The Fellowship of the Fourth Age (Part 1): A New Beginning RPG

[Regin Hardhammer]

By the time Ishkur arose, the slim crescent of the moon had risen and shone down from above. He had slept late and had only woken when there was an odd thunderclap of some sort that lit up the dark night sky. Ishkur thought that rather strange since he could not hear any more thunder and there was no hint of rain on the horizon.

The other Orcs had already departed from camp and headed to the slavers' place to pillage and raid. He cursed himself for his lateness. If he did not hurry, the others would already have gotten there and skimmed away the very best of the pickings. Perhaps if he was lucky, he could pick up a sword just as fine as the glittering jeweled blade that Makdush had found. After binding his own sword to his side, Ishkur set out at a fast pace straight to the portion of camp where he knew the horses and donkeys were kept. He had a real weakness for horse flesh and could not wait to bring down another animal and fill his stomach to bulging.

As Ishkur walked quickly towards the camp, he began to wonder if they had made the right choice to stay here for another two nights. He had been the one most responsible for that. Maybe he should not have been so sure of himself and instead listened to the misgivings of his friend Gwerr who had counseled caution. It might be a risky business to raid the same people three or four times in a row. Could the slavers be so stupid that they wouldn't set up extra guards against the intruders?

It was extremely rare for Ishkur to have second thoughts about anything. Like most Orcs, his general impulse was to act first and ask questions later. Sometimes he didn't even bother to ask questions at all. But today he was feeling rather strange. He sensed that something important was going to happen and it was something that had not happened in a very long time. What bothered him most was that he wasn't sure if that "something" would be good or bad. He just knew it would be very different.

All his misgivings about the camp raid were abruptly swept away in just a few minutes. Even from a distance he could see that the entire place was in an uproar. Horses and donkeys were running everywhere. A number of them had escaped from their pens and were now taking off across the plains. Many of the slavers were running around in circles trying to catch the horses and lead them back to camp. They were not doing a very good job. Ishkur laughed to see one man kicked in the ribs by a rearing horse and another try to scramble onto a horse's back only to be thrown back down on the ground.

Iskkur was one of the rare orcs who actually had a way with horses. When he wasn't eating them, he was fairly adept at grooming and riding the beasts. He had a certain respect for the animals, although he would never have admitted that to another living Orc. Once in a while, he even thought about starting a small farm in the foothills of the mountains where he could raise horses to sell both for their flesh and as riding animals.

Ishkur laughed again as he saw one horse play cat and mouse with a man by letting him get closer and then at the very last moment running away so that the man could not touch him. These slavers did not know horses very well. They should have crept quietly through the grass to approach, grunted some soft sounds and gradually let the animal amble into a small canyon or dell from which it would be harder to escape. Ishkur even knew how to knot a rope and, tossing it through the air, make it sing and come down securely over the horse's neck. He'd learned this skill in recapturing runaway slaves and dragging them back to the plantation, but it also worked well with horses. Although he had no rope with him, he could not resist trying to track one of the animals and secure it for his own. This time he would not eat it. Instead he would use it as a riding beast. Relatively few orcs were adept at riding horseback and maybe someday he could use this animal to help start a little place of his own where he could raise a whole herd of stallions and mares. For the moment he would ignore the grumbling in his stomach.

He singled out an especially fine black stallion thatalready had a saddle on its back and a bridle with reins. He began tracking the animal across the plains. For some time he stalked the beast, approaching close but not too close and uttering soft sounds to calm the creature. The horse veered to the west and remained on the perimeter of camp until the two of them came to a stream. Ishkur had a piece of luck when the animal plodded into the water and stopped to drink. One more moment of drinking, and Ishkur actually managed to approach the horse. The beast stared out quizically at him. Generally, the horse did not like orcs, but this particular orc seemed quieter and gentler than others he had seen on the plantations. He was certainly no worse than many of the slavers. The horse raised his head, whinnied a welcome, and let Ishkur come over and mount up on his back without too much of a fuss.

Proudly mounted on the beast whom he named Thunderclap in honor of the great noise in the sky, Ishkur decided that he would not do any more raiding tonight and instead would head back to his own camp. There would be no more horseflesh for dinner, but he could be content eating some of the food that the women had given him. He was about to turn around and gallop off towards the east and south when something unexpected caught his eye. He stared and stared again. There were a three men standing by the steam. Ishkur wondered what they were doing way out here on the backside of the camp. It looked as if they were up to some kind of mischief. He stared closer at the men. One was nothing special and one was very tall but old wearing a brown robe. He could run the two of them down in a minute and briefly considered doing this for a little fun. But when he looked at the third figure, all thoughts of swordplay left his mind.

It was an Elf. It was definitely an Elf. Ishkur's skin tingled unpleasantly at the thought of being so close to an Elf. Orcs hated Elves with a passion and Ishkur was no exception. Ishkur wondered if this was the only Elf around or if there were more. He should get back and tell Gwerr about the Elf but first he wanted to take a closer look to see if there were any others in the vicinity. After dismounting the horse, he led him forward by the reins and stayed within the cover of the bushes until he was close enough to make out the Elf's face. As Ishkur's eyes fixed on the Elf, his stomach dropped down to his toes. A chill spread through his entire body. There were no other Elves in the area, but he was certain he had seen this Elf before a very, very long time ago. He did not know where or when.

There was a lot about his early life that Ishkur could not remember. The first thing he could recall was being brought up in front of Morgoth and bowing down on bended knee swearing allegiance to the Dark Shadow. That was his life. It was who he was. Whatever he was before that moment was all gone. But a little voice whispered in his head that this Elf had something to do with that earlier period he could not remember. Part of Ishkur wanted to run up and take the Elf's head off his shoulders. The other part wanted to approach the Elf and see if he might possibly recognize him. Mostly, he wanted to get away from the Elf and from that place and never see him again. Ishkur remounted and let out a fierce battle cry, kicked the horse in the flanks and took off at a gallop with no idea of where he was going.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Carl became anxious as the shouts of men could be heard closer now, and still Kwell had not followed Azhar into the water, but hesitated watching her disappear gracefully under its surface, staring. The hobbit had to do something to move this boy on, but wasn’t sure just how to go about it. Kwell seemed beyond his ken, and all the ideas that sprang to the hobbit’s mind didn’t apply where there was no home, and probably no family to return to.

“Don’t give up, lad,” Carl finally said. “I know you want more in life than to be a slave, or you wouldn’t have troubled yourself to escape with the others. You’ve had the notion at least once to risk everything and see where it would take you. Do it again then, and if you find you don’t like our company, you can go off on your own after we’re out of this mess. But the truth is, I’d be much happier discussing this over a nice supper, than just now. What do you say?”

Kwell scarcely heard the hobbits voice. Inside his head, all he could hear was the slight sound Azhar had made as she slipped beneath the surface of the water. Nothing remarkable to anyone who had been around water at all in his life, but to Kwell, that deep breath she took, the slight gasp at the coldness of the water, struck him in a strange way. He would do the same thing – take that deep breath – but what if it were to be his last? What if he didn’t make it to the other side? One couldn’t breath beneath water, one couldn’t see beneath water. . .

Harsh voices overhead started Kwell out of his terror. He looked up sharply, first upward towards the grate then down at Carl. He wanted Kwell to go down. . .swim under rock. . .his mind froze again.

“What do you want with us?” Kwell asked.

“O glory!” Carl exclaimed, in a hoarse and impatient whisper, while looking nervously up at the grate, and the swarthy faces peering through it. “Nothing, or rather this something, I want you to follow Azhar through that hole as quick as you are able, before you are shipped back to Nurn while I end up in the bird cage of some Easterling prince!” This was in fact, precisely what the hobbit was imagining at the moment, as the sound of rattling keys was heard above them.

“But I can’t swim,” the boy said faintly.

“Neither can I!” Carl snapped, pushing Kwell toward the wall of the pit. The boy stumbled into the water. “Go! Hurry up! It’s your only chance of escape. Vrór and the girl will be waiting for you on the other side,” the hobbit added over his shoulder as he removed the spud bar from his belt. The grate swung open. “ Don’t worry, it’s not over your head on either side of the wall. Just hold your breath and push yourself along. But hurry!”

The hobbit held the spud bar ready in his hand, as a tan and well-muscled arm appeared overhead, hastily lowering a torch to light the interior of the pit. Carl ran forward immediately, and with a jump succeeded in dislodging the torch, knocking it sizzling into the water. There was an angry shout, as the arm withdrew and another torch was called for. But before Carl reached the water to escape, he heard a heavy thud, as one of the slavers dropped to the floor behind him, growling the most wicked threats.

The hobbit knew it would take a moment or two before the man’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. And without breathing he padded softly to the side of the stream, wadding in as quietly as he could. But as he crept toward the exit his foot struck a sharp stone, and in reflex he pulled it up, loosing his balance only to catch himself from falling by shooting an outstretched hand against the stonewall. Unfortunately, it was the same hand that still held the spud bar. And as the metallic clang rang loudly against the rock, Carl leapt wildly for the hole under the stream. The slaver was at his heels in no time, catching the bottom of the hobbit’s trousers along with a great hank of hair from his feet, before they had disappeared into the tunnel. Carl desperately searched around him for a good handhold, hoping to pull himself forward out of reach, but ended up locking his elbows at his side so that he could not be easily drawn out. Tears would have come to his eyes had he not been submerged, for it felt as though the tops of his feet would be torn off hair by hair as he tried to wriggle and kick himself free. But soon the slaver had moved his grip up to Carl’s ankles, and the hobbit knew his locked arms were no match for the full weight of this man pulling him back out of the tunnel, and so waiting for the next time the slaver renewed his hold, Carl twisted plunging the spud bar down as sharply as he could, and the hands were quick to release him.

Free at last and his lungs nearly bursting, the hobbit shot through the hole to the other side, gasping for air as he surfaced. Everything seemed black before his eyes as he panted, quite unable to speak. But within a few seconds he could see the torch and then the others safely on this side of the wall. Azhar and Kwell were walking toward the way out, while Vrór waited for him to recover. “The slavers,” Carl wheezed, leaning on the spud bar. “They found the hole. They’re too big...I think.”

“Let us hope so,” said Vrór, clapping the hobbit’s shoulder and quickly guiding him toward the others.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil had been the last to return to the meeting point. He had arrived with a scowl on his face and deep pools of worry shadowing his eyes. Motioning Lindir and Rôg to his side, the wizard had hurriedly described for them what he had learned while hiding in the bushes on the far side of camp: how Imak had commanded his men to round up the horses and prepare for an assault later that night.

"May I speak bluntly?" Aiwendil continued, glancing over at Lindir. "I fear Carl and Vrór will return too late. If we gallop out of here with twenty-five slavers on our heels, we will bring death to the very people we've pledged to protect. Neither we nor they are prepared to fight a battle tonight. Perhaps one of us, either Rôg or myself, should ride ahead and at least give them some warning,"

"Aiwendil, I am not surprised by what you say. This Imak sounds like a hothead. And if we were greater in number, I would do as you suggest. But we are so few. I can not spare a single man."

"But what about Dorran?" the older man pressed. "Perhaps he could go."

"I am afraid not. He and I were fighting together on the plain when two of the slaver guards seemed ready to ride back to Imak and tell him what was happening on this side of camp. Rather than risk having that happen, Dorran taunted the guards with his presence and raced out from camp with the two men riding close behind. Dorran should have returned a while ago, but I see no sign of him."

"You are saying he was hurt or lost?"

"I do not know, though I wish I did. But I do know we can't afford to lose any more men before we get those children out of camp. As to this Imak, perhaps he will not be so quick to launch an attack. From what I have seen, his men are having no easy time with those horses. Let us hope the horses will make it hard enough that the slavers can not go anywhere tonight. I am afraid we will have to be content with that, at least for the moment."

"And Dorran?" inquired Aiwendil in a husky tone. "This news will not sit well with Athwen, nor with any in our company. Is there anything that can be done? Anything at all?"

"For now, our duty lies here. But once the children are delivered and the slavers vanquished or run off, I will leave no stone unturned to find out what has happened to him."

"Perhaps Dorran is still coming?" pressed the older man.

Lindir answered in a level voice, "We can hope, but Dorran knew how urgent the children's need was. If he could return, I believe he would have done so by now. Indeed, if only Carl and Vrór could sprout wings and fly back here at once. But wishes without action to back them up accomplish little. Meanwhile, we must all be prepared to fight. I do not think we will get out of this camp without a struggle."

Lindir stared pointedly at Rôg and then looked again at the entrance to the tunnel, wondering just how long they would need to wait until the rescuers returned with the children.

[Brinniel]

Due to her poor vision, Shae was nearly on top of the bodies before she saw them. She immediately reacted, yanking on the reins and bringing her horse to a sudden halt. Carefully, she dismounted to further investigate.

There were two bodies, both dark haired and dark skinned. Examining the armour, Shae identified the dead men as slavers. Unanswered questions suddenly overwhelmed Shae. What could have possibly happened here? As she scanned the bloody ground, a shape caught her eye. Stepping closer, she could see that it was another man, but this one was not a slaver. Though Shae could not see the man's face, it was easy to tell that he was much fairer than the other two simply by looking at the colour of his hair. Glancing at the armour, Shae grew curious- it was like nothing she had ever seen. The sword that lay beside him was yet even stranger. The blade was covered in foreign symbols she could not read. Shae easily concluded that this man was the killer of the two slavers, yet she remained puzzled by his identity. She had never seen any kind like him before.

After minutes of pondering, Shae began to turn back to her horse when suddenly the strange man stirred.

He's alive.

Immediately, Shae bent over and turned the man over onto his back. Examining the body, the woman could see the wounds weren't nearly critical. A few scrapes and bruises, a gash to the head, and perhaps a cracked rib- this man could easily live. Shae cursed herself again and again for nearly abandoning someone- someone who had killed her enemy. The woman unwrapped the bandages from her hands and placed them around the man's head to help slow the bleeding. She cursed herself again for being a poor ex-slave unable to give the man better care. In the distance, Shae could hear shouting and the clashing of swords. Pickening up her pace, she brought her horse to the unconscious man. Lifting the him onto the horse was not an easy task, as he was nearly twice her size. After several long minutes, Shae managed to accomplish the arduous task.

Back on the horse, with the injured man sprawled in front of her, Shae's mind took over again. What was she supposed to do now? Turn around back to the camp? No. She was not ready to face Khamir again. Not yet. The best she could do for the man was bring him back to his people. But she did not know where that was. Hearing the sounds of fighting once again brought Shae back to attention and away from all thoughts. Instinct took over and before she knew what she was doing, she was galloping towards the noises.

It did not take long for Shae to find the source of the sounds. Careful not to get too close, the woman slowed her horse to a stop. Her eyes widened at what she saw. It was the slavers' camp, but not at all how she expected to find it. It seemed the entire camp was in chaos. But who was attacking? More of the injured man's kind? Shae squinted her good eye, hoping to better make out the small figures, but was unsuccessful. She thought about moving slightly closer to the camp, but before she could act upon it, the man in front of her began to stir again.

[Durelin]

Vrór

The Dwarf had never felt so thrilled with hope in his life as one by one he helped the girl, boy and Hobbit out of the water onto rough, coarse dirt that he appreciated now more than he had ever loved even good stone. But what the Hobbit had to say brought Vrór’s momentary happiness to an end, as he realized just how far they were from victory, or even safety. Of course it was only a matter of time before the slavers would know of their rescue, but still it caught him in his stroke of optimism unawares.

“They’re too big…I think.”

Helping Carl out, Vrór’s voice was full of deep concern, though it was steady, “Let us hope so.” He knew there was not much else they could do but hope. And move.

As Carl reoriented himself, allowing a moment for his breathing to slow at least a little – though the Dwarf’s heart was racing long after he had caught his breath – the children were already prepared to get out of the tunnel. They both seemed to have a good head on their shoulders. Likely survival was something they were accustomed to fighting for. The thought pained Vrór as he rushed now to gather up his things. He donned again his belt, picking out his hammer from it, and then his boots, glancing at the water every few seconds, expecting one of those evil men to emerge from it at any moment. He offered the hammer to Kwell, and pulled a small pick mattock, its handle only about a foot in length, from his belt to offer it to Carl.

“We don’t know who will be waiting for us out there. Perhaps the spud bar is more suited for the young lady.”

With axe and torch in hand, Vrór determined without speaking that he would lead the way out of the tunnel. They moved as quickly as they could, shuffling along, while trying not to make too much noise. The seconds were agonizing as their ears strained to hear any sign of the slavers following them, none of them daring to look back. Finally they reached the end of the tunnel, and the Dwarf breathed easy for but a heartbeat before he had to prepare himself to face whatever waited for them above ground. He had not seen Lindir since he had first reached this side of the tunnel again, and there was no telling if he or any of the others had even been able to wait any longer for their Dwarf and Hobbit companions.

Pushing aside the blanket with his axe hand in a rush, he popped out, axe and torch at the ready, to find to his relief three of, at this moment, the most beautiful faces he had ever seen: Lindir, Rôg, and Aiwendil…he and Carl had not been abandoned yet. But soon they would all be in trouble. Vrór felt a sting of guilt. He was not even sure where it was his fault lie, but their escape was not going to be easy because of what had happened in the tunnel and the pit. There was nothing to be done about it now, except to make a break for it before two-dozen armed men were chasing them down.

Peeling back the blanket once more with the head of his axe, he motioned to the others to follow him out, and held open the cover while he turned back to address the tall ones.

“They have discovered our goal,” Vrór said in as low a voice as he could manage, as fervent and nerve-wracked as he was. “They know the children are gone. They are too large for our route, but…they know it exists.”

He could not stop a shudder from running through his body, and he found himself in no condition to make any decisions, so he waited in heart rending anticipation as what the Dwarf’s report meant fell onto the two men and elf. Vrór could not shake the feeling of how narrowly he had escaped death in that tunnel, and combined with the knowledge that he was far from safe now, it was enough to make anyone sick. It did not help that his scornful ears told him that a number of the shouts in the camp were headed in this direction.

[Tevildo]

With his body sprawled over the horse's withers and his head hanging down, Dorran managed to open one eye and unsuccessfully tried to get a sideways glance at the rider in the saddle. His head throbbed and, even worse, there was a sharp pain on his left side that seemed to rise and fall with every breath he took. As he managed to lift his head slightly and glimpsed the slavers' camp just a short distance ahead, he began to suspect the worst: he was being hauled off to slavery. It was a misery that Dorran had personally experienced as a child and one that he had no intention of repeating.

Unwilling to acquiesce in such a fate, the young man summoned his last ounce of strength, bellowed out at the top of his lungs in the manner of one of the Riders of Rohan, and leapt off the horse, half sliding and falling and finally landing on the ground in an ungainly heap. He struggled to rise and run away but his knees buckled under him before he could take more than a half dozen paces. The rider was on top of him in a flash, glaring down and commanding him to close his mouth, or they would both be dragged off by the inhabitants of the slavers’ camp.

A wave of embarrassment swept over Dorran. He had evidently made a large miscalculation. The woman’s tattered clothes and the brand that showed on her ankle confirmed that his rescuer was not a slaver but one of the ex-slaves. There was also the fact that his rescuer had attempted to bandage his wounds, something no slaver would ever have done.

Seeing his error, Dorran struggled to spit out a hasty explanation and apology, using his most gentle and respectful tone. “M’lady, I am sorry. Forgive me. I had two slavers on my tail. I feared you were one of these. Instead, I see you have aided me. For that I am grateful. My friends and I were here to rescue the two children from the pit. We come from lands far west to help lead the slaves of Nurn to freedom. Perhaps, lady, you are one of these?”

Dorran grimaced and held his side as another wave of pain descended. He did not even wait for the lady’s answer. The words came more slowly now as he struggled to get them out. “My friends….my friends are west of the camp by the stream bed. I…must….go now. I must help them. For they will need all the stout arms they can get to strike against the foul jailers. Go back to safety. Please....take your horse. Flee. I will make my own way to my friends.”

With that Dorran leaned back, held his head, and moaned.

[piosenniel]

‘Perhaps one of us, either Rôg or myself, should ride ahead and at least give them some warning...’

He half heard the suggestion Aiwendil was making and heard even less of the rest of the discussion. His left shoulder ached fiercely and along his flank ran a long furrow where he’d been injured. He’d stanched the blood along its course with his tunic, but with each movement there was a searing sort of pain that made him quite woozy.

At the end of the hurried little tactic session, Rôg glance up at Lindir, only to find the Elf looking pointedly at him. He stifled a groan, knowing that the blighted man expected him to light out toward the slave group to give warning of the slavers’ plan to attack. It would mean mounting his willful, if not indeed Shadow-spawned beast, and riding at breakneck speed. And what good would that do, he wondered . . . to have some bookish, clerkish sort of fellow come riding into the slave camp shouting out some dire warnings. They would take him, most certainly he thought, for a madman or a pawn of their enemy and most likely dispatch him with what weapons they might have. And for his part – he’d had enough of weapons and injuries for now.

He sidled over to stand near Aiwendil, positioning himself on the far side of the old man, away from Lindir. ‘If there’s to be any hieing off to alert the escaped slaves, I hope that you will consider playing the messenger.’ He stepped back a pace and eyed the wizard. ‘You look more the part, you know. Commanding presence - what with your staff and long beard and snapping eyes and all. And really you’re much better at that authoritative sort of delivery.’ He scratched the back of his neck and smiled wanly at his companion. ‘And besides, I need some time to lick my wounds, so to speak . . . that bowman had a keen eye for his target.’ He shrugged, wincing as he did so. ‘Though, if you really want some company, I’ll come with you.’

Rôg peeked around Aiwendil to where Lindir stood. ‘What ever you want to do is fine with me. But looking at those two wet and bedraggled children, I think we should mount up right away, and get as far from those vile creatures as pass for men as we can.’