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

[Nogrod]

Hadith (and Joshwan)

Hadith had been following the discussion with keen ears. But he was even more taken by the new feeling he got from the gang of escapees. Something was different now, very different. There was the fear as there had been and even the quiet murmur towards the Fellowship hadn’t totally died. But it was something else. A resoluteness, a dedication, something he couldn’t describe to himself. Somehow all were listening, sharing a common focus.

Then someone spoke again. It was someone who hadn’t yet spoken but sat on the inner ring unlike Hadith who had carefully slipped to the second row. He turned his head to identify the familiar-sounding speaker. It was Joshwan.

“I have sailed the seas for years before I was caught by the slave-hunters and taken to a plantation. I know a lot of tricks one can do when waterborne, but I’ve had my part of fighting on land too, being the underdog most of the times. To my experience this looks pretty challenging to say the least.” Joshwan made a pause and looked at both the elf and the Rohanian rider. “My name is Joshwan and I come from Umbar. I’ve been a soldier of fortune most of my life, the one you call a pirate, but that’s not what I call myself. I am a Fortune’s soldier.” Joshwan gazed sharply around to the others around him in the inner ring of people to underline his words.

“But let’s look at our landscape. Slowly rolling and dull hills with only this hay that has dried yellow all around us. Yes, we might dig a ditch for their horses to tumble into, but how do we hide the ditches without a lattice structure made from some young trees or good branches of older ones? Or the basic rope tricks then? We can’t get a rope high enough to fall the riders but neither have we any aids to bear the brunt of the impact if we try to stumble the horses. Maybe twenty strong men at the each end of the rope could take the blow of the rushing horses, but where do you hide forty men here still hoping the enemy to ride straight between them?” Joshwan shrugged.

“It’s nice to speak of wittiness and traps but we should actually come up with some real ideas that are both working and doable... All we seem to have in abundance here is this dry grass and it’s not the best of weapons against seasoned fighters on horseback.” He broke a grass in two and then threw the parts away.

What Joshwan said sounded reasonable and thence depressing. Hadith was brought down from his emerging confidence very abtruptly and violently. All this talk of tricks had sounded so easy and assuring but if what Joshwan said was right, they were back to the square one. And if these people on the Fellowship had only vague ideas, who would then have the real solutions?

Hadith picked a grass and twisted it around his fingers. Not much of a weapon... isn’t there anything we could do with these?

“Couldn’t we do something with all this hay? Burning it or something?” Hadith asked, basically just saying it to himself, but it was quiet enough for most of the people around him to actually hear it. Hadith realised the situation in an instance and blushed, starting to mumble an apology. But Beloan cut in.

“As I agree with the points Joshwan has presented, I can’t share his pessimism. But with you Hadith I think it is the other way around. I strongly share your optimism, but probably not your point. How could we be helped by lighting the ground on fire? You know, the fire burns the good and the bad alike.” There was no contempt in his voice or in his gaze that drilled deep into Hadith’s mind. To Hadith it felt more like a father correcting his beloved son for making hasty and stupid suggestions. But he was ashamed, so ashamed. He would hold his mouth from now on, he really would.

“Just wait a minute here! I may not be so pessimistic you think I am, Beloan. And the boy might actually have a seed of wisdom here.” It was Joshwan again, and he was smiling to Hadith! A boy! Hadith wasn’t sure how to take it. Somehow he had started to think of himself as something else than just a boy with this group, but in a way Joshwan spoke the truth. He was a man but Hadith was a boy. That was exactly what he was and now he had been shown his place.

“We might pack the hay in tight bunches, using some string to make them hold, a size of a big head or something. And we could make a lot of them... a hundred at least...” Joshwan was clearly getting animated with his idea. “When they come near enough us if we have no other tricks to use on them – or to those who have been left around the fire to make the last stand if we have other ideas too – we could alight them and throw them at the slavers. This grass is so dry that it will burst in flame in seconds. We have just time to throw them before the fire really gets wild. Just think how their horses will react to a hundred balls of fire thrown at them from a short range and out of the blue? We might then have a lot of unsaddled slavers in our hands, hopefully stunned or at least disoriented for a few moments.”

Hadith was thinking about a hundred fireballs flying in the darkness of a night... It looked awesome.

[Firefoot]

Johari had at first been inclined to feel annoyed and encroached upon with the arrival of these newcomers, who seemed to think they could just dance right into their camp and run the place as if the ex-slaves could not figure it out for themselves. And how they tried to ingratiate themselves! “See, we rescued your children!” and “Look, I’m an ex-slave just like you; you can be successful just like me!” Ugh.

To vocally protest their arrival as some had tried would be futile, of course. They had come this far and would hardly turn back now only a few minutes or hours after finding them. No, they would come along and “help”, holding themselves above us ex-slaves, consciously or not. They didn’t understand. Why had they been invited – begged – to come? Even with that, they hardly had a right to be here. Where had these strangers been months ago, years ago when they had really needed the help, toiling away on some plantation, only just managing to survive? Where had they been when the Black Tower fell to end the slavery for real? Had the help they had needed come when they had needed it to come, she would not have been separated from Kalin as she was.

But now, finally, help had come, and they expected to be welcomed like saviors. We’ve been watching out for ourselves and doing all right until now, thought Johari, and I’ll be clapped in chains and dragged back to that plantation if I let someone else come and baby-sit me now.

Still, these rebellious thoughts remained unspoken, not because she knew it would not help but because, when it came down to it, she didn’t care enough to voice them. These outsiders would do as they wished and the people of the camp would accept them or not as they wished, and to Johari it didn’t matter much as long as no one bothered her or hindered her in her own goal. The annoyances were still liable to come out in a fit of pique should Johari be roused from her apathy (it wasn’t exactly difficult), but for now she felt comfortable just letting them stew. Let these emissaries from Gondor come to understand what life here was really like. They may not even need to be driven away; the land, its people, and their hurts might defeat them on their own. Johari smiled perversely at the thought.

[Tevildo]

Azhar's face blanched as she heard what Rôg was asking her. For a long time she hesitated, unsure if she could bring herself to describe what most of her dreams were like. She wondered why Rôg would ask her to do such a difficult thing. Perhaps he did not understand what it was like to be a slave. That burden was all too familiar to Azhar; it still shaped her life even though she had left behind the old estate. Every evening with the return of sleep, Nurn would slip back inside her mind. There was sorrow and the doom of reliving the horrors of the past, all set within an eerie shadowland that magnified and sharpened her memories in a hundred different ways.

Some people said this was because of the Dark Lord: that his hand hung so heavy over the land that not even the dream world was safe from his brooding presence. Azhar did not believe that. If it was only the Dark Lord who haunted her nights, the ugly dreams would have disappeared after his defeat. But the dreams had not stopped. She and the other slaves continued to spend tortured nights tossing from one side to the other as they recalled images and scenes long since banished from their daytime mind.

Azhar stared off in the distance and then spoke, "Dreams? All of us on the plantation dream. Only they are hateful nightmares no person would want to remember. Sometimes I dream about the orcs, how they stood over me with whips and barbs. I see images of death and dying, small babies ripped from a mother's arms for the sport of the Easterlings. And sometimes my mind reminds me how hungry I was, how I would have given anything, truly anything, for a decent piece of bread or a chunk of meat."

"But the worst dreams, the ones I truly dread, are when I remember my mother. Her name was Ursula. Yes, it was an odd name for a lady from Harad," the girl nodded, responding to Rôg's unasked question. "In daytime, I still can not see her. Only at night does she return. I was four years old, maybe five. My mother and I had been travelling north for months. She said there would be people to help us if we could only find our way back home. We finally came to the mountain and the woods." Azhar looked up in surprise, startled to recall that the place her mother called home was full of great trees, so utterly unlike the present landscape with its gnarled bushes and thorny brambles.

"My mother promised me it would be our last night on the road. She thought we would find our kin before darkness set in, but the rain delayed us. I was so little and tired. The sun set and I could not go any further. We lay down to sleep. The orcs came without warning. They were slavers with chains and brands out searching for fresh bodies, not to kill but to drag us away. There was no chance of escape."

"Then something happened I still don't understand. Rôg.....my mother looked at them, so calm, so deliberate. She was deciding something, weighing two choices. I don't know, but it was as if she knew that she could get away but I could not. Don't ask me how I knew this or what my mother could have possibly done against so many orcs. Still, that is the truth. She took out a small dagger from her belt, whispered how she loved me, and then lunged in my direction. Before she could strike, the monsters took out their swords and sprang on her. Then they dragged me off. I am afraid that is the only dream I have had that's worth remembering. Yet I have never understood whether this is a true remembering and, if so, why my mother did that." Deep pools of sorrow and confusion showed in Azhar's eyes.

"You can think of no other dream?" Rôg's voice was infinitely patient and full of gentleness.

"Perhaps....perhaps one. In the pit I dreamed twice of a great bear who came to help me. Either the bear came to help me, or I was the bear. I am not sure which. Only now, looking back, I think that bear was my mother....."

[Child of the 7th Age]

The detailed discussion on the merits of trenches, torches, and other devices to trick the slavers had been going on for over an hour. Although Aiwendil had fought on both sides of the Sea in a variety of forms and shapes, he was no expert on battle tactics and had little to say. He found his attention wandering and was soon spending more time watching sand rats scurry between two piles of rocks than paying attention to what was being said.

Leaning over to tap Carl on the shoulder, the istar confided that he would be taking a walk to clear the cobwebs from his head and expected to return shortly. Hoping to latch onto a walking companion, Aiwendil had thought of approaching Rôg but then pulled back, once he noticed that his friend was still talking to the young woman who had been held prisoner in the slave camp. The wizard meandered out of camp in a northerly direction, not exactly sure of where he was going. He only knew he needed to get a good whiff of the earth and briefly leave behind all plans and preparations for battle. War and conflict ate away at the edges of his mind.

Aiwendil walked northward for almost half a mile. Glancing out over the horizon, the istar was again struck by the awesome beauty of the land. Close by he could see the sturdy scrub vegetation of the desert grasslands. In the distance, visible only to the eyes of an istar or elf, there were looming mountains ringed about a circle that protectively guarded a flat plain. This was the prize—the broad and hopefully fertile foothills of the Plateau of Gorgoroth--where they would be headed as soon as the slavers were defeated. The weather was unseasonably hot and dry for this time of year, even in Mordor. Despite the early hour, Aiwendil could almost feel the thick plumes of heat rising out of the ground as if throwing out a stiff challenge to him and the rest of their company. By late afternoon, it would be a scorcher.

A telltale “Kek, kek, kek” sounded above the istar’s head. Glancing upward, Aiwendil caught a glimpse of a white throat barred with black and slate grey wing feathers with black stripes. It was a large female falcon swooping down on outstretched wings. Throwing back the hood of his robe, Aiwendil straightened his hunched figure and stared quizzically up at the sky, making the appropriate response to the great bird to invite him to perch on his arm. Whether the two used sounds or thoughts or some other trick that men can only dream of, Aiwendil and the bird quickly exchanged news.

“You are out hunting? Have you had any luck?”

The creature did not seem startled by the presence of an old man who could speak to him. “Not today. No hunting today. Can you not see what is happening?” The falcon turned its neck and pointed a wing towards the northwest. Aiwendil followed the bird’s line of vision and was surprised to notice something he had not seen before: a tiny swirl of golden brown sand, barely noticeable to the naked eye, which was funneling about in circles.

The peregrine hastily explained, “The wind. The wind comes soon. We are hurrying to get ready. Too much heat and too little rain in these parts.”

Aiwendil’s eyes widened in appreciation as he realized what the bird was saying.
Almost immediately another idea took root in the wizard’s mind. Turning to the bird, he explained, “I have a great favor to ask of you and your kin. My friends and I are in sore straits. There are evil men who have no respect for the land or any creature that dwells on it. They come to attack us sometime later today. We have many women and children, elders as well, who can not stand up against such an assault. If we could but delay their coming so they fall prey to the great winds, it would be a wonderful help and would even the fighting odds between the two groups.”

The falcon blinked twice and sat silent for a minute while he considered the istar’s proposal. Finally, he spoke. “My kin know of you and the others who wear long robes. We have also seen the young man who accompanies you on the road, the one who sometimes chooses to fly or run free. On hot nights we tell tales about the battle at the Yule Log and the hot deserts to the south where the master Eagles came. I would like to help but I must warn the other birds of prey about the storm and protect my own family. Plus I dare not ask any of the other beasts to come. It is not my place. ”

“No, I would not expect that of you.” Aiwendil shook his head to acknowlege what the falcon was saying. “But if you could find a safe place for those of your kin who need shelter and support, perhaps you and a handful of the strongest could aid us for a bit. It is not necessary to kill the men, only to confuse and delay them. Our swords and the winds will do the rest.”

The bird nodded in agreement just as the man replied, “Go then, quickly. I and my friend will meet you here by mid-afternoon for we do not know what time the assault will come.”

With that, the great bird soared into the sky, veering northward, and Aiwendil returned south to camp.

[piosenniel]

What a horrid thing to take upon oneself! Rôg’s stomach lurched at the vision of a mother needing to kill her child to save her. Poor mother! And worse yet the lingering memory of it in the child. It was a decision he could barely fathom.

The girl began to speak again of other dreams, or one dream, really…of bears. He looked closely at her, estimating her age. Her child’s features were just giving way to hints of the woman she would become. With a soft intake of breath the fact hit him…it was her changing time. And these symptoms she was having, this ‘illness’…he had seen it before. On that excursion into the southlands with Aiwendil.

The mother…her daughter, here…they were maenwaith!

Now he bit back the anger that came with this realization. That two of his people had been caught by the vile hands of Shadow. That one had had to die. Filthy Orcs! Had it been possible at that moment, he would have gone back in time and slashed them and burned them…everyone! A shadow of that terrible anger rippled briefly o’er his features; his hands clenched and then uncurled themselves, the fingers aching with a murderous desire.

And just as quickly he pulled back from that ill-thought impulse, cooling the fire that coursed in his veins. Not now! Wait, wait! he told himself; reminding himself, too, that the well-being of the living took precedence over those who had passed beyond the circles of this place.

Rôg leaned forward, touching the back of his palm to Azhar’s face. His expression lightened consciously and he nodded his head slightly at her. ‘Those are good dreams! The ones of bears. They are strong creatures. Patient and wise in their own ways. And mothers, you know, they are very much like bears. Their cubs are the whole world to them; they will do what they must to protect them.’

He wrinkled his brow, drawing up his mouth in a moue of indecision. ‘I can help you, I think, with this “illness” of yours. My clan has some small knowledge of these problems you are having. And you’re right…what you said earlier…about the fight between your body and your head…’ He leaned back and looked her over thoroughly. ‘I can help you with that, I think. Not now though,’ he said his gaze drifting about the campsite. ‘We would need some time together, undisturbed.’ He smiled reassuringly at her. ‘Can you wait, then? I’m certain you will feel better, little one?’ he asked using the term he would use with children of his own clan.

Of a sudden, the hairs prickled at the back of his neck. And a certain familiar scent tickled at his nose. ‘Oh my! We surely have no time now, Azhar,’ he said, raising his eyes to the skyward. His gaze swept round to the thin line of horizon behind him. ‘Can you feel it? A windstorm is coming.’ He stood up and helped her to her feet. ‘Give a word of warning to the others, Azhar.’

Rôg waved to the solitary figure he saw trudging toward the camp – Aiwendil. Leaving the girl to be about the things he’d asked of her, he walked quickly toward the old fellow. A brief, hushed conference between the two men took place, with much nodding of heads on both sides.

Aiwendil took leave of the younger man and made haste toward Lindir. For his part, Rôg moved quickly away from the camp, heading toward a small rocky outcropping in the near distance and the welcoming cover of the scrubby growth of trees that clung to it.

[Durelin]

Khamir

Khamir was a little surprised to hear the man known as Joshwan speak up, and he had to grit his teeth and let out a heavy sigh through them as he took in his observations. Of course they were true, and had dawned on the one-armed man as the other man began to talk, but…that couldn’t be the whole of it. There had to be a way, particularly with now over threescore of them hard at work. Vegetation was not abundant, to say the least, but, then, if they could collect enough, it might just do, as long as, as the elf noted, the slavers attacked at night.

“Pessimism or not, obviously traps and the like are necessary. And I expect they will attack in the night, as they did last time.”

Beloan nodded next to him. “They do not like learning new tricks, and will likely underestimate us.”

It was Khamir’s turn to nod before he could think of how strange the two’s exchange might look. They skirted around each other in a fashion that felt awkward, particularly since neither was used to necessarily being at odds with each other, but each feared they might be.

Suddenly, the strange, short, flame-haired man spoke up in his rumbling voice. Strange that he should look and sound so fierce, and carry such an imposing weapon, and yet if Khamir looked closely enough, he could see the crease marks around his eyes were from years and years of smiles and laughter. This detail struck him more greatly than any of the other oddities about the bearded man – most of the people here in Mordor were obviously worn a little differently from those of the Fellowship.

“I suppose there is a lack of much of anything green around here,” the axe-bearing man began, his voice the perfect example of ‘slow and steady,’ “but there is an awful lot of good, hard soil, and what rock there is, it is the strongest. Perhaps some tunneling is in order, if you lads think we have the time. I certainly know how to dig a good tunnel, but I know how to dig a bad tunnel, too: one that the wrong step could collapse in the blink of an eye. And when I mean collapse, I mean collapse – with the surface gone under, if you know what I mean.”

Khamir could not help but smile slightly at the short man, and he was even more bewildered by him. What sort of man was he? The way he talked about ‘knowing’ tunnels and about soil and rock sounded as if it was the most sensible thing in the world for everyone to accept him as the master of such knowledge, and Khamir certainly felt prepared to. He looked around to see if he could catch any reaction from some of the others, and noticed that the old man, one of the members of the Fellowship, was missing at the moment. Had he just wandered off? This was a strange bunch, and though Khamir’s faith in Gondor had certainly been nurtured, his interest in its peoples had escalated to a curiosity quite foreign his nature. He thought now that he might even travel there one day.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The meeting had been going on more than two hours when Aiwendil rushed into the circle and pulled Lindir to one side. The istar pointed to the sky and hastily explained where he had been and what would happen later that day.

Lindir stared out across the rock strewn plain, with its tumbled boulders and patches of dry grass. The day was hot and cloudless. Even this early in the morning, the sun beat down in an unrelenting fashion on the camp. The elf could see no physical signs of any storm. "Are you sure?" he prodded. "We can not base our strategy on the weather unless we are certain this will happen."

"I am convinced of it. The birds and beasts can detect a change in weather long before any man. But it is not just that. Rôg comes from a place to the south where sand storms are frequent. He is sure the wind is shifting. I tell you, Lindir, this is a piece of luck. We know what will happen, and the slavers do not. Plus, the winds are blowing out of the west. They will be at our backs, but the slavers must ride directly into the gusts. We could not have asked for a better situation."

"There is still one problem, that of timing." Lindir noted. "We do not know what time the attackers are coming. And exactly what time will these winds hit?"

"The falcon thought it would be at dark. Part of what you say is true. If the slavers wait to ride till late tonight, they will see the weather has changed and simply delay their attack. The worst that can happen is that both sides will billet down and not fight until tomorrow. But I don't think the slavers will do that. They are impatient. Their leader wants blood. They will ride out by early evening, perhaps even this afternoon. Already, Rôg has left camp to make preparations to greet them in an appropriate fashion, and I will join him shortly. If the men come early, he and I can delay them just long enough so they are caught up in the winds."

Lindir responded dryly, "I should ask you how you plan to do that, but I will not. I don't think our new friends would feel comfortable with the kind of answer I am likely to get. So if you are certain of this, go now and rejoin Rôg and do what must be done. I'll work with Dorran and the leaders of the settlers to craft a strategy based on what you have told me."

As Aiwendil stalked off towards the north, Lindir called out after him, "You had better be right about this, or we will pay dearly."

The istar turned around and gestured with his staff, "You have my word on it. And if I am right, I will insist that you prepare some of the finest delicacies from Rivendell once we reach our destination. The foothills should have game and other growing things in abundance, and I will greatly enjoy being waited on by such an old and honorable elf!" With that, the two parted company. Then Lindir returned to the circle, sat down, and prepared to speak.

**********
The planning meeting had nearly ended. The conversation had lulled, and Dorran was putting the finishing touches on a crude map drawn in the dirt that showed where the various traps should be constructed and where men and women should be stationed. Lindir bent down for a closer look and nodded to the men in appreciation, "Khamir, Beloan, and Dorran, well done. This should work. And we have one more piece of good fortune that may tilt the scales in our direction. Aiwendil and Rôg have told me that a wind storm will be blowing in at nightfall. Aiwendil and Rôg have also come up with a few tricks to delay the approach of the slavers if they should make it over before the winds hit. They've already gone out to start their preparations."

Lindir looked around the circle, expecting someone to object, but no one did. An old man sitting far back from the firepit sniffed the air and then nodded his head in confirmation that he too could sense the weather was changing. Apparently all of those gathered in the camp had lived through such storms, which were not uncommon in the region of Nurn and the plains spreading out to the north. The stripping away of so many trees and so much goodness from the soil, combined with a long spell of hot and dry weather, created the conditions that gave rise to the harsh walls of wind.

"We are lucky then," Lindir conceded. "The slavers will probably not have anyone who can read weather signs. So we will have one advantage, yet we must also be careful. Aiwendil tells me that Azhar and a few of her friends have gone to warn the others who plan to take shelter during the battle that they must secure their things within the circle of boulders at the rear of camp and stay hidden there in the worst of the weather. We must also be careful with the firebrands. The young men doing those should go further out on the plain to the east and strike before the worst of the weather hits, or we will end up with burning brands in our own faces. But one task will be easier. Once the winds come, the slavers will be hard pressed to see any of the ditches or tunnels, even if we hide them crudely. As far as the horses go, I agree. We must not waste too much effort on that. Yet there are a number of young healthy women reluctant to fight who might be stationed at the edge of camp, far from the actual swordplay. They might be able to run down an animal or two, and that could help you once you finally settle into your new lands and need a beast to station in front of a plough."

Lindir looked around the group but there were no further voices raised. "We are ready then. Each must go to their appointed task. We will meet back at the fire by mid-afternoon to set up the attack, and may fortune smile on our efforts."
With that, the circle dispersed, as men and women hurried to carry out the plans that had been made.

[Folwren]

Athwen and Dorran saddled their horses together. They spoke very little; they had already said what needed to be said. They both noticed the steadily rising wind and the dust swirling in small circles. Athwen patted her horse’s neck when she finished tightening the girth and took his reins. She led him over to Dorran. He turned towards her as she came near.

“You will be careful?” he asked. Athwen nodded. “Where is your sash?” Athwen’s hand went to the white cloth about her neck, tucked into the collar of her shirt. “Is your horse settled in all this wind? It will only get harder and more fierce, Athwen. . .” She nodded again and a smile came to her face.

“He’ll be fine,” she said. “He has carried me a long way as it is and I don’t think he’ll fail me now.” Dorran nodded this time. “I’m going. I don’t want to be late to my post.” There was a short pause. “Goodbye,” she whispered.

He bent and kissed her gently one last time. “Goodbye,” he replied. “You’ll do well,” he added reassuringly.

Athwen mounted her horse without further ado and set him into a trot down the slight slope. She let him pace back and forth in the open land before the camp. The wind was slowly but steadily picking up strength and speed, and her gelding seemed to sense the pending danger. She felt his energy gather beneath her. His trot became quick and stiff, excited and contained with difficulty. She reined him in slowly and made him walk.

Finally, his body seemed to relax some, his attention settled and she sighed a sigh of relief. With a final glance towards the camp, she turned her horse away from it and headed towards the clump of bushes and shrubs that Lindir had pointed out to her. She dismounted there and found her best way into them with her horse. She cleared away some of the small plants so that her horse could stand fairly comfortably. She led him in and left him standing while she went back out to make certain that it would be difficult to see him behind the screen of leaves and branches.

Satisfied, she returned back to her horse and mounted him. Her heart pump nervously and a strange, tight feeling passed through her stomach. She drew a deep breath, clenched her jaw, and stared out through the leaves in to the open plain. Soon their enemies would come and she would burst through those scraggly branches and go flying out before them. . .in peril. Yes, there would be peril. Her throat tightened briefly with fear that she might never return, that she might not see Dorran again. But a moment later, resolve hardened itself within her, and new feeling pulsed through her veins. She sat up higher in her saddle and lifted her chin a little. She would ride to make her husband, and Rider of Rohan, proud.

[Folwren]

Lindir had been right. The visibility was bad, due to the wind. Gusts of strong wind grabbed up sheets of the powdery top dirt and pushed it on violently before it. The branches of the thicket around her swayed and bent in the wind. Momentarily, she doubted being able to see the group of slavers when they came. She felt a horrible feeling as she thought, what if she missed them? She licked her dry lips.

A strong burst of wind brought a new covering of dust that reached even Athwen, protected as she was. She bent her head and turned away from it. When she looked up again, her heart gave a great leap. There they were, as though they had sprung out of the earth. A few agonizing seconds past. The blood pumped in her ears, blocking all other sound. They were so near. . .so near. . .

“Gy’ap!” she cried hoarsely, and squeezed her heels sharply into her horse’s side. His head came up, his nostril’s quivered with indignation, and he bounded forward, through the last few bushes that hid them, and bounded out across the troubled earth. Faster, faster, his hooves pounded in the soft dirt. Athwen urged him on, into a faster trot, and then breaking into a canter. She sat erect and tall, rigid and proud. She let them see her. She let them look.

Straight before their path she cantered. Her horse took the ground with ease, his neck arched and his mane flying in the wind. He was fresh and not tired and his pure blood pumped with excitement through his veins.

Would they follow? Would they fall for this preciously lade bate? Athwen knew there was little space between her and the camp. They would have to turn. . .but would they follow her for such a long distance? She would taunt them, play with them. Gently, she tightened the reins and slowed her horse. He tossed his head, but his feet slowed. They drew nearer. Yes, they were following. How long, though? How long?

So close. Even in the wind and flying sand, she could see their weapons. She gave slack to the reins and he bounded forward. She gauged his speed until they had made the full loop. They were facing the camp straight on now. Ahead of them, she knew the traps lay, waiting for their prey. She could lead them straight to it. They were just behind her, the nearest of them on her horse’s very tail. She bent her body over his neck, her face in his flowing mane, her hands reached forward, giving him everything she could, and she dug her heels into his side.

The horse fairly flew. She heard his powerful breath, but she barely felt the impact of his hooves on the ground. Thus far, she had succeeded in her mission.

[Folwren]

The camp was drawing nearer. Athwen slowed her horse a trifle again, to make sure that the men following her were not discouraged. She looked over her shoulder. Less than half of the whole group followed her. But, still. . .there might be ten men in pursuit. She looked back ahead. There was a place to cross safely, she knew. But this wind and this sand made it almost impossible to see. Would her trusty horse see the trench to jump it? She knew how he moved and how he sensed his footing. He could feel her excitement, her urgency, and she had not the slightest doubt that he would jump – if he saw the trench in time.

Nearer and nearer they came. Athwen gathered herself up for the leap. She tightened the reins, gathered his head, and lifted herself above the saddle. The trench had to be only a few strides ahead and in a moment he would be preparing for the jump. Now was the time! Now!

The horse didn’t jump. A breathless, gasping whiny of protest burst from his mouth. His feet came to a skidding stop, the open trench just before him. A scream mounted in Athwen’s chest, but her throat contracted in panic and it could not escape. Her forward momentum did not stop and she shot forward, over the horse’s head. She felt herself falling and there was nothing to hold onto, nothing to cling to, except the reins in her hands. Her fingers grasped them convulsively and wouldn’t let go. She landed in the trench, her feet beneath her, her side against the dirt wall, and one arm stretched above her head as her hand clutched the reins.

An instant later, nine horses plunged passed her, their riders unable to stop them. They leaped the trench, and she cowered beneath them as their legs and bellies rushed above her. She didn’t see what happened to them, whether the tunnel collapsed, or what happened to the horses that fell in it. She was gasping and panting for breath, trembling with the aftermath that such a burst of pure terror causes.

The trench in which she knelt blocked most of the wind. The air was still around her and she could catch her breath. She let her hand slide down the reins without letting go, and for a moment she just lay there with the side of her face against the cool dirt.

Suddenly, she felt a touch on her shoulder. She jerked violently, her heart leaping again to her throat. She twisted away and this time the scream escaped her open mouth. Her movement was too late. The man had her arm in an iron grip and he dragged her up from the trench, back into the wind. She tried to struggle, but he had some sort of armor on and it hurt her hands to strike. In her attempt to get free, she let go of the reins and her horse turned and trotted away from the struggle.

“Come on, come on, come on,” the man muttered as he tried to keep his hands on his squirming captive. “Don’t cause such trouble, my sweet.” Athwen trembled from head to foot with contemptive horror. Tears of rage and terror filled her eyes and coursed down her face. She didn’t care if it hurt, she fought and struck out all the harder. She had to get loose, she had to! She would rather be killed than be taken at this point. Her hands were cut – she could see blood on them though she felt nothing – and still she fought, although he dragged her farther on, towards his horse, where he wanted her.

[Folwren]

Where Kwell sat at this point, sheltered as he was with the rocks and bushes and other plants, he could see hear the wind and see the great clouds of dust roll over the hidden shelter for the children and women. Not much wind reached them, though it wailed in a melancholy, ghostly way through the rocks.

He sat apart from the other children, who huddled close to the women and the elderly men who could not go out at fight. His habitual scowl decorated his face as he drew in the dirt with a small stick with one hand, while his other clenched and unclenched around the hilt of the dagger that Lindir the elf had given him the previous night.

Until now, no one had heard any sound coming from the encampment below them. The wind howled over their heads and would have swept any noise away. But suddenly, the wind died momentarily, and Kwell heard shouts.

All of the childrens’ heads raised, and some of the older people who still had somewhat sharp hearing looked up, too. The attack had begun. In a moment, the wind picked up again and they could hear nothing.

Kwell bounded to his feet and crawled towards an opening. He heard a step behind him and he turned sharply to see Azhar.

“What are you doing here?” he asked harshly.

“What are you going to do?” she asked instead. She guessed almost instantly. “Don’t go down, Kwell, you’ll get killed! Stay here like you were told.”

“I’m not given orders any more!” he said brusquely. “You stay here. You’re sick. And you’re a girl, besides, so you can’t come anyway.”

“I don’t want to. But you need to stay here. The order was to keep you safe. You’re just a boy, after all!”

Kwell gave her a poisoned look that told her to hold her tongue. “I can fight,” he said. “I have a dagger. And the elf told me I wasn’t a child any more. Besides, that. . .that dwarf – no, hobbit-” he still had difficulty keeping the two races separate in his mind “-that hobbit is no larger than me and he’s fighting. Let me go!” He pushed her hand away and before she could speak again, he scrambled through the rock and dropped onto the ground. Instantly, he was enveloped in the fierce wind and the blowing sand and dirt. He scrambled as quickly as he could down the shallow incline towards the camp and where he knew that shortly, if not already, men were fighting for lives and freedom.

[Folwren]

Kwell dropped low to the ground, the wind whistling about him until he could hardly hear or see. His teeth clenched close together and his dry lips pursed to keep the sand and flying dirt out. He ran forward towards the front lines, knowing that eventually he would stumble into someone or some sort of excitement.

He did stumble into what he was expecting, before he expected it. He saw a group of people approaching him as quickly as they could in the wind. His feet stopped abruptly and he looked hard to see if he could make out who it was who approached him. Were they enemies, or friends? Then from his right he heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats. He straightened up abruptly, his eyes staring hard and his mouth opening. He had thought they were supposed to come from straight on. . .come in straight into the camp to fall into the tunnel and trench that they had spent so much time digging. Had they not? Had they simply ridden around it? How had they known that it was there in order that they might avoid it?

The thoughts spun through his head like a grass fire. They were gone in an instant, for he suddenly realized that he stood right in the awy of danger. The pounding drew nearer, the great, dark shapes came closer and he could make out each of the riders. In another moment, he saw their faces.

He had forgotten the first group of men he had seen. They were running forward now, towards the riders, and closer to him. Kwell found himself rooted to the ground, unable to move. He watched in alarm as the riders came rushing forward, and those on foot came running on. And then a horse missed his stride, stumbled, and fell. The rider summersaulted over his horse's head and went skittering across the rocky earth. Kwell gasped and drew back, for the man stopped his tumble very near him. As the boy withdrew, his hand brushed against the hard handle of the dagger at his side. His hand paused for a moment and then his fingers grasped the handle. He stopped to consider a moment and then he drew it in one, sharp movement. His jaw clenched and his face twisted into some horrible, dark expression and he leaped forward with a cry.

When he first plunged the dagger into the man's body, he had not thought of it as actually killing a man. He had not considered him as a person. The face was turned away from him, he could not see his eyes, nor read his expression. But Kwell knew nothing of killing, nor how to use a weapon. The blow that he gave had every advantage of surprise, and the man was still dazed from his fall. The stroke proved useless, however, for he struck at his side and the blade turned on a rib and ran virtually harmlessly down his side.

The man jerked violently and shouted out in pain. He twisted about and Kwell leaped back in alarm. The slaver slowly sat up on his knees and for a moment Kwell looked directly into his face. He recognized the man as one of the guards who had watched over his prison in the pit the previous day and nights.

"Why you little beast! I knew when I first set eyes on you that I should have wrung your little, theiving neck!"

Kwell looked shocked and startled. Evidently the man recognized him, too. In the blink of an eye the slaver had large, curved blade drawn in his hand. Kwell blinked and looked down at the knife in his hand. With hardly an additional thought, he turned and fled, running as hard as he could with the wind towards the group that he had seen advancing earlier. He hoped against hope that there, with others to help him, he might have a slight chance of surviving. And if not. . .well, perhaps he would die helping someone else, instead of being uselessly slaughtered by himself.