as the others finished readying their gear and settling themselves, the darkness found the hobbit laying beside the embers, staring up at the points of light in the sky, their sparkling net so strangely familiar in this odd land. And yet these same stars wheeled their way over the former slaves and the slavers, the plantations and the Shire. All were to rest now, in the natural order of things, but try as he might to be obedient, Carl just couldn’t seem to manage it.

His evening thoughts did seem to drift always back to those two children whom the slavers had plucked from the others. How utterly frightened they must be, and for good reason. And for the hundredth time, or so it seemed, Carl was filled with a torrent of self-reproach. He should have spoken up. Weary or not, they might have pressed themselves to travel onward, at least until sleep could took them more quickly. Surely the King wouldn’t have delayed so. And the hobbit began to wonder how well Strider actually knew the group, thinking it might have been quite some time since he had last seen some of them. Aiwendil for instance, now there was a puzzle for you! Though Carl had always respected his elders, he knew that there does eventually come a time in the winter of life when even the pillars of wisdom might become a touch unsound, like a great tree that grows a bit hallow on the inside. How could Lindir be so sure of the Aiwendil’s declarations when much of the time the old man seemed more than a little eccentric? Might he not easily take them on a wild goose chase, confusing the sought after bat colony with the sought after slaves?

Shifting under his blanket with the uncomfortable thought, the hobbit’s mind felt like a caged squirrel as he struggled to think of other things. Had he tightly sealed the water skins? Yes, but he must remember to check them again before setting out. And what about Stumps? Would his peg hold? Craning his neck to reassure himself that the pony was still there, Carl saw the dear beast looking quite content among the larger horses. But a slight movement not far away caught the hobbit’s eye, and after a moment’s consideration Carl realized that it was only Lindir, sitting at the far edge of camp, his keen grey eyes keeping watch over them all. And after another moment’s consideration he thought perhaps the elf could calm his misgivings, at least enough to be able to find a bit of sleep. And so wrapping his blanket around his shoulders, the hobbit picked his way across to where Lindir sat, seating himself beside the quiet fellow. He remained silent for a while, trying to think of a good way to broach the subject.

“Nice evening, wouldn’t you say?” he spoke at last. Lindir merely nodded, seeming a bit reluctant to indulge in conversation with the hobbit. But Carl was determined to plumb the level of the elf’s confidence in Aiwendil’s latest ‘discovery’, hoping to find something to ease his own mind. So he proceeded cautiously, not altogether unmindful of the elf’s duty to keep watch, but unusually persistant all the same.

[Undómë]

Zagra and Mazhg


There are no Orcish words or phrases to convey the concept of ‘thanks’. So in answer to Ishkur’s grunted Here, take this. You’ll need it to stay strong on the road. Mazhg took the offered meat and grunted back at him.

Zagra and Ungolt huddled around her as she sliced off big juicy pieces for each of them. The blood ran down her arms, dripping off her elbows as she chewed off bites of the warm, rich, red meat.

‘Good!’ Zagra grinned a bloody smile at her sister and nodded her head enthusiastically. She paused in her eating and looked toward where Ishkur sat, then back at Mazhg. ‘He gave us meat,’ she said - offered more as a prompt than as a passing comment.

‘Well, then,’ Mazhg mumbled around a mouthful of meat. ‘Go on! But not too much…’

Zagra pulled out a few rounds of journey bread, some sticks of dried meat, and one of the tubers she knew were edible without having to be cooked. She crept as quietly as she could behind him and laid them as close by his hip as she dared. He moved a little as he ate, bringing his forearm up to wipe across his mouth. Zagra gasped, and turning quickly, ran back to where her sister sat. She huddled down next to Mazhg, and fixed her eyes on her piece of meat and her bread, pretending for all intents and purposes that he could not see her.

[piosenniel]

‘Any questions? If not, the rest of you should get some sleep.’ Lindir’s voice carried well in the little camp. And his tone of authority, though subtly voiced, impressed itself upon Rôg’s thoughts. It was a good choice of the King’s that such a one should pull the raggle-taggle fellowship together and look after its welfare.

The Elf, he thought to himself, was one of those take-charge sorts. Which was not unusual for an Elf, at least in his opinion. Those he’d encountered in Imladris were certainly no pretty, shrinking violets.....and even the female of the species was known to be quite forward in their opinions of what should, what must, be done. He chuckled quietly to himself recalling the friend of Aiwendil’s with whom he’d become acquainted during their undertaking in Umbar. She’d been quite an unreticent and candid ally; and her blade as he recalled had been as quick and sharp as her tongue.

Aiwendil was off by himself, thinking most likely about some part of the larger plan he had in mind for this group, something beyond the details of riding fast to rescue two children from slavers, the need to meet up with the larger escaping slave group, or even the incursion of the Orcs-as-thieves in the midst of all. They were all little twists of....well, perhaps fate, of circumstance, which he would somehow see to, weaving them like stray threads into the whole of his, or the, tapestry.

Or perhaps he was simply thinking of breakfast, that too was a possibility…..roust Rôg from his bed to make gruel or accept the offer of fruit and waybread. A puzzle, a conundrum wrapped in the guise of a dotty old man. Rôg smiled and fetched out his old leather sack in which were stored the grains his companion was fond of. There was plenty still for a number of breakfasts.

He put away the sack and looked about. For all Lindir’s prompting, most were still awake. And there was the Hobbit, Carl, up and strolling off toward the edge of the camp. Toward the Elf. ‘Hmmm, I wonder what’s on his mind?’ he murmured, watching Carl sit down near Lindir.

His thoughts along these lines were distracted as he noted the sounds coming from the place where the horses were picketed. Comfortable nickering as the beasts settled in together, shufflings of hooves as they jostled for position. Rôg wondered if in the undercurrent of equine intimations his own dun mare was voicing her opinions of him. Was that a nicker or a snicker he heard between the clip-clop of hooves in the dust?

A movement to his left distracted him once again from his thoughts; someone else was up. A great mass of reddish hair, somewhat silver-shot in the pale moonlight, on a head cocked to one side as if listening to something. It was the Dwarf, Vrór. And his attention seemed captured, too, by the horses.

On an impulse, Rôg drew near to where Vrór stood. ‘Master Redfist!’ he called out as he approached. ‘I see you are perusing the choice of steeds.’ He lifted his chin toward the horses. ‘I had heard you might be needing a ride once we leave for the slavers’ camp. If that’s still so, and if no one has offered you one, you would be more than welcome to ride with me. I travel lightly, so there is plenty of room. And you may sit front or to the rear….as you wish.’

He left the offer hanging lightly in the air. Perhaps the Dwarf would prove a stronger hand for the dun mare; perhaps she would look on Vrór more favorably than she did on him….ignoring him altogether….that would be nice…..quite nice…..

[Child of the 7th Age]

“A nice evening perhaps, but I’ll feel more comfortable once we actually arrive at the slavers’ camp.”

The Elf said nothing further to Carl, but stared pointedly at the northern horizon. Whether he was searching for intruders or mulling over what might happen the next morning was not immediately apparent. Hoping to continue their conversation, Carl began speaking in a stouthearted manner concealing the very real worry that lay underneath his words. “I agree. We need to find those children quickly. But what amazing luck that Aiwendil already knows the location of both camps! I mean…it would make no sense to go galloping out if we didn’t know where we’re going.

The hobbit’s comments met with silence. In the distance, a coyote howled, one of the few animals they’d seen or heard since venturing across the border into Mordor. The howl sent an eerie chill down Carl's spine. When he spoke to the Elf a second time, his voice sounded more uncertain. “Lindir….does Aiwendil really know where those camps are? I suppose the birds could have come and told him. That’s what he said before.”

This time, Lindir promptly answered, “Yes, he really does know. I am convinced of it. But he is not telling me where he got this information. And since he has been in Arda even longer than I have, I am not about to ask.”

Carl’s response was immediate, one word tumbling out after the other, “But how can that be? You’ve told us tales of the First Age and the wars in Beleriand, stories like the ones from Master Bilbo’s book. You mean that Aiwendil is older than that?” ”

Lindir nodded and went on to explain, “It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it? That a dotty old fellow should have been tramping about for who knows how long…. Still, it is true. I've known Aiwendil more than a thousand years, and his tales have convinced me his roots lie much further back than that. ”

Noticing the uncertainty still in Carl's eyes, Lindir searched for words that would give the hobbit the reassurance he needed. “I am sure you know that Gandalf was a great friend of hobbits. He had a very high opinion of them and spent considerable time in the Shire. You've heard stories, or prehaps even met him when you were younger. But you might be surprised to learn that Gandalf and Aiwendil were friends. Gandalf trusted Aiwendil and sometimes called upon him for help in tight situations. Indeed, if you examined the lineage of those two old birds, you’d find they come from similar stock ….almost like brothers. And it's likely they share other gifts as well, though I am not the one to ask about that.”

His eyes bright with amusement, the Elf noted, "Weren't you the one who shared with me that famous hobbit adage? Don’t judge a book by its cover or a ploughshare by its handle. That is what you must do with Aiwendil. There is more to him than meets the eye. But hadn’t you better settle in? Tomorrow will be a long day. Good night for now. Plus, I need to check and make sure everything is quiet.”

Without waiting for an answer, Lindir trotted to the outskirts of camp and stared out across the plain to make sure there were no unwelcome intruders, all the while thinking about everything that had happened during the day. The Elf was not easily impressed by one of the Secondborn. He had lived too long and seen too much folly. But he could not help but be impressed by Carl. Despite long years spent in Arda, the Elf had never even met a hobbit until he’d gone off on this trek. Like most of those living in Rivendell, Lindir had heard tales of Carl's kinsman Samwise who'd accompanied Frodo Baggins during the War of the Ring, but these were only tales, not the same as getting to know a living and breathing person.

Lindir was beginning to understand why Gandalf had been so intrigued with hobbits. Of all the members of their band, it was Carl who’d had the good sense to question the information provided to him. He had also been the one to ferret out the entrance to the slaves' hideaway. Without him, they would likely be riding in circles. Perhaps, just like Aiwendil himself, these curious small folk had more inside than was readily apparent. He promised that one evening he would draw Carl out and get him to share stories about his kin. For now, however, Lindir was content merely to have discovered that there were people in Middle-earth who still had the ability to surprise him.

That still did not solve his other problem. If only he could get Rôg to open up and share more about himself. Aiwendil was obviously not going to reveal anything more about his friend, despite his cryptic comments referring to their joint adventure in Harad. Yet not for one instant did the Elf believe that Rôg had gone off to survey a bat colony this evening. No reasonable man went off on his own after dark crossing the dreaded Ash Plains of Mordor for such a trivial reason. It was simply too dangerous, especially for Rôg who looked and acted nothing like a soldier.

For all his defense of the wizard, Lindir recognized that Aiwendil had one major weaknesses. He was not the best judge of men. What if the old fellow had been taken in by someone posing as a friend though with far darker motives? Lindir glanced back to where Rôg was supposed to be sleeping and saw a suspiciously empty bedroll. Couldn't that fellow ever stay where he was supposed to? Perhaps he was out again with the bats.

Elessar had called their group "The Fellowship of the Fourth Age", but there were parts of that tale Lindir did not want to see repeated. The first fellowship had included one member who, certain that he knew a better way, had secretly tried to sabotage the group's efforts. Giving one last hasty glance at the empty bedroll, Lindir promised to speak with Rôg tomorrow about being careful not to wander so far from camp without at least letting him know first. In the next few days he intended to keep an eye on him.

[Novnarwen]

Aedhild

When Aedhild finally gained consciousness, she found herself lying in the soft, damp grass. Sitting up, her legs curled up to support her body, she rested her head in her hands. "Not now. Not for everyone to see," she muttered under her breath. She knew this feeling, this feeling of weakness and vulnerability; it was within every inch of her body and much to Aedhild's distress, she had come to realise that it would never fully go away. Touching her forehead, she felt the warm stream of blood. Disgusted, she ripped a patch of grass and scrubbed her forehead clean. It wasn't much, but she shuddered all the same.

The hurriedly aging woman didn't know how many times she had fallen to the ground, supposedly without reason, and awakened from unconsciousness to find her body aching from the fall, her head penetrated with intense pain and her memory blurry. Countless of times, she had found herself alone in the dark, shivering, afraid that another fit would seize her without warning, this time more ferociously. Having escaped from slavery, she had wandered in a land, unknown to her and alone in he wilderness, a fit could be the end of her. For six weeks, she had hardly slept a full night, and during day, she had not risked walking for many hours, knowing that exhaustion made the fits occur more regularly. For weeks and weeks, she had only looked for a safe shelter that would protect her from the consequences of a potential fit would have. Though much indicated that Aedhild was hardly present, or at least not very attentive to the things surrounding her, she was very well aware of the fits that occasionally took her by surprise, and the danger of the occurring.

It scared her. More than anything. Even the fight of being punished by the plantation guards didn't scare her as much. Over time, she had become used to it. She wasn't familiar with another reality, a reality of freedom and being your own master, and thus she had learnt to accept it. This illness or plague however that seemed to have taken possession of her so long ago didn't seem to seize, and despite the long period of time of which they had defined much of her life, she could never get used to them. Each time, she stirred, rose and shivered like and old hag, anxiety grasping her so intensely she could barely breathe. The thought of being alone again, entirely on her own was unbearable. She would never make it; during the weeks after her escape, she had been lucky, lucky for the first and last time in her life.

She couldn't count on it again. She couldn't count on the abilities she didn't have. In truth, Aedhild's independency was more dangerous to her than being under someone else's command.

“Is something wrong?”

Aedhild didn’t realise that a cry had escaped her lips, and that silent wailing followed. She would never make it. This was a battle for survival, and she would never win. In due time, the others, the young and healthy slave escapees would leave her, leave her to die alone.

“You’re bleeding!”

Casting a glance at Raegonn, she couldn’t help hating him for being the young and vibrant man he was. He was one of them, who were conspiring against her to leave her rotting in this dark land.

[Orofaniel]

"You're bleeding," Regonn repeated, now with a slight frown on his face.

Reagonn hesitated; knowing that Aedhild usually was quite ill tempered, and did not appreciate being disturbed or talked to.

"I....I....,"Aedhild muttered, unable to continue. She was obviously disorientated and confused. Her face pale, and her mouth dry. The blood from her forehead continued to flow down her face. Her efforts into stopping the bleeding with the patch of dry grass was all in vain.

Reagonn never usually cared much for others than himself, nor did he ever feel any sympathy for anyone. Yet there was something about Aedhild that tickled his curiosity; by the look of her face, he, as well as the other ex-slaves, could see that Aedhild had endured much suffering throughout the years. She was an old woman now, with a past anyone would wish to forget. Of course all of them had nightmares about their past, the lives they had lived at the plantation, yet Reagonn had difficulties imagining what Aedhild’s dreams contained.

"Don't come near me," Aedhild said. Her voice cold and distant. Bewildered by this, Reagonn studied the expression on her face. This was not a person speaking - it was more like a madman. He let out his hand, in helping gesture he offered to help. She forced a chuckle.

Reagonn confused by this reaction backed away, not daring to attempt to help the woman, he motioned that he would leave. As he turned his back to her, taking his first step he could hear her voice again. This time however, her voice was not cold and distant as it had been before; on the contrary, it was soft - Almost human like.

"T-thank you..." she whispered.

[Nogrod]

Gwerr

Gwerr was munching his share of the pony and trying to set his mind in order. The meat was fresh and juicy, the warm blood streamed down from his mouth and kept dripping to his chest. Even though he had dried meat and waybread enough to make at least a journey of ten days, fresh meat was always a welcome change to the diet. But the meat couldn’t rise his spirits. He bit his chop quite angrily and chewed it aggressively. He was in a bad mood. And for a reason, he thought to himself. One more time he went through his list of things that both irritated him and made him almost mad with anger. Only his experience had made him stay outwardly calm this far, but he was near a breaking point.

We made the plan, myself and Colagar, to get away from the plantation, to get a life of our own. With thirty orcs of both sexes we could have built our own clan or something. Then Colagar’s insistence on a group escape that went totally wrong, then the Uruks... Fifteen of us left of which three are Uruks! And Ishkur! The one I trusted... The silent words Gwerr addressed to himself moved him greatly. He felt more anguished every time he went through the events of the last day. He had almost finished his piece and gnawed the bone frustratingly to pick the last bites of meat left.

So I gave him meat when he had taken on a journey without any provisions at all! And how did he thank me? He starts playing a leader here in accord with those leeches who are brimming over with exhalation! Yes, look at the Uruk faces now: so self-satisfied and so full of their supremacy – even if all was just pure chance, pure luck, I say! ... The slavers! They just happened to be there! And no decent guards so that even an Uruk can sneak unnoticed to their camp! And they think it was their wisdom that saved the day! Gah! Doesn’t Ishkur see that they use him as their puppet all the time, and all the more?I'll have to talk with him as soon as possible, maybe today... Gwerr threw the bones away despite Ishkur’s insistence of hiding them. If they come after us with their dogs, they will find this place anyway. We’ve left too many marks already...

Gwerr stood up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hairy palm. Then he gazed around at the others. “You saw that they had dogs”, he said with a loud enough voice for everyone to hear. “If they want to come after us they will find us. Too many of them for us to fight, I say.” He looked straight at Ishkur and then Colagar, trying to make the point without words. Too many of us will die or get badly injured in that fight to counterbalance the Uruks or to leave enough females around well enough to march fast...

“So we should move out and move quickly. There still is night left for us to gain some distance.”

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Slowly Hadith came back to reality from his inner misery. There were so many things going on around him. Johari had gotten a blade to herself from the woman that was called Shae and people had been running around Khamir who had spoken out his mind. Hadith had had to gather it from loose lines of words spelled out here and there to gather a picture of what had actually happened.

He didn’t know what to do or what to say, but just as he saw Adnan approaching Khamir and turned around, not wishing to see any more of the people getting at each other, he saw Fewerth. Indeed he saw Fewerth with his friends Joshwan and Guilledean. And what were they doing!

They had been in a compassionate discussion together and now they seemed to have reached an agreement. And Hadith saw how Fewerth gave to Guilledean Hadith’s knife – given to him by Khamir – and Joshwan giving him a beautifully decorated easterling blade with it’s sheath. Hadith knew exactly what the knife was. Guilledean hid the knives into his sack and remained motionless, not looking at anyone, while Fewerth and Joshwan took to Khamir who was just resettling himself down, Adnan running away from him.

“Khamir! We also want blades! How do we defend ourselves without them? You people give blades to loud-mouthed women and little boys, why not to capable men that could really protect us?” Fewerth called Khamir from a couple of yards away, making sure that his call was heard around.

He’s building on his chances once again and I won’t be looking at it any more, Hadith sweared to himself and hastily took the few steps needed to reach the three. He knew exactly what Fewerth and his friends were about, he had known them long enough. They would use every opportunity to gain anything of value to trade them later to things that were in short supply. Now they had a chance to claim two knives to trade for food or something else at a later date... At the plantation that had been pretty normal with everyone just trying to hold onto oneself and those closest to one. But we are free! We should stick together, not steal from each other anymore! It’s different to steal from the plantation than from others like you yourself! There are no bad guys making us do the things we wouldn’t want to any more!

Before Khamir had time to answer the two, Hadith was beside them and declared with all the courage he had managed to build up. “Khamir! Do not believe them!” He glanced at both men, giving vent to his anger. “You have blades, you two! You scavengers have my blade and the one the dead easterling bore with him!” he shouted towards their faces.

“You lousy little brat! Leave tha adults to their bussinesses!” Fewerth replied angrily, throwing a look that could kill towards Hadith.

“Yea, you just check us! We have no blades”, continued Joshwan and looked at Khamir self-assertively. “This kid speaks foul words with nothing but his own frustration to back them.”

Before Hadith could answer their claims, Khamir rose up and looked at all the three firmly. “Now what is all this about? What is this thing of you having blades? As far as I know, myself, Beloan or anyone else haven’t given you none...” Khamir looked at the two boldly in the eye, faintly remembering the face of Fewerth from Beloan’s training-sessions. He was one of those who hadn’t passed the tests, now he remembered it. “And how come you claim they have blades, Hadith? You yourself have lost one already...” he looked at Hadith with a piercing gaze.

Hadith felt nervous again, but gathered himself to answer Khamir’s demanding presence. “Their friend Guilledean has the blades in his sack. I saw it! The one you gave to me and the one that the Easterling wore. They are trying to milk you of everything they can just to themselves! To trade them later on...”

“What Easterling are you talking about Hadith?” Khamir asked him seriously, clearly pondering the situation in his mind and trying to get some time and information to make up his mind.

Hadith was confused for a while but then answered: “The one on whose back I threw the blade at as he rode over me, and who then fell...” he managed to say, biting his lip, not daring to look at anyone around him.

“He’s lying! I killed the Easterling with my own hands!” Fewerth put in, his eyes gleaming with a hope that Khamir would take the bite that in a sense was the truth. He was the one to have given the Easterling the final blow and he knew it.

[Durelin]

Vrór

Knowing what felt as if it was going to be a long night would turn out much shorter than he would have liked in the morning, Vrór did his best to find rest. But there were too many things that did not sit right with him. He could not sleep when he was not sure what he would wake up to. This land did not seem to sleep – really, he could not help but feel that the night was when it was most awake and on the prowl. As if it could just swallow him up. It was a strange place indeed if he was afraid of every rock and pebble.

What would he find himself getting into tomorrow? They would be off, racing to the rescue in the direction that an old man determined from a bird and had perhaps double-checked with a squirrel, a butterfly, and…a horse? Horses…those were strange animals indeed. He had surely seen them on many an occasion, but never exactly…spent time with them. The fact that several of them were picketed close by, near enough so that he could hear the occasional snort and stamp from them.

Tomorrow he would be the only one without a mount. Already the Hobbit had kindly offered some kind of assistance, but the Dwarf was far too much of a gentleman around other gentleman such as Carl. And though a pony such as the Hobbit’s was much less intimidating than those tall horses the others road, Vrór could not imagine himself being caught on such a quaint little animal with an Elf, a couple from Rohan, and even a man from the South around to see him. He could imagine word spreading across Middle-earth about the Dwarf of the second Fellowship – the “Fellowship of the Fourth Age” as the letter had read – who was so ungainly on just a sweet, fat little pony.

So he found himself wondering if perhaps it was not too late to reconcile himself with this horse problem. A good night’s sleep would help if he would be running after a dust cloud at the tail end of the group, but that seemed more impossible to grasp even than the thought of him actually seeing what it felt like to sit on a horse. High in the air…the ground unreachable by his feet. What on earth would that feel like? Nothing on earth, in his opinion.

Making his way over to where the horses were tied, dragging his feet but trying hard not to shuffle them and make so much noise, Vrór stroked his beard, eyeing the night around him. At the moment, he was not sure if he was more afraid of the horses or the chance that someone might see him near the horses. Once close to the great animals, the Dwarf found his eyes glued to the large forms, black and shadowy in the darkness. It took him a moment to realize that there was another person nearby. He started, almost turning his head to examining closer who else found themselves drawn to these creatures, but finding himself too afraid of a horse taking advantage of such a distraction. The result was a tilt to Vrór’s head, leaving him looking more puzzled than anything else, if one could look puzzled in the dark.

Feeling the other presence draw closer to him, the Dwarf silently cursed, and was so on edge that he nearly jumped again when the person spoke. It was Rôg, the strange man from the South, seemingly a friend or even a servant to the even stranger old man from…well, who knew. Perhaps even Aiwendil himself didn’t. But was surprised him even more than everything that kept going bump in the night was the man’s offer. Ride with him? With him?

“Well,” Vrór found himself starting to speak before his mind was really prepared for him to. It was another moment before he spoke again in which the Dwarf swallowed and dragged his eyes away from the horses for a moment. “Thank you, Master…Rôg…” He steadied himself, and though he found his gaze drawn back to the tall animals a small distance before him, he forced himself to think clearly.

It was just like his blueprints. He was positioning himself on the horse where he would be balanced, held up even though he was strong and heavy and thus nearly unbreakable except by time itself… Surely if placed right he would be just a sturdy in structure… And with the right guidance… He glanced back at Rôg. Southern men knew all about horses, surely, even if not as much as those Rohirrim. All those tall folk seemed to spend a good amount of time off their feet, as if those long legs weren’t reliable enough.

“I would be honored to share your…steed,” he finally responded hesitantly. He knew he had heard the animal called such a name, but it just did not feel right on his lips. Nothing seemed right about these creatures, really. “And I would most appreciate your guidance. And so I am merely at your service, whether at the front or to the rear.” Either way it would not be a pleasant view.

[Durelin]

Khamir

Nearly everything the past nineteen years was about survival, but this was also a matter of trust. This Fewerth was one who felt completely certain of the way things should be done, which included things always going his way. This wasn’t the kind of mindset that made a person very cooperative, nor trustworthy. Fewerth and the two that seemed of a similar nature who followed him around were the type of people who you could only buy the trust of. But Hadith was just a boy who felt bullied.

Khamir felt himself growing frustrated, wondering how he got dragged into a role of mediation among children, making sure they played nicely. Unfortunately they were playing with lives, with freedom, with knives and chains. Was this all freedom was? The freedom to forget just how fortunate they were to be alive, to be away from the whip? Maybe they were just like animals, so accustomed to a way of life that they could know no other unless something made it impossible for them to live that way. And it wouldn’t be impossible for them to bicker, hate, fight, steal from, and backstab each other until they were all dead.

But they weren’t yet.

“Killed him with your own hands?” Khamir inquired, barely glancing at Fewerth.

“Yessir, choked the animal.”

“The horse or the man?”

“Uh…” Fewerth began, bewildered by Khamir’s question. “I strangled the Easterling scum!”

“He did! I saw it with my own two eyes!” one of his friends piped up, “The monster came at him from behind but he was ready for him in the blink of an eye…”

The one-armed man shook his head, deciding to ignore the three fools. Already they had forgotten the bounty hunters had ridden into camp. It seemed they had agreed on some kind of story, but had paid little attention to detail when doing so. Perhaps they had assumed too much weight in their words. It was clear they thought more of themselves than anyone should. Khamir didn’t think enough of any of them to ever expect one of them to bring a slaver off his horse and manage to kill him, even with a weapon.

And so it was still hard to believe that Hadith was perhaps telling the truth. It was not so difficult to believe that Fewerth had taken the boy’s knife – what Khamir had trouble with was that a dead man was involved. Had Beloan really been that right about the boy? A trap for birds, a few deer…that was not the same as throwing a knife in a man’s back. Was this fresh-faced youth really capable of something like that? The Southron had seen many men die, he had watched others suffer countless times, but every drop of blood and lifeless body was different. And it was somehow eerie that the boy he stared at was already a killer.

“I do not think I could believe them, but I cannot yet say I believe you. Tell me more of what happened, and neither elaborate nor humble yourself. The full truth is the most believable, and I will respect you for telling it.”

He was still seated in the grass, and so he had to look up at Hadith. But looking up at the boy was not at all like looking up to him. Khamir stared him in the eye with calm severity, but without any trace of condescendence. His words were not preached, though they formed weighty statements.

“And silence, you three,” he added in regard to Fewerth, Joshwan, and Guilledean, common sense telling him at least one of them was prepared to say something denigrating about the boy. If he treated anyone like children, as Johari suggested he did, it would have to be those three.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

"Well", Hadith started but didn't seem to manage himself. He was torn between the hate he felt against Fewerth and his companions and the revererance he felt towards Khamir. But as Kahmir silenced the bullies with a quick gesture of his hand, he gathered his courage to speak openly.

"Well, when they first came upon us, I was still asleep and the first wave of them just swept over me", he looked at Khamir seriously and intensively, not paying attention to the smirks the others were giving him. "At last I managed to get from under my blanket and had to fight with a dog that ran on me." He passed the part that made him geel so guilty; the girl that had had been under the dog's attack and whom he couldn't save.

"After the dog was dead I listened to the sounds of the villains being too far away, but then they were closing in again. I was dripping blood from my eyebrow and shoulder already. First came the dogs, from darkness, but they went past me. I was prepared then, but the rider came out from nowhere too soon and had a lance. He noticed me just a yard or two away and tried to hit me but I managed to duck the tip of the spear and then..." Hadith fell silent for awhile, the whole situation came back to him in a vivid memory he could describe with a length of details. But he knew, he had no time for that kind of stories now.

"Well, I tumbled to the ground and just somehow, instinctively, threw my blade at him when he had rode over me. The blade hit him at the back and he fell from his horse. Then there were suddenly a lot of people who appeared from nowhere - where they were hiding - and beat him to death. I tried to rise up and claim my knife back, but I was too confused and battered to make any real claim to it before I fell down. Khala and Cuáran helped me then..." He was looking at Khamir from under his eyebrows, looking honest but wild with anger as he gazed towards Fewerth and his friends.

"You just check Guilledean's sack to see that what I say is true. There will be the blade you gave me. I would recognise it anywhere, so dearly had I looked at it when you gave it to me. And there is an Easterling blade too, decorated and a fine art-one. The one the poor guy was carrying..." With that he fell silent. He had spoken too loud to reveal his own private embarrassement of the young Easterling that had gotten killed. mostly because of him. He had semeed like a boy of his age, nothing more, nothing less, and that had taken Hadith aback with the corpse when he was studying it. He just couldn't believe he had been bad through his veins.

Just to bring the things up to the order of the moment he added: "They will also know well enough, where is his lance and the jewelry he carried with him - and his boots as well."

With that Hadith draw his blade and took a few steps needed to make it behind the three, just to make sure they wouldn't ran away without needing to face him...

He waited for Khamir to respond as Joshwan grinned towards him maliciously.

"The kid is lying! We are men and you should believe us more than a brat of his weak stature! I killed the Easterling and this Hadith just happened to be around. He's making fantastical claims right now! He had no part in the killing of the Easterling!" Fewerth moaned loudly. Joshwan and Guilledean nodded in agreement with Fewerth, Guilledean making sure his sack was behind his back as he stood somewhat farther away from Khamir.

"Look at Guilledean's sack, Khamir! I'll prove myself right with it!" Hadith cried to Khamir. He was quite bewildered, still holding his new knife in his hand behind the three. He had no intention of letting them to escape this questioning. Fewerth glanced at him with an evil eye, but Hadith just returned the challenge with his sturdy glance back. He was ready for anything right now. He had been humiliated too much today already, now he meant what he said and would not take back his stance anymore. He would stand for it. He would stand for the truth.

[piosenniel]

The night had proved a short one; sleep nearly impossible. Rôg rose before the sun was truly up and gathered together what few things were left to pack away. Aiwendil had taken the offer of waybread and fruit to break his fast; which left only the his bedroll to be rolled up and secured to his mount.

A short walk brought Rôg to where the horses were tethered. The dun mare was looking decidedly more rested than he and seemed in a good…no, make that, fair mood. Rôg piled his pack and bedroll on the ground and approached her.

‘I’ve come to make an offer of compromise for the day, dear horse,’ he began as he untied the rope holding her to the picket line. ‘We’ve a guest today. Vrór…Vrór Redfist. The fellow with the bright hair…the one that has walked all the way.’ He ran his fingers over her head and body checking for any problems. ‘I’m thinking he should sit the fore; don’t you? Be more stable up there. He’ll have the reins,’ he raised a brow to the mare. ‘But of course you will most likely take the lead as you normally do.’ Rôg reached into a small pouch he’d brought along with him and pulled out a handful of oats, offering it the horse.

‘By the way, he called you a “steed” when I spoke of you to him.’ The mare twitched an ear at the accolade, nodding her head up and down as she munched on the oats.

Rôg saddled her when she was finished and secured his small pile of belongings to the rear of the saddle, settling them so he would be able to perch on them as the Dwarf took the saddle. He then saw to Aiwendil’s mount.

Across the camp, he spied Vrór making his way toward the horses. Rôg waved him over. ‘A good morning to you, Master Redfist!’ He went to stand by the mare. ‘And here is our noble steed; ready for the day’s journey.’ He spoke a few soft words to the horse then moved near to the saddle. ‘May I give you a leg up? 'Twil be most comfortable here in the saddle, I think. I'll sit behind.’

[Child of the 7th Age]

To his relief, Lindir found that he had very little to do the next morning. The entire camp rose early, each member rushing about and making preparations for the journey long before the sun had risen. The Elf had checked over all the horses and tackle to make sure everything was fit for the road. Others in the group had hastily packed away their belongings and eaten a few snatches of food before mounting up and pointing their animals' noses firmly towards the north.

Dorran rode at the front of the line, with Aiwendil on one side and Athwen on the other. Lindir brought up the very rear; just in front of him were Vrór and Rôg, with Carl riding in the middle of the group. Occasionally, as their journey progressed, the istar would lean over and point out to Dorran some particular patch of shrubs or a tiny brook or bare hillock that showed they were still continuing in the right direction. The group made decent progress; for the most part the horses were able to maintain a steady canter except for a few stretches of rough ground, pockmarked with entry holes from a long abandoned rabbit warren or thick with prickley bramble bushes where they had to pick their way with great care. Most of the land was flat and barren, with little evidence of living creatures. There was no sign of the bat colony which had so caught Aiwendil and Rôg's interest the previous night.

A grey dreariness hung over the party, a feeling of heaviness and shadow that was not dispelled even when the first rays of the sun shone weakly over the plain. Unlike the night before, there was little casual talk or camradarie; all eyes remained fixed on the trail, each rider intent on making progress as quickly as they could.

They had been going on like this for several hours when Lindir ordered everyone to halt and then rode forward to the front of the group. The land where they were now riding was still grey and heavy, but craggy hills and larger patches of vegetation at least provided some cover. Lindir stared to the north to what looked like an empty plain to the rest of the party. Then he glanced over at Aiwendil, "It's hard to see because of the hills, but around that bend, where the small stream is, I think I can can make out the outline of a good sized Mannish camp."

Aiwendil glanced back at Rôg, raising one eyebrow and tilting his head. He was met with an affirming nod. Turning back towards Lindir, the old man spoke directly to the Elf, "Yes, that is it, I think. And this is the closest that we'll want to come in the light of day. These boulders and the surrounding brush will give us some cover, but we need a few brave folk to go down and get a closer look at their camp, and try to find out where they've taken the slaves."

"You're right, my friend. Any takers then? the rest of us will set up camp." Lindir stepped back and looked around the group.

[Durelin]

Khamir

The way the boy remained defiant made Khamir really start to believe that Hadith was telling the truth, and that any of the events leading up to the loss of his knife were not due to simple luck. Beloan’s faith had been well placed, it seemed. Perhaps it was time Khamir let himself trust someone, even a boy...a boy...how old was this Hadith, anyway? He looked so young, but Khamir thought he recalled hearing that the young man had endured at least eighteen summers, most likely all spent in Mordor. Eighteen years? Was that really what Beloan had told him?

Am I really treating them all like children...?

The Southron forced the thought away with a little annoyance. He did what he had to, and he should not regret it. They were lucky no more than two of them had been captured or killed. Obviously he had done something right; they just could not see it. But what exactly was it that they could not see?

This “child” certainly seemed prepared to use his knife.

“Lower your blade, Hadith. I can see you know how to use it.”

Khamir kept his face smooth, though if one looked closely enough it was likely they would observe a certain amount of surprise glinting in his eyes. There was no avoiding that he was taken aback by what he saw in the young man – not a boy.

Not drawing his eyes away from Hadith, the one-armed man spoke to Fewerth and his cronies.

“One of you had best bring me Guilledean’s bag, otherwise, whichever direction we decide on, you’re getting left behind for those Easterlings and their dogs.”

If nothing else, fear of losing their own skins might persuade them to think more along the same lines as Khamir. There was not a bit of sarcasm in the Haradrim man’s voice, and the grins were wiped from the three’s faces once the weight of his words crashed down on their heads.

But none of them moved or said a word, each most likely waiting for the other to take the initiative and thus take the first blow if one of some kind was to come. It was enough of a hesitation to tell Khamir that they didn’t think much of threats, at least while they were in numbers. And so with a sigh he reached for his belt and drew two knives in a flash. They had been hanging at his belt in the same place for at least five years. Reaching for them, even with just one arm, one hand, was second nature.

“One, two,” he counted, holding up the two small but deadly throwing knives in between his fingers for Fewerth, Guilledean, and Joshwan to see. He had enough confidence in his grip that he knew he would be able to strike two of them down where they stood at the moment, but he wasn't sure how much distance he could manage with them both drawn. Still, he kept his face blank, and his eyes steady with clear and dangerous certainty when it came to his abilites. “Three,” he finished, nodding toward Hadith.

“That’s one for each of you.”

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur chewed the plump donkey rump he held with great satisfaction. The slab of meat, thick and tender, dripped red blood down Ishkur’s chin as he ate. Ishkur savored the taste of meat in his mouth for the first time since they left camp. His suggestion to look for travelers to steal food from was indeed paying dividends. Now everyone will take a keen interest in my ideas for the group, he thought with pleasure. I will be a leader.

In the middle of his delicious meal, Ishkur sensed someone come up behind him and then leave suddenly as if they were afraid of being seen. Such trifling interruptions did not disturb Ishkur in the middle of his much loved meal. Later on, after he had finished eating the meat and began to gnaw on a bone, Ishkur noticed a bundle of dried meat, loaves of travel bread, and what looked like a tuber stacked neatly next to him. Ishkur looked around curiously and wondered who could have left this food for him. A large group of orcs had gathered nearby grabbing at the leftover bones so it was hard to tell which one had done this.

Ishkur had no particular ties with anyone in the group except for Gwerr so he could not imagine anyone who liked him enough to give him food. Although not completely full, Ishkur decided to store the package of food for later in case they came to a place where pack animals for stealing were not so plentiful. This food could last a long time on the journey and he could eat it when he needed to.

While thinking about the mysterious orc who had left him food, Ishkur remembered giving the two sisters meat from his donkey. Maybe, he thought, they had decided to give him some of their own food in return. Ishkur did not exactly know how to respond to this, as no one had ever done anything like this for him before. But then Ishkur could also not recall a time when he had given out food of his own free will to anyone else. What changes had crept up on him, being out here on the road even for just a few days? Although he could not bring himself to thank them for their gift, not even for such a precious thing as food, he made a note in his mind. From now on, he would try not to think so badly of these sisters and maybe even help them when he could. Ishkur forced himself to admit that, although they could be annoying, female orcs were not completely rotten.

At least the sisters had not been as thin skinned as his old comrade Gwerr. The latter had been in a foul mood and seemed to avoid him. Gwerr seemed to forget the fact that it had been Ishkur who suggested they raid the camp. Suddenly he heard Gwerr bellowing from across the compound about leaving immediately. With a resigned grunt Ishkur marched over to him, determined to settle the problem once and for all.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Hadith stood behind Fewerth and Joshwan, tense as a spring with the blade in his hand. But the three were not at ease either. Only Joshwan seemed to have retained something of his outward calmness, even though Hadith could see the veins in his head to swell from tension. Guilledean, the youngest one of them who was a bit right from him started trembling quite visibly. He still had his sack behind his back.

Just as Hadith turned his eyes left from Guilledean to see Fewerth, he turned suddenly around and tried to make an escape. But Hadith was fast this time. Khamir had raised his hand with the daggers but Hadith was already blocking Fewerth’s way with his blade pointing to his chest.

“This time you don’t run anywhere before the thing is settled!” Hadith said almost calmly, but he couldn’t quite hide the excitement that was betrayed by his voice trailing up towards the end of the sentence. Still his posture and gaze, not to talk of the pointing blade, seemed to be convincing enough for Fewerth not to try any additional tricks. Fewerth took carefully a step backwards from Hadith’s blade but Hadith followed him, still pointing the tip of the knife towards his chest from just inches away. Fewerth tried a “only joking” –kind of a smile, but Hadith’s face stayed stern. After all Fewerth had done, not only this day but before too, Hadith was in no mood for joking.

Hadith was most afraid but felt triumphant at the same time. It was confusing and he had to do his best to keep his expression level. All the three were adults, two of them more than ten years older than he was. He had always had to look at them as his superiors, even though his mother had scorned them and their ways. But now the tables were turned, at least for a moment. Is this what it means to be free? To be what you are and not just obey the place given to you? He was even more confused.

Everyone was still for a moment. Hadith tried to have a picture of the whole situation glancing around without moving his head. Joshwan was still standing sternly but Guilledean was now shaking quite openly. Khamir seemed to be on the alert for anything around him, his hand with the throwing knives still raised up and ready.

Slowly Hadith said, loud enough to address all the three, but staring Fewerth straight into his eyes: “Khamir asked for Guilledean’s sack. Now show it!” With that he took a half step towards Fewerth so that the tip of the knife touched his shirt. Fewerth leaned back without moving his feet but Hadith followed his movement, keeping the tip pressed on his chest.

“Stop it, stop it you all! We don’t want to be left to the slavers and at least I don’t have any wish to die here from the hand of another refugee trying to make his living in this forsaken land as I do myself.”

It was Joshwan who spoke, loud and clear. He looked at Khamir earnestly, not glancing around to the others. “C’mon Guilledean, open it up!”, he said turning towards Guilledean. “And stop that shaking! Stand straight like a man!” Hadith knew Joshwan was a descendant of the famous pirates of Umbar. Now he could see some of the pride and self-assurance in Joshwan’s eyes he had always associated with the idea of pirates sailing free at the seas.

When Hadith was keenly following what happened, Fewerth tried to take a few unnoticed steps backwards just in case an opportunity presented itself for him to run away, but Hadith sensed the slight easing of pressure on his knife and was back on Fewerth in no time. “Don’t you try anything before this is over”, Hadith snapped to him. Now he was more confident than he had been before. He had been right and now it would be proved.

Guilledean took a few steps and brought his sack forwards, laying it to the ground in front of Khamir. With shaking hands he untied the knot and took the two blades out for everyone to see. The other was the one Khamir had thrown to Hadith but the other one was something Hadith had never seen so close before. He had seen elegant blades with some Easterling captains in the plantation, but from this distance it was even more impressive. It was beautifully crafted Easterling long knife, much longer than the normal ones he had seen. And it had a sheath that was decorated with all the splendour one could imagine; weaven figures and ornaments made with a silver thread on a dark red leather that had been strengthend with gleaming and beautifully carved pieces of metal. Hadith noticed himself gasping in awe.

“H-here they are. Don’t leave us to the Easterlings, please”, Guilledean mumbled and presented the blades to Khamir.

[Tevildo]

With the stern rebuke from Kwell ringing in her ears, Azhar had turned her face from the wooden grate and stared fixedly at the ground. At one point, she heard angry voices from the other side of camp and wondered if the slavers had found whoever had stolen their horses.

Despite the girl's initial resolve to remain awake and wait for her rescuers to appear, her eyes had gradually closed until she found herself fitfully dreaming. Her visions were a tangled mass: images of blood and battle, some real scenes she had witnessed, others dreary depictions from inside her head that bore little resemblance to reality. Twice in her dream she heard Kwell bellowing at her; at least once, the strange eyes stared down from the grate. Only this time, the eyes did not look friendly. They reminded Azhar of some hideous, angry beast out of a nightmare that had finally spotted his prey and was considering the best way to kill it. From nowhere, a lumbering brown bear appeared, growing larger by the minute. Its great claws outstretched, the bear turned upon the creature with a mighty swipe and swallowed the nightmare in a single gulp.

Jerked out of quiescence, Azhar opened her eyes. Kwell still lay sleeping on the other end of the pit. The girl had no idea how long she'd slept, but outside the sky had turned from black to grey, and she could no longer see the stars. Her skin was hot, burning with fever, and sweat dripped down from her hair. Wriggling herself into a sitting position, she slumped weakly against the stone wall for support. Her fingers splayed out and felt along the ground as far as the ropes would allow, almost like a bear groping for honey on the inside of a large tree trunk. In the midst of these gyrations, she was surprised to make contact with something that had not been there before: a bulky package wrapped in fern leaves. She stared over to where Kwell was sleeping and noticed a similar object laying near his feet. With difficulty, she ripped the packet open and found a bone inside.

Curious to learn more and desperately hungry, she stretched out flat on her stomach to get a closer look. The stench nearly overwhelmed her. It seemed to be a thigh bone of some unknown animal, raw and red. Yet something told Azhar that the bloody packet was a gift. Certainly the slavers would not have shared a generous portion of meat with the prisoners, not when moldy bread or porridge would work just as well at keeping them alive. Instinctively, she glanced up at the grate but saw nothing there.

Azhar had never eaten raw meat in her life. Meat was not often given to slaves, and frankly it had never appealed to her. The girl had been pampered by the slaveowners, usually able to pick and choose what she ate. The smell of the meat almost nauseated Azhar, but she was desperately hungry. For a minute she debated. Then she arched her body forward, opened her mouth, and reached out with her lips and tongue, nibbling on the end of the bone. The taste was sweeter and more appealing than she had imagined. Ravenous with hunger, she sucked in the juices, envisioning herself as a a wild beast standing guard over its fallen prey.

There was a blinding sensation inside Azhar's head. Whether something from within wanted to break free, or some unknown power had inexplcably overcome her, she was incapable of knowing. Whatever the reason for the change, Azhar could sense a power and a fury from deep within that had never been there before. One good jerk and she had yanked off her cords, her body collapsing in a tangled heap. An instant more and blackness caved in. She lay on the ground unconscious, a tiny figure caught in the clutches of an unrelenting fever.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Post for Imak

A small tent sat in the middle of the encampment, poised midway between the pit where the prisoners were kept and the area with the horses and donkeys where they'd searched for signs of an unknown assailant. While the rest of the men always set up their bedrolls under the open sky, Imak used the tent as a place to hold meetings, to sleep, and to store his personal belongs. The sun had risen above the plain by the time the captain of the slavers trudged wearily across the compound and threw himself onto his bed, hoping to get some rest.

He and the others had tried to track down the intruders for the past two hours. They had scoured every corner of the camp, and a small party had ridden out to inspect the open plain. None of these efforts had met with success. Imak had made his living by stealing from others: taking away their freedom and possessons. To have the tables turned, to be taken in by a trickster and thief, was a bitter pill to swallow. In all his years working on the plains of Mordor, this had never happened before.

Imak was sure he'd guessed what was actually going on. The slave camp had been large--over sixty men, women, and children. While most of the group had no horses, it was certainly possible that their leaders did. He and his followers had seen only the eastern fringes of the slave encampment; a few horses could easily have been tied up on the far side of the hill, an area with a tangled web of long grasses, bushes, and stunted trees that would provide heavy cover and a place for the animals to feed. The owners of the horses had probably sensed an easy target and actually followed them back across the plain, waiting in the darkness till the camp had fallen asleep. Then they had struck, perhaps at the time when the men had risen to argue about the snake. Uninterested in the fate of a few worthless children, the slaves had stolen two donkeys and a horse to make their own life easier. Imak did not doubt that they would be back sometime.

Restless and on edge, the gang leader forced himself to rise and, thrusting his head outside the tent, barked out an order that the camp's watch was immediately to be doubled to prevent any further mishaps from occurring. Returning inside, he went over to where his belongings were stored, pulling out a small jeweled flask that was filled with fine wine. He took a large gulp from the flask and then knelt down to have another look, just to make sure that nothing had been stolen. The first item he spied was the satchel containing his most prized possession: a curved blade of eastern origin kept inside a fine metal scabbard, all encrusted with rubies and emeralds. After eying the satchel with the scabbard sticking out at the top, he vowed to sleep with the sword beside him and to wear it at his waist the next day to make sure that nothing happened to it. In Imak's eyes, the weapon was worth as much as two hundred worthless slaves.

The instant he picked up the bag to hoist onto his lap, Imak knew that something was wrong. The satchel felt light, far too light to contain his prized saber. Opening the sack confirmed his worst suspicions. Although the scabbard still remained as a decoy, the actual sword was gone. Overcome with fury, Imak ran out in the center of camp, swearing that the slaves would pay dearly for what they had done. Hearing the voice of their enraged captain and used to responding quickly to his fits of temper, the men leapt from their bedrolls and gathered to hear what he had to tell them.

"We will ride against the slaves," Imak snarled. "Those thieves not only stole our mounts but the finest sword in this camp. I will retrieve that weapon and personally cut off the head of whoever did this. The rest of them will be dragged off in chains and taken back to the plantation."

"Gurug, come here." He jerked a finger at one of the men. "You will ride this morning to the slave camp. find out what's happening, and then come back. If the slaves are packing to move, we will strike at them immediately. If they dally, we will wait till the following night. There is much to do to prepare. We have the weapons to slay such a worthless bunch, but I did not expect to be taking back a gang of over sixty slaves. It would be best not to attack until we gather the brands, mend the shackles and neck collars, put up holding pens and enlarge the pit, and gather more food. Defeating the slaves will be the easy part. Getting them back to the plantation is another matter. It may have to be done in two batches. I will not lose my profits by having some collapse from hunger or escape after they've been caught, but I swear that whoever stole this sword shall die."

Imak's face grew red with anger as he bellowed at the men. "I will not be cheated of my prey. Go now, Gurug. The rest of you....sleep for an hour or two if you must. Then rise and begin your preparations. There will be no slackards here!"

Immediately, Imak withdrew into the tent. All thoughts of sleep were gone. He spent the morning fuming and pacing in circles, planning for the battle that would surely come sometime in the next two days.

_________________

Post for Makdush

When Makdush returned to camp about an hour after the other orcs, he brandished a new saber, a fine blade of eastern workmanship heavily inlaid with jewels. He had never possessed a weapon of this quality before, not even in the days when he had worked as one of Saruman's chief lieutenants. His eyes gleemed possessively as he drew out the weapon and flashily showed it off in front of the others.

"Keep your hands off my sword," he barked out to the orcs who had gathered to look at the weapon. He turned and glared at them with a jaundiced eye. "If I catch anyone near this, you'll be sorry you were ever born." Then he strutted over to his two Uruk friends, and the three put their heads together talking about something in low, hushed voices so that no one else could hear.

[Folwren]

A movement from half way across the floor of their prison woke Kwell. He didn’t move for a moment as he tried to think what could have waked him. How long had he slept? An hour. . .maybe. . .he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that things weren’t quite as dark as they had been. A small light was creeping in through the grate above. It was early dawn, he thought, but what had waked him?

He finally lifted his head to look about. In front of him, the stream of water ran. Beyond that, the stone wall of the pit rose up. Kwell carefully shifted, moving over and putting his legs beneath him so he could rise up on his knees. His hands were bound behind him again, and his ankles were tied together, too, constricting his movements. His eyes scanned the small prison and then they lit on Azhar.

She lay in a heap not three yards away. Asleep, apparently, and -

Kwell stared with surprise. The girl was unbound! How had she managed that and why hadn’t she done something about it? But why was she lying like that? She lay half way on her side, one arm out at an uncomfortable looking angle behind her. Her face turned towards the ground, her other arm lying limply before her.

She had to have been the one who woke him, but he couldn’t understand how - if she had been asleep. And what about the ropes that had bound her? They hadn’t. . .they hadn’t killed her? “Azhar?” he said, whispering as loudly as he could. “Azhar? Can you wake up?” There was no answer. Not the slightest stir. He moved towards her, slowly, crawling with tiny movements on his knees. In a little more than thirty seconds, he made it to her side. His hands were bound, so he could not touch her, but he bent over her. Instinct told him something was wrong, but he didn’t know what.

As his face drew near to hers, he could feel the heat radiating up towards him. She was alive, he could see her breathing, but some inward fire burned in her. Slowly he sat up again, concern etched in his face.

He had seen fever in the slaves before. One or two of them would fall into one after some terribly hot day in the field. . .or after they’d been punished severely. . .pain, stress, and weariness combined could cause a weak slave to collapse. Few of them ever survived if the fever was bad. But he had not thought that Azhar was such to break under what had happened. Would she live?

“Azhar,” he said again, and this time his voice was a little louder and stronger, and more desperate. “I didn’t mean it so harshly. Wake up! Please wake up! There’ll be another chance to get out. I’ll help you.” He sat down, edging his weight off his knees, and he pushed himself up against the cold rock wall. What could he do?

The light grew stronger every minute. He slowly let his eyes sweep over their entire prison. He spotted the bundle that Azhar had discovered and for a moment he stared at it. The dimness was still too heavy to see clearly what it was. Kwell felt curiosity prick him dully. Not curious enough to go to the effort of moving himself to it, he decided. He passed it up and went on with his scanning.

His eyes lit on the second bundle. He realized with surprise that it was lying just next to where he had been sleeping.

“What are they?” he muttered. “How’d they get in here?” He moved very slightly. “Mph. . .blast these cursed ropes.” He fell back against the wall and allowed his chin to sink to his chest. What was the good of looking at it? Maybe it was some form of poison and maybe that’s what caused Azhar to become sick. He didn’t know, nor did he care. He only wanted Azhar to wake up and tell him she was alright. . .

[Durelin]

Vrór

Never had Vrór felt so sore after a long days work hoisting, chiseling, scraping, dragging, and hammering. And yet all it had taken to do this was about a half a day spent on one of those beasts. He could still feel the rhythm of the horse moving underneath him, making moving on his own two feet strange, but incredibly refreshing. He had nearly fallen off; he had been in such a rush to dismount. And of course he had refused to let anyone help him.

He had hated to go within ten feet of that animal, but as soon as he gritted his teeth and humbled himself to be hoisted up, Vrór clung to it with all his might, staring wide-eyed as the ground passed by beneath him more quickly than he would have liked. His feet dangled, and he found himself point his toes downward as if they were reaching for the earth that seemed so far away.

But the Dwarf had kept his mouth shut the entire ride. The Elf had been behind them, and the back of Vrór’s neck tingled constantly as if Lindir was watching him to make a move, to mess up, to fall off, or perhaps just to start complaining. Somehow the Dwarf avoided doing all of those things.

A few of his breaths came out as growls now, though, and a few more as groans. He would be feeling these aches even worse in the coming night, not to mention the next day. He could already imagine what he would wake up to…if he even got a chance to settle down for the night.

It had been rather sudden when the Elf called them all to a halt, and pointed out the for now invisible camp with ease. To think they were going to try and infiltrate a camp most of them couldn’t even see. He agreed they should not move any further in daylight, but he hated to think that he wouldn’t be able to get near enough to the camp until the sun was down, and then…well, then there was a whole other visibility issue. Not that he would say anything about that. More than just his entire lower body was sore after this morning’s ride: his ego had been rather bruised as well.

“…but we need a few brave folk to go down and get a closer look at their camp, and try to find out where they've taken the slaves.”

Aiwendil’s words caught the Dwarf’s attention, and secured it tightly. They were going…now? Already? But they had just stopped. And all of them but the elf couldn’t even see the camp that they were supposed to get a closer look of. How did they expect anyone to get near enough in broad daylight to actually see the slaves that had – at least according to Aiwendil’s birds, Vrór supposed – been captured? The old man had just remarked that this was as close as they were going to get before they had any cover from the night. How absurd, but not unlike him, it seemed.

“You're right, my friend. Any takers then? the rest of us will set up camp.”

Vrór cursed himself, and cursed Lindir and the old man. The question just had to be voiced by the Elf. If it had been anyone else, the Dwarf might not feel his sore ego desiring to repair itself somehow, if only through another beating to the rest of his body. But he was thinking selfishly. Staring in the direction Lindir had pointed, hopefully toward the slavers’ camp. Those men were bounty hunters. They were thieves, worse than thieves. They were thieves that worked with men, stole beings with hearts and minds, and sold them. It was akin to selling your own soul, in Vrór’s mind. And these captives…were they really just children? How could any man even fathom keeping a child a prisoner as someone lower than animals, treated as prized possessions, objects rather than living beings.

“I will go,” Vrór found the words escaping from him as a quick bark. He tried not to redden in the face, though he felt in the spotlight now. “A Dwarf can be as quiet as a mouse when he chooses. Not that size has anything to do with it,” he added with a slight grin. He jested in his nervousness.

The next person to speak up was the Hobbit. He seemed just as hesitant as Vrór felt. The Dwarf bowed his head in Carl’s direction, showing his respect and gratitude for accompanying him. All pleasantries flew out of Vrór’s head when Lindir spoke again.

“I’d say a pair is the most we can risk…”

The Elf continued on with some kind of thanks for the two’s bravery, but the Dwarf did not really hear it. He was too busy trying to get over the shock that the only company he would have was the Hobbit. Vrór trusted Carl to be a fine ally in most any situation, but that was not the issue. The issue came down to mere numbers. Two? Of course, any more would mean more of a risk of being caught. And they were the two smallest of the company.

But what would be done if even one of those wicked men caught sight of them? A Dwarf and a Hobbit in Mordor…they’d probably have to take several moments just to believe what they saw, Vrór determined with as much amusement as he could at the moment.

The two wasted little time before they did indeed leave the others to set up camp, both thinking in the back of their minds about how much of a chance there was that they would not be returning there to sleep that night. Would any of them get a chance to rest? It seemed things were on the move, and much faster than they had ever predicted, much less intended.

“To think they send the two smallest members of the Fellowship to do the spying,” Vrór remarked to the Hobbit in a rather flimsy attempt to lighten their spirits. “I’d be offended if I was not the fool who volunteered for this myself.”

He gripped the axe he had exchanged for the hammer at his belt, looking ahead and reminding himself of what lay beyond his sight. At least they would have the hills as cover for a time, though the Dwarf still found it hard to believe they were sneaking up on something they couldn’t even see.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

The two spies scrabbled cautiously from bluff to bluff and pit to pit, carefully working their way to the far point where Lindir had directed them. And though they found that the small brook he had mentioned had long since dried, it still was a great relief to the hobbit when they finally reached it, for not only did it mean that they were now near the camp, but the ancient stream's turbulent spill had carved its meandering way out of the hot sun and deep into the surface of the plain, so that on the eastern side its bed rose quite high undercutting the bank, and he and Vrór could run along it, hidden from the eyes of all.

And run they did, until Carl slowed his pace to a walk, as though he was out of breath. But the truth of it was that as they neared their destination, and hearing the villains’ vile oaths and curses, the hobbit’s heart beat heavily in his chest and he grew afraid that he might be overheard. Carl inched forward as quietly as he could, surprised that he no longer heard Vrór over the steady pounding in his ears. And turning around to check the dwarf’s progress, he found his companion poised a few yards behind, still as a stone with a ready axe in hand. Vrór’s wary eyes searched the top edge of the bank.

By then the hobbit heard the slow grinding crunch of footsteps approaching close by his head. He froze instantly, his breath caught in his throat as his eyes rolled up to see the tip of a dusty boot at the edge of the bank, just an arm’s length away from where he stood. It seemed like an eternity that the boot lingered there, while frantic, disjointed thoughts ran through Carl's mind. At the sound of an angry shout from the center of the camp the boot disappeared and the footfalls that followed, receded quickly from them.

Visibly relaxing his stance, Vrór rose stiffly to his toes, cautiously peering over the edge of the bank. And as Carl allowed himself to exhale, he suddenly felt faint and reached out to steady himself against the wall of earth beside him. Touching a rock that was unexpectedly wet, he hastily withdrew his hand, and was wiping it vigorously on his trousers, as Vrór joined him.

“A guard,” the dwarf said in low rumbling tones, as he pointed to the top of the bank with the head of his axe. “But we are not so close to camp that they will easily hear us.”

“Oh well then,” Carl whispered. “I do feel a bit better for that. But did you manage to see how many are there?”

“Like ants they are, all milling about. And just as easy to count!” Vrór remarked. “A fair guess would put them at 24 or 25.” The dwarf paused for a moment, his head bowed. “But I am afraid that number does not include any captives they might have with them. I could see no sign of the pit or of the children from this distance.”

“Then I suppose we will have to enter the camp some how, or at least get a closer look,” Carl said under his breath. “Though I don’t think much of our odds,” he added, sitting down. “Perhaps we had better rest here a bit, until we can devise some sort of plan.”

Vrór lowered himself slowly to the ground. “There is a wain…” he began, but before he could continue a drop of chill liquid dropped down Carl’s collar and the hobbit shot up with a start, clasping the back of his neck. “What is it?” Vrór asked, his abundant brows arching with genuine concern.

“Mostly, nerves I should hope,” Carl whispered, rolling his fingers together before lightly sniffing the residue. “Or water. See here, this rock is sweating!” Carl said pointing to a stone buried deeply in the bank.

“Water!” Vrór said, “I could use a fresh drink, instead of the stale stuff that passes for water in the streams here.” The dwarf groaned as he hefted himself up on one knee beside the rock. And searching with his thick fingers, he found a hold, pulling mightily until the stone came loose. With a wink to Carl, he removed it and a small trickle of water ran out.

“So little,” the hobbit observed.

“Ah, there should be more where that came from. Pure water too." And the dwarf dug a bit, until a hole was formed about the size of a hen’s egg. Beyond it was a deep echoing shadow. Vrór put his ear to the spot listening. With in moments his smile faded.

“No more?” Carl asked.

“I hear plenty,” the dwarf replied. “Both the babble of water close by, and of a child in the distance. But the child seems distressed.”

“Only one?” Carl whispered, his heart sinking.

“Only one voice,” Vrór said, sitting up straight.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur stomped angrily toward Gwerr, who continued to rant and rave about the dangers of remaining near the slave camp. Ishkur simply could not control himself anymore and was determined to force his crazed comrade to stop his shouting and return to sanity. Ever since the orcs had arrived at the camp, Ishkur noticed that Gwerr had avoided him. On the rare occasions when the two made eye contact, Ishkur thought he saw a flame of jealously and contempt in the other’s stare. Gwerr was obviously very annoyed at him for something, and now Ishkur would find out out why. Plus all this shouting gave Ishkur a pounding headache at a time when he desperately wanted to fall asleep. For all of Gwerr’s contention that there was still enough darkness for them to flee this place, the morning had already come.

When Ishkur first approached, Gwerr didn't seem to notice him and continued giving his lecture to the group as if nothing had happened. Ishkur waited a few seconds for Gwerr to say something and, when he grew tired of standing there, slapped the other orc stiffly in the right shoulder to get his attention. Ishkur could see no reason why he shouldn’t get straight to the point.

After an annoyed snarl and mashing of his yellowing teeth, Gwerr turned and yelled at full volume, “What do you want?”

Ishkur stared coldly at Gwerr, considering whether to reward such a rude response with another swift punch, this time straight to his stomach. Then he growled at Gwerr, “Stop your belly-aching. Listen, we must not leave camp yet. The sun is up and we would not get far. The group doesn’t yet have enough supplies. When will we next be able to score fresh meals so easily? So quit whining, shut your mouth, and keep your opinions to yourself.”

Gwerr, who before had been extremely agitated, now looked as if he wanted to kill Ishkur. The two had known each other many years, and both had an extremely large and fragile pride. Pride was an orc’s most prized possession and he would kill to protect it. This time, Gwerr seemed truly to have had enough,

“Ishkur, I swear that I will not follow behind your shadow any longer. Your head has grown large and vacant with all of your great ideas. Maybe you've decided to serve the Uruk scum and forget your true orc brothers. You don’t care about the group at all. You just want to be leader. We must leave now,” bellowing the last sentence with such force that Ishkur recoiled in shock.

When Ishkur spoke again, he tried to sound less belligerent , “Listen, my friend, I hate the Uruks just like you. I saw Makdush parading his stolen sword around for everyone to feel jealous, bragging about it. And you, Gwerr, are worth a thousand Uruks! I know that!" Ishkur pounded his fist against his chain link coat to stress his point.

"But, as much as I hate that blowhard Makdush and his pals, my desire for a place of my own is even greater. I want to live in a land without bosses, where we answer only to ourselves. I want to be free to hunt and knock a few heads without always doing what someone else commands. Wehave no choice. To survive on this journey, we must work with the Uruks, all stay together, and see things through till the end. And you are right that the time draws near for us to leave, but not yet. Let us stay one more night and steal lots of food and then leave. We will be even more careful than before. Once we have all the supplies we need, we’ll be on our way.”

Gwerr grunted in response. Though still grim in visage, his anger had softened. Part of him was beginning to suspect that Ishkur might be right about needing to put up with the Uruks for a little while, but personally he couldn’t bring himself to do it. His personal hatred of them was just too intense. The orcs would stay another night and Gwerr would keep his complaints to himself, but he wouldn’t feel at ease until they were far away.

Ishkur turned and yelled at the other orcs. "Alright, we stay here another night. And we make one last raid after night falls. Now go find a hiding place for the day and meet here again when the first star comes out."

[Firefoot]

Before the merest hint of gray light could shine from the eastern horizon, Grask had left the mannish camp. He had already spent far too much time there, even braving a second coming. None had seen him save the female man-child beneath the grate; the men’s searches had been far more concentrated on the other side of their camp where the horses were tied, and the tangled tussocks growing not far from the camp had proved an adequate hiding place until his curiosity had drawn him to the grate itself: a foolish move, perhaps, but the guard had not noticed.

It was while stationed at the grate that he had heard their voices: oddly clear and unpleasant, but nevertheless intelligible. They had seemed to be arguing, but over strange topics that Grask was sure he could not have understood correctly. In fact, some of their words were bandied about so casually - rescue and help, for example - that Grask was wondering if they had a different meaning among men, for they were scarce heard among Orcs.

But soon after, they had fallen asleep, and Grask, leery once more of the danger, had returned to the Orc camp, where he found the feasting on raw donkey meat in full swing. He did not know if it would be permitted for him to have some, but he took a small but meaty bone for his own enjoyment anyway. He doubted anyone would fight him for it – or, more likely, just take it - even if they did take note of him. But as he happily tore into the raw meat and felt drops of blood trickle down his chin, he realized that the two men-children were not even free to scavenge for their own food. Everything he knew said to let them fend for themselves, but nothing he knew involved the tying up of young ones. They might be beaten – Grask had been cuffed over the head a few times himself – or even killed if they caused the wrath of the older Orcs, but typically they were just ignored, and never locked up. Grask did not understand it.

Without knowing why he did it, he had quietly taken two more bones of meat and crept away back to the mannish camp. Remembering how all the stores he had found in their wagons had been wrapped, Grask had imitated this practice and wrapped the meat in leafy plants that smelled repulsively fresh. This stay in the man camp was considerably shorter; he had only dropped the packages through the grate and lingering only briefly to marvel again at the oddness of human appearance, particularly the uniformity of color and texture in their skin compared to his own thick mottled hide. But he had left quickly, knowing dawn was approaching and that he would not want to be caught here.

[Undómë]

Mazhg motioned for her sister and Ungolt to be quiet. Two of the males were talking at each other. Ishkur, the one who had shared meat, and the one called Gwerr. They were fighting. “Uruks” seemed at the heart of it.

Of all those in their band, Mazhg hated the Uruks most of all. She had tried to keep herself and Zagra well out of their sight as the group moved along. Not that she feared them. It was just that she did not wish to have to fight one. She rubbed her upper arms, her fingers running over the thick scars from a previous encounter with an overbearing Uruk.

‘What do they say?’ Zagra whispered creeping close, her arm twining through her sister’s. Mazhg lifted her chin, her lips pursing them out toward Ishkur.

‘That one makes a few points against the other,’ Mazhg whispered back, flicking her eyes toward Gwerr. ‘He says we need to get more food to carry us further. And until we are safely to the place we will live we need to put up with the Uruk-hai.’ She snorted, stifling a laugh. ‘Perhaps, just before we get to where we’re bound, the Uruk’s can give their bagronk hides to some attacker, saving us the nasty business of having to do them in.’

‘That Gwerr is whining at Ishkur. Says he’s got a big head; says he serves the Uruk scum – just so he can be leader. Says he doesn’t care about us Orcs at all…’

Zagra scowled, looking hard at Gwerr. ‘That Ishkur gave us meat. Gwerr didn’t, did he? Ishkur’s a good leader.’ Mazhg nodded noncommittally. He’ll do for now… she thought to herself.

Ungolt, by now, had also crept close and leaned against Zagra. Mazhg noted how tired both of them looked. ‘Let’s find some shade and get some rest,’ Mazhg said, getting up. She grinned at Ungolt as they walked toward an overhanging rock Zagra had spied out. ‘Tonight you can help us relieve the slaver men of more of their food and their pretties.’

[Durelin]

Khamir

Khamir wasn’t sure who surprised him more at this point: Hadith or Joshwan. He had looked at Hadith for the longest time and saw such a boy, still a child. But he held that blade in his hand with such confidence, so steady, and whether or not he was really prepared to kill anyone, Khamir could tell the young man could do it if he had to. But only if he had to. He was a smart young man, with a good heart. The one-armed man spared a moment to wonder how such a man could have grown up as a slave, in a world of violence, thievery, backstabbing, torture, and oppression. Hadith, who Khamir had called ‘boy’ since he met him, had not allowed the world around him, the kind of life he had been forced to live to shape him. Khamir had failed.

He might as well be like Fewerth, Joshwan, and Guilledean, thieves and backstabbers, dishonest men who took advantage of people and situations even at the expense of others. Like most of those in Mordor, their actions were based almost entirely on survival. How often did they even think about what they wanted to do? Did they actually have fun taking advantage of people, or did they simply deem it necessary? Khamir was fairly certain of the latter. The real question, though, for all Mordorians, was who they were trying to keep alive. With these three, it was obvious: they cared about only themselves.

Still, a man who vigorously defended his life wasn’t necessarily a danger to others. Perhaps he could even be of help.

Staring down at the two blades at his feet, Khamir sheathed the two in his hand, and reached down to pick up the Easterling blade. It was of beautiful craftsmanship. Khamir recalled ceremonial knives his father had owned, and he would always believe those rivaled the beauty of any weapons, but this still held its own. As he stared at it, though, and watch the sun glint off the metal, he could feel it as if it was lodged in his side. This was where the money was in Mordor, all the resources – with men like these bounty hunter pigs, men with hearts as black as Melkor’s.

Where had all that hope gone? Khamir searched for that feeling he had on that day he wrote the letter, and even more so on the day he received a message back. He almost felt prepared to believe in Gondor at that moment, though he had been more inclined to simply believe in this ‘Elessar’ than the entirety of what Gondor was and stood for. But now it seemed he was back in the same rut of survival and a hope for more, never reaching whatever that ‘more’ was.

At least he knew there were good men left in this world, even in what was still the darkest part of it.

“Hadith, give Joshwan your knife.”

The younger man looked at Khamir, his eyes suddenly wider than before, and he seemed frozen for a moment. Khamir did not blame him. Giving a weapon to an enemy…no, not an enemy. It was difficult to shake such feelings off. The one-armed man was not used to extending trust to anyone. They had to extend it to him, first, and show him somehow that they could be trusted. But, Hadith had done this, and he had failed to see it until now. This trust issue was too abstract, too fleeting – was it even a matter of trust?

Perhaps what Hadith did, was, because, after a little assertion, the young man did as the older one told. Joshwan was frozen in his place, too, glancing from Hadith to the knife to Khamir: mostly eyeing Khamir and the knife.

“You were the only man here who showed bravery other than Hadith. Use that knife well, even if only to protect yourself. And remember that I still have three knives to your one.”

Khamir extended his arm, holding out the Easterling knife, letting it rest in the palm of his hand, balancing the weight of it. “Hadith, this is yours,” he said to the boy without waiting for any kind of response from Joshwan or his friends. “He was your kill – his blade is yours now. You’ll never forget the first man you killed, anyway.”

Looking at the genuine happiness and triumph in the young man’s eyes as he took the blade that the one-armed man offered to him, it was clear that in some ways Hadith still was a boy, young, hopeful, and at least a little naïve. Khamir wondered how long Mordor would allow him to retain such a look and feeling of youth.

Picking up the last knife, he found Eirnar, and held it out to him. “Protect Aedhild with this, at least. She does not need any more pain to come to her.” Eirnar accepted it hesitantly, eyeing Khamir, perhaps wondering who this man really was. The problem was, at this point, Khamir himself did not know at all.

“The sun is fast arriving,” he called out to everyone, or at least those near him, “We’d best get rest tonight, and lay low tomorrow. We have the wounded to take care of, and we must stay together. They will not kill the children; we have time.”

Though very little…

[Tevildo]

Dorran had spent the past two hours helping set up camp and tending to the needs of the horses. He'd fed and groomed each of them, making sure to take the knots out of their manes and tails and to examine their hooves in case they had picked up any rocks or thrown a shoe on the recent journey across the Ash Plain. Even after doing all that, Vror and Carl had still not returned. Dorran paced about the camp while privately berating himself for not having been the first to volunteer.

It wasn't that he doubted the abilities of a hobbit or dwarf. It was just that the two of them, however clever and dedicated, seemed so very, so very.....small, especially when compared with the harsh realities of life in Mordor. He did not want to dishonor his companions and would never have said anything derogatory to their faces. Part of his worry reflected a genuine fear that something might have happened to one or both of them.

Although Dorran would not have liked to admit this, some of these reservations also stemmed from the fact that he was a Man in an age increasingly dominated by men. His attitude was a common one, born of Man's ignorance and pride. All his life, he'd fought and worked with the stouthearted men of Rohan and Gondor. They were very real to him. With the other races, it was different. They seemed more like shadows of ancient legend than real people who could help shape the future fate of Arda. At least in terms of dwarves, he did know of ballads that spoke of their valiant efforts in battle, but hobbits were an utter blank, almost a childhood fancy.

For the tenth time that morning, Dorran chastised himself for not speaking up more quickly. He knew the ways of slaves and slavers and perhaps even of orcs better than anyone in the party. It seemed to make more sense if he had been the one sent out across the plain to spy on the camp and discover the whereabouts of the children.

Noticing that the others had stopped to take a short rest from their labors, Dorran wandered over to where Athwen, Aiwendil, and Rog were resting in the company of the Elf Lindir. Staring northward in frustration, he shook his head, and, speaking to no one in particular, voiced his concern. "It's been long....too long. Do you think they are alright? Should someone go out and see what has happened?"

[Folwren]

Athwen looked up at Dorran. Her conscience pricked her. He had not been around for the last hour and she had not noticed - leaving all the work with the horses to him without even offering to help. Besides that, it was clear on his face that he had spent that time worrying about something and she hadn’t even noticed.

“Do you think they are alright? Should someone go out and see what has happened?”

Athwen knew Dorran well enough that he wouldn’t throw around empty and useless suggestions. At least, he wouldn’t think them useless or empty. He was clearly worried and wanted to do something about it. She stood up quickly.

“You and I can go, Dorran,” she said, coming towards him. “Surely it wouldn’t do much harm,” she added, turning towards Aiwendil and Lindir.

[Novnarwen]

Eirnar

He didn’t need a knife to protect Aedhild. He had a club, crafted with his own hands. “Protect Aedhild at least,” he mimicked silently to himself as soon as Khamir was out of sight. Though he didn’t mind taking care of Aedhild, as nobody else seemed up for the task, he didn’t like the idea of being seen as her personal protector, or her nurse for that matter. She was an unusual woman, yes, and he did seem to understand her better than most, but did that automatically leave him with the sole responsibility for her? It was not his fault that she was incapable of taking responsibility for herself; selfish as this sounded, he reproached himself for the direction of his thoughts. He should not, he could not forget that he had been blessed, he was alive and well after years for torture, and acknowledging this to himself, he realised that protecting Aedhild should be but a small task, and he should do it both willingly and dutifully.

**

Aedhild was already asleep when he settled down. Although he had done everything in his power to forget about today’s encounters and intrigues, he couldn’t quite let it go. He had been so fierce in his critique of Khamir, his actions, and yet, at the end of the day, Khamir had still offered him a knife. Eirnar had narrowed his eyes and reacted with disbelief and scepticism. Was it really Aedhild he needed to protect, or was it himself? Was this just part of the game the Southron was playing? Whichever game he was playing, he was sure good at it. Finally, he had to conclude that he could not know what was in the Southron’s mind.

For some time now, he had been suspicions of Khamir. Though careful to not give away too much of his thoughts in case his suspicions had truth in them, he could not help thinking of having been too prominent in his critique. It hadn’t brought any good, and Eirnar had to admit that today’s events did nothing but confuse him further. Had Khamir been sincere? Had he intended the knife for him to protect Aedhild, who supposedly was unable herself? Smiling, he remembered when the woman had charged at him for no apparent reason. She herself didn’t seem to remember anything of the sorts, and Eirnar felt no particularly urge to tell her either. No, she was capable to protect herself; at times she was as aggressive and threatening as the slave-guards at the plantations.

If it wasn’t for Aedhild’s protection, was it for his own? After having openly confronted him with his complaints, maybe the ex-slave had viewed it as a challenge. Perhaps he regarded him as a threat. Perhaps Khamir was getting cold feet; if the slaves started doubting his abilities as a leader, started doubting his intentions, started doubting him, his plan, whatever it was, would without a doubt fail! A slight shiver ran through him as he realised that if this was the case, then he would be a target; he would be someone Khamir would sneak up on at night, and with a slit throat, he would be taken away before the others would rise. Who know? Maybe the kidnapping of the children had been planned. It suddenly hit him that it was a trap. It became so painfully obvious that he had difficulties believing it. Had Khamir resisted going after them so quickly to purposely allow more attacks? Did he want to delay a pursuit until whoever it was he was in league with were ready for them?

Taking a hold of the knife, which he had hung in his belt, Eirnar examined at it carefully as if it would help him come to a conclusion of what he ought to do. If he abandoned the group, he was on his own, and he wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing or not. Not yet. The danger of staying seemed greater at this point though; the tension in the camp was palpable, and who knew what happened tomorrow… he would take his chances, but not a moment longer than he had to.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

In the end everything had happened just a bit too fast for Hadith to cope with. He had thanked and nodded to Khamir, taking his leave as Khamir had addressed Eirnar. As he withdrew from Khamir and others he realised that he was shaking all over. The excitement of the previous situation bounced back on him only now. He felt his heart beat twice the normal speed and his hands were trembling. But in those shaky hands of his there was the long knife, the beautiful blade and it’s sheath that the young Easterling had bore with him as he had fallen off from his mount. Hadith remembered just too vividly how the mutilated young man had looked like when he had turned him around after he had been beaten to death. With that memory he felt both anguished and insecure on top of all that had happened just a moment ago. The feeling of triumph was fading away fast.

He went to search for his packages from the general disorder, just to employ his mind on something else. But the thoughts and images kept flowing into his mind. And for the time being, he was finding nothing.

Suddenly there was the image of his father handing him an orange. It was soon blurred and replaced by an image of Khamir giving him the knife, not once or twice, but three times in succesion. And then there was something Hadith thought he had never quite recalled before: the image of his father bowing over him and whispering, “you’ll have to stand for the good.. never to bow to the wicked ways.” He had always related that sentence to his mother as it was something she had kept on telling him, but now it was also his father that was whispering the very same words into his ears inside.

His father had had a full beard that had covered most of his face, but more vividly than that Hadith remembered his gleaming eyes. There was something in Khamir that looked the same. Only now did Hadith actually pay heed to the colour of Khamir’s skin. It was the same his father had had. Hadith himself had somewhat lighter tone of colour on his skin but it could be easily traced back to that of his father, and that of Khamir. His mother had been so pale... Hadith tried all his strength to come up with the name of the place his mother had been from. Osglininnian? Oglithiar?... He couldn’t remember it, but it was in a part of the world that was called Gronror, or Gorondor, or something. He had heard those places mentioned once or twice but he couldn’t just come up with them.

Anyhow, Hadith had different facial features from his father, or Khamir, with high cheekbones and slim ears. That had something to do with his mother. But who had told him to stand up and fight for the good? It had been his mother. But was it his father too? Or was it himself? And what did Khamir had to do with all this? Why was he drawn to him so strongly? Just because there was something in Khamir that reminded him of his father? He had stood against three adult men in front of Khamir, because of something else than only his own pride, surely.

Hadith was baffled. He kept turning the blade in his hands as he walked aimlessly around the still confused camp of the refugees. He didn’t see his packages, but even if they had been in front of him, he wouldn’t have noticed them anyway. He was too immersed in his thoughts and doubts. Who was he? Who were all the people around him? Who were the Easterling slavers pursuing them?

[Nogrod]

Gwerr

On another occasion, Gwerr would have stood against Ishkur and stressed his plan, but this time Ishkur seemed to have got it right.The day was indeed dawning. He had misjudged the speed of that cursed bright ball that teared off the eyes of any decent orc. The first rays of the sun were already starting to turn the distant hills behind them from dark blueish-black to a tinge of light brownish-orange, soon to become bright red and yellow.

After Ishkur had called the others to find a shelter Gwerr grunted to him in a way orcs would find almost peaceful. “You too are worth a thousand Uruks! We’ve had a long road together Ishkur, you and I.” With that he pounded Ishkur to his chest, hard but in a somewhat friendly way by the orc standards. Gwerr looked at Ishkur straight into the eye. “I still fear those Easterlings hunting after us, especially because that rat-pack Makdush has clearly stolen something of worth with wich he boasts about. We risk too much if we have to fight them. You know it as well.” Gwerr studied Ishkur’s expression carefully and saw that he had managed to make him at least a bit troubled.

“We have no choice now Gwerr, you know that too”, Ishkur replied after a short pause, staring back at Gwerr intensively and then glancing on the brightening colour of the distant hills behind them. “We must work with the Uruks for the time being. Realise that and bury your anger from sight for awhile.”

Gwerr kicked a stone from his feet so furiously that it flew over the bushes covering them from the direction of the Easterling-camp. For a moment he was silent and just stared after the rock that had disappeared from sight. They both could hear it rolling down the slope behind the vegetation. Different thoughts and feelings were running rampant in Gwerr’s mind. They were tearing him apart.

Ishkur was about to leave when Gwerr at last managed to calm himself more fully and to speak out, still watching to the direction of the Easterling-camp. “If the Easterlings come at daylight, I surely would feel better to have some of those creepy Uruks to fight beside us”, he said cautiously, turning to face Ishkur and trying to grasp his response to that startling confession of his. “Today we need them”, Gwerr continued, “but I do swear, that I do my best not to get into this kind of situation another time.” He hissed quietly and spat to the ground.

For a moment those two comrades in arms stood silent, just looking at each other and trying to evaluate their positions in respect to one another. Slowly Gwerr raised his hand to touch Ishkur’s shoulder. He gripped it forcefully but not so aggressively than one might have thought.

“We must stick together Ishkur. And we must make sure Colagar, or the others, will not flip. We’ll get rid of those scrubby scroundels in due time”. With that he turned his head to catch the three Uruks still talking about something together in hushed voices some twenty yards from them. “You see how they are scheming their rotten plans”, Gwerr said now more quietly, nodding towards the Uruk-trio, “But you’re right, the time is not now.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil shook his head. The slightest hint of a smile slipped over his face as he turned to face the couple. "You young folk! Always in a hurry. Can't sit still for more than a minute. You're probably right, Athwen. There'd likely be no harm if we sent out another scout or two to check up on Carl and Vrór. Still, I can't help thinking that we are better off lying low and staying out of sight. Let's wait to ride out until we have the cover of darkness. Anyways, those two will get through. I'm sure of it, and then find their way back here long before evening comes."

Aiwendil glanced over at Dorran, almost as if he could read some of the thoughts that lay behind the man of Rohan's concern over whether or not the two smallest members of their party could possibly make it through in such difficult circumstances. The istar added in a gentle tone, "Not easy sitting and waiting. Not for a Rider who's used to going out and attacking problems head on.....especially since you've had to carry heavy memories of these lands for such a long time."

Lindir nodded his head in agreement, "If we hear nothing by the dinner hour, we'll ride out as a group. But I think Aiwendil is right. If anyone can get through, those two will." The Elf stared across the open plain in the direction of the slavers' camp.

[Durelin]

Vrór

His heart heavy in his chest, Vrór stared down at the rough grass beneath him, allowing sadness to pull him down. He was frozen for several moments under its weight, and Carl watched him briefly before shuffling over to the small opening in a black abyss. Vrór gave him more space, and the Hobbit put his ear up to the hole. The Dwarf now remained still by force of will, not wanting to disturb Carl with any movement or sound. After a few moments, the Hobbit pulled himself away from the opening, and disrupted the silence.

“It feels as if there are sounds just beyond what I can hear,” he whispered, “but no matter how hard I strain my hearing, I know I cannot reach them.”

Vrór shook his head and muttered gratingly, “Aye.”

“And to think it seems like such a short tunnel by the nature of the echoes…” Carl trailed off, as he met the Dwarf’s gaze. They realized simultaneously just what the Hobbit had said. A tunnel!

Each wished to burst out with some sound of rejoicing, but found themselves silenced by the presence nearby. The slavers’ camp was a noisy reminder of how close they were to capture and…death? Or would they be made slaves, as well? A fine catch, a Dwarf and a Hobbit; unique.

Vrór put his ear up to the opening once again, closing his eyes and focusing his mind on good, hard stone. The Dwarf had to hear for himself again what Carl was talking about, and he could only nod in silent agreement toward the Hobbit. He sorely wished they could risk lighting a torch to solidify their beliefs, but he knew that would be practically handing themselves in. Pulling away from the gap in the stony earth slightly, he eyed the structuring around the opening. He began to trace lines around stones as the gears in his head turned with a steady clicking and whirring.

“I do think I can get that opening a great deal bigger in a pinch, as long as I bring along just a couple tools…” he whispered to his comrade, who gave a nod of understanding in reply.

“You feel confident enough to move on?” the Hobbit asked in a voice Vrór had to strain to hear. The Dwarf hesitated for a moment before he nodded sharply. It would do. He had completed tunneling projects on hundreds of occasions before taking up work in Minas Tirith, where those Men were much more interested in raising things high above the ground and waiting for the wind to blow them over.

“Let’s see what we can find out about the camp,” Vrór muttered. He gingerly replaced the rock to close the hole he had maid, and then gestured with his axe that Carl take the lead shuffling along the bank past where they had discovered their tunnel. They would follow a small bend in the stream to get a little closer to the camp. Their hearts pounded in their ears, and every sound they made brought them a feeling of utmost dread.

Once around the bend, their eyes were caught by a small fern-like growth that appeared upon closer to look to be seemingly a patch of well-grown weeds. The two squatted down to silently debate who would take a chance at peeking at the camp through the vegetation. Vrór insisted as best he could without using any words, and Carl relented. Rising slowly, inch by inch, the Dwarf peered through the patch of weeds, reaching up just as slowly to pull a few out of his line of vision.

He did a quick recount, and found himself again looking at about two-dozen men. He caught sight of metal glinting in the sunlight by a rough tent nearest to the stream, and focused on it. Armour of some kind…perhaps more for show than anything else, but… One man strutted around the camp with both a sword and a long knife at his belt. There were smells in the air that said that they had food that smelled…well, like food, rather than a meager portion of whatever they could find. Mostly they seemed at ease.

Near to their tunnel, Vrór estimated, two men walked above, obviously trying to look busy through rather determined looking pacing. One had a sword, the other a spear, at least. Certainly well-armed, well-fed, and well full of themselves, this lot. Perhaps that was why they had stopped in the middle of the day – they were taking their time, feeling they had nothing to lose or to rush. Or perhaps they did not wish to move too far away from the slaves, who, at least according to Aiwendil, and apparently the strange Southern fellow, were not too far north of here. Were these men waiting for something? There seemed to be something else underlying the laziness in the camp. Something was waiting, watching, and plotting…

Pulling himself slowly back down, Vrór whispered a few of his findings to Carl, and then asked him if he’d like to risk a look, as well. The Hobbit hoisted himself up, knowing that four eyes were better than two. The Dwarf waited beneath, and seconds dragged on for hours before Carl finally lowered back down.

“There are two guards, and they both were speaking to someone below them…it is a pit, just as Aiwendil said. And they…they…kicked and threw…dirt…maybe rocks…down…” he trailed off. Both felt pained to think how they were treating two children.

After agreeing it was time to move on, the Dwarf and the Hobbit made their way back around the bed, and past where they knew the tunnel was, sparing it a glance or two. They followed the stream away from the camp for longer than they had followed it toward the camp, before they climbed out of the streambed, and made their way back to the rest of the Fellowship, where they hoped camp awaited them. It was about their only hope. Covered in dirt, the Fellowship of the Fourth Age’s spies approached the camp, dragging their feet, having forgotten for the moment the good news of the tunnel.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Despite his earlier advice to Dorran and Athwen that the members of the fellowship should exercise patience, Aiwendil was the first to leap up from his chores and wag his staff excitedly towards the north. "Rôg, Lindir, take a look. That direction over there. I've not seen such woebegone travellers in a while. But what a welcome sight!" He pointed towards tiny specks in the distance that grew larger with every step.

Once the scouts approached within a hundred paces, the istar waved again and let out a broad haloo to indicate that everything was fine in camp. In a manner of minutes, all had gathered around the two returnees. Carl and Vrór each took some good natured ribbing about their dirty faces and disreputable looking appearance. Before the travellers sat down to talk, they were given fresh water to scrub off the worst of the mud and dirt, and were afterwards rewarded with a generous portion of journey bread and ale to slake their hunger and thirst.

When the two had finished wolfing down their meal, Lindir turned straight to the business at hand. Each of the scouts described what they had seen in the slavers' camp and how the streambed they'd followed had led into a tunnel very close to where the prisoners were kept. Lindir listened with particular interest while Vrór explained that he and Carl could likely break through to the prison if they had proper digging tools. There was absolute silence as Carl went on to state how they had heard the sound of one child, but only one, when they'd listened to the noises coming from the underground pit and how the guards had thrown rocks and dirt down into the enclosure where the prisoners were being kept.

After asking several pointed questions of the scouts, Lindir turned to the others and spoke, "It seems we'll have our work cut out tonight. Carl and Vrôr must dig through the tunnel. A few others will need to back them up by that streambed, to get rid of the guards and anyone else who tries to stop us from rescuing the children. We also need someone to wait a short distance away and keep an eye on the horses, since we may need to get out of there very quickly." Here, Lindir glanced briefly at Athwen. "Actually it's even more than that. We don't really know what shape the slaves are in. The fact that Carl and Vrór heard only one voice is not encouraging. In addition to having the horses handy, we've also got to be prepared to transport children who may be sick or unconscious."

"Alright then, who does what? Any more suggestions or ideas how to go about this? I have been wondering if we'd want to send someone to the far side of the camp to create a diversion. Or would that only decrease our numbers since we need to take care of those guards?"

[Folwren]

Kwell shifted in the dimness of his prison. His arms ached terribly and his wrists felt raw where the ropes had chaffed away at the skin. He shifted for the second hundredth time in the past hour, his eyes darting once again around the pit. Azhar still lay unconsciously on the ground. She had hardly moved and hadn’t waked at all. He had ceased to call to her and now he sat in silence, too, a despairing feeling settling slowly and steadily into his heart.

For sometime now there had been a steady tramp, tramp of feet above him. He knew from that sound that there were guards, at least two of them, pacing back and forth just by the pit. Also, the light had grown until the dimness was easily seen through and he knew that the sun had completely finished clearing the eastern horizon and was probably someway up in the sky. Yet they did nothing.

‘I wonder why?’ he thought to himself. ‘Something should be happening. I don’t know what and I doubt it’d be anything good, but something should be happening.’

The thoughts spun around again and again in his head but just as no answer came, neither did anything happen. Azhar slept on, almost entirely still, the guards continued to walk to and fro, and Kwell still sat in the half darkness.

After a while, Kwell began to notice hunger gnawing at his stomach. It had been there for sometime, he realized, for now it seemed to turn over and groan with its own voice. He winced. It was far past day break now, he was certain. Would they feed them nothing?

Kwell moved forward, pushing himself away from the wall with his shoulders. He got to his knees and crawled forward, just under the grate. No one was in sight, but he knew they were near the grating. “Hollo!” he called. “You! You, up there!”

The steady tread of boots stopped abruptly, and then he heard footsteps again walking quickly to right above him. He saw the figure of a man against the square of light, looking down. “What’dye want?” a rough voice demanded.

“To talk to your leader fellow!” Kwell answered. A great laugh answered him. “To tell him that you’re disobeying orders,” the boy continued at once. The fellow’s mirth was cut short.

“I’m not disobeying no one’s orders,” he barked.

“You were told to take care o’ us, weren’t you?” Kwell asked.

“None of yer business! Keep your nose out of my orders!”

“You were ordered to take care of us and you’re not. You’re letting us go hungry, quite a bad thing, especially if we die. Give us sommit to eat, or I’ll make such a noise that you’re leader will come running whether you fetch him or not!”

“Keep your mouth shut!” the man warned.

“Feed us!” Kwell demanded.

“Here! See if you can eat dirt. Ha! Ha!” Kwell ducked by instinct, bowing his head and receiving a rein of dirt clods on the back of his head.

“We’ve got dirt enough down here, thanks very much!” Kwell answered bitterly, lifting his head again. “Numbskull,” he added after a second’s consideration.

“What did you say?” the man fairly roared. Kwell repeated it, but he had hardly finished before he stooped to grab a rock. Kwell saw him and stopped abruptly and moved to one side immediately. The stone came hurling down and struck Kwell hard on the left shoulder. He bit back a cry of pain, but he didn’t stop the curses. More rocks followed the first and Kwell scurried as quickly as he could away from the opening and into a far corner. “Take that, you little rat, and teach you to talk to us like that!”

Kwell knew better than to answer aloud, but to himself, he muttered further imprecations and insults. “Villains. . .rogues. . .the lot of you ought to be stuffed with stones and tossed into the sea. Or fed to wargs, maybe. And I wonder if that old spider’s still alive. . .oh, yes, I’m sure She’d like them. . .they’re probably nice and fat.” The thought of the pack of slavers being caught by the legendary giant spider in the mountains below old Cirith Ungol seemed a comfort to Kwell’s furious mind, and he relapsed finally into silence.

[Folwren]

Athwen and Dorran, side by side, listened intently while Carl and Vrôr reported what they had discovered in their spying. Athwen felt a fierce dislike and disgust towards the men creep into her thoughts and a deep pity towards the children, whoever they might be, at the same time. Kicking and throwing dirt and rocks at them? Her blue eyes flashed as the two finally finished their story and Lindir began to speak.

“It seems we'll have our work cut out tonight. Carl and Vrôr must dig through the tunnel. A few others will need to back them up by that streambed, to get rid of the guards and anyone else who tries to stop us from rescuing the children. We also need someone to wait a short distance away and keep an eye on the horses, since we may need to get out of there very quickly.” Athwen caught Lindir’s eye as he looked quickly towards her and away again. She nodded to herself, understanding, as he went on to explain. “Actually it's even more than that. We don't really know what shape the slaves are in. The fact that Carl and Vrór heard only one voice is not encouraging. In addition to having the horses handy, we've also got to be prepared to transport children who may be sick or unconscious.”

Athwen looked down towards the ground at that thought. She would have to think about what would be best, but really, it would greatly depend on just why the child was unconscious and in what way it was sick. She only half heard the rest of Lindir’s speaking. What she did hear had little to do with her anyway.

A short pause fell as the company considered. Athwen looked back up. “I will stay with the horses,” she said, looking at Lindir. “There, I’ll be able to be with the children almost immediately and if they’ll need any help, I’ll be able to administer it at once.”

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Everything seemed to be rolling in the right direction now. But the restlessness of the slaver’s camp had stuck with Carl. They were busy about something over there, and what that might be he couldn’t say, but he sincerely hoped that the children would not disappear before they had a chance to return.

He had to admit though that he was feeling a bit more optimistic after he’d had a wash and a bite to eat. Help would soon be on the way and a healer as well. And he was thankful too, that Lindir had thought of using a diversion. The hobbit looked at the faces around him, hoping that someone might speak soon in favor of it, or maybe even go so far as to volunteer. After a bit of thought he said so as to encourage the idea, “There is a good amount of rock that way, which might get risky. I mean it would be good if, as you say, someone were to direct notice else where. After all, while we might get away with a little bit of noise at the tunnel entrance, it is possible that we might hit a stone by the pit, in which case it might prove a quicker end to the matter to just walk straight into the camp and ask them for the youngsters outright.”

Carl explained that he’d the tools that would do for digging, albeit without proper handles, but that they were made of metal. “Seems that the folks who provisioned us, thought we could make us some handles once were ready to start with the farming. It might work quite nicely in that tight spot, to be without them, I think. But still, they could prove as good as a horn for announcing our approach, if we miss our mark in the last stretch!”

Then looking furtively at the group, he felt that perhaps he was thinking of only Vrór and himself, and so he added hastily, “I am all for a drawing off attention, but then again it’d be drawing attention on to someone else, and I reckon that might be a sticking point, unless there is some other way around it that I haven’t thought of. Maybe it's just better to dig slow and careful.”

[Tevildo]

After Carl explained some of the difficulties they might encounter in breaking through to the pit, Dorran leaned over to his wife and took her hand in his.

"You know, I must go," he whispered shakily, his words barely audible even to Athwen. "While you hold the horses and prepare your healing herbs, someone has to guard Carl and Vrór to be sure that they come to no harm and to fight off any in the camp who would prevent us from reaching those children. I've had more experience with a sword than any here except for Lindir. It seems only right that I should take up my weapon on behalf of the prisoners."

Dorran squeezed his wife's hand. "You've always been the one watching and waiting while I ride off to distant places with a sword at my side. Only this time, you'll be waiting just over the hill. I promise. I'll be careful and come back just as I've always done."

With that, Dorran turned towards Lindir and, seeing that Carl had finished speaking, voiced his own thoughts to the group. "As to the diversion, I am no expert on that. But I have raised my sword in battle many a time, and I can think of no better reason to do it again than to protect my companions who will be breaking through to that pit and to those poor unfortunate children. I pledge my sword to help take out the guard and stand against any who come against us."

Lindir nodded his head in appreciation, "I was hoping for that. I too will stand beside you with sword and bow, and together we will do our best."

The Elf turned to the others one last time and spoke. "As to the decoy, I still feel it is our best hope. We are few in number, and I would prefer to have some of these slavers busy with something else on the other side of camp." He glanced over at Aiwendil but the istar had drawn back from the circle and was quietly speaking with Rôg.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Well, my good friend, it seems we already have diggers and fighters and an excellent healer. That only leaves the two of us. Everything has been decided except the little ruckus on the other side of camp to help take pressure off the others. That would seem to be the type of thing you and I could profitably think about and come up with a plan."

"From what I understand the animals and supplies are held on the far perimeter of camp, the exact opposite side where the children are. We'll be on our own, cut off from the others, so we could even be a little.....shall we say, creative in our tactics. If you happen to have any ideas, I'd be happy to hear and consider them. In any case, I certainly don't want to sit here and do nothing, with those poor children's lives hanging in the balance."

Aiwendil had a somewhat impish look in his eye as he sidled up closer to Rôg and tapped him on the shoulder, gently nudging him away from the circle where the others were still seated.

[piosenniel]

Rôg looked down at the ground as he scraped his toes back and forth in the dirt. ‘Horses, you know, are prey animals. They have their eyes fixed on either side of their heads to watch for attackers. They spook easily in the presence of a predator.’ He nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘And one with the smell of blood about him would send them into a panic.’

He looked over to where Aiwendil stood, leaning on his staff. ‘A two pronged thrust might be best. Making the response from the slavers a divided one.’ He laughed a little, more of an undignified snort, really. ‘Horses and food – a sure strike at the belly of their little company.’

With a stretch of his arms above his head and a flex of his backbone so that it popped satisfyingly, Rôg grinned at the old man. ‘The one I think I can handle. The other I was hoping you could provide.....some smoke and fireworks?’ He raised an eyebrow at Aiwendil. ‘I recall the King speaking of one he knew who could light up the skies with his little magics. We won’t need something quite as dramatic. Just some well placed fiery splashes near the cook and supply tents. And smoke to make a nice murky atmosphere. Lindir can look for some signal that the slavers are engaged by our little show and then proceed with the rescue. What do you think?’

The question, really, was more of an afterthought. Not waiting for Aiwendil to answer, Rôg hastened to gather up their own packs and supplies. The old fellow had a crafty look about him, he thought, as he left him leaning on his staff, brows beetling in anticipation of the night’s undertaking. Rôg was sure his companion would come up with something appropriate to the task at hand.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

The sun started showing itself from behind the distant hills and the mood among the refugees was confused to state the least. Khamir had called that they would stay for awhile because of the wounded but otherwise no one seemed to have any idea of what were they going to do. Most of the people seemed to have laid down or stick on their personal affairs so that they would not need to take any stance on anything that concerned their common future. Even Khamir had backed down by himself, leaning to the rock he had leaned before the incident with Fewerth and his fellows. But how could anyone think of sleeping after all that had happened to them? Hadith was sure that no one couldn’t, and as he had passed a number of slaves on his wandering around he had noticed it too. To his eyes they were all awake! Why are you hiding your heads now? He wanted to cry out aloud. You wanted to change the command here, so why isn’t anyone standing straight and taking the lead? What are you waiting for?

Hadith was frustrated. We all are waiting for nothing! People who are nothing, not yet ready to grasp their freedom and who end up with nothing, just being slaves again... or getting killed. How stupid! What a waste!

He was about to start yelling to all people around him when he suddenly noticed Beloan walking from beside him some yards away. “Beloan! Beloan!” he called to him and half run to the older man. Beloan had stopped when hearing the familiar voice and waited for Hadith to come to him.

“What is it, Hadith?” he asked both gently and calmly, making a faint smile to encourage the youth to speak his mind.

“Well, I was just thinking...”, Hadith began, feeling quite nervous and trying to settle his breath. After all, he realised, he was still just a boy and it didn’t actually seem to be his bussiness to get involved in the larger matters. But he had already opened his mouth and Beloan was waiting for an answer. “Well, I mean... why are we not doing anything?” He got more agitated as he managed to let out the first words. “Why is everyone just faking to be asleep or to mind their own things? It doesn’t make sense!” He was already shouting the last words.

Hadith was about to continue but Beloan silenced him with a gesture of his hand and addressed him quietly. “Not everyone is faking a sleep. Some people do actually sleep and we should give them the chance”. Beloan took a look at the boy as the first rays of the sun were reaching his hair. “But you are right. Many of them do not sleep. But you should not blame them for that. We are all afraid and confused. Maybe a little time, all of us on our own, will clear our heads? Don’t you think it possible?” Beloan had studied Hadith’s expressions intensly all the time he had spoken to the lad. Hadith nodded slowly and returned his gaze to Beloan.

“We have several badly wounded here, Hadith. If we would leave them, we could start off immediately. But are you the one ready to make that kind of decision on behalf of them and those who care for them? And if we wait for them to be well enough to move, we face other difficult questions, like how to deal with the next night and a possible raid of even more slavers? Would you like to make those decisions in a haste just to make things moving? Oftentimes hasty decisions make things move to a bad direction, Hadith. So let us wait for a while and think with clearer heads then.” Beloan shook his head slowly as in anguish himself and then looked at Hadith again. To Hadith he looked both old and tired, much older than he had looked before. Hadith was astonished about the change in Beloan and remained silent, trying to avoid his gaze.

“Hadith. Look at me.” He said with a commanding but still low voice. Hadith raised his head to meet his eyes. “Do you still feel like not getting a sleep if you tried?” Hadith was so surprised of the question that he only managed to mumble his positive answer, only intelligible accompanied by the soft nod that followed it. “Have you eaten anything lately?” Beloan continued and started untying the knots from his beltpouch. As Hadith shook his head, Beloan handed him a small piece of smoked deer from his pouch and looked at him firmly but confidently.

“Get to that larger hill over there” he said, pointing to a bit higher hill a good mile from them to the East. “We need keen eyes in a head we all can trust to give us a warning if something threatens us. From there you will spot all movement miles around from us. We’ll send someone to replace you after a couple of hours.” Hadith nodded but didn’t make a move to leave Beloan.

“Take it as an order of your old supervisor who just tries to think for us all in a situation where no one else seems to be doing it very actively”, with that he winked an eye to Hadith and turned around, starting slowly to walk towards Khamir and a few others of the original escapees.

Hadith beat the mile running lightly. The climb made him lose his breath for a while, but he recovered soon enough. Hadith really had quite a magnificient view of the surroundings from the top of the hill. Surely some lesser hills deprived him from seeing all that could have moved at the landscape, but anyone approaching them would probably get caught in his eyes sooner or later.

Hadith checked all the directions carefully before setting himself down to a smallish boulder and taking the piece of meat Beloan had given to him. He was hungry indeed.

Beloan baffled him. Partly he thought that Beloan had really trusted him with an important mission and that his watch here on the top of this hill was of the highest importance to all. But partly he thought that as he had acted somewhat childishly, Beloan had treated him accordingly and just gotten rid of him.

After he had eaten, tiredness crept along and started dizzying his head even more. The sun had risen and its warmth surrounded him from everywhere. I will not sleep, I will not sleep on duty..., Hadith kept telling himself and started counting the time he looked at each direction, drawing a line on the ground with every change as he got to the hundred.

[Child of the 7th Age]

All day the camp buzzed with activity as the slavers prepared for the coming raid. Blades were sharpened, neck collars tested, and hunting parties organized to ride out onto the surrounding plain and track down the few game animals that lived in the region so that a large group of slaves could be safely transported back to the southern plantations. Gurug slipped out at midday with instructions from Imak to spy on the slaves who were camped some six miles to the northwest. His task was a simple one: to see if the slaves were making preparations to leave the next day. If Gurug saw any indications of this, the slavers would attack that evening. Otherwise, they would take full advantage of the extra time and postpone their attack till the following night.

By the time Gurug returned and strode into Imak's tent, twilight had already fallen. Grey shadows bathed the ground, and the first stars were visible in the dusky sky. This passage of time, however, had done little to improve Imak's disposition. He was still fuming about his missing sword and had spent most of the day tearing up the camp and interrogating his men to be sure that one of his own had not used the tumult of the evening as an excuse to take it.

Glaring impatiently at Gurug, Imak barked out a series of questions, "What took you so long? I could have ridden there and back ten times. And the slave camp? What are they doing? Any sign of armed resistence or preparing to flee? Have you seen or overheard anything I should know?"

"Well, Captain, I had amazing luck. I wore old, tattered clothes and a heavy hood pulled down to conceal my face. I had no trouble approaching camp. The guards were young and inexperienced, and it was easy to slip through, even in daylight. For the most part I hid, but once or twice I actually walked among them."

Imak turned to Gurug and immediately snapped, "That was foolish. You could have been discovered. And I would not have bothered sending anyone to rescue your hide!"

"But there was no chance of that, sir. There are so many of them.....like sheep being led over a cliff. I kept my head down and asked no questons. They argue and fight. One hand does not know what the other is doing. It would be harder if they were a small, tight knit band. But with a mob of over sixty, they can not agree on anything. There's no signs of anyone preparing to leave."

"I am sick of this game," growled Imak. "I am sick of playing cat and mouse with these insolent slaves who come and steal my sword. But I am also not a fool. They are greater in number, and we could use that extra time to prepare. Tell the men we'll hold off now and attack tomorrow night, since the slaves are obviously going nowhere. Our men must redouble their preparations. Plus, as much as I love the sound of coins in my pocket, I've come to believe there's no practical way we can transport over sixty slaves back to the plantations. Let the men know there'll be fine sport after we take the camp. We'll kill off the old and feeble and anyone too young to bring a good price and then drag the others off."

Gurug was about to leave when Imak pressed him one final time. "Anything else? Did you see anything that looked strange? Anything I should know about?"

Gurug hesitated, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, before he responded, "Well, Captain, you said how some of them, at least the leaders, would have horses. That's how they got here to do their foul business. But I swear I saw no horses. and I don't see how they could have covered that ground so fast if they were on foot."

"Pah! So what am I to believe? What are you telling me?" growled Imak. "You just didn't look closely. The horses were probably tethered someplace nearby. All day, I've had riders of our own surrounding that slave camp to be sure that no one on horseback flees bearing my sword or tries to come here and rob from us again. Those horses are there, believe me. That is, unless you would have me believe we've been robbed by a band of ghosts or another party of travellers who are on a pleasaure trip across the Ash Plains. With all the trouble reported in Gorgoroth, only a fool would dare make the journey to northern Mordor. Now go. I'll keep a full five riders posted tonight outside the slave camp as well as our regular guard of two here so we can sleep and relax without fear of further mischief."

Not wanting to get into an argument he could not win, Gurug quickly conceded, "You're probably right. I just didn't look in the right place." Then he stepped outside the tent and brought the news to the other men, adding that it would be best if Imak had no visitors as their leader was immersed in planning the next night's attack. In actuality, despite the relatively early hour, Imak threw himself onto his bed and was soon snoring contentedly. Gurug spent a moment thinking about the horses. He was very sure he had searched the entire camp. But if the slave leaders weren't robbing the camp, then someone else had to be out here on the plain and, as Imak had pointed out, that wasn't very likely. He promised to himself that later in the evening he would personally patrol the perimeters of the encampment, searching for signs of other bandits. But then some enterprising fellow rolled out one of the two giant ale casks that had been lovingly stored away for a night of relaxation.

Gurug listened as he tapped into its contents and reassured the others. "Captain says we're safe. Five of our men are patrolling the outskirts of the slave camp, plus the two on guard here. We've had nothing but work and worry. So let's have a go at this. I could use a drink." All agreed with that cheerful pronuncement. Ale and conversation flowed freely and, amidst these revelries, Gurug quickly forgot his promise to search for another band of robbers.

[Regin Hardhammer]

As soon as the sun had slipped under the horizon, Ishkur had gone to the slavers' camp hoping to help himself to another meal. He was upset to find that the camp was much better guarded than the night before. Ishkur cautiously circled the entire site and counted a total of five guards, all mounted on horses and each keeping a tight eye on the pens where the other animals were held. The pickings for dinner were going to be slim. Perhaps he'd been wrong when he'd insisted that they should stay and raid again.

Ishkur's empty stomach made him bolder than usual. Cursing quietly under his breath, the orc crept closer to the middle of camp and hid behind a pile of brush and small logs that had been stacked up near one of the firepits. It was actually a foolish thing to do. One man came uncomfortably close to where he was hiding so that Ishkur had to duck down and remain still. He pulled out his sword from the sheath in case he needed to defend himself but the man had thankfully drifted by and the orc was again left alone.

Within a short time, several men had clustered around the firepit. They talked excitedly and tapped into a large keg of ale, filling their tankards several times and greedily gulping down their brew. Ishkur's mouth watered as he saw the cask and smelled the enticing aroma. He hadn't had a decent drink in a very long time, and he would give a great deal to tap into that second keg that stood off unopened to the side. Unfortunately, there was absolutely no chance for him to do that unless he wanted to risk being seen.

Instead, Ishkur listened carefully trying to make out what the men were saying. At first he understood nothing. However, as the slavers refilled their cups, their words became louder and more insistent. Each was bragging about how he would recapture a dozen or more slaves and gain a rich reward. Piecing together the scraps of conversation, Ishkur was surprised to learn that all the slavers planned to ride out from the camp the next night in order to teach a lesson to an uppity group of slaves and drag them back to the plantations that lay further south. Ishkur couldn't care less what happened in the battle beween slaves and slavers. Let them all murder each other! But he was very interested to hear that the slavers' camp would be totally deserted, perhaps for the entire night.

The orcs wouldn't be able to capture any more horses, since the slavers would take these with them to help do their fighting. But the slavers would likely leave behind a few choice donkeys that they only used for transporting food and supplies. The donkeys, however, were not the only reason that Ishkur was excited. Being only weak men instead of strong and vital orcs, the slavers couldn't drink two full casks of ale in a single night. That full keg of ale, the one that hadn't been opened, would still be there tomorrow night. Plus, the orcs would be able to ride through the camp and strip it of any personal belongings that the men had left behind. This more than made up for the fact that they were unlikely to get very many interesting things tonight.

Eager to tell his news to the others, Ishkur slipped through the shadows and onto the plain. Then he trotted back to their camp. Reaching his destination, he called out to the others: "Gwerr, Makdush, Ungolt, Grask, Zagra and Mazhg.....all of you come here! I have wonderful news. The pickings are thin tonight, although I do plan to go back later and see if I can find something to eat. But tomorrow night will be different." He then proceeded to tell them that the slavers would be going to war against the slaves and how the camp would be totally deserted with many fine things for the orcs to steal and a bountiful supply of ale to enjoy.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Most of the group had already drifted away by the time Aiwendil turned from Rôg and went over to speak with Lindir. Athwen had retreated to check on the herbs and supplies that might be needed for the children who would soon be under her care, and several others in the fellowship were carefully surveying the weapons and tools that they planned to carry into camp.

The sky was grey and darkening with the first stars of evening visible overhead when Aiwendil pulled Lindir over to one side and briefly assured him that he and Rôg would be able to create a ruckus to divert some of the attention away from the prisoners and those who were digging in the tunnel. The Elf listened and then shook his head, "I have been worried about you two. Are you certain you want to do this? We may be just fine without a diversion."

Aiwendil stared straight at Lindir, a peevish look shadowing his face, "Come now. I have been creating mischief for a good many more years than you have been alive on Arda. I will be just fine."

With a sigh, Lindir replied, "My friend, be sensible, it's not you I am worried about. Your companion, though a hard worker, seems to have little familiarity with a sword."

"As to his training with a sword, I can not say. But Rôg has many skills that can be put to good use on the field of battle."

"I do not doubt his heart or will, but these are hard and demanding times."

Aiwendil quickly countered, "I'll keep an eye on the young man and make sure he comes to no harm. You have my word on that."

"You wouldn't want to give me any more information on what the two of you have planned." The words were spoken more as a statement than a question.

"We are still working things out. Only do not be alarmed if you hear some loud noises or see bright lights. And Rôg has an idea that may actually draw some of the men away from camp."

"Just be careful," Lindir pleaded. "I have no wish to explain to Elessar why two of his trusted emissaries met their end even before we could speak with the slave leader."

Aiwendil nodded in agreement, and, within a very short time, the entire party had mounted up and was riding towards the slavers' camp. At first Lindir headed slightly west leading the group to the half-concealed thicket where Athwen was to stay with the horses and prepare for the children. The rest of the fellowship waited a moment at a discrete distance to allow Dorran to say his private goodbyes to his wife. Then they turned to the east carrying both tools and weapons. By the time the moon was visible overhead, they had come to the outskirts of the slavers' camp.

[piosenniel]

In the distance, woven in the shadows of the scrubby trees, silence and moon-beribboned darkness held the figures of the man and women as they spoke softly with one another. The rest of the companions had drawn a little ways away to afford the couple some last moments of privacy before the undertaking.

Rôg stood a little apart from the others of the companions, his cloak wrapped tight about him against the cooler night breeze. His eyes fell often on the man and his wife. His sister had been married less than a year ago. Her letters spoke of her continued happiness and the little joys, the contentments that grow between a husband and wife. They echoed his recollections of his younger years, watching his own mother and father engage and interweave with one another in the daily patterns of their lives. He fingered the lobe of his left ear, wondering if such a union would be his to find.

Now where were these thoughts coming from?

The darkness hid his smile…along with the quick shift of his shoulders as he shrugged off the little reverie.

A few quick steps brought him to where Aiwendil waited. A few quick words gave the older man Rôg’s assurance that he would be ready and waiting for him to begin their diversion.

‘Just give me some small signal that you’re ready. I’ll see the horses set in motion then.’

~*~

A short time later . . .

The mountain cat stretched out his forelegs, digging his long sharp claws into the dirt. Muscles along his back flexed and rippled, ending in a sudden twitch of his tail. He was downwind from where the horses were picketed. His nostrils widened; his lips pulled back from his teeth in a ghastly sort of smile as he took in their scent. They were content; no scent of fear or panic laden sweat.

Dipping his jowls into the freshly killed carcass of some small animal he’d caught, the cat bloodied his muzzle. Once he moved upwind of the small herd they would catch the scent of blood and death and dread would drive them into frenzy.

[Durelin]

Khamir

That morning was the first thing in some time to catch Khamir off-guard. For the first time in his life he was not certain what to do. Decisions had been so easy up till this time. The path ahead of him had been clear. Things had been simple. It was live or die. He knew what he had to do to survive, and all that was left was to execute. Now he had been presented with people who did not seem to feel the same way, and even people who he had fought with for their survival would not take what to Khamir was the obvious route to survival. If they lingered here, they would all be captured or killed. And if they went on some daring rescue for just two lives, ten times that at least would be lost.

But somehow, pressing on did not seem right. Certainly it was impossible for now. Everyone was settled in, if restless. They could not sit still, but they had no direction, and so could not move either.

He heard footsteps, and shot his head up to see who was approaching. He found Beloan standing above where he sat. The one-armed man had not budged from his spot for hours. He had tried to rest, but found it impossible, perhaps because he had thought about how much he would regret it if he did not sleep. Strangely, his comrade was smiling. Anticipating a question as Khamir eyed him, Beloan spoke.

“It’s that boy, Hadith. He’s a sharp one. He’s sitting up top the hill,” the man gestured, “I can’t think we could be in better hands.”

“And I can’t think it matters,” Khamir responded gruffly.

Beloan simply shook his head and turned to look at the rising sun. After several moments of silence, the man started, and looked back at Khamir and their surroundings, seemingly pulled sharply back into the present by a sudden thought.

“Where’s Shae?” he questioned.

“Shae? Most likely still sulking because Gondor still has failed. Mostly she’s kept her distance since we left the caves…and I can’t say I’ve seen her since she gave that loud-mouthed girl an even better reason to slit my throat in the night…for which I’m glad.”

Beloan just stared at the obviously bitter man seated before him. “You really should have gotten some rest.”

[Brinniel]

Dusk approached, marking the end of a long, uneventful day. Shae sat facing the west, staring out at the orange and pink hue that was left of the sun. As each minute went by, she could feel the restlessness spread throughout her body. A whole day had been wasted by sitting and doing absolutely nothing. And why was that? Khamir. The slightest thoughts of him made her clench her hands into fists. The previous night had been spent in complete chaos, mostly in disapproval of Khamir’s actions, yet the ex-slaves still followed his orders.

Shae kept thinking back to the children who had been taken—Kwell and Azhar were their names. Surely they have given up on all hope of being rescued by now. Shae hated to think of the suffering they would forced to endure. It shouldn’t be so. Leaving innocent children in the hands of slavers while the others simply rested. And even worse, there were no intentions to depart the next day. Shae’s nails dug into her palms causing her old wounds to reopen and bleed through the bandages. She turned around and gazed at the others. Most were either eating or sleeping. No objections to Khamir’s orders. And not even the slightest bit of sympathy for the captured children. Shae couldn’t take it. For years, she had been reliant on others to help her. But not anymore. If anything were to be done, she would have to do it herself.

Standing to her feet, Shae searched for Khamir with her good eye. He stood in the back of the camp occupied with Beloan. Perfect. Few ever noticed her presence among the ex-slave. It would be a long time before anyone discovered she was gone. With one last look at the camp, Shae took off in the direction of the slavers’ camp.

[Folwren]

Kwell sat in the darkness of the pit, his head bowed, his back bent, and his hands still bound behind him. The forever half dimness of his prison had an hour ago given way to the nearly complete blackness of night. As the shadows advanced and the light retreated, the dread that had been held at bay all day long bounded forward like some animal on its prey. Whatever hope Kwell had entertained fled with the sunlight. What was there now to hope for after all?

Azhar still lay in unconsciousness. Not once that day had she risen or responded to Kwell as he moved about and tried to speak to her. Once or twice she had caused his hopes to sour when she began to speak, but he soon realized that the words were unconnected with anything and were insane. After that, each time she spoke or cried out, Kwell shuddered with terror and drew away.

Now, as the darkness seeped in from every wall, Kwell sat on his knees in the farthest corner from his companion, his back to the cold, damp stone. It had been a long time since Azhar had last made any sound or movement. Silence ruled over Kwell and his surroundings. He could hear nothing. Nothing at all. The stillness and blackness seemed complete. Was this how it felt to be dead? Was he dead? The void around him was untouchable and beyond knowledge. To his unseeing eyes, everything grew out of proportion until he was a tiny speck in a sea of darkness.

But then a man spoke above. Two men. They walked towards the mouth of the pit, to return to the guard duty they had neglected, Kwell assumed. Not that it was necessary. Kwell was too hungry to want to move and try to escape. But more than that, they brought a torch with them and the light restored to their proper size the things around him, although the shadows flickered and danced in strange ways on the floor of his prison.

They had not only come to guard them, Kwell realized in a minute. The grate was being lifted away and moved. Slowly, he raised himself up onto his knees and watched as one of the men eased himself into the pit. The torch was handed down after him. For a moment, he stood with it lifted above his head as he looked around the pit. He paused a moment in his survey as his eyes lit upon Azhar and then he continued.

“That you, boy?” he barked suddenly. The light half fell on Kwell. The lad moved forward a few feet. “Good. Here. I’ve brought you something to eat. Guess Imak forgot earlier,” he added, a gruff chuckle finding its way out of his throat. He tossed onto the ground something that Kwell couldn’t make out from where he was. “You still tied up?”

“Hand and foot,” Kwell responded dryly.

The man stepped over to him without a word, drawing his knife. He cut the ropes around his wrists, none too carefully, and turned away. Kwell gingerly touched his raw wrists and nursed the new cut the brute had just inflicted. He dully watched the man handing up the torch and preparing to leave.

“Wait!” he called suddenly. He crawled forward quickly, towards the man who was just about to climb out of the pit. Kwell’s eyes flicked from his face to Azhar and back again. Should he tell the man that Azhar had collapsed early that morning, and hadn’t moved since? Or would that only stir doubts in their mind and make them decide she should be gotten rid of. They may not wait for her to get better, he realized. “Never mind,” he muttered after a pause. He’d made up his mind not to tell him. They wouldn’t help, whatever they did. “Go on.”

The man lifted an eyebrow, shrugged, and pulled himself out of the pit. The grate fell back in place. Kwell felt relieved when they didn’t take the torch away and a little bit of light was allowed to enter into the pit. Quickly, he ate the food that they had spared him: old, rancid meat and some sort of dried weed, he assumed.

When he had finished, he picked up Azhar’s portion and pulled himself over to her side. There, he carefully placed the food to one side and then shifted himself to her head. He gently moved her, positioning her onto her back, with her pale face upward.

“Wake up,” he whispered. “Please wake up.” He pushed the damp locks of black hair away from her face and forehead. “If you die and leave me here alone, then I don’t see how I can hope anymore. Azhar. . .” He bit his lip against hot, blistering tears. He hated not doing anything. Now that his hands were free there should be something he could do. He looked around and then thought of the little stream of water. It was just a couple feet behind him. He turned slightly and leaned across towards it and scooped up some of the cold water. He rinsed his hands and drank deeply from it before trying then to take some of it to Azhar.

Most of the water that he scooped up ran out through his fingers before he reached her face. With what little he could manage to transfer to her, he gently bathed her face and her hands and moistened her dry and cracked lips for several minutes, trying to cool her and to rouse her. He didn’t know what else to do, and when that tactic brought no results, he sat back on his feet and folded his hands in his lap to think and to wait, and maybe to give up.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

The trip back to the slavers’ camp had seemed rapid enough now that Carl knew what lay ahead, and they reached its outskirts even before the moon had climbed to its apex. But having noted the guards’ positioning, the company decided it was time to continue on foot. And so dismounting, they prepared themselves accordingly, entrusting their horses to Athwen’s care.

Carl, his arms laden with an assortment of tools in a blanket, met Vrór as the dwarf slid down from Rôg’s horse, landing firmly in the dust beside it. “Are we ready then, Master Carl?” the dwarf whispered, straightening his grey tunic and baldric with an efficient tug, before attempting to relieve the nodding hobbit of some of the burden. Together they sorted through what they had at their disposal, while Rôg slipped to the ground behind them, securing the horse and wrapping his cloak about him as he took in his surroundings. But as Carl and Vrór discussed the merits of each item, divvying up the tools between them, Rôg wandered off. And when at last the hobbit glanced that way again, Dorran happened to be standing just where Rôg had been.

“Ah Mister Dorran, there you are!” Carl said. “If you’ll both just give me a moment,” he muttered half to himself, thrusting the lower portion of a spud bar under his belt so that it hung there like a half drawn sword. Patting his side, he seemed satisfied with the positioning of it, but was at a loss with where to put the small spade head in his other hand.

Soon four of the fellowship had slipped over the edge of the gulley and after a short run, stood at the point where the water had been found, and where Vrór had heard the child’s voice. Wasting no time, they made quick work of enlarging the hole, Dorran and Lindir guarding them as the two others slipped underground as soon as they were able, and when they had quite disappeared from view, the entrance to the hole was carefully covered with the blanket, so that no light could escape.

Once inside a torch was lit, and Carl and Vrór found themselves in a long low ceilinged chamber that was filled ankle deep with cold water. One end of it seemed to follow the dry streambed south, but the other worked its way further down, in toward the center of the camp, and that was the direction the two sloshed hurriedly. Surely, the voice they had heard had carried from a point somewhere along that route.

But as they made their way, their breath echoing down the tall and narrow corridor, the stream grew higher, until it was knee high as they came to a wall of sheer rock that blocked their path. The water turned sharply at the foot of the wall only to tumble into a deep cleft a short distance away. Both the hobbit and the dwarf stood pondering their next move when a loud boom and crisp crackling was heard quite clearly overhead. Vrór lifted the torch as high as he could reach; and the flame of it streamed back showing a small open chink high in the rock wall.

“Good timing, I’ll give us that, but it will take more than a few hours to get through this bulkhead!” the dwarf said gruffly, as he lowered the torch to search the rest of the crevices.

“Yes, I was hoping we might run into more meat and less bone,” Carl sighed, hanging his head at what now seemed an insurmountable obstacle. But as he stared at the depths that washed the foot of the wall, he thought he saw a faint glow appear in the water, and then vanish. Carl thought he must be imagining things, but still he quickly squatted down, so that only his head was bobbing at the surface, and with his hands he felt along the face of the wall. There he found another and much larger chink below the surface of the water, one that he felt he could fit through with some room to spare.

“I’ve found another hole,” he exclaimed. “A larger one…down here at the base!”

Just as Vrór joined him to help assess this route’s potential as well as its danger, they heard a young man's voice. “Look there now, there is something on the other side.”

“I’m going to try to get through,” the hobbit announced as he started breathing deeply – partly to overcome a fear of drowning that had been carefully and methodically instilled in him by his maternal aunt.

“Wait Master Carl,” Vrór reasoned. “We don’t know who or what might be on the other side. If it is the captives, they could have company at the moment. It might not be a good to turn up without listening first.”

Though Carl felt this good advice, he did not at the moment care to think, lest he lose courage for it. So letting the tools drop in the water, he also followed suit, disappearing under its surface. And holding his breath, he found the hole again with his hands.

Pushing himself through, the hobbit almost hit his head as another ridge of rock loomed suddenly before him in the water. Carl began to think perhaps it was impassible, and that the glow had simply been the reflection of the torch Vrór had held. But spinning quickly in the chink so that he was now looking up, he saw the dim silhouette of a figure bend over him on the dry side of the silvery surface, and he remembered Vrór’s words of warning. But he was also out of breath, and as he stared upward, not daring to move, a hand plunged into the water grabbing him hold of him, and he scrambled to his feet, to face a dark, black haired youth.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Impatient to be doing something, Aiwendil squatted down on the outskirts of camp, his gangly frame concealed behind the protective cover of a boulder that stood in the midst of a patch of scrub bushes. One time, his heart thudded loudly against his chest as he spied a lone sentry approach close to his hideaway, stop to reconnoiter the surrounding plain, and thankfully ride off into the night.

A ways ahead of him, just over to the right, the istar could glimpse the pens and crude thatched shelters where the animals were kept: mostly horses but with a few donkeys and goats mixed in. Two guards paraded around the enclosures, each with a sword girded at his waist. Aiwendil gave little heed to their gleeming blades, since these should pose no real threat. But peering more intently, the old man noted a menacing longbow and quiver of sharp arrows flung over the back of one of the men. It was only at this moment that he considered the risk that such a weapon posed.

Aiwendil gritted his teeth in frustration and grunted to himself. Rôg would need to be careful. An arrow aimed straight and true could prove to be more than an inconvenience. He hoped his friend would remember that. The young man would hopefully approach the camp in such a way that his attack would come before the guard would even be aware of his presence.

For one moment, the istar considered the possibility of slipping into another guise and personally taking out the watchman with the bow, thus lessening the danger to his friend. Since his return from Harad, the old man had quietly reclaimed an increasing number of his skills. Although inferior in knowledge and standing in many areas, Aiwendil had long been known for his superior skill in shifting shapes even among those who lived across the sea. Thr brown robed wizard felt his skin tingle in anticipation. Tired of waiting and eager to be moving forward, he would have welcomed such a change.

But with the return of his skills had come other lessons--hints of important messages that Manwe had imparted to him before his departure on the ship. There were still many things hidden from his view, dreams and portents that made absolutely no sense, but one message had come through very clearly. He was to teach and encourage others to act rather than focusing attention on himself. Aiwendil quickly dismissed the idea of singlehandedly attacking the guard carrying the bow. He would trust in Rôg's judgment. The boy had not let him down on other occasions.

Still, he had a role to play, and it wouldn't hurt to help Rôg along a bit. The two men had orignally agreed that Aiwendil would let off the great thunderclaps after the animals had scattered to create even more of a ruckus. The wizard had little native command of fire, but his cousin Olorin had taught him how to make the powder and pack it into tubes, capable of being lit and whizzing off into the night. Since Aiwendil had never displayed great interest in the arts of war, these brightly colored flaming rockets were more for show than inflicting any real damage. But right now a little show of light and noise might accomplish a great deal. And if he could set the fuse off before the cat attacked, that fellow with the bow might be momentarily diverted.

The wizard spotted the cat padding softly towards the camp. He tried once to speak to the creature and issue a mental warning. But the animal's maw was covered with blood, its eyes bright and gleeming. The cat was part of another world to which Aiwendil was denied entrance, at least for the moment. He would have to rely on the flaming sticks.

After the horseman had retreated, the old man skittled forward with a surprising show of dexterity. Half crouching and hidden beneath the folds of his robe, he made his way to the camp, slipping from boulder to boulder, sometimes lying flat in the dirt. Oddly enough, his mind operated in two directions at once. Mainly, he was thinking about Rôg and hoping that he could create a diversion before the attack began. But the rest of his brain was focusing on something totally different: the earth that lay beneath his body. He could see and smell the top layer of soil, tired and despoiled. Even the destruction of the Ring could not bring immediate life to a land that had been so abused. But, unlike men whose knowledge is limited to what lies on the surface, Aiwendil had the advantage that he could reach down and marvel in the richness of what lay underneath. There were great riches here if only they could be nurtured and tended. His cousin had been good at seeing and nurturing the goodness in men and elves. That was harder for Aiwendil. But the tending and nurturing of green growing things and the creatures who made their homes there was something he instinctively understood. He reminded himself to speak with Carl, who would surely appreciate the treasure he had discovered.

It was not long until Aiwendil managed to slip up to camp. He did not directly approach the animal pens but remained behind the scraggly pile of branches and twigs that were used to light the fire for cooking. The wizard glanced back to be sure that the cat was about to strike. It would do no good to set off the rockets and draw attention to this part of the camp unless the other attack occurred at the same time. Confident that he was not too early, Aiwendil drew out the tubes and the firelighting sticks that Gandalf had shown him how to make. He placed a few tubes on the woody pile and others on the bare ground. The first should start a sizable blaze; the second soar forth into the heavens. Aiwendil wondered if Carl had heard tales from his older kinsmen about the great displays Gandalf had put on in the Shire. This would not be so bold or beautiful but it would serve his purpose. He bent over and struck the firestick against the flint stone and then placed the burning stick beside the powder tubes. Then he leapt up and ran back as fast as he was able, taking up his position outside of camp, as he waited for the sticks to catch light and explode.

[piosenniel]

The cat’s ears twitched, picking up the subtle crackling sound of the sticks as they began to burn. He picked his way closer to where the horses were picketed, chuffing as predator does when the prey is scented. The horses’ ears had begun to pick up the sounds of his approach, and he could hear them stamping nervously on the packed dirt. A few whickered, anxious at the unfamiliar sounds.

In the moonlight he slipped quickly along the length of their enclosure, a thing of thinly braided rope strung between staves pounded into the ground. Low to the ground, his ghostly outline rippled behind the scrubby bushes and sparse grasses. A passing phantom.

He was upwind of the horses now, his own strong scent and that of the fresh blood on his jowls went reeking down the night breezes toward them. Their whinnies grew loud, a rising panic taking hold of the small herd.

Some of the fireworks Aiwendil had set were beginning to blaze. The guards near the horses went rushing toward the obvious source of the horses’ growing frenzy. The cat rushed toward the nearest animals, yowling like some devilish beast bent on butchering them all.

As he drew nearer, he leapt, closing the distance between him and them. Claws extended he landed within striking range. A number of the horses reared up as if to strike out at him with their forelegs; others ran raggedly in circles seeking escape. He struck out, though not at the animals but at the rope enclosure, his claws snaring it and bringing a section of it down.

It was all he could do to scramble out of harm’s way as the frantic beasts ran at and nearly over him. There were cries from the nearby men as they sought to capture and hold back the rampage. Some were trampled on as they tried to drive the horses back. One came near enough to the cat to strike out at him with his blade, but it was only the flat that knocked hard against his left shoulder. The cat hissed and screamed with anger at the blow and raked the man’s arm with his razored claws, causing the man to turn and run.

The horses needed little encouragement to run from the fire and the fell beast. As they did so, the cat ran after them, yowling at them and striking a glancing blow here and there to tender hindquarters if they faltered or slowed. Behind him, he could hear the hiss and pop and bang of more fireworks...the growing yells of the men as they sought to organize themselves in the midst of this growing disaster.

One of them, the bowman, had managed to gather his wits about him. Against the explosions of sound and light he could do nothing. They blinded him with their intensity and he could not be sure that if he loosed an arrow in their direction that it would not bring down one of his own companions. He turned his back, instead, to the blinding lights and sought out the figure of the cat as it raced back and forth behind the horses, driving them on and scattering them. The man set his stance and took careful aim at the low running beast in the distance.

The shaft flew true . . . and save for the fractious pony who kicked out to the side at the cat as he ran along side him, it would perhaps have proved a deadly dart. Instead, it grazed a long furrow along the side of the cat.

The cat screamed in fury and in pain. His task accomplished - the horses in frenzied disarray, as were their owners, many of whom were running pell mell behind their mounts in an effort to catch them – the cat left off his pursuit to seek the safety of some nearby rocky outcroppings. His side felt as if it were on fire from the blasted arrow, and his shoulder had begun to ache fiercely where the man had struck him with the flat of his blade . . .

[Durelin]

Adnan

Adnan spent the rest of the night huddled up as far from anyone else in the camp that he could brave in the dark. He shuddered, even though the night was barely even cool. He found himself unable to control the shivering for several hours, until he finally fell back into some kind of rest soon after dawn. He woke with a start around mid-afternoon, his head filled with scattered images of dreams, from vivid to blurred, but all stark reminders, each in their own way, of what he had done.

He had even seen their faces. Not the enemy, not the monsters from the East, swollen from their riches, covered in gold. He had seen the children, a boy and a girl. Only having a vague idea of who they were, he could not consciously picture their faces, and yet they seemed clear as day in his dreams. They screamed and cried, but mostly screamed, and something forced Adnan’s ear to listen to them closely, so he wouldn’t miss a breath they took. He kept counting the rushing of air, the movements of their chests, and the pauses between each lasted an eternity, as he hoped and prayed that they would keep breathing.

They had been so close to freedom…they had tasted it for months. Both were most likely around his own age…he knew all of the younger members of the group were getting use to the idea of being free of chains and orders and new scars on their backs. It wasn’t exactly difficult to leave those things behind, even if it was impossible to forget them. He had heard a few others talking about all the things they planned on getting away with as soon as the traveling came to an end. They would have a home, maybe even their own bedroom. There could be secrets, mischief, play, and adventures. They may be thirteen, fourteen, fifteen years old, but they had not had the chance play hide and go seek before, or tag, or to go on a treasure hunt, to pretend a stick was a sword and a vine a crown…. They had never been allowed to venture into their own world. It had always been one world, the real world, that never went away, except perhaps in their dreams…if they had any.

They were all so close to freedom forever, and he had all but betrayed them. It felt like a cruel, selfish exchange – his freedom for theirs. But he had not agreed to it…he hadn’t…he would never…

But could he give it up, now that he had it? Even for others? How many would fit the price? Just five people, or ten, or fifty? How many would he let go before he would give up his own freedom?

Forcing himself up, Adnan listened to his stomach growl and twist around itself, looking for something to fill it. He had lived much longer without a bite to eat. Perhaps these months had softened him. It seemed so, if he could fall asleep without any thought for how dangerous closing his eyes could be…

“Like anyone else, you deserve another chance.”

Another chance…another chance? Chances were just another narrow escape from failure, from death. How many times did one barely escape with their life without even knowing it was at risk? Just another close call, another chance…

“But please, just don't mess up again. I won't be around to defend you every time you make an error.”

“Pick it up, boy. You’ll need it, and you’ll use it well…”

“You’ve got the third watch tonight.”

Just another chance for him to fail.

For the rest of the afternoon Adnan wandered from spot to spot, trying to evade any contact with anyone as best he could. He watched some of the others, and most often found his eyes drawn toward one of the younger members of the group: the one called Hadith. The strange looking one. A man from the South that did not look like any of his people that Adnan had seen. He was not from the East, was he? The fifteen-year-old felt something ignite in his stomach: hatred. It had mixed with jealousy and sent up a spark. Out of guilt, the young man pushed the feelings down.

How did he do it? Adnan had heard by now…this eighteen-year-old had taken down one of those golden monsters. He had knocked it off of a horse! Recalling the confusion when he awoke to the rumble of hooves, the sounds of battle, screams of terror, the Haradrim boy could feel himself starting to freeze up with fear again.

To think he had the third watch again. No, he couldn’t do it…

How could he?

That evening came Adnan’s chance to find out. Hadith was alone, sharpening the Easterling blade he had received from his kill with a small whetstone, most likely admiring the way it shined, how beautifully adorned its handle was… Feeling jealousy rise up again, Adnan did his best to ignore it as he approached Hadith. He tried to keep his face clear of any feelings, which resulted in a mix of them warring on his face. Mostly he appeared troubled, which indeed he was.

“How,” he started without waiting for the man to look up, and then choking on his words. He forced a swallow before continuing. “How did you…do it? How’d you…kill him, bring him down?”

The person he could not look in the eyes at the moment, who sat right before him, was only a few years older than himself. What could one learn in just three years? Could one even learn bravery?

[Brinniel]

Darkness approached swiftly as Shae trudged through the dirt. The moon shone brightly, giving Shae enough light to see her path. She shivered as the cool air brushed against her skin.

Then, suddenly, a silhouette in the distance caused her stop in her tracks. A horse and its rider. Instinctively, Shae crouched behind the brush. Then slowly, she crawled towards the figure for a better look. As the face took shape, Shae realized the rider was one of the slavers.

Shades.

She couldn't help but curse. Most likely there were more nearby. The slavers had been watching them. But why? Did they plan to capture even more ex-slaves tonight? It did not matter. Shae had left the camp and she would not return until she accomplished her mission. But first she would have to take care of this man. Quietly.

Shae kept her good eye on the slaver as she picked up a small rock. The man hadn't noticed her yet. Without further thought, Shae threw the rock, aiming it into the brush slightly left of the slaver. The slaver's head instantly snapped towards the direction of the sound. And as Shae expected, the man dismounted his horse and searched for the source of the sudden noise.

This was her chance. Shae unsheathed one of her throwing daggers, steadying it in her right hand. Her target was moving further away.

I need to get closer.

Straightening from her crouch, Shae stepped one....two....three - too quickly. On the third step, Shae's foot slid on the rocks beneath her, kicking several small pebbles into a large rock. Instantly, the slaver turned in her direction, and before Shae could think, she threw her dagger at the man. The weapon only grazed his arm as he charged towards the woman. Shae drew her other dagger, but it was too late. Before she knew it, she was on the ground, the weapon flying from her hand. Shae struggled as the slaver's large hands wrapped tightly around her neck, and her hand groped for her precious dagger. Instead, she found another rock, slightly larger than the size of her hand. Gripping it tightly, Shae thrusted the object into the side of the slaver's head. Instantly, the pressure on her throat disappeared as the man's hands moved towards his head. Using all her strength, Shae brought the rock down upon him one last time and the slaver fell to his side.

The woman rubbed her sore throat as she stood up. The glimmer of her dagger caught her eye, and she picked it up. Glimpsing at the man, she could see the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Staring back at the dagger, Shae gave a deep sigh. What she had just done was a dangerous move for both herself and the others. She could take no risks. Kneeling down beside the slaver, Shae used her small weapon to slit his throat. Instantly, the breathing ceased. As she wiped the blood from her blade, Shae's eye caught the glint of her second dagger, she went over to pick it up as well.

Sheathing both weapons, Shae turned towards the slaver's horse. Surprisingly, the creature had not moved during the struggle. Well trained indeed.

In the process of terminating her first obstacle, Shae had gained a faster way to reach the camp. Nevertheless, the woman still felt uneasy. Shae had not ridden a horse since she was a little girl, before the days of slavery when she lived with her family in Gondor. She couldn't help but wonder if she would even be able to stay on the horse- the horse whose rider she had just killed. Shae approached the creature slowly, and place her hands near the muzzle. He sniffed her hands curiously, then seemed to lose interest. Stepping to the side, Shae patted his neck then climbed up the horse's back. Even with the saddle underneath her and the reins in hand, Shae felt uneasy sitting so high. Memories of her childhood rushed back into her head. Taking a deep breath, Shae kicked into the horse's sides, and instantly they took off into a gallop, Shae's knuckles white against the reins.

[Tevildo]

As the minutes and hours dragged by, the young girl had remained locked within her dreams, seemingly unable to try and escape. Kwell’s gentle attempts to bathe her with a few precious handfuls of water had met with scant success. Her skin burned hot with fever, her eyes open and staring outward but registering nothing.

Though unable to speak or move, Azhar still drifted from one nightmare to the next. Her tangled dreams were filled with images of prisons and bars and the sensation of being held back against her will. Sometimes these were actual physical restraints; more often she had the feeling that she was being trapped inside her mind and that she would go mad unless a path opened up to allow her to push down all the barriers and somehow reach the other side.

She had no idea what was on the other side of that barrier. But in all her years of captivity in Nurn, she had never felt such an intense desire to throw everything behind and claim some fragment of herself that had always been denied. Her body shuddered and gently swayed side to side under the sharp reality of her unmet need. Yet all the while this was going on, she could see and hear things that were taking place about her, even though she could not communicate anything to anyone.

Her heart sank down to her toes as she sensed Kwell trying to help her and afterwards sitting off by himself, alone and despondent. She could even make out the small hole that unexpectedly appeared at the back of the tunnel and the bright eyes that shone through the tiny opening. Part of her accepted that image as a given. She already knew this. Their rescuers were coming. But at the exact instant of that sweet revelation, Azhar’s mind was assaulted by yet another sensation, this one far more insistent than the first.

A great cat sat beside her, first motionless, then snarling and springing forward towards its prey. She should have been afraid of such a fierce creature, but she was not. The cat belonged here. There was a natural goodness in its fierce presence that she could not deny. Rather than fearing its wildness and instinctively drawing back, Azhar found herself strangely attracted to the beast, wanting to share its experience. She tried and tried to do something to break through to the beast, but a tiny warning bell sounded inside her head that this was not to be her way.

Then, out of nowhere, came a great explosion. Glittering flecks of fire and light were spilled out into the heavens, the display visible even through the prisoners' grate. Outside all was chaos. Inside Azhar lay in a silent heap, quiet and unmoving.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir waited until Vrór and Carl disappeared inside the bowels of the earth and then helped fasten a blanket over the hole to conceal the glow from the torch. Leaving Dorran to stand guard on the lower edge of the creek, Lindir crawled up the bank and, staying low to the ground, gazed intently at the surrounding plain to make sure that no one could see them. After determining that no guard stood on duty near the stream bed, the Elf whispered a hurried thanks to the Lady, asking that she who had fashioned the Moon and Sun and who still watched over Middle-earth would bless their endeavors this starry night.

The Elf's relief, however, was short lived. Within a few moments of the Dwarf and Hobbit climbing into the tunnel, a single sentry had come into view, riding along the perimeter of camp. Lindir had ducked his head into the thick brush and motioned to Dorran to stay alert, afraid that their group might be seen. Hopefully, the lone guard would suspect nothing and simply move on. The rider had stopped and squinted in one direction and then the other, but had quickly turned away and, to Lindir's relief, began to ride off in the opposite direction.

While a blanket may be an excellent means to mask the light of a torch, it is less effective in muffling the sounds of a hobbit and a dwarf who must slosh hurriedly through knee deep water carrying a spade head and other essential metal tools. Although both Carl and Vrór were extremely adroit on land, neither had any particular experience with underground rushing streams, yet that was the situation they now found themselves in. Despite their lowered voices and the fact that they had ventured a good ways down the tunnel, every now and then the water splashed and broke against the earthen walls. The sentry on guard had neither the wits or the ears to detect this faint difference in the sound of the stream. But a passing owl perched on a nearby boulder, who had flown down to drink from the water, had immediately detected the difference and begun to hoot out a warning to any of his own kind venturing by, alerting them that something unusual was afoot.

Lindir could do nothing to silence the bird. He had watched in dismay as a look of suspicion passed over the face of the rider who had then swung back to inspect the steam bed. The horseman had called out into the darkness and, within a minute, two more mounted guards had appeared, rushing up to aid the first. There was no place Lindir could hide, and there was no time to retreat down the hole, which might otherwise have provided some shelter. The patches of grass and the stream bank itself did not offer real cover: both Dorran and Lindir were clearly visible to the slavers. The first rider took one look at the Elf and, spitting out a curse, spurred his horse forward, his sword raised menacingly over his head. Even worse, the second placed a great horn to his lips, prepared to give a mighty blast to arouse the entire camp. Lindir watched in horror and turned to face the blow, wondering how they could prevail against some twenty-five men. Dorran ran up beside him with his sword, thrusting out but falling short in a valiant attempt to stop the slaver with the horn.

Yet at that instant, a great explosion reverberated through the skies so that the notes of the horn drifted harmlessly away, unable to be detected more than a few feet distant. Dorran and Lindir turned to face their attackers, each wondering if Rôg or Aiwendil could be responsible for this turn of events.

[Firefoot]

As night fell, Grask had found himself once more creeping closer and closer to the slavers’ camp, drawn by an insatiable curiosity of the strange creatures called Men. It would be a while yet before the camp quieted enough for the Orcs to make their raid, but Grask saw no reason why he couldn’t wait here just as well as farther away – so long as they didn’t catch him.

Then suddenly, many things seemed to happen at once. From somewhere nearby there came a loud bang that spooked Grask badly, and when he turned to look he saw bright colored lights exploding in the night. They seared his eyes and he blinked in pain, immediately turning away. At the same time a monstrous snarling cat leapt out of nowhere into the Mannish camp, scaring the horses so that they reared and whinnied, some breaking off into the night.

Grask ran. He started to sprint off away from the mountain cat, then realized he was heading straight for the blazing lights. He changed direction, crashing through the snarled brush to come nearly head to head with a bolting horse. The flailing hooves came dangerously close to his head, but he ducked his head and dashed on mindlessly –

– and found himself flat on his face, wind knocked out of him. Had he been able to breathe properly, he might have gone on running, but as it was he lifted himself up slowly and looked around to find what he had tripped over.

A body. Grask recoiled as if he had been struck, then slowly drew closer once more. A Man’s body, but dead, Grask realized: the throat was sliced cleanly through. This was no Orc’s work: too neat. Who, then?

Grask did not dwell on this question long. Instead, he set about exploring the Man’s body, running his hands over the strangely smooth and soft skin and examining his clothes, which fit him remarkably better than Grask’s own patched-together tunic and was made of uniformly-woven cloth. Next came the pockets. Grask found a couple of silver coins, the like of which he had seen once before, though he didn’t remember where. He pocketed these for himself. There was also some flint, which Grask left. The Man also had a bow and a quiver of arrows on his back and a knife at his belt. With some difficulty, Grask managed to remove the knife and sheath and placed them on his own belt. Now he had two knives. Already the demon-cat, whose screams were fading away, did not seem nearly so frightening, and the devilish explosions were simply lights and noise, after all. Or so he thought - until a great one lit up the sky with a bang, emblazoning itself in Grask's sight. He cowered back into the brush. Not until they stopped would Grask be going back to the Men's camp. Not him.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Beloan had sent a friend of his, one of the original escapees, to replace Hadith on the watch over the hill sometime before noon. Hadith had seen a lonely rider riding northwards some couple of miles east from him during the morning hours. Besides that it had been dull and uneventful: just the plains and the hills, the dry grass suffering under the hot sun everywhere. The chirping of the crickets had been the only sound he had heard besides the occasional breeze of the wind. Everything, the heat, the quietness, had been oppressive.

Back in the camp of the slaves Hadith soon realised that nothing had been decided. He was disappointed but didn’t show it to Beloan to whom he reported after his duty. He had eaten something and helped Khala and Cuáran washing the wounds of an older man and changing his bandages. Seeing the cut on the man’s side and actually washing and tying it, Hadith had realised that they were not able to leave at the instant. That didn’t prevent him from getting frustrated about the situation. They were free now, but all this felt like they were intentionally waiting to be taken back to slavery, robbed of their newly acquired freedom. We’re like sheep who break free from the fence and then stop at the edge of the nearby forest, waiting to be captured again.

Hadith was idling, sharpening his beautiful Easterling knife for want of anything more reasonable to do, as Adnan approached him. He had seen the younger lad from far away and noticed his hesitation but had decided to ignore him. But at last Adnan had braved to come to Hadith and asked him: “How,... how did you…do it? How’d you…kill him, bring him down?”

Hadith didn’t consider Adnan very highly. On the contrary. One who falls asleep on guard should be despised by all. That was his opinion of Adnan. But his question had cut deep into the ponderings of Hadith. It had penetrated his own insecurity and baffledness about all that was happening in this newly acquired freedom and all that it meant. The question overwhelmed him and pushed his distaste for Adnan to the background. The insecurity of Adnan’s voice and the vulnerability of his whole demeanour reminded him of himself too strongly to just despise him. So instead of scorning him, Hadith raised his face to meet Adnan and gestured him to sit down beside him, sheathing the knife after wiping it clean to the sleeve of his skirt.

“So how?” Hadith began but paused for a while, looking at the younger boy absentmindedly, immersed in his own memories of last night. “Well, I just threw my blade... and then he fell. The others did the rest, clubbing him to death.” Hadith fell silent again, staring at the ground between his feet.

“How did you have the courage? Weren’t you afraid?”, Adnan asked Hadith sincerely.

“What do you think? Sure I was afraid!” Hadith snapped to Adnan. “I was scared like Barad-Dûr!” Hadith managed to smile thinly to Adnan but then his expression got serious again. He thought of the last night, thinking it out aloud.

“I remember it... I remember it quite vividly. After I woke up to the attack I decided that I would have to do something... Then there was the dog that attacked the girl... It jumped on me and threw myself down... I remember the warm blood splashing over my face and chest.” With that Hadith touched the front his shirt with his fingers. The stains of blood had already stiffened and hardened the fabric.

“Then the sound of the hooves started to draw closer again... they were closing in... The Easterling appeared from the darkness, shifting his lance towards me just a couple of feet away... I don’t know... I just ducked down and only felt the horse running over me as I had closed my eyes. But then I just... well, I turned around and saw the rider riding away from me. I just threw my blade to him.” Hadith was silent for a while picking small stones from the ground and dropping them down again.

“There were all kinds of noises there, but I still remember the sound of the knife hitting his back and the yell he made with the impact”, Hadith raised his eyes and looked straight at Adnan who was listening to him in awe. “That was the most terrible thing I have ever heard... I’ve seen him fall from his horse a hundred times after that... Everytime I close my eyes I see it... I took a closer look at him after he had been beaten to death. He was a young guy like you and me.” Hadith fell quiet again but Adnan dared not to break the silence even though he was baffled by his words.

“Yeah, he would have taken us captive and robbed us of our freedom. Sure he would have. It’s better he’s dead than we are slaves again, but still that doesn’t settle the things with me. The thought doesn’t help here...” Adnan looked downwards and so did Hadith. They were quiet, both in their own thoughts. After a while Hadith broke the silence, coming back to the initial question to escape his present thoughts.

“So how did I do it?” Hadith said, raising his head to meet the eyes of Adnan reacting to him speak again. “When I was a child, my father told me that everyone is scared, even the great heroes are. But what differentiates good men from spineless cowards is that the good men ignore their fear. They think of something else than just themselves at the moment of peril. Maybe that’s the way to overcome fear, not to think only of yourself?”

The realisation of the origins of these ideas hit Hadith hard. Yes, that was his father speaking! He had not remembered these things in years, but here he was; his father speaking to him when he had been very young indeed. He remembered now the expression his father had had beside his bed in the barracks long time ago.

Tears started flowing from Hadith’s eyes and soon he was crying openly. Adnan was looking at the older boy in confusion. Hadith sniffed and wiped the tears dry with his left hand. “Sorry about this. Just old memories...” But then he bursted to tears again. He was missing his father and mother. Where were they and why had they been taken away from him? Hadith felt more alone in this world he had ever felt. Cold vibrations shooked his body as he cried out to his anguish.

[Durelin]

Adnan

Adnan felt increasingly awkward as he watched Hadith fall into sadness, but he also felt his respect for the young man increasing. This man was more like himself than the fifteen year old ever would have thought. And he was even stronger than he had thought. The idea that Hadith had not been afraid, and so had acted with his wits about him, was impressive, but somehow, it filled Adnan with more awe to think that the young man had been afraid, and still had been able to take the Easterling down.

“Maybe that’s the way to overcome fear, not to think only of yourself?”

“Not to think only of yourself…”

Those words came especially as a sharp bite of pain, right into Adnan’s chest. They came across as accusatory to a still guilty conscience. Had he been thinking of himself when he fell asleep on duty? Had he been thinking of anything? This man probably blamed him, though. They probably all did, even when they smiled at him. Their kindness was forced, because there was no escaping that it was his fault. He would never get away from it. How could he change that?

Adnan looked away, looking to the ground as the other young man began to cry. He did not feel that Hadith’s tears were wrong or shameful, he just could not face the man; he could never face anyone in grief. He did not know how to share in their sadness, he did not know how to give them any comfort. Perhaps part of his confusion and inability was because he had never received comfort himself. He had never blamed anyone for it, though, and he hoped Hadith didn’t blame him for it now.

He had to do something, though. He could not just sit here…like he had fallen asleep.

“Your father was…he was wise,” Adnan forced out, stumbling over his thoughts and thus his words. He was not good with words. It took him some time to put thoughts into them, and even a simple word like ‘wise’ felt strange to him. It was difficult to put such a description into one word. “And…so are you,” he said, his words sharp and sudden as he forced them out, though utterly sincere. He gave a sharp nod at the end of his words before rising to leave Hadith to his grief.

[Durelin]

Khamir

Making a quick round of the camp as the night crept up on them all, the group still licking their wounds, physical and of another kind, Khamir felt worry anger growing slowly inside him, tightening its grip. He should have looked for Shae long before now, and gotten over his stupid pride. He should have known something important, something dangerous, was up. It had always been impossible for the one-armed man to understand that woman. He had often wondered what kind of pain manifested itself in the cuts on her hands. He had never said a word about them to anyone, much less her, but he knew they were there on purpose. But what purpose, he would never know, and he would never have to. To him, pain was pain.

He asked over and over if anyone had seen Shae, each time requiring a quicker answer as he lost any patience had had begun with. That fool woman…she was insane! What was that – bravery or madness? Should Khamir admire her, or fear for her…or both? Part of him did admire her, and the rest of him was a mix of emotions related to just how crazy the woman was. In some ways he wanted to laugh, and in others he felt sick with worry. And he was jealous: she had beat him to the glory. The glory…it was worthless out here, if it was worth anything anywhere; why did he still feel he needed it?

There was really no question where Shae had gone. She always made her displeasure obvious, and this time she had clearly been displeased with just about everything Khamir had done recently and proposed to do. She had gone back. She had gone after them. The bold, thickheaded, defiant woman. Sometimes one had to wonder if she had a death wish. By the cuts on her hands, one might definitely think so, but Khamir did not. She was a survivor. At least, she had always been…

His teeth gritted, he marched through the campsite to find one of the few people he still trusted. He so wanted to trust Shae. He had so many times before, and maybe he still did, even though his brain told him it was foolish, dangerous. To the rest of him, it felt right that he should trust her, no matter where that might lead him. Maybe he simply needed to trust in her and her abilities, trust that she was still alive. Catching Beloan’s eye upon finding him, the man followed Khamir a few paces away from others.

“She really is gone,” the, perhaps former, gang leader whispered.

Beloan let out a pained sigh, and then silently stared at his companion, as if waiting for something.

Khamir did not notice, staring at the ground beneath him. “I am such a fool,” he muttered.

The other man snuck a smile, the one-armed man still looking down. “It is too late for blaming yourself, or anyone.”

Too late…they were all running out of time. Either direction they chose to go, the time they had to make their decision was rapidly growing shorter. Perhaps it had already ran out, and they were now living on luck, trying fate. But Khamir could not feel afraid.

“We have to act before dawn, as long before it as we can manage. Tell the others, and pick… No, we will tell everyone. We will ask for those who can, who wish, to volunteer. We need a party to go after the bounty hunters, to rescue the children, and to find Shae… And we need others, everyone, to be prepared to guard the camp. If you’d like to head the latter group…” Khamir trailed off, as Beloan was already shaking his head.

“No, I go with you,” he said simply. He knew, before any talk of parties, what group the one-armed Southron intended to be a part of.

[Undómë]

Mazhg, Zagra, & Ungolt


There had been magics in the Dark Land, before the mountain fell in on itself and the Dark Lord himself fled. Mazhg remembered well the fiery flashes of fell light and the sounds as if the ground itself were rent apart. Those who were compelled to live in that foul land would hide themselves away at these occurrences, fearing the Great Eye’s baneful gaze might fall on them. And what poor life that was their piteous lot would be snatched from them, or worse, be made a thousand times more wretched.

She and Zagra had made their way to a spot close to the slavers’ camp. They were spying on the men, waiting for an opportunity to creep into the supply tent once more and make off with what they could. Ungolt was with them, and it was she and Mazhg who were peering over the top of the slagheap, watching for the men to relax their lookout. Zagra was huddled just a few feet below them, waiting patiently for instruction.

Of a sudden, the sky was filled with bright light and loud booms! and sizzling crackles. And a little ways from their vantage point, the slavers’ horses had become increasingly agitated and distressed and were madly trying to flee the commotion. Ungolt slid a little ways down the pebbly slope and hunkered down with Zagra. The two of them hissed at Mazhg to hide herself away until the fell sorcery had run its course.

And Mazhg, for her part, was well-disposed to do so. The movement of the cat, though, had caught her eye. And it was as if the beast moved in concert with the tumult of lights and noises, stirring up the men and horses from his side as the sorcerous lights and sounds did from their side. She watched him as he harried the herd, his intention it seemed not to slay one of them, but simply to make them run wild. It seemed odd to her that he did not cut one from the group and run them to ground.

She saw the archer loose his arrow and the barbed shaft cut alongside the cat’s flank. Pushing aside the fear of the lights and explosions, she watched as he fled to the cover of a rocky heap only a little ways away from where she and her sister and Ungolt were hidden.

‘Ssst!’ Zagra hissed at her, grasping Mazhg by the ankle to pull her down toward the little hollow where she and Ungolt crouched. ‘What are you doing, Mazhg? Come down quick!’ she whispered in a frightened voice.

A shiver of dread mixed with wonder shook Mazhg as she slipped down to her companions.

‘What did you see?’ Zagra spoke low as she hugged her sister close.

[Folwren]

A great crackling blast startled Kwell out of his hopeless attitude. He stood up onto his knees, his eyes wide with surprise and excitement. His heart thumped furiously against his ribs. A flash of light showed from outside like some strange fork of lightning. Then, muffled and what sounded like in the distance, came the frantic neighing and terrified screaming of the horses. Kwell could hear the dull sound of hoof-beats in the ground, getting fainter and fainter until they faded altogether.

But those sounds were forgotten in a moment as Kwell’s ears, listening so hard that they hurt, nearly leaped from the side of his head as he heard a splashing and a bubbling noise from the back of the prison where the water came in. He turned his head and looked. The water slackened a moment, as though stopped up with a cork and then came again full force, but something had come through with it.

Kwell scrambled as quickly as he could over to the wall. He looked hard, and in the dim light – what! It had to be his imagination – those two, large, very wide eyes looking up at him and a face white and pale in the water. He stretched out his hand to see, expecting to meet with nothing but cold water and stone. His fingers closed on the cloth of a collar and the thing beneath him was really of flesh and blood. He pulled up sharply, but it was hardly necessary, for as soon as his hand touched him, the figure moved and struggled up to his feet.

Kwell moved back quickly, and even on his knees he was surprised to find that he looked the strange person right in the eye. He was no taller than a small child.

“Wha- what?” he asked slowly, completely at a loss of words and thought. “What are you doing here?” he finally gasped out.

[Durelin]

Vrór

Vrór had been convinced that he had been responsible for securing the death of the entire Fellowship of the Fourth Age when he and Carl first came upon the obstacle they had not anticipated in their tunnel. It was thick and rocky, and most likely partly supported the tunnel – even if they could bring it down, they did not want to risk it. For several moments, it was if all the dirt and rock surrounding the Dwarf and Hobbit were pressing in on them, and would soon suffocate the two. They were trapped. They all were, not just the two in the tunnel.

But then Carl cried out. Vrór felt his heart could have burst with shock from the cry, but the Hobbit had good news for them: he had found a way to get through. But that way meant going in blind. He would have to actually submerge himself in the creek, and swim under the rock to reach whatever lay beyond. They hoped only the captives would be waiting for them, but there was no way to be sure. Vrór voiced his concern and cautioned Carl, but before the Dwarf could do a thing the Hobbit had plunged into the dark water, into the unknown.

Vrór swallowed, his eyes wide, taking in Carl’s bravery and finding it difficult to absorb. The Dwarf started to reach for his axe, having stuffed his tools in his belt again, and he drew the weapon to hold it along with the torch. Should he follow him? Would the Hobbit bring the captives back if he found them? Would the captives be able to make it? Would Vrór even be able to make it to the other side if he needed to?

He certainly wasn’t interested in swimming, or trying to fit through tight spaces, and managing both at once seemed near impossible for him.

The Dwarf strained his ears, his body rigidly still, listening, waiting for any sign that Carl had made it, somehow, to the other side. The moments of silence dragged on too long for Vrór’s liking, and then he heard some splashing he thought was separate from the usual sounds of the creek.

“Carl,” he said with a whisper. “Carl?” he repeated as much louder as he could risk.

His ears attuned to any sounds around him, he noticed something strange about the sounds coming from the outside of the cave. He could hear a voice, and it was neither Lindir’s nor Dorran’s.

“Carl?” he muttered frantically.

His last attempt was swallowed up by a huge explosion, which resulted in dirt and dust dislodging itself from the roof and sides of the tunnel. Vrór did his best to muffle a few coughs. Now he was completely disoriented. Behind him, their guards had been found, and before him, a wall of stone and earth blocked his path and his vision, and he had lost his companion to behind that obstacle. And somewhere nearby, something had exploded! Were the others alright? Or were they the source of that literally ground-shaking event?

Did the enemy know they were underground? Were they trying to collapse the tunnel?!

He had to get out of here…

But he could not abandon Carl, even if he went to the aid of Dorran and the Elf. Those two could hold their own, he was certain, but against how many men? Should he stay here and guard Carl’s back should the two fall? Or…should he take the plunge?

If there were someone waiting for him and Carl in the pit, then the Hobbit would need help much more than Lindir and Dorran did. Having balanced the torch in between edges of rock that poked out from the wall of the tunnel, he took off his belt and his boots, glad that he had chosen not to wear his mail. Leaving behind his hammer was painful, but he knew it had to be done. He would not risk leaving his axe behind, though. He might need it.

After taking a deep breath and one last attempt to calm his nerves, Vrór had to all but convince himself that there was a mob of Orcs behind him ready to gut him in order for him to plunge into the water, his hands immediately searching for the hole. He pushed himself through, his legs kicking, and splashing more water than he should have. Already he had forgotten to keep things quite above the surface of the water. Wriggling his way around, unable to breath, everything dark and murky, with frigid water all around him, he had some trouble telling up from down. He felt panic tighten in his throat, which only made his body want to breath normally all the more. But he tried to keep his focus, not wanting to panic.

For a moment he seemed trapped again, and for a second he was convinced he would have a watery grave. There had to be a way out! He frantically searched around him, wide-eyed, even though the water discomforted his eyes. Then there was a gleam of something, somewhere above him, and he forced himself up toward it. Water found its way into anywhere…and he had only to follow it out. He hoped.

Straining his lungs a few more seconds, he broke the surface of the water, emerging on to solid ground almost immediately. He spluttered a bit, and shook his head back and forth to throw the water from him. It was hopeless, as his mass of hair and beard was of course completely soaked. Then, remembering suddenly where he was, Vrór raised his axe and peered ahead of him, wiping water from his eyes with his other hand.

The sight before him gladdened him, and brought a smile to his face, but he stopped himself from letting out a laugh. There was Carl, wet but safe, and another, a boy. Scanning the rest of the pit, though, his grin was wiped from his face when he saw a girl lying nearby, still as death. For a moment his heart was seized with fear, and the emotion loosened its grip only slightly after he looked closely and saw the rising and falling of her chest.

Realizing how difficult the situation was, and how tricky it would be to try and get all four of them back the way they came, Vrór would have felt embarrassed in any other situation. But now he was just too frightened. And he knew there was no time for explanations, for excuses.

Climbing out slowly and carefully, taking things an inch at a time, not wanting to make any noise, he attempted to try and stay near the ‘entrance’ back into the tunnel, and kept himself hunched over to remain under small outcroppings around it, though he also tried to move closer to Carl.

“Do you think they can make it back the way we came?” he whispered. He glanced at the girl in particular, though he also noted the boy’s youth with great pain.

Could any of them make it back that way?

“Dorran and Lindir have run in to some trouble, I think, but…I’d say we have a better chance of it out there than…” he gestured up above them, knowing no more explanation was needed. Luckily, after tackling that struggle with water, Vrór was feeling a little more certain that he would in some way get out of this mess alive. And he knew he would make sure the others did…somehow.

[Folwren]

Athwen stood in the warm darkness by herself. She felt cold, though, despite the warmth of the night. She paced back and forth before the picketed horses, looking in the direction of camp. The minutes seemed to pass like hours and the silence felt overbearing, save where one of the horse’s moved, and then the motion sounded overly loud and grated on her ears.

“Waiting is agonizing,” she said aloud, stopping and turning to face fully in the direction of camp. Her hands clasped behind her tightly, clenched hard like the knot in her stomach. “I rather wish I could have gone and been part of it all.”

Before the thought had fully left her mind and mouth, Aiwendil’s light filled the sky and the blast of its thunder reported in the stone hills on all sides. Athwen blinked half blinded eyes, but she had less than a fraction of a moment to consider her own surprise when she turned towards the horses. Two horses, tied just beside each other, reared and plunged, pulling at their lines.

Athwen darted forward. “Oh, hush – hush!” she cried softly. She reached the most terrified one, carefully avoiding the taught line and his front hooves. “Quietly, now! It’s alright.” She reached up as high as her short stature allowed her, attempting with all her might to reach the horse’s head. He brought it down suddenly without her touching him, he stepped forward a step and then tried to lunge back again. Athwen’s hands caught frantically at his head and pulled it down. “No, no,” she panted, one hand cupping about his mouth. “Don’t say anything. For heaven’s sake, don’t do that.” He jerked back and the fierce neigh broke out. Athwen cringed, but figured the worse was over.

Now chaos seemed to reign the camp. She could see torches moving about, and hear men’s voices, shouting and confused, and at the same time, the sound of some other horses, loud and shrill, full of some sort of fear and terror. Athwen’s hands, held firmly about the horse’s head trembled and her throat felt dry.

The fear of the slavers’ horses could be sensed by the five horses and pony here. Athwen felt the movement more than she saw it. Some of the horses merely stood in rigid silence, their heads held high and their ears forward. But the others pranced and walked about as far as their picket lines would allow. Athwen’s heart beat strong as she looked from one dark shape to the next. If they got very frightened and attempt to bolt, they would most certainly be able to do so. She turned her attention to the horse at hand. Her small palms ran swiftly over his face and head, calming and relaxing him as she coaxed him to lower his head until his neck ran level with his body. Then she quickly left him and went to the next, more frantic horse.

As she worked on this one, she knew she could not spend this much attention to each horse – not if the tension and excitement got any more exciting or tense. Her mind raced as she spoke gently and soothed this horse to quietness, and she finally thought of the store of oats. Only to be used on special occasions for the horses, they were. Now was certainly one of those times, she thought. She ran from her last patient to one of the bags and picked it up. Quickly, she ran with it towards the horses. Their fear was slowly calming, but as she came near and offered them handfuls of the oats, their attention shifted to her.

In a short matter of time, they were busy sniffing and nuzzling the ground to the get the last of the oats. Athwen watched them with anxious eyes, hoping that nothing more would happen to startle them, at least until she had someone to help her. . .

[piosenniel]

Had it not been for the faint skittering of pebbles to his left, Rôg would never have glance up toward the source of the sound. And the moon, of course, cooperated in its own way, a skiff of wind parting what few thin, hazy clouds there were to let the pearly light come through. He looked up, a surprised look taking hold of his features.

And just as astonished were the dark eyes that peered down at him.

He’d only a quick look. A young boy, he thought. Or a girl, perhaps . . . the tail of some bright, thin scarf flashed for a brief moment in the pale light as the figure stood to turn and as soon was gone, disappearing behind the low hillock.

Rôg held his breath, listening hard for any sounds that the figure in the dark might be creeping near to do who-knows-what sort of injury to him. He’d had enough of that, already this night . . . the hurting that is; the feathered shaft had flown too swiftly and too true. Hearing nothing, he fled quickly back toward where his companions were.

~*~

From a distance, he could see the figures of the Elf and the young man, Dorran. Their weapons were in their hands and they fought with determination against three of the slavers. Skilled as the two of them were, and what with Lindir being an Elf and all – still three mounted warriors against two on foot laid the advantage to the slavers. Rôg had no sword, and even his walking stick and knife had been left behind with his horse.

Improvise! he hissed to himself.

He bent over quickly and picked up a number of fist sized rocks. Gripping one with his first two fingers close together on one side of it and opposite where he’d placed his thumb, Rôg leaned back that side of his torso and drew back his arm, whipping it forward, then, in a quick smooth motion. His eye was on the horse nearest him, and specifically on the large target of the beast’s hindquarter. He released the jagged missile just as his hand cleared his ear; and it closed the distance quickly between him and the horse’s rear end.

As the rock hit hard against the unprotected flesh, the horse bucked and reared, sending the rider tumbling to the ground . .

[Tevildo]

The noise of the explosion so unnerved the guards that they pulled back and glanced nervously at each other as if they were unsure whether to remain and fight or to ride hard towards the animal pens where loud shouts and scuffling could already be heard. Quickly deciding that they had best fend off the intruders who were undoubtedly here for no good purpse, the three men had turned almost at once to attack Lindir and Dorran.

Despite his skill as a swordsman, Lindir found himself steadily losing ground, being pressed back along the muddy bank of the river towards the mouth of the tunnel. These men, whoever they were, were exceedingly good fighters. Uncertain how long he could keep up with his two mounted attackers, the Elf was relieved to see one of the horses buck and send his rider sprawling in the mud. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the wound on the horse's rear flank that had been inflicted by the stone as well as the lanky figure of Rôg lurking quietly in the background. Grateful to the man but sensing that this opportunity must not be lost, Lindir had whirled about again and singled out one of the sentries, pressing forward with his blade extended and leading him away from the tunnel. Elf and man now stood locked in harsh combat, their swords glinting bright under the dark night sky.

As luck would have it, Dorran now found himself facing two opponents at once. He parried and thrust expertly with his sword, but could not shake off either of the men. His first thought, like that of Lindir, was to get as far away from the mouth of the tunnel as possible. This was the spot where their companions would soon be emerging, hopefully bringing the prisoners along with them. Better to lead the slavers back along the stream and keep them busy so that they would not even notice what was going on near the mouth of the tunnel. Plus, by keeping them occupied, neither of the men could go back and tell their leader about the little incursion on the other side of camp.

The one thing a rider of Rohan knows is horses. Taking advantage of his skill and youthful dexterity, Dorran grabbed a hank of the loose mare's mane in his fist and threw his body over the animal's back, righting himself in the saddle with some difficulty just as she clambered up the muddy bank. Dorran gave a loud "yahoo" and intentionally charged off towards the plain with the other riders following in close pursuit.

Lindir managed to finish off the first guard and hastily glanced around, intending to use his blade to help out his friend, but Dorran was fast disappearing in the distance, and the Elf had no way to get to him. A horse! What I would give for a horse.... But there was no horse in sight. Lindir was on foot; moreover, he knew he must stay by the stream. He owed it to Carl and Vrór and, even more importantly, to the two trapped prisoners to lend a hand when they emerged from the tunnel. The Elf frowned and shook his head. He did not like this situation. He tried to reassure himself that all would be well. Dorran was a Rider of Rohan, an excellent fighter and well armed, and he surely knew how to defend himself. Still, it was with a heavy heart that the Elf turned back to the mouth of the tunnel, hoping that Dorran would come to no ill harm on his wild ride across the ashen plain.

[Child of the 7th Age]

As the camp exploded with noise and confusion, Imak came awake with a start. Pulling on his boots and breeches, he ran out of his tent and huriied down to the section of the camp where all the commotion seemed to be centered. The simple enclosures where the horses and donkeys had been housed were now broken and empty. The makeshift fence had been knocked over and trampled upon by an endless number of stampeding hooves. There were a few animals milling about the logpile but many more could be seen racing out across the plain. Imak tried to grab onto one of the steeds milling nae his tent but the frightened creature reared back, gave the slaver a kick on the thigh, and then took off in the other direction.

Cursing with pain and frustration, Imak shrieked at his men, "Round up the horses still in camp. Then ride out on the plain and herd the others back in. The slaves will pay for what they have done! As soon as you've gotten the animals together, all mount up and meet on the western edge of camp. I'll be waiting for you. We ride out immediately and slice their throats."

Striding back towards his tent, Imak came to a sudden halt, suddenly remembering the slave children and wondering if any of them had been involved in this mischief. For the second time, he cursed and then whirled around, motioning to three of the men to accompany him as they raced over to check on the pit.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl looked at the bedraggled boy in front of him. Truly this was not what the hobbit had envisioned when he had set out, but for some reason he had imagined these children would be similar to those he had seen about Minas Tirith, well tended to. But these poor souls looked forgotten; left to grow up on their own, or not grow up at all, as looked the case here. Carl cleared his throat as his eyes rested on the girl. Clearly she was unwell. She hadn’t moved since he arrived, but for all the world looked a lifeless array of skin and bones tucked away in the corner of this unwholesome pit.

Not finding the words he wanted, and perceiving that the boy didn’t know quite what to make of him, Carl ran his hand through his hair as he thought, pushing his dark and dripping locks off his forehead. His eyes returned to the boy. “My name’s Carl,” he whispered, deciding he would get no where without trying to set the youth at ease. “You’ve never set eyes on a hobbit before have you? Well never mind that. We're not a bad lot, but I suppose you’ll just have to take my word for now. At anyrate, we’ve come to get you both out of here.”

The boy’s gaze narrowed, “We? Who sent you...more hobbits?” he questioned with an incredulous edge to his barely heard words. And why not? Carl thought feeling a touch indignant, but it was very short lived. He soon realized that he must not look a terribly convincing hero with his short stature, and that soaking wet, certainly not an impressive specimen to anyone taught to regard strength as the key measure of value.

“Well, not exactly,” he explained, apologetically. “We’re a mixed bag you see…a dwarf and elf, a lady and few men like yourself…very capable. We were sent to help you and the others who’d escaped, but your group had moved on before we arrived at the caves south of here. Been trailing you ever since.”

Suddenly Carl stiffened, turning his head at the nearby splash and light sputtering he could hear over the hurly burly of the camp above them. But catching sight of Vrór hidden among the shadows, his axe glinting briefly in a sudden burst of light, he relaxed. Shifting his eyes upward to the grate, the hobbit could see fireworks through its bars, and a pale beam of moonlight that fell in a dim circle to the floor. Moving noiselessly toward the relative safety of the shadows, he spoke with the dwarf, and felt his heart sink a notch as he learned that Dorran and Lindir, the guardians of the tunnel, had already been beset.

“Still, I think you are right, we’d best go back the way we came,” he agreed. “But the young Miss is a worry. She hasn’t stirred the least bit, and frankly, I don’t know if she can.”

At the dwarf's suggestion, Carl left Vrór to guard the way in, and swiftly walked toward the figure sprawled on the floor, the boy following him closely all the while. While asking their names, the hobbit knelt brushing the tangle of black curls from the girl’s face. Laying a calloused hand on her gaunt cheek, he frowned. “She’s as warm as a kettle!” he said looking first to Vrór and then to the boy, and wishing he had thought to bring another blanket to carry her in. The boy shifted his weight from foot to foot as he watched over Carl shoulder, whispering their names distractedly. “Azhar! Azhar!” the hobbit said as he tried to wake the feverish child.

“I have done that,” the boy said. “It doesn’t help. She has been that way for hours.”

And how were they to get her though the water! The thought shot through Carl 's mind. She definitely needed Athwen’s ministering, and as soon as possible. “Kwell, I think we are going to need your help getting her out of here. Do you think you are up for it?”

[Folwren]

Kwell

Kwell sat back and propped his hands up on his knees, looking at the hobbit, feeling still dazed at his unexpected appearance and that of the dwarf. He watched with the eyes of a hawk as Carl touched and handled Azhar, asking their names. He gave them accordingly. The hobbit called to her, but Kwell shook his head.

“I’ve done that. It doesn’t help. She’s been that way for hours.”

“Kwell,” Carl said after a short pause, turning towards him. “I think we are going to need your help getting her out of here. Do you think you are up for it?”

Kwell looked very doubtful. He scowled in the darkness and his jaw clenched as he thought of his answer. “Not the way you came, I’m not,” he finally said. “Azhar can’t go underwater so long as she’s not responding. You should know that. Maybe.” He looked doubtfully at the hobbit. “Besides, we don’t know how to swim. And what’s more, I don’t even know who you are! We’re in a bad plight of things, but I’m not so bad off that I might go throwing in my lot with strangers who might be intending to do the same thing these people are. Explain yourselves, and all the flashes and great explosion things going on before you arrived, if you can.”

He looked with a fierce glance from Carl to Vrór and back again, waiting. Why were they there and what were they trying to accomplish? No one did anything without some thought of gain, Kwell knew that from experience. Carl’s comment of coming to help had quite passed over Kwell’s ears, but he had regained some of his presence of mind by now and not only was he ready to listen, but he also had questions.

[Tevildo]

Although her body lay silent and unmoving trapped within the shadowy dreamworld, Azhar had no trouble seeing and hearing what was going on. As Carl and Vrór emerged into the pit, her heart rang with gladness. This was the help the voice had promised when it had whispered in her ear. The young girl instinctively understood that the Dwarf and the Hobbit could be trusted. But where was the other one, the one who had actually touched her mind as she lay frozen and alone in the bleak depths of despair? Something inside told Azhar that it was important she see and meet the man who had come to her that night with his promise of hope and safety.

Almost immediately, Kwell and the others had begun questioning how they were to somehow convey her body through the deep water to the freedom that lay beyond. Azhar was about to assure the hobbit that she was an excellent swimmer and to explain how she had often slipped away to the Sea to swim and bathe while supposedly deliverying messages for the guards. But before the girl could even open her mouth, she remembered with dismay that she was still sprwled out on the floor of the pit, and had no earthly idea how to put her spirit back into her body, and awake to the conscious world.

Azhar might have continued to lie there, doing nothing and simply relying on Kwell and the two rescuers to figure out an answer to her problem. Back on the slave plantation, this is exactly what she would have done. But a few weeks spent on her own had given her a bit more backbone. As she heard Kwell becoming stubborn, refusing to go with the rescuers or even cooperate with them, she found herself becoming increasingly angry. What a stubborn boy! Didn't he understand their situation and the fact that these two had come a long way just to help them out?

She had to get back inside her body and give him a word or two to prod him along in the right direction. Azhar had no intention of being left behind in this horrible place and she would make sure Kwell understood that. She thought for a moment and then remembered how the great cat had appeared from nowhere in her head and then without warning had changed back. She knew he had done something to make that change possible, to have tapped into some piece of himself that lay hidden within his mind. He had done it so easily. Maybe if she could tap into that same place within her own head, she could at least manage to get herself back into her body.

A moment later, and the trick was done. The body sprawled on the floor groaned and moved, tentatively at first and then with a greater show of energy. Azhar flexed one leg and then the other, twiddling her fingers and staring down at them to be sure they were there. She awoke with a splitting headache, the worst she could ever remember. But except for that and the fact that her fever still raged, she didn't really feel that bad. Abruptly sitting up, she cried out words of assurance to her friend, "Kwell, it's alright. These are the rescuers I told you about. If we don't go with them, we'll never get out of here. Don't worry about me. I can walk and swim. Just lead the way and I'll follow."

Repositioning her feet under her body, Azhar struggled to her knees and wobbily stood up. Her cheeks were white and flushed. Her hand instinctively reached out to the pit wall for support. She took one step forward, grimaced, and almost fell. Glaring over at the others, she stubbornly retorted, "I'm fine. Let's get out of here. I never want to see the inside of a pit again."

[Durelin]

Vrór

It was not just because he was sopping wet that Vrór shivered. Shouts and screams could be heard from above them, and each time any noise became sharper, seeming closer, he felt a cold shudder run down his back, whether or not a drop of water raced down his skin. Anything closer was too close. And with the knowledge dawning on him that though the disruption in the camp had been a distraction, it would soon cause someone to turn his attention to the pit.

They had to get out of there as quick as possible, but this boy decided it was a good time for an argument. If Vrór was a little more clear-minded, he might have been able to see the situation more from the captive’s position. That a Hobbit and a Dwarf had popped out of the water and expected the boy to come with them was a bit much. But Vrór was frustrated by the boy’s stubbornness. One would have thought him to be a Dwarf being asked to leave a near collapsing mine: a stubborn fool.

But before either he or Carl had a chance to respond to the boy’s refusal, the girl stirred. Hope rose in the Dwarf’s heart, and as he watched as slowly she began to move more, he could not believe his hears when she began to speak. Truly, her words were unbelievable in and of themselves! She had told him about? She had known they were coming? Vrór felt a small twinge of fear. What kind of child was this? What kind of children did this land produce?

He could only stare in amazement as she actually stood up and came over to them. She had appeared as the dead, and now she was walking and talking, and apparently certain that she could swim! And Vrór did stare at her as if she were the living dead. Luckily it was only for a brief moment that he forgot how close they all were to being quite definitely dead.

“Why…if you’re certain, my dear…” he said hesitantly, but putting all his kindness into his voice. Coming further to his senses, he began with more assertion, “We are here to get you out, but I do not know how easy that will be. I will go first…I do not know what will be waiting on the other side. And Carl will be the last through…” he looked to the Hobbit as he whispered the final part, inquisition in his eyes, which was answered with a curt nod.

“We must move. Do not get disoriented! There is a way through, no matter how it might seem while you are in the water, so do not panic. I will try and help guide you as best I can. The glint of my axe might serve as a sign for you to follow, if need be. There should be a torch in the wall of the tunnel if nothing has happened, so swim up to the light!”

Realizing the graveness of the situation, Vrór offered a smile of reassurance to both the boy and girl, and the friendly gesture was passed on to Carl, as well. “We will get out of here,” he said, with a variety of thoughts concerning what exactly he meant by ‘here.’

Without any hesitation, the Dwarf moved himself over to kneel by the waters’ edge. He looked down at it for but one moment, and then rolled himself down into it, slowly and carefully, so as not to make any splashes. The cold water splashed over his face and slowly enveloped the rest of his body as he swam down, face first, slowing gliding, his axe gripped tightly in one hand, which he held out, and his other hand feeling his way down. He ran it along the rough rock, ignoring the scraping of his skin, feeling for where the rock ended, and he could slip underneath it. He spared only a brief thought when he realized he would not be able to turn himself around or even to look behind him properly to see if anyone was following him. His thoughts were grave and his prayers fervent as he went as slowly as his lungs would allow him now that they were starting to ache.

Soon he was forcing his head up above the water, and gasping for air, having lost a battle between caution and the need to breath. He forced his eyes to see, even though the water that trickled into them blurred his vision. His torch was still stuck in the wall where he had left it, and there was no sign of anyone, he thought, but then something caught his eye. The blanket, their makeshift colour, did not completely cover the hole. It was drawn back, and someone was looking in! Scurrying out of the water as quickly as he could, Vrór growled and raised his axe. But a blink or two revealed to him his mistake. It was a familiar face that now peered at him with a strange expression.

“Lindir!” Vrór called out to him, though in a low, grating whisper. He chuckled under his breath. “We have them, they are coming!”

With that he turned around, and grabbing the torch from upon the rocky wall, he held it over the water and peered down into it. Tossing his axe aside for the moment, he dipped his arm into the water, holding out his hand both to give the children a sense of direction, and to help them out when they reached him. He counted the seconds as hours as he waited to catch a glimpse of one of them rising to the surface.

[Regin Hardhammer]

By the time Ishkur arose, the slim crescent of the moon had risen and shone down from above. He had slept late and had only woken when there was an odd thunderclap of some sort that lit up the dark night sky. Ishkur thought that rather strange since he could not hear any more thunder and there was no hint of rain on the horizon.

The other Orcs had already departed from camp and headed to the slavers' place to pillage and raid. He cursed himself for his lateness. If he did not hurry, the others would already have gotten there and skimmed away the very best of the pickings. Perhaps if he was lucky, he could pick up a sword just as fine as the glittering jeweled blade that Makdush had found. After binding his own sword to his side, Ishkur set out at a fast pace straight to the portion of camp where he knew the horses and donkeys were kept. He had a real weakness for horse flesh and could not wait to bring down another animal and fill his stomach to bulging.

As Ishkur walked quickly towards the camp, he began to wonder if they had made the right choice to stay here for another two nights. He had been the one most responsible for that. Maybe he should not have been so sure of himself and instead listened to the misgivings of his friend Gwerr who had counseled caution. It might be a risky business to raid the same people three or four times in a row. Could the slavers be so stupid that they wouldn't set up extra guards against the intruders?

It was extremely rare for Ishkur to have second thoughts about anything. Like most Orcs, his general impulse was to act first and ask questions later. Sometimes he didn't even bother to ask questions at all. But today he was feeling rather strange. He sensed that something important was going to happen and it was something that had not happened in a very long time. What bothered him most was that he wasn't sure if that "something" would be good or bad. He just knew it would be very different.

All his misgivings about the camp raid were abruptly swept away in just a few minutes. Even from a distance he could see that the entire place was in an uproar. Horses and donkeys were running everywhere. A number of them had escaped from their pens and were now taking off across the plains. Many of the slavers were running around in circles trying to catch the horses and lead them back to camp. They were not doing a very good job. Ishkur laughed to see one man kicked in the ribs by a rearing horse and another try to scramble onto a horse's back only to be thrown back down on the ground.

Iskkur was one of the rare orcs who actually had a way with horses. When he wasn't eating them, he was fairly adept at grooming and riding the beasts. He had a certain respect for the animals, although he would never have admitted that to another living Orc. Once in a while, he even thought about starting a small farm in the foothills of the mountains where he could raise horses to sell both for their flesh and as riding animals.

Ishkur laughed again as he saw one horse play cat and mouse with a man by letting him get closer and then at the very last moment running away so that the man could not touch him. These slavers did not know horses very well. They should have crept quietly through the grass to approach, grunted some soft sounds and gradually let the animal amble into a small canyon or dell from which it would be harder to escape. Ishkur even knew how to knot a rope and, tossing it through the air, make it sing and come down securely over the horse's neck. He'd learned this skill in recapturing runaway slaves and dragging them back to the plantation, but it also worked well with horses. Although he had no rope with him, he could not resist trying to track one of the animals and secure it for his own. This time he would not eat it. Instead he would use it as a riding beast. Relatively few orcs were adept at riding horseback and maybe someday he could use this animal to help start a little place of his own where he could raise a whole herd of stallions and mares. For the moment he would ignore the grumbling in his stomach.

He singled out an especially fine black stallion thatalready had a saddle on its back and a bridle with reins. He began tracking the animal across the plains. For some time he stalked the beast, approaching close but not too close and uttering soft sounds to calm the creature. The horse veered to the west and remained on the perimeter of camp until the two of them came to a stream. Ishkur had a piece of luck when the animal plodded into the water and stopped to drink. One more moment of drinking, and Ishkur actually managed to approach the horse. The beast stared out quizically at him. Generally, the horse did not like orcs, but this particular orc seemed quieter and gentler than others he had seen on the plantations. He was certainly no worse than many of the slavers. The horse raised his head, whinnied a welcome, and let Ishkur come over and mount up on his back without too much of a fuss.

Proudly mounted on the beast whom he named Thunderclap in honor of the great noise in the sky, Ishkur decided that he would not do any more raiding tonight and instead would head back to his own camp. There would be no more horseflesh for dinner, but he could be content eating some of the food that the women had given him. He was about to turn around and gallop off towards the east and south when something unexpected caught his eye. He stared and stared again. There were a three men standing by the steam. Ishkur wondered what they were doing way out here on the backside of the camp. It looked as if they were up to some kind of mischief. He stared closer at the men. One was nothing special and one was very tall but old wearing a brown robe. He could run the two of them down in a minute and briefly considered doing this for a little fun. But when he looked at the third figure, all thoughts of swordplay left his mind.

It was an Elf. It was definitely an Elf. Ishkur's skin tingled unpleasantly at the thought of being so close to an Elf. Orcs hated Elves with a passion and Ishkur was no exception. Ishkur wondered if this was the only Elf around or if there were more. He should get back and tell Gwerr about the Elf but first he wanted to take a closer look to see if there were any others in the vicinity. After dismounting the horse, he led him forward by the reins and stayed within the cover of the bushes until he was close enough to make out the Elf's face. As Ishkur's eyes fixed on the Elf, his stomach dropped down to his toes. A chill spread through his entire body. There were no other Elves in the area, but he was certain he had seen this Elf before a very, very long time ago. He did not know where or when.

There was a lot about his early life that Ishkur could not remember. The first thing he could recall was being brought up in front of Morgoth and bowing down on bended knee swearing allegiance to the Dark Shadow. That was his life. It was who he was. Whatever he was before that moment was all gone. But a little voice whispered in his head that this Elf had something to do with that earlier period he could not remember. Part of Ishkur wanted to run up and take the Elf's head off his shoulders. The other part wanted to approach the Elf and see if he might possibly recognize him. Mostly, he wanted to get away from the Elf and from that place and never see him again. Ishkur remounted and let out a fierce battle cry, kicked the horse in the flanks and took off at a gallop with no idea of where he was going.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Carl became anxious as the shouts of men could be heard closer now, and still Kwell had not followed Azhar into the water, but hesitated watching her disappear gracefully under its surface, staring. The hobbit had to do something to move this boy on, but wasn’t sure just how to go about it. Kwell seemed beyond his ken, and all the ideas that sprang to the hobbit’s mind didn’t apply where there was no home, and probably no family to return to.

“Don’t give up, lad,” Carl finally said. “I know you want more in life than to be a slave, or you wouldn’t have troubled yourself to escape with the others. You’ve had the notion at least once to risk everything and see where it would take you. Do it again then, and if you find you don’t like our company, you can go off on your own after we’re out of this mess. But the truth is, I’d be much happier discussing this over a nice supper, than just now. What do you say?”

Kwell scarcely heard the hobbits voice. Inside his head, all he could hear was the slight sound Azhar had made as she slipped beneath the surface of the water. Nothing remarkable to anyone who had been around water at all in his life, but to Kwell, that deep breath she took, the slight gasp at the coldness of the water, struck him in a strange way. He would do the same thing – take that deep breath – but what if it were to be his last? What if he didn’t make it to the other side? One couldn’t breath beneath water, one couldn’t see beneath water. . .

Harsh voices overhead started Kwell out of his terror. He looked up sharply, first upward towards the grate then down at Carl. He wanted Kwell to go down. . .swim under rock. . .his mind froze again.

“What do you want with us?” Kwell asked.

“O glory!” Carl exclaimed, in a hoarse and impatient whisper, while looking nervously up at the grate, and the swarthy faces peering through it. “Nothing, or rather this something, I want you to follow Azhar through that hole as quick as you are able, before you are shipped back to Nurn while I end up in the bird cage of some Easterling prince!” This was in fact, precisely what the hobbit was imagining at the moment, as the sound of rattling keys was heard above them.

“But I can’t swim,” the boy said faintly.

“Neither can I!” Carl snapped, pushing Kwell toward the wall of the pit. The boy stumbled into the water. “Go! Hurry up! It’s your only chance of escape. Vrór and the girl will be waiting for you on the other side,” the hobbit added over his shoulder as he removed the spud bar (http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.hooverfence.com/tools/spud-bar.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.hooverfence.com/tools/digger-tamper.htm&h=441&w=750&sz=42&hl=en&start=2&tbnid=qDP1V66-w6IzeM:&tbnh=83&tbnw=141&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dspud%2Bbar%26svnum%3D100%26hl%3Den%26 lr%3D%26sa%3DG) from his belt. The grate swung open. “ Don’t worry, it’s not over your head on either side of the wall. Just hold your breath and push yourself along. But hurry!”

The hobbit held the spud bar ready in his hand, as a tan and well-muscled arm appeared overhead, hastily lowering a torch to light the interior of the pit. Carl ran forward immediately, and with a jump succeeded in dislodging the torch, knocking it sizzling into the water. There was an angry shout, as the arm withdrew and another torch was called for. But before Carl reached the water to escape, he heard a heavy thud, as one of the slavers dropped to the floor behind him, growling the most wicked threats.

The hobbit knew it would take a moment or two before the man’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. And without breathing he padded softly to the side of the stream, wadding in as quietly as he could. But as he crept toward the exit his foot struck a sharp stone, and in reflex he pulled it up, loosing his balance only to catch himself from falling by shooting an outstretched hand against the stonewall. Unfortunately, it was the same hand that still held the spud bar. And as the metallic clang rang loudly against the rock, Carl leapt wildly for the hole under the stream. The slaver was at his heels in no time, catching the bottom of the hobbit’s trousers along with a great hank of hair from his feet, before they had disappeared into the tunnel. Carl desperately searched around him for a good handhold, hoping to pull himself forward out of reach, but ended up locking his elbows at his side so that he could not be easily drawn out. Tears would have come to his eyes had he not been submerged, for it felt as though the tops of his feet would be torn off hair by hair as he tried to wriggle and kick himself free. But soon the slaver had moved his grip up to Carl’s ankles, and the hobbit knew his locked arms were no match for the full weight of this man pulling him back out of the tunnel, and so waiting for the next time the slaver renewed his hold, Carl twisted plunging the spud bar down as sharply as he could, and the hands were quick to release him.

Free at last and his lungs nearly bursting, the hobbit shot through the hole to the other side, gasping for air as he surfaced. Everything seemed black before his eyes as he panted, quite unable to speak. But within a few seconds he could see the torch and then the others safely on this side of the wall. Azhar and Kwell were walking toward the way out, while Vrór waited for him to recover. “The slavers,” Carl wheezed, leaning on the spud bar. “They found the hole. They’re too big...I think.”

“Let us hope so,” said Vrór, clapping the hobbit’s shoulder and quickly guiding him toward the others.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil had been the last to return to the meeting point. He had arrived with a scowl on his face and deep pools of worry shadowing his eyes. Motioning Lindir and Rôg to his side, the wizard had hurriedly described for them what he had learned while hiding in the bushes on the far side of camp: how Imak had commanded his men to round up the horses and prepare for an assault later that night.

"May I speak bluntly?" Aiwendil continued, glancing over at Lindir. "I fear Carl and Vrór will return too late. If we gallop out of here with twenty-five slavers on our heels, we will bring death to the very people we've pledged to protect. Neither we nor they are prepared to fight a battle tonight. Perhaps one of us, either Rôg or myself, should ride ahead and at least give them some warning,"

"Aiwendil, I am not surprised by what you say. This Imak sounds like a hothead. And if we were greater in number, I would do as you suggest. But we are so few. I can not spare a single man."

"But what about Dorran?" the older man pressed. "Perhaps he could go."

"I am afraid not. He and I were fighting together on the plain when two of the slaver guards seemed ready to ride back to Imak and tell him what was happening on this side of camp. Rather than risk having that happen, Dorran taunted the guards with his presence and raced out from camp with the two men riding close behind. Dorran should have returned a while ago, but I see no sign of him."

"You are saying he was hurt or lost?"

"I do not know, though I wish I did. But I do know we can't afford to lose any more men before we get those children out of camp. As to this Imak, perhaps he will not be so quick to launch an attack. From what I have seen, his men are having no easy time with those horses. Let us hope the horses will make it hard enough that the slavers can not go anywhere tonight. I am afraid we will have to be content with that, at least for the moment."

"And Dorran?" inquired Aiwendil in a husky tone. "This news will not sit well with Athwen, nor with any in our company. Is there anything that can be done? Anything at all?"

"For now, our duty lies here. But once the children are delivered and the slavers vanquished or run off, I will leave no stone unturned to find out what has happened to him."

"Perhaps Dorran is still coming?" pressed the older man.

Lindir answered in a level voice, "We can hope, but Dorran knew how urgent the children's need was. If he could return, I believe he would have done so by now. Indeed, if only Carl and Vrór could sprout wings and fly back here at once. But wishes without action to back them up accomplish little. Meanwhile, we must all be prepared to fight. I do not think we will get out of this camp without a struggle."

Lindir stared pointedly at Rôg and then looked again at the entrance to the tunnel, wondering just how long they would need to wait until the rescuers returned with the children.

[Brinniel]

Due to her poor vision, Shae was nearly on top of the bodies before she saw them. She immediately reacted, yanking on the reins and bringing her horse to a sudden halt. Carefully, she dismounted to further investigate.

There were two bodies, both dark haired and dark skinned. Examining the armour, Shae identified the dead men as slavers. Unanswered questions suddenly overwhelmed Shae. What could have possibly happened here? As she scanned the bloody ground, a shape caught her eye. Stepping closer, she could see that it was another man, but this one was not a slaver. Though Shae could not see the man's face, it was easy to tell that he was much fairer than the other two simply by looking at the colour of his hair. Glancing at the armour, Shae grew curious- it was like nothing she had ever seen. The sword that lay beside him was yet even stranger. The blade was covered in foreign symbols she could not read. Shae easily concluded that this man was the killer of the two slavers, yet she remained puzzled by his identity. She had never seen any kind like him before.

After minutes of pondering, Shae began to turn back to her horse when suddenly the strange man stirred.

He's alive.

Immediately, Shae bent over and turned the man over onto his back. Examining the body, the woman could see the wounds weren't nearly critical. A few scrapes and bruises, a gash to the head, and perhaps a cracked rib- this man could easily live. Shae cursed herself again and again for nearly abandoning someone- someone who had killed her enemy. The woman unwrapped the bandages from her hands and placed them around the man's head to help slow the bleeding. She cursed herself again for being a poor ex-slave unable to give the man better care. In the distance, Shae could hear shouting and the clashing of swords. Pickening up her pace, she brought her horse to the unconscious man. Lifting the him onto the horse was not an easy task, as he was nearly twice her size. After several long minutes, Shae managed to accomplish the arduous task.

Back on the horse, with the injured man sprawled in front of her, Shae's mind took over again. What was she supposed to do now? Turn around back to the camp? No. She was not ready to face Khamir again. Not yet. The best she could do for the man was bring him back to his people. But she did not know where that was. Hearing the sounds of fighting once again brought Shae back to attention and away from all thoughts. Instinct took over and before she knew what she was doing, she was galloping towards the noises.

It did not take long for Shae to find the source of the sounds. Careful not to get too close, the woman slowed her horse to a stop. Her eyes widened at what she saw. It was the slavers' camp, but not at all how she expected to find it. It seemed the entire camp was in chaos. But who was attacking? More of the injured man's kind? Shae squinted her good eye, hoping to better make out the small figures, but was unsuccessful. She thought about moving slightly closer to the camp, but before she could act upon it, the man in front of her began to stir again.

[Durelin]

Vrór

The Dwarf had never felt so thrilled with hope in his life as one by one he helped the girl, boy and Hobbit out of the water onto rough, coarse dirt that he appreciated now more than he had ever loved even good stone. But what the Hobbit had to say brought Vrór’s momentary happiness to an end, as he realized just how far they were from victory, or even safety. Of course it was only a matter of time before the slavers would know of their rescue, but still it caught him in his stroke of optimism unawares.

“They’re too big…I think.”

Helping Carl out, Vrór’s voice was full of deep concern, though it was steady, “Let us hope so.” He knew there was not much else they could do but hope. And move.

As Carl reoriented himself, allowing a moment for his breathing to slow at least a little – though the Dwarf’s heart was racing long after he had caught his breath – the children were already prepared to get out of the tunnel. They both seemed to have a good head on their shoulders. Likely survival was something they were accustomed to fighting for. The thought pained Vrór as he rushed now to gather up his things. He donned again his belt, picking out his hammer from it, and then his boots, glancing at the water every few seconds, expecting one of those evil men to emerge from it at any moment. He offered the hammer to Kwell, and pulled a small pick mattock, its handle only about a foot in length, from his belt to offer it to Carl.

“We don’t know who will be waiting for us out there. Perhaps the spud bar is more suited for the young lady.”

With axe and torch in hand, Vrór determined without speaking that he would lead the way out of the tunnel. They moved as quickly as they could, shuffling along, while trying not to make too much noise. The seconds were agonizing as their ears strained to hear any sign of the slavers following them, none of them daring to look back. Finally they reached the end of the tunnel, and the Dwarf breathed easy for but a heartbeat before he had to prepare himself to face whatever waited for them above ground. He had not seen Lindir since he had first reached this side of the tunnel again, and there was no telling if he or any of the others had even been able to wait any longer for their Dwarf and Hobbit companions.

Pushing aside the blanket with his axe hand in a rush, he popped out, axe and torch at the ready, to find to his relief three of, at this moment, the most beautiful faces he had ever seen: Lindir, Rôg, and Aiwendil…he and Carl had not been abandoned yet. But soon they would all be in trouble. Vrór felt a sting of guilt. He was not even sure where it was his fault lie, but their escape was not going to be easy because of what had happened in the tunnel and the pit. There was nothing to be done about it now, except to make a break for it before two-dozen armed men were chasing them down.

Peeling back the blanket once more with the head of his axe, he motioned to the others to follow him out, and held open the cover while he turned back to address the tall ones.

“They have discovered our goal,” Vrór said in as low a voice as he could manage, as fervent and nerve-wracked as he was. “They know the children are gone. They are too large for our route, but…they know it exists.”

He could not stop a shudder from running through his body, and he found himself in no condition to make any decisions, so he waited in heart rending anticipation as what the Dwarf’s report meant fell onto the two men and elf. Vrór could not shake the feeling of how narrowly he had escaped death in that tunnel, and combined with the knowledge that he was far from safe now, it was enough to make anyone sick. It did not help that his scornful ears told him that a number of the shouts in the camp were headed in this direction.

[Tevildo]

With his body sprawled over the horse's withers and his head hanging down, Dorran managed to open one eye and unsuccessfully tried to get a sideways glance at the rider in the saddle. His head throbbed and, even worse, there was a sharp pain on his left side that seemed to rise and fall with every breath he took. As he managed to lift his head slightly and glimpsed the slavers' camp just a short distance ahead, he began to suspect the worst: he was being hauled off to slavery. It was a misery that Dorran had personally experienced as a child and one that he had no intention of repeating.

Unwilling to acquiesce in such a fate, the young man summoned his last ounce of strength, bellowed out at the top of his lungs in the manner of one of the Riders of Rohan, and leapt off the horse, half sliding and falling and finally landing on the ground in an ungainly heap. He struggled to rise and run away but his knees buckled under him before he could take more than a half dozen paces. The rider was on top of him in a flash, glaring down and commanding him to close his mouth, or they would both be dragged off by the inhabitants of the slavers’ camp.

A wave of embarrassment swept over Dorran. He had evidently made a large miscalculation. The woman’s tattered clothes and the brand that showed on her ankle confirmed that his rescuer was not a slaver but one of the ex-slaves. There was also the fact that his rescuer had attempted to bandage his wounds, something no slaver would ever have done.

Seeing his error, Dorran struggled to spit out a hasty explanation and apology, using his most gentle and respectful tone. “M’lady, I am sorry. Forgive me. I had two slavers on my tail. I feared you were one of these. Instead, I see you have aided me. For that I am grateful. My friends and I were here to rescue the two children from the pit. We come from lands far west to help lead the slaves of Nurn to freedom. Perhaps, lady, you are one of these?”

Dorran grimaced and held his side as another wave of pain descended. He did not even wait for the lady’s answer. The words came more slowly now as he struggled to get them out. “My friends….my friends are west of the camp by the stream bed. I…must….go now. I must help them. For they will need all the stout arms they can get to strike against the foul jailers. Go back to safety. Please....take your horse. Flee. I will make my own way to my friends.”

With that Dorran leaned back, held his head, and moaned.

[piosenniel]

‘Perhaps one of us, either Rôg or myself, should ride ahead and at least give them some warning...’

He half heard the suggestion Aiwendil was making and heard even less of the rest of the discussion. His left shoulder ached fiercely and along his flank ran a long furrow where he’d been injured. He’d stanched the blood along its course with his tunic, but with each movement there was a searing sort of pain that made him quite woozy.

At the end of the hurried little tactic session, Rôg glance up at Lindir, only to find the Elf looking pointedly at him. He stifled a groan, knowing that the blighted man expected him to light out toward the slave group to give warning of the slavers’ plan to attack. It would mean mounting his willful, if not indeed Shadow-spawned beast, and riding at breakneck speed. And what good would that do, he wondered . . . to have some bookish, clerkish sort of fellow come riding into the slave camp shouting out some dire warnings. They would take him, most certainly he thought, for a madman or a pawn of their enemy and most likely dispatch him with what weapons they might have. And for his part – he’d had enough of weapons and injuries for now.

He sidled over to stand near Aiwendil, positioning himself on the far side of the old man, away from Lindir. ‘If there’s to be any hieing off to alert the escaped slaves, I hope that you will consider playing the messenger.’ He stepped back a pace and eyed the wizard. ‘You look more the part, you know. Commanding presence - what with your staff and long beard and snapping eyes and all. And really you’re much better at that authoritative sort of delivery.’ He scratched the back of his neck and smiled wanly at his companion. ‘And besides, I need some time to lick my wounds, so to speak . . . that bowman had a keen eye for his target.’ He shrugged, wincing as he did so. ‘Though, if you really want some company, I’ll come with you.’

Rôg peeked around Aiwendil to where Lindir stood. ‘What ever you want to do is fine with me. But looking at those two wet and bedraggled children, I think we should mount up right away, and get as far from those vile creatures as pass for men as we can.’

[Brinniel]

"My friends and I were here to rescue the two children from the pit. We come from lands far west to help lead the slaves of Nurn to freedom."

The hairs on the back of Shae's neck tingled at these words. She had long ago let Khamir convince her that help would never come. Yet....could it be? Before the woman could respond, the man spoke up again.

“My friends….my friends are west of the camp by the stream bed. I…must….go now. I must help them. For they will need all the stout arms they can get to strike against the foul jailers. Go back to safety. Please....take your horse. Flee. I will make my own way to my friends.”

He had barely stood up when Shae pulled him back down.
"Wait...I can't just let you go. You are in no condition to fight."
The man glared back at her furiously. He opened his mouth, ready to argue, yet realizing he didn't have the energy to even bother, he closed his mouth and started to stand up a second time.

Shae watched the man attempt to find his feet, ready to again protest his foolish actions.

What am I doing?

This thought came abruptly, causing her to hesitate. She had left the camp in rebellion, furious at Khamir. How dare he attempt to order her around when she had spent her entire life struggling to be free of commands? Yet, here she was ordering this man- a total stranger- against his will.

The man had barely made it to his feet, clutching his side, yet his face was filled with determination to return to his friends. Before he could take his first step, Shae stood up and grabbed his arm.

"Wait..." Shae waited for the man to turn around before continuing. "I could be back at my camp, sitting safely with the other ex-slaves and waiting; but instead I am here. I left with the purpose to rescue the two children, and though your company may have beat me to it, it would be foolish to return empty-handed. I won't stop you, if you ride with me to your friends. Deal?"
The man hesitated, then slowly nodded.
"Good. Then let's go."

Shae helped the injured man mount the horse, then took her place in front of him.
"What's your name?" the man asked.
"Shae," she replied. "...And yours?"
"I'm Dorran....of Rohan."
"Rohan?" Her mind instantly when back to her childhood, remembering stories of the Rohirrim. "I have never met anyone from Rohan before."
Between his grimaces, Dorran gave her a smile.
Shae took hold of the reins. "So," she said, staring into the darkness. "In what direction are your friends?"

[Regin Hardhammer]

The three female orcs had not moved from their hiding place in the slagheap. Zagra still held Mazhg in her arms and was trying to comfort her. Both sisters looked upset. Ungolt scrambled up and announced, "I have no more heart to raid. That cat made me afriad. The lights burned my eyes. I am going back to camp." With that she began tramping across the dark plain.

When Ungholt reached camp, she grabbed a handful of turnips to eat and sat down beside the pile of reeds she had gathered earlier that evening. She began to work on weaving a new basket. But all her hard work could not chase Mazhg's words from her head or erase the cat's wild face. Mazhg had seen the cat fade into the shadows and a moment later a man stood in nearly the same place. He had looked at Mazhg strangely. Then the skies had broken open so that all three women plugged their ears and covered their eyes.

Ungolt trembled when she remembered the words that Mazhg used to describe what had happened: it was as if the Dark Lord's wizards had taken control of the night. Ungolt was afraid of meeting a wizard who was master of wild cats and fire and thunder. Could he master her too? She wanted to be free to have a small place of her own but maybe she had made a mistake coming here.

Ungolt began thinking very carefully about what Mazhg had said. The breeding farm owners had said that the Dark Lord had been killed at the end of the last great war. That was why the Orcs no longer had a leader and why the women on the breeding farms had been allowed to go away. If the Dark Lord was dead, Ungolt reasoned, then his wizards must be dead too. But soemone had made the fire.

When Ungolt was young, the others had told her about terrible creatures who hated and killed Orcs, especially young Orcs and women. Ungolt was afraid of regular men, but these monstors were worse. They were orc slayers and powerful wizards who were usually called "Elves". Elves had ugly pointed ears, ate food that tasted like wood, and made sappy music no orc could bear to listen to. By the time Ungolt finished weaving her basket, she had decided the monstor who commanded the cat and the sky fire must be an Elf.

She walked over to the edge of camp to do some personal business and happened to notice that Makdush had thrown out his rusted back-up sword into the bushes. Since makdush had a gleeming new blade, he no longer needed this one. She stared at it and stooped down. Glancing around to make sure that no one was looking, she scooped it into her heavy leather bag. She would need something to defend herself and her friends against the powerful Elf wizards.

[Nogrod]

Gwerr (and Ishkur)

Gwerr had slept most of the day quite peacefully, only waking up to the occasional burst of small birds flying low enough over the orc-camp or sudden calls from the slavers encampment. As the evening crept along he finally awakened and immediately saw that most of the others had gone searching for loot into the Slaver-camp, even though Ishkur had especially said that they should wait and stay easy for one night, to await for the night the slavers would be gone. Oh you blasted fools! You maggots and orphaned mummies! You just walk there in the middle of the camp that is already buzzing like a nest of bees because of the last night! Thanks to Makdush and his brain-dead Uruk-fellows...

“Have you gone berserk? Alarm then tonight and farewell to our next night of easy pillage. You get all killed and hunted. Mousebrains you are.” He cursed with a low tone, relieving a bit of his anger with it. There seemed to be a couple of orcs still sleeping in pits and hollows on the ground. The Uruk seemed all to be fast asleep in peace. Gwerr acknowledged the fact with reluctance. These Uruks seem to have more brains than most of us others...

It would serve those vermins just right to get caught tonight and get a nasty death! Fools you are, impatient children of the men you are! Gwerr was again loosing his temper. But what about our dream then? He stopped immediately with the thought. I can’t do it alone. There is no dream without the others...

Gwerr had already started towards the slaver-camp as the last thoughts were passing his mind. He was increasing his speed, going through the thicket quiet and fast as a shadow passes the ground at dusk.

Soon, just before coming to the perimeter of the camp, he heard the horse whine and the clatter it’s rider made. “Ishkur! What the heck?” He ran to Ishkur and took hold of the reins of the horse that were hanging loose. The giant beast clearly didn’t approve of either orcs presence, but Gwerr had handled too many horses during the couple of thousand years of life-span he had as not to give the animal a chance. He tightened the reins and and took a stiff grasp on its muzzle-rein, pulling it’s head down a bit to show who was the master here.

“What are you doing my old friend? You said yourself we should lay low tonight! And here you are, like an Easterling chieftain leading an army of dim-witted morons and playing the fool of everyone!” But as Gwerr was venting his anger and disappointment towards Ishkur, he suddenly saw his face.

“What is it now? It looks like you’ve seen the Dark Lord himself, or an elf-King?”

[Undómë]

‘Who is it?’ Mazhg whispered to her sister. She could hear voices, men’s voices just beyond the great trunk of the tree they stood behind.

‘It’s that one we gave food to,’ Zagra whispered back. ‘Talking to that one with the black fur on. You seen him; he’s got the metal over his one eye hole.’ She pressed her fingers to her lips, urging Mazhg to keep silent.

What is it now? It looks like you’ve seen the Dark Lord himself, or an elf-King?

Mazhg peeked around the tree at the two men, then darted back quickly. ‘Elf-King?’ She narrowed her eyes considering the fact that that unfamiliar word was paired with ‘Dark Lord’. Did it have anything to do with the wizard, the cat, she’d seen? She turned the word Elf over in her mind.

‘Zagra!’ she whispered, pulling her sister down into a crouch near the base of the tree. ‘Do you remember hearing any stories about these Elfs? Zagra shook her head ‘no’. ‘Let’s just listen in,’ Mazhg went on. ‘Maybe that on will say more about these Elfs.

[Regin Hardhammer]

At first Ishkur grunted and stared at the ground to avoid looking Gwerr in the eyes. What had been said made sense, but Ishkur refused to admit he might have been wrong by urging the orcs to stay and continue to raid. He was surprised that Gwerr's final question had been so close to the truth It was so close that Ishkur began to wonder how his friend had managed to crawl inside his head and discover what was hiding there.

Still, Ishkur did not want to risk an argument with Gwerr when they were inside the enemy's camp. The orc dismounted from his horse and good naturedly clapped the other orc on the back as he barked out a reasonably cheerful answer. "And you say I don't know what I'm doing? While you were sleeping and probably oogling women in camp, I was out here spying and doing an orc's job. Look around, Gwerr! It's the perfect time not to be seen." Ishkur wagged his finger towards the general chaos that was still going on around them.

"And I found out a lot. Really a lot!" Ishkur pulled himself up to his full height and grinned proudly at Gwerr. "Some men have attacked the camp. A few robbers pillaging things down by the stream. Probably slaves who've decided to get even. And yes! You're right, Gwerr. Somehow they've made an agreement with one of the Elf-kings. I saw it with my own eyes. There were men and an Elf working together. If you don't believe me, I'll take you over and show you. Or maybe you're afraid of Elves and wouldn't want to come?" Here Ishkur grinned slyly so that Gwerr would understand he was only poking fun. "Anyways it's all good news for us. These slavers are going to be hopping mad. They'll want to have some slave heads on a stick. For sure, they'll ride out tomorrow. Maybe even tonight. All we do is stick around till they're gone. Then the place is all ours. I already have a fine battle horse. Maybe I'll pick up some gold or jewels. And those flasks of ale look plenty inviting."

"Of course, I want you at my side to share in the loot. I wouldn't want Makdush to get any more treasure. It belongs in good orc hands. But I can't stop you from leaving if that's what you want. For my part, I'm staying here, but I won't tell you to go or stay." Ishkur's voice turned serious. "When I left that plantation, I was sick of being ordered around by the Uruks. I'm not going to start ordering other orcs around, not unless it's a matter of a warrior's honor."

"So how about it, Gwerr, want to get a look at a real Elf king? There's great honor to be had in taking down an Elf."

[Child of the 7th Age]

There was something in Rog's voice and demeanor that stopped Aiwendil from responding in his familiar cranky way. For the first time since returning from the far side of camp, the wizard took a hard look at his friend. He was concerned by what he saw. All worries about the rescue and the children's arrival were temporarily pushed to one side. Rôg was hurting badly despite the mask of cheerfulness he was still struggling to hold in place. Aiwendil chided himself for having been so unaware of his friend's problem. The young man was not the type to complain and preferred to keep problems to himself, which made his reference to "licking wounds" even more surprising. Aiwendil suspected that Rôg's consition was considerably worse than he was admitting.

The wizard spoke in a firm, gentle voice that left little room for contradiction, "You're right. We do need to help these poor wretches escape. But you are in no shape to race ahead to the slave camp. I should not have suggested that. Take care of yourself, my friend. Return to the knoll and let Athwen dress those wounds before we ride out." Not bothering to wait for an answer, Aiwendil explained to the others, "Rôg is hurt. I'm not sure how badly but he is no condition to fight."

Lindir looked up at the two young slaves and then glanced back at Rôg. Despite Azhar's brave demeanor in the tunnel, it was clear to the Elf that she was not well. Both the girl and Rôg needed to be led from the camp as quickly as possible. Neither were strong enough to defend against an attack. The Elf weighed his choices and then resolved, "Aiwendil, you and Rôg and the girl must leave immediately. What I would give for two horses! But we will have to do without them. I don't think the slavers will approach from the west. If anything, they will be at our backs. Carl and Vrór and I will follow a little ways behind. If a problem develops, we will stand our ground and hold off the slavers long enough for your party to cross over to where Athwen and the horses wait. Aiwendil, if anything should happen....if any of the slavers should get through, you must defend Rôg and the girl by using whatever means you can. I will leave that to you. And if our party does not make it back to the knoll within a few minutes of your own arrival, you must all mount up and take off for the slave camp together."

Aiwendil nodded as Lindir replied, "May Varda protect us all until we meet again at the grassy knoll or the lands beyond.."

The slave boy was last to speak to the Elf, "But what am I to do?"

"You are not a child. Neither you or the girl. I was wrong to think of you that way. You are free to choose. Go with Aiwendil or stay with us to fight if that is needed. Either way, you will need a weapon."

From inside his belt, the Elf drew out a dagger, a stout silver blade whose hilt was emblazoned with an intricate pattern of leaves and vines. "I crafted this blade when I was your age. Take it. It's yours. You've earned this weapon by your bravery and endurance." Then he walked over to where Carl and Vrór stood. "We'll let the others get a head start and follow a short distance behind: not too far, but enough that the slavers will take us as the bait and not be tempted to look too far ahead."

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

Just before they left, Aiwendil yanked a limb from one of the bushes beside the stream and handed it to Rôg to lend him some support. Then he offered his arm to Azhar who quietly took it. Finally, he beckoned his group to start walking as quickly as they could. The others remained near the stream bank, crouching in the bushes.

[Folwren]

‘You are not a child. . .You are free to choose.’

The tall elf had said that. Facing a dripping, cold, frightened and stubborn boy, the elf had said that. Kwell couldn’t help the shiver that passed from his head to foot as Lindir handed him the dagger.

“I crafted this blade when I was your age. Take it. It’s yours. You’ve earned this weapon by your bravery and endurance.” Kwell looked at the dagger for a moment, saying nothing. That wasn’t true. There had been no real bravery and endurance. Azhar had been the one who was brave. Kwell had simply endured because he had to, not because he was brave. He looked up, tempted to say so, but Lindir had gone.

Kwell watched silently as Rôg limped away, leaning on a stick for support, and Aiwendil followed with Azhar. He felt weary and cold. The pit had been warm, the slight night breeze on his wet skin made the open air feel chill. He was bruised and sore, but Kwell decided to stay behind. What were all these discomforts and momentary pains compared to the ability of being free to choose, and then to fight for that freedom? Never before had he been able to make any choice of his own. At the plantation, all the slaves were treated worse than animals, and with the escaped slaves, he had been considered a child.

He squared his shoulders and clenched his jaw shut to keep his teeth from knocking together. He walked forward to stand by Lindir’s side.

“I’ll stay with you and the. . .hobbits,” he said, a little hesitantly as he darted a look towards Carl and Vrór. He drew a deep breath and looked down. He studied the dagger in his hand, working up the courage to say something he’d never uttered in his life. “Thanks,” he finally managed, and felt his face grow hot.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Hadith sensed that Adnan was about to leave. From the corner of his eye he saw his movement.

“I thank you for your words of my father... I never got to know him. I remember just bits and pieces from my early childhood. But I believe you are right about him.” Hadith raised his eyes to meet Adnan’s. His eyes were gleaming faintly from the tears he had wept and from those which tried to force their way out from inside him. He bit his lip and then sighed somewhat resignedly: “But you are clearly misinformed about me. I’m not a wise man... I’m just a guy who’s lost and doesn’t know what to do, trying his best, which might not be enough.”

Suddenly Hadith was overwhelmed with sympathy towards Adnan, the lad he had scorned up to the very last minutes. He actually realised, that they were both just young boys searching for what they were and trying to cope with a totally different world that had been thrown to them; baffled, insecure, afraid. This freedom... it’s been lot more troublesome I ever imagined.

“Please Adnan, if you have nothing more urgent to do, sit by me for a while.” Hadith said, attempting a casual tone. No one would have said he managed it. Before Adnan said anything, Hadith continued: “We’re both loners, aren’t we? Lost in this free world. I have Khala and Cuáran, in away. They have looked after me every now and then since my father died. They were friends of my mother...” With that his voice broke and he started to weep quietly again. The memory of her mother and her death came vividly to his mind.

Hadith tried to recollect himself but it wasn’t easy. In the end he managed to half whisper his words to Adnan who hadn’t dared to move anywhere while Hadith had been crying. “Do you have anyone?”

[Durelin]

Adnan

Adnan could not have been more shocked when Hadith actually asked him to stay. No one had voiced any desire for the fifteen-year-old’s company before, and he did not know quite how to react. His body worked in autopilot as he obeyed what was not even a command and sat back down. He had spent so long following orders… He was rather lost these days, now that he felt he actually was going somewhere. Hadith’s remarks that followed matched Adnan’s thoughts all too well, and sent a chill through his body, which forced him to shudder. He hoped the other young man hadn’t noticed. It seemed not, since the he was lost in his own thoughts.

The boy could not help but feel even more awkward now that Hadith was being so open with him, even though it made him feel warmer inside than he had felt in a long time, even though he felt honored. The slightly fairer skinned man would never know how much he was giving to Adnan just by telling him about his parents, those who cared for him, and how much it hurt that they were gone. The emotion – pain the sharpest – in his voice gave the younger man the deepest sense of what it meant to have someone love you, which was something Adnan had never been able to even begin to understand.

The awkwardness reached a new peak for the boy as Hadith burst into tears once again. Adnan felt some kind of pain close to his heart, but it did not pierce it: it was too strange to the boy, empathy, much less sympathy, was something he had learned to avoid. He was prepared to say something to break the silence and anguished sobs, but then Hadith broke out of his tears for a moment, though his voice shook violently.

“Do you have anyone?”

Adnan was caught with his mouth halfway open, and it remained that way, as he slowly and painfully realized that he did not know how to answer the question. He forced his mind to think. Did he have…“someone?” But what kind of someone? Someone like Hadith’s parents, like Khala and Cuáran? No one like them. He hadn’t really thought about what “having” someone was like. No one had ever been free enough for him to have…

“I guess not,” he said, more drearily than he really felt. He quickly spoke up again after a short pause, disliking the idea that Hadith might think of him as lonely or pathetic, pitiable. “I mean…not anymore… I mean, I had my mother, for a while, I guess…but there were my sisters and brother… I was older than them. Mostly I took care of them when my mother couldn’t. I never really felt like I “had” someone…in that way, at least…at least no one in particular…” he trailed off as he tried to put into words the deeper memories of his childhood. It had been only three, maybe four years, but he had already forgotten so much. It was astounding how quickly time could erase anything.

Yet again he felt he had successfully played off his loneliness as something of no matter, and he felt both filled with regret and stubborn determination. He would never ask for the help of others, he would never ask for another’s company… And yet he felt Hadith was undoubtedly the better man for being able to do so.

Suddenly there was a loud shout of someone calling for the camp’s attention, and both Adnan and Hadith’s heads shot up too look over in the direction it came from: only a few yards away where Khamir and Beloan stood. Adnan felt a sudden rush of fear. Were those golden monsters back for them already?

[Durelin]

Khamir

“Free Peoples!” Khamir shouted a term he had heard some of the westerners use to address the former slaves. The sound of it was proud, and it asserted the very fact that they were now free, which was something he dearly wished to remind them of.

“Anyone who wishes to head after the Easterlings, the bounty hunters, and free again the children…our children…may prepare to leave as soon before dawn as possible.”

A murmur rose up all around the camp, everyone wondering all at once about this sudden decision. Khamir could only imagine their thoughts and their words: finally a decision, trying to make up for his cowardice, pretending to be leader, playing games of heroes… He was careful not to allow his ears to hone in on any of the voices.

“All of those who remain must be prepared to guard the camp, particularly if anything should go wrong.”

The one-armed man ran a hand through his hair, and looked a great deal like his former self: a weary plantation slave.

“I would never claim to be a hero. I would never claim that I have done anything right. I only tell you now what I know…and what I plan to do. No one must come with me. We are free to do as we will. And I will not sit here any longer… I-“ he paused, and reached down to collect the two knives he had been sharpening and placed them in his bag. As soon as he rose up again, he finished his sentence, with no less assurance, “am sorry.”

Knowing not what else to say, and not at all certain about what he had said, Khamir shouldered his bag, and was followed by Beloan a few yards away from the camp. This would require careful planning, and the Southron man felt a slight thrill of excitement. It was just like the raids of old, only with more precious spoils than ever before…

[Tevildo]

"There...over there....at least that's where they were when I led the guards away from camp."

After Dorran and Shae trotted up to the edge of the stream bed, both dismounted to have a closer look. There was no sign of anyone, although the ground was trampled, and Dorran could see an assortment of muddy footprints leading up and down the bank.

Dorran shook his head and scowled, "Maybe they've left?" His face went pale as a new wave of pain caused him to stop and grab his side. The gash on his head was no more than an annoyance, but the searing pain coming from his ribs was definitely getting worse. He was privately wondering if something had gone wrong. Perhaps his friends had failed in their task and been kidnapped by slavers or something even worse had happened. Dorran refused to give in to his fear. Moreover, he could see no evidence of fighting, no splashes of blood or tattered scraps of clothing fallen on the ground; more likely, his friends had finished the rescue and taken off for the meeting spot.

"Shae, I do think my friends have already ridden out, but let's check the area before we follow them. I'll go this way." Dorran pointed towards the plain and added. "Work your way back along the bank but not too far. Keep your weapon close at hand. We'll meet here in a few minutes." Dorran drew his sword and Shae followed suit as the two slowly proceeded in different directions along the stream bed, searching for anything that would give them a clue to what had happened. Dorran was on foot but Shae had remounted her horse.

Dorran could find nothing suspicious to the west of camp and had decided to turn back when he heard Shae's angry cry. Despite the unrelenting pain in his side, he forced himself to run back along the stream bed. There, at the entry to the tunnel where Carl and Vrór had gone down to do their work, stood a tall figure with slightly pointed ears who was holding a dagger to Shae's bare neck.

"Lindir, no!" Dorran sprang forward to explain and placed his own hand on top of the Elve's arm. "She's my friend, one of the slaves."

Lindir's sword dropped immediately to his side. Then he stepped back and extended his hand in greeting. "My pardon, lady. A hundred pardons. When I saw someone on a horse, I mistook you for one of the slavers. We are here to help you and your people and this is no way to start off."

Shae eyed Lindir suspiciously. She had never in her life seen an Elf. But for some reason she could not understand Shae extended her own hand out and touched Lindir's for an instant. Dorran gave a private sigh of relief.

Then Lindir turned to Dorran, "I am so glad to see you alive. You had me worried. But Rôg's been hurt, and one of the slaves we rescued. Aiwendil left with them for the meeting point not more than five minutes before you came. I'm waiting here with Carl and Vrór and the young boy Kwell. We know the slavers have discovered us. The tunnel seemed a good a place as any if we're going to surprise them and hold them back to let the others get a good ways out."

Dorran was leaning back against the horse's flank and clutching his side in obvious pain. "I'll stay with you to fight," he added through gritted teeth.

"And I too," added Shae, her eyes showing no hint of fear but only the chance to strike back against the people who had hurt her for so long

Lindir shook his head, "No, Dorran. I don't know what happened. Explanations can wait. But I would no more send you out to battle than you would send one of your own men to war who had already been injured. Don't argue. The slavers will be here any second. Ride due west and catch up with Aiwendil. They could use your sword, and most of all the horse. I don't know if the girl is well enough to walk that far on her own feet."

For one instant, Dorran considered objecting, but realized that Lindir was right in ordering him to go with the other group. He stammered out a quick explanation, "This horse belongs to Shae. I can't just take it for myself."

"Yes. you can," the girl added. "I will stay and fight and you will take care of my horse until I come back and take it from you. And, by the way," she added, "my name is Shae."

Lindir nodded, "Well, then, Shae, your heart is as unselfish as it is bold. Come down into the tunnel and meet the others."

With that, Dorran mounted up, turned his horse, and began cantering towards the west.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Carl emptied his damp shirt of round pebbles he had collected from the streambed, making a pile of them behind the bushes where they were to hide, and lecturing Kwell in the vast differences between hobbits and dwarves, all the while struggling to maintain a straight face. Of course he concentrated on the more obvious differences giving a wide berth to the touchy subjects of politics and general outlook on life. Vrór fortunately, had been too preoccupied with watching the camp as well as the tunnel entrance, to have overheard Kwell’s comment. But Carl had overheard it, and every time it came to mind, his body shook with suppressed mirth until at last a wheezy laugh erupted from him. To think anyone should mistake Vrór for a hobbit! Even the boy had made the connection rather warily, as if reluctant to group the two together. And though the hobbit suspected he himself was quite responsible for the confusion, for he had neglected all proper introductions in the press of events, he couldn’t help but find the humor of it irresistible.

Lindir shot him a sobering albeit not unkindly glance, and Carl tried hard to compose himself. Clearing his throat self-consciously, he apologized to the elf and the boy, and was recovering, when he saw that Vrór pointing wordlessly away from the stream, slightly west of it, looking back at the others to make sure they too saw what he had spied. Squinting, the hobbit could just make out two figures on horseback moving slowly some distance off. Once again Carl reached for the spud bar, but soon realized that the head of the spade that he carried, was gone and must have fallen somewhere in the tunnel. With its highly stylized Gondorian head, he became alarmed that it might prove a calling card to the slavers, alerting them of the efforts of Gondor on the behalf of Mordor’s slaves. Sharing these fears with the others, Lindir quickly proposed to him that Vrór and Kwell accompany him back to the passage underground, quickly looking for it before the riders reached them. He cautioned also that the slavers might have found that they could pass under the rock in the tunnel themselves, and be searching underground even now. He meanwhile, would remain to keep watch on the riders and to warn them of any untoward happenings.

And so the three clambered back inside the passage, and stood listening for a moment to see if they were alone in that catacomb, before they hurried along toward the camp, scanning the floor of the tunnel as they went. They had not gone more than a dozen yards when Kwell found the spade in the water. And bending to pick it up, he returned it to Carl observing that among the other things perhaps hobbits were more fortunate than other’s as well. And the farmer had to admit that it did certainly seem true, at least today, for who else had such friends that would risk running the gauntlet just to remedy such carelessness.

But just as they turned back to rejoin Lindir, they heard a signal from the elf. And gathering together at the mouth of the tunnel, they waited in silence, ready spring to his aid if needed. All was eerily still, until they recognized a voice. Dorran had returned, and was calling out to Lindir. But who was the second rider? Carl wondered. And after a moment or two he heard the horse galloping away. The curtain was quickly removed, and Lindir bid them to come out as he folded the rough blanket neatly. But instead of Dorran, an armed woman faced them, slight and attractive. Swathed as she was in ragged clothes, and wearing the frown of a hard life, Carl knew without being told that she was no slaver, but had been one of those to suffer their cruelty.

She said that she was Shae, and she had come looking for Azhar and Kwell.

But before she could explain further, both her and Lindir’s attention became fixed on dark shapes that were intermittently passing before the glowing fires of the slavers’ camp. Two shapes were rapidly growing larger. And they were heading directly for the gully.

Jumping across to move further down stream, back to the heavy brush, Carl gave Kwell his knife as they organized themselves on the bank opposite the tunnel entrance, so that they had a clear view of both the hole and the camp that lay beyond it. Kwell and Shae crouched waiting, off to Lindir’s right, and Vrór and the hobbit were hidden among the bushes on his left as the two slavers approached the gully in the moonlight.

Slinking about, the two men hopped down to the stream, noiselessly following it toward the place were the others were concealed. As they neared the tunnel’s entrance they slowed, examining it and the ground before moving on. After a short distance they stopped. “They are gone,” one finally said, straightening his back. “It must have been a slave child with a horse that snuck in and carried those brats off. See the hooves marks and small footprints here? Came from the west... one of their cronies no doubt... from that group of slaves. No chance of catching them and teaching them a lesson now.”

“I know...I know.... I suppose we will have to tell Imak then, though he’s in rare form tonight. I don’t relish giving him the bad news. We have waited too long.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll know we can catch them again at their camp. And besides Imak won’t want too many babies now that we know they can fit through that crack. We’ll have to keep them chained together out in the sun, to keep an eye on them. Better to have found out now then after the big raid, eh?”

“You can break it to him then, if you think its a such good thing, and tell him about Hamin too while your at it,” the other slaver said as he pulled himself up out of the gully. “The brute might be able to ride a horse yet, but it will be a while before he can wield a sword or lance as well as he could! If he finds those two, they better watch out, he’s bound to have something in store for them.”

“He was none too happy,” the first laughed following behind the other, as they walked back toward the camp.

“You’d be wild too, if some young whelp nearly took your hand off.”

And as the two men grew smaller, hurrying back to their camp, Carl sat behind the bushes feeling very, very alone and very miserable, hoping that this Hamin might never see Azhar or Kwell ever again.

[piosenniel]

Pio's post -- Rôg

‘May Varda protect us all until we meet again at the grassy knoll or the lands beyond…’ Rôg rolled Lindir’s parting words about in his head as the trio headed away from the slavers’ camp.

. . . "the lands beyond!” It sounded so final. Why must Elves always be so pessimistic? And what possibility was there that I might make it to those “land’s beyond”? he wondered. It sounded like a particularly Elvish sort of thing. Though he thought that perhaps Aiwendil might be the sort to have visited there at one time or another. The old fellow had been many places in his long life it seemed.

He walked on, a little behind Aiwendil and the girl. His side hurt with each step, but it had at least stopped bleeding. It was more as if a line of fire burned now along the shallow gash the arrow had left on his right side. That and the dried blood had glued the inury to his tunic, causing irritation as the material moved back and forth across his skin. He tried to be careful that he did not pull at the material too much and reopen the wound. He flexed his left shoulder just a little. It ached, too, but if he held it close to his body and kept it still, against him, then he found it to be a manageable sort of pain.

His thoughts trailed back to Lindir’s words, back to that one the Elf had named. His thinking fell into rhythm with his slow steps . . . And another thing . . . by the great Winged One, shouldn’t this Varda that the Elves looked up to so much be kind enough to protect them to the end of the task?

He’d heard somewhat about Varda, from other Elves in whose company he’d found himself in his travels with Aiwendil. He’d pieced together what he could about her; listened closely when she was mentioned. He’d asked no questions, not wanting to seem crude and uneducated in the presence of the First Born. At one time he’d heard that she and her spouse lived high on a mountain far, far to the west. And that west, he’d heard had somehow moved beyond the ends of the world.

Rôg smiled and nodded his head. Well there you go, ninny! he thought to himself, as if a spark of light had suddenly flared in a dark cave. That’s the “lands beyond” now, isn’t it?

Thinking about that far away mountain cheered him a bit as he stumped along leaning on the branch Aiwendil had given him to use as a cane. The Old Ones of his tribe lived in the mountains. Though they were not as far removed as those the Elves spoke of. Better that way, or so Rôg thought. That the Elders should be close to those who need their help.

He looked up from the ground as he walked along, noting in the distance that he could see the horses and the familiar figure of Athwen standing near them. Aiwendil and the girl had drawn farther ahead of him. ‘Wait up!’ he called out to them, picking up his pace.

‘Just woolgathering . . . my thoughts it seems travel faster than my feet.’ He caught up to the pair as they drew near to the thicket where Athwen waited.

‘Azhar,’ he said, coming alongside the girl. He’d not spoken to her since she left the underground pit where the slavers had held her and the boy. ‘I’m Rôg,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you how glad I am we were able to find where you and Kwell were being held and get you out. With any luck and a little patience, we’ll be able to find the others of your folk and get you back to them.’

She looked carefully at him as he spoke, a puzzled look on her face....his voice, for some reason, sounding familiar to her....


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Tevildo's post - Azhar

When Azhar tried to remember where she had heard Rôg's voice, she could only dredge up stray images of flashing lights and roaring animals. Since these made no sense, she tried to push all thoughts aside except the need to place one foot in front of the other and push on as quickly as possible to the chosen meeting point. Struggling for a while to match Rôg's longer stride, she couldn't help but think how out of place the man seemed heading across the plains of Mordor. Rôg's face and demeanor were gentle. He did not wear a sword or long-bladed dagger around his waist. The elder who now led their group at least carried a hefty wooden staff that could double as a weapon. But for some reason that Azhar could only guess, Rôg preferred to do without. No freeman of Mordor, scoundrel or honest man, would set out on a long journey without picking out a sturdy sword and battle knife. Azhar remembered how the freed slaves, almost all the men and many of the women, had fought over the privilege of carrying a sword. Then how could she explain Rôg?

This was not the only question troubling Azhar. Despite the pounding of her head and the hot flush spreading across her cheeks, the girl was struggling to understand the actions of her rescuers. Why had Rôg and his other companions come all this way to risk their lives for the sake of slaves they didn't even know? There was nothing in Azhar's past to help her understand this. Over the years, she had tried her best to manipulate the guards, wrangling or negotiating small treats and special favors. The thought of doing something for someone purely out of a caring heart was foreign to her. Perhaps the closest she had come to it was her sympathy for Kwell in the pit.

The girl glanced over at Rôg, wondering if there would be time to ask her questions. But before Azhar could speak, she glimpsed a grassy knoll just ahead and a woman beckoning them all forward. Reluctantly, Azhar slipped away from Rôg. Her questions would need to wait. It was probably a good thing. The fever was dragging her down both in body and spirit. Unsteadily, she grabbed onto Aiwendil's arm for support, shivering slightly.

[Novnarwen]

Eirnar

I’m not his puppy, Eirnar thought angrily. He wanted to run after Khamir, beat some sense into him and finally cut his throat if he dared come with any suggestions again. It wasn’t fair, nor right; not even half of the remaining ex-slaves had weapons, and those who had, could hardly fight. Either they were youngsters, too hot-headed and eager to be beneficial in a fight, but most importantly too inexperienced - or they were men like him, too tired to fight, even for freedom.

He shook his head violently, stomping around in circles. "Guard the camp," he mimicked. Did Khamir not feel slightly responsible for dragging them out here into nowhere and nothingness in the first place, and now, all of a sudden, he was leaving them? How could he demand anything of them, he who was getting cold feet and running away, before whoever had attacked them came back? If they came, no one could save them. He was escaping from a responsibility they all shared, taking care of the old, Aedhild and those too weak to do much, but for an instant of a moment, Eirnar thought rightfully so; when the others eventually would open their eye, awake from their reverie and see what really was going on, Khamir would be ripped into pieces and stomped into dust.

He wanted to shout. Not even at the plantation, staring up at the giggling Orcs as he lay on the hard, cold floor, hands and feet tied, waiting for that final blow that would knock him senseless had he felt more imprisoned. Never had he even considered comparing the two lives, slavery and freedom, but at that moment he could hardly distinguish between the two. Trapped between staying, what was right, and leaving to pursue ones ego, he did not even attempt to hide his frustration.

“Let him go, that fool of a Southron” Aedhild shot in, on the verge of tears. “Do you think he will… bring them..t-t-o us?”

Slightly surprised by what seemed like logic reasoning for once, he stared at her, unable to utter a word. He too had considered it; given Khamir’s background, Eirnar was being rightfully suspicious, but he dared not second her suspicions at this point, not even when seeing Khamir about to wander off.

“Will he come back?” she asked silently, almost whispering, as if afraid someone else would hear here.

“Who knows whether the cursed Southron will come back… For his sake, I hope not,” pausing, he cast a glance at the curled up figure of the woman, hugging her knees tightly, rocking back and forth. “And who knows what will become of us,” he muttered.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Imak pounded his fist on the table in frustration as he listened to the men who were standing inside his tent. Things were even worse than he had anticipated: two men killed while chasing the miscreants onto the plains, several others injured after trying to stop the escape of the prisoners or in rounding up their horses. While a number of the animals had been herded back into camp, more than ten were still missing and would have to be chased down and retrieved by light of day.

Out of everything that had happened since nightfall, Imak could find just one reason to be hopeful. The man sent to spy on the slave camp earlier that evening had returned with good news. From the look of things, the slaves would not be moving on the next morning. They had packed northing for their outward journey. Such a large group could not vacate their camp without some advance preparation. The scout had seen the men holding a meeting but could not get close enough to hear what they were saying. Still, it was clear that the slaves were not heading north anytime soon.

On hearing this single piece of good news, Imak assured the men, "We have time then---time to prepare and sweep down on them tomorrow night. Go to bed. Leave the rest for the morning. Let the fools rejoice in the return of their prisoners. After nightfall we attack the camp. Perhaps we'll drag a few of the strongest off in chains and slay the rest -- every last one of them. They will be sorry they ever tangled with me."

"But Imak....there are profits to be made."

"Profits? Heh! I have had my fill of these fools. They are more trouble than they are worth. As much as I love the jingle of gold, it cannot match my desire to see their heads stacked up in a pile. Go then. Tomorrow we repay the slaves for their little visit."

As the men turned to leave, Imak kicked off his boots and lay down to rest.

[Folwren]

Athwen walked quietly from one horse to the next as the long silence continued, only broken by the distant noises of the slavers’ disrupted camp. No new excitement had startled them and they remained calm and quiet. Athwen felt grateful for that.

After a while, she went and checked her stores of herbs and bandages and other such things for the hundredth time, it seemed. Would they never come? Her hands flitted aimlessly over the contents of the two bags while in her mind she named everything there.

Her mental list was interrupted by the sound of approaching feet. She stood up quickly and ran forward a few steps before stopping. Out of the darkness, three figures could be seen drawing closer. The old, bent figure of Aiwendil with a girl beside him, and several yards back, Rôg followed. Before they reached her, Rôg hurried forward and caught up with the first two and said something quietly in the girl’s ear. She stopped and turned towards him. Aiwendil turned his head, but after a moment, he left them and came forward to Athwen.

“There was only one child?” Athwen asked. Her face showed concern as she looked up at Aiwendil. He shook his head, to her relief and turned to lead her to Rôg and the girl.

“No. There is a boy, but he stayed back with Lindir and the others. This girl is not well, that is why we brought her back. Her name is Azhar,” he added, quietly. Athwen nodded as they stopped near Rôg and Azhar.

Athwen reached out her hand and took Azhar’s hand gently. The girl turned to look at her. Athwen flashed her a very brief smile, while at the same time, her face became far more serious with concern.

“Azhar,” she said, as her second hand lifted to feel her forehead and cheek, “I’m Athwen. You’ve probably been told, but we’ve come to help you.” The hand slipped down to her throat below the jaw and she quietly felt Azhar’s pulse for a moment. “Can you walk a little way farther?” she asked, looking Azhar directly in the eye again. The girl nodded and Athwen smiled once more. She straightened and passed a protective and supporting arm around Azhar’s shoulders and began to lead her towards the horses and the packs and stores.

“Aiwendil,” she said, turning to her left where the old man walked by her side. “She’s got a bad fever. How long until the others get back? Can we leave quickly? I can give her very little now, but once we stop, if we can, we should make a fire to prepare tea and some sort of soup, if we possibly can.

“I hope that they are not too long in coming, but it depends on what the slavers do.”

Athwen nodded her head and turned back to Azhar. “Sit down here.” Azhar obeyed without question and sank wearily to the ground. Athwen undid the clasp of her cloak and she pulled it off and put it around Azhar’s shoulders. Then she quickly reached over for one of the flasks of water and handed it to the girl. “Drink as much as you can,” she ordered gently. With one hand holding the cloak and the other holding the flask up to her mouth, Azhar complied.

As Azhar took small sips of the water, Athwen saw from the corner of her eye a rider come into camp, leading two horses behind him. She glanced up briefly and as Aiwendil walked forward to meet him, recognized Dorran. She smiled to herself with a new sense relief and turned her attention back to Azhar.

The girl had finished and when Athwen looked back to her, she held out the water, having drunk as much as she could. Athwen took it, and noticed the girl’s hand trembling as she relieved it of its burden.

“Lie down, now Azhar, and try to sleep,” Athwen said in a soft, low voice.

“Aren’t we going to be leaving?” Azhar asked, in a whisper, as she began to lie down slowly. Athwen nodded as she tried to make Azhar comfortable.

“Yes, but not yet. When we go, we’ll take you with us. You need to rest as much as possible.” She smiled as encouragingly as she could as she brushed the black hair away from Azhar’s face before she stood up and turned away. “Now, you, Rôg,” she said, walking forward to the man who stood waiting her attention. “You were hurt?”

Rôg told Athwen what had happened and how the arrow had hit him. Athwen laid her hand on the materiel of his tunic. She could see where the blood had seeped through and feeling the half hardness of it, could guess what had happened. She looked up at Rôg. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to pull this away and it’s going to hurt.” He nodded and Athwen saw his jaw clench tightly before she looked back down. “We’ll get some water on it, first, and perhaps soften it back up,” she said, changing her mind suddenly.

Quietly, then, she worked with Rôg’s wound. She softened it, and pulled the tunic away. Rôg removed the entire tunic for her and she cleaned and dressed the cut. She left it unbandaged while she looked at his shoulder. Having verified that nothing was broken there, she told him that it was badly bruised, but would heal on its own, and advised him not to use it.

[Tevildo]

Dorran had intended to ride hard and join up with Aiwendil before the group managed to cross the plain. To his disappointment, the sharp pain in his side made it difficult to go any faster than a rambling walk. He inched slowly westward, stopping just once to collect two horses quietly grazing on a patch of nettles and chicory that had grown up beside a small grey pool. One was his own mount "Orc Slayer", whom he was heartily relieved to see, while the other had belonged to the second dead slaver. He glimpsed three mares still running free on the plain. A half mile further and he could make out the outline of the grassy knoll where they had agreed to meet.

Though still trying to mask his pain, Dorran felt bone weary; every breath came with difficulty and was accompanied by a racking pain in his side. Wading through to the other side of the scrub brush, he awkwardly slid off Shae's horse and handed the three pair of reins to Aiwendil. He gave the older man a hint of a smile and briefly described what had happened to him and his pursuers. Coming to the end of the story, he added, "I was rescued by Shae who's one of the slaves. You'll be hard pressed to find a braver woman. If they are all like that, our job will be easy. She insisted on staying with Lindir to fight, but lent me her horse, I'd be grateful if you could give him a rub down and let him feed as I need to get off my feet for a while. And, yes, one other encouraging piece of news. In addition to these two, I saw several others on the loose. You and Rôg did a better job than you know. We have them running in circles all night. They may send out a small band to follow us, but they'll have to wait for morning to get the rest of their mounts back. For tonight, at least, I don't see how they could attack as a group."

"Good new indeed!" responded Aiwendil. Then, the two spoke quietly for some time until the wizard urged Dorran to go and have his side and gash attended. "I'm fine. It can wait," the young man insisted. "Others are hurting worse than I. That's why I waited. I wanted to let Athwen do her work. But I'll go now and say a word to my wife so she shouldn't be worrying where I am."

Continuing to the far side of the knoll, he could see Athwen speaking to a young girl, while Rôg waited patiently in the background. With some difficulty Dorran lowered his body and sat cross legged on the ground. He would wait quietly here until his wife finished with her other patients.

[Regin Hardhammer]

"So do you want to see an Elf, or not? I don't think you believe me. If we run into any trouble, we can both mount up on my horse and get out of here fast." There was a teasing note in Ishkur's voice, although he did not sound unfriendly.

"I should know better than this! But go ahead. Lead the way. If you're telling me a story, you will be sorry for it." Gwerr added, "I don't know whether to believe you or not. What's an Elf doing in Mordor?"

Ishkur shrugged his shoulders since he also had no idea what the Elf was doing in the slavers' camp. "I don't know. Maybe he's a friend of the slaves. That's what I thought."

Iskkur waved his hand at Gwerr to indicate that he should follow. Both orcs went on foot along the far western edge of camp and kept their distance away from any of the men. Ishkur led his horse behind him.

"We'd better not get too close," Ishkur warned his friend. There's a few of them down there, not elves but others. Probably all from the slaves' camp. The last thing we want to do is to draw attention to ourselves."

They found a pile of rocks where they could hide and sat down on the ground not too far from the stream bank. Gwerr peered out from behind the boulder straining his eyes to see. "There's nothing there, Ishkur. Nothing at all."

"Wait. Just wait. They were there a little while before, and I don't think they've left."

Gwerr leaned out even further and suddenly noticed several people who had just climbed up to the top of the stream bank. Several of them were short, but in the middle stood a tall distinctive figure. Gwerr stared and stared again and then whistled under his breath. "You're right, Ishkur. The tall one, he's an elf." Gwerr's fingers instinctively tightened around the hilt of his sword. The elf was so close they could even see his eyes.

"Tempting, isn't he? A nice clean target." Ishkur chuckled. Then he added, "It's been a long time."

"A long time for what?" Gwerr demanded.

"Oh, nothing. I guess it's been a long time since I've hunted elf." Ishkur growled, "This one gives me a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. He's just like all the rest. Thinks they rule the world. Theyjust stare down their noses at everyone. Bah! What do the likes of you and me have to do with an Elf? But we can't risk attacking him. The whole camp will be on our necks. And I want to be around tomorrow night when the slavers clear out . There's two kegs of beer, I hear, and even one of honey mead."

"Alright, Ishkur. You've had your fun. Let's get out of here and back to camp. Then we can talk about tomorrow's raid. I'm all in if the slavers really do clear out."

"They will. For sure they will."

With that the two orcs turned south and headed back to the relative safety of the orc camp.

[Firefoot]

The lights and bangs had long since subsided, but Grask had not yet moved from his spot. Men had still been running around all over the place, trying to round up their runaway beasts, no doubt, or find the cause of the commotion. But now even they seemed to have settled down, and Grask was ready to venture closer to their camp once more.

He went as quietly as he could, but even that measure seemed largely unnecessary as he encountered no men until he was within sight of the camp. Crouched in the tussocks, he observed the camp; his eyes were irresistibly drawn towards the pit that held the man-children. To his shock, no guards stood near it, and the grate over the top had been removed. That must mean that they were no longer held captive there; had they been moved? Killed? He remembered the children speaking of rescue, but to Grask this still seemed as inconceivable as it had then. Only escape would be a more impossible option.

So what had happened to them, then? Grask did not see any place in the camp that seemed to have especial guard except for near the horses, and the man-children would surely not be held there. Could they really be dead, then?

Grask felt a tickling of sorrow at this, a feeling as frightening as it was unfamiliar. Orcs did not feel grief like that! Well, the women might, but Grask wasn’t a woman, and, at least in his own eyes, he wasn’t a child anymore, either, not with his two fine knives belted at his waist. Nevertheless, the peculiar sorrow remained, and Grask did not know what to do with it. Ignore it, he supposed; what had the children been to him, anyway? An insight into the strangeness of Men? He had no real link to them; they should be as nothing to him.

Why then did Grask feel so hollow like this, as if he had suddenly missed a newfound feeling of kinship?

[Folwren]

When Athwen finished with Rog and checked Azhar to see if she had fallen asleep yet, she quietly walked to Dorran. He sat cross legged, with his head down and his arms folded at his waist. Athwen knelt in front of him and touched his face gently. He looked up, half startled.

“How did you fair, my brave man?” she asked in a soft, tender voice. Her fingers trailed his cheek and jaw line and she tilted his chin a little more so that his face looked straight into hers. A shadow of concern fell over her face. “Are you hurt?”

Dorran pulled away and stared at the ground attempting to avoid his wife’s eyes. He had thought of saying nothing about what had happened. Athwen would have greater problems to deal with once they had gotten to the slave camp. The last thing he wanted was for her to waste precious time and energy worrying about his injuries or dwelling on the attackers. Almost as quickly, he changed his mind. Too often, he reflected, those things you don’t know carry more fear than the simple, unvarnished truth. The best thing he could do was to spell out what had happened. He was too experienced a Rider, and Athwen had seen too much to pretend anything else.

He spoke without hesitation. “I’ll live. A couple of bumps and bruises, a gash on the head. Those aren’t bad. Unfortunately, I broke my rib. Every time I breathe, there’s pain in my side.” This time he met Athwen’s eyes, a hint of a smile playing on his face, “I know, I know. I couldn’t have done it at a better time! Tomorrow we’ll need every able bodied man to fight, and here I sit.”

Athwen frowned a little and quietly ordered him to remove his belt and his weapons so that she could get to it. He obeyed slowly and stiffly. “Never mind,” she murmured and finished it for him. She pulled away the sword belt and laid it to the side. Her hand felt his side to see if she could detect this broken rib.

“Yes, my sweet, I can already here what you're going to say next,” Dorran commented, nodding. “No fighting or strenuous labor till we’re sure the bone is healing. I’m enough of a soldier to realize I can’t wriggle out of a healer’s orders. . .especially when that healer is my wife.”

He paused before responding to her other question, the one she had not yet spoken out loud. “I was fortunate. Fortunate, indeed. Three of the slavers approached Lindir and I on horseback, ready to give hue and cry to rouse the entire camp. I led two of them on a merry chase. As luck would have it, one was thrown when his horse stepped in a rabbit hole.”

Athwen stood up and offered her hand. “Stand up, I can’t bandage it with you sitting there.” He stood up slowly, putting as little pressure as he could afford on Athwen as he did so, but all the same, she took a stumbling step forward as he heaved upwards. Athwen gently helped him remove the shirt. “Then what happened?” she asked, knowing it was better to keep a patient talking.

“I dealt with the other one,” he went on. “And there I lay like a sack of turnips in our cellar till one of the slaves came riding by and brought me back. Now you know the truth. Rather than helping slaves escape, I am already in their debt. But that’s not important. The others did their job, and the children have been rescued. And even if I can not fight tomorrow, I can still think and plan. That has to be worth something.”

He picked up her hand, cradling it gently in his. “I fear this will get worse before it gets better. Who knows what lies out there?” His gaze strayed reluctantly to the north. “I know this can’t be easy for you. But I wouldn’t have come alone, not at this point in our lives. Still, I feel this is something I'm meant to do. I don’t know how to say this, but thank you for agreeing to come, for being here and tending to me and to so many others. I only hope that someday we can look back on this and laugh. Now, if you have any magic tricks in that bag of yours, which will take away some of this pain, I would be much obliged.”

Athwen smiled and stepped close to him. She put her arms about his neck, lifting her face upwards as high as she could. “I can find something, but try this first.” He bent his head to let his lips meet hers and they kissed. Athwen backed away and let go. “I’m glad you made it out alive, Dorran,” she said. “You were lucky, as you said. I’ll see what I can do. There’s not much that can be done for a broken rib, though. I wish you’d been more careful. I can’t give you anything for the pain until we can make some tea. I need to make some for Azhar, so you’re in luck, but we can’t make any until we have a fire, and we can’t make a fire until we get out of here.”

She led him over to the healing packs as she spoke and set to work binding up his ribs. When that was finished, she cleaned the slight cut in his scalp.

“There, you’re done. Now, understand, there’s to be no fighting or strenuous work until that bone’s well on it’s way to being healed.”

Dorran began to chuckle, but the effort was cut short, ending in a short gasp. Athwen shook her head as she wound up the remaining bandage and put it away.

“No laughing, either.”

[piosenniel]

‘She has gentle hands, doesn’t she?’ Rôg nodded toward Athwen, as he watched the healer speaking with her husband. Easing himself down to the ground where the girl was resting, Rôg gave Azhar a quick smile.

‘Feeling any better, little one?’ he asked reaching out to place his palm against her brow. The girl looked flushed and exhausted, barely able to keep her eyes open, but too uneasy in these unfamiliar surroundings to let herself fall asleep.

‘Still a little hot, but Athwen, I’m sure, will soon have that under control.’ He crossed his legs beneath him and adjusted his cloak about his slight form. ‘You were very brave, you know, to hold out until we could come to see you and your friend to safety.’ He reached out to adjust the cloak covering the girl’s form. ‘You are safe, here, now, you know.’ He pointed to where Aiwendil stood. ‘See that old fellow there? He’s a good hand with that walking stick of his. Has a lot of tricks up those big old sleeves of his. Gotten himself . . . and me . . . out of a lot of jams.’ He rolled up the sleeve of his tunic and flexed his modest bicep. ‘And then, of course, there’s me,’ he said, grinning. ‘But seriously, you are safe for the while, at least enough, to sleep a little as Athwen advised.

Rôg unclasped his cloak and rolled it into a loose bundle. Motioning for Azhar to raise her head a little, he placed it where she could use it as a pillow. ‘You know, my father used to sit by my bed when I couldn’t sleep and tell me stories, mostly about things he’d done as a boy or sometimes stories his own papi had told him.’ He inched a little closer and spoke in a low voice.

‘This is a real story, told to me by a man I met a few years ago, down south. It was a journey I took with the old man there.’ He lifted his chin to where Aiwendil was. ‘An interesting journey with interesting folk.’ He chuckled at the memory. ‘There was an Elf and her husband, a ship’s captain. A young woman, her name was Ráma. And a little girl who came to be my friend. Her name was Miri . . . And there were, of course, some very, very bad people . . .’ Rôg shook his head. ‘But here I am already getting off track.’ He glanced down to where Azhar lay, her eyes, half closing already, fixed on his face.

‘This is the story the man Baran told to me; the one of why he’d come south from his home by the Great River that runs by the Misty Mountains in the far north. He was looking for someone, an old friend from his childhood. An orphaned girl who’d come to live with his people . . . he’d met her when he was only a child and she was already grown.’ He paused for a moment and gave a soft sigh.

‘Oh, but I forget myself again. You’ll want to know her name, of course. A pretty name, and one that fit her perfectly. She was called “Bird” . . .’

As the story wove on, Rôg’s voice dropped to an even softer pitch. His words rolled out in a sing-songy way, the pitch of his voice rising and falling like little stream does flowing softly over its rocky bed. The lids of Azhar’s eyes surrendered, her lashes fluttering quietly down. He spoke on, watching as her breathing slowed; resting his hand lightly on her thin shoulder, he noted her muscles were relaxed. Beneath her lids, her eyes moved, as if seeing things in dreams.

‘. . . And so that is how Baran met her at last. And me, too. Met Bird, that is.’ He lifted his hand off her shoulder, and let his thumb rub along the edge of his jaw. ‘Of, course, I didn’t get to the part where we barely escaped the Elders . . . Bird and I . . . they wanted us to be wed.’

He laughed quietly. ‘Bird, of course, had other ideas . . .’

A soft snore issued from the girl's still form.'Well, I guess I must be as good a story teller as my father . . . at least in putting my listeners to sleep,' he murmured to himself.

[Durelin]

Vrór

It was a rush of events after Vrór and Carl emerged from the tunnel with the two children, and it seemed that things were falling nicely into place as Dorran was found again, alive, and they all discovered that they already had some sort of contact with one of the slaves. They had pulled it off! The plan had worked! And all were breathing. But then two forms in the shadows appeared a ways off, and Dwarf, Elf, Hobbit, woman, and boy were all forced to hide as quick as they could. Luckily these men were not too thorough in their search, underestimating whoever came to the children’s rescue.

Their words revealed just how little they knew. Children…children?! For one of the first times in his life, Vrór felt he really wanted to use his axe. Those two fools. Black-hearted and yellow-bellied, treating children like animals, and calling Dwarves and Hobbits children! Their ignorance came as a real shock for the Dwarf. Would Mordor ever really be a part of Middle-earth? Its inhabitants knew nothing of the world outside it, and seemed to have no desire for the outside world to be brought into it.

The slavers’ ignorance was in a small way, and a more immediate way, relieving, but it was also frightening. To think that this ‘Imak,’ apparently their leader, would be told that it was the slaves who had raided the camp for the rescue. If the slaves were all in the shape of the two children and the woman he had seen, they would be hard-pressed to defend against these ruthless bounty hunters. He shuddered as the two finally disappeared.

“We had best get a move on, then?” he whispered to the others. “The slaves will need our help.”

Vrór could see Lindir nodding, but it was the woman – Shae was her name, he thought he had heard – who spoke up.

“And what do you think four of you can do, with one wounded?” Of course she was offended by the idea that she and the others would need help. The Dwarf suddenly felt very embarrassed that he had spoken without thinking, forgetting that she was there. Perhaps he should not have referred to them as ‘slaves?’

“Well, ma’am,” Vrór began, glad that no one would be able to tell that his face had reddened in the darkness, and with his beard covering almost half of it, “there are three others waiting for us not too far from here… But, regardless of numbers, any bit can help. And that’s what we’re here to do,” he finished matter-of-factly.

Taking as wide a route as possible around the rest of the slavers’ camp, they wound their way as quickly as possible back to the meeting place, where Athwen had bravely waited with the horses, and where Rôg, Aiwendil, Azhar, and Dorran had likely already arrived. Vrór walked carefully and slowly, almost in a crouch, but also with a heavy weight on his shoulders. What could they do? Shae’s reminder of the wounded secured his doubts in place, and he found himself unable to truly think that the Fellowship of the Fourth Age had managed even a small victory.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Hadith was totally baffled of what had happened. He couldn’t understand Khamir’s decision at all, but even less could he believe his ears about some of the reactions to Khamir’s speech. He glanced at Adnan just to find another pair of confused eyes. Before he had time to actually realise what he was doing, he had already drawn his sword and raised it over his head.

“Fellows, listen!” he shouted from the bottom of his lungs. Hadith was no public speaker. His voice was far from the bellowing of an army general or the soothing tenderness of a rhetorician’s stream of words, but he sounded loud, honest and intense enough to catch the ears of everyone else around.

“Before now, I have not thought why I’m here. I have just followed you others to where you go. Maybe we could be some elsewhere, but I haven’t questioned our path even once... and neither have I heard anyone else to complain about our direction in public!” Hadith’s voice was clearly raising in pitch towards the end of the sentence. But slowly and surely he was getting a hang of what he was thinking about the situation: he started realising it.

“We should act like free men, responsible of our own actions! But that also means we can’t blame anyone else of our decisions. If I follow someone as a free man, it’s my choise and it is I who takes the consequences then...” Hadith draw breath, just not knowing how his words would be received.

“But now, I’m beginning to use my freedom!” he shouted, in a more confident tone. “I will make my choice as a free man not to join the suicidal party of Khamir! You go if you wish, that’s your free choice, but we need people to help the wounded and the elderly... to help us all!” With that Hadith felt he had used all his resources but the silence was demanding him to go still forwards.

“Let us not act as slaves anymore! We are used to do as we are told, being all so ready to blame others if something goes wrong. Let Khamir do as he wishes, but let us others come up with a defence for the rest of us. We maybe forced to fight tonight! I intend to be ready for that... we need a plan...”

Hadith left his beautiful Easterling sword to fell down. He was empty.

For a moment there was no sound around.

[Brinniel]

Shae felt her face turn red with anger, highly offended by the dwarf's reference to the word "slaves."

Slaves?! Is that how these people will always consider us? As helpless slaves? If that were true, then why are we still alive and free?

Shae was quick to make a comment in defense, yet she realized that the dwarf was right. It wouldn't be long before the slavers headed towards her camp, and this time they would not simply be after two children. Without any further argument, the woman followed the others away from the slavers' camp.

Looking around at this strange new company, Shae couldn't help but to feel relieved. Not only had the two children been rescued, but she discovered she had been right all along. The Fellowship had come for them after all. Grinning privately to herself, she couldn't wait to see the look on Khamir's face when she would return to the camp with the children and the Fellowship in tow.

Joren, you would be proud of me.

Her brother had always encouraged her to stand up for what she believed in. He used to always speak his mind and help other slaves in trouble, no matter the consequence. Though he never said it, Shae knew Joren wished for her to have the courage to stand up for herself. But as the quiet sibling, she lacked the bravery to do so. So instead, Joren would fight her battles for her. Such actions was what ultimately led to his death. Shae hated herself for this- making her brother think he needed to always protect her. She knew that secretly Joren had longed for them to escape and find their family, but her timid behavior held him back.

He didn't think I was strong enough.

And perhaps this was true. After all, it took her brother's death to find the courage and will to escape on her own. If only that weren't so. Sometimes, Shae imagined her life as a free woman with Joren still alive. He would be the leader, not Khamir. And he would use his high spirits to keep up the morale of the others, always thinking about them before making decisions. That's how it should be for the ex-slaves. And yet, consumed by depression and stilling lacking in courage, Shae had refused to assume any sort of leadership position. After all these years, it took until tonight for Shae to stand up for what she believed in. If only Joren had seen her tonight- if he could see what she was capable of- she knew he would be proud. Seeking comfort from the memory of her brother, her hand reached for her chest, searching for the familar metal....

Shae stopped suddenly in her tracks, her face hot and stricken. Her hands grasped at her bare neck, search for something that was no longer there. Her heart skipped a beat and everything seemed to freeze.

Where is it?

Noticing the woman had stopped, the others halted as well.
"What's the matter?" the boy inquired.
It took several blinks and a hard swallow before Shae could respond. "I...I have to go back."
"Why?" This time it was Lindir who spoke up.
The woman had trouble finding the right words. "It...it's gone...my necklace....I...I can't....I have to go back....find it...."

Trailing off, Shae didn't even wait for the others to respond. Instantly, she was off in a sprint, heading towards the slavers' camp. Within seconds, the elf tackled her, pulling her backwards. The woman resisted his firm grip, kicking and hitting at his arms- anything to pull away. She yelled at him, cursing incoherent words. Immediately the elf's hand went to her mouth, attempting to muffle the cries and prevent drawing unwanted attention. After what seemed like several minutes, Shae slowly gave up on resisting Lindir, realizing he was too strong for her.

Tears streaming down her cheeks and short of breath, Shae struggled to put out a few last words of resistance.
"Please," she cried. "I have to go. It...it's imporant to me."
As the woman lay limp in his arms, the elf softened his grip. "I'm sorry," he spoke softly, "I know what you have lost must have been important, but it is not worth your life. If you go back, the slavers will see you and you will put yourself as well as the rest of us in jepoardy. I cannot let you go back there."
Shae nodded slowly, knowing his words were true. Lindir let go of the woman and she turned towards him, wiping away her tears. She stared into his eyes and spoke confidently. "Very well. Then let us keep going."
Lindir placed one hand on Shae's shoulder- a sign of condolence- before turning around and walking away. Shae and the others followed.

Shae continued with her head hung low, feeling rather sick to her stomach.
"What was it of....your necklace?" The woman looked down to her right only to find the halfling staring up at her.
Shae shot her head forward again, hesistating before finding a response. "It...it was an emblem...of the White Tree," she answered softly. "But that's not what made it important. It belonged to my brother. It's really the last evidence I had of him."
"I'm sorry." Shae could tell by his tone that the halfling was trying to be as understanding as possible. "Maybe...maybe you lost it before you reached the slavers' camp. We could look for it, you know, on our way back to your camp." He glanced up at her hopefully.
"Maybe," the woman responded. "But I doubt we'll find it."

Shae appreciated the halfling's kind words, but nothing could comfort her. Just as she thought life was worth living again, she lost her most prized possession. It felt as if she had lost Joren all over again. Shae refused to cry. She had already embarassed herself once- crying a second time would only show these strangers how weak and vulnerable she was. Instead, she dug her fingernails into her palms, deep into her old wounds. Instantly, the blood began to flow, echoing the pain Shae felt inside.

[Undómë]

Brenna


Brenna worked at combing out the girl’s hair. Gwenith, and she was aptly named as her long light blond hair was just the color of ripened wheat stalks about to be harvested, scrunched her shoulders and tried not to cry out when the teeth of the comb snagged a tangle.

‘Hold still, Gwenni!’ Brenna said in a firm voice. ‘I’ve just about got the last of the rats’ nests undone. I’ll put it in a braid for you, then, and that should keep it neat and pretty, even when you sleep on it.’ Though who knew if their would be sleep for any of them this night the old woman thought.

‘Alright!’ the girl hissed through clenched teeth. She hunkered down, prepared to be brave until the battle of the tangles was done.

‘Have you heard what the men are discussing, Granny Brenna?’ Nia asked quietly, coming to sit down near where Brenna was working. Brenna shook her head ‘no’, knowing that Nia was a clever young woman who never seemed to miss what changes were brought on the breezes of camp gossip. ‘That Khamir has the idea to take a number of men and go after the ones who stole the children. But that one called Hadith has stood up and says we should prepare to fight here. He’s sure those slavers will come back to take more of us. And we should be ready for them. Not only that, but there should be enough men here to protect those not able to defend themselves.’ She looked expectantly at Brenna.

‘So, what do you think, Granny?’ another of the women asked, raising up from her bed on the ground to rest her head on her hand. ‘Are we supposed to bunch together behind the men or hide away if we can until it’s all over?’

Brenna braided the last of Gwenith’s hair and bound it securely with a strip of old cloth. ‘I don’t think we can do that, dearies,’ she answered, patting the girl on the shoulder as she did so for a job well done. ‘They’ll mow the men down like hay and take us anyway.’ She cackled a little, a grim note to it. ‘’Cept for me, of course. I’m too old. But they’ll be wanting all of you. And you know that, don’t you?’

The women drew nearer, nodding their heads with the cruel knowledge. ‘So what shall we do?’ Nia shivered, dreading the answer she already knew. ‘The sticks…the ones you had us gather as we traveled along; the ones we sharpened. You said they’d be good for planting sticks when we get to our new home.’

‘Yes, those sticks,’ Brenna said, looking thoughtfully at the ground. ‘And they will be good for planting our seeds. But,’ and this time she looked round the small circle of women, ‘first we’ll plant them deep as we can into those slavers’ horses and the men as ride them too. Blood the wood and kill the ones who want to drag us back to the plantations and the old life. Who will do this with me? And live to see our own crops grow in our own soil?’

There were murmurs of assent that swirled about the little group. And those who were fearful were made stronger with the promise that they would not stand alone, but that one or two of their companions would stand alongside them.

Gwenni stood up and raised her voice in a plaintive manner. She was a slight little wisp of a thing, just turned eleven summers this last spring, or so she thought as far as she could reckon. ‘What about us, Granny Brenna . . . us girls? Our planting sticks are way too short. Those slaver-men have longer arms than us . . . and . . .’

Brenna tugged on the girl’s braid and smiled up at her. ‘You got them sharp stones don’t you? The black ones from along the glassy-bedded stream.’ Gwenni nodded her head, her face lighting up as her hand dipped into the tattered pocket of her breeches. She fetched out the cloth bag she’d fashioned from the sleeve of some old tunic. And with a smile drew out the well-used leather sling she used for hunting little animals and lizards. Others of the younger girls had gathered near Gwenni, their soft voices excited with the discovery that they, too, could lend their hands against the bad men.

‘Keep your sticks and slings handy, my friends,’ Brenna told the small group. ‘And why don’t we all just get what rest we can. We’ll sleep together here.’ She looked about the group. ‘And one of us should keep watch for a while, then wake me and I’ll take over for the next bit. Nia, can you do that? Sun’s rise can’t be that far away.’

She motioned for the women and girls to lay out their cloaks or blankets, their sticks and slings close beside them. Nia moved to a small rocky outcropping and hunkered down on the stony surface to take up the watch.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

This land was hard, and the people inhabiting it appeared tough, like the plants that grew here. Even the eyes of animals, the dim lamps of the night, today struck Carl as strange and rather unnerving. In truth, he felt as if he had lived all his life as a blind man and deaf as well. Surely, all the hardships in Lotho’s day, and even when Sharkey had the Shire in his grip, didn’t compare to what these people had endured for years on end. Never were hobbit families torn apart and children cast into lockholes like this - not that he didn’t suspect Sharkey would have tried such tactics, had he been around a bit longer.

But Shae’s tears had been bitter ones and Carl saw that despite her bravery she had not a callous heart. Still nothing seemed simple here, and his “I’m sorry” had sounded so very thin and insubstantial, against the sadness of her confession. He guessed that it wasn’t just the necklace; it was her brother himself that Shae felt she had lost. What else would have brought about the silent tears in one so seemingly fearless?

Remembering Dorran’s explanation of the stone Athwen found, Carl withdrew it from his pocket, holding it thoughtfully in his fingers. Such symbols and tokens were made for family members that had been wrenched away. For remembrance, he had said. The necklace Shae lost, had held the emblem of the White Tree, and on the stone was a tree also! Perhaps Shae had made it to remember her brother by, or to leave as a sign for him? Carl wondered briefly if she would be angry with him for having carried it away from that place. And he fancied too, that however unlikely, perhaps the brother she missed might have left it for her. And that she might smile to see it.

Carl held the stone out to the woman. “We found this stone near the caves, and I’m thinking it might mean something to you, seeing as it has the White Tree on it. Not as good as finding your necklace I’m afraid, but have you seen it before?”

Shae wiped her hands on her clothes before taking the stone in her fingers, holding it up to examine it in the moonlight. “No,” she said, with a wistful trace of a smile as she turned to look at the hobbit. “Even still, such things are not uncommon. Perhaps one of the newcomers to our group made it, leaving it at that camp.” She hesitated, looking again at the stone. And following her gaze, Carl saw a single drop of dark blood trace its way over the side of her palm.

“You are hurt!” he said reaching up to point out the droplet to her.

But the woman awoke quickly from her study, returning her hands to her sides before he had the chance. “It is not a new wound, but does not heal well,” she stated matter-of-factly. And Carl felt from her voice as if suddenly some great-uncharted distance had arisen between them. Had he said something amiss? “May, I keep this?” Shae asked, unexpectedly.

Now if a slender lifeline had been thrown to the hobbit in dire need, he would scarcely have been quicker to grab at it. “Why certainly you may,” he said without thinking things though, while at the same time trying to recollect the stone’s markings in his mind eye. He could not believe he would hand the thing over so easily, but was pleased to find that he carried a clear picture of it in his head. And so he removed the teeth of self-reproach, knowing that he remembered the stone well enough, though he dreaded letting Miss Athwen know of his gifting it away. Still, he must brave any tongue-lashing the gentle healer might choose rightfully to give, and let her know too, about Miss Shae’s hand.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The journey west across the plain proved uneventful. The walkers did not glimpse even a single rider who had been sent out to gather information or prevent them from making their escape. With all the noise and confusion that had taken place in camp, and so many horses still needing to be rounded up, the slavers were apparently resigned to waiting for the next day until they attacked. Lindir did not doubt that this attack would come; it was simply a question of when. Likely, it would take place under cover of darkness, yet the elf could not discount the possibility that the attackers might get impatient and plan their assault for earlier in the day. Either way, time was of the essence. Whatever the fellowship and the slaves were going to do, it had to be done quickly. There would be no time for indecision or argument. For the third time that night, Lindir mentally corrected his choice of words. There were no "slaves" here, only free men who had been wrongfully imprisoned and horribly abused.

The band slowly wound its way to the base of the small hill where Athwen and the others waited, Lindir walked by himself, lost deep within his own musings as he tried to mull out what to do. It seemed they had two choices: to attempt to rouse the camp and flee, heading north as quickly as they could, or to stand and fight. He knew what choice he preferred, and did not doubt that his other companions felt the same, even as tired and depleted by injury as they were. A group ofsome sixty slaves, one that included children and elders, and one where everyone was on foot, could not possibly outrun a band of thirty horsemen whose specialty was rounding up human flesh.

The more serious question involved the slaves. Would they understand the danger they were in, and be willing to fight? He and his friends could do little on their own; the commitment had to be made by the entire group.

That word "slave"... There it was again, Lindir acknowleged with a private groan. They had better get rid of those words and images, or it would drag them all under. The escaped slaves were men, no more and no less, and they deserved to be recognized as such.

Aiwendil was the first to spy the returning party and come running down the hill, waving his hand in greeting. Lindir assured him they had not been followed and then listened as the istar explained how the wounded were doing. "Not that it was easy for Athwen, mind you," Aiwendil pointed out. "She can not even light a fire to prepare the healing potions she needs".

"All the more reason then that we get out of here quickly. One more thing. Can you tell me anything more about Dorran? How bad is the injury?" Lindir pressed, loathe to lose the fighting skills of the only member of the group who had actually led men into battle.

"A broken rib. Nothing worse. He is rested and on his feet, but there'll be no heavy swordplay for him. Not if Athwen gets her way." The elf scowled at this piece of news. Athwen had an excellent reputation as a healer and would only recommend such a limitation if she felt it was truly necessary. Lindir was not about to challenge her judgment, but the loss would be felt.

"We must be on our way. Could you ask Athwen to take a quick look at Kwell and Shae. She is the woman who helped Dorran. Carl mentioned that she had an injury, and I know the young man has been though great hardship, although he does not complain. After that, we'll set out. There's much to be decided yet, and we won't have any answers till we get to the camp. Have people double up on the horses so no one has to walk. Best tell Athwen to put the young girl with her, since she seems to be the one who is having the most difficulty."

Lindir started to climb the hill but then looked back and added, "I almost forgot.. Aiwendil, could you speak quietly to the others and ask them not to voice or even think the term "slave"? Call these people free men, call them rebels, whatever they prefer, but I don't want us to brand a man with the same label that the Dark Lord tried to pin on him. I'll be back to help you with the horses in a minute. I have an idea I want to try out on Dorran."

[Durelin]

Khamir

Remembering when he had first learned Hadith’s name, Khamir’s eyes were locked on the young man. Eighteen years old, but he had the emotional strength one might expect from someone much older. The older man had always thought of himself as a weathered veteran, having seen and done much more than a young one such as Hadith had. But he had underestimated him once. How long had the boy been a slave? True, he could be naïve at times, but only in an idealistic sort of way, and not a foolish sort of way, that was quite refreshing.

“I will make my choice as a free man not to join the suicidal party of Khamir!”

Those words were like a stab through the heart. “Suicidal party?” Khamir and his gang had raided huge plantations without losing a single man before. Suicidal? What did this boy think? They weren’t out to be heroic – the plan wasn’t to run in and slaughter the bounty hunters. That would be suicide. But the one-armed man hadn’t given up on living the two years he had been a slave, nor the nineteen years he had been struggling for survival in Mordor as a supposed “free man.” Dying a true free man was not even something the man looked forward to.

Khamir spat, but said nothing, listening to the rest of what the boy had to say.

“Let Khamir do as he wishes, but let us others come up with a defense for the rest of us. We maybe forced to fight tonight! I intend to be ready for that... we need a plan...”

The Southron man glanced at Beloan, who could only stare back at him. The former gang leader shook his head, knowing no other way to show his disappointment. Here was the idealist. In his self-righteousness and head-in-the-clouds ways, he forgot that his feet were stuck on the ground, on accursed ground, on ground that had soaked up the Dark Lord’s evil for millennia.

As if this bunch could defend itself from behind two-foot thick stone walls…

But they were not his concern right now.

“You wish to join their defense council?” he asked Beloan, bitingly sarcastic. The other man still made no answer.

Khamir turned away from him, and stalked off further from the camp, his hand reaching into his bag to retrieve one of his throwing knives. He gripped it while it was still concealed by the ragged cloth, and removed it swiftly and yet carelessly, flinging it to come to rest with a thud in a small, sickly looking tree: a sapling that had been bold enough to attempt to grow tall above the plains of Mordor, but was struck down by its disease, an invisible sickness with no physical symptoms but that still ended in death and destruction.

Suddenly he felt something crunch under his feet, and he felt something hard even through his boots. Removing his foot from it, he crouched down to see what it was. Moonlight glinted off metal, and Khamir quickly slipped the necklace into his bag.

That woman…

He would go alone if he had to.

[Tevildo]

Child's post for Lindir

Lindir reached inside his satchel and pulled out a small leather bag full of tobacco. Then he handed Dorran a wooden pipe with a wide flattened bowl, took another for himself, and gestured for the man of Rohan to sit beside him on the ground. The pair smoked in silence for a while, lying on their backs and staring up at the stars. These had come out from behind the clouds and heavy mists so that they were clearly visible for the first time that evening.

Finally, Lindir sat up and spoke, “A moment to rest and think….sometimes it can be a precious thing. But who would believe it, even in these times? An Elf and a Man sitting and smoking Longbottom Leaf in the middle of a Mordor plain.” Lindir sent a thin steam of smoke out from his lips in a curlicue fashion and glanced over at his friend to explain, “Carl gave me this when we started. I’ve been saving it for the right time.”

“The right time?” echoed Dorran in a puzzled tone. “I know of no reason for celebration. We have taken only one small step and still have many to go.” The man stared across the glade to where his wife was working on those who had been injured.

“No reason to celebrate yet. That is true. But there may be other reasons for two friends to share a pouch of Longbottom.” Lindir gave Dorran a sidewise glance and then plunged ahead. “I find it helps if I sit down and have a smoke before I do something that I find very difficult. Actually, I was thinking that you might want to keep that pipe with you and fill it with tobacco for when we come into the camp later tonight.”

“You are trying to tell me something? Even a thick headed soldier can see that. What is it that you would like me to do? I am afraid I can not help much with a sword or bow right now.”

“Yes, I heard. Aiwendil told me. I am just glad it was no worse. And though I would love to have your fighting arm, your knowledge of strategy and traps and ways to deceive an attacker may prove just as valuable. Still, that wasn’t what I was talking about.”

There was another moment of silence between them while Lindir struggled to find the right words. “You are the only one among us who has actually done what these men are setting out to do: to escape from the heavy burden of being a slave and find a way to build a life. Somehow I think that what you say could mean much more than anything I or the others could offer. I can tell these men and women I grieve for what they have been through and that I believe in their ability to forge a new path. But coming from me, those are just words. But if you could talk and honestly tell them how it was for you and your sister, perhaps they would listen not just with their heads but with their hearts. I am not sure I should ask you to do this. Speaking before a group of strangers is one thing, but speaking about that part of your past will not be easy.”

Lindir stared down at the ground remembering the day that he had been asked to appear before the White Council and talk about the years he had spent serving under Celebrimbor, a time in his life which had had such calamitous results. He had not found that easy; nor would it be easy for Dorran.

[Folwren]

Kwell felt surprising relief when they came to their stopping place. He had feared being stopped by the slavers, attacked and forced to fight. He said nothing about it and he hated the fear. It was childish to be afraid, he thought. But, at least now, they were safe.

Lindir stopped to speak with the old man. For a few moments, they stood with their heads together, then Aiwendil came away from Lindir and approached Kwell and Shae, who stood together, uncertain of what to do or where to go.

“Come with me,” he said. “You are Shae? Lindir told me that you had an injury?” Shae made a very slight inclination of her head. Aiwendil turned and led the two of them to where Athwen stood by her packs, speaking to Carl. She turned towards Aiwendil as the elderly man approached and as he began to speak, she nodded and looked towards Shae and Kwell.

“Yes, I know. Carl just told me about it.” She stepped forward towards the two new comers. “Welcome, both of you. We don’t have very much time, but I will do what I can now. You are hurt, I understand?” she asked, looking directly at Shae.

Shae quickly put her hands behind her back. “See to Kwell first,” she said, taking a step back. “I can wait. He might be more damaged than I.”

Athwen smiled a little and she looked at Kwell. He stood a little shorter than she and his face, so hardened and stern that it held no mark or sign of boyishness, brought out her easily stirred pity. Her hand reached out to touch his shoulder. He drew back, twisting his body so she couldn’t reach him. She drew back in surprise. The gesture had been meant in friendship and encouragement, but he hadn’t accepted it. Athwen nearly gasped with the shock of being rejected, but quickly she shut up her feelings.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly and then asked him if there was anything she could help him with.

“No, nothing,” Kwell answered shortly.

“Were you hurt at all when the slavers took you back?” The boy shook his head. “Can I see if you have any sort of fever? You’ve been with Azhar a long time and if whatever is causing the fever can be caught by you, I’d like to know if you’ve got it.”

“I’m not sick,” Kwell said stubbornly.

Athwen shook her head and pursed her lips, her hand reached instinctively towards his forehead, but he tilted his head back and pushed her hand away. She sighed in defeat. It was no use whatsoever to work on a patient who wouldn’t be worked on. She’d watch him closely, though, and if she saw anything that indicated any sort of injury or sickness, she’d check on him, whether he liked it or not.

“Very well. If you’re hungry or thirsty, tell Carl and he’ll get you some bread or water. Later, hopefully, we’ll have something warm to give you.” She smiled at him and he turned away. She shrugged at his back and turned to Shae. “Now, I can help you,” she said.

[Brinniel]

Shae stared back at Athwen, her hands still hidden behind her back. The last thing she wanted was a stranger to examine her self-inflicted injuries. She had been careless, letting the halfling see her hands. Shae couldn't help but reprimand herself for such foolishness. What would these people think, if they knew the truth?

"Well, come on over," Athwen beckoned. "We do not have long."
Shae hesitated, shaking her head. "Really, I am fine. You need not waste time tending to me."
"Now, we both know that isn't so," the woman spoke kindly. "Please let me have a look. I promise I will be gentle."
Shae hesitated once more before sitting herself down next to the healer. There seemed to be no avoiding it. By refusing, she would only raise more questions and the young woman figured it'd be best to get it over with sooner than later. She opened her hands, palms up, for the healer to see.

Athwen examined the cuts on Shae's hands and wrists gently, as promised. As Shae expected, the healer looked slightly puzzled.
"These are not new wounds," she noticed.
"No," Shae replied. "They do not heal so easily."
"And why is that?"
"I work with my hands a lot. I do not give them time to heal." Shae had hoped that this answer would be enough, but the healer still stared at her hands, unsure.
"These wounds are very strange," Athwen commented. "How did you receive them in the first place?"
Shae paused, unable to find an immediate answer. Why was it this woman's business to know anyways? "I...I don't know," she stuttered. "Life has been rough on us here in Mordor. I can't remember an exact time I injured them. It most likely happened when I was on a raid, or something...."
Shae knew this was a terrible lie, and it showed on Athwen's face. The healer didn't look convinced, yet she didn't press further.

Athwen throughly cleaned Shae's mutilated hands and put some healing salves on them before dressing the wounds. After the last bandage was on, Shae bent and flexed her hands and wrists, testing their mobility. The healer had done good job bandaging; even with the dressing Shae's hands remained flexible- it almost felt as though there were no bandages on at all. For a moment, Shae almost felt grateful for Athwen's skills.
"Now, I need you to leave those bandages on for now," Athwen spoke. "They aren't too restricting, but you still need to be careful. It'll be awhile before your wounds completely heal, as an infection was already beginning to take. You are lucky I managed to take care of it before it turned into anything serious."
Shae nodded at these words and the healer responded with a warm smile.

Athwen gave the young woman a gentle pat on the shoulder before standing up and turning away, leaving Shae to sit alone. In those short moments of waiting, Shae replayed the night's events in her head. The thought of losing her brother's necklace brought back the lump at the bottom of her throat. She pulled out the stone Carl had given and studied it, letting her finger trace over the engraving. Clutching the object, Shae allowed the feeling of loneliness to slowly seep back in.

[Firefoot]

Johari sat broodingly, preferring to take a background position in the more recent happenings of the camp. Why did she really care whether they chose to rescue the children or to defend the camp? She felt no personal duty towards either. This was nothing like how she had imagined escape would be, living in one large communal group like this, trying to find that enigmatic someplace to live.

When she looked around her, she did not feel amicably towards her companions. Rather, she felt a sense of loathing or disgust at the disorganized, pettily fighting mass of human flesh that did not even know what it wanted – and she was a part of it. She had stood up and complained and been compensated as if she were one of them, and she had been satisfied if only for a short time. It all seemed so pointless. Maybe they were meant to be slaves. Maybe that was all they were fit for. She reached across her body to touch the dark brand on the back of her left shoulder, and a brief but fierce fire burned up in her again. Never. She was a fighter.

The futility of it all still loomed behind her like an abyss, the abyss that she had not even realized was there until she had finally escaped the bonds of slavery, the abyss that had pulled her in a little deeper every day that she had chosen not to fight.

Because what was the point?

Kalin.

How long had it been since she thought of him who had once governed her thoughts? Where was he now? That had been the reason: to find him. So why was she here, and not looking for him? The thoughts had a well worn feel to them; she remembered thinking them before. He was looking for her, too, of course, and news of their large group, if they could ever settle somewhere, would surely reach his ears – he would come find her then. That was why she stayed with this group.

She shook herself from her reverie to see not too far away a small circle of women sitting around an elderly woman that Johari vaguely recognized. Overhearing them without really eavesdropping, she realized they were talking about the defense of themselves so that they could someday, “see our own crops grow in our own soil.” Pretty dreams, Johari scoffed, but she nevertheless felt a wistful smile tug at the corners of her chapped lips. For their sake, she hoped it might happen; crushed hopes were a hard thing to live with. It was better to simply live by fact.

With those opposing ideas meshing peacefully in her mind without the slightest conflict, Johari spent the night in restful wakefulness, by turns dozing and watching.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

At first there were not many reactions to Hadith’s speech and that made him all the more lost. Others seemed to be as baffled as he himself was. Hadith hadn’t quite been able to follow himself anyhow. What had made him to speak out aloud, even speaking against Khamir? Well, he had defended Khamir too. What is this? What is happening? So this is freedom: not knowing what to do as you at last have the choice and you have to make it solely by yourself?

Hadith stood there, standing straight and drawing breath, deep inhales followed by as long bursts that started to make foggy patterns in the air. It was getting colder.

I’ve been a slave all my life. It’s almost like from the moment of my birth I have been a slave. I will not go back to that, even if it costs my life. I have no memory of not being a slave... What might it be, to have memories of being free? How it would help now!

Hadith took a look around. First his eyes met with Joshwan some twenty yards away from him. Joshwan nodded to him approvingly. Hadith was unsure about how to react, but nodded Joshwan back slightly. Then Joshwan turned to argue about something with Fewerth, tugging him on the shoulder. Guilledean was there too, just looking at what happened from aside.

Then Hadith met Johari sitting on her own, seemingly deep in her thoughts but looking and listening intensely at a group of women on her left. Hadith tried to hear the discussion too. It was about arming themselves and fighting with planting sticks or something. Then he heard Granny Brenna saying: “Keep your sticks and slings handy, my friends”. He didn’t hear the next sentence, but then again the following was loud and clear as Hadith had instinctively started moving towards the group. “And one of us should keep watch for a while, then wake me and I’ll take over for the next bit. Nia, can you do that? Sun’s rise can’t be that far away.”

Hadith approached the women with confidence in posture but inside he was even more baffled than he had been before. What am I doing? What am I going to say to them?

“Friends! Let’s plan together, all of us?” Hadith called the women from some ten yards away as his approach was noticed. Brenna looked him straight in the eye and Hadith started to feel even more insecure. He had learned to respect older women and Brenna really had a commanding presence. He remembered her from the camp now.

"I mean that if we all just stick together in small groups, its of no use... I mean... erm... I mean we should all hold together..."

Hadith stopped and was not sure where to lay his eyes.

[Tevildo]

Tevildo's post for Dorran

It was a long time till Dorran replied. "It's strange, Lindir. For so many years, I dreamed this day would come. Somehow, someway, I wanted to get back to Mordor. I thought I might be able to do something for those who were still enslaved. Maybe that's one of the reasons I became a Rider. I learned how to wield a sword and to work with horses. I felt privileged to serve King Eomer and the people of Rohan."

"After Sauron was overthrown, I felt certain the whole system in Nurn would collapse on its own. But that did not happen. I kept hearing stories from merchants and soldiers that old plantation owners were simply replaced by new ones. Even without the presence of Sauron, the evil ways persisted. I left here with my sister when I was young yet so many of my memories, so many of my bad dreams, hearken back to here. My parents and older brother were victims of the slave system. Creide and I were lucky to escape alive."

"I have never been good with words in front of a group. I feel more comfortable on the back of a horse or even carrying a message to the court of Gondor where I can speak with someone face-to-face. But I won't say no. I can not. You or Aiwendil would be much more eloquent than I could hope to be. But I can tell them what happened to me. I know something of the nightmare they have lived through. And I can promise them that it is possible to build a new life."

Dorran turned a serious face towards Lindir and nodded. "They will fight. I know you are worried about that, but you shouldn't be. The first thing your learn as a slave is that nothing comes easy....everything has a price. And when you step off that plantation, you learn quickly that nothing worthwhile comes without a fight. Sometimes that fight requires a sword, and sometimes it doesn't. But nothing is gained by running away. If we explain to them why we just can't run away to the north, how the slavers might follow them or do even worse to others they meet, the men will listen, and they will follow. I can't promise you sweet or eloquent words, but I will do my best."

Child's post on Lindir

"That is all I could ask for, Dorran. And I pray you are right about these men. We have come a long way, but it is no good if the will is not in them. They must find it in their own hearts. Then we can stand together against these slavers, and whatever else threatens us on the trek north."

Lindir stood up and swept his eyes towards the north. A faint glow, harbinger of the dawn, was barely visible over the horizon. "Look there, Dorran to the north. One of the old Towers (http://www.dpchallenge.com/image.php?IMAGE_ID=274643) left by the former residents, probably to mark the supply route for carrying materials up to Sauron and his troops. Undoubtedly, a place of nightmares. Yet this land and even that tower is strangely compelling. Strange, but it reminds me of parts of Beleriand far to the north. So beautiful in a stark way. Yet those lands in Beleriand no longer exist. They are under the Sea. Let us hope we have more luck here. Let's hope we can somehow preserve what is good here. Ah, now, that is strange, too. In Rivendell, I would never have dreamed of calling parts of Mordor good or beautiful. Yet there is goodness here buried deep. Let's hope these new settlers can somehow feel that goodness and learn to build on it."

Lindir helped Dorran up, and the two walked back to where the others were gathering. Lindir called to the others, "If everyone is done then, could we mount up and get moving west? We should get there just before dawn." With that Lindir mounted his horse and looked around to be sure everyone was following.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Carl, his clothes still damp, stood by the horses for a moment with his eyes closed. Not having had much sleep over the last few days, standing still lent the chance to rest his eyes for a space. Just the shortest time he told himself, while Athwen saw to the needs of those requiring her skill, and Lindir discussed matters with Dorran beyond the weary hobbit’s hearing. But when Carl’s nose caught the familiar scent of tobacco in the air, he thought he might go sit down while he waited, for surely he was drifting off while on his feet, dreaming of the comforts of home. Still, he could not bring himself to open his eyes in order to find a place to rest.

As his chin sank slowly to his chest, Carl imagined he was sitting at home beside the fire. His pipe was full, though his stomach felt empty as he deliberated with himself over the best way to approach Athwen regarding her stone. He knew now was not a good time to try to explain, for she was busy with more pressing things. And surely it would not be right to tell her on the road either, and so spoil her disposition in time for meeting those they would be working closely with, in the near future. There was nothing he could do, but merely wait until things settled down a bit. The hobbit’s jaw worked rolling the stem of a phantom pipe between his teeth, as he leaned back in the overstuffed chair he didn’t remember being there. He considered what might happen if Athwen discovered things on her own before he had gotten round to telling her, and wondered as he wandered in that mental haze rapidly approaching sleep, whether it would be advisable to escape to The Ivy Bush for a few days in that event. Perhaps it might be best take Dorran and Athwen to the inn tomorrow for a nice meal, and tell them there. If they wanted to, Azhar, Kwell and Shae could join them too, for the slavers would not think to find them there. And you can’t wax too sour with one of Miss Lilly’s pies under your belt, no matter how angry you are. He was smiling with fond remembrance, when he felt someone shake his shoulder.

At the second attempt to wake him, the hobbit’s eyes fluttered opened, and he found that he stood propped up against Stumps. And looking confusedly at the figure before him, Carl wondered just how long Kwell had been at The Ivy Bush, and since when did Miss Lilly allow Stumps in her kitchen!

The young man had to explain a second time that Athwen had said to ask him for bread to eat. But Carl was still foggy and it took him a few minutes to regain his bearings. Finally the hobbit sputtered to life saying, “Bread and water! You look like you could use a bit more than that, if you’ll excuse my saying so.” And rummaging though packs and bags, the hobbit produced some dried fruit as well as the items requested, placing them in Kwell’s hands. “The bread’s a tad stale, I’m afraid,” he apologized. “But a man like yourself has got to eat plenty, and it’s the best we have at present.”

But boy did not need to be coaxed, making short work the food, as Carl watched him. And the hobbit wished he had more to give, but knew that they must be careful, for their stores were running lower than he would have them. “You know,” Carl began, and the dark haired boy looked over at him. “Once we get though all this, and you and the others have a place to call your own, I’ll make you a nice meat pie that you won’t soon forget. And you can sit down and have it all to yourself, if you like. I’ll set aside a bit of flour, just for it.”

“I’ll look after myself, now I’m out of that pit,” Kwell said, handing back the water skin.

“I know that,” Carl said. “And like a foraging bear, no doubt. It’s just that you seem to like food, and I like to see folk enjoy a good meal, that’s all. Makes me happy. I suppose it’s one reason why I work the land to begin with.” Then remembering their talk in the pit, he was quick to add, “That is, if you decide to stay with us. If not, I’m sure I’ll find other takers, especially when they smell the thing cooking. Never had to trouble with leftover pie in the past.”

Kwell pursed his lips and nodded as though weighing the matter.

“Ah well,” Carl sighed, hanging the water skin back on the pony, as Lindir approached calling for them to be off. The hobbit turned again to Kwell, and cocking his head, he winked, “No need to decide that just now, is there? We seem to be on the move again.”

[Undómë]

Brenna

Brenna was sitting on the little hillock, her shawl wrapped about her tightly. Her gaze flicking from one pool of shadow in the darkness to another. She glanced up as the young man approached, swallowing a smile at his nervous demeanor. She set a serious, considering look on her face.

He’d stopped a few feet away from her, held back, she supposed, by the merciless burden of her own years and his own youth. Still, and despite the fact he was a male, they were in the same fix, now, weren’t they?

The young man’s gaze flicked nervously about the ground, inspecting it seemed each pebble as if it were the most important thing in his world at the moment. Brenna smiled, in spite of herself, and bent her head down to the side, catching his eye. ‘I’m Brenna; Granny Brenna, if you wish. You’ll forgive my memory. I seem to remember your face, but can’t for the life of me remember your name.’

As she waited for his thoughts to untangle and him to speak his name, Nia came up, planting stick held defensively in her hands. She laid her hand on Brenna’s shoulder as she reached the old woman and shook her stick fiercely at Hadith. ‘What do you want, you boy you? You better not be bothering Granny!’ Others of the women and girls had waked up now, and come to stand silently behind Brenna and Nia.

‘It’s all right, dears,’ Brenna said, speaking calmly to those gathered. ‘He’s just saying that maybe we and the men should put our strengths together. Against the slavers. At least for now. Right . . .?’ She picked up her own planting stick and poked the young man lightly on the leg. ‘Now perhaps you can begin by telling us your name. And your plan, if you have one.’

Nia lowered her own stick at Granny’s words, but kept a very attentive and slightly skeptical eye on the fellow . . .

[Durelin]

Adnan

Watching Hadith stand up and speak to the entire camp, actually willingly taking on a position of leadership, was nearly awe-inspiring for Adnan. This young man was only a few years older than him, and he was addressing everyone...and most everyone seemed to be listening? Hadith may have faltered several times, but he still left Adnan amazed, and everyone else at least surprised. The eighteen year old had more strength and courage than Adnan ever thought he would have, but he did not know just how much that meant. To think standing up to your friends and allies seemed like such a more daunting task than standing up to your enemies.

The strength and energy and sincerity in Hadith's voice made Adnan wonder: was that what it meant to be free?

There was a moment or two of silence until someone spoke up, and the fifteen year old was surprised - yet again - to find that it was an old woman, who apparently even called herself "Granny Brenna." What showed of her elderly body, particularly her face, was so weathered and cracked with age that one might estimate her age at practically eighty, but anyone who understood what life was like in Mordor would know that looks could be decieving. The land made old men out of young long before time did.

Another woman seemed to think she needed to defend this Granny Brenna, which set Adnan's thoughts spinning a little more. Why on earth would she feel the need to be waving her stick around at Hadith? Would she be prepared to wave that blasted stick at some black-gutted Easterlings instead? The young man practically snarled. This time...

"He's just saying that maybe we and the men should put our strengths together. Against the slavers. At least for now. Right?"

"Well of course we should!" Adnan burst out before he could stop himself, sounding a little more furious than he meant to. A blush filled his cheeks, but his stubborness stopped him from saying anything to take his words back in the least. Looking at the ground for a moment, as if he would find some sort of revelation there, he continued only after a pause that said what he said was what he meant.

"They're after us, so we should be after them. And it's us they're after, not just one or two of us..." he trailed off into a mutter as the anger that fueled his momentary bravery passed.

[Child of the 7th Age]

After Shae’s wounds were cleansed and bandaged, the rest of the party collected on the grassy knoll that faced west and set out at an easy lope. There was no sign that they were being followed.

As Lindir had suggested, the riders doubled up so no one had to walk. At first Azhar rode behind Athwen, but, after they had gone a short distance, she had lost her grip and nearly tumbled onto the ground. The girl was still groggy and weak from fever. Needing a stronger hand to steady her, Azhar had been lifted up and placed in front of Lindir. The elf wrapped one arm about her waist and cradled his body close to hers. She was obviously ill, and even Athwen had not known what was causing the fever. Lindir could hear the girl’s light, uneven breath and observe her pallid face. Leaning back on his shoulder, she slipped in and out of consciousness. These unexplained symptoms did not bode well. Once or twice, Lindir thought he heard her softly mouth the name “Rôg”.

Before the elf could give any thought to this new mystery involving Rôg, the riders had arrived on the outskirts of camp. Lindir could see half a dozen tiny campfires flickering in the distance. The camp was located in a broad vale that lay just below their feet, partially hidden by a ring of bracken and bushes, yet still visible to anyone who might approach from the outside plain. At Lindir’s request, Shae had come up beside him; he had also asked Kwell to ride near the front of the small band, explaining “I will need both of you, to help talk us into camp.”

As the horses went downhill and picked their way through the tangle of stunted vegetation, Lindir posed a question for Shae and Kwell: “Do you know where the guards are stationed?”

His question was met by four insistent blasts from a ram’s horn, sounding not more than twenty feet away. Two figures darted out behind them and another to the front, all converging with swords and daggers outstretched. At the base of the hill from the camp itself, Lindir could hear the sound of a hoard of tramping feet hurrying to reach them.

Raising both hands above his head to prove he harbored no ill intentions and signaling the others to do the same, the elf cried out, “We come from Elessar. We bring the prisoners from the slavers’ camp. Your own people will vouch for us.” Lindir glanced over at Kwell and Shae and gestured that one of them should speak.

[Brinniel]

Shae stared back at Lindir, her eyes wide.

He wants me to speak up.

What was she supposed to say? Shae was no public speaker. She spent the years huddled in a corner, keeping to herself was clear evidence of that she never desired attention. But Lindir did not know that. He had only just met her.

The woman eyed the crowd before her. They stared back at her and the strange new company, the expressions on their faces curious and timid. By now they had all given up on any sort of outside help. How was she to tell them that they had been wrong? Shae opened her mouth to speak, but before she could come up with any words, Khamir stepped forward.

The one-armed man stared at the Fellowship, then to the children, and finally to Shae. The expression on his face was more confused than anything.
"Shae....?" he asked, puzzled. "....But how?"
"It doesn't matter how," she answered simply. She glanced back at those behind her. "This is the Fellowship. The aid from Gondor you so quickly gave up on." Then she raised her voice for the other ex-slaves to hear. "They are here to help us. Help us start a new and better life. We are already in their debt, for they have rescued the children that were taken." She pointed at Kwell and Azhar. "And...we should listen to what they have to say."

Had she said enough? Shae glanced back at the elf, who nodded in response. Already, a commotion had begun to spread throughout the crowd of ex-slaves. The young woman could already see that not all were pleased with this new arrival. The Fellowship stepped forward towards the ex-slaves and Shae took initiative to follow, but she was pulled back by Khamir.

"Why did you leave like that?" he asked, furiously, his hand still wrapped around her arm.
"What?" The woman was surprised at the Southron's sudden anger.
"Just answer the question, Shae."
"Those children needed help," she spoke solidly. "And since you weren't about to do anything about it, I decided to accomplish the task alone."
"You shouldn't have gone. That was foolish of you, Shae." His grip on her arm tightened. "You could've been killed. Why didn't you say anything?"
Shae pulled back from Khamir's strong grasp. "I didn't say anything because I knew this exactly how you would react," she replied, angrily. "You really think I'm not strong enough to defend myself? Well look- not only did I kill a man tonight, but I brought back an entire Fellowship! What does it take to convince you that I'm not some....child..." Shae's eye fell onto Khamir's fully packed bag, taking her away from the excitement of the argument. "Were you planning on going somewhere?" she asked.

The one-armed man did not respond. Instead, he bit his lip and stared harshly at the woman. Shae stared back, waiting for an answer. After a moment of glaring, Khamir broke free, and his focus switched to his pack as he began to dig for something inside. When he withdrew his hand, it was fisted, obviously holding something very small. He brought his fist near Shae's face, then opened it, his palm facing up. It took a few seconds for the woman to register what she was seeing.

Joren's necklace.

Carefully, Shae transferred the prized object into her own hands. As she tenderly rubbed the shining emblem with her fingers, she could feel relief flowing though her entire body.
"How....Where did you find this?" she asked, almost in a whisper.
Khamir shrugged. "I don't know....on the ground somewhere. Does it really matter?" He paused. "No one knew where you went. I thought something had happened...I was...." He trailed off.
Shae stared at the Southron curiously, forgetting all previous anger she had towards him. Unable to control all emotions, the woman began to cry, which was soon followed by laughter. Now, with the necklace returned to her, it seemed all previous frustration had been pointless. Before she realized what she was doing, her arms were around the man. Khamir had not expected such a gesture, and feeling his tension Shae quickly released her embrace. Her face grew hot, embarrassed at her careless display of gratitude; Khamir simply gave her a puzzled look.
Shae wiped her tears and put on the necklace. "This may seem like some silly object, but it means a lot to me," she muttered, giving the metal one last touch. "When I thought it lost forever, I didn't know what to do with myself....Thank you."

The sounds behind the two suddenly increased in volume, bringing them both back into the moment. Whatever the Fellowship was saying, it seemed several ex-slaves weren't too happy about it. Khamir turned towards the conflict, but Shae tugged on his arm and he hesitated, slowly turning back to face the woman.
"The slavers have been wary of us," she commented to the Southron. "Upon my departure, I came across one not far from the camp. I managed to kill him, but I am sure there were more nearby. The slavers' are still not aware of the Fellowship's presence. When they rescued the children, they thought it was us who did the noble deed." Shae lowered her voice. "You know what this means. It won't be long before the slavers arrive, ready to slaughter whoever stands in their way."

[Folwren]

Kwell felt relieved when Shae spoke up, but she had hardly introduced the fellowship when she suddenly dried up, the proper introduction cut short. At least, that’s what it seemed to him. Not half of what had happened was explained, and the others were left gaping at the newcomers as Khamir dragged Shae away. Kwell shifted uncomfortably on his seat as he studied the faces of the men and women, so recently slaves.

All at once, someone spoke out from among the crowd of faces. “What’re you here for? What makes you think we need any help from you? You won’t be able to save us from anything any more than we could!”

“Aye! And why should we listen to you? What do you think we are? We’re tired of being told what to do and bossed about like slaves! We’re not slaves any more!”

A growl of agreement greeted this company and the faces looking up towards the mounted fellowship appeared grim and uninviting. Kwell scowled bitterly and felt impatience rising inside of himself. A long pause followed. Clearly, they wanted an answer, but it was equally clear that the members of the fellowship had no ready reply.

“So, you don’t have anything to say after all?” called out a taunting, jeering voice.

Kwell’s impatience burst forth and he urged his horse forward. “Oh, shut up!” he called out, his voice cracking with anger at their apparent thickness. “You’re all fools! Can’t you see they’ve come to help? Quit being idiots!” he shouted again, as another murmur rose. “You were all too cowardly to come help Azhar and me, except Shae, and they helped! They’re wanting to help you, too, are you just going to – to send them off packing?” His fury choked him and he became mute suddenly. He writhed in his saddle, his jaw clenching in and out, but before he could speak again, he felt a hand rest gently on his arm. He looked up into the eyes of one of the fellowship, the healer's husband, he thought. Dorran shook his head gently and then turned his eyes towards the men and women.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Adnan had saved Hadith from a tight spot. He had been taught to revere older ladies all his life and had been raised by them. So no question why he felt unsure in front of Granny Brenna, in this uncomfortable new role of his and in the company of the women. Valar bless you Adnan, if you truly exist, he thought to himself as Adnan broke in.

But what was most positive about the whole new situation was that the ex-slaves were getting to co-operate the first time in their shared history. Beloan and a couple of other veterans really made the difference here, but even more importantly it was because it was done together, the more experienced ex-slaves and the recently freed, all together. Beloan and his friends came to have their say to the discussion that was going on between Hadith, Brenna and Adnan. And soon enough also Joshwan joined the debating circle of people. The others gathered around them, listening carefully for what was said and a few brave ones also let their opinions known or made questions about the reasonability of the plans being wrought. It was actually doing something together and it brought the ex-slaves nearer to each other. A shared sprit was being aroused there and then. And Hadith was relieved. He was no leader and had never actually wished to be one. Now Beloan, Brenna and Joshwan were making the strongest points and he could just take part in the discussion, voicing his mind as he felt it made sense and otherwise being silent, just listening to the debate.

The resulting plan of defence was not anything ingenious but it clearly was better than nothing. First of all they had decided to share all the weapons as evenly as possible so that everyone with more than one would have to give the extra weapons away to those who had none. That caused a bit of murmur in the ranks of the veterans but most of them soon realised the wisdom of the plan and they all handed their extra weapons with just some gritting of teeth. Secondly they decided that the children should be taken away to as much safety possible. It was decided that Adnan and Nia would seek a place where they could be moved as quickly as possible. There was some debate over whether the elderly should be taken to that possible safety too, but with Brenna in their lead, the elders refused the offer. They would fight alongside the others. The longest debate ensued on the question whether the children should be protected by some adults or should they trust them being able to avoid attention. In the end a couple of adults were assigned to keep them company and defend them with their lives, and be given a horn to which they should blow if the worse came to happen.

Thirdly they discussed the tactics in case of an open assault. It soon became clear that they needed to concentrate their forces and that they should go for any advantage they could come up with. In the end it was decided that they were to be divided into two groups, both taking a defensive position on top of the two easternmost mounds around the camp. From there they would have the slight advance of height against the possible onrushing horses, enabling them to attack the horses bellies from under them and thence being able to unmount the enemy. There was also the point over the effectiveness of any projectiles, like pebbles, that would be increased with height-advantage. And surely any downed slaver was easier to fight from above than from beneath with all momentum of force behind the one going for the enemy downhill.

The late evening went busily as everyone was maintaining and sharpening their weapons. Despite the gloomy forecasts of what would happen the feeling in the camp was almost merry. The people were starting to believe in one another. Surely there were exceptions. Not all had been happy with the decisions made, but most seemed to be ready for whatever would fall upon them. At last we’re doing this together! Hadith thought and gave his blade a third check tonight. But I’m afraid... I quess we all are.

But as earlier in the evening, Hadith’s gloomy thoughts were soothed by Beloan’s words that still echoed in his mind. “Friends! We are in this together from our own free will, defending one another by our own free choice! Let us show those villains that we are no slaves anymore, let us show them we are no longer easy picks for them but free men and women ready to fight for ourselves... and for the sake of our fellows, together! Let’s show them we are united and strong!”

That had been a speech! Hadith had admired Beloan from their first meeting onwards, but this had been just outstanding. Hadith drew courage from Beloan’s words for he was afraid of the night and what would come to pass with it. And there was something in his words that spoke more truly about the concept of freedom that had hounted Hadith from the very beginning and yet which he hadn’t quite clearly undertstood, or which he was struggling to understand but hadn’t yet been able to realise in full. He knew he was still missing something, but Beloan’s words started to generate new thoughts in his mind. One might say that one is free when he didn’t need to follow others or their orders and could do what is most convenient to oneself. But there must a deeper meaning to freedom, I know there must be, for that can’t be all there is to freedom. Hadith tried and tried to think of it and felt that his brains were near the boiling point. It hurt, physically too. Slavery requires obedience, unwilling compulsion to something that is declared from outside from you yourself, but freedom requires willing responsibility from inside, readiness to stand up not only for your own freedom but also for the freedom of others as no one can be free alone – but the tyrants.

Hadith was still uneasy with his thoughts, not actually understanding all the implications of things he had thought, when the alarm came. The horns were blowing.

“To the stations!”, Joshwan called and everyone started busily preparing themselves for the imminent fight. Hadith’s heart-rate bursted to the maximum. So this is it then..., he managed to think as he awoke from his thoughts.

“Are the children in safety?” Granny Breanna shouted desparately over the hassle of the awaking camp. Hadith had drawn his blade and was about to run to the mound he had been assigned to defend with the other half of the group as he raised his head to actually see the people coming towards them down the hill. That doesn’t look like an attacking party of the slavers. They do not look like slavers, they come so slowly and most of them are riding in doubles... Hadith was baffled for a second.

“No! These are no enemies! Hold your weapons!” It was Khamir. In an instant Hadith realised that he had not seen or thought of Khamir in many hours. Where had he been and why had he not been with the others as they discussed their tactics and overall defence. Had he gone away and was now back or what? But surely it was Khamir. And the others realised the situation too. These were no attackers. Allmost all the people rushed towards the strangers, not thinking about the defence-plan, but still not unsheathing their weapons either. Hadith followed the others.

The kids we lost! And... who was she... Shae she was called? The fellowship sent by Elessar himself? This dragged party here? Well they look majestic, I admit, well most of them look... Hadith was stupefied. Many had started groaning and not all the words passed to the newcomers were welcoming indeed. Hadith admitted he himself was a bit disappointed at the appearance of the fellowship he had heard Beloan tell tales of. Their coming could break the newly wrought unity among the ex-slaves, giving one or two the leeway to fall back into obedience and servient behaviour, forgetting their freedom and the responsibility that went hand in hand with it. He saw what people were afraid of, he suddenly and clearly saw it. Hadith was getting frustrated and was ready to join the ranks of those who called the newcomers with pointy words.

Then he heard Kwell’s passionate cry from the ranks of the newcomers and identified him immediately.

“You’re all fools! Can’t you see they’ve come to help? Quit being idiots!” he shouted again, as another murmur rose. “You were all too cowardly to come help Azhar and me, except Shae, and they helped! They’re wanting to help you, too, are you just going to – to send them off packing?”

That was just enough for Hadith and before he had time to think he had actually stepped forwards in front of the fellowship and raised his unsheathed blade up high. No, not again... he thought as he kind of heard himself opening his mouth and saw himself taking the posture of addressing everyone present again, this time with possibly much more nobler audience. He felt ashamed but couldn’t stop his sudden anger.

“If you are here to help us, we greet you with joy. We do not have too many friends in this forsaken land.” Hadith had addressed the fellowship and then turned to face Kwell. He could see his point but still he was furious enough to let his words fly into the open.

“But never, never ever call us cowards or fools, or idiots! We are free men and women! You don’t make us your friends...” Hadith looked at the fellowship and the rescued ex-slaves. “...by insulting us unfairly.” Then he gazed at Kwell again, even though his words were loud enough to be meant to all the people around. “What do you think would have followed if this army of the crippled would have launched a rescue operation? Kwell, I understand how you feel, but just think of it. We didn’t even know whether you were five or fifty miles away! Or in which direction! Just give it a thought before you go blaming others about being idiots, cowards or fools!

Hadith made a pause and fell into thinking. He really was getting to feel very insecure. He didn’t know what he was doing and hoped he hadn’t opened his mouth in the first place. Well, it’s started, so let’s finish it, he thought and addressed the public once more.

“We’re ready to fight and we will fight, whatever will come out from it! We stand united against anyone wishing us harm! We are free people, freely sticking together to aid one another! And we will fight with you beside us or without you! And if we must die, then we die, but we will die as free men and women, responsible of our own choices to stand for each other! Kwell, I know you may find this a bit hypocritical. You have a right to see it so, but we have matured just today, partly because of what happened to you and the girl here." He nodded towards Athwen in shame of not remebering her name. "I’m really happy to see you both alive and well, but don’t blame us for something that would have been just suicidal to all of us others. You had luck, and I hope we also have luck with the appearance of this fellowship, but we need to be ready to stand against the attack of the slavers pretty soon I’m afraid.”

Hadith had to draw breath. His speech had been a passionate one, more than he had thought he’d be able to, but now he was calming down. Mainly to himself he muttered: “I think we were not prepared last night but now we will...” But that was loud enough for most of the people to hear.

I’m learning this freedom-thing now, am I?

[Durelin]

Khamir

He had been wrong. He had been dead wrong, about so many things. Right and wrong had seemed so simple to him for the longest time: he was right, the slaves were right, and the Orcs and all the slavers and those who worked for them were wrong. The line was never blurred, and always ran straight and true. But since they had decided on this journey to somewhere new, Khamir found himself lost somewhere in the grey, with only the black clearly on the other side, and the white yet to be found. Everyone had squabbled with each other over things that seemed simple, practical matters to the one-armed man. So many of them with the taste of freedom in their mouths seemed to already have forgotten the laws of this land, which had always been against them. There was never any goal other than survival until now. If only they could remember that it still was one, if only they hadn’t already forgotten the way they were able to escape.

His entire world was falling apart, and he felt prepared to give in to all the stubbornness within him that would force him to continue his aloofness from the others until he suddenly felt a pair of arms throw themselves around him. Khamir could only stare down at Shae’s form with surprise, and when she quickly let go, he was not of the mind to change his expression, much less voice anything he might have wanted to. He was saddened that she moved on nearly before he could blink, but thought it was probably for the best. Most likely if he had gotten any words out he would have regretted them. It seemed that was the way of things these days.

“It won't be long before the slavers arrive, ready to slaughter whoever stands in their way.”

Glancing over the motley crew known as the ‘Fellowship’ – which even included to little men whom he had to stare at quite a bit longer than the others – Khamir considered them practically doomed. But turning his head to look over the crowd of men and women and children he had traveled with for months now, his mind quickly changed. They had gathered themselves quickly, and he had to admit, they appeared a fiercer bunch than he ever thought they could, even if they were on the defensive for entirely the wrong people.

To think Gondor had come through on its promise. He glanced at Shae again, wondering if now was at all the time to apologize. Half of his attention was outward, half inward, as he tried to reconcile the two worlds. All that went on around him rushed by him too quickly for his mind to keep up with, particularly when it had just recently turned in on itself. He felt anger rise and ebb as the tide within him, pushing it down with nearly all his strength, and keeping himself from speaking up with what little remained.

Khamir felt foolish for just standing there, but perhaps that was all he should ever have done. Perhaps he should have simply stood there and listened, for once.

“They will not slaughter us,” he began in a low voice so that only Shae could hear him, and he would not interrupt any of the proceedings around him. “Things have changed, and it seems for the better.” He struggled to keep a certain amount of defeat out of his voice. This was not about him. And even if it was, he had one some kind of victory, as well. There was a short pause in which the woman searched Khamir’s eyes, and he for a moment allowed her. But he had to drop his eyes before he could speak again.

“I am sorry, Shae. I was wrong. Gondor did not fail us, you did not fail, we will not fail,” he gestured to encompass everyone, in particular all the former slaves. “I admire you,” he said suddenly after a second pause, after he could bring his eyes back up to hers, and quickly added, “your bravery.”

Turning away, a slight heat in his face confusing him, he focused on the various members of the Fellowship to dispel it quickly, watching with particular interest a man darker-skinned than the rest, and obviously of a similar origin to Khamir and many of the other slaves. What sort of man was he, to be in those others’ company, to be chosen by the King of Gondor, though he was a man of the South? A strange group, to say the least, but the one-armed man would do his best not to doubt Elessar any longer. He was obviously a good man and an excellent leader, and it was now equally as obvious to Khamir why he had never realized that himself until now: he had never truly begun to understand what that meant.

[Tevildo]

Dorran could see frustration etched on Kwell’s face and could easily imagine the hard objections the young man was forming inside his head: that distance and numbers were no excuse for failing to make some attempt to rescue the prisoners. Truthfully, Dorran felt Kwell was right. At the very least, a group of scouts should have been sent to see what was possible. Kwell had fine instincts and, if he could ever get beyond his mistrust of the world, would make an excellent soldier.

Dorran was also aware that the two men who had spoken seemed genuinely puzzled by the members of the followship. In a land where brute force was a way of life, their own group's odd assortment of talents and sizes did not match conventional ideals about battle- hardened warriors. Part of the problem was that few of the escapees had begun to consider that more than a strong arm would be needed to survive.

Caught up in a conflicting maelstrom of words and emotions, Dorran tightened his grip on the reins and stared out as if mesmerized. It was if he had been transported to another age. Twenty-five years ago, this had been his world. He remembered a small boy standing in the arc of his father’s shadow, staring awkwardly at the ground as the older men and women argued about what to do. Their numbers had been smaller, but the situation they faced was nearly identical to what he was seeing now. Alternating bouts of anger, hope, and resolve—very real and vehement feelings---threatened to dismantle what little unity these men and women had so painfully achieved, just as these same discordant feelings had resulted in the untimely deaths of his parents and brother. A tragedy like that must not happen again. Dorran dismounted and began walking forward, determined to try and do something to help.

Khamir’s brief comment to the crowd had taken no more than a moment. Kwell remained on horseback, a short distance ahead of Dorran and opposite Hadith. The latter had dropped his arm to his side but still doggedly clutched the hilt of his sword and showed no signs of backing down from the comments he had made about not sending out a rescue party. Overcome with frustration and unwilling to wait longer, Kwell spurred his horse forward and headed straight towards Hadith. Dorran was the first of the fellowship to react. Lunging ahead, he grabbed at the reins of Kwell's horse and pulled back on the animal's head, crying loudly, “No. Stop. Do not do this. Let it be. You two will slay each other before the slavers can even get here. Believe me, Kwell, I understand your impatience. I am impatient too.”

Kwell came to a halt and turned a disgruntled face towards Dorran. When the older man responded, his voice was laced with sadness. “I understand more than you realize. I grew up in these parts. We called the plantation the “Iron Cage”. The hunger, the Orc whips, living like a beast….my life was no different than yours. Our family escaped onto the Ash Plain just as you hope to do. Only they never made it further than that. No one could agree on anything; each thought they had the only answer. When the slavers came, they killed my father and mother. Out of seventeen, four escaped. Still, my sister and I were lucky. We journeyed to Rohan and made a new life. ”

Dorran glanced at the rest of the group, intently searching each face for any sign of understanding. “I tell you it can be done, especially now that the Dark Lord is gone. But we must go to your camp and plan. The attack will come soon, as your own leader told you. My friends and I are not here to lead but to help. We are not all warriors but have skills in many areas---healing, building, the crafting of metal and stone, even farming and herding. Lindir and I are experienced in the conduct of war. We will all do whatever we can. I do not doubt your bravery, but courage alone is not enough. You must do what my own parents and others failed to do: to reach some agreement. Look at the man or woman next to you, because their survival is as important as yours. You have made a start. My friends and I can only bow our knee to what you have done. But now we must plan and act together. Night will come too soon.”

Dorran stopped and drew a large breath. His words would not persuade everyone. He did not expect that, but he hoped it would be enough for them to set aside differences and continue planning. By now the darkness was beginning to fade. Soft rays glimmered just above the horizon. Morning, with its shadowy promise of hope, was spilling over onto the plains of Mordor.

[Durelin]

Adnan and Beloan

Excitement boiled in Adnan, and he practically grinned at the newcomers, staring in almost awe at some of the stranger looking members of the company. One was taller than the others, and had dark hair but light eyes, and ears like the fifteen year old had never seen. Could he be a being from the stories? But more curious still were the two small men, one his hair obviously turning silver in places, but a good foot or two shorter than Adnan himself. The other was even shorter! So this was what Gondor sent them? A curious bunch, to say the least, but the way they seemed to carry themselves to the young man made him certain that they would be of greater help than he ever would have expected from Gondor or its King.

“My friends and I can only bow our knee to what you have done. But now we must plan and act together. Night will come too soon.”

As the one man finished – to think he had been a slave, too! – Adnan could not help but feel a swell of pride rise up in him, and more hope than he had felt in his life. His talk with Hadith and that he was able to stand up for who he now considered and friend had left him in higher spirits than before, and his feelings only improved from there. There would be a battle soon, and he nearly anticipated it with a thrill, rather than the dread he was accustomed to. Glancing at Hadith, he flashed him a broad smile. They were doing it. They were free, and they were defending that freedom. It was just like in the stories!

“We welcome you with immense gratitude,” Beloan spoke up, deciding it time he stepped forward once again, perhaps falling into the place he had been meant to be in. He had always seemed to be Khamir’s right hand man, and one could say it was right that he take the one-armed man’s place in his failure. Failure...Adnan wanted to think of the man bitterly, but he could not get his words out of his head. “You’ll need it, and you’ll use it well...” Not condescending, not petty words just to make him feel better – Adnan doubted a man like Khamir was capable of ever saying such things – but what the gang leader thought and felt.

“Come, we have a few provisions in our camp if you might need anything, and we may sit around a fire and get down to business.” He addressed the members of the Fellowship, but now raised his voice and turned to speak to his fellow freemen. “We do not have time to waste on distrust – these people will fight alongside us.”

Beloan turned his eyes to Khamir, who he found, to little surprise, still speaking with Shae. He would not stop the man from taking part in the planning, and would indeed encourage him to if he was in need of such, but he knew well that he should distance himself from the man if that was what he wanted. He had trusted the one-armed man as long as he knew him, but now the questions of leadership were beyond him and the way he had lived for so many years. If only he had asked his friend and companion for help, he might have avoided embarrassment. But Beloan knew that was his way, and it was best that he learned from it.

A determined calm settled on the former slaves as the Fellowship was led into the camp, and a fire chosen for them to sit around as they planned. Adnan took it upon himself to add what sticks and dried brush he could find to the blaze, as a group settled down around it, those chosen as makeshift counselors through unvoiced understanding. Few even wished to be a part of such decision making, particularly after years of having their decisions made for them. That was simply how things were – and now they were quite satisfied with who was forming plans for them, knowing that their thoughts and opinions would not be excluded. Those who were concerned simply kept as close a distance as possible to that one fire, more eyes filled with hope watching it dance than had ever gazed on such a flame.

[piosenniel]

It will take longer to heal this land than it’s taken to bring Dorran to this point....

Rôg had listened with interest to the boy’s, Kwell’s, angry outburst and then to Dorran’s story. Was it easier, he wondered, for Dorran to heal because he’d been transplanted to another land? Would he be the same fine man he is now had he not been able to uproot himself; if his roots had to continue to suck sustenance from this parched place?

Rôg stooped down and picked up a handful of soil, sniffing at it lightly. It had a soured, a vaguely burnt odor to it, and he wondered if the land’s soil, this particular part of it anyway, would be able to revive. His eyes flicked about the group of men and women, trying to imagine what reserves each had; the sort they must dig deep into to nurture this new sort of life they hoped for. His tongue flicked out to taste the small wad of dirt. And was surprised that beneath its burnt taste it was not acidic. There was an underlying richness to it that had not yet been leached out. Were there water to be found in this arid land, its magic might tease out, unlock, those little graces of the soil that nurture plants. Engaged in such ponderings, he nearly missed the invitation to the Fellowship to come in and take a place about the fire.

‘Here,’ he said, coming up to Lindir’s horse. ‘Let me take her while you treat with these people.’ Rôg’s hands reached up for Azhar, guiding her down to her feet. ‘We’re both tired, and while I can’t speak for her, I know my strengths do not lie in wrangling words and ideas in such a large group. I’d rather leave that to Aiwendil and to you. I’m happy to follow along with what is decided.’

~*~

‘Come, Azhar. Let’s just sit here. A little ways away from the fire’s heat. I’ve my cloak to keep me warm and you have yours....that, and your fever. We’ll listen to them talk and plan.’ He grinned, raising his brow toward the intermingled group. ‘That should be enough to lull you to a deep and restful sleep; don’t you think?’

[Brinniel]

“I am sorry, Shae. I was wrong. Gondor did not fail us, you did not fail, we will not fail.”

Shae stared at Khamir curiously. She could hear a hint of sadness in his voice, perhaps of defeat. The woman couldn't help but wonder if she were partly the cause of this. She had argued so harshly against his decisions, perhaps enough to turn many of the other ex-slaves against him. It was true- she had been right all along and Khamir wrong- but this was not the reaction she expected.

Khamir spoke up again. “I admire you....your bravery.”

Shae couldn't help but blush at these words.

Me, brave? That was something she always had a hard time believing.

She was surprised at the one-armed man's kind words. Had he spoken the truth? Was she really becoming a different person- one of bravery? As Shae watched Khamir turn toward the others, she realized she was not the only one to have changed over the last several days. The man's face remained unreadable as he listened closely to an ex-slave, Hadith, speak.

Not all changes are for the better.

Shae's focus returned to the situation in front of her as Kwell lunged his horse towards Hadith, Dorran only just grabbing his reins in time. Shae stepped forward, next to Khamir, and listened to what the Rider had to say.

“I understand more than you realize. I grew up on in these parts. We called the plantation the “Iron Cage”. The hunger, the Orc whips, living like a beast….my life was no different than yours. Our family escaped onto the Ash Plain just as you hope to do. Only they never made it further than that. No one could agree on anything; each thought they had the only answer. When the slavers came, they killed my father and mother. Out of seventeen, four escaped. Still, my sister and I were lucky. We journeyed to Rohan and made a new life. ”

Shae's eyes widened at this story. She had no words to express her shock.
"The king sent a former slave to us?" whispered Khamir, sounding just as surprised.
The woman could only glance at him and shrug her shoulders. As Dorran continued to speak, Shae noticed the slightest of scars on his wrist- a brand. She had been the first to tend to the man the previous night.

How did I not notice the scar before?

Shae felt a new admiration for the man. A Rider of Rohan Dorran may be, but was not much different from her. He had been a slave before too. And yet, he managed to start a new life, away from the plantation- even get married. If he could do it, surely Shae and the rest of the ex-slaves could too.

Final words were spoken, and satisfied enough, the ex-slaves allowed the Fellowship to join their camp. By now, daylight had well arrived, bringing with it a bright new day. Shae was searching for a place in the camp when Carl approached.
"Will you be joining us, Miss Shae?" he pointed towards the campfire where the Fellowship and a few select ex-slaves sat planning. "You were such a help to us last night-- we would appreciate any thoughts or ideas."
Shae hesistated, then gave a nod. "Very well. I will join you."
The halfling gave a smile, then hurried back to the circle.

As the woman walked towards the campfire, she caught a glimpse of Khamir and came to a halt.
"Do you not intend to join in?" she questioned, gesturing at the Fellowship.
The one-armed man gave a snort. "I was not invited, like you."

Shae stared hard at Khamir, frowning. Was the man who had led the ex-slaves all these years- the one who had kept them alive- simply going to give up and pass the torch to someone else?
"You are no failure, if that's what you think," she said to him. "You made a mistake- we all do. There are still those who believe in you. I do. Come join us by the circle. You say we will not fail. Then come, and see to it that we don't. For years we have relied on your leadership- and even with the Fellowship here, we still need you." Shae paused, breaking into a warm smile. "Right now, you may see yourself out of place. But do not think for one second you can steal my role as outcast." The woman turned around and found a seat among the Fellowship, between Vror and Beloan. She only hoped Khamir would follow.

[Folwren]

Finally! A fire at which she could work. The delay at the entrance of camp worried Athwen immensely. She had never dreamed that they would be rejected, disliked, and doubted. These people had asked for help, and it had seemed they were going to reject it when they finally got an answer.

But now they had brought the fellowship in and settled them around a fire. The men were speaking together about the slavers, when they planned to attack, where they would come from, and what tactics could possibly be used against them. The fellowship told the men from the group of ex-slaves all they had done, what they had seen, and what little they had guessed about their plans.

Athwen, in the meal while, quietly fished out a kettle and poured water into it. She fixed it above the fire as quietly as she could, trying her utmost not to distract anyone from the councils that they took. She sent furtive glances towards them from the corner of her eye as she opened her herb pack. Thankfully, few paid her any attention at all, and those soon quit being distracted by her small movements.

The water boiled at last and she pulled it off and quickly prepared tea. With the strainer still bobbing in the mug, she carried it out into the shadows where Rôg and Azhar huddled close together.

“Hold this a moment, Rôg,” she said, handing the mug to him. She knelt by Azhar and laid her hand on the girl’s forehead. “As I thought,” she murmured quietly. “Still just as feverish as before. Are you cold?” Azhar shook her head, shrugging her shoulders to indicate Rôg’s cloak around her. “I see,” Athwen said, smiling a little. She shot Rôg a quick glance. “Then I won’t ask you to come by the fire. But you have to drink this. I hope it will help.” She took the cup from Rôg, carefully fished out the strainer and holding it gingerly by its chain so that it dripped on no one, she handed the mug to Azhar.

“Don’t drink it quite yet,” she said, her eyes widening as Azhar brought it close to her lips. Had the child ever drunk tea before? Perhaps not. “It’s still very hot. Wait for it to cool some, or you’ll burn your tongue. I’ll be right back.”

She left the two of them briefly to take care of the tea leaves and return the strainer to its place in her pack. In a few minutes, she came back, and sat down silently. Azhar quietly and steadily drank all of the tea and in ten minutes, handed back the empty cup.

[Child of the 7th Age]

By the time the leader of the slavers awoke and struggled to his feet, it was already well past mid-morning. Imak glanced outside his tent and saw men scurrying from one side of the camp to the other. The deadly business of getting ready for the night's attack was well under way. After pulling on his boots, Imak girded his older sword around his waist and uttered a private curse, swearing that he would retrieve the fine blade that had been stolen from him two nights before. He walked out of the tent and strode purposefully among the men, carefully noting what had already been accomplished as well as those tasks that still needed to be finished.

Men were rounding up the last of the horses, rummaging through small stockpiles of daggers and swords, and finishing up the holding pens in which the young slaves would be stored before being driven back to Nurn. When asked by one of his men if they should build a second pen, Imak had tersely responded that this would not be necessary. Only the fittest and fairest would be left alive: the rest would be summarily slaughtered. The leader of the slavers was in no mood to be challenged. The men exchanged worried glances at this news, since it would substantially reduce the profits they drew, but no one had the courage to cross Imak's path. In any event, the men were not opposed to an easy night of slaughter.

Reaching the center of camp where the cooking fire still burned, Imak met up with Eyshkin, the second in command, and barked out a final series of orders, grudgingly acknowledging that things had gone better than he had feared last night, “There’s no use waiting till nightfall. Our preparations are almost complete. We leave by mid-afternoon. We need no cover of darkness to defeat this rag tale band. Tell the men to be prepared to ride out then.”

Eyshkin nodded curtly, but then hesitated a minute, wondering if he should say anything about what had happened earlier that morning. Still, he had better come up with a good explanation, because the men would be without meat at their mid-day meal and tempers were likely to be frayed. Unable to concoct a believable story, Eyshkin finally decided to tell the truth, despite the fact that the story sounded odd even to him. Nervously clearing his throat, the man continued, “Imak, there’s one problem. Cook was preparing a fat donkey for the mid-day meal. Only now there's a problem. You see the carcass has turned up missing”

“Missing? That’s ridiculous. Has the idiot been into one of the casks? I told him to leave the stuff alone till after we had finished with the slaves.”

“No, Captain. It’s not that. You see one of the men swears he saw a monster come into the kitchen and lug off the meat. The monster was a big ugly thing, as broad as it was tall with fangs as long as daggers. Cook went and hid in the log pile while the thing piled the meat onto its back and ran off onto the plain.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Imak snapped. “Those fools have been drinking. Put the casks into my tent and have one of the men stand guard outside. Nobody, and I mean nobody, touches that brew before we come back tonight. I should have your neck for this one, Eyshkin. It’s your job to handle all these problems. But I’ll let you off this once. Only you’ll be the one to announce to the men they are having grain porridge for lunch. We can’t take any more time to slaughter an animal or prepare it for cooking.” Imak spat on the ground and laughed. “I don’t envy you that job. Just tell them that hunger is good. It makes them fight harder. Tell them to do well and there’ll be a reward for everyone in camp.” With that, Imak turned and marched off to where several men were beginning to practice with their bows.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

As the talks around the fire progressed, Carl listened attentively to the discussion as he sat with his quiver, methodically straightening the fletching between thumb and forefinger. And while he knew that there was very little chance of confusing one of the people now surrounding his companions, for one of the villains that would be bearing down on them, he still would look up intermittently, as he tried to learn each man’s face. It would be bad to suddenly find that he could mistake them during the skirmish. And as he studied those faces, he witnessed here and there, a blossoming resolve displace the grim resignation that had seemed etched on so many of them. Backs that had seemed bent with the burden of living grew a bit straighter before his eyes.

And then too, as he looked up furtively from beneath his brow, he noticed quite a few sets of narrowed eyes beyond their circle, peering at him as well Vrór, making him feel self conscious as he sat there. He knew of Vrór’s great skill, what had he, a simple hobbit, to offer them? Indeed, he did not know himself. It was that he was a farmer, but then many of them had worked the ground, and understood better then he, the climate here. But he was included for some reason, and deciding that there was no point now in second guessing his betters, especially now when the whole plan was being threatened by slavers, he laid his quiver down in the dust beside him.

Clearing his throat, and avoiding the curious eyes of those passing by, he glanced at Lindir then at Dorran as he waited for a gap in the conversation. “If I might make a suggestion or two?” he asked at length. All eyes turned toward the small figure as Carl stood up to address the them. “I just wanted to say that my people once had to contend with a rough group too, maybe not just like these slavers but close enough to be cousins. Anyway, we found out that while each one of us could do little to get rid of so many of them, when we all came together there was no stopping us. Those ruffians could not stand against us.

“My point is this, even if you’re handy with sword or knife, it’s no good taking care of a hundred slavers if the there is only a handful of us left after the fighting. You need one another, both to help you now, and later on when you start to make your own way in this land. We’ve got keep an eye out for each other, you know? And fight as a group. Otherwise it will go much harder for all of us.”

Carl looked at the ground behind him as he moved to sit down. There was a rock there that he hadn’t noticed before. Picking it up, another thought came to mind, and so he addressed the group again, jostling the stone in his hand. “Oh, and we might try to spare the slavers’ horses as much as we can. I can’t help but think that they will come in handy, if we can catch some of them.”

Settling down again, Carl looked at the rock in his hand, remembering the one Athwen had found near the stream. Somewhere in this group was the person who had drawn on it, and he knew that with the raid imminent, there was a good chance that he might never find out who it was. Taking out his knife, he looked around to see if Athwen was nearby before beginning to carefully scratch the stone with his knife’s handle. Drawing from memory the tree, the moon and the bird’s footprint as he listened to the others' sober remarks.

[Undómë]

Brenna

‘Now that’uns got a good head set solid on his shoulders.’ Brenna listened closely to the little man’s words, nodding her head at the common sense of them. She and most of the other women were sitting at a small fire near that of the others who now sat with the group from Gondor; close by enough to hear what was said, but far enough away that they felt they weren’t intruding.

‘What sort of creature is he, Granny?’ whispered Gwenni. In all her eleven years her only contact had been with those men who were either slaves or slave owners. Among and between their groups they differed in skin and hair color, and height a little, but none she could recall had been as short as these two and still full grown.

‘Him and that other fellow who’s a little taller – they aren’t some kind of good Orc are they?’ the girl asked. She wrinkled her brow, considering the problem. ‘I heard that sometimes Orcs don’t get very big.’ Her fingers slipped up to play with a stray strand of blond hair, wrapping it tightly about one finger then letting it fall again into a lank ringlet. ‘They’re not all that mean looking though. As Orcs are s'posed to be, that is. His hair’s nice and curly, that one as was just talking, and I don’t think Orcs wear such fine clothes.’ She jutted her chin toward the Dwarf. ‘And hasn’t that one got amazing hair! Like fire, almost. And a big bush of it round the bottom of his face, isn’t that a wonder!’

Gwenni’s eyes glittered in the fire’s light, and a sly look tickled at the edges of them. Quick as a mouse she was up on her small bare feet and scurrying as quiet as such a creature, too, toward where Carl sat.

‘Ssst!’ Brenna hissed at her, in a low voice. ‘Get back here, Gwenith! Don’t pester him with your questions, girl.’

Paying no attention, Gwenni pulled up short behind Carl and stood stock still. Craning her neck to one side, she saw he had pulled out a knife and was making scratches on a rock he held in his other hand. The girl’s eyes went wide as she saw what he was carving.

A tree! And wasn’t that a moon?

When he started on those little scratchings that began to look somewhat like a bird’s foot, Gwenni gasped, and stepped up beside him. ‘Do you know Granny’s brothers, then?’ she asked crouching down beside him, looking first at the rock in his hand then up at him. ‘Did they send you with a message for her?’

Only a few short moments later, Brenna reached the girl and Carl. ‘I hope this one’s not been bothering you,’ she said, laying her hand on Gwenith’s shoulder. ‘She’s a curious one…and bold to boot.’ She raised a brow at the girl. ‘Let’s go, and leave the folk to their talking.’

‘Granny Brenna!’

Brenna turned at the sound of her name. One of the women called from their fire, waving to Brenna to come back. ‘The tea’s done. Come have a cup!’

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Carl felt as if someone was watching him intently, and trying to ignore his feeling of discomfort, he stifled the shudder that welled up in him to sit like a prickly collar about his neck. But at a delicate gasp from over his shoulder, the hobbit looked up from his work to find a young girl stationed nearby him, looking wide eyed at the rough sketch in his hand.

“Do you know Granny’s brothers than?” She asked as she crouched down next to him, without the least sign of hesitation. “Did they send you with a message for her?” She looked him in the eye with such honest, childlike curiosity; it struck Carl almost as refreshing as the words that she spoke.

Meeting her inquisitive glance with enthusiasm, he turned his full attention to her, as he whispered. “Well young Miss, if you aren’t just the person I was hoping to meet!” And not wishing to unduly disturb the thoughtful conversation around him, he added quickly. “I don’t reckon I know if we have been carrying a message for her or not, but we may have seeing as you know this drawing. I would very much like to meet this Granny of yours after we are done here, if you’d be kind enough to let her know as much.”

The fair-hair girl opened her mouth to speak, but she was quickly silenced by an older woman, who walking up, laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder, apologizing. But before the hobbit had the chance to set this matron’s mind at ease, and admit his utter delight in the child’s line of questioning, the two were called away by another. And they quietly slipped away.

Granny Brenna, the woman had called. Granny? Carl thought making the connection belatedly. He raised a finger behind the retreating figures as though about to call them back, but thinking better of it, he put the rock safely in his pocket and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand.

[Tevildo]

"That was good," Azhar responded as she pushed the cup into Athwen's outstretched hands. "I'm sorry to be a burden. I feel so useless being sick especially when everyone is getting ready for the attack. Back in Nurn, I was never ill. The others used to say I was hard like a rock, and that nothing ever got to me. I don't understand what's happening."

Azhar's face fell. The girl closed her eyes and cradled her forehead in her hands. A moment later, she remembered something and sat up abruptly. Speaking with as much cheerfulness as she could muster, Azhar called out to the healer, "But I haven't thanked you for what you did. You are kind and have come a long way to help. If I had a real place where I belonged, I don't think I would ever want to leave. In fact, I know I wouldn't. Back in Nurn, I only cared about myself. I was good at weaseling out of work and stealing trinkets and food from the guards to make my life easier. I didn't pay any attention to the others." A little embarassed, Azhar glanced away and wondered if she had said too much. She did not quite understand her feelings but she wanted Athwen to like her.

If the healer was surprized by Azhar, she did not show it. She reached out and pressed the girl's shoulder in a reassuring way, "Those thoughts are important, but you'll have time later to sort things out. Now your only job is to rest and get well."

“Rôg,” she said gently, bending towards him, “don’t let her stay up too late talking. Please get her to go to sleep.” He nodded and she turned and walked back to the fire.

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

"You're supposed to be sleeping. I promised Athwen." Rôg smiled at Azhar who was still lying down but listening to everyone in the circle talk about the attack.

"Oh, Rôg. I can't sleep. Just don't tell Athwen I am awake." Azhar's eyes twinkled as she put her hand up to her mouth and laughted. "I am feeling a little better, and I am so excited about what is going to happen. I only wish I was well enough to fight."

Athwen struggled to sit up but then sank back onto the ground. "I don't know what's wrong with me. In my head I feel stronger and happier than I have in a long time. But it's almost as if there's a fight going on inside my body. If I could just step outside for a minute, I could show my body that my head is in charge. Then, it wouldn't keep making me sick. Do you think I could do that?" There was an earnestness in Azhar's voice that showed she was serious.

Before Rôg could respond, Azhar had posed a second question, "The people you told me about....the ones who beat the evil clan leader and their allies in Harad....they weren't great and mighty warriors. How did simple herding people do that? How did you do that? Did someone teach you how to fight with swords and bows? Or maybe that lady you were looking for was so powerful she could drive everyone off? Or did you persuade others to come help you, the way you are helping us?" She looked quizzically at Rôg.

[piosenniel]

Rôg leaned forward as Azhar spoke, brushing a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. It was a natural act, he had often done it for his sister in their younger days. Daira’s hair was always unruly, much to her distress. And being the younger brother, he took what opportunity afforded him to poke a little fun at her when he could.

Azhar’s temple felt still a little warmer than usual as his fingers brushed across it. He glanced at her eyes as he drew back. They were bright, but not, it seemed to him, with illness. Bright more like from the workings of her quick mind. Intelligent.

‘Did someone teach you how to fight with swords and bows?’ she asked.

Now how to answer that . . .

‘We are not a warrior people, but living in the desert we have some basic knowledge of how to use weapons. Enough to defend ourselves. Our greatest enemy though, or so it seemed to me, was that we were broken into so many little groups and our pride and our fears held us apart from one another. That had to be overcome first before we could join together in strength.

‘Or maybe that lady you were looking for was so powerful she could drive everyone off?’ Azhar continued.

The girl must have drifted off at the last of the story. Just as well . . .

‘We did find her. That is, her friends from Gondor were finally reunited with her. She wasn’t really lost, though, only staying with the Elders from my tribe. Learning some things about herself. I suppose she could have driven the evil ones off by herself, but she didn’t have to in the end. We were all there, together; our strength multiplied a hundred-fold by our working with each other.’ He nodded at her last question. ‘So, yes, I think you could say those from outside our clans . . . Aiwendil, those from Gondor, and more so, the Elders of our clans . . . they put the idea in our minds that we could and should work together.

He glanced at her, wondering what thoughts were going through her mind. Was his explanation enough to satisfy her?

She did look tired, now. Recalling what she had said before her questions about the battle in the south, he turned the conversation back to what she’d asked about what was wrong with her. ‘How about you, Azhar. I was curious about what you said. How you felt like there was a fight going on inside you – between your mind and your body. And I’m more curious how you said that if you could just step outside for a moment, you might somehow get better.’ He narrowed his eyes and considered her closely.

‘Tell me, little one, when you’re lost in sleep, what do you dream of? Can you remember?’

[Nogrod]

Gwerr

The two orcs sat down a comfortable distance away from the sleeping Uruks as they got back to their camp. Gwerr showed Ishkur to sat down. He had a thing or two in his mind.

“Okay, mate. We discuss then?” he opened and grinned in a way that was close to being amicable with the orc standards. He lifted his left eybrow and offered Ishkur a piece of dried meat and started going through his backpack to find the beerflask. “Just a second...” he murmured and finally produced the time-beaten goatskin from his sack. “Here we go then, hopefully we can fill this the next night as you promised!”

They both took long draughts of the lukewarm ale and burbed after it, a sign of mutual agreement. As Ishkur started to chew the offered bite of meat Gwerr queried him.

“So the elf down there, what do you think of it? Are the elves meddling into the way things go on here after that blasted Elessar got his victory? Weren’t they supposed to run and flee away from these lands? If not, that would be bad news indeed... We’ve been fighting the elves for too long and they should really just beat themselves out from here. I mean, they don’t belong here so why should they want to stay?”

Gwerr lokked at Ishkur quizzically, but Ishkur’s mouth was so full and busy that he couldn’t answer him. So Ishkur just nodded to the issue and looked thoughtful and worried. At least that was Gwerr’s interpretation of it.

“And then those Uruks”, Gwerr added before Ishkur had finished his chewing. The dried meat took time to consume. “Do you really think there is something that can make one so much wiser in their birth already? I mean, yes, they are smarter than most of our fellows here, but could they actually be wiser than we two, or Colagar...?” Then he bursted to a smile. “Well, yes maybe wiser than Colagar... surely, that doesn’t take much?” And then he laughed, a kind of nervous laughter that was trailing his thoughts all the time. Things were not going well and Gwerr was worried.

“I mean, how can they be so wise if they are only thirty somethings and we have experience of what, two millenia and more? Can anything match the knowledge from experience? I don’t think so, but still they seem to be at level with us, even wiser, like tonight as they just sleep and take no part to this over-daring looting we’ve been doing...”

Gwerr shooked his head and took a bite of the meat himself. Waiting for his companion to clear his mouth. He was really anxious for his answers. Weird, I’m not used to pay heed to the opinioins of others, but now I’m really interested about what Ishkur has to say... We must be in this together, otherwise it’s the end of us all.

[Durelin]

Khamir

Raising an eyebrow at Shae’s last comment, Khamir watched her take a seat near Beloan and one of the strange short men: the taller one, who had wild fiery hair, a colour like he had never seen before. All that he could really recognize was that he was obviously quite hardy in body and was getting up in age, as both the hair on his head and his beard were streaked with bits of silver. He still wondered about these strangers, but he had been inclined to trust them from the start, and held a new respect for Elessar, King of Gondor, no matter how begrudgingly he had to admit it, even to himself.

In particular, he was surprised by the fact that the King had sent a former slave as a part of the group. It could have been mere chance, yes, but even Khamir had to admit that it was most likely planned. The man was wise. Perhaps the Southron could learn to love this Elessar, even if he never quite came to love Gondor as a whole. If he could, he would be glad to live and serve in a new land under his jurisdiction, even though he was royalty hundreds of miles away.

That night had been full of surprises, and this day was already proving to hold even more. Even Shae had more things up her sleeves than usual, it seemed, and for several moments Khamir could only stare at her, the first few times he blinked out of pure surprise. He also hesitated for other reasons. What would joining this mean? Anything? It seemed to him almost like admitting some sort of defeat. It seemed like giving in. But hadn’t he already? He tried to settle himself, and convince himself to give up the fight already, though perhaps he would lose more than ever if he was fully successful in the latter. Actually suppressing even part of his stubborn nature might harm his fighting spirit – not that there was much fear of that: he was too stubborn to attempt to do so with too much effort.

Finally finding a reason or two for him to join this makeshift counsel of generals of circumstance, Khamir took a seat behind but in between Shae and Beloan. He would not be the one to smooth over divisions between the slaves and the Fellowship. His sense of loyalty, once it was fixed on a particular person or group, was hard to loosen, even just to spread it wider. He listened to the smallest of the newcomers, but feigned disinterest when anyone glanced at him.

“There are about sixty of us in all,” Beloan spoke up after the short man was through.

“I counted some twenty-five or thirty of those slavers,” the strange orange haired man said in a deep, grating voice that sounded akin to that of the mountains themselves.

Now it was Khamir’s turn to speak up. Numbers were all well and good, and he knew there was wisdom in the small brown haired man’s words, but horses were not necessarily as positive. Of course, this outlander would not understand.

“I expect many of you can ride, but many of us cannot. Horses in this land are scarce – the only horses we’ve seen in many years have either been in front of a plow or cooked. Orcs will eat them without a second thought.” He added his last statement in explanation, certainly not wishing to insult these foreign men with the idea that he ate horse meat, not that he had been picky about what he did or did not eat for years.

“I rode as a young man, but it has been almost two decades. Finding more horses may be more trouble than they are worth. We know this land better than any horses, too, and will be able to withstand its treacheries with more grace, I think. These bounty hunters may know Mordor, too, but many of them came here only when they saw opportunity after the fall of the Dark Lord. They are men that readily took the place of many Orcs, even against their fellow men, for money.”

They were below Orcs to Khamir, and that was saying something, as one of those creatures was the cause of his missing arm. But he had long given up on revenge, even though he would take it if ever the opportunity presented itself.

Khamir was too wrapped up in his thoughts and his anger to notice that Beloan was nodding beside him. “We know the land better than they do,” his friend began, “and I hope we will be able to use that to our advantage. Unfortunately, they are more seasoned in the ways of war. Surely some of you, though, know more of battles?” His voice took on an air of beseeching, but there was not an ounce of subservience to be found in his tone or his posture. Khamir looked at his companion with immense respect: he realized his and all of the Mordorians’ weaknesses and faults, and could admit them with losing any of his pride. Beloan was a wiser leader than he would ever have been. Khamir eyed the stump that used to be his right arm as one of his last signs of pride, but he could live with that, because he was alive.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The back and forth of Beloan and the one called Khamir almost seemed to Lindir like an intricate dance. The two were infinitely respectful in their questioning and careful not to cross paths or opinions, yet each seemed a little uncertain of where he stood. They warily circled each other, testing out the ground, as if they were not used to sharing ideas or making decisions in quite this way. Khamir had been the one with the foresight to contact Elessar and, after so many months of carrying the letter in his satchel, Lindir felt he almost knew the man. At the same time, the elf had been pleased to learn that there were others who could step forward and speak for the group. Those freed from the plantation were responsible for choosing their own leaders. While that right did not not lie with the fellowship, Lindir hoped the men could be brought to understand that only by sharing authority and ideas could they build a real community. Even if Beloan or perhaps Khamir became the main spokesman for the group, they would need to find a way to draw the others in and use their talents without making them feel that they had somehow failed. While that would not be easy, it was the only way the group could survive.

Believing that those who had come from the plantation had much to teach them, Lindir had sat back until this point, learning much and saying little. Now, with the mention of war, he felt compelled to join in. "Yes, Beloan, you are correct in thinking this. Our group, though small, has different talents. At various times I have served as a scout and as a worker in metals, but the one constant in my long life has sadly been war. I have been in more battles than I care to remember. And Dorran, the young man who explained how he escaped from Nurn, is also a Rider of Rohan. These riders are the personal liegemen of the King of Rohan who swear an oath to defend the kingdom and have particular skill in managing horses. The two of us have spoken for some time about what we all might do."

Lindir glanced over towards Dorran as he spoke, "You see, wars are not always won by the sword. Sometimes they are won by whoever can use his wits the best. Your people are not trained with weapons and that is a disadvantage, but they have had to stay active and alert just to survive. I am sure there were times when when you had to come up with a trick to outwit the plantation masters. That's exactly what we must do now. The best situation of all is not killing your opponent in battle but stopping that opponent before he makes it to your camp. We need to build cleverly hidden ditches and traps of different kinds so that some of these men are taken unawares. Dorran and I can help you, but you may well have ideas of your own. Another good thing is even those who are too old or sick or small to fight can often help to build these traps. These things work best at night or when the weather is dark and murky. We can only hope the slavers will cooperate by launching their attack after the sun sets."

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur yanked off one more chunk of meat and then wiped his grimy hands on the side of his pants. He looked over at Gwerr and laughed, "Uruks and Elves! Couldn't you think of anything more to my liking than that? Both of them give me a giant pain in my head. You know, Gwerr, I have run across a man or two in Arda who did not seem so bad. Once, I went into a tavern in Harad. It was a hang out for a bunch of us who were fighting for the local lord. At first, we stared grimly at eacher other, but once we started drinking everything changed. We lifted many a tankard that evening, orcs and men alike, and ended up passed out on the floor heaped up in one big pile. Really, I don't think we are so different. They hate us and we hate them, because we're more alike than anything else."

"Now Elves and Uruks are something else. They deserve each others company. We should lock them up in a big room and let them kill each other. You know Gwerr, those two are a lot alike. Each thinks they're better than anybody else. They try to act like bosses and lord it over everyone. Bah, I can't stand either of them! They make me sick."

Ishkur turned towards Gwerr and saw a puzzled look on his face. Then he laughed again. "I know what you are thinking. You're asking why somebody who hate Uruks so much is willing to use Makdush and his buddies. Isn't that right?" Ishkur went on without stopping, "I'll tell you why. If I learned anything in the past few thousand years, it's this....that sometimes you have to put up with people you hate if you're going to get what you really want. What I really want is a place in the mountains away from all this mess and the bosses, maybe with a good herd of horses and lots of time to hunt. Maybe even with a female by my side or maybe not. I am not sure about that part. But I am sure that we won't get to the north unless we stick together. I've heard bad stories about some of the things left over up there....things that take a particular dislike to orcs....so we're going to need everybody to fight. That's why I put up with Uruks. And no, I don't think they are any smarter than us. They just think they are and they have lots of people fooled."

"So you'd put up with Uruk to get what you want?" Gwerr echoed Ishkur's words.

His friend nodded, "Yeah, sure. That's what I said. Didn't you hear me?"

"Yah, I heard you. But I have another question.... Would you put up with Elves if you thought they would help you get what you wanted."

Ishkur stared back at Gwerr. His face turned a sickly green color. "Put up with Elves? You must be out of your mind. That's not gonna happen. That's never gonna happen. Elves and Orcs don't get along. Nothing's ever gonna change that. Nothing."

"But what if you needed something real bad, and the only way you could get it was to use an Elf?" Gwerr was curious.

"Huh, I can't imagine that. And if it happened, I don't know. I guess I'd have to think about that a long time, or else I'd come and ask you to make the decision."

"Anyways, my friend Gwerr, I don't think we're gonna have to worry about that. The only thing I'm worrying about is when those men are gonna leave camp so I can fill my tankard. I rode back down there earlier, and it looked as if they were getting things together to go in a little while. I don't think they're waiting till nightfall. I wish they'd get their bodies in the saddle and head out. I am feeling mighty thirsty. Hey, do you want to go down there and have another look?" Ishkur asked of Gwerr.

[Nogrod]

Gwerr

"I think we should not play with our fortune. Let's just wait here for the time being. We have no need of anything and if what you say is true, we will have the spoils tomorrow.... I'm in no rush as long as I have meat and ale enough in my backbag and no one of us is outright starving. We can share our things if need be... and it's only tomorrow we have to wait."

Gwerr rose his eyes to meet Ishkur's: "Yea, we should lock them both, the Uruks and the Elves into a cell and let them kill each other... I agree", Gwerr said, munching a piece of dried meat and taking a long draught from his worn skin of ale. He toyed with the skin a while in his hands before throwing it to Ishkur. There were no words needed to interpret the gesture. And Ishkur drank with pleasure.

"Don't worry about filling your tankard tonight, just share this one with me! We've not shared so many things even though we could have." Gwerr was silent for a while and looked at Ishkur questioningly. He spat on the ground to get rid of the tendons that he had chewed. "We've shared many battles together, Ishkur. More than most of these ones around us have any family-memory of! Let's be guided by the wisdom of experience here?"

"I mean, yes we really should think of this. Should we try to seek for some help to get us free? And if yes, would them be the Uruks or the Elves, or whom? We've fought the Elves from the times immemorial, I know, but what about these Uruks? Their master is gone. Who do they serve and can they be their own masters in this new situation? Have they the perspective we have, however intelligent they turn out to be?"

Gwerr noticed the surprised expression on Ishkur's face and went on to explain the idea that was just forming in his mind.

"If you say, you will be ready to use the Uruks as means to our ends, why not others then as well?" Gwerr made a pause and continued: "Are these Uruks our best option? They will kill us with no hesitation when they see it fit their schemes, but those Elves and humans will hesitate! You said yourself that sometimes you have to put up with people you hate if you're going to get what you really want. Now who could really help us here? We will ransack this slaver camp the next night, but what then? Whom do we rely on? Do you trust those Uruks to nicely share our females in the place to come and just turn into our friends? Forget it... But maybe those Elves and Humans would look positively to us helping them to bring down these slavers? WE might gain from an attack that already helps us? So no panicky moves, just wait and see, eh?"

Gwerr started chewing his portion of the meat and looked towards Ishkur, waiting for his point of view.

[Regin Hardhammer]

"Elves and humans who would look positively to us for helping them to bring down these slavers? You are a dreamer, Gwerr. And you say that I am foolish? You are the crazy one. Such a thing will never happen. Yes, I mentioned drinking with those men in Harad but that was one night, no more than that. The next day, they saw me on the practice field with my sword, and they walked all the way to the other side. The last thing they wanted was to step within the shadow of an orc." Ishkur spat on the ground and cursed, "I tell you we could slaughter every last slaver in that camp and those slaves would still slice our throats without even looking back. When's the last time you saw men offering mercy to an orc who had the bad luck to fall injured in battle? Yet those grand kings were always pardoning their mannish enemies and let them return back home. But not us. Never us. They would rather die than pardon an orc."

Ishkur turned his head and stared at Gwerr, "It sounds as if you're thinking of running off to help the slaves. If that's what you want, you'll have to do it on your own. I'm not going with you. I don't like Makdush and his gang, but at least they're better than men. And I won't even get into elves. They're another case altogether, even more brutal and pig-headed. No, my friend. I'll have nothing to do with men or elves, not if I have a choice."

Ishkur stood up and buckled on this sword and stalked over to get his horse. "Lucky for us Gwerr that the day is so murky. There'll be no trouble with the bright light. I'm going down to watch the slaver's camp. As soon as the men leave, I'll ride back here and let everyone know that the store is open for pillaging." Ishkur got up on his horse's back and boldy cantered back to the slavers' camp, all the while thinking that his friend Gwerr needed a good night of carousing to clear out the cobwebs in his head.

[Folwren]

Athwen took the mug that Azhar had drunk from and rinsed it with water. She dried it with a cloth and put it away to the side, where she could remember that it was the one Azhar had used. She moved her pack over to where Dorran sat and there she sank to the ground beside him. As she finally sat down and let her body relax she realized just how tired she was.

Her blue eyes blinked heavily a few times, fixed on something far away. Unconsciously, she sagged closer and closer to her husband. He moved his arm and put it about her shoulders without looking down at her as he continued listening carefully to the talk.

“You see, wars are not always won by the sword,” Lindir was saying. “Sometimes they are won by whoever can use his wits the best. Your people are not trained with weapons and that is a disadvantage, but they have had to stay active and alert just to survive. I am sure there were times when you had to come up with a trick to outwit the plantation masters. That's exactly what we must do now. . .”

His voice faded into the confused sounds of the waking day. A bright light burst over the eastern horizon. The sun rose in majesty. Athwen’s head turned slightly away, her eyelids tightened, then relaxed. A sigh escaped her half open lips. With the last bit of her wakeful mind, she felt Dorran dip his head and kiss her lightly and she slept.

[Nogrod]

Hadith (and Joshwan)

Hadith had been following the discussion with keen ears. But he was even more taken by the new feeling he got from the gang of escapees. Something was different now, very different. There was the fear as there had been and even the quiet murmur towards the Fellowship hadn’t totally died. But it was something else. A resoluteness, a dedication, something he couldn’t describe to himself. Somehow all were listening, sharing a common focus.

Then someone spoke again. It was someone who hadn’t yet spoken but sat on the inner ring unlike Hadith who had carefully slipped to the second row. He turned his head to identify the familiar-sounding speaker. It was Joshwan.

“I have sailed the seas for years before I was caught by the slave-hunters and taken to a plantation. I know a lot of tricks one can do when waterborne, but I’ve had my part of fighting on land too, being the underdog most of the times. To my experience this looks pretty challenging to say the least.” Joshwan made a pause and looked at both the elf and the Rohanian rider. “My name is Joshwan and I come from Umbar. I’ve been a soldier of fortune most of my life, the one you call a pirate, but that’s not what I call myself. I am a Fortune’s soldier.” Joshwan gazed sharply around to the others around him in the inner ring of people to underline his words.

“But let’s look at our landscape. Slowly rolling and dull hills with only this hay that has dried yellow all around us. Yes, we might dig a ditch for their horses to tumble into, but how do we hide the ditches without a lattice structure made from some young trees or good branches of older ones? Or the basic rope tricks then? We can’t get a rope high enough to fall the riders but neither have we any aids to bear the brunt of the impact if we try to stumble the horses. Maybe twenty strong men at the each end of the rope could take the blow of the rushing horses, but where do you hide forty men here still hoping the enemy to ride straight between them?” Joshwan shrugged.

“It’s nice to speak of wittiness and traps but we should actually come up with some real ideas that are both working and doable... All we seem to have in abundance here is this dry grass and it’s not the best of weapons against seasoned fighters on horseback.” He broke a grass in two and then threw the parts away.

What Joshwan said sounded reasonable and thence depressing. Hadith was brought down from his emerging confidence very abtruptly and violently. All this talk of tricks had sounded so easy and assuring but if what Joshwan said was right, they were back to the square one. And if these people on the Fellowship had only vague ideas, who would then have the real solutions?

Hadith picked a grass and twisted it around his fingers. Not much of a weapon... isn’t there anything we could do with these?

“Couldn’t we do something with all this hay? Burning it or something?” Hadith asked, basically just saying it to himself, but it was quiet enough for most of the people around him to actually hear it. Hadith realised the situation in an instance and blushed, starting to mumble an apology. But Beloan cut in.

“As I agree with the points Joshwan has presented, I can’t share his pessimism. But with you Hadith I think it is the other way around. I strongly share your optimism, but probably not your point. How could we be helped by lighting the ground on fire? You know, the fire burns the good and the bad alike.” There was no contempt in his voice or in his gaze that drilled deep into Hadith’s mind. To Hadith it felt more like a father correcting his beloved son for making hasty and stupid suggestions. But he was ashamed, so ashamed. He would hold his mouth from now on, he really would.

“Just wait a minute here! I may not be so pessimistic you think I am, Beloan. And the boy might actually have a seed of wisdom here.” It was Joshwan again, and he was smiling to Hadith! A boy! Hadith wasn’t sure how to take it. Somehow he had started to think of himself as something else than just a boy with this group, but in a way Joshwan spoke the truth. He was a man but Hadith was a boy. That was exactly what he was and now he had been shown his place.

“We might pack the hay in tight bunches, using some string to make them hold, a size of a big head or something. And we could make a lot of them... a hundred at least...” Joshwan was clearly getting animated with his idea. “When they come near enough us if we have no other tricks to use on them – or to those who have been left around the fire to make the last stand if we have other ideas too – we could alight them and throw them at the slavers. This grass is so dry that it will burst in flame in seconds. We have just time to throw them before the fire really gets wild. Just think how their horses will react to a hundred balls of fire thrown at them from a short range and out of the blue? We might then have a lot of unsaddled slavers in our hands, hopefully stunned or at least disoriented for a few moments.”

Hadith was thinking about a hundred fireballs flying in the darkness of a night... It looked awesome.

[Firefoot]

Johari had at first been inclined to feel annoyed and encroached upon with the arrival of these newcomers, who seemed to think they could just dance right into their camp and run the place as if the ex-slaves could not figure it out for themselves. And how they tried to ingratiate themselves! “See, we rescued your children!” and “Look, I’m an ex-slave just like you; you can be successful just like me!” Ugh.

To vocally protest their arrival as some had tried would be futile, of course. They had come this far and would hardly turn back now only a few minutes or hours after finding them. No, they would come along and “help”, holding themselves above us ex-slaves, consciously or not. They didn’t understand. Why had they been invited – begged – to come? Even with that, they hardly had a right to be here. Where had these strangers been months ago, years ago when they had really needed the help, toiling away on some plantation, only just managing to survive? Where had they been when the Black Tower fell to end the slavery for real? Had the help they had needed come when they had needed it to come, she would not have been separated from Kalin as she was.

But now, finally, help had come, and they expected to be welcomed like saviors. We’ve been watching out for ourselves and doing all right until now, thought Johari, and I’ll be clapped in chains and dragged back to that plantation if I let someone else come and baby-sit me now.

Still, these rebellious thoughts remained unspoken, not because she knew it would not help but because, when it came down to it, she didn’t care enough to voice them. These outsiders would do as they wished and the people of the camp would accept them or not as they wished, and to Johari it didn’t matter much as long as no one bothered her or hindered her in her own goal. The annoyances were still liable to come out in a fit of pique should Johari be roused from her apathy (it wasn’t exactly difficult), but for now she felt comfortable just letting them stew. Let these emissaries from Gondor come to understand what life here was really like. They may not even need to be driven away; the land, its people, and their hurts might defeat them on their own. Johari smiled perversely at the thought.

[Tevildo]

Azhar's face blanched as she heard what Rôg was asking her. For a long time she hesitated, unsure if she could bring herself to describe what most of her dreams were like. She wondered why Rôg would ask her to do such a difficult thing. Perhaps he did not understand what it was like to be a slave. That burden was all too familiar to Azhar; it still shaped her life even though she had left behind the old estate. Every evening with the return of sleep, Nurn would slip back inside her mind. There was sorrow and the doom of reliving the horrors of the past, all set within an eerie shadowland that magnified and sharpened her memories in a hundred different ways.

Some people said this was because of the Dark Lord: that his hand hung so heavy over the land that not even the dream world was safe from his brooding presence. Azhar did not believe that. If it was only the Dark Lord who haunted her nights, the ugly dreams would have disappeared after his defeat. But the dreams had not stopped. She and the other slaves continued to spend tortured nights tossing from one side to the other as they recalled images and scenes long since banished from their daytime mind.

Azhar stared off in the distance and then spoke, "Dreams? All of us on the plantation dream. Only they are hateful nightmares no person would want to remember. Sometimes I dream about the orcs, how they stood over me with whips and barbs. I see images of death and dying, small babies ripped from a mother's arms for the sport of the Easterlings. And sometimes my mind reminds me how hungry I was, how I would have given anything, truly anything, for a decent piece of bread or a chunk of meat."

"But the worst dreams, the ones I truly dread, are when I remember my mother. Her name was Ursula. Yes, it was an odd name for a lady from Harad," the girl nodded, responding to Rôg's unasked question. "In daytime, I still can not see her. Only at night does she return. I was four years old, maybe five. My mother and I had been travelling north for months. She said there would be people to help us if we could only find our way back home. We finally came to the mountain and the woods." Azhar looked up in surprise, startled to recall that the place her mother called home was full of great trees, so utterly unlike the present landscape with its gnarled bushes and thorny brambles.

"My mother promised me it would be our last night on the road. She thought we would find our kin before darkness set in, but the rain delayed us. I was so little and tired. The sun set and I could not go any further. We lay down to sleep. The orcs came without warning. They were slavers with chains and brands out searching for fresh bodies, not to kill but to drag us away. There was no chance of escape."

"Then something happened I still don't understand. Rôg.....my mother looked at them, so calm, so deliberate. She was deciding something, weighing two choices. I don't know, but it was as if she knew that she could get away but I could not. Don't ask me how I knew this or what my mother could have possibly done against so many orcs. Still, that is the truth. She took out a small dagger from her belt, whispered how she loved me, and then lunged in my direction. Before she could strike, the monsters took out their swords and sprang on her. Then they dragged me off. I am afraid that is the only dream I have had that's worth remembering. Yet I have never understood whether this is a true remembering and, if so, why my mother did that." Deep pools of sorrow and confusion showed in Azhar's eyes.

"You can think of no other dream?" Rôg's voice was infinitely patient and full of gentleness.

"Perhaps....perhaps one. In the pit I dreamed twice of a great bear who came to help me. Either the bear came to help me, or I was the bear. I am not sure which. Only now, looking back, I think that bear was my mother....."

[Child of the 7th Age]

The detailed discussion on the merits of trenches, torches, and other devices to trick the slavers had been going on for over an hour. Although Aiwendil had fought on both sides of the Sea in a variety of forms and shapes, he was no expert on battle tactics and had little to say. He found his attention wandering and was soon spending more time watching sand rats scurry between two piles of rocks than paying attention to what was being said.

Leaning over to tap Carl on the shoulder, the istar confided that he would be taking a walk to clear the cobwebs from his head and expected to return shortly. Hoping to latch onto a walking companion, Aiwendil had thought of approaching Rôg but then pulled back, once he noticed that his friend was still talking to the young woman who had been held prisoner in the slave camp. The wizard meandered out of camp in a northerly direction, not exactly sure of where he was going. He only knew he needed to get a good whiff of the earth and briefly leave behind all plans and preparations for battle. War and conflict ate away at the edges of his mind.

Aiwendil walked northward for almost half a mile. Glancing out over the horizon, the istar was again struck by the awesome beauty of the land. (http://web.pdx.edu/~ruzickaa/UNST421/spring01class/geology/AlvordDesert.jpg) Close by he could see the sturdy scrub vegetation of the desert grasslands. In the distance, visible only to the eyes of an istar or elf, there were looming mountains ringed about a circle that protectively guarded a flat plain. This was the prize—the broad and hopefully fertile foothills of the Plateau of Gorgoroth--where they would be headed as soon as the slavers were defeated. The weather was unseasonably hot and dry for this time of year, even in Mordor. Despite the early hour, Aiwendil could almost feel the thick plumes of heat rising out of the ground as if throwing out a stiff challenge to him and the rest of their company. By late afternoon, it would be a scorcher.

A telltale “Kek, kek, kek” sounded above the istar’s head. Glancing upward, Aiwendil caught a glimpse of a white throat barred with black and slate grey wing feathers with black stripes. It was a large female falcon swooping down on outstretched wings. Throwing back the hood of his robe, Aiwendil straightened his hunched figure and stared quizzically up at the sky, making the appropriate response to the great bird to invite him to perch on his arm. Whether the two used sounds or thoughts or some other trick that men can only dream of, Aiwendil and the bird quickly exchanged news.

“You are out hunting? Have you had any luck?”

The creature did not seem startled by the presence of an old man who could speak to him. “Not today. No hunting today. Can you not see what is happening?” The falcon turned its neck and pointed a wing towards the northwest. Aiwendil followed the bird’s line of vision and was surprised to notice something he had not seen before: a tiny swirl of golden brown sand, barely noticeable to the naked eye, which was funneling about in circles.

The peregrine hastily explained, “The wind. The wind comes soon. We are hurrying to get ready. Too much heat and too little rain in these parts.”

Aiwendil’s eyes widened in appreciation as he realized what the bird was saying.
Almost immediately another idea took root in the wizard’s mind. Turning to the bird, he explained, “I have a great favor to ask of you and your kin. My friends and I are in sore straits. There are evil men who have no respect for the land or any creature that dwells on it. They come to attack us sometime later today. We have many women and children, elders as well, who can not stand up against such an assault. If we could but delay their coming so they fall prey to the great winds, it would be a wonderful help and would even the fighting odds between the two groups.”

The falcon blinked twice and sat silent for a minute while he considered the istar’s proposal. Finally, he spoke. “My kin know of you and the others who wear long robes. We have also seen the young man who accompanies you on the road, the one who sometimes chooses to fly or run free. On hot nights we tell tales about the battle at the Yule Log and the hot deserts to the south where the master Eagles came. I would like to help but I must warn the other birds of prey about the storm and protect my own family. Plus I dare not ask any of the other beasts to come. It is not my place. ”

“No, I would not expect that of you.” Aiwendil shook his head to acknowlege what the falcon was saying. “But if you could find a safe place for those of your kin who need shelter and support, perhaps you and a handful of the strongest could aid us for a bit. It is not necessary to kill the men, only to confuse and delay them. Our swords and the winds will do the rest.”

The bird nodded in agreement just as the man replied, “Go then, quickly. I and my friend will meet you here by mid-afternoon for we do not know what time the assault will come.”

With that, the great bird soared into the sky, veering northward, and Aiwendil returned south to camp.

[piosenniel]

What a horrid thing to take upon oneself! Rôg’s stomach lurched at the vision of a mother needing to kill her child to save her. Poor mother! And worse yet the lingering memory of it in the child. It was a decision he could barely fathom.

The girl began to speak again of other dreams, or one dream, really…of bears. He looked closely at her, estimating her age. Her child’s features were just giving way to hints of the woman she would become. With a soft intake of breath the fact hit him…it was her changing time. And these symptoms she was having, this ‘illness’…he had seen it before. On that excursion into the southlands with Aiwendil.

The mother…her daughter, here…they were maenwaith!

Now he bit back the anger that came with this realization. That two of his people had been caught by the vile hands of Shadow. That one had had to die. Filthy Orcs! Had it been possible at that moment, he would have gone back in time and slashed them and burned them…everyone! A shadow of that terrible anger rippled briefly o’er his features; his hands clenched and then uncurled themselves, the fingers aching with a murderous desire.

And just as quickly he pulled back from that ill-thought impulse, cooling the fire that coursed in his veins. Not now! Wait, wait! he told himself; reminding himself, too, that the well-being of the living took precedence over those who had passed beyond the circles of this place.

Rôg leaned forward, touching the back of his palm to Azhar’s face. His expression lightened consciously and he nodded his head slightly at her. ‘Those are good dreams! The ones of bears. They are strong creatures. Patient and wise in their own ways. And mothers, you know, they are very much like bears. Their cubs are the whole world to them; they will do what they must to protect them.’

He wrinkled his brow, drawing up his mouth in a moue of indecision. ‘I can help you, I think, with this “illness” of yours. My clan has some small knowledge of these problems you are having. And you’re right…what you said earlier…about the fight between your body and your head…’ He leaned back and looked her over thoroughly. ‘I can help you with that, I think. Not now though,’ he said his gaze drifting about the campsite. ‘We would need some time together, undisturbed.’ He smiled reassuringly at her. ‘Can you wait, then? I’m certain you will feel better, little one?’ he asked using the term he would use with children of his own clan.

Of a sudden, the hairs prickled at the back of his neck. And a certain familiar scent tickled at his nose. ‘Oh my! We surely have no time now, Azhar,’ he said, raising his eyes to the skyward. His gaze swept round to the thin line of horizon behind him. ‘Can you feel it? A windstorm is coming.’ He stood up and helped her to her feet. ‘Give a word of warning to the others, Azhar.’

Rôg waved to the solitary figure he saw trudging toward the camp – Aiwendil. Leaving the girl to be about the things he’d asked of her, he walked quickly toward the old fellow. A brief, hushed conference between the two men took place, with much nodding of heads on both sides.

Aiwendil took leave of the younger man and made haste toward Lindir. For his part, Rôg moved quickly away from the camp, heading toward a small rocky outcropping in the near distance and the welcoming cover of the scrubby growth of trees that clung to it.

[Durelin]

Khamir

Khamir was a little surprised to hear the man known as Joshwan speak up, and he had to grit his teeth and let out a heavy sigh through them as he took in his observations. Of course they were true, and had dawned on the one-armed man as the other man began to talk, but…that couldn’t be the whole of it. There had to be a way, particularly with now over threescore of them hard at work. Vegetation was not abundant, to say the least, but, then, if they could collect enough, it might just do, as long as, as the elf noted, the slavers attacked at night.

“Pessimism or not, obviously traps and the like are necessary. And I expect they will attack in the night, as they did last time.”

Beloan nodded next to him. “They do not like learning new tricks, and will likely underestimate us.”

It was Khamir’s turn to nod before he could think of how strange the two’s exchange might look. They skirted around each other in a fashion that felt awkward, particularly since neither was used to necessarily being at odds with each other, but each feared they might be.

Suddenly, the strange, short, flame-haired man spoke up in his rumbling voice. Strange that he should look and sound so fierce, and carry such an imposing weapon, and yet if Khamir looked closely enough, he could see the crease marks around his eyes were from years and years of smiles and laughter. This detail struck him more greatly than any of the other oddities about the bearded man – most of the people here in Mordor were obviously worn a little differently from those of the Fellowship.

“I suppose there is a lack of much of anything green around here,” the axe-bearing man began, his voice the perfect example of ‘slow and steady,’ “but there is an awful lot of good, hard soil, and what rock there is, it is the strongest. Perhaps some tunneling is in order, if you lads think we have the time. I certainly know how to dig a good tunnel, but I know how to dig a bad tunnel, too: one that the wrong step could collapse in the blink of an eye. And when I mean collapse, I mean collapse – with the surface gone under, if you know what I mean.”

Khamir could not help but smile slightly at the short man, and he was even more bewildered by him. What sort of man was he? The way he talked about ‘knowing’ tunnels and about soil and rock sounded as if it was the most sensible thing in the world for everyone to accept him as the master of such knowledge, and Khamir certainly felt prepared to. He looked around to see if he could catch any reaction from some of the others, and noticed that the old man, one of the members of the Fellowship, was missing at the moment. Had he just wandered off? This was a strange bunch, and though Khamir’s faith in Gondor had certainly been nurtured, his interest in its peoples had escalated to a curiosity quite foreign his nature. He thought now that he might even travel there one day.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The meeting had been going on more than two hours when Aiwendil rushed into the circle and pulled Lindir to one side. The istar pointed to the sky and hastily explained where he had been and what would happen later that day.

Lindir stared out across the rock strewn plain, with its tumbled boulders and patches of dry grass. The day was hot and cloudless. Even this early in the morning, the sun beat down in an unrelenting fashion on the camp. The elf could see no physical signs of any storm. "Are you sure?" he prodded. "We can not base our strategy on the weather unless we are certain this will happen."

"I am convinced of it. The birds and beasts can detect a change in weather long before any man. But it is not just that. Rôg comes from a place to the south where sand storms are frequent. He is sure the wind is shifting. I tell you, Lindir, this is a piece of luck. We know what will happen, and the slavers do not. Plus, the winds are blowing out of the west. They will be at our backs, but the slavers must ride directly into the gusts. We could not have asked for a better situation."

"There is still one problem, that of timing." Lindir noted. "We do not know what time the attackers are coming. And exactly what time will these winds hit?"

"The falcon thought it would be at dark. Part of what you say is true. If the slavers wait to ride till late tonight, they will see the weather has changed and simply delay their attack. The worst that can happen is that both sides will billet down and not fight until tomorrow. But I don't think the slavers will do that. They are impatient. Their leader wants blood. They will ride out by early evening, perhaps even this afternoon. Already, Rôg has left camp to make preparations to greet them in an appropriate fashion, and I will join him shortly. If the men come early, he and I can delay them just long enough so they are caught up in the winds."

Lindir responded dryly, "I should ask you how you plan to do that, but I will not. I don't think our new friends would feel comfortable with the kind of answer I am likely to get. So if you are certain of this, go now and rejoin Rôg and do what must be done. I'll work with Dorran and the leaders of the settlers to craft a strategy based on what you have told me."

As Aiwendil stalked off towards the north, Lindir called out after him, "You had better be right about this, or we will pay dearly."

The istar turned around and gestured with his staff, "You have my word on it. And if I am right, I will insist that you prepare some of the finest delicacies from Rivendell once we reach our destination. The foothills should have game and other growing things in abundance, and I will greatly enjoy being waited on by such an old and honorable elf!" With that, the two parted company. Then Lindir returned to the circle, sat down, and prepared to speak.

**********
The planning meeting had nearly ended. The conversation had lulled, and Dorran was putting the finishing touches on a crude map drawn in the dirt that showed where the various traps should be constructed and where men and women should be stationed. Lindir bent down for a closer look and nodded to the men in appreciation, "Khamir, Beloan, and Dorran, well done. This should work. And we have one more piece of good fortune that may tilt the scales in our direction. Aiwendil and Rôg have told me that a wind storm will be blowing in at nightfall. Aiwendil and Rôg have also come up with a few tricks to delay the approach of the slavers if they should make it over before the winds hit. They've already gone out to start their preparations."

Lindir looked around the circle, expecting someone to object, but no one did. An old man sitting far back from the firepit sniffed the air and then nodded his head in confirmation that he too could sense the weather was changing. Apparently all of those gathered in the camp had lived through such storms, which were not uncommon in the region of Nurn and the plains spreading out to the north. The stripping away of so many trees and so much goodness from the soil, combined with a long spell of hot and dry weather, created the conditions that gave rise to the harsh walls of wind.

"We are lucky then," Lindir conceded. "The slavers will probably not have anyone who can read weather signs. So we will have one advantage, yet we must also be careful. Aiwendil tells me that Azhar and a few of her friends have gone to warn the others who plan to take shelter during the battle that they must secure their things within the circle of boulders at the rear of camp and stay hidden there in the worst of the weather. We must also be careful with the firebrands. The young men doing those should go further out on the plain to the east and strike before the worst of the weather hits, or we will end up with burning brands in our own faces. But one task will be easier. Once the winds come, the slavers will be hard pressed to see any of the ditches or tunnels, even if we hide them crudely. As far as the horses go, I agree. We must not waste too much effort on that. Yet there are a number of young healthy women reluctant to fight who might be stationed at the edge of camp, far from the actual swordplay. They might be able to run down an animal or two, and that could help you once you finally settle into your new lands and need a beast to station in front of a plough."

Lindir looked around the group but there were no further voices raised. "We are ready then. Each must go to their appointed task. We will meet back at the fire by mid-afternoon to set up the attack, and may fortune smile on our efforts."
With that, the circle dispersed, as men and women hurried to carry out the plans that had been made.

[Durelin]

Vrór

Vrór was pleased that his idea was received well by the others, and he was enthusiastic to start working on it immediately. He was surprised at how willing the slaves were to do such hard work, as they worked diligently and did not object to following his direction, for which he was very thankful. After his embarrassing slip with the woman, Shae, when he had used the word ‘slave’ to describe them aloud, he was very conscious of how he treated them, and for that he felt guilty, too. They had worked doing very strenuous labor under horrible conditions all, most, or at least for several years of their life, and it showed. He could not think of these people as lesser than any other people, but that he continually reminded himself of his embarrassment with Shae placed ideas otherwise back into his head, even if he did not agree with them.

He used what little wood he could find, mostly scraps from small, dead trees, and he tied thick, strong bunches of bramble together to replace sturdier wood, all to use for tunnel supports. The digging was slower than he would have liked, but they had to be careful. They had to dig at just the right angle… Vrór’s entire body was sticky from sweat, and not just from the heat: he did not have time for calculations, and he understood the dangers involved. If anyone above ground got within just a few feet of where the tunnel was in process, he would snap at them with a loud growl, and then would have to quickly apologize, and blame it on his nerves – which was the truth. At one point the boy they had rescued from the pit in the slavers camp, Kwell, approached the tunnel, but luckily for him someone else caught him before Vrór could shout him.

The one-armed man, Khamir, who apparently had been the one to ask for Elessar’s aid in the first place, came up to him at one point, and asked what he could do. The Dwarf was a little shocked, and could not answer him for a moment. He was not accustomed to this sort of dedication, particularly from a man who held some sort of leadership in this group. At least, Vrór assumed that because he had been the one to request assistance, he was the closest to a leader as there could be in this group. Khamir seemed embarrassed when the Dwarf did not answer right away, and before Vrór could say anything, the man said that he understood he might be of little help with only one arm.

“No, no, of course not,” the Dwarf assured him, his brain working quickly to think of something for the man to do. He decided that having him pass water to those already in the tunnel was the best thing, and he explained that it was because he already had enough people working in the tunnels. Khamir seemed to understand that was not the only reason behind his simple job. Still, he was diligent. He sat with Vrór at the opening of the tunnel, the Dwarf directing and the man there to run errands, largely fetching water as had been prescribed. Vrór made sure that the required supports got passed down through the tunnel, and Khamir volunteered to find more materials to act as support while the Dwarf helped place them properly. It was a slow process, and it only slowed further as they got further along. Everyone’s nerves were stretched practically to the limit, but even worse conditions were not foreign to the former slaves.

Having someone with him did little to calm Vrór’s nerves, though. His thoughts kept lingering on the idea of the tunnel collapsing on the workers, and he ran over and over in his head whether or not he had judged an angle properly, or if he had estimated the thickness of the ceiling as close as he should have. Were those really enough supports? Could those even be called supports? He was not sure – he knew a number of his kinsman that would be absolutely horrified by the job that was being done, but the idea wasn’t for it to be a good tunnel, and the best materials certainly were not available. No excuse could settle his mind or his stomach, though. He was able to push only one thought to the back of his mind: the worry of when and how exactly he was going to have to remove those makeshift supports. This tunnel could not fail in at least slowing down the slavers and throwing them into confusion, hopefully injuring or killing a few. But he would not risk taking those supports out ahead of time…and he would never ask anyone to remove them. It would have to be done himself, and Vrór knew when. He gripped the hammer that hung at his belt, and thought about his life, his work, with little regret.

[piosenniel]

‘What to do? What to do?’ He’d told Aiwendil he could come up with something to help against the slavers who would soon be on their way. The problem was he really hadn’t an idea of what that help might be.

Rôg hunkered down behind the little piling of rocks, his back squirming about to find some comfortable place to rest against. He reached out with his right hand and scooped up a handful of small pebbles. One by one he tossed them out onto the dirt a little ways away from him. One of them, by chance, hit a small, old, hallowed log half buried in the dry, brown grasses. A low, angry sound swelled from the opening of the log and several, large winged insects flew out, intent on finding the attacker.

Hornets! (http://www.cynical-c.com/archives/bloggraphics/mandarinia1.jpg)

Rôg sat stock still, eyes shut, breath held, as they buzzed near him. He let out a long breath as the sound of their angry drone drew away from him. A smile creased his face as he nodded thoughtfully.

Where there is one nest, there will be others. All I have to do is find them.

With a single, fluid movement, he stood up, shaking the dirt from his cloak. In a moment he was flying northward, in the direction Aiwendil had taken.

[Folwren]

Kwell withdrew from the notice of curious eyes as quickly as he could manage. He slipped away into some shadow still available in the night and curled himself up in a ball. For a few brief moments he lay considering. He felt more at ease here than in the pit. Safe, almost. At least, more safe than he had been with immediately danger lurking just over his head. Sleep caused his eyelids to become heavy. They slowly drooped, falling lower and lower. But why would he feel safer? His eyes opened again. He had no friends here. . .except Azhar, he conceded to himself. Azhar was a friend…

Kwell drifted off into sleep. He dreamed no dreams and slept like a log, completely oblivious to everything, until waking abruptly and entirely. His eyes popped open and he sat up sharply. Everything was bright with late morning daylight. Everyone around him was very busy, hurrying to and fro. What they were busy with, Kwell had no idea.

After a moment of blinking the sleep out of his eye he got up and walked towards the nearest person. It was a young man, carrying a large stone on his shoulder.

“What is going on?” Kwell asked, stopping him with a hand on his shirt.

“Preparations for the slavers’s attack! They let you sleep in, ‘cause you were so tired, but now you’re up, you’d better start lending a hand!” He passed on, leaving Kwell standing alone, almost no better off than before. He looked around and started towards a group of people, constantly traveling in and out of an area that seemed to go underground.

“Stop! Stop!” called a voice suddenly and urgently. Kwell looked up, startled to a standstill. Someone with a dirty face waved a hand frantically for him to stop. “Don’t take another step or you’ll be above the tunnel! Come over here. Walk way round in and arc, yes, that’s right. Come here.” Kwell came and stopped before the man. “You’re a little fellow. Now, we’re digging this tunnel, see?” he turned Kwell’s face towards the small opening in the ground. “We can use boys like you in there better than one of us older chaps. If you’ll take my place below, I’ll set to work on stuff up here.”

“I can do that. But what am I to do?”

“Take this,” he handed Kwell a short, broad, flattened stick, “and this,” and handed him someone’s shirt. Crawl down there and ask the little, bearded man where to start dig. Tell him you’ve taken Dwindle’s place.”

Kwell obeyed without another word. He got onto his knees and started into the dusty tunnel.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

When the meeting had finally come to an end, and everyone knew what was expected of them, Carl stood up rather stiffly, and stretched out his legs as he peered this way and that around the milling figures. He was searching for a sight of that dear girl and her elderly companion, but they had disappeared among the crowd, and he wondered if they had been sensible enough to go with those whose plan was to remain hidden from the slavers. The young and the old both needed to stay hale and hardy for the hard road north, that lay ahead. For even if they did manage to catch a few horses, that grim stranger named Khamir was right, chances were there would be few people found to ride them.

Oh, if only Gondor had seen fit to send them with a wagon, even one like that monstrous contraption he’d seen in the slavers’ camp, when he’d been off spying. It would sure have come in handy if there were to be wounded folk when this was all over. But there was no sense in regretting what they didn’t have. When you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere. You’ve no chance to fix it. And Carl didn’t fancy the slavers would let them borrow their cart either, no matter how nicely they asked.

The hobbit sighed, resigning himself to searching for the woman named Brenna after the he had put in a few hours of hard work. He’d need a bit of a rest then, and hopefully he’d hear it confirmed that she and the girl had tucked themselves away out of sight.

It was not long before Carl’s head was found bobbing just above the rim of a trench, as he worked along side the hard working group that gouged the ground just beyond Vrór’s tunnel. He had volunteered his only blanket, as well as himself, so that the loose dirt and rock could be hefted out, dragged away by a pair of wiry young men who were diligently avoiding the dwarf and his shouts. Off to one side a pair of women quickly sorted through the soil removing the rocks and putting them in piles.

Carl stopped his lively whistling, stooping down to crumble the dirt between his fingers. “The soil’s different here, then it was a day’s ride away,” he observed distractedly.

“Yes, and different still from Nurn,” the worn man next to him said, as he stopped to rest against the side of the trench. “I’ve heard rumor that it is not so bad further north now that The Mountain of Fire is silent.”

“I certainly hope the rumor is right. Still with a bit of care we’ll find something to grow there. Even this poor stuff here isn’t beyond all hope.”

The man gave the hobbit a half smile before returning to work, and Carl was left with the impression that the man must have thought him a bit simple. But with the crops Carl had seen in Gondor, they could actually make the soil better. And he had learned a long time ago that a bit of magic happens if you work with what you have, instead of against it. And so he smiled to himself as he began digging again. It seemed that maybe there were one or two things he might be able to contribute to these people after all.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur was able to ride his horse almost up to the camp. The slavers were so busy with their preparations in the western part of camp that they did not even notice the solitary figure who approached from the east. Ishkur sat waiting a very long time. The minutes and hours dragged on, but he refused to go back to the other orcs until he could bring them a piece of good news.

Although the sky had been comfortably cloudy and dark at dawn, the weather had changed by mid-morning. As Ishkur sat and waited, the sky shone clear and bright. The day was blazing hot, and the glare of the light was so intense that he found his eyes hurting. He let his horse graze nearby and found a group of boulders where he could squat on the ground and hide his head in the shadow. Every few minutes he ventured out from the rocks to see if the slavers had moved onto the plain. He watched as the men rounded up the last of the horses, strapped saddles onto the animals, and gathered up their weapons. He saw them stop to cook a light meal. That was the last thing he remembered before falling asleep.

An impatient whinny from across the camp awakened Ishkur with a start. He sprinted out into the clearing. From the look of the sun, it was well into the afternoon. Staring towards the far perimeter of the camp, he could see that the slavers had mounted their horses and were proceeding across the plain at a slow pace.

The camp was deserted. Ishkur could not see anyone; not even a sentry had been left behind. Filled with glee at this welcome sight, he charged forward on his horse, his weapon raised above his head. He made straight for the one thing he most desired. The slavers had left not one but two casks of ale. Beside the fire sat a large barrell so full of ale that it would have taken two orces to lift. Next to it was a smaller keg with a brew Ishkur did not recognize. The liquid smelled sweet and heady. He thought this was rather strange since the smell was almost like a patch of flowers growing on the hillside. Still, good brew was good brew. He wasn't going to be picky. Ishkur heaved up the small keg and strapped it on his horse's back. Then he returned to the place where the other orcs were still asleep. Galloping into camp, he roared, "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." He held the small cask aloft and grinned, and set it down before poking Grask and Gwerr in the ribs. then he explained, "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."

[Child of the 7th Age]

By mid-afternoon, most of the preparations were completed. The men had nothing left to do but wait. An uneasy feeling hung over the camp. Even Dorran and Lindir, the two members of the fellowship who had often been in situations like this, seemed impatient and tense.

Lindir felt uneasy. He had heard nothing from Rôg or Aiwendil, although the istar had promised to send back a message by pigeon the moment that the slavers appeared The elf was acutely aware that their attackers held the upper hand in the coming conflict. Despite their smaller numbers, the slavers were experienced fighters wielding sturdy swords and daggers and charging forward on the backs of horses. When compared with these battle hardened veterans, the escaped slaves seemed little more than a rag tag bunch of refugees who lacked horses or decent weapons. Most of the men had never even been in battle. Nor was everyone able to fight. Earlier that afternoon, Lindir had led a contingent of children and women, along with the sick and elderly, over to a small cove of boulders located near the rear of camp. The shelter provided by the large rocks was not ideal but the best they could manage on the flat, open plain.

All this lay heavy on Lindir’s mind as he paced about on the edge of camp, intermittently turning to stare towards the east. A short distance away, he could just make out the outline of the trench they had constructed. Vrór and Carl had done an excellent job supervising the digging. Men and women had thrown their hearts and backs into the endeavor; the tunnel was perfectly shielded and blended into the ground so that an approaching rider would have no idea of the disaster that lay underfoot. Even here, however, Lindir could see one problem. The trench was no more than fifteen feet long. What guarantee did they have that the slavers would ride their horses in that exact direction? What was to stop them from approaching camp a few paces to the right or left and totally missing the pit?

It was then that the idea struck him. He knew it was dangerous.....far too dangerous....and he could not imagine asking anyone to do this. Yet at the same time, when so much hung in the balance, he could not overlook the fact that this arrangement might save many precious lives. What they needed was a human decoy, someone willing to serve as an enticing piece of bait, preferably an unarmed woman who would stampede across the field of battle and lure the slavers onward to the exact spot where the perilous trench lay. That individual would need to be an excellent rider with a clear, cool head.. The elf hurried over to Dorran, pulling the man of Rohan to the side, and confided his fears and concerns about the coming battle, especially in relation to the trench. With some hesitation, Lindir inched on to the second part, explaining the idea about the decoy, how the slavers would be led on to their certain doom, and a great number of lives could be saved.

At first, Dorran said nothing and fixed his gaze on the ground. He could not dispute the very real wisdom of what Lindir was saying. Many, many lives could be saved if the slavers could be directed towards the pits in this way. But there was another question that hung heavy on his mind. He sighed and softly asked, “Who then would you order to do such a deed?”

“Order? How could I order anyone, especially a fair woman, to embark on such a dangerous path. No, this could not be an order. It would have to come from the heart of whoever volunteered to do this brave thing.” The two men looked at each other, both hesitent to say anything more.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Frustrated and impatient, Aiwendil pushed the end of his staff into a soft pile of sand, leaning his body against the heavy stave as he intently scanned the horizon to the east. Despite the passage of several hours, there was no sign of his friend Rôg or the band of slavers. Aiwendil had not known exactly when the attackers would come, but he had expected Rôg to be waiting for him at their chosen meeting place. The young man, however, was nowhere in sight. The istar reached inside the folds of his robe and found the small pigeon still nestled in his pocket.

The falcon had returned with several of her companions. They were gliding peacefully overhead awaiting the minute when Aiwendil would give the word to attack. Cupping his hand to his mouth, the old man called out to the same bird he had spoken with earlier that day, “When will the storm come? Can you tell?”

She had swept down and nodded, “Not long. When the sun touches the tops of those rocks over there, the great winds will begin to blow.”

Aiwendil’s eyes followed in the direction the falcon had indicated. The sun was already inching closer to the plain. In just about an hour, it would dip down into the boulders. If the slavers were coming, it must be now. He could only hope that the band had already left camp. Otherwise, their leader would see the bad weather and turn back.

A small swirl of dust and sand appeared in the distance, an indication that a group of riders was moving across the plain. About twenty-five heavily armed fighters were cantering slowly towards the west. The head falcon responded with an excited “kek, kek, kek” as Aiwendil gave the birds the signal to fly free. The istar cried to the departing falcons. “Scratch the flanks and withers of the beasts. Attack the men about the head and eyes only if it is safe. Then return home with my thanks.”

The old man watched from behind a boulder as the birds swooped down amid the riders and began darting in and out, clawing at the horses’ flanks. There were angry curses and swords drawn from sheaths as the slavers slowed their mounts in response to the attack. Several horses had deep scratches along their sides, while two of the men riding in the front had blood streaming down their faces from cuts and gashes near their eyes.

Catching a glimpse of Rôg who was returning with some interesting companions, Aiwendil reached in his pocket and drew out the bird, binding a small scrap of parchment to her leg. Then he raised up his arms and, facing west, released the pigeon into the sky.

[piosenniel]

Blood!

The scent of it carried on the breeze of the men’s passing. It stirred the hornets into a hungry frenzy, diverting them from the object of their present pursuit..... Himself!

Once Rôg had firmed up his plan, he hurried as quickly as the rising wind would take him toward that place where Aiwendil had said he would most likely set the birds on the slavers. Near the rendezvous, Rôg scouted the ground carefully, looking for someplace where the ground dwelling insects might have their nest. No half buried hollowed log this time, but a branchy bush it was whose half exposed tangle of roots provided an entry way to that darkish little cavern beneath which the hornets had claimed for themselves.

He’d stomped about the bush, thumping his feet hard on the dirt, beating at the branches with a stick he’d found. It hadn’t taken much effort or time to stir the small hive of insects to a focused, angry frenzy. They’d come flying out with deadly purpose, intent on doing in their attacker.

And all praise to the old fellow for being timely with his falcons!

Rôg flew with all the speed he could muster toward the men and their horses. As the smell of their fresh wounds hit him, he dropped down low to the ground, hoping fervently that the small cloud of buzzing hornets would take the scent themselves. He closed his eyes.....and would have crossed his fingers as a warding charm had he had any in this guise. He breathed out a great sigh of relief as the angry cloud whirred over and then past him. With an economy of effort, he withdrew to the shelter of some scrubby trees, grinning as he peeked out from behind the sparse shelter at the outcome of his efforts.

A number of the horses were in a frenzy, trying to escape from the painful stings of the hornets. Their riders were scarce able to control them as they themselves were frantically attempting to wave off or kill the wingéd missiles. A few of the men fell from their horses, overcome by the deadly intent of the insects. And a number of those riderless mounts now ran wildly off.

It was a thoroughly delightful rout...at least for now.....

The hornets, he knew, once they realized the horses and men were not wounded enough to succumb to their stings and then be feasted on, would draw away and head back to their nest. Still, it had brought the advance of the slavers to a halt for the moment. And for several moments, he thought, watching as some of the less stung rode off to retrieve the runaways while others of the men called for help for their stung and painfully swelling comrades. Rôg only hoped it might buy his companions and their new allies enough time to complete their preparations against the slavers.....