[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Himaran's Post

When Dwali finally reached the mountain passage, words could not describe his attitude - it was less pessimistic than suicidal. The orc army was gone at last, but so were his companions. There was nothing for him now. It was over. The dwarf sat down on the dusty earth, trying to ponder how he had been the last to survive. He, who had seemed the weakest, the smallest, the lest likely to make it out of Mordor. It was that sense of accomplishment that pulled him to his feet and walked steadily up the path. I made it! And may yet escape from this land of darkness...

Upon cresting the hill, however, a different sight met his eyes. The company, sitting in a tight circle, resting and chatting. Not all of them, though, the dwarf was sure of it. Some must have died in the battle. And then, at the height of his addreniline, it all gave way to utter exhaustion. Dwali collapsed, his throat as parched as the rocky grouond beneath him. A cry so weak it was but a murmur barely left his flaking lips: "Help..."


Grash

When night was fully upon the company they roused themselves from their rest and made ready to go on. Morgoroth was still weak, but with the help of Raies and Jeren he was able to walk. The prisoners took a quick meal with what meagre provisions they had left. They ate the last scraps of the bread and dried meat that they had managed to bring with them through the horrors of Shelob’s Lair and the Morgul Vale. It was hideous orc food, but after the trials they had endured in the last five days it was welcome. More troubling was the lack of water, for only one skin had managed to come with them through their encounter with the orc army. They shared it around and if any there thought how strange it was that they were all drinking from the same vessel, none said it.

Grash sat upon the stones of the mountains and mulled over their position. They were still a long march from the green land, but if they pressed hard all night then by dawn their feet would be upon grass, and their tired limbs could take comfort in the cool shade of trees. After that… Grash’s imagination failed him. Where could he go and what could he do in the world outside the land of darkness that had been his home his whole life? He supposed that he could find a small piece of fertile land somewhere to call his own, where he could raise crops and perhaps a few animals and live free of the whip and the terror. But would not such an existence be lonely? Maybe there would be others who would be willing to come with him… His eyes drifted to where Darash sat, proud, noble and – for the first time he noticed it – beautiful. His hand wandered to the dagger that she had exchanged with him and he stroked it thoughtfully. Perhaps there would be some way for him to convince her to come with him.

A noise from the path behind them brought Grash to his feet, along with the rest of the company. They stood, not speaking, tense and nervous in the gathering night, as a form lurched along the path toward them. It was Brór who cried out, “Dwali!” and rushed forward to catch his kinsman as he fell. They all gathered around the exhausted Dwarf seeking to revive him. He was hungry and thirsty, so they gave him the last of their food and water and watched unstintingly as he swallowed it down. When he had finished he closed his eyes and fell back on the stone unconscious.

Grash’s face became a frown as he looked upon the Dwarf. He was, strangely, happy to see the fellow back with the group, but he was obviously in no condition to travel quite yet. Morgoroth, too, while standing, appeared too weak to go far without more rest. It was Darash who spoke what was in Grash’s mind. “No travel now. Must rest. Little man and spirit man hurt and tired.” Her tone was final and commanding, and if any there thought that she were wrong, none said so. Sighing at the inevitable, Grash settled upon the ground. As eager as he was to press ahead to freedom, he could not bring himself to leave his injured…comrades…the word was an odd one, but it was the only word that was right. “Yes. We rest. But only for two, three hours. Then we must go – the path goes down soon, down to green land. Green land with trees and cool breezes, and waters. Freedom,” his voice drifted into the night, as though it were speaking only to itself. “Freedom at the end of the path.”

Zuromor

Two hours later Zuromor awoke from a troubling dream and sat up. He managed to stifle the cry that sprang to his lips but he was shaken still. Pulling himself upright he walked about their makeshift camp, carefully moving amongst the sleeping forms of his companions. A slow movement in the dark stayed him in his wanderings and he melted into the shadows about the rocks. A stealthy form was working its way toward the prisoners, and in its hand there was a vessel of some kind with a burning smoke pouring from it. Zuruomor recognized that smell: suverah! The same substance that Darash had used to subdue the spider creatures.

The figure came close to the company and Zuromor saw Aldor’s features emerge from the night. The man gently stooped and placed the vessel on the ground near to the company and turned to go. With a cry that rang amongst the stones Zuromor sprang forward, drawing his blade. With one swift motion of his foot he sent the burning vessel skittering away amongst the stones, and he whirled upon Aldor.

Many things happened at once then. The prisoners sprang to their feet, drawing their weapons and fumbling about in the dark. Aldor cried out and there were answering screams from the path beyond him – screams that filled the night with bestial fury. Zuromor swung his blade at Aldor, but the man was quick to parry the blow. Zuromor prepared to strike again, but his hand faltered at the sight of the pathway filling with orcs, all of them ravening toward the prisoners with their eyes and tongues rolling viciously at the thought of some easy sport.