The Saving of the Seventh Star

[Rimbaud]

Estelyn gasped as Rimbaud gripped her by the shoulder and span her around, so that she faced the other way. She found the lantern in her hands of a sudden, and barely had time to note Rimbaud’s blade leap almost unbidden into his hand before he was five paces ahead of her, back the way they had come. She almost commented on his manners (her shoulder felt bruised) and his hitherto latent chauvinism but before she could speak, a dark figure sprang out from around the last corner to confront her friend.

Their follower had been far closer than she had anticipated and must have been hard on their heels chasing. She ran forwards, the light flickering wildly as it bounced in her grasp. She wondered that Rimbaud had even seen the assailant in the dark, yet seen him he had, for she heard the clash of steel. She felt, rather than saw the body crumple before Rimbaud and had not time to cry out what her nose told her. The scent was not that of an orc.

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

“I know,” he breathed as she arrived at his shoulder. “I had not time to decide, it was dark…”

She hushed him with a touch to the cheek in the near darkness. She tended to the light, and under her ministration the light blossomed anew, and they took stock. Before them, prone, broken, lay a human body, dressed inconspicuously in black. The familiar coppery scent of blood and seat came to them. Rimbaud dragged his sleeve across his face. From the depths of his cloak he pulled a rag, and wordlessly cleaned his blade. Estelyn knelt at the corpse, for corpse it was, she ascertained.

A young man, barely out of his teens, brown hair. A plain sword, a soldier’s sword, lay alone beside his nerveless grasp. A peculiar melancholy fell upon them. All was silent, bar their breathing, and they felt divorced from the world, here, all alone in the dark of the earth.

“What have I done?” whispered Rimbaud. The whisper seemed to reverberate back at him, taunting. The light from the lantern the Princess set on the ground cast leaping shadows over the deceased, dancing amongst his hair and playing in the pool of blood collecting beneath him.

“Fear not, friend,” she breathed, turning over the dead man’s left hand. Clenched in the fist she pried apart was a scrap of fabric, brown and mottled. Rough characters were scrawled upon its face, angular, jagged. Even in the dark it was all too easy to discern from where the message had originated. The language was that of Mordor. “You have rid us of another traitor.”

Rimbaud said nothing and she realized how much he hated death. She remembered other trials over the years; how he had avoided conflict if he could find other resolution. No coward he, she respected his skills at negotiation, which well complemented her own. How he had come about them was a matter much open to question and the truth of it was known to very few.

“They’ve used these tunnels for a while,” he said eventually, his mind moving like quicksilver. “Messengers.”

She nodded at his thought. She stretched out a hand and closed the eyes of the man before their feet. His face was still warm. Some trick of the air resembled a breath on her wrist and she started. She looked up at her friend, who stood, head bowed, still lost in thought.

“There can be no doubt that a force in Mordor has reassembled,” she said.

“We must inform the King,” he replied, lowly, not meeting her eye.

“The King is away. Who knows how long his business will take him? The Guard cannot be trusted, we can be sure of that now,” she said, rising to stand next to him.

“Let us make our way back to where we were disturbed,” said Rimbaud, finally lifting his gaze to meet hers. There was a distance in those deep-set eyes, yet even in the lantern light, the blue flashed, hard and cold. She shivered. “If we can,” he added, ominously.

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

His fears proved unfounded. Despite the darkness and the tortuous snaking of the tunnel, they came, surprisingly swiftly to the place where orc bodies were strewn about. The smell was more deeply unpleasant than either of them had remembered. Estelyn stepped gingerly ahead of him, until they were standing just fifteen feet or so from the fork, in the Mordor tunnel.

“For now we should consider that passage a complete dead end,” said Rimbaud, grimacing a little at the stench. He still seemed deep in dysphoria. His voice was low and pained. The mention of the passage appeared to have reminded him of the events inside. A shadow crossed his face.

He shook himself. “Forward,” he said. He took her by the arm, as if they were in court, and stepped forward towards Mordor with a grandiose flourish. She could not help but laugh, although the sound rang hollow in the morbid caverns. He released her arm, she straightened her robe; the darkness soon returned their trepidation to them intact.

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

They had travelled for another hour in the bleak and unyielding terror that was the tunnel under the Anduin towards Mordor. They lost track of where on the surface they should be, for the tunnel, curved wickedly, back and forth, until at times they were unsure of which way they faced. The dark had become stifling, their lungs felt clogged with it. At times, it was if they pushed through water, so thick was the black air. At times, the way had sloped down, at others, up. However, oddly there had not been the myriad passages leading off, as there had been earlier. It became clear that this tunnel they traversed was of a more recent ilk than the ways nearer the Inn, and not hewn of the same hand and mind, for the construction was rough, and the height and width of the tunnel varied from step to step. The rocky roof swooped oft-times, sending them to stooping.

“This is Mordor work,” he mused out loud, early into the hour. The sound of his voice in the quiet had so startled them that neither had spoken for quite some time.

Yet it came to the point where hunger and fatigue – for the walk in the bad light and uneven surface was exhausting – took its toll, and a halt was necessary. Still, words did not come easily in the gloom. Estelyn silently handed him some fruit, a little bruised, and he returned to her some hard wafers. On this rather dry sustenance, they made their repast, sitting on the dusty floor with the lantern between them, watching over each other’s backs. They sat for no longer than half an hour, yet when they rose, they felt stiff and awkward.

They moved on. There seemed little to say.

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

They breasted another rise in the passage when suddenly light flared around the corner ahead of them and the rapid tramp of feet could be heard. There was hardly time to prepare.

“Our doom is upon us,” said Estelyn. “There is no place to run!”

The stretch of passage they were in was even more makeshift than the rest. Rough wooden poles appeared to support the roof; the tunnel had been badly bored. Earth had crumbled down in places. It appeared highly unsafe. The smell of the enemy ahead left them in no quandry as to what they faced. Marching orcs of a regrouping Mordor.

The tramping grew deafening, and they knew that their light had been spotted. Roars and harsh shrieks rained at them.

Rimbaud drew his sword, and saw that the Princess had her dagger in hand. Her face was pale, but unafraid. He gave her a nervous half-smile. “I have a plan,” he said, before chaos burst upon them.

[ December 14, 2002: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]