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

[Tevildo]

At the last minute, Dorran had slipped behind the other slavers wearing the plain garb of a traveller, his hood pulled low over his eyes. He'd had to leave his own horse behind and use the one that Rôg had ridden, since it looked far more commonplace than his own mount and allowed him to ride undetected. A hundred times that evening he'd asked himself why he had ever agreed to let his wife do such a dangerous thing. But part of him already knew the answer to that question. They had always worked as a team, each respecting the other. He did not want to change that now when it counted the most.

As Athwen thundered forward across the plain and caught the attention of Imak, Dorran's eyes never left his wife, intent on seeing that she was alright. At the last minute Dorran had jeked at his horse's reins and forced his mount to go forward with the group of younger riders who had disobeyed Imak and pounded on behind the fleeing woman. Unlike the other riders in the band, he knew exactly where the tunnel was and the point where it would be safe to cross over to the other side. He thought of pushing forward at breakneck speed to try and come abreast of his wife's horse. But that would be foolish. It was not only important that he escape detection, but Athwen needed space so that she would be free to maneuver the steed and wouldn't have to worry about running into anyone else. With great reluctance, Dorran pulled back on the reins at the very last instant so the others surged by him. Let them go by. He was more of a rider than any of them and would be able to catch up very quickly if his wife encountered any problems.

Things had turned bad very quickly. To his horror, Dorran saw that Athwen had fallen from her horse. One of the attackers had put his hands on her and was preparing to drag her off. Filled with rage and dread, the young rider of Rohan spurred his horse forward , came galloping on, and attempted to leap over the trench in order to reach the brute who was carrying off his wife. But Dorran had forgotten just one thing. He was not riding his own usual horse who would have been able to clear the tunnel in a single leap. Instead, he was mounted on a placid and nondescript animal that had been given to Rôg whose skills as a horseman were minimal. With all his heart and will, Dorran tried to maneuver the animal across the trench half jumping and half scrambling. But his efforts were to no avail. The animal was not used to the sounds and smell of war, and gave a loud whinny, his eyes wild with fears and his ears pinned back flat against his head. One more lurch and they'd both fallen to the ground. His horse's hind legs were scrambling for support as the dirt gave way underneath them.

Dorran freed himself from the saddle and, clawing at the dirt, began to drag his body out of the pit where so many others lay kicking and screaming. Pushing back the dirt that threatened to engulf him and throwing aside the rotted beams that collapsed in his path, he struggled to find a footing. Then he lunged forward and managed to scramble to his feet calling out to his wife, "I'm here. I'm coming." Already, other fighters had scrambled in and were beginning to battle their way through to where his wife was held. Dorran drew his sword and gave a fierce cry, half of madness and half of hope, as he ran forward across the field, oblivious to any dangers.

[Folwren]

Struggling seemed absolutely futile. His grip was too strong for her to even hope to break, although she struggled and twisted in every possible direction. Where was Dorran? Why wasn't he here? And why was this brute so intent on getting her? Why didn't he go and fight like he was supposed to? She expected any moment to see him draw a blade to wound and disable her with, but he never did. He only fetched a rope out of his saddle bag. 'He probably wishes I wouldn't squirm so much,' she thought bitterly to herself as she jerked one hand free to keep away from the loop of rope. She gasped in pain as his hand on her other wrist tightened with anger.

A man's voice called suddenly from behind them, from the trench. "Leave her!" Athwen twisted to look, expecting to see Dorran. Her expectations were shattered, but not too violently, for she half recognized the face of the young man who came running forward. Her mouth opened to call to him, but no sound came. Before she could speak or cry out a stunning blow from the man holding her stretched her to her full length on the ground. Her ears rang with the shock of the blow and in the few seconds that she lay still, she felt the whole left side of her face grow hot with pain. She gasped once or twice and her eyes watered, but she still struggled to get back to her feet.

A few paces away from her, she saw the young man - he was scarcely out of boyhood - and the slaver. They were not yet fighting. They circled, testing each other's weaknesses. Or perhaps it was only the older slaver who was testing the boy's weaknesses; Hadith almost looked like he was retreating. Athwen could not quite see clearly, nor could she make out the expression on his face. In addition to the sand blowing about in the air, her head spun with dizziness and she could hardly stand straight.

Before the two of them had crossed swords, another voice called out from the wind and blowing sand. "I'm here. I'm coming!" She knew this voice for certain. She knew who came. She lifted her head. Her eyes cleared of spinning lights and she saw Dorran's figure drawing closer. And then the cold sound of steel against steel filled her ears. The slaver had begun his onslaught against Hadith.