[Rimbaud]

She had said the name of their Master repeatedly and it appeared to have thrown them. The taller looked at her suspiciously but fear appeared to have swayed him and he had given peremptory orders to stay their progress. The shorter Smrtan had stared at her with undisguised disbelief. When the noise and commotion caused within the party by the encroaching fire began, she was afforded enough confusion to make good her egress, noted only by Smrtan, whose eyes missed little.


*********

Storwolos strode from the tent barking orders. The whole area was in upheaval. Raising his voice he exhorted the milling soldiers into order. The fear of Storwolos’ officers shuffled the men into ranks and they began an almost orderly retreat from the onrushing maelstrom. Smrtan caught up to his side as Storwolos took saddle and rode with his guard.

“Where have you been?” asked Storwolos. Smrtan did not directly meet his eye but mentioned that he had “taken care” of the peculiar female messenger.

“Do you not find it strange, my Lord,” added Smrtan with uncustomary obeisance, “That the woman-child arrived moments before this adversity?” His voice, as always, contained the faintest of sneers.

“Mayhap you find it within you to question our orders, Smrtan,” rebuked Storwolos. “Or yours. Indeed, I believe such instruction came to aid our escape from the fire.”

Smrtan made no reply.

The troop made its way upon the track and turned back the way they came at a fast pace. Little or no time was afforded to concealment; the flames were licking the sky barely half a mile behind them. Smrtan looked to their rear. A nebulous wall of black smoke rose vast in the air behind them, seemingly descended from the clouds of improbable malice. An unearthly orange hue burned along the horizon, the noise of falling trees and the roar of the flames became thunderous. Ash and debris fell upon the men as they broke into a disorganized run. They streamed out on the road, fleeing the fire.


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

Areina rode hard, Telefax keeping true, branches whipping her cheek. She gave the steed his head and the horse’s pace quickened, nostrils flared with fear as the heat from the fire scorched their backs. Unable to use the track for Storwolos’ men, she kept within the margin of the trees, yet Telefax tired fast on this terrain and threatened to stumble on many occasions. If she had known she was otherwise pursued she might not have slowed as much as she did, hauling back on Telefax’s reins, knowing this speed was untenable.

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

Barreling through the undergrowth, Guthrin and Flandhere became heedless of stealth, as the omni-present crackling sound pursued them. The fire was catching far faster than anticipated. Guthrin ran smoothly still, those superbly trained yet untested muscles carrying him so far effortlessly over the ground, despite the weight of his arms and armour. Only his face revealed his terror. Flandhere kept pace, yet barely, the ground threatened to sink from beneath his feet at any time.

The run continued and breathing became laboured as the air became acrid and gritty. Yet Flandhere felt a certain peace descending upon him, knowing that this was one of the simplest moments. He moved onwards but his legs were beginning to fail him. Guthrin ran on. His hand tightened around the stone that usually hung around his neck. Blood seeped from between his whitened knuckles.

Then without warning, when gaining the crest of a ridge, they were plunged into an out-riding party of the Dunedlings. All was confusion, the enemy in no lesser disarray. Flandhere stumbled as he withdrew his pitted blade. Guthrin fell to his knees, skidding foolishly into the legs of an adversary, toppling him. Ash fell, in small flakes across the hill. A blade flashed for his unprotected skull, yet the sword of Flandhere parried the strike and then the next and then the Dunlending was swept away.

Flandhere positioned himself between the Dunlendings and the cowering Guthrin as best he could but the disparity in numbers was such that soon encirclement would defeat them. He blocked and parried mechanically, feeling painlessly the mace strike to his thigh and the knife slashing across his abdomen. He knew this fight. He had dreamed of it night on night. He shut his eyes as another came at him yet still, Flandhere’s blade found its mark. The fell aspect of Flandhere the Rider of Rohan in these moments caused the enemy to become panicked in their assaults upon him.

Guthrin looked in awe as Flandhere wielded his sword with impossible speed and precision. The man was become a fatal windmill, three warriors already down before him as he turned aside blade after blade from the remainder. With some surprise, Guthrin realized his unblooded sword was in his hands, although his legs refused to bear him to the fight.

Then, impossibly, Flandhere was down. The leering fighter who struck him down raised his blade for the final strike at the Rohan horseman as others approached Guthrin with scorn. Their guttural words struck him with derision and he recoiled from his doom.

All was slowed, as the blade reached for Flandhere’s heart and the mailed fist inched toward Guthrin’s head, as if moving through water.

Trained perfectly in the arts of war as befitted the son of the richest man of the community, Guthrin had never struck at a foe in anger. Conditioned for physical hardship through all manner of sport and trial, he had never experienced hunger or battle. Untested as the newest, rawest of steel he was, and perhaps, as fate wove upon him in those moments, he would one day wish he had remained such.


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

“We must move,” said Thenamir with easy command, once the murmurings at the fire had died down. “We have distracted the enemy but are no match for such numbers.”

“Aye,” said Taradan and the weary travelers moved onwards slowly, seeking to evade the path of the enemy and of the vast inferno consuming the horizon.

Elwood moved apart from the group. Tears ran unchecked down the cheeks of the fair Elf, yet he said nothing.

Dwarin aided the flagging party on with his hardy strength and driven spirit. Thus they were moving ere any could have anticipated and wended into the woods, Baranthol and Ulfwine flanking outwards, eyes peeled for sign of their absent friends.

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

Little these parties knew of the importance of these events or of how closely they were monitored. Yet the guider of events was satisfied. The main threat appeared to have been almost extinguished and other thorns…well, a small push…

He put forth his will and the winds upon the great forest slowly bent to his fell purpose.

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

Stowolos felt the breeze upon his cheek as he reined in his mount.

“The wind changes, my Lord,” reported Voldog, an outrider in his entourage. Those who had supported Storwolos as he had gathered the disparate wanderings of Dunedlings, many of his former unit, formed a group around him at present and he rewarded them well for such loyalty.

“We must be off this path,” said Smrtan quickly. “The fire blows itself before us; we must head west!” The heat and confusion was such that it appeared that the fire surrounded them with its fierce leaguer and the air was thick and unpleasant.

Storwolos hesitated. He saw the faster path being to keep to the road. He motioned onwards, yet before they had moved ten feet, Smrtan was at his side.

“Sire, do not act a fool!” he hissed, and his eyes glowed unnaturally red in the firelight. “We follow a path to death!” Others in the party, who had not heard the words of Smrtan also counseled, in fearful voices, that digression west into the trees was their option. Storwolos took muster and felt again the breeze with his hand. The wind was indeed lifting and veering. He motioned on into the woods.

*******

Elwood in the van, the party from Rohan and their mismatched companions moved through the forests at an uneven pace. The tall, fair yet grim-faced Elf appeared troubled. When the opportunity arose, Dwarin moved to the head of the party and tried to speak with his uneasy companion.

“Master Elf, I spare thee little love but afford you much respect and I see something troubles you.”

Elwood looked down on the Dwarf expressionlessly and said, “The wind is unnatural and this breeze cools not my spirit. I feel power in the air.”

“You fear…devilry?” questioned Dwarin, meeting the eye of the taller firmly.

“Yes, and I believe it to be a very great sorcery.”

“You suspect Isengard,” said Dwarin, his mind racing. Thenamir moved to join them, only the tension in his jaw belying his calm countenance. A flicker across his face as he missed his footing revealed a vast fatigue within him.

“Isengard I believe to be our foe also,” said Thenamir quietly, and his companions noted his keen ears.

“Isengard is no foe of ours!” exclaimed Elwood. “Saruman is wise and has bought order to this area. Were it not for him the enemy we track would be far more numerous. Gandalf it is that I fear, for he is fey and his manner a mystery to me.”

“I trust not the Pilgrim,” said Thenamir. “I have heard tell of his wanderings, yet I believe Saruman to be the force of malice in these things.”

Elwood gave no reply, but the others had heeded his words and noted the change in wind.


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

The blade sped for Flandhere’s throat, yet never found its mark. Guthrin, amazed to find himself moving, evaded his attacker’s great strike and dived for his fallen companion. His thin, mail gauntlet caught the blade that would have carried Flandhere’s spirit from the circles of the world, and he wrenched it aside. He could hardly think as he stumbled for his feet. A dark blade streaked for his chest and the reflexes of his training outdid his fear and he smoothly parried the blow. He stumbled backwards, up against a tree and gasped, sweating and exhausted. His enemies closed on him.

For the first time, he looked at them clearly, and then the tip of his blade, steady between his eyes and them, dropped out of focus and as it had so many times in sparring, his blade became an extension of his arm and he forgot about it completely. The path through his enemies was so clear and they moved so slowly…

He sidestepped the first strike, allowing the blade to cut deep into the tree beside his head. Dancing around the trunk, his mind fogged with the vast doom upon him, he cut down the assailant and came at the Dunedlings from another side. His legs, although weary, carried him with his customary grace and his sword parried and struck with an economical poetry.

They fell back from him. His eyes were fey, his aspect fearful to view, and he came against them with lethal force. Fear grew within them as their blades failed to reach him and as another of their number fell.

For the first time since Flandhere and he had encountered this force he managed to take count and saw that Flandhere had taken three and he had dispatched two, leaving just two more standing against him. The odds did not seem so very great, he had stood against four in trials.

Such was the ferocity of his assault and the unearthly hue in which he appeared to be clad, his light armour shimmering red from the firelight and smoke billowing behind him, that they fell before him in short order. Sheathing his blade as he ran, he returned to Flandhere. Lifting him, he made his way onwards, whither he knew not, evading the fire his only priority.

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

Storwolos heard the shouts and drew his blade. Smrtan dismounted and ran before them a few steps. “Hold!” Storwolos shouted, and the men slowly formed groups. The under-officers cajoled them back into line. The fire had slowed yet pushed them further into the forest, their direction becoming a mystery.

Word came that the vanguard had fallen upon enemies and Storwolos dismounted and took a large party forwards.


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

As they descended a light slope into a clearing, Elwood and Thenamir instantly saw Storwolos’ party come through the trees.

Horrendously outnumbered, the group from Rohan prepared for their doom. The only light came from a gibbous moon and the red glow from the fire, dying though it was.

There stood Thenamir of Gondor, blade in hand, tired and sick but unafraid. Dwarin Thunderhammer stood to his left, battle-axe in fist, looking almost eager to engage. There was no retreat from this. Elwood fired arrows smoothly and with fatal effect. As the enemy neared he drew his blade. They backed against the tree line as the first soldiers came up the hill against them. Baranthol stepped forward and took the first with an upward parry and flashing undercut, his blade embedding itself within the Dunlending’s torso. The man crumpled with a sickening gargle. Ulfwine of the Dunlendings there was also, who stood true to his new companions. At the last before closing, Leoden loped from the trees and stood without a word next to Taradan, who clutched a sword with weakened hand but resolute will. A shadow to Thenamir’s right revealed the unlikely shape of the odd Warg who had bound his doom to theirs. Flanking these stood the men of Rohan, who had urged the horses back into the trees. The young Kalohern waited patiently hand on sword hilt, seemingly unfazed.

“This is the work of the wind,” muttered Elwood. “ There is no reason for them to be here.”

These were the last words said by that party before battle commenced.

*********

The fight continued and Storwolos’ impatience grew. How can it be so hard to take down these stragglers? The Warg was amongst his Dunlending men, causing panic, snapping at necks with fearsome jaws. His men scattered from him, fearful of his dark malice.

Storwolos had never seen such a thing. The chaos was not helped by the approach of the fire, coming at them with renewed strength. Suddenly, Storwolos found himself swept away by the tide of the fight and the confused milling of his men in the heat as the fire exploded around them.

Several men screamed as they failed to escape the furnace. Storwolos found himself sparring with a tall Gondorian, one who seemed familiar. The battle shifted and he found himself separated from the conflict by a wall of flame, as the fire cut through the woods, cutting them into groups.

Smrtan came up to him then. “Where are my guard?” shouted Storwolos above the roar and the clash of fire and battle.

“My guard,” said Smrtan grimly and slew his commander there, alone in the maelstrom of the fight in the fire. He ran to press the fight and to assume his rightful command, now that the blundering fool was removed.


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

Baranthol and Dwarin stood back to back, tired and stumbling as yet another wave of attacked crashed and foundered upon them. Thenamir moved from fight to fight relentlessly, his sword hewing down foes as if it were the fire and his foes but trees. The group tightened into a circle, surrounded by the Dunlendings.

All seemed lost and the blades of the enemy sheared into the party as they split, each fighting desperately for themselves. Small melees span off from the group as some sought to run. Kalohern and Leoden battled amongst the trees, simply defending now, no energy remained to them. Thenamir, locked in a struggle with two very tall Dunedlings feinted and parried; his sword deflecting most of the blows from their smaller, waspish blades. Most. He staggered and fell, blood seeping from a dozen wounds. With a great cry however, his would-be slayers were thrown from him and dispatched and Thenamir lifted his head in disbelief as Guthrin strode through the trees, Dunlendings swarming at him, surrounding him.

Guthrin's blades flick-flicked through them, a red mist trailing in their wake. He span, his hair trailing, smoke and fire all about. He held a long knife in his left hand, to pair with his blooded and glistening sword and to come at him was death. He bore no shield yet some Dunedlings turned from his face and ran.

They had taken Flandhere and killed him in front of him as he fought helplessly against them, a mile before. His face showed no trace of mercy.

Imperious, ethereal he seemed, above and beyond his mortal ken, yet Thenamir's keen eyes discerned a struggle on the face of the unexpected warrior. His eyes seemed somehow unfocussed.

This unexpected and terrifying arrival scattered many of the Dunlendings and allowed the remnants of the group from Rohan to make their escape. The chance to flee thus proffered, all took it, although so scattered were they that it would take quite some time to reunite.

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

Saruman sighed and looked away from the stone. It seemed the one he feared had escaped and worse discovered himself. He hoped that he had left enough protection in the great ruins for what was there hidden.

A knock upon the door startled his reverie…


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

[ October 22, 2002: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]