[Arry]

Night into the cold first light of day . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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