[Child of the 7th Age]

Child's post

Calimehtar's rage in battle knew no bounds. The "fools" were proving to be more formidable opponents than he had bargained for. Who knew that a ragged band of women and beardless youth could be so tenacious? Even the horses on which they rode seemed to be seasoned warriors as they twisted and turns to get out of the way of the slashing swords and then surged forward with raised hooves to lash out at the enemy.

A number of Calimehtar's men had already been cut down by the swords of the enemy; they now lay bleeding and lifeless on the ground. The lord of the Easterlings cursed under his breath. He had made a mistake in judgment, a major mistake in judgment. It would have been better to wait for the night after the camp had fallen asleep, when he could have picked the strangers off one at a time under the comfortable cover of night. But now they must fight for their life, perhaps attempt to regroup, and run off to fight another time.

While thrusting out with sword and spear, Calimehtar watched in frustration as one of the Easterling horses fell under the assault, the animal's knees buckled under his body. The rider flew off and hit the ground with a resounding thud as Calimentar rushed forward to position himself in front of the fallen Easterling, facing the Rohanite who had sent the spear into the horse's side.

Lifting his sword high above the man's head, he let go a great battle cry and thrust his blade downward at his neck and shoulder. Unable to regain his balance, Sythric would do nothing but cover his head with his shield, in a vain attempt to parry the oncoming blow. The blade was defected but the shield immediately flew from Sythric's tight grasp and fell useless onto the forest floor. Seeing his advantage, Calimehtar dashed in and slashed down with his weapon; his blade cut the edge of Sythric's shirt and sliced into the flesh below, leaving a trail of blood along the man's side. Forcing aside the pain that was just now registering on his brain, Sythric twisted his body, and dropping to the ground, managed to retreat hastily from the attacking Easterling and jump behind the protective cover of one of the horses.

Seeing his victim attempt to escape, Calimehtar raced forward to pursue the wounded man, but was stopped in his tracks by an unearthly howl coming from the top of the hill, "Calimehtar! Come now." The urgency in the voice was unmistakenable. Calimehtar turned and began struggling up the muddy hillside.

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The rider had thought to offer his fair haired prize directly to Lord Calimehtar, but one of the others had snapped out a warning that all female prisoner must be taken to the ridge where Aliharmi waited. The man bounded up the hillside, the woman's lithe form still draped over his saddle. When he finally reached the hilltop, Aliharmi reached over and yanked Meghan's body off the horse and then bid the man adieu, telling him to return to his post below. Meghan fell to the ground with a dull thud. Aliharmi bent closer to examine the prisoner and rolled her body over onto her back so that he could gaze upon her face.

Nice, very nice. She'll fetch a pretty penny on the market. Aliharmi rubbed his plump hands together in sheer anticipation of the reward that they would garner. This one still had some life in her unlike the ruined and lifeless women he'd often seen back in Mordor. He took out a knife and rubbed his finger along the edge of the blade. It wouldn't do to ruin the merchadise, yet Aliharmi felt an unrelenting urge to press the blade against the side of her face and place his mark upon the woman. A few cuts and decorative swirls made a face interesting and surely would be appreciated by the discriminating connosieur who enjoyed wild and intriguing women. Aliharmi placed his dagger against Megha's cheek and began to exert pressure with his fingers. He let up for a moment and withdrew the dagger. How much more fun it would be to instill terror in this pretty little soul? Surely, this was an opportunity not to be missed.

He gently rocked the woman awake, patting and fussing over her almost like a young child. Still dazed and confused, Meghan groggily opened her eyes to see the Easterling lord brandishing an ornate blade in the air. He flashed it conspicuously before her face, laying the sharp edge flush against her throat. A smile spread over Aliharmi's face as he carefully began to draw it across her skin.

Out of nowhere came a howling cry like a wild beast trapped in a cage or a beserker who has lost his wits. A young lad, darker than the Rohirrim, grim of visage and utterly desperate, came racing over the hill, utterly oblivious to the danger at hand. He bore an axe in his right hand and a dagger in the left, both extended outward. Aliharmi stood transfixed, scarcely believing that a child like this would dare accost him and suddenly realized the danger he was in. Aliharmi turned from Meghan and cried out for help, "Calimehtar. Come." He stared in disbelief as Dorran charged forward, showing no sign of stopping.

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Undómë's post

Meghan felt the sharp sting of the blade as the keen edge slid across her throat. Blood pooled along the neat cut, dripping down into her collar. The pain brought her to her senses; her eyes snapping open to see the horrid, leering face of one of the Easterling warriors looming over her.

She dared not scream or move, fearing his knife would be pushed deeper as he made his furrow along her skin. Just when she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer the pressure lightened; there was a loud raging howl and he turned from her abruptly.

Dragging herself up to a sitting position, she saw the younger man from Wulfham come charging across the ground toward her captor. His eyes were ablaze and he charged toward the Easterling as one gone mad.

A desperate anger rose up in her that these foul men should try to harm her or any of her companions, new and old. She felt helpless, though, her weapons were gone, and her small self would be no more threatening to these men than a flea to a wolf.

The small germ of an idea began to take hold. If only she hadn’t left them behind. No . . . there they were! Her hand slid into the top of her right boot and pulled out the two metal needles she used for knitting. She grasped them both in her hands and got to her knees.

The Easterling was focused Dorran’s attack. She scuffled up near him and drove the weight of her body toward him, plunging the sharp tips of the needles through the breeches the man wore. As they pierced the back of his left knee he turned just enough to backhand her away from him. The sharp crack of his hand against her jaw sent her flying backward. She landed a little ways away, her small form crumpled against a tree trunk.