[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ambarturion’s plans had all gone awry. The forces of Dol Guldur had beaten them to the ford, cutting off both escape and all hope of warning the defenders of the Golden Wood. His mad rush at the orcs had been stalled by the implacable will of the enemy. He had hoped, for one wild minute, that he could break through the lines of orcs and wicked men and make for the eaves of his land and at the very least make a stand there that would hold off the enemy long enough for the wardens of his realm to rally the Galadhrim to action. But his charge had carried him but to the edge of the Anduin where he had found One-Eye waiting for him, as though placed there by some dark will to hinder Ambarturion’s desire. Where Megilaes or the others had got to Ambarturion did not know, but there was little time to ponder such questions with the monster before him.

He returned the beast’s taunts at first, hoping still that in the time that they wasted on such needless words a way would be found to broach the wall of enemies that still kept him from his land, but it was not to be. The golden green beauty of his world lay just beyond the black and crooked form of his enemy; like a dream it was, of a time that was on the verge of passing into memory, overshadowed and stained by the blackness of its evil inheritors. At the thought, Ambarturion’s will was enflamed with the battle fury, and his eyes misted over with red. He charged the creature that had dared belittle the sacrifice of Caranbaith and sullied the ancient weapon of Gondolin with its foul hand. Seizing the sword that had been his when the world was young, he swept toward the monster like vengeance, ready to slay.

But his assault was met with a fury and a skill that surpassed any he had come to expect from the servants of the Dark Lord in these latter days. Like an urûk of Angband it met his charge and repulsed him, even managing to wound him in the shoulder. Ambarturion fell back at the feel of steel in his flesh, catching at the offending weapon and pulling it from him. He let it drop to the outraged earth. One-Eye taunted him again, his one red orb eyeing the weapon in Ambarturion’s hand that had galled him so deeply. “The challenge is here; spawn of Morgoth” he replied. “It only requires you to accept it.”

The creature flew at him once more, but this time Ambarturion did not try to match him fury for fury, stroke for stroke. If he was to fight a beast that was of the ancient world, then let him once again regain the glory of those days. He swung his blade at the urûk and it was as the fall of leaves in vanished Doriath, and the creature’s bellows of rage was to Ambarturion’s ears the cries of hatred that rang in the hidden fastness of the mountains at the fall of Gondolin. The creature came at him once more, Ambarturion countering his blows, but as he retreated into the world of memory and the past, it was as though the orc before him was shucked of his mortal disguise, and to Ambarturion’s eyes he was revealed as a dark and terrible form, ancient and powerful, from the days before the destruction of the two trees, when the dark held no terror for those who walked beneath the stars. Ambarturion felt himself filled then with the light of the West, and as he advanced upon the enemy it was as though his form was filled with light, but it was a light that shone about the darkness of the foe without illuming it, casting only further shadows.

One-Eye beheld the fierce blaze of his opponent and fell back, afraid, gibbering in the terror of his being. Rather than face the wrath of the light alone, he bellowed for his underlings, whose terror of their master overcame that of this terrible Elf, and wilfully threw themselves in his path to be mown down like grass. Ambarturion paid little heed to these lesser creatures, but they threw themselves upon him with such abandon that for a moment his focus was taken from the urûk. One-Eye, in his vicious cunning, beheld the moment that he had been waiting for and hurling himself forward he cut down the last of his own kind the quicker to reach the Elf. Ambarturion raised his sword to deflect the blow, but his shoulder caught in its bloodied and rent socket, and he cried out in pain as his parry failed. There was a scorching pain in his arm and he flung back, away from the enemy, raising his arm once more to defend himself, but the hand that bore his blade lay upon the grass some feet distant, and his horrified eyes beheld only a bloody stump. He fell upon the grass of the Vale and raised his eyes to his enemy.

A stillness fell upon the land, and it was as though there were none there but them. Ambarturion’s wrath faltered and fell, and it was like waking from a dream to see the orc before him once more as he appeared in his physical form. The creature advanced upon him, his sword aimed at Ambarturion’s throat. “I know what you are,” Ambarturion said, “and what it is that has corrupted you and bent your will to its own. Know this: I may die, but you and all your kind shall fall into the abyss. I have but one life to lose – your entire existence shall be extinguished.”

The orc licked his lips with terrible glee, gloating over his victory. “You may have only one life, but it is mine to take, Elf.” He fairly spat the word. “Tell me, what is your name? I am Thrákmazh the mighty, and I would tell my Lord who it is I have slain in his service.”

Ambarturion smiled. “My name is for my friends only, yrch. Fall into the darkness that is prepared for you in ignorance of who I am.”

Thrákmazh’s smile was an ugly gash. “Very well.” He raised his weapon and drove it at the Elf’s chest. Ambarturion closed his eyes.

But the blow did not fall. A clash of metal, and the orc’s weapon flew from his hand into a tussock. Thrákmazh and Ambarturion looked in surprise to where Megilaes stood, Ambarturion’s sword in his hand. Before the orc could recover his surprise, Megilaes plunged the ancient blade to its hilt into Thrákmazh’s chest. The orc gasped and gurgled deep in his throat and tried to rend the fair youth’s face with his claws and fangs, but Megileaes merely swatted away the attacks with his hand as though they were insects. He brought his own countenance to within a hair’s breadth of the orc’s, and for a moment Ambarturion was treated to the shocking sight of the two faces, one as beautiful and good, as the other was vile, gazing into one another as though in a perverted mirror.

“My brother’s name was Caranbaith,” is all that Megilaes said. Before the orc could respond he withdrew the sword from its body and in the same graceful motion swung it about and took off Thrákmazh’s head, which landed upon the grass close to Ambarturion’s own, and the Elf of Lorién watched as the life drained from the single glaring eye.