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

[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.

[Durelin]

Khamir

It was like no rush Khamir had ever felt, as the trembling in his limbs matched the rumbling of hooves. He caught only glimpses of the riders before they were completely swallowed by the dust, squinting through a small gap in the cloth that protected his face. Blind, the fighters charged in, though he had to scream at Hadith to get the man’s legs working. He was not angry at the boy, nor did he think less of him. But he had to get him moving somehow. Hadith simply obeyed it like a command, and Khamir was grateful. Adnan remained at his right, and would guard the man’s armless side, if all went well. And the one-armed man would not let Adnan out of his sight, if not for that reason.

There were screams, human and not: for moments those were their only targets. But soon some came into view, in and around the collapsed tunnel were men and beasts sprawled out, still or struggling, trying to reorient themselves or simply try to stay alive. Khamir broke off to one side with the rest of those in the rear, to meet what lay in wait in the cloud of dirt. The sand stung his skin, little pinpricks of fire all over his body. He could almost feel it lashing against the arm that was not there, like an itch that would not go away. It had been years since he felt something like that...it renewed his anger. His long hunting knife was drawn, and his smaller throwing knives were at the ready.

Suddenly, as they reached the trenches, Adnan disappeared from his side. Khamir whipped around. The boy had been grabbed by the leg and pulled down. The slaver had let go of him in order to get up, but in a heartbeat Khamir was on him. He tackled the man, regardless of the pain it caused his mostly unprotected body on the armour, and struggled with him, using his legs to try and pin him just long enough... There was a flash of silver that came dangerously close to Khamir’s stomach, but it dropped with a clank as Adnan suddenly drove his knife into the Easterling’s arm that held it. With an angry growl, the slaver allowed his head to fall back as he tried to heave Khamir off, and the Southron saw his opening, sliding his blade across the man’s unprotected neck. Immediately rising to leave the body, Khamir found Adnan already on his feet again, staring down at the dead Easterling. The one-armed man thought he saw a smile in the younger man’s eyes, but he would not believe much of anything he saw in this wind.

But even in the low visibility, what he could see of the slavers and the trenches made him feel uneasy. They did not all fall to the trap. But there was no one on horseback in his line of sight. The count had been at least two-dozen. Where were they? A sudden, dreadful thought fell over him. These slavers, though proud, were not stupid. They had proved cunning enough the first night they attacked, whether or not the slaves had been an easy target. Their leader had to know that though they were technically outnumbered, they actually out-manned the slaves. And, if he had expected any sort of defense, he had to know they did not have enough to spread their forces. But he did...

“Fall back with me!” he called to those on this end of the trench and tunnel, but only three out of the six in the rear came to him, everyone’s eyes darting from left to right and back, watching each other’s backs. Khamir’s eyes darted around, but the thought of his own life or the lives of any present was quite out of his head. Now where had that boy gotten to? Something turned sour in his stomach, and his voice had lost its feeling of command. “Where is Adnan? Has anybody seen Adnan?”

“I think Tareef is gone, as well,” someone said, but Khamir did not really hear.

“I fear we have hardly won the battle. I think something is amiss, and I fear for the lives of the women and children.”

“You mean…” one of the men, Nasim, asked in a rush of air, “from behind?” Khamir nodded. “Come on!” Nasim shouted, and took off toward where he knew those who could not fight lay unprotected. The others followed him. Khamir’s heart was split in two. He trusted the other men, but he knew every man they could spare should return to the women and children. But he also did not know where Adnan was. After a moment of hesitation, he wound his way toward the tunnel, checking the ground and checking the bodies. His hopes were raised each time he saw one that was not Adnan.

Finally he found the boy, kneeling at the edge of the collapsed tunnel, near its end. He was digging. Immediately Khamir rushed towards him to grab him. The man was prepared to berate him when he noticed several gashes, one on his cheek, one on his chest, another on his wrist… When Adnan stopped digging for a moment to look at the older man, Khamir caught a glimpse of the boy’s hands, and he saw that blood mixed with the dirt on the left one. Two of his fingers were missing. The body of an Easterling behind the boy was explanation enough. Khamir could only stare, and he tore his eyes away from the boy only to find them glued to the dead body. Its throat, arms, hands, and face were all bloodied almost beyond recognition. The Southron man knew it had not been the struggle that had caused that.

Turning back to Adnan, his face grave, he found the young man digging again, and with another blink he was cognizant enough to see that he was digging up a body. A glimpse of red hair, and Khamir’s hands plunged into the dirt, as well. Vrór! What had he done? When the Dwarf was at least partially uncovered, Khamir and Adnan each grabbed one of his arms and pulled with all their might. Slowly he loosened from the earth, and from there they took their time dragging him out further.

Vrór was obviously unconscious, and once they had him almost completely out of the trench, Khamir began to fear the worst. He made sure the cloth covered the Dwarf’s face well, and tied it around his head to protect a wound to his head from even more sand and dust. Then, tearing off pieces from the ragged shirt that protected his torso from the elements, he proceeded to quickly wrap Adnan’s hand, and then roughly cover the worst of his other cuts. It was obvious the boy was in real pain, though he did not show it: he did not argue in the least as Khamir took care of him.

[Folwren]

Athwen regained her senses and her dignity quickly as Rôg struggled to say a few kindly words. He gently disentangled his sleeve from her clutching hand and she stepped back, suddenly self-conscious. “The wounded.....I don’t know what to say about that. Except that I know you will do the best you can until the circumstances change.”

“Yes,” she gasped quietly, taking the scarf he so kindly offered. “Yes, of course I will. Thank you.”

Aiwendil must have heard the exchange of words, and tears, for he suddenly appeared at her side. His touch and old, kind voice brought new courage to her as he led her quickly away. “If you have time before the wounded are brought in, you might talk with the mothers and have a look at a few of their children. From what I have seen some have suffered greatly at Nurn and could use the gentle hand of a healer. That may help them as much as potions or herbs.” She was introduced to one of these mothers and before she could turn back to Aiwendil to explain that there already was a man who there who needed her help with a wound, he had left. She turned back to the woman.

“Gwyn?” she said, repeating the name that Aiwendil had told her. The woman nodded. “I have a wounded man with me…I think his name is Hadith. Can you show me where the buckets of water have been kept? I have a horse with Hadith on him, can we get the horse there?”

“Yes, I think we can. Go and get him. I’ll wait for you.”

Athwen hurried away to fetch the horse and lead him back. As she went, she folded Rôg’s scarf into a triangle and tied it around her nose and mouth. When her hands were empty again, she had reached the horse, and she reached up to take the reins near the bit. He tossed his head a little at first but, after a reluctant first step, he followed her meekly as she led him towards Gwyn.

“Wait a moment,” Athwen said as she reached her. “I need to get my pack. Hold him.” She handed the horse to Gwyn and then ran lightly away to where she had stored away her things earlier. She came back with the pack of healing herbs and other necessary things.

Gwyn waited for her and when Athwen reached her, she silently handed back the reins and turned to show the way. The women, with their little children pressed close about their skirts, made as much way as possible as Athwen and the horse passed through them. At the very back of the gathering of women and children they came to the rocks that formed the shelter. Gwyn led Athwen directly to a large stone that was slightly hollowed out towards the bottom, forming a slightly convex shape beneath which the air was still. Four buckets of water sat there. Clothes covered them to keep out any stray sand or dirt that might happen to reach them.

Athwen’s eyes lighted up a little when she saw such a place, blocked from the wind and calm on account of it. She brought the horse forward as far as he would come and then she ran about to his side. “Here, Gwyn, help me lift him down, please.”

Gwyn came about and together, the two women pulled Hadith down from his place and to the best of their ability, slowed his downward movement to set him gently on the ground beneath the curved rock. A quite groan forced its way through Hadith’s mouth, proving that he wasn’t quite senseless. An exclamation of surprise broke from Gwyn’s lips when she saw the blood that soaked Hadith’s whole left side and the wound in his arm. She shivered and shrank back.

Athwen, without looking up from her patient, laid her hand gently on Gwyn’s arm. “Easy, Gwyn. Unless you think you can stay and help me, take the horse back out from here.” She paused for a moment. Her mind was not only thinking about what to do with the horse, but also trying to make up its mind if she should be happy about Hadith being almost half conscious or unhappy. If he were still partially awake, that meant that he hadn’t lost as much blood as it had first appeared. On the other hand, if he were out cold, he wouldn’t make anything difficult by struggling against the pain. She blinked and made up her mind about the horse.

“Ask Rôg where you can put him…or, no, Rôg is busy.” She looked up at the horse and then at Gwyn. “Take him out from among you. I don’t know how steady he will be with the winds and when the fighting comes. Tie him someplace to a bush.”

“I will,” Gwyn said, hurriedly getting to her feet and backing away towards the horse. She stopped as she bumped lightly into his shoulder. “Will he – will he be alright?”

“I don’t know,” Athwen said honestly, looking up to meet Gwyn’s eyes. She nodded towards the horse. “Take him along now, before he does something.” Gwyn nodded, her eyes very large and round in her face, and she turned swiftly and taking the reins, led the horse quickly away and through the women and children again.

Athwen sighed and turned back towards Hadith. She wasted no time at all to roll her sleeves up to her elbows and carefully pull one of the buckets of water towards herself. Then she gently set to work clearing away the torn and ragged cloth of his shirt from the bloody mess of his shoulder. A sort of shudder passed through Hadith’s body as she worked and whenever her hand touched the bleeding limb. She pursed her lips at the mangled and savagely wounded arm. As she finished pulling the last, rough bit of material from the wound, she shook her head in wonder.

“My dear fellow,” she muttered between her teeth, “you were one lucky man today.” She reached out for her pack and set to work staunching the blood and examining what sort of damage was actually done.

The sword of the slaver had cut just beneath the collar bone. It sliced deep within the flesh there, cut beneath the bone of the shoulder and Athwen, as she sponged away the blood, could see the white bone of his arm. She knew she did not have long to work before fighting in the grove would break her short time of piece, or before more wounded people were brought in. She grasped for her pack again and drew out a long, sharp needle and thread.

The work was quick and precise. Hadith tried to move and he often uttered a weak moan. Athwen kept on, knowing she could do nothing for the pain at present. She had the wound stitched and bandaged quickly, though, and when it was over, he could rest much more comfortably.

When she had finished, she quietly rearranged her bag and moved it back towards the water. She replaced the bucket and then walked back out towards the open and the wind.

----------------------------------

Tevildo's post

Tom had fallen asleep in Rôg's arms, his head nestled securely within the shapechanger's cloak. The girl trotted alongside her rescuer as the little party of three hurried back towards the grove where the women and children were waiting. Azhar's heart pulsed with a strange excitement. So much had happened since the morning that she barely knew how to make sense of it all. Even now, she was having trouble getting her bearings. In all the tumult and shock, she'd forgotten about the war, her fear of losing Tom, her inability to hold her shape, and even her repulsion at seeing the slavers' bodies lying dead and mangled on the ground. Her head was filled with jumbled images of great bears and flashing dragons, creatures of incredible might who could lash out and in a single instant command the attention of all around them.

The girl's entire life had been mired in fear. She had feared the whips of the orc overlords and the sneering grins of the Easterlings. For the first time since leaving the plantation, Azhar sensed the enticing possibility of leaving that experience behind her. If she could learn to control these abilities, if she could take on the bear form whenever it suited her, then she would be as strong as any Orc chieftain....even stronger. Part of her wished that she had come into her powers many years ago. She imagined swooping down on a band of slaveholders and taking them out with a single blow. The other part wanted to change into bear form and clamber up onto a pile of rocks so everyone could see and admire her mighty muscles and claws.

A brief smile slipped over Azhar's face. Kwell had said that women couldn't fight. She would have loved to see his face when she casually changed her form and slipped up behind him with a loud and menacing growl.

Azhar glanced nervously over at Rôg and wondered. The man was enormously kind; he seemed so mild mannered and unassuming. He meekly acceded to the requests of Lindir and even the elderly Aiwendil, yet he was clearly a better fighter than either of them! If Azhar had been Rôg, she would have slipped into dragon form and glided out over the open plain in full daylight, attacking and decimating the band of slavers before they ever even reached the camp. Why, she wondered, didn't he do that? Then they wouldn't have had to go through this terrible battle. At the very least, she would have made sure that all her companions knew and understood exactly who she was. But it seemed as if Rôg was very quiet about these things, keeping everything to himself.

Azhar would have loved to ply Rôg with a whole string of questions. At the same time, she wondered whether she would have the chance to see the dragon again should the slavers attack their little grove. Unfortunately, this did not seem to be the right time or place to be asking Rôg such hard questions. And she had better keep her own mind on what was going on around her or she would end up dead before she ever had the time to learn how to hold and manage her other shape.

With a sigh, Azhar said her hasty goodbyes to Rôg, thanking him for all his help and promising to look out after the children. She and Tom went back to where the women were waiting, only this time two of the mothers whisked the little boy and his sisters away and reassured her that they could manage to care for the three children. Too nervous to stay hidden in one place, Azhar wandered back to where the older children were waiting. She looked around for Kwell but he still was not back. Then she stared out and saw where Athwen was caring for the sick and wounded. The woman seemed to be having quite a time of it. Darting from boulder to boulder, she came up to the healer and asked, "Do you need any help?"

[Durelin]

It was a struggle for them to try and move the Dwarf, Khamir with only one hand and Adnan with only one that was very usable. They more often all but dragged him than carried him, and though they winced each time the dropped him down to the ground, they knew that it was no good to leave him on the battlefield, even for the time being. They did not fully understand what kind of injuries he might have, and so they were rushing him toward someone that hopefully would. From time to time Khamir would have Adnan stop and they'd check Vrór’s pulse and listen to his breathing for a moment, and after each time the number of minutes between each check would grow smaller.

Khamir thought his breathing was shallow, and that worried him deeply. His heart felt torn to pieces, as he looked from the Dwarf to the boy and then thought of Shae and Hadith and... He had never cared for so many people in his life, and never so deeply even for any one. It made him feel so helpless, so without control. He did not even know where Shae was. He had not seen her for hours. He had not seen Hadith since the beginning of the battle. Adnan had disappeared on him in a matter of moments, and when he found the young man again, he was covered in blood and missing his two middle fingers. And now Vrór, who he had barely known of for more than a day, lay unconscious before him.

“Khamir?” the voice sounded rougher than he remembered it, but it still certainly belonged to Adnan. It was the first time the boy had spoken in some time, and it startled the one-armed man so that he almost dropped the hold his left hand had on Dwarf’s wrists. His shoulder ached, and the slight disruption was enough to cause the arms to slowly slide out of his grip, no matter how he tried to hold them up.

“Drop him!” he said in a strained voice. Adnan obeyed, and they rest Vrór on the ground together. Sliding the chainmail from his left shoulder with a groan, Khamir asked, “What is it, Adnan?” a little more sharply than he meant to. The boy did not seem affected, though. It was strange. Likely he would have at least faltered at such a tone just a day earlier, perhaps even simply an hour ago.

“What are we doing? If we’re worried about the slavers getting to the women and children, what is the point of bringing the Dwarf to where they are?”

Khamir knew he had a good point, but he felt anger rise in him, and the ache of his body clouded his mind. His senses were not around to protect him from himself, and he snapped at the boy. “Do you value his life so little? Do you not have any idea what he has done for us?”

Adnan snapped back at him immediately. He had changed. “No, I don’t have any idea. And you think you do? He just showed up last night!”

“I do know that he had much more to sacrifice than any of us have ever had,” the older man spat, and both of them grew silent.

Khamir growled from frustration directed at practically everything around him. “What are we doing?” is a better question to ask now, he thought bitterly. But he did not know the answer, regardless of when or how it was asked. He did not know what to do. He had always been the one with ideas, people had looked to him to follow him…and he had hated that they did. When he lost that, he hated that it was gone.

Now he was completely lost.

“We just have to get there. For Vrór, and for the others. They’ll need all the help they can get.”

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Nasim was cradling a younger man named Zaki in his arms when Khamir and Adnan found him. Gamal, a man who appeared older than Khamir stood beside him. Blood covered his shirt, but he appeared fine. Nasim had received a gash on his leg, but he paid it no mind as he looked down into the lifeless face of Zaki. His tears mingled with the blood on the dead man’s forehead. They had found freedom together, but they had not seen a new beginning together.

They pulled Nasim away from his friend, and the going was easier with the help of two more men to carry Vrór. No one spoke as they moved, but each of their minds were filled with the same fears. As they carried the Dwarf as a precious cargo toward the rocks, they carried a comrade, not a stranger from a strange land, and repeatedly glanced at his still form with bated breath.

[Firefoot]

Whether she liked it or not, whether she wanted to be there or not, a battle was going on and she was in the middle of it. Johari wished she knew what was happening. Were they winning? Had their plans worked? The sounds of fighting seemed to call to her: the ringing of swords and knives, impassioned shouts, cries of pain.

The question kept coming back to her: why had she decided to sit around uselessly as one of those who could not or had no means to fight? She had been given a knife, after all, and she felt guilty every time she recalled this. It was true she had not wanted to get involved, but it was too late for that. Somehow she had become intrinsically caught up in the affairs of all these people about whom she did not really care. She did not want to fight for them… but as it was, she was letting people fight for her. That rankled.

The battle must be practically over, though! What good in joining now? Perhaps there would be something.

Feeling disoriented and rather absurd (what was she doing, anyway?) she began walking off towards the fighting, or where she thought there was fighting. It was so hard to see in this cursed sandstorm!

She nearly passed right by him. Indeed, for a few moments she thought he was dead from the blood on his clothes and her breath caught in her throat. But her better sense took over and she noticed the bandaging that covered his shoulder; he had been injured, not killed, and already tended. And he had just been left lying here against the rocks; plenty of women and children were around, but no one was paying any attention to him anymore.

“Hadith?”

Did his head turn slightly towards her? Was that quiet moan in response or just from pain? Forgetting her recent resolve to join the battle after all, Johari knelt down beside him. What had happened to him? And would he be all right? Seeing him so helpless like this seemed to evoke another memory just at the edge of consciousness, but she didn’t know which, and she was pretty sure she didn’t want to remember. The thought was quickly driven from her mind.

“You had better not die, Hadith,” she told him, though he didn’t look that near death. She didn’t even know if he could hear her. "You'd better not." I won't let you.

[Durelin]

Khamir noticed Adnan’s steps were becoming heavier and clumsier by the minute, and redoubled his efforts to try and lighten the boy’s load even more. With the four of them to carry the Dwarf, it was not difficult going, but the young man was in horrible shape. Adnan refused to speak a word about his pains, and Khamir respected his wish to push on with them and to try to hide them. He breathed a sigh of relief when they neared where those who could not fight were hidden among the rocks. As they came, women smiled at them, children gazed at them with wonder in their eyes, and the old men nodded approvingly to them. Everyone gave a concerned look to Vrór and then to Adnan.

Nasim and Khamir’s eyes were searching for Athwen, with hopes that she was not too busy with other wounded. They had no idea what sort of devestation had befallen their own ranks, and they were afraid to find out. And they both were uncertain regarding Vrór’s fate. The Dwarf had not moved – not even twitched an eye – and his breathing came and went in the same, slow, shallow rhythm.

When they found the woman, they called out to her almost simultaneously.

“Mistress Athwen,” Khamir called her as she caught sight of them and began to approach them; he remembered such titles from his brief education as a young man destined to follow in his father’s footsteps in a very successful trade. They kept moving, as well. They all silently agreed not to stop carrying Vrór until he could be placed safely before her. The woman was already giving orders, though, and soon at least a couple blankets were thrown down on which the Dwarf’s body could be rested.

“The tunnel collapsed on him,” Khamir said, “I do not know what is wrong, but he has not moved at all. He is breathing, but not so well…”

Athwen nodded curtly, her focus all on the Dwarf, her face furrowed with worry. Khamir glanced at Adnan, who still managed to stand on his own two feet, though he seemed to sway a little. Vrór first, he thought, though he must sit down. He placed the fifteen-year-old down on the ground where he could lean against a rock, and was surprised at how easy it was to put the boy down, regardless of how bad he had thought his condition was.

Khamir joined the other worried faces all around him, standing near Athwen as she tilted the Dwarf’s head back slightly. He had a feeling she was as unsure as he was what to do for Vrór, though she likely had a better understanding as to why things were so uncertain for him.

~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~

Perhaps Imak and his men had underestimated the slaves – and they certainly had not expected to find strange people from the West among them – but the Easterlings were soldiers of a sort, if not the same as those found in Gondor or Rohan. They were in particular accustomed to trapping men like rats and burning them out of their holes, and though most did not put up such a fight, they hardly felt set back. The slaves had focused their attention on one avenue of attack, and though they had successfully led practically half the force into their traps, they had allowed their victory to rest on such an uncertainty.

With both their men and their tricks focused in one direction, the slaves’ rear was left wide open, and Imak knew there were a number of women, children, and elders that would not be able to fight. And where would they find them? Behind their brave defenders, hiding away, just waiting for Imak and his men to pry them out from under their rock. The Easterlings nearly felt prepared to slaughter them all rather than bother with rounding them up alive. They were furious due to their losses, though more for the loss of pride than the loss of lives.

The slaves, mostly women, children, the old, and the wounded, lay in hiding among the rocks, some shaking with fear with the new knowledge that the slavers might indeed be on their way toward them, which had trickled through them all quickly from what one heard for the old man. Some felt themselves begin to grow resigned to the idea of slavery again, but most would cling to their so far short-lived freedom till the end. Aiwendil seemed of little help when they looked at him, but he inspired strength in them, simply from his goodness and his strength of mind and character. He bustled about, and his busyness was somehow reassuring.

They tried to console themselves and each other, saying that the fighters would stop them. Word had reached them that the traps had worked since wounded had begun to arrive, and they felt more secure in the idea that most of the enemy had already been taken out. They knew it likely was not true, and with every wounded person brought in they felt their hopes die a little, but they kept themselves from panic only through lying to themselves, and watching Aiwendil and his friend, a Southern man – which had surprised the slaves – on the move while they sat in dread.

Few warriors arrived other than some wounded, and some of the women and old men began looking for what they could use to defend themselves and their children.

Then they came, with the crashing of hooves seemingly from nowhere transforming into fear on horseback, shining golden like the sun. Most found themselves unable to move, others were prepared to stand their ground, and a few scattered, running for their lives and forgetting about their freedom.

Khamir leapt immediately into action. He had not sat down for more than a second since he and the others had brought Vrór to Athwen, and adrenaline still coursed through him, leftover from earlier battle. He glanced at Adnan, and, not to his surprise, saw the boy trying to get up. “You should not!” the one-armed man said roughly to him, but turned away from him almost immediately. It was the boy’s decision to make, and he was not the only one Khamir had to protect.

[Folwren]

Only a few minutes after Athwen had finished bandaged Hadith, she was called back to her duty. She spotted Khamir and his two companions drawing near, carrying between all three of them the figure of the Dwarf. Athwen’s eyes widened with a sudden feeling of fear and she started forward even before the one armed man called out to her.

She ran quickly before them and prepared a place for the Vrór to be laid. As the three of them set him down, Khamir explained, to the best of this ability, what was wrong. “The tunnel collapsed on him. I do not know what is wrong, but he has not moved at all. He is breathing but not so well...”

Athwen’s mind was already racing. She could only spare Khamir a nod and that was even given without looking up at him. Then her attention fell only to the dwarf. The dear old fellow, usually so vibrant and full of life, usually merry. She couldn’t help but remember their journey together even as she searched for some way to help him.

She didn’t know how to tend someone buried alive. She knew only a little of saving someone half drowned. Remembering that knowledge, she tipped his head back a little. His mouth opened slightly. Her fingers sought for a pulse in his neck, pressing against the vein by his throat. She felt the blood pass slowly once, and again, and consistently, though slowly, his heart still beat. With a slight sigh of relief, she dropped his hand and tended to the gash in his head. In a few minutes, she had done what she could.

“He still breaths and lives,” she said, looking up. “I do not know what else to do for him!” It was both an apology and despair mixed with hope. “I will try to help him more later,” she added, looking back down. “There are others that are in more danger and who I will be able to help.” For in the few breif minutes that she had spent checking Vrór, others had been helped back to her.

Her eyes went first to Adnan who had sat silently a little to her right. He had been one of those who carried Vrór in. She gave him as encouraging a smile as she could muster. “You aren’t in any condition to have carried in Vrór,” she said as she moved over towards him. He made no reply, but moved his eyes towards her. Athwen lifted her hand and turned his face slightly to look at the bloody cheek, and then her eyes dropped towards his chest where blood had seeped through his shirt.

“Let me get water. Can you take off your shirt?” She half turned to get a bucket, but stopped abruptly as Adnan silently lifted his hands to try to undo the buttons. “Good heavens, boy!” she exclaimed as here eyes spotted the mangled hand. “Stop it!” She reached out and gently took the clumsily bandaged hand. Adnan did not struggle as Athwen undid the bandage from his fingers and his wrist. “Sit still,” Athwen commanded when she had seen the damage. “Don’t do anything.”

She turned away and went to move some water and her pack to Adnan. Her hand reached out to take the pack when someone came and stopped by her side.

“Can I help?”

Athwen looked up. It was Azhar, standing with her hands clasped behind her back and her large eyes looking solemnly into Athwen’s face. Athwen smiled a little and as she straightened up, put her hand on the girl’s arm.

“Maybe. We’ll find out and see. How are you doing yourself? Do you still feel badly?” She looked at Azhar’s face and touched her forehead. The flush of fever had gone from her cheeks, her eyes were clear, and no heat came from her face to Athwen’s hands.

“I am well,” Azhar said. “I would like to help you.”

“Very well, then. Come with me.”

She turned and led the way back to Adnan, but before she could say anything at all to either of them, cries broke out, and the sound of pounding hooves faintly reached their ears. Khamir started up to his feet and even Adnan struggled to rise.

“You should not,” Khamir said to him, turning only long enough to say that. Then he went out, leaving Adnan with Athwen and Azhar, as well as all the others who had been brought in. Adnan continued to rise, but Athwen grabbed his unharmed wrist and tugged at him.

“No! What do you think you can do out there, except finish getting yourself killed? Sit down and let me fix you up. Please!”

[Firefoot]

It did not take long for Grask to grow bored at the bottom of the pit. He scratched idly in the dirt with his fingernails, but other than that there was little else to do than think. For the first time since they had broken away from the large camp, he wondered where they were going and what they would do there – what he would do there. He was, of course, the youngest of the group, and that made him something of an outcast without companionship or use to the rest of the group. It was rather lonely, really. So why was he here?

The questions disturbed him, and though he tried not to think about them, they kept coming back bearing no new answers.

As it started to grow darker outside, the wind howled less and the sand seemed to be settling. Grask slung his pack back over his shoulder and happily began to climb out of the pit, using the rope that the Men had left, but even with that, the climb up was considerably more difficult than it had been to go down and he wished he had thought of it before deciding to wait the storm out down there.

With a grunt and a last surge of effort, Grask hauled himself over the edge of the pit. A glance around showed a few other Orcs milling about the camp, but closest to him was Ishkur. Grask felt blessed enough by the Orc leaders' earlier good will; no use pushing his luck, and he began to walk in the opposite direction until Ishkur's call stopped him short: "Wait, Grask."

What did he want now? Grask knew he hadn't done anything wrong... they hadn't decided he had taken too much ale earlier? Ishkur didn't sound angry though - the opposite, even. So Grask turned around and stepped forward to meet Ishkur who had walked after him. Grask's curious gaze was drawn first to Ishkur's face, then to his hand inside his pocket, then back to his face. He had never been sought out like this before and wondered what to expect.

[Durelin]

Khamir

Once he, Nasim, and Gamal had finished off their second Easterling, Khamir found his mind torn, and for a moment he faltered. The others were prepared immediately to go help Beloan, but though Beloan was Khamir’s friend, the one-armed man found himself more concerned with another. He had not seen Shae since well before the battle, and he could not stand the pain and the fear of more pain any longer.

“Go help Beloan, I must help someone else,” he said quickly, and took off away from the grove and back toward the trench and tunnel, the first place. That woman always did some of the craziest things, as if she had something to prove, and yet she had always come back alive...so far. He wished she would stop risking her life, at least as he saw it, needlessly. There were plenty of able-bodied men, and getting herself killed wouldn’t accomplish anything. She had nothing to prove, she did not have to remind everyone of her bravery...

Maybe it was the Gondorian in her: the self-righteousness that required she prove to others over and over that she had a courageous heart. And apparently that made her feel like sacrificing her life, dying in battle, defending a cause, was worth it, regardless of whether or not her death could be avoided. He would not have this…he could not…he would…

He heard a woman’s enraged scream and the crash of metal just before he saw Shae surrounded by two slavers. She was alive and kicking. All of Khamir’s worries and fears suddenly turned into guilt as he realized that there had been nor reason for him to assume the worst, and certainly not belittle her abilities as a warrior. He still wanted to be furious at her for the heroics that likely got her into this mess, but he found it difficult.

Before Shae had even seen him coming, he launched his still bloodied throwing knife to land firmly one of the rider’s thighs. The horse was startled, and Khamir leapt forward to slice small but stinging cuts across both the horse’s thighs on the side facing him. The horse, frightened and in pain, did its best to drop its rider, who was too busy trying to get the knife out of his leg to hold on very well. He dropped to the ground.

Shae had pulled the other slaver down, and was wrestling with him on the ground. Khamir began feeling a need for urgency again, which grew with every second. His concerns elsewhere, his instincts did not fail him, and he thrust his hunting knife into the Easterling’s exposed throat before the man could recover from his fall. Then the one-armed man whirled around and leapt forward to help Shae; it appeared to him that she couldn’t tear away from the slaver’s grip…the man would run her through in a moment if Khamir didn’t…

But the Southron stopped in his tracks. The slaver was not moving.

The woman yanked her shirtsleeve from where it had been caught in the golden armour, tearing a small piece of it in the process. She looked a bit flustered, and she was wounded, but she stood steadily. She gave Khamir an incredulous look, as the man could only stare in wonder at her for a moment.

“You’ve wounded your leg,” she remarked, bringing his thoughts back to earth. She did not appear concerned, except for something in her eyes. The Southron looked down to see a gash across his right lower leg, and could not remember if he already had that wound before he had come to find Shae or not.

He frowned as his eyes scoured her body. “And you have two wounds.”

Shae laughed, though weakly, and shook her head. They were both trying to catch their breath. She did not bother telling him he had two cuts on his cheek. Suddenly she began walking away from him. Khamir stood for a moment in confusion, and then ran several paces to catch up with her and grab her by the arm. She looked up at him with frustration, and pulled away. He tried to settle himself, but found his mind wondering how much pain she was in, if she had been afraid she might die… Then he followed her stare down to a body just a few paces ahead of her.

Reagonn…

“He…” Khamir breathed. Images of Adnan and Vrór flashed through his head, and of Hadith who he still had not seen, and looked at Shae, remembering what it felt like to think her dead…and then he stared at Reagonn’s still body, and froze the picture in his mind. So many he…loved. He felt tears come to his eyes, and one fell as he turned his blurry eyes to see Syth, another comrade, fallen. It seemed Shae wanted to cry, but she was too exhausted. Khamir was so exhausted that he could not stop himself.

You child of Mordor…

How could there be so much love in this place?

It had been easier when he was alone, when his number one and only care was himself, his survival. Or it would have been easier, if he had not hated it.

And that was what Shae was prepared to die for, wasn’t it? Protecting, defending what and who she loved. She would die before she was alone. He would have been alone before he died, and died alone…

Khamir stared at Shae as his eyes cleared, but looked away as soon as their gazes met. No, he did not want to be alone.

[Tevildo]

Azhar had picked her way through the crowded grove searching for Rowenna. She had scurried from one small group to the next asking the women and children if they had seen the midwife. No one had been able to answer her. Every step brought her nearer the ring of stones that marked the entry to the small haven where the women and children had retreated. So far, none of the slavers had been able to force their way into that inner ring. Through the dust and haze, Azhar could make out the faces of several of the men who fought no more than fifteen feet in front of her; Rôg and Aiwendil, Carl and Dirand, Nasim, Gamal, and so many others were still locked in battle with about half a dozen slavers. For an instant, Azhar stood still and simply stared out, wondering how and when the bloodshed was going to end and whether the protective ring would continue to hold.

An insistent cry rose from just behind her: not a sound of battle but more like a woman caught in the throes of a tearing pain. Scrambling over to the source of that sound, Azhar ducked down and crawled through the opening of a thick hedge, an entrance almost hidden from outside view. She was surprised to find the midwife Rowenna. On the ground beside her lay another woman who was in the middle of giving birth. The woman's eyes were wild with pain, her hair matted, and her skin rimmed with sweat. The birthing was not going well, but what else could one expect in the middle of this nightmare?

Scarcely more than a girl, Azhar stumbled out of the enclosure, unable to deal with the full meaning of that scene. But before she could turn back to speak with Rowenna, there was a terrible roar and a shaking of the earth. A number of slavers still mounted on horses had broken through the border of stones and were advancing at a gallop, racing straight across the inner encampment where all the women and children lay hidden. As that realization sunk in, Azhar felt her blood run cold.

The freed slaves and members of the fellowship who were still fighting came running towards the rocks, but their feet could not match the swiftness of the horses. A single horseman halted and, glimpsing Azhar, swung his mount about and headed for the hedge. The young girl tried to spring out of the way but was tossed to the side by the impact of the horse as it raced by her; Rowenna and the woman giving birth were not so lucky. An instant later, both women lay silent amid the ruined hedge, their bodies woven in a tangled heap as blood soaked into the ground.

Azhar cried out in horror. Even her life on the plantation had not prepared her for this. She caught a quick glimpse of Aiwendil and Rôg who were running side-by-side, part of the crowd of fighters all surging forward in a vain attempt to reach the horsemen and stop them. Her eyes rivetted on the tall southerner. Words of anger and frustration poured from her mouth, "Rôg! Why don't you do something? They are too fast. Someone must stop them, or all the women and children will die."

What happened next was not what Azhar had expected. One minute Aiwendil was standing next to Rôg, and the next minute he was gone. In his place was a
shaggy wild boar , weighing at least two hundred and fifty pounds and sporting two pairs of curving tusks, one on top of the other. The boar swung his tail, pawed viciously at the soil, ground together his tusks and gave a loud snort, taking aim at the horseman who was running just ahead.

[Folwren]

Athwen worked as quickly as she possibly could under the circumstances. Azhar helped where she could, and even with the girl knowing nothing, she was still able to save Athwen a great deal of time and energy. But it wasn’t enough time nor enough energy. She felt her strength lagging and there were still so many to tend to. It was then that she asked Azhar to go fetch help. She must have help or men would die.

Azhar hurried away in obedience of Athwen’s request. Athwen heaved a sigh and brushed a stray strand of hair from her eyes. Her fingers left a streak of blood on her forehead over her right eye. She turned to the next patient.

Patient? Athwen grimaced to herself as she set to work on the wounded man. This was like no set of patients she had ever known. Never had there been one after another of cases wherein the patient was half dead. Of course, not all of these men were half dead – there were some cases of broken bones, slashed arms, or knocked heads – but there was a great deal of blood. Even Athwen, with her hardened nerves to such things, had found herself a few times that day shuddering at the sight of some twisted mess of blood, bone, and ligament.

Sometimes she could not save the victim, and she knew it. These were the most difficult to tend to. She hated to leave them in their misery, but what else could she do? To ease their pain would mean spending precious material on a hopeless cause. She didn’t know what to do with them and she longed to ask Dorran what a surgeon on the field of battle would do.

After a time, Athwen began to think that Azhar and the midwife were long in coming. She finished binding a wound and stood up to look out towards the fighting. What happened out there, she wondered? Where were all of her friends? She hoped that they were safe, and at the same time, she hoped that they were killing the slavers.

“Interesting, Athwen,” she told herself, turning with a sigh towards her work. “You, who are here to save lives, hoping that others are destroyed.” It never struck her that she should think it strange that she, being so exhausted and working, should still have time to consider her own thinking.

[Folwren]

Kwell felt drained of all strength by the time the last living slaver took to his heels. The world was dim, but not as dark as it had been when night first fell. The clouds that had covered the stars were slowly being torn apart and were sliding quietly away in tatters and shreds. The wind below had dropped and the sand and dirt stayed in its rightful place - on the ground. Kwell drew a deep breath - the first in seemed since that morning - and slumped down on a rock.

He was not allowed to sit thus for long. Someone passing soon urged him to his feet and he was given a bucket to go fetch water for the healer. He was kept busy for a while, with other random and small tasks. Soon, the only duties left to be done were gathering the dead, helping with the wounded, or searching and bringing back whatever wood or brush they could find. Kwell set out with some others and began to search for dead bracken, bushes, or trees.

During this simple bit of work, though his hands were busy with the wood, his mind was free to roam. The territory it walked over was not kind to him. His thoughts were darkened with guilt and self-loathing. He could not help but think that at least some of the deaths among the women and children might have been prevented if he had been there.

He came back to the place of the battle and as he laid his load of fuel, he looked at the dead that had already been gathered near. Lindir was there now, setting the limp body of a child down. Kwell looked at the little boy’s face and then slowly lifted his eyes to the elf’s. Lindir was not looking at him. Kwell thought he might not even be aware of his presence. The two of them were fairly alone - the others worked at a small distance. Kwell wanted to speak to him. He had to approach him, he had to apologize, and above all, he must know what Lindir thought now. Kwell was more ashamed now than he ever had been before. Ashamed and not a little apprehensive of what the elf might do when addressed. But Kwell must speak, he must.

He slowly came about the pile of wood. His feet moved slowly and uncertainly, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. Lindir did not turn or make a movement or sign of being aware of him until Kwell was just a few feet away. Then he turned his head and looked down at the boy.

Kwell stopped his feet abruptly, shut his half open lips and looked back at the elf’s eyes. “Sir,” he finally managed to bring himself to say. “I am. . .I am sorry for leaving the glade. You told me to stay and. . .” he looked down towards the ground as he felt his heart sinking. “I didn’t stay. I went down to try to meet the battle down at the camp.” He was too miserable to try to say anything else and he shut his mouth and waited with his head bowed.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Kwell? That is your name, I think." The boy's sense of guilt and shame was written clearly on his face. "At first I wondered where you'd gotten to. Then I saw you fighting beside the trench but it was not the time to speak. Ah. lad.....how do I put this?" Lindir stopped for a moment and turned away from the boy, staring at the great byre on which the bodies were laid. He continued staring at the byre as he talked, "You are a lad caught up in things that should not be: things that are hard even for a full grown man or Elf to deal with. No, you should not have left without speaking to me or at least to Aiwendil, who was in charge of defending the grove. If you had explained what you wanted to do, I would have thought hard on your words and very likely agreed. That way, I would have known where you'd gotten to. A man fights best where his heart lies but it is also important that those in charge know where their people are."

He turned from the byre and gazed down at the boy. "The important thing is that you are alive and well and did everything possible you could. No one could fault your conduct in battle. Others have mentioned to me that they were amazed anyone so young could fight like a grown man. Next time, just ask. I wish I could tell you there would be no "next time" but I can not.

"We all regret some of our decisions....things we wish we could change. When I look at what happened in this grove, I wonder if we should have told the women and children to march out last night from this place so they would have been far away when the fighting occurred. Or we might have sent more men out on the plain for a surprise attack on the slavers before they ever got to the camp. Questions like those are eating away at me. If anyone bears responsibility for what happened here, it is not you, Kwell, but those in charge."

Lindir put his hand on Kwell's shoulder before going on, "You will never forget what happened here. No man or elf forgets his first battle. But when you think on these things, also remember this. No battle is completely "good", even with victory. Victory can not bring back those who died. Their loss pulls at the heart no matter whether you are the one in charge or not. I too wonder if I should have done some things differently. But I am only an elf, not one of the powers on high who understands the music. So the only thing left for us to do is go on and live our lives in a way that brings some meaning to their loss. I do not know if you or I could have prevented deaths by doing anything differently. But I am very sure this battle was worth fighting, even if the price was high."

"Kwell, you are young. Decide differently next time. But do not let your grieving stop you from doing something even more important.....learning how to live with your mistakes, if mistakes they be, and going on from there. I am afraid both of us have spent too much time dwelling on things set in stone and not enough time thinking about what we can and must do next. What say you, boy? Will you help me out? Run through the camp and deliver a message to each of those who can make it to the spot where the central campfire burned last night. We must decide what to do next if we are to keep this group safe and go forward to the north. Looking on the ruins of battle can only tear at a man's heart. We must begin thinking about tomorrow....."

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

Folwren's post for Kwell


The elf was gentle in his reply. Kwell had expected anything – anything except this response. The elf seemed to understand, and where he could not understand, he forgave. At first, even Lindir’s gentle words could not clear away the shame and regret Kwell felt. But as he went on, Kwell’s head began to lift a little more, and he felt he could look Lindir in the face.

Kwell promised himself that next time (for Lindir thought there must be another time), he would do better. He must do better, for he felt he had to deserve this elf’s trust and his forgiveness. He didn’t deserve them now. He had never done anything to deserve any such kindness, and the thought made his head droop again.
" If anyone bears responsibility for what happened here, it is not you, Kwell, but those in charge." It was not the deaths Kwell mourned, though. He knew so few people. It was own guilt. Yet, maybe Lindir knew that. Kwell felt Lindir’s hand rest on his shoulder. "You will never forget what happened here."

It was then that the tears first entered Kwell’s eyes. He swallowed, but for some reason, he did not feel the usual anger at crying like a maid. There were reasons to cry now. Forget what happened? The images of his companions who had died, and even of the men he had killed, rose before his mind’s eye, even his physical eyes were blurred beyond vision. He listened in silence to the rest of what Lindir said.

“I am afraid both of us have spent too much time dwelling on the thing set in stone and not enough time thinking about what we can and must do next. What say you boy? Will you help me?” Kwell’s head began to come up once more. “Run through camp and deliver a message to each of those who can make it to the spot where the central campfire burned last night. We must decide what to do next if we are going to keep this group safe and go forward to the north. Looking on the ruins of battle can only tear at a man’s heart. We must begin thinking about tomorrow.”

Kwell reached forward impulsively and grasped the elf’s hands. “Yes. Yes, I will, sir! Thank you, thank you so much!” He could say no more. His voice choked, and he let go of Lindir’s hand as he turned to rush away and take his message to every able man and woman.

[Folwren]

Athwen and Dorran were still speaking quietly together when Athwen heard a call from one of her patients. “Athwen! Mistress Athwen! Somebody! It’s Vrór!”

“Vror,” Athwen whispered, looking up. She glanced down at Dorran. “I’ll be back when I can. I’ve been hoping he’d wake up.” Dorran nodded and Athwen quickly got up and moved towards the dwarf and Adnan, who sat near him. The young man looked up at her as she came, looking anxious and excited.

“I heard him groaning or something and he moved,” Adnan said.

Athwen gave him a smile and met his eyes briefly before kneeling beside Vrór. “Vrór?” The dwarf was silent, but there was a pinched and contained look on his face. He just might be half conscience... “Vrór?” she said again.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

When Carl walked up to him, Lindir appeared as though he was looking past him, so lost in thought he was. And honestly Carl marveled at how the elf was able to keep his mind clear, getting everyone organized despite all that had befallen them. Those eyes must have seen a good deal of this before, if what he'd heard about elves was true, Yet Carl smiled to think that they overlooked the hobbit in front of them. Clearing his throat, he shifted his weight.

“Ah, Carl,” Lindir said without looking at him. It took only a moment for the hobbit's weary brain to realize it had been ridiculous of him to think Lindir hadn't noticed. To be sure he noticed. He was an elf after all, even though he really didn't seem the same sort of elf Sam had gone on about. He didn't seem the sort to sing. But just as Carl's mind was beginning to ramble off into those curious corners it frequented when he was most tired, Lindir brought him round again. “How is that arm of yours doing?”

The hobbit looked down at the dried blood that streaked his arm, and grasped it lightly with the other. “It stings a bit, not too bad though, but that is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“About your arm?” Lindir asked.

“No, not really. I'm not hurt bad you know? Like a lot of these folk here are. And I'm no good at sitting around fussing with bandages, mopping foreheads and what not, when there are provisions out there to be got that might make them feel easier.” The elf nodded as he listened to Carl. “What I mean is,” the hobbit began again, trying to be more direct, “I'd like to go with you to the slaver's camp. I can heft a stack of corn as good as the next man, and this scratch won't keep me from it.”

“Yes, but it seems you have lost your pony. Would you be willing to ride the slaver's horse into the camp when it is quite likely slavers might greet us there?” the elf ventured.

“I'd much rather have Stumps and that's the truth, and I hope the poor beast is found, for Mordor's a foul place to wander off. But until then, I must ride the slaver's horse, for good or bad.”

“Ah right then, we'll have one more to ride out with us!”

“Thank you, Sir! I just want to keep busy, if you know what I mean. Thinking too much, just sitting here like this.”

“Yes, I do,” Lindir replied, “though we might require you to think as well. But in the mean time, we need more hands to help carry food to those who can't get it for themselves.”

“Aye Sir, I'll see to it,” Carl said, relieved that he was to set out again soon.

[Folwren]

Vrór’s head moved slightly and Athwen saw his eyelids flutter. His lips opened, and weakly, a sound came out. “Ah-wen.” She smiled a little and pressed her hand against his hot forehead.

“He is awake!” Adnan cried from behind her. The smile slowly left her face, though. Now that he was awake, the dwarf was clearly in pain. His whole body seemed rigid and his face didn’t relax, nor did the tightness in his jaw. He strained to open his eyes - Athwen saw the grey of his irises - but then shut them again quickly.

“Did it work?” he asked suddenly. Athwen’s hands paused in the air. Her eyebrows drew slightly together. Then they relaxed and her lips twitched a little at the corners.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, it worked perfectly, Vrór,” with the utmost gentleness. Perhaps it hadn’t stopped all of the slavers, but it had done its job as best it could. “You did a good job. What were you doing under there? Never mind,” she added quickly. “Vrór, are you in pain? What can I do to help?”

[Durelin]

“Yes, it worked perfectly, Vrór…”

Vrór was so pleased to hear those words that he almost forgot his pain for a moment, and the corners of his lips twitched up slightly into a semblance of a smile. It had worked, and they had won, as he knew they would. He had known it… He tried to focus on the rest of Athwen’s words, though he found himself imagining the rumbling in his ears that he remembered as one of the last sounds before…

“Vrór, are you in pain? What can I do to help?”

Pain, yes…the real aching came mostly from his left arm, though most of his body felt sore. It felt like he had been beaten, though he knew that was not right. He tried moving his left arm, but found himself wincing in pain when he attempted to pull it up at all. His upper arm, maybe his shoulder, was on fire. Vrór then tried to move his other arm, and with a little more force than he knew typically necessary, it rose from the ground an inch or two without much difficulty.

“My arm…left one…it’s probably broken somewhere,” he muttered, “the upper part and shoulder really hurts.” He sounded very curt, as for some reason talking just did not feel good, and he was unsure why. He felt disoriented, staring up at the dark sky. But the stars…oh, the stars…they were so beautiful…the stars even in Mordor were so beautiful…

Vrór found it a little difficult to focus again, like when he was imagining the rumbling in his ears that he remembered as one of the last sounds before…the tunnel had caved in. The tunnel had worked, hadn’t it! The tunnel trap had worked, right?

“Did the tunnel work?” he asked Athwen fervently.

[Brinniel]

Shae managed to hold back the two slavers so far, but she knew it would not last for long. She was relieved when help finally came, and was especially pleased when it had come from Khamir of all people. She had not seen him since before the battle and had wondered of his whereabouts. The one-armed man had endured much and she was confident he would survive tonight...but then again, she had thought the same for Reagonn.

As Khamir took one slaver by surprise, Shae was able to throw the other off his horse. He lunged at her, but she was ready. Before he even reached the woman, he ran into her sword. The opponent collapsed on top of her, and momentarily Shae was trapped underneath the heavy man. She tore herself free and stood up, her eyes meeting Khamir's.

Was that a look of concern?

Shae observed the man standing across from her, noticing he was just as much of a mess as she was. Khamir still stared at her, almost in wonder. "You've wounded your leg," she remarked casually. His eyes shifted down to discover his new injury.

Shae eyed the man curiously. He had come to her aid alone. Even more, he had come to her away from the camp where the battle was still going. Had he actually come specifically to find her? That thought seemed impossible. Since Joren's death, it mattered to no one whether Shae lived or died. For years, she had accepted that fact. Yet, Khamir's expression just now read otherwise.

"And you have two wounds." The man's words interrupted her thoughts and the woman was brought back to attention. Staring down at her very swollen wrist, she gave a slight laugh at his obvious statement. The laugh was cut short by a sharp pain against her ribs. Shae held her breath, waiting for the pain to subside. She turned away from Khamir quickly, not wanting him to see she was hurting. He grabbed her arm gently, but she pulled away, more afraid than anything.

"He..." the man whispered suddenly, and Shae knew whom he was talking about. She also stared at the bloodied corpse of Reagonn in the distance, still feeling bitter about his death. The two stood for a moment in silence. Then she turned around, surprised to find Khamir's cheeks stained with tears.
"He was a good man," the woman consoled. "He...saved my life...as you just did." She smiled at Khamir in gratitude. The man looked back at her, this time his expression undecipherable. Khamir had always been rather mysterious to her. After eight years, she still knew very little about him and his past. It was something few ex-slaves spoke of- their lives before escape. Shae had always believed that the man's rough life had left him cold and distant...and yet...in these last few days, he had somehow changed... And now, more than ever, the woman couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking about.

The sharp pain on her left side returned, and Shae doubled over dropping to her knees. With the combination of the dried blood, the sweat, and her tired limbs, she had never felt so heavy, and she allowed her body to sink into itself.
Immediately, Khamir was at her side. "Are you all right?" he asked, his tone sincere.
Blinking back tears, the woman replied, "I'm fine," her voice gutteral, but determined.
The pain soon eased, replaced by a dull ache, and Shae struggled to stand. Her good hand was met by Khamir's, and he helped pull her to her feet. The two stared at one another, their faces inches apart. Shae closed her eyes, exhausted. Feeling Khamir's breath against her forehead, short and hot, she realized he was just as tired.

"You're not fine," the man finally said. "You should go see Athwen. She'll take care of you."
"Athwen? She's okay?" The healer had volunteered for a dangerous task, to lure the slavers in, and Shae was pleased to hear she had made it out alive. "Well...I'm sure she has plenty of patients right now who are in much worse condition. ...Don't look at me like that, Khamir. I refuse to rest until this is over."
Khamir frowned. "You just don't know when to give it up, do you? Even when it's for your own good."
"Look who's talking." The man couldn't help but laugh at her comment.

Shae shifted her eyes towards the camp, where shouting still clearly rang into the air. She wondered what other lives had been lost tonight. What had happened to the halfling Carl? And the elf Lindir? She thought about the woman she had given the knife to during a night that seemed ages ago. Had she needed to use it yet? What had become of their companion Beloan? And what of the two children that had only been rescued the previous night? There were so many Shae wondered about, yet she realized there was no time for concern. There was still a bloody battle going and certainly nothing would be accomplished by simply standing around.

Finding what remained of her strength, Shae turned back to Khamir and said to him, "C'mon....let's go find the rest of those scum."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil's talents were modest when compared with those of the other Maier who had accompanied him to Arda. His companions displayed greater depths of wisdom, understood more about the nature of men and elves, and enjoyed a mastery over natural elements or crafts that he had simply lacked. His own duties in Aman had been humbler than theirs: quietly nurturing the flowers and fruits that graced the gardens of Yavanna. But in this one area alone--the ability to take on a rainbow assortment of shapes and colors and forms--the istar had excelled beyond all others of his rank. He had once been able to take on the form of every living thing in Arda, both plants and beasts, and other fantastical shapes.

Sometimes Aiwendil wondered why and how he had been granted this singular gift. It was not due to any merit on his part. Perhaps it had been the plea of Yavanna. The Lady had always been able to look into his heart and sense that her good hearted, bumbling servant who could be so withdrawn and awkward would require a special measure of protection and grace.

Aiwendil had sometimes fallen back on these skills to escape from those he was trying to avoid. Since his sailing across the Sea, he had provided what minor shapeshifting services he could for both Gandalf and Saruman while living in the area that was then called Mirkwood. Most of the time, he had staked out his own path and tried to stand clear of the troubling times. Somewhere, amidst all that isolation and pulling back, he had managed to lose a large chunk of himself, including his memories of what Manwe had originally instructed him to do and his ability to shift shapes.

Only in recent years had some of those memories and skills returned. During his stay in Harad, he had finally regained his ability to take on the shapes of at least some natural creatures in Middle-earth as well as the will to stand up and fight. Aiwendil suspected that his friendship with Rôg had something to do with this change. He still had not figured out what the Lord of Aman wanted by having him stay on in Arda after all the other istari had departed or long ago deserted their cause. But he had instinctively known that going to Mordor had been the right thing.

Now in the midst of a fierce battle, watching as the last remnent of the slavers swept down on the grove intent on doing damage to the women and children, the istar knew he must act quickly. He needed to take on the form of some everyday creature, making sure not to break the rules about the limitations placed on an istar's actions in a world properly dominated by man. One time, he admitted, he had stretched those limits a bit. He could not promise that he would never do that again, but now was not the time or place. Still, it would have to be a creature with enough clout and size to try and stem the bloodshed that was about to fall on the heads of dozens of innocent people who had little means of defending themselves.

With the poor eyesight typical of boars, Aiwendil could barely make out one hazy figure just ahead: a man mounted on horseback who had hurried towards a rock-filled enclosure shielded by a ring of bracken and tangled bushes. He could see a young woman standing near the entrance. She looked familiar, although he could no longer remember her name. Aiwendil's attention was totally fixed on the ruffian on horseback who darted into the enclosure and, without dismounting, tossed the standing woman to one side. Reaching out and down, he ran his sword through the two figures huddled together on the ground with a single swift motion. The man pulled back on the reins, jerked his mount around, and sprinted towards another group of retreating figures, this one composed of several young boys.

Covering the rocky turf with surprising speed for such a large and stiff gaited animal, the boar ruffled his bristles so that they stood straight up like hackles and let out a series of enraged grunts and snorts to warn the offending upstart that he should back off the territory. As sheer rage flooded in, foam slobbered out of the boar's open mouth, the rivulets running down his jowels and chest. Aiwendil lowered his shoulders and head and, coming close to the the attacker, slammed his head and tusks upward directly into the horse's legs and flanks a number of times, leaving a series of bloody trails and filthy slobber. The man reached down with his outstretched sword taking aim at the boar's shoulders, but the blow met a shield of thick cartilage and slid harmlessly off.

With a heavy thud, his horse toppled to the ground, sending the slaver sprawling over to the side. The boys who had been under attack immediately fled. Noise and confusion ran wild, as women and children pushed outward from the grove, struggling to find new shelter. Aiwendil could hear horrible shrieks coming from different parts of the grove. A stong whiff of blood confirmed his uneasy instinct that the two other slavers had also found victims and were dispatching them with speed. His own attention was more limited, like that of the beast whose body he had chosen. Ignoring the cries coming from other victims, the boar focused on the man who was scrambling up from the ground, taking off on foot in an easterly direction. Aiwendil raced off after him across the camp and then out into the plain....

[Folwren]

The wind storm had barely slackened at all as Kwell turned his feet back in the direction of the grove. The wind buffeted him as he pushed his way back. It was difficult to tell if he was traveling in the correct direction. Occasionally, however, the wind dropped and the sand was let down from the air long enough for him to spot the clump of rocks that marked the place. He quickened his pace and his hand grasped at the hilt of his dagger.

As he rushed forward, it seemed to his racing brain that he was traveling slowly. The minutes stretched themselves into unimaginable lengths of time. Precious seconds slipped by as he forced his feet to go faster than a walk.

When he finally reached the glade, his breath was short and he gasped for air. He drew the knife, his only weapon, when he saw ahead of him the struggling figures of the recently escaped slaves and the men who hunted them. He hurried on, his heart beating violently, and searched for someone to fight with.

Ahead of him he could see three men fighting. Two of them were ones that Kwell recognized, escaped men who the slaves that had recently run away met up with. The attacking one was a slaver. The slaver had a heavy staff in his left hand, and a sword in his right, and the two others were attacking with what makeshift weapons they had.

Kwell sprang forward, forgetting his short breath and tiring limbs. He approached the slaver from behind, but as he ran up, he realized that he could not do any good with the dagger from where he attacked. Instead, then, he sheathed the knife again and made the last few leaps forward and reached out his hand to catch the cudgel.

The slaver swung back his arm and Kwell took the chance to grasp it. One hand grabbed it long enough for his left hand to grasp it as well. He clung to it, nearly wrapping all of both his arms about it to keep it down. The man, confused and struggling for a moment with the sudden, extra weight, turned towards him. The two others took the given chance and dodged into his sword range. They tackled the man to the ground and Kwell was knocked to the side and off his feet.

He struggled up onto his knees, his hand reaching for his knife. He crawled over towards the struggling mass of the three men. He scrambled up halfway to his feet and then threw himself at the man’s head, bringing the knife towards his throat.

The slaver quit struggling abruptly. He was dead. The two men fighting him, stopped and backed up. They glanced at each other and Kwell, catching their breath briefly. Then, without a word, one jerked his head towards others fighting, and the three turned to find another man to take down.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Hadith ran towards the slaver shouting a war cry from the bottom of his lungs. It seemed not to impress the slaver as he still grinned and just waited for him to charge. In the end Hadith just slowed down and stopped. The slaver had won the first heat by depriving him of the advantage of the momentum. Hadith was beaten before he got into the action. The slaver looked confident, standing comfortably and having his blade ready to strike. They took a couple of side steps both of them, trying to look at the possible weaknesses behind the defence of one another.

Suddenly the slaver made his first move. The hit came in just as Hadith had borrowed a second to see how Athwen was faring. At the same time they all heard the cry from a few yards away from them "I'm here. I'm coming!"

The hit forced Hadith to take a few steps back. He had time enough to put his blade between him and the swing but was too late to have any strength of his body behind it. As soon as he had balanced himself the second hit came on him. Now it was fiercer than the one before. Hadith still managed to hold his blade in front of the new one, but this time he fell down with the force of the hit.

Hadith was waiting for his death as he had tumbled down on his back. So this is it, this is the way I will die... as he noted the slaver to hesitate for a moment. He was attending to the cry they both had heard just a moment ago. That gave Hadith the precious chance to rise up and to come back to defend himself. He was badly bruised even though he had managed to parry both of the hits the slaver had swinged on him. His back was aching and his feet felt like jelly again. Still he bravely challenged the slaver again.

"Come on! I'm not dead yet and others will finish what I can't!" Hadith called his opponent. The slaver looked unsure for a second but then came towards Hadith with a kill in mind. It was no longer a cat toying with a mouse but a hungry wolf on his pray, ready already to take on the real challenger just behind his shoulder after finishing this easy kill. The slaver was after Hadith's life now, seriously.

Hadith fell into an elementary trick. The slaver seemed to invest all his powers to a strike from up-right to down-left and Hadith tried to counter it with all he could spare, bringing his whole body to take on the impact. But just before the hit the slaver suddenly swerwed his sword from under Hadith's blade and ducked his blade under Hadith's. Hadith was going forwards with full effort, his side open, as the slaver got somewhat back to his balance, from which he in fact had not been far away at any moment unlike Hadith he had tricked into jumping forwards. The slaver hewed his sword backhanded on Hadith's defenceless side, aiming for his throat.

The hit missed Hadith's neck by inches landing on his shoulder. Hadith could feel the bones splintering under the sword. Blood bursted to his face. He felt dizzy and his vision started to darken. He felt the ground as his knees hit it and then his face slammed to the dry sand.

Hadith turned his head to see what happened. The slaver was about to give him the finishing hit when he suddenly turned around. Hadith heard it too. A horse was charging straight towards the slaver! Hadith tried to lift his head to see what was happening but his vision was blurring. He felt the ground trembling from the pounding of the heavy hooves.


---------------------------------------------------------

Folwren's Post

Athwen knew at once that the advantage in this fight would be completely on the slaver's side. He was man, fully built and probably fully trained in fighting. Hadith would go down quickly with no hope of ever getting back up again. She had not a moment to loose in figuring out something to help him with, at least until Dorran reached them. But how? How was she supposed to stop a man twice her size from killing another? She looked around her, hoping to find something that she might use as a weapon.

Her eyes lit upon the slaver's horse. A plan instantly leaped into her mind. She ran forward to him and grasped his rein as he shied away from her. She spoke calming words to him, whispering reassuringly in his ear as she gathered his reins above his neck. As soon as he stood tolerably still she thrust her foot into the stirrup and launched herself upward into the saddle. Once there, her feet could not reach the stirrups, but that did not worry her. She clenched her knees tight against the hard leather of the saddle, turned his head about with one rein and urged him on with her heels in his side.

As the horse made the turn, Athwen could see the two combatants. Hadith was stumbling, his sword arm was far out in attempt to regain the balance he had lost. The slaver stepped forward and his arm swung upwards. Athwen bit back a cry and drove her heels into the horse just as the man's curved blade came slicing down.

The rushing, pounding hooves of the horse seemed to drive the emotion from Athwen's mind. She saw Hadith fall. She watched as he first collapsed to his knees and then fell onto his face in the ground before his enemy. Though the thought that he had been killed before her very eyes flashed through her mind, Athwen did not think to be sorry for him, she did not think of anything, except bearing down on this slaver.

The man looked up, hearing her approach. An expression of surprise filled his face and he stumbled back out of the horse's path. Athwen passed him, but her hand was already on the tight rein and in a moment, she and her horse were turned about again and charged once more upon the slaver.

[Tevildo]

Dorran felt as if his arms and legs could barely move. There had been another time when he had fallen into a pit of mud. It was just like that now. The more he struggled to hurry the slower his body went. One part of his mind calmly saw Hadith hit the ground and slump to the side, while the other was focused only on running forward as quickly as he could.

He saw his wife mount the horse and charge forward against the slaver. The latter stared at her in complete bewilderment. Neither his brain or his ego would accept the fact that he had been bested by a woman with hair the color of gold. Once more she charged and once more he barely managed to swing out of the way. This time, he recovered his wits enough to leer back at her. He dropped to one knee and quickly squatted next to Hadith. Ripping his small knife out of its sheath, he held it directly above the young man’s throat and then brought the tip down to make contact with the skin. Slowly he drew the blade forward leaving a thin trail of blood. He looked up at Athwen and growled. “You’re a feisty one. Come down off that horse and keep me company. You wouldn’t want to see this poor boy get hurt?” He waved his dagger menacingly over the young man’s chest, directly pointing at Hadith’s heart. Athwen pulled up her mount and stared in disbelief, reluctant to dismount but afraid to race forward again.

By this time, Dorran had dropped down and flattened his body against the ground, inching forward across the sand. His head was pounding dismally from the wound he had received the day before but his mind was perfectly clear. A beast like this did not deserve to live.

For the first time today luck was with the Rider of Rohan. The slaver was turned away and had no idea what lay behind his back. Hurtling his body forward with a savage will, Dorran landed on top of the man. They rolled over on the ground three times. Kicking and snarling, the two remained locked in a deadly embrace, each attempting to gain the advantage and sweep in for the kill. Finally, there was a grunt and a cry and the slaver’s body went slack as Dorran thrust his weapon deep into the man’s chest, burying it up to the hilt. .

Without waiting to inspect the man’s body more closely, Dorran immediately raced over to his wife as an avalanche of words gushed out. “Are you alright? Did he hurt you? I couldn’t clear the trench. Thank goodness Hadith was here to help. You didn’t do too badly yourself. This is the second time you’ve beaten me in a horse race. It's a good thing you did..” He turned to embrace her and spoke quickly. “You must get out of here. Hadith needs your help and others as well.” He pushed Hadith up on the horse and straddled his body over the back of Athwen's saddle. the man stirred and gave a low moan.

“Ride now to the grove where the women and children are. You will find some protection there. We will bring you the wounded as quickly as we can.”

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Carl and the others in his group soon became disoriented with camp now covered in ashen dust and sand. They were rapidly separated not only by the blinding gale, but by the rumor of horses around them, which they heard and followed, but could not see. And as Carl pressed himself against the wind, searching for his fellows, out of the brown haze a figure dashed past the hobbit, all the while glancing over his shoulder. It was soon plain to Carl, that the runner was neither archer nor slaver, but the youngster Kwell. And the boy ran with such dispatch, that Carl whirled about, bow ready as he struggled to see in the murk, what ever it was the boy was running from, before it over took him.

That split second stretched interminably as Carl waited with dread. For he had already guessed what this bogy might prove to be, and had until this point, envisioned dealing with Hamin from the comfortably long distance a bow usually afforded, and preferably unseen as well. But unfortunately, all he could do at the moment was hope for the best, for the wind was blowing so hard, his arrows were all but useless. And being no match for the slaver, the best he might do was buy the lad some time.

The hobbit set his jaw. Out of the storm lumbered a huge figure, the silhouette of a curved blade discernable in his bandaged fist, as the man bolted after his prey. At the site of the slaver, a wave of adrenalin coursed through the hobbit’s veins, and he aimed his dart well in front of the pursuer. With all his strength he stretched taught the string and shot into the wind. The arrow sped to its mark, but proved too feeble, for the man slowed down, pulling the arrow easy from his shoulder. “The brute’s an Oliphant!” Carl muttered in amazement, quickly sprinting after the retreating figure, before he had the chance to become lost in the confusion.

He had not gone more that a few yards when he saw that Hamin had closed in once more on Kwell. Grabbing him by the shoulder he spun the boy around roughly, threatening him with his sword. With haste the hobbit stopped, taking aim again, this time targeting the softness of the slaver’s lower back. Creeping up as close as he dared, he let the arrow fly. But the arrow was buffeted by the wind, embedding itself in a more southerly region to cause less harm than the hobbit had hoped.

It was as if Carl had tapped the slaver on the back to announce himself, for Haman whipped around, quickly jerking Kwell in front of him to serve as a shield. And spying the puny archer before him he snarled, “The sand fleas are biting today, are they? But we know how to deal with them! Just squeeze ‘em until they crack open, eh boy?” The slaver gripped Kwell tighter in the crook of one arm, lifting him off the ground, and the boy shut his eyes against the pain, futilely pushing at the thickly muscled arm that encompassed him. Relaxing his hold a bit, Hamin laughed while Carl grimaced, his mind transposing on the slaver the sinister image of joy a cat might experience while playing with a doomed mouse.

The slaver raised his dark eyes, fastening them again on Carl, whose shuttered involuntarily. “Tell me boy, who is this hero shivering in front of me? This fairy orcling, who hasn’t the strength to spear a rabbit with his pathetic skewers!” Now the hobbit’s fear had been quickly overtaken by horror and indignation at the treatment of Kwell, but these words fanned a fury in his heart and set him simmering. He had to get Kwell out of the man’s reach, and he had to keep his head.

Feigning a lighter heart than was in him, for with his arrows spent Carl was at a loss what to do, but he was determined to do something. He dropped his bow to the ground. “I’ve met you before Hamin, and you can’t fool me. No, not for a minute!” the hobbit said with all the pluck he could muster. “For all your swaggering I know you’re good for nothing, not even to play nursemaid to a pair of starving children. See with all these men about, you pick on the smallest among them.”

The slaver’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward as if to have a better look at Carl, the corner of his mouth twisting into a grin. “What a dangerous game this sand flea plays!” he sneered. Fast and gleaming Hamin’s sword suddenly cut through the air where the hobbit had stood. But Carl had many an older brother to hone his reflexes, and he ducked to avoid the blow, springing up again to attempt disarming the brute, as he followed the stroke through. But the hobbit was quickly shook off, and flung to the ground with ease. And just as Carl was recovering, a rag blown on the wind, hit Hamin's face, clinging stubbornly to his head and neck.

Immediately seizing the opportunity, Kwell rammed his elbow into the slaver’s injured ribs, gaining his freedom as clutching his side, Hamin bowed for a moment, his sword dropping to the ground. The slaver pulled the cloth from his face, and was about to set off again to recover the boy, when Carl launched himself, scrabbling up the slaver’s broad back, grabbing handholds in the foul cloths and hair. “Quick Kwell, run!” the hobbit managed to shout to the boy still standing there. But a second later he was hurtled up over Hamin’s head, landing flat on his back.

Carl squinted at Hamin towering over him, but could think of no more taunts to distract the man. For he found he could not breathe, but like a landed fish he lay gasping, helpless. The slaver put his boot on the hobbit stomach. “Who are you, sand flea?” he asked again, slowing applying pressure. Finally, Carl’s lungs filled, and he blurted out, “The fish that got away. I’m the fish that slipped through your fingers, yesterday in the pit!” The slaver growled, pushing down harder, and Carl clutched the heavy boot, hoping that Kwell had gotten away.

[Brinniel]

The slavers approached swiftly, with Athwen leading the way. As if the storm didn’t make visibility bad enough, the horses’ hooves picked up even more dust, making seeing nearly impossible. Shae could see, however, the shapes of the men as they neared the tunnel. Shouts arose as they discovered their mistake, and several collapsed into the trench. Shae wondered for a second what had happened to the healer—she seemed to disappear with the rest of the slavers. But she had no time to worry, for chaos was beginning to ensue all around.

Only half of the slavers actually fell into the trench; the rest were able to stop their horses in time. The half dozen or so men were mostly attempting to calm their frightened steeds—and it seemed to Shae that this small group was in utter confusion more that anything. The timing would be perfect. Without further hesitation, the woman kicked into the mare’s sides, and charged forward, yelling. She could hear the others in the cavalry following, but she did not look back.

Her target was the first mounted slaver in visible sight. Shae took him by surprise as she thrusted her long knife into his right shoulder. Though the man yelped in pain, as she removed her blade, she realized she did not do as much damage as she hoped. Countering her attack, the slaver lifted his own sword in his left hand. As he swung, she lifted her weapon to block the attack. As the two blades collided, Shae swayed backwards, surprised at the man’s strength. Her puny blade whimpered under his powerful hold, and her hand shook as she struggled to keep her grip. The next few swings Shae was able to dodge with simple maneuvers with her horse. She lashed back in response, but every time she lifted her blade, it was met by the slaver’s. The man’s strength was overwhelming, and as she fought him, she could feel herself slowly sliding out of her saddle. Shae tightened her muscles and her left hand clenched the reins as she simply struggled to stay mounted. As she dodged another attack, Furie jolted suddenly, and with her inexperience, Shae lost all control.

She did not remember hitting the ground, but as she lay sprawled out on the dirt, she immediately realized what happened. Warm liquid flowed freely from her forehead and into her left eye. Her left wrist was contorted into an unnatural position, and Shae instantly knew it was broken. The woman blinked several times, still feeling rather woozy from the fall. She barely looked up in time to see the sword coming right at her. She rolled away just in time and grimaced as a sharp pain hit her left side. A cracked rib perhaps. Surprised to find she was still clutching her long knife in her right hand, Shae managed to stand up in time to block the second swing. She found herself face-to-face with the same slaver she had been fighting with, who stared menacingly back. He had dismounted from his stallion and seemed quite anxious to kill her. Though she was now injured, Shae found it much easier to fight on foot, and for a few minutes the two swung and parried in a circle as if it were a dance. He may have been stronger, but she was faster. But before long, exhaustion set in, and the man’s strength and his better weapon were too much. He caught her by surprise and her weapon suddenly escaped from the clutches of her fingers. Shae managed to dodge the next two blows by instinctively ducking. On the third swing, the slaver stumbled and his blade entered the earth. He quickly yanked it out and lifted his sword, prepared for one final attack, but he was not fast enough. As he lifted his weapon high in the air, the main suddenly gasped in pain. He looked down to find a throwing dagger protruding from his heart.

Khamir had always praised Shae for her swift throwing skills and her perfect aim. The woman watched as the man collapsed and died almost instantly. She removed the dagger from his chest and sheathed it. Her long knife was nowhere to be seen. Shae picked up the slaver’s sword and studied it. It was a fine blade, by far one of the highest quality she had ever seen. She removed the sheath from the man’s belt and attached it to her own, placing the sword inside it. During those few minutes of rest, Shae could feel the pain and exhaustion set in. Blood continued to pour from the gash in her head covering the entire left eye. It should’ve been a problem, as she was blind in that eye anyway, but with one eye sealed shut made it even more difficult to see out of the other one. She wiped some of the blood away with one hand, and took several deep breaths in an attempt to rejuvenate herself.

At that time, the woman took the opportunity to finally observe her surroundings. Several bodies were sprawled out in the distance, both slavers and ex-slaves. Not far away, many still fought, struggling for their lives, but Shae could not recognize who was where. As she looked around, Shae was surprised at how few slavers there were. She had seen their camp the other night, and remembered its size.
This can’t be right. I know there were more of them than this. Could they still be coming from behind?
And then a cold thought entered Shae’s mind, sending chills down her spine.
No.
But it was possible, very possible in fact. The slavers weren’t complete idiots—surely they realized that the ex-slaves would do whatever possible to protect the women and children. And if they were desperate enough (and surely they were), they could easily…

Shae gave out a low whistle, seeking out through the clouds of dust for her mare. It did not take long to find her—Furie had not traveled far. She remounted and clenched her teeth as the pain returned. Her wrist was now swollen to twice its size, and though Shae knew the smart thing would be not to use that arm, she needed both her hands. Gasping from the pain, the woman struggled to wrap her fingers around the reins and test what strength and mobility she had left in her wrist. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough. Using her other hand for support to hold onto the reins, she kicked hard into Furie’s sides. Instantly, the horse and its rider were off, heading towards the direction where the women and children were stowed away.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The old man distributed the few daggers he had managed to scrape together and asked everyone to gather rocks that could be used as weapons in case the slavers attacked. Aiwendil appointed Grwell to lead the older youth if an assault occurred, while he and Rôg would try and safeguard the mothers who had young children in their care. Hopefully, the battle would be decided before any of the attackers discovered that the deserted grove of boulders was actually a haven of refuge for those who could not fight.

With the winds churning up so much sand and dirt, Aiwendil could barely make out the shadowy outlines of the women and children crouched silently behind the rocks. It was impossible to see if any slavers were approaching. The noise of battle blew in from the far perimeter of camp. The sounds that had been so discoradant and jarring to those fighting by the tunnel now melted away to a comfortable drone. The old man sat down beneath the shelter of the massive boulder to get out of the storm. With nothing to do but wait, the minutes crept by slowly. Aiwendil closed his eyes to rest; twice, his head dipped and nodded, and then he slept. One anxious roar from across the camp blasted through to where the women and children waited. As the sound tore into the darkness, the old man reluctantly opened his eyes and sighed, struggling to push back his weariness. He still felt uneasy. His cousin Olorin would have known exactly what to do. Of all the istari , Aiwendil had been the one least equipped to deal with war or the high affairs of men. "Why me?" he muttered in frustration.

For years, the wizard had occupied a good piece of his time trying to guess why he had been forced to stay on after the War of the Ring, when all his brothers had vanished or returned home. He had been left behind with no explanation other than a few gentle words from Olorin when they had said their goodbyes in the house of Tom Bombadil. Olorin had ridden on to the Havens, and Aiwendil had been left pondering his fate, something he had done quite frequently in recent years. Before leaving, Olorin had insisted that Aiwendil try and remember the instructions Manwe had given him when they met in the garden of dreams the night before he sailed. Despite Aiwendil's every effort at remembering, that scene in that garden had proven stubbornly elusive.

At least Rôg was with him now. The wizard privately acknowledged just how important the maenwaith had become to him. Plus, it had been Rôg who had pushed him gently onto a kinder path, one where he had not only learned to care for the forest creatures but sometimes also men. Someday he must thank the young man for his gift of friendship. As a second howl went up from the east that was even more urgent than the last, Aiwendil sternly reminded himself that this was not the time or place for woolgathering.

At that instant, hard words had rattled inside his old head, bringing an unwelcome message he had been hoping to avoid. Staying close to the ground as he inched over to where Rôg was waiting, the old man hastily explained, “Bad news. Only part of the group took the bait. The others have disappeared. Lindir has no idea where they are. They’ll try to send a few men through to help us. But nothing is certain. Rôg, could you tell the band of children to remain alert and stick together? I’ll speak with the mothers.” With that Aiwendil turned and disappeared.

[piosenniel]

‘Right, then.....everyone gather round me here. And you older boys and girls, gather up the littlest ones or herd them over.’ Rôg waved his arm at the rag-tag assembly of youngsters, drawing their attention to where he was standing. They came stumbling toward him, the edges of their sleeves or of what served as their thin cloaks wrapped over their mouth and noses, and their eyes half closed against the swirling sands.

‘Let’s get you tucked in here, in the overhanging shelter of this boulder. Can you squeeze in, take a seat with your backs against it. And the older ones, please tuck the smaller ones in against you.’

He pointed to four or five of the older children, one who had brought their sharp-pointed planting sticks along. ‘You, now, let’s arrange ourselves in front of those who are sitting. Keep your sticks at the ready in case any of the slavers come near us. Poke and slash at them is you can, otherwise retreat back beneath the shelter of the boulder, with the pointed ends facing outward like a prickly hedgehog.’ Rôg gave his charges an encouraging smile.

‘It will give me what time I need just in case I have to fight them off.’

He had looked away, toward where he thought the attack might come, before he had time to see the wondering frowns which wrinkled many of the youngsters faces.