"Shadow III- Perilous Journeys" - Final version

[Gordis]

Chapter 11. Brochenridge

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nearing Brochenridge from the North. November 3, 1347
Written by Gordis and Valandil
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day of the journey proved uneventful. After a miserable night spent in an old, draughty watchtower, the travelers completed their crossing of the dangerous Trollshaws. Thankfully, not a single troll was sighted, and few other creatures as well, if any. Captain Merendil seemed uneasy because of the absence of game and the silence of birds and kept his soldiers on the alert. The road constantly climbed up and down the steep ridges running across their way. The journey was tiring for the horses, and the wagons needed a great deal of help to be able to negotiate the steep climbs.

Gimilbeth rode at the head of the procession, flanked now by her two devoted knights, Elvegil and Gwindor, the latter only recently recovered from his wounds (an elegant way to describe the bruises from the vulgar beating he received at the hands of some Hillmen at the memorable feast). Elvegil was most entertaining, however, telling funny stories about common acquaintances back in Cameth Brin. Captain Merendil kept a morose distance: he was still sulking after yesterday's confrontation and avoided Gimilbeth.

"Well, enough of this silliness!" Gimilbeth said, still laughing. She smiled and waved her knights away. The story about Curugil was quite funny, but it was undignified and far beneath her to shake from laughter while riding in state at the head of a hundred fighting men. The knights bowed and fell back.

Gimilbeth opened an embroidered pouch on her belt and took out the emerald necklace. She frowned, remembering the day when Tarnendur, beaming like a fool, presented this last heirloom of the drowned Numenor to his dearest Tarniel - for her tenth birthday no less... Such stupidity... A wave of frustration washed over Gimilbeth again. Why give such a thing to the silly pup when he had an elder daughter? Elessya should have been Gimilbeth's by right! Tarniel was evidently still too small to appreciate it - how could she have lent the priceless treasure to Odaragariel, as if it were no more than a kerchief! And then Oddie lost it - and neither the King nor Gimilbeth were told about it.

What to do with it now? Ask Merendil to take it back to Tarniel? or to Tarnendur? The King would be angry, sure, but then he would simply return the necklace to Tarniel, maybe with some mild reproaches. Nothing to gain here.

What if she sent the treasure to Odaragariel directly? The princess would be grateful; perhaps one day Gimilbeth might ask for a service in return...

Or, better still... perhaps she could keep the necklace until her return to Cameth Brin? There was this green velvet dress in her trunk and the turquoises she wore with it were not exactly matching. Hmm...

***

Merendil sniffed the air and slowly shifted his head from side to side. But he hadn't smelled it yet today - that awful scent he had just faintly detected the day before.

"Orcs," he thought to himself. "Wonder how many and how far... or how close."

He had first noticed it about the time that whole affair came up with the man they hung. No mistake about it - after several decades of campaigning, that was ONE smell he would never forget. Didn't seem like anyone else noticed it though. Couldn't smell it - or else too intent on carrying out an execution for some lowly scoundrel. "Poor blighter," thought Merendil further - not for his hanging, but for what would likely happen to him after. Why couldn't they have just kept going and settled that affair up later?

But - it hadn't cost them their lives. Leastwise not yet - and they were awful close to Brochenridge now. Why - the very fact that the Orcs were upwind meant they were after something else.

Or else in large enough force that they didn't care.

No need to alarm Her Highness - but he had been extra sharp with his men in the 24 hours since. On his way back, he'd set to scouring the woods. Maybe bring some of the boys from Brochenridge that far back with him... He wondered if there'd be anything left of the dead man's corpse.

The King would have to know - and soon! Along with the whole Council. The borders would need better watching, and a sweep of the countryside might be in order. Oh - and winter comin' and all! Merendil shook his head and muttered to himself.

***

Merendil’s forward scout came into view around a bend up ahead, galloping back toward them. "Eru," thought the Captain, "is something after him?"

But before he could even begin to get his men ordered up into a defensive posture, the scout yelled out, "My Captain, My Lady, Brochenridge is in sight! They have opened the gate and a company of guards is riding down to meet us."

"Rookie!" said Merendil, just barely under his breath, and the man next to him chuckled just a little bit louder.

He motioned for the scout to fall in at the rear, and the party continued on their path. This particular path had settled into one of the deep valleys running more or less northeast to southwest. They were making about due south now, but the bend to the right up ahead, which the scout had just come around, would get them right in line with the ridges above and the valley below.

He had been to all the sights of this land, and seen them many times, but this was one he always liked watching for.

Slowly they rounded the bend, crossing a small bridge over a brook down below them, and the fortress came at last into view on their left side. High on the south range it was - where there was a gap, or break in the ridge. Nestled into that gap was the bulwark of Brochenridge. Once home to the Kings of Rhudaur - but now a noble mansion and a way-station - but a formidable one at that. To cross the mountains to the south, you had to go through Brochenridge - and none had been able to go through it by force.

Their own errand led them on westward though, so if they entered Brochenridge from the north, they would also leave it from the north the next day - following their road toward the Last Bridge.

The oncoming riders were almost to them now - they had come through the small town that lay at the fortress's feet, right in the path of the Valley Road. There was an inn there that was his usual stopping-over place. But tonight - it would be a special treat to stay up in the fortress!

He looked around himself once more. "Safer too," his thought continued - then looking around at his men and those in his charge, "for all of us."

***

Gimilbeth’s eyes widened when the approaching riders came close enough for their faces to be seen. Old Ormendur, Lord of Brochenridge, coming out to meet them himself! Not that surprising, though, considering that they were bringing along the coffin of his eldest grandson… And with him were his son Laengrim, father of Nauremir, tears glistening on his gaunt, pale cheeks, and even Nauremir’s mother, still young and obviously grief-stricken.

The last thing Gimilbeth had time to do before greeting the riders was to send her page Edelbar to reiterate her orders to the painter. Hurgon was to watch over Helmir and not let him out of the wagon.

The Brochenridge riders drew rein and the customary greetings were exchanged. Gimilbeth’s words of condolence to Nauremir’s family were compassionate and touching – she had had time enough to prepare her speech and delivered it really well. By the end of it, most of the listeners were crying and Nauremir’s mother had broken down in tears, wailing and sobbing, her face red-eyed and blotchy. Gimilbeth thought that if she ever needed to cry, she would do so in a more decorous and less face-damaging fashion.

Lord Ormendur, however, remained thoughtful and grim and replied rather stiffly, thanking Gimilbeth and inviting her into the Castle. Once past the drawbridge, he gave orders to bring the coffin to the family crypt and the procession moved there directly.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Near Brochenridge, afternoon of November 3, 1347.
Written by Serenoli
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hurgon dipped his brush half-heartedly into the paint and experimentally dabbed at the canvas. It was no good - he felt too distracted to paint. It wasn't simply the motion of the cart - it was that he was fast becoming convinced that he was traveling with two very disturbed men.

The first few hours after his release, Helmir had talked incessantly, trying to make sense of what was going on and asking numerous questions, so that Hurgon had to remind him several times to lower his voice in case they were overheard. He seemed to be pretty sick, too, feeling hungry and sleepy all at once and sometimes feverish. The closer they got to Brochenridge, though, the healthier Helmir seemed to feel - and that was acting as a powerful restorer of hope. He was nearing his home and his family, and he could not but help think that there must be some more conventional method for paying back his debt to Gimilbeth than by being a painter's apprentice. The fact that Hurgon was a completely innocent bystander in this scheme did not cross his mind; as Hurgon was the visible symbol of Gimilbeth's power over him, perhaps it was not altogether surprising that some of his resentment rubbed off onto Hurgon. He did not rave at him, or threaten him, for he knew better than to draw attention to himself. He just sat there for hours with a mocking smile at Tarniel's potrait, occasionally making a sarcastic remark.

The cart-driver was a different kind of madman. For a long time, Hurgon was certain he was a sane person altogether, though very quiet (but then, it took all sorts), until he suddenly jumped up and ran after a man, shouting and gesticulating. In the end, the man was hanged, though Hurgon was still not sure why, and Callon came back to their cart, still quiet, but with an oddly satisfied look on his face. The kind of look that is enough to send a chill down a man's spine... All in all, an uneasy, tense journey that was making it even harder for him to render true Tarniel's innocent beauty.

Of course, Gimilbeth had her share in handing him yet another worry. She had sent him a note saying, "On no account are you to let Helmir out of your sight when we reach Brochenridge." Short and bitter.

And now the walls of the fortress loomed before them, and Helmir looked stronger than ever, and Callon was hardly the man Hurgon would confide in to help him with this. If Helmir made a run for it, what then?

“Helmir?” Hurgon asked tentatively.

He didn’t respond. Lately he had taken to ignoring the name Helmir. Sighing Hurgon tried, “My lord Nauremir?”

“Yes, Hurgon?”

“I know you may like to see your home town and everything, umm, but the fact of the matter is …”

“… that the witch you work for has forbidden it, yes?” He looked at Hurgon and smiled almost mockingly.

“She asked me to keep an eye on you. And I don’t work for her, I work for the King, but if his daughter happens to need my help ...” Hurgon floundered, trying to defend himself.

“I don’t hold it against you. Whatever you are doing to ruin my life, you’re only doing it for your mistress. I can understand the loyalty of a servant for his mistress ...”

“I am not her servant! I am the Royal Painter, and I work for Tarnendur, and believe me, no one hates that evil witch more than me!” Yes, Nauremir’s new tactic of provoking Hurgon was working pretty well.

He leaned forwards persuasively, “You hate her as I do? She makes your life miserable, yes? Then why are you helping her in ruining my life? What hold does she have over you?”

It seemed so silly to just say, “A nameless fear. When I see her cunning eyes and her twitching mouth, I can just feel the evil tainting the air around me, and I can almost see the ground quake with some new level of meanness.”

So Hurgon didn’t reply; he just shrugged.

“Now, Hurgon, how about this? I pretend to go to sleep; you start painting, intently, so that you spare no eyes and ears for me… hmmm? And then when you finally look around, you see a pile of blankets. You run out screaming my name, but it’s too late. She can’t blame you.”

“Well, she could just call me a deaf and blind idiot who deserves to really lose his ears for it…” Hurgon muttered, but he was starting to feel pleasantly rebellious.

“Or I could just give you a light tap on the head and render you unconscious? You can hardly be expected to have won a fight against me.”

“That’s all right,” said Hurgon hastily, “I have a slight headache anyway, wouldn’t want to compound it. I think I’m in the mood for painting.”

“I won’t forget this.” Nauremir almost smiled. “Lend me your cloak, will you? I don’t want to be recognized too early.”

“Yes, of course. Right.”

The wagons were already standing within the city walls. Hurgon watched as Nauremir leaped down and walked away as nonchalantly as he could manage. Then he turned to his canvas. There goes one madman, he thought. And the driver had also left for a drink. Soon the maddest of them all, Gimilbeth in a rage, would make an appearance, and who knew if he would ever get the chance to finish the painting again? They were on dry land, the cart was not heaving, so Hurgon frantically dabbed his brush in the paint, and began painting. A few minutes later, he was absorbed and had forgotten his surroundings.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brochenridge, evening of November 3, 1347.
Written by Elfhild and Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The family crypt of the Counts of Brochenridge was cut deep in the rock at the base of the tower, in Numenorean fashion. An ornate bronze grid followed by a heavy door barred the entrance. Four guards took the coffin into the vault, and, following Count Ormendur’s directions, placed it upon an empty stab of granite next to Nauremir’s grandmother. Then, to Gimilbeth’s dismay, Nauremir’s father Laengrim expressed his wish to open the coffin, regardless of the stench that everyone could not fail to notice.

“But, My Lord,” protested Gimilbeth, “I am loath to say it, but the embalming has been inadequate. Something has gone awry and I am afraid the view of the corpse will only add to your grief and will prove a cruel blow to your poor Lady.”

At these words, Nauremir’s mother, who had sank to her knees by the coffin, finally fainted. Gimilbeth knelt by the lady, trying to revive her with a vial of smelling salts. Ormendur ordered the guards out, as the air in the crypt was stale and suffocating.

When the area cleared, the lords of Brockenridge became aware of a tall, hooded figure standing silently by the door, hidden in shadows. A sudden chill running down his spine, Lord Ormendur asked:

“Who are you, stranger, and why do you disturb the privacy of a grieving family?”

The tall figure stood brooding by the doorway, like the spectre of death itself. Beneath the dark hood, Nauremir's eyes blazed like two fires as he beheld the scene before him: his grieving family and the witch who had caused all his problems. His first impulse was to damn her right there and reveal the truth to his family. But he knew that if he did, Gimilbeth would shriek for the guards and claim he was some crazed madman. And who were they to know otherwise? Nauremir was "dead," and few would recognize him in this new disguise.

"An acquaintance of the deceased, come to pay my respects," he spoke quietly, his voice muffled. Then he turned upon his heel and left the tomb like a storm cloud.

He fled into the darkling evening, evading the members of the funeral entourage. Seeking shelter in the woods, he sat down on a rock and observed the mausoleum and surrounding buildings from afar. Several choices lay before him. He could stay as Helmir the painter's apprentice, ever under the close watch of Gimilbeth. This would mean severing all ties with his parents and other relatives and forfeiting his inheritance and position. He would go from a well-liked nobleman to a pauper whom no one knew. Or he could hide out until the witch turned her attentions to matters other than him, and then return to his family, reveal his identity, and tell them the truth of what happened. How would his family react? How could he go back to living his old life? His "resurrection" would probably be a scandal that would shake the country and be on the tongues of all in Arnor.

Gimilbeth wanted Nauremir to remain "dead," he knew. If she had been working with only his best interests at heart, she would have told his parents the truth and conferred with both him and his family. After Broggha's ire had calmed, she could have helped weave some story that Nauremir was not really dead, but merely in a deep, long-lasting swoon like, say, Turin after he slew the dragon. But, no, Gimilbeth had other plans. What they were he did not know, but he was sure there was some dark conspiracy brewing in her mind.

He was a man with powerful enemies – Broggha the Hillman chieftain and Gimilbeth the witch of Cameth Brin. He hated being so weak, both in power and in body, for he was still recovering from his wounds. Right now he needed some powerful friends and allies. Clutching his head in his hands, he struggled to plot and plan, racking his brain for ideas.

[Gordis]

Chapter 12. The Hunt for the Madman

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brochenridge, evening of November 3
Written by Gordis and Serenoli
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gimilbeth’s blood turned cold when she beheld a hooded stranger by the door. She was sure it was Nauremir, escaped from the foolish painter. She berated herself for not setting better guards. Meanwhile, the fugitive had to be apprehended – quietly and effectively. Muttering some excuses about fetching help to get Nauremir’s mother up to her room, she rushed out of the crypt and looked around. There was nobody of note outside, only her two pages. These she sent immediately to search for Nauremir.

She climbed the steep stair to the main court of the fortress where the wagons were parked and most of her men had been waiting. There she spotted the driver of Hurgon’s wagon, the auburn-haired Callon, who was walking slowly across the court admiring the Tower. Gimilbeth gripped his sleeve and hissed, “Where is Helmir, Hurgon’s apprentice?”

Startled, the young man bowed to Gimilbeth. “I don’t know, Your Highness – I left him with Hurgon a while ago,” he replied.

“Go and find him!” ordered Gimilbeth. “Be careful, he is raving mad and dangerous. Don’t listen to anything he says. Just knock him on the head and bring him back to the wagon.”

Leaving the wide-eyed Callon, Gimilbeth made her way to the second wagon, knowing already what awaited her there. Curse the foolish painter! If Nauremir escaped, Hurgon would rue his lenience to the end of his days!

***

There is only so long one can paint while concious of being in mortal danger. It was when Tarniel's face on the canvas began to assume the characteristic frown of her half-sister that Hurgon decided to abandon it, and look instead to the more urgent task of protecting himself. He was starting to wish now he had let Nauremir hit him over the head; between him and Gimilbeth he knew well whom he was more frightened of.

He checked first that his amulet was secure around his neck. It hadn't done a very good job so far, but hopefully its magic would be activated now. He cleaned up, for the first time in living history, so that perhaps Gimilbeth might be protected from the temptation of hurling things at him. He kept a sharp lookout for her, peeking out every now and then. The moment he saw her, the glare on her face burning a path before her, he let out a bewildered wail.

"Helmir! Now where did that scamp go? The beautiful lady Gimilbeth," he couldn't help choking slightly at this point, but sometimes good men need to descend to lies for self-preservation, "made it clear he was not to go anywhere; and I did tell him not to. And, then... why he was sleeping, and I was painting, and woe begone, he must have fled while I was absorbed in painting the Princess Tarniel! Ah, me, what misfortunes have befallen! But, maybe it is not too late and Helmir has just gone for a drink. Yes, I shall retrieve him for the good princess immediately." Delivering which speech in a loud, carrying voice, he turned to get out of his wagon, and found before him a Gimilbeth torn between laughter at possibly the worst acting she had ever seen in her life, and the desire to take off her shoes and whack him soundly on the head with them.

He gave a large fake start, and tried to look guilty. This part was not very hard, as it was his habitual expression around her. Then, the last bit of his carefully crafted speech, "You have caught me out, your highness! My sincerity and devotion to one task you have assigned me has caused me to fail in the other. I think I am no longer qualified to guard Helmir. I myself step down from the task. In fact, when you find him, I shall myself move out of his wagon and ..."

She turned away to hide the smile that would appear, despite all, and then reminding herself just how angry she was, she turned back to him. "Do you think I am a fool? I thought he had escaped due to your leniency, the kind of leniency only seen in the blindest of fools, but no... I see you and he have contrived to have him escape! A nice little plan to hoodwink me, was it? I hope you recall the fate of the last unfortunate man who tried to trick me? You must have seen his corpse swinging from the tree yesterday." She smiled painfully and began to gather up steam, and Hurgon decided there was only one way to stop her. Distraction.

He focused on a point behind her shoulders, and opened his mouth several times as if to interrupt her. She finally noticed and said impatiently, "What?"

"Behind you, my lady..." she turned around. There was nothing. "It's gone now. It was there a minute ago!"

"No more of your foolish tricks!" she hissed, "I don't know in which tavern you picked up the reputation of being a good actor, because you-"

"But I assure you, I saw..." he gulped, and thought faster than he had ever done in his life, "a large raven, which was looking directly at you, beckoning you to follow him. Maybe it is a dark portent of some sort. My grandmother used to say-"

"I don't want to know what your grandmother said!" she snapped. But all the same, she was interested. Having grown up on magic all her life, it was hardly unlikely Gimilbeth would not know of all the portents there were to know of. "Besides, how would a raven beckon to me?" Hurgon proceeded to imitate a bird and flapped his imaginary wings at her. Her anger momentarily diverted, returned again, full course.

"You are going to find your mad friend, and by whatever means bring him back. He will trust you more than anyone else right now. And when you get back..." she turned on her heel, and walked briskly away, leaving Hurgon to contemplate the various ways that last sentence of hers could have finished. None of them impressed him much, so he wrapped himself in Nauremir's cloak and dispiritedly began walking towards the houses and inns by the city wall. At the very least, he would have to put up a show of finding Nauremir.

***

Callon was searching high and low for this Helmir, this alleged lunatic; which, on reflection did not seem so strange as it had done when Gimilbeth first pounced on him. After all, though he had paid little attention to what went on in the wagon, he could hardly help overhearing some of the shouting and cursing that had gone on behind him, and it did not require much stretch of his imagination to know that at least one of the two was not quite right in the head.

His sharp eye caught a man, half-hidden in some shurbs, swigging brandy. Callon's lip twisted in disgust at the abandon with which he was drinking. He went closer, and thought the man looked familiar... yes, he recognized the old grey cloak with the tattered hood that the painter's apprentice wore. He was quite certain this was one of his two passengers. And since he had just seen the painter absorbed in his work back at the wagon, this HAD to be that other fellow ....

He circled noiselessly around the bush, looking for something to knock the man out with. He didn't like that bit, but the Princess had stressed that the man was a lunatic, and she should know. Callon had heard about the unnatural strength of lunatics before, and he certainly didn't want a lunatic on the loose, especially a drunk one! Finding a nice handy rock, he crept up behind the man and hit him - trying to knock him out, but at the same time not hard enough to kill him. The man, already drunk, slumped forward onto his knees. Callon took his bottle away from him and threw it away, and then hauled him bodily to his shoulder, wrinkling his nose at the strong smell of drink floating into his mouth and nose.

As he neared camp, one of the men saw him and approached. He had been talking to Callon just that morning and recognized him. A look of concern stole over his face at the sight of the senseless body.

"Who's that you've got there, Callon?"

"Lady Gimilbeth's orders, for me to bring him back to camp. Apparently he's a lunatic and tried to escape." Tired from all the hauling and panting with the weight, he let the man slide to the ground for a while. His friend leaned over and gave a low whistle.

"Well, well, it's Hurgon the Royal Painter. We always did figure he had a slight crack in his head, and this just confirms it."

"Yes!" Callon wiped sweat from his brow. Then the significance of what he had just heard sunk in. "Did you say Hurgon? The painter himself?"

"None other."

"Not Helmir the apprentice?"

"Who's Helmir?" That and a frown were all the answer Callon recieved, and it was enough to confirm his worst fears. Frantically, he began trying to resucicate Hurgon. A fine lookout for him it would be if it got about that Callon had been beating up harmless, if rather drunk, painters instead of escaped madmen. He looked at his friend.

"We have to wake him up!"

"Well... I guess I could try slapping him a bit." Which he did, sharply a few times, and strangely enough, it even worked. Hurgon's eyes opened, out of focus, and he moved his lips. Callon bent to hear what he was so desperately trying to say; it turned out to be a rather rude song. Well, that was probably a good sign.

The two of them dragged him back to his wagon, where after much water, and a few more slaps, Hurgon looked shame-facedly at the two of them and said, "Thank you so much for bringing me back. Sometimes, I do drink too much and keel over, though it hasn't happened recently. I am very ashamed, I assure you, and I thank you again. I was really thirsty, see?"

Callon's friend began laughing, while he himself explained the real situation, amid profuse apologies. Hurgon tutted and wagged an unsteady finger at him, but truth be told, he was not displeased. After all, it gave an iron-clad excuse for him not to go hunting for Helmir, and besides, he could now utilise Callon to go and get him as many drinks as he could carry. With some dinner if possible. And if Gimilbeth frowned, he would be sarcastic at Callon's expense, and occasionally clutch his swollen head in agony. She could hardly call for a hangman then.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brochenridge, early morning of November 4, 1347
Written by Rian
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"First, you have to clean the hoof really well so you can look for signs of the infection ... ", and Callon did just that while the Brochenridge stable master watched with interest, and Captain Merendil and Gwindor watched Callon with interest. The horse wasn't watching anything; his long lashes covered his dark, liquid eyes as he relaxed - he was just relieved to have his weight off of his sore foot. He leaned a little more heavily on this thoughtful human, and Callon gave him an elbow in the ribs to make him stand up a little straighter.

"And now you look for a little sensitivity to pressure and possibly some discoloration ... ahh, here's a likely spot ... "

Callon, holding the horse's hoof securely in his strong, experienced hands, tapped a slightly discolored area on the hard tissue on the underside of the hoof with the flat end of his hoof knife. The horse threw its head up and pulled back a bit, his eyes now wide open, but Callon had him securely cross-tied, and the horse relaxed again.

"Now I just pare away gently here until I reach the infection ... doesn't hurt a bit until you reach the pocket ... " continued Callon, and with deft little twists of the hoof knife, he followed the discoloration down until a final twist of the knife opened up the infected area, and the pus welled out. The horse jerked again, and then relaxed as the painful pressure in the hoof slowly decreased.

"Sometimes the discolorations don't lead anywhere, and you have to try another spot. We were lucky here - we hit the right spot the first time." The stablemaster grunted his understanding of the procedure, stroking the gelding's flank as he watched the pus drain.

"Now pack the hoof with some clean herbs - peppermint is ideal, it draws things out well - and keep it as clean and dry as possible, then ..."

But Captain Merendil and Gwindor never heard the rest of the follow-up care. They had moved a little farther away so as to speak privately.

"I don't know why the Princess commanded it," said Gwindor, raising his eyebrows at the whims of royalty, "but he's definitely going to be a good man to have along."

Merendil nodded. "My nephew speaks well of him, and I like what I've seen so far. He won't be happy about being gone longer - just married, and a lovely wife, the men say - but we'll make it worth his while."

Gwindor left, and Merendil watched the young auburn-haired horseman finish giving instructions to the stablemaster, then reach his hands over his head to stretch the kinks out of his back (working with hooves is hard work on the back!) as the stablemaster led the horse off.

"Callon," called Merendil, and beckoned him over.

"Yes, sir?" replied Callon respectfully. He liked the Captain - he admired how the captain had insisted on a fair hearing for Algeirr, refusing the Princess's first demand to just hang him, even though everything inside of him had been screaming out for revenge at the time. How odd that it had turned out as it had ... Callon's warning to Algeirr had turned out to be all too true ...

"Nice work, son," said Merendil. "You really know horses.”

"Horses are what our family does," replied Callon simply. "We ride before we walk!"

Merendil smiled, then grew serious again as he told Callon that plans had to be changed, and he would be joining the Princess's entourage.

Callon stared at him in disbelief. "But sir, they're not to be back until spring!" he objected. "My wife ... you said ... "

"I know, I know," interrupted Merendil briskly. "But things change - we're adding quite a few more men to the Princess's escort - reports of orcs in the area - and I would feel much better about the Princess if you were one of them, with your knowledge of horses and all. It could come in very handy."

Callon started to object again, but Merendil stopped him with a raised hand and a stern look. "I'm sorry, but you don't have a choice in the matter. The Princess herself requested you. The time will go quickly, and I'll make it worthwhile for you - you can send a note to your wife and enclose your extra pay for her to spend in your absence (here he allowed himself a little smile and a wink, as one knowledgeable in the ways of women and money) - we'll get it safely to her. You'll be home again before you know it."

"But ..." started Callon again, and was again interrupted by the Captain.

"The decision is made!" concluded Merendil with finality.

Callon took a deep breath and looked beyond the courtyard into the distance, bright and beckoning in the cold, crisp morning air. Three months ... but she had Arinya, and Eryndil was there now, too. She would be fine ...

He nodded his head in resignation, and left Meryndil to go write his letter to Caelen.

And as he wrote the letter, he thought uneasily that the worst part about this new turn of events was not that Caelen would be left without his protection for three months - the worst part was that he felt so happy about it ...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brochenridge, morning of November 4, 1347
Written by Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning of departure was cold and crisp with watery sunshine and frost on the ground. Gimilbeth descended to the Fortress court with eyes reddish from lack of sleep and threw a withering look at her entourage: her two cheerful pages, a sleepy Nimraen, a guilty–looking, somewhat battered-looking Hurgon and a still bewildered and, for some reason, also guilty–looking Callon the wagon-driver.

There was still no Helmir, despite all their efforts to find him. Last night, Gimilbeth sent everyone she could to look for the escaped young man, choosing them carefully among those who hadn’t known him as Nauremir. Finally she went to search for him herself – after sitting through the lengthy dinner in the Feasting Hall and striving to maintain a meaningless, polite conversation with the old Lord of Brochenridge. Now she felt bone tired and thoroughly disgusted.

Men had little gratitude, and Nauremir had none whatsoever! Out of the kindness of her heart she saved the wretch from a certain, humiliating death, maybe torture at the hands of Hillmen brigands. And instead of being grateful for her gift, he just ran away at the first opportunity. Well, she was done with him. If he got caught, she wouldn’t move a finger to save him again! What an ungrateful, base rascal her kinsman proved to be!

Gimilbeth's escort was waiting – two wagons and forty guards commanded by Gwindor. Last night Merendil proposed her 20 additional men and Gimilbeth gratefully accepted them, wondering what exactly moved the gruff Captain to such generosity. But she had to promise to send 20 guards back once they were safely at Amon Sul.

Lord Ormendur, swathed in a rich mink coat, and Captain Merendil said their farewells. The Captain and his remaining eighty men were also ready for departure – back to Cameth Brin. Merendil looked concerned and advised caution once again. “There may be orcs around,” he said to Gwindor and Elvegil, once Gimilbeth was out of earshot. “Keep your eyes open and don’t forget to set guards at night.”

Gwindor nodded and gave the signal for departure.

Once outside the Gates and out of view of the fortress, Gimilbeth motioned for the party to stop, passed the reins of her mount to Elvegil and crawled into her wagon to sleep.

[Gordis]

Chapter 13. The Nazgul and the Southron

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shedun Fortress at the border of Angmar, November 4, 1347
Written by Gordis and Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The last day of the journey over the Shedun Pass dawned sunny and bright. "Disgustingly bright," thought Agannalo spitefully, while he gingerly made his way along the ice-covered roadbed. He had to dismount and lead the half-starved horse - drag him along, to be more precise. Unused to ice and snow, the old Gray trembled in fright when his shoes skidded upon the icy ground. The road was still steadily mounting toward the gap in the ridge beyond which the city of Shedun was supposed to be.

By midday the rocky slopes on both sides of the road became level with it, and Agannalo stopped to observe his surroundings. Squinting in the sun, he looked around. The view from this highest point of the Shedun Pass proved spectacular, even to his poor nazgul eyesight. To the South-East, the white mass of Mount Gram rose almost to the very skies, white and glimmering like the fang of some giant carnivore. Beyond it stretched the endless chain of the Hithaeglir, its peaks topped with snow. Agannalo turned slowly around. Behind him, to the south, was the valley of the Mitheithel with its uncounted tributaries looking from this height like the finest net of silver threads over auburn hair. While to the South the leaves were still yellow and red, to the North the trees stood with bare branches. There lay a realm of ice and snow - Angmar, his Captain's new abode.

To the North Agannalo could make out the wide valley of the already frozen Angsuul, the river that took its sources in the glaciers south of Gundabad and flowed into the Ice-Bay of Forochel, far to the North-West. But what startled him was the number of large and small towns scattered all over the valley. Numerous smokes indicated the presence of smaller villages and farms. On the Second Age map that Agannalo had copied in Khand, this land was shown as empty and barren. Now, with the advent of his Captain, that was certainly not the case anymore.

Agannalo's gaze wandered further and he swore under his breath. What he had taken for a tall rock on his right was in fact an upper tier of a watch-tower overlooking the road. With the Sun right in his eyes he had almost missed it. So, unlike with Rhudaur, the border of Angmar was guarded. Well, that was no wonder with his Captain in charge... Annoyed, and not wishing to answer awkward questions, Agannalo turned to leave quietly the way he had come, to wait till nightfall and then try to sneak past the tower. But he soon found out that the tower was not blind. He had hardly taken a few steps when he saw that his retreat was cut off by soldiers issuing from some hidden tunnel in the rock. He was trapped.

Trying to seem unperturbed, Agannalo turned North again. A group of horsemen in black-and-red livery appeared from behind a sharp bend on the road and rode toward him.

"Hail, stranger," the foremost rider called to Agannalo. "What is your name and business in the land of Angmar?"

"My name is none of your business," Agannalo replied irritably. "I am riding to Carn-Dum to see ...a relative, and I wish to stay in Shedun overnight."

The guards visibly tensed at his impertinence and exchanged glances. "Come with us, then, and talk to the Lieutenant of the Tower!" the head of the patrol replied.

Agannalo hissed in irritation, but complied. There was no denying the order. He was surrounded and could not escape without doing some serious damage to his Captain's men.

***

As Agannalo was led forward by the corporal in charge, the other guardsmen guided their mounts to follow behind him. They had not ridden very far when Agannalo beheld the gatehouse of the south tower of the Shedun fortress looming before them. Behind it stood the high tower itself. Gazing down upon them from one of the lower turrets stood a tawny-skinned man. He was an officer by the looks of his garb, with a red fox cape thrown around his shoulders for added warmth.

"Likely a Southron who has never become accustomed to the cold Northern winters," Agannalo surmised.

Halting his horse before the drawbridge which spanned a deep, turbulent mountain stream, the corporal called to the gatehouse, "We have taken a prisoner! Permission to pass and see the Lieutenant commanding the tower!"

"Granted," came a voice from the other side, "but you will have to wait to see the commander!"

With a great creaking and groaning of the cogs, chains and mechanisms of the windlass, the great drawbridge slowly swung down across the chasm. Simultaneously, the portcullis, bristling with fierce metal spikes resembling the teeth of a dragon, was hauled up with a loud groan of machinery. Frightened of the noise and his new surroundings, Agannalo's steed perked his ears up, every sense alert. Becoming angry at the obstinate horse, Agannalo touched his heels to the horse's sides, but the beast balked when it heard the hollow sound under its hooves. Agannalo sharply tapped the horse's flanks with his riding crop. Not expecting the sudden sting, the horse plunged forward, hit the bridge with hooves skidding and went down on its knees.

Reins in his hand, Agannalo was off the saddle before the horse's body ever hit the bridge. Not bothering to conceal their guffaws, the guardsmen watched him as he took the crop and slapped the horse's hindquarters several times.

"Up! Up!" Agannalo commanded harshly, and the frightened beast struggled to its feet.

"Best lead your mount the rest of the way, stranger. He seems to be a skittish nag," the corporal barely hid his smirk.

Once past the gatehouse and inside the courtyard, the corporal and two other guardsmen dismounted, while the other guards rode away. Directed to turn his mount over to a groom, Agannalo was motioned inside the building by the grim-faced corporal and directed to an audience chamber, where they were kept waiting for over an hour.

"This way," a red and black liveried guardsman directed as he opened the hallway door which led to another chamber. "Lieutenant Hyarion will see you now."

Seated at the great table before him was the man whom Agannalo recognized as the officer he had seen earlier, who had scrutinized him from the tower. The lieutenant returned his officers' salutes with a brief nod. To avoid contention, Agannalo bowed stiffly.

"Sir, my men and I found this fellow on the road. He refuses to give his name or say where he is from. When asked to state his business, he will tell us only that he is going to Carn Dum. He requests permission to stay in Shedun tonight. We thought it best to bring him to see you, and you decide how to dispose of him."

A broad-shouldered man of slightly above average height with a lean body that reflected a life spent outdoors, the lieutenant pursed his lips. A dark-haired man of mid-years, thin-faced, with a high, arrogant aquiline nose, eyes so brown they were almost black, eyebrows which met in the middle, and lips which were both sensual and cruel, Lieutenant Hyarion's appearance betrayed an origin not of the West. He looked down his nose at Agannalo as though he were a slug or a leech.

"It is a irregular, most irregular, when a man will not tell his name," he stated in an accented nasal voice. "Those who are reluctant to reveal their doings tend to make us suspicious of their intentions."

"I have already explained that I am on my way to Carn Dum to visit relatives," Agannalo said. Though he had taken an instant dislike to the man, he held his temper.

"Stranger, that is not quite good enough. I do not like your insolent manner and the way you are staring at me. Yes, I saw that mocking look," Lieutenant Hyarion's voice said softly, an implied threat behind his words. "Have you never seen someone from the South before?"

"Yes, of course," Agannalo replied, disliking this arrogant underling more with each passing moment. He added sardonically, "As a matter of fact, I came from Far Harad."

At that, the Southron's eyes bulged and he sputtered angrily. "Are you mocking me, straw-head? You think I am a fool? The men in Far Harad are swarthy or outright black, and you are as pale as a maggot! I have seen the likes of you - horse boys of Rhovanion. Perhaps your father was a Tark, as you are quite tall, but I bet your mother was a straw-head whore!"

"It seems you are telling me your own story, Southron," Agannalo hissed back. "I gather your own dam was a Haradi harlot. But not everyone is as baseborn as you are."

Hyarion jumped to his feet, the knuckles of his hand white on the hilt of his scimitar.

"You will regret these words, stranger! Perhaps you have never heard of me before, but in such a backward place as this, I would expect that. Perhaps you never heard of my father, the Lord Balakuzir of Umbar? My mother was a princess from further to the interior. She was fond of telling me the way that her people have of encouraging someone to talk." His eyes cold, his lips smiling, Lieutenant Hyarion allowed the words to sink in.

"They put them out in the heat of the desert, bury them up to their necks in the sand, and let their brains bake out. Sometimes they will pour honey all over their faces and let the ants go to work on them. I learned much from my mother's people." He smiled. "Perhaps after you have tarried with us a while, we might convince you to be more...ahhh..." he paused, 'talkative.' Reflect upon it a while. I am sure you will see reason."

While the Southron had been talking, Agannalo's hot anger abated and slowly turned to cold hatred. Unbeknownst to him, Lieutenant Hyaron had narrowly escaped violent death or something far worse. But he was still in for the shock of his life. Agannalo smiled sweetly.

"Oh, noble Lieutenant, your hardly veiled threats made me see reason," purred Agannalo much like a sadistic cat would address a cornered mouse. "I decided to become talkative and to reveal my identity...." He paused for dramatic effect.

"My name is Silmadan, which means, for your instruction, the Jewel of Mankind." At this the Southron snorted, but Agannalo's smile only widened. "And the relative I wish to see in Carn-Dum is your King. I am his Majesty's nephew. My mother was your King's sister, not a Rhovanion whore."

For a few seconds, Hyarion stared incredulously at Agannalo, then burst out laughing. "Silmadan, the Jewel of Mankind, the nephew of the King? What absurdity is this? Not only are you an impertinent knave, but you are a lying impostor! To my knowledge, the king has no nephew!"

Agannalo stood aghast. He thought he had the Lieutenant cornered, but this man proved a bigger fool than he had first presumed... In such a situation any courtier from Armenelos would have been groveling at his feet begging for forgiveness! But the Southron was as single-minded and as thick-skinned as a rhinoceros!

Meanwhile, Hyarion continued. "Perhaps you have been sent here to spy upon us, or maybe you have been hired to assassinate the King. However, no spy or hired killer would be so bold or so foolish as to ride up on an old plug and claim that he was the King's nephew! Instead, I think you are a madman." He smiled maliciously at Agannalo. "Whatever you are, I grant you your request. You will go to Carn Dum - but in chains!" His breath coming faster, Hyarion's brown eyes glowed with triumphant excitement.

"Guards! Disarm this man!"

As in a bad dream, Agannalo watched helplessly while the grinning guards got hold of his sword and dagger and started searching him in earnest. In all his long years he didn't remember being searched - ever - and he didn't like the experience one bit.

But what could he do? If he killed the guards, he would have to kill Hyarion as well and the man was likely high in his Captain's favor. And then he would have all the garrison against him. Agannalo couldn't stand against such odds without turning to powerful sorcery. And using terror and Black Breath so openly would blow not only his cover, but his Captain's as well... Agannalo was pretty sure that even in Angmar no one knew his Captain's true identity - yet.

It was no way to arrive in Angmar with such a bang. From the start, Agannalo was not completely sure of his Captain's welcome. He planned to come to Carn-Dum quietly at night, see the Captain and ask for hospitality. Now he was forced to call himself the King's nephew - without the King's permission. Enough already to make his Captain mad - even without wiping away the garrison of Shedun.

"That is what happens when you tell the truth!" he thought bitterly. For he had told Hyarion the truth - he was indeed Silmadan, or more precisely "Silmatan" in Quenya, and he did come all the way from Far Harad and he was indeed the King's relative! Not exactly a nephew, but a third cousin twice removed on his mother's side and a fourth cousin once removed on his father's side - anyway the closest living relative his Captain had. Well... not exactly living, but...

"Look at this, My Lieutenant!" cried one of the guards, producing a small leather bag with a collection of tiny bamboo tubes. Each contained a poisoned needle of some plant and could be blown out at a considerable distance. "Have you ever seen such like?"

"Black savages from the Far South use them. How could this straw-head get those, I wonder? I bet he is an assassin sent by our enemies! Is there anything else?"

"Aye, Lieutenant," the guard went on, "this man is like a walking armory! Besides the sword and dagger on his belt, we have found hidden weapons from his cloak to his boots!" The guards placed one dagger after another on the table, the blades and sheaths clanking together. "These two wicked curving ones, crafted in the Eastern fashion, were found under his tunic, while the two wide, flat-bladed ones were discovered strapped to his back and shoulder. He wears this large leaf-bladed dagger strapped to his right thigh. And this one from his cloak must be worth a king's ransom..." A guard triumphantly held up a small curved dagger with three large emeralds on the hilt and another at the pointed end of the sheath. Both the sheath and the hilt were gold and studded with glittering diamonds.

Lieutenant Hyarion looked at the jeweled dagger with eyes gleaming almost as brightly as the diamonds. "Not only is the knave an assassin and a murderer, he is also a thief! A rascal such as he never obtained this treasure by honest means!"

Incredulous at the gross stupidity of Lieutenant Hyarion, Agannalo was so angry that he was ready to destroy this pompous officer and all his underlings. If he gave into his urges and did such a thing, though, the king would be furious. "It is a gift from my uncle," he said calmly.

"A gift!" the lieutenant laughed mockingly. "You insult my intelligence if you think that I would believe such a thing! You have murdered the owner and stolen his dagger! I am hereby confiscating this treasure and the rest of your weaponry. All will be sent North, and His Majesty can deal with the matter." The lieutenant turned his gaze back to the guards. "Surely there can be no more!"

"Still more," the guard shook his head. "Here are two small knives from his boots and then there is this..." The guard gingerly held out a small narrow dagger in a plain black leather sheath. The handle was covered with intricate runes. There seemed to be a faint pale light emanating from the dagger.

Agannalo found his voice. "You better keep your filthy hands away from it! Or you will rue the day you were ever born!"

"Corporal, ignore that raving madman! Give that dagger to me!" the lieutenant demanded.

"Yes, sir," the incredulous guard demurred, handing the hilt to the lieutenant.

"You are warned ..." Agannalo hissed, but the Southron ignored him.

"A strange weapon," the lieutenant murmured as he unsheathed the dagger and held the blade close to his face, bemused by the pale glow. "Quite sharp, no doubt." He reached out his forefinger to touch the edge, but his attention was distracted by a question from a guard.

"But the prisoner, sir?" the guard reminded him.

"Chain the strawhead in the dungeon! In the morning, he is to be taken under guard to Carn Dum! I am sure the King will be quite amused when he sees him!"

[Gordis]

Chapter 14. Encounters on the Road

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road south of Brochenridge, morning of November 4, 1347
Written by Rian and Serenoli
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Oh, come on - stop worrying about tactics and defensible positions. Let's meet these dwarves - it will be fun! What does it matter if we die, anyway? We've wandered in this world long enough, that's for sure! "

Tyaron had to smile at his friend's comment. He was right - as elves from the ancient city of Gondolin, destroyed long ago by the malice of Morgoth, they were among the oldest inhabitants of Middle Earth. They had seen many things in their long years, and had set out from Rivendell several months ago to see more ... and to bring back tidings of what they had seen.

Tyaron was the more reflective of the two; Alagos was more "hasty", as the Ents would say. Alagos tended to irritate Ents, as he would be up and on his feet with an idea to follow while the Ent was still at the beginning of a (long!) sentence, while Tyaron would sit for days at a time listening to their thoughts, the sun and the stars wheeling overhead as time flowed by.

And Alagos the impatient had gotten the itch to see new things again, so they were off. They had been best friends since childhood, and that, as well as the pleasure of being with someone who knew your birth-language and the place you grew up, in a world where these things were just far-off memories if they were even remembered at all, was the reason they still liked to travel together.

Tyaron lay back with his hands behind his head and started to sing softly in the ancient language of the city of Gondolin that few in Middle Earth now knew. An onlooker, hearing the unknown words sung in the mysterious and beautiful language, would have guessed that it was a solemn song, perhaps about some long-ago sorrow or love, but it was in fact a comic song that Alagos had composed, while a young child in Gondolin, about dwarves and their oddities.

Alagos smiled; he had won. He extended a hand to Tyaron, pulling him up off of the ground, and they walked onto the road in front of the company of dwarves, their hands extended in front of them in a gesture of peace; Tyaron with a solemn, alert expression in his bright eyes, and Alagos unable to keep a smile off his elven-fair face.

***

Gere could not stop from gasping - it was so sudden, so uncanny the way the elves suddenly appeared before them; it was frightening... much the way her nightmares had run in the past few days.

There were two of them; their hands were before them, gesturing the dwarves to stop... or was it a gesture of peace? One of them smiled, however, and Gere took heart from that. Hroim came forward, and spoke for them. Suspicion was etched across every dwarf-face but his; the memory of the last stranger they had encountered fresh in their minds, many hands felt for the axe resting comfortably at the waist. Gere herself drew little comfort from the cold steel but she fingered it all the same, ready to pick it up if necessary.

"Greetings, strangers," said Hroim in his deep voice, "I see you come in peace. I am Hroim, leader of this tribe, and I speak for them."

This was more or less a friendly greeting by Hroim, so the other dwarves let their hands slide to their sides. If he was going to be friendly, they would emulate him. The smiling elf said, "I am Alagos and this is my friend, Tyaron. We come from Rivendell... that is to say, that was our last home. For months now, we have been wanderers and travellers."

"So have we." Hroim had travelled much in his youth, and had seen much more of the world than many others in their tribe, which explains, perhaps, why he was so much readier to be friendly with them. He did not feel the same cold from these two that he had felt from the other elf. Their was a brightness about their eyes, a sincerity about their smiles, and they professed to have been at Rivendell. They may have heard much news of the world in that place, or during their travels. He called for a halt, and invited the elves to partake of dinner with them, which they graciously accepted. There was some small grumbling - his son, Truin, in particular, did not look pleased, but they did not complain.

Gere watched them eating from a safe distance, hardly hungry herself. The serious-looking elf - Tyaron, that was his name - he and Hroim were deep in some tale or other. Where was the smiling elf, Alagos? He must have gotten up when she hadn't been looking. She got up from the log she was seated on, and nearly fell back again when she saw Alagos standing beside her.

"Forgive me, did I startle you?"

"No." She looked straight at him, to show she was not afraid of him. Hmmm... he did not look so frightening close up.

"I have been observing you for some time, but I thought you knew I was here, too."

She did not reply to this. She had just remembered that she had to speak in a gruff voice around him, even though there was the beard on her chin - after all, the beard was nowhere near as fine as what most dwarves had, but the fact was, no one was willing to sacrifice quite so much of their own beards to give her a convincingly fake one. Still, as long as she spoke gruffly, and looked threatening, it ought to work.

"May I ask you something? I do not even know your name, so it is probably rude of me to ask such a question, but I have lived many, many years and I have never yet had the oppurtunity to ask it."

"Ask away, lad," she said in as deep a voice as she could manage.

"Is that a real beard? I mean, I am not insulting it, it is a very fine beard indeed. But do dwarf-women really have beards?"

Gere blushed. Why did these elves have such a penchant for penetrating her disguise? She really needed a better one, it was just not good enough.

"You ask grave secrets of me. I can only answer if you make me a promise."

His lips twitched, but he kept his composure.

"You can not tell anyone you... well, that you found out I am a woman. I do not know how it is amongst elves, but if the others think my disguise is insufficient, they may ask me to stay in a wagon the entire journey."

"You have my promise, lady. But... you answered my question in asking my promise. For you are a woman, are you not? And that beard is not yours, as you owned it to be a disguise."

"Oh. I suppose I did. But then, I only answered your first question. Maybe some of us have beards.... or maybe they don't. Maybe I am too young to have grown one yet. You have promised not to divulge what you found out on your own - but I don't know if I should tell you any more."

He was quiet for a few minutes. Then he asked, "Why are so many of them afraid of us? Or so distrustful? Your chief talks heartily enough, but I have seen so many unfriendly glances and mutters that I do not know what to impute it to - besides the old causes, that is, but this seems far beyond that."

"I cannot help being both fearful and distrustful myself. You are only the second elf I have met, and the first we met was ... so unlike you. He looked the same - I mean, he had golden hair and blue eyes, not like you - but he was just as tall and slender, and the thin, chiselled features. A beautiful harp slung on his back. But... there was something else about him. Something that called to mind rot and death. And you are full of life. There is that difference between you and him. And yet, when I see you, suddenly - I see him in you, and I forget all the differences and fear is near at hand." Her voice was almost a whisper. Suddenly she realised to whom she was spilling her thoughts. "I have said too much, and maybe it makes little sense to you. It is the answer you seek, however."

Alagos looked thoughtful. "But it is an answer that raises ten more questions!" he finally responded, laughing, as Tyaron came up and bowed respectfully to Gere.

"I advise you to escape while you can, for each of the additional ten questions will raise ten MORE questions!" he said to Gere in a solemn voice, but with a smile ("he CAN smile!" thought Gere). Alagos was right, thought Tyaron; this was interesting ...

Gere decided to take Tyaron's advice; a little elf went a long way for her, and she wanted to get back to her friends. She gave a polite nod of her head to the elves, which they returned, and went off to find Truin.

"I have news, brother," said Tyaron, reverting back to their native tongue so as not to be overheard.

"So do I! Strange news," said Alagos thoughtfully, his eyes following Gere as she disappeared into the crowd.

"Hroim has told me ..." began Tyaron, but he was interrupted by the arrival of two dwarves leading small ponies.

"Here are your mounts," they said gruffly, their eyes trying to take in everything about the elves without appearing too curious.

Alagos turned around and covered his face with both hands as he feigned a violent coughing fit, trying to stifle the wild burst of laughter that had leapt up inside of him at the vision of Tyaron riding a dwarven pony. Tyaron stepped in front of Alagos and took the ponies, thanking the bearers graciously.

"I thought elves weren't supposed to get sick," said the dwarf to his friend as they walked back to Hroim. The other dwarf merely shrugged his shoulders; he had no idea why their leader had agreed to let the elves join their company, but that wasn't his concern. Right now, he was deciding how to redistribute the baggage that had been taken off of the two ponies that had been given to the elves.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brochenridge, morning of November 4, 1347
Written by Valandil
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Gimilbeth and her party began to make their way on down the road to the south and west, Merendil led his troops back north, the way they had come the day before. If they went straight on to Cameth Brin, they’d easily cover in two days what had taken three escorting the wagons.

But Merendil knew they wouldn’t go straight there, and wondered how long it would be before he saw Cameth Brin again. Hopefully before the deep snow and bitter cold came to the land. But he was a soldier of the King, and of the realm of Rhudaur, and there was the matter of the Orcs along the road to deal with.

He didn’t know how many there were, or what their purpose. At least 20, he thought, and maybe even 50 – most likely looking for some farmhouses to raid before returning to the mountains. Although Gimilbeth would surely be safe from their reach, he thought it prudent to have sent the extra twenty men along with her. And the Count of Brochenridge had sent another twenty with him, on learning of the likelihood of Orc rovers about. It was best this way, thought Merendil. If the men from Brochenridge went with Gimilbeth, he wasn’t sure if Gwindor would command their respect – and they might be inclined to return to Brochenrdige from the Last Bridge – or even a day or a half-day out from their homes. But the men from Cameth Brin would stay with them, and Merendil felt he could handle the twenty with no trouble. And their leader, Barund, seemed like a good man - and Ormendur had called him his top scout.

It was good that Ormendur had agreed to send the men. But Merendil thought he could have taken the matter a bit more seriously. He had seemed so pre-occupied. Could it have been the loss of Nauremir? The man had other grandsons, and as a man of war, surely understood the times and the nature of life and death. Nonetheless, these extra twenty men brought his company back to a full 100. Whatever the size of the Orc band, he didn’t want to merely defeat it – he wanted to annihilate it! And the more men he had, the less risk to all. If the Orcs were few enough, or undisciplined enough, he might pull it off without losing a single man of his own! He had seen it done, years back, but hadn't pulled it off while in his own command. Two men to each Orc was a pretty safe way to pull off an extermination. And with 100, he could probably do that - or else have enough to split his forces two or three ways if the need called for it.

The six hounds would also be a great help. Unless the Orcs had Wargs with them, thought Merendil, checking himself. But no – and he could comfort himself with this thought, Wargs would have surely made some noise at nighttime, and stirred up the alarm all across the countryside.

So off they rode, 100 strong, all mounted, with the hounds at their horses’ heels. If all went well, they would reach the site of the hanging with plenty of daylight left to find whatever traces of the Orcs they could. If the Orcs were still around… he might be back in Cameth Brin by tomorrow night after all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the road between Cameth Brin and Brochenridge, late afternoon of November 4, 1347
Written by Valandil
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Captain Merendil!” called Barund from the top of the ridge. “You need to see this.”

Merendil took a last look over the remnants of the recent hanging; the cut rope, the marks of a heavy object being dragged over the ground, in the woods just off the road the grisly scene with what little was left of the hung thief, and not surprisingly, a few Orc bodies close by. They had done part of his work for him, he thought with a satisfied smile. Then he turned and headed up the ridge to join Barund.

When at last he reached the top, Merendil let out a low whistle. He was more fighter than tracker, but even he could read the unmistakable signs that Orcs had been there.

“Barund – good work! I thought the smell must have come from about this general direction, though the breeze was shifting a bit that day.”

“Yes, Captain,” replied Barund, trying to conceal the frustration of having been sent to look in a wrong-enough general direction twice before making this find on the third try.

“So…” continued Merendil. “Looks like more than twenty anyhow. What do you make of it, Barund? Fifty? Sixty?”

“At least a hundred, sir. More likely two or three times that.”

“Really now!” Merendil was honestly surprised. “Were they here for very long?”

“Less ‘n a day, I’d guess,” answered Barund, “about two to three days ago.”

“But they’re clearly all gone now,” said Merendil, his mind going back and forth between thoughts of having had so many Orcs over his shoulder two days back, and trying to keep his attention on where to go from here. “I suppose they all scattered from here, then, going different directions to disperse?”

“No, sir – that is to say, you may have observed that there’s clearly signs of movement about, but it appears just scouts coming and going, and keeping the perimeter, and the one excursion down to the stand of trees down there…” began Barund, “But after that, they clearly left this place all together, sudden-like – off west and a bit south.” And Barund extended his arm in a path that crossed the road a little south below them and on up the wooded hills beyond. “Straight as an arrow sir, sure as daylight.”

“Two days ago?”

“Yessir – two days ago.”

“Really…” and then a sudden realization struck Merendil. This was no accident - or if it was, it was a double-accident. An Orc band assembled right at this spot while his escort passed below two days’ since – and then making straight for some point that would cut them off further along. It seemed inconceivable – but he suddenly feared that his charge, the King’s eldest daughter, was in great danger.

After a few seconds to take it all in and order his thoughts, Merendil began bellowing orders. “Everyone down to the road! Assemble, men of Rhudaur! Barund, get your men down there! Sergeants, assemble the guard of Cameth Brin!”

The plans were quickly made. Merendil dictated a short note to King Tarnendur about the presence of an Orc band on the roadside, their probable attack on Gimilbeth beyond Brochenridge, and his own intended pursuit. Once finished, the man who took down the words mounted his horse and rode north as hard as he could, leading a spare horse behind. As the messenger sped away, Merendil thought, “Oh – I should have given him as well the note from the young wagoner to his wife – but it’s too late now. Anyway – better to get to his rescue than to notify his wife he’ll be away.”

Once more a sudden thought struck him. How was it that the commotion in the caravan started just as they passed the Orcs? That wagon driver seemed like such a trustworthy sort, too…

There was time to sort all that out later though, he thought as he swung himself into his saddle. Barund was starting up the other ridge, on foot, with his 20 men, and 30 of Merendil’s. That left two horses for each man still on the road. That was good – the moon was waxing toward full, so they could travel most of the night, if they and the horses held out. And Barund could follow the trail for long as well.

Still… Merendil knew there was little hope to catch up before Gimilbeth’s entourage ran into trouble – if trouble there was going to be. And in his heart, Merendil felt that trouble was coming.

[Gordis]

Chapter 15. The Uncanny Prisoner

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shedun Fortress, evening of November 4, 1347
Written by Angmar and Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Oh, yes," thought Agannalo as the guards pushed him out of the chamber and down a winding stair leading to the dungeon. "The King will be quite amused when he sees me in chains, no doubt. He will laugh at me... what a shame! But I still prefer him laughing than wrathful." He gritted his teeth and set himself to endure.

The cell assigned to Agannalo was dank and damp with a trickle of water dripping down one wall. Instead of a front wall there were thick iron bars separating it from the guardroom, so the prisoner was under constant observation. Hyarion took no chances. A fat guard, awfully reeking of garlic, put iron manacles and foot chains on the prisoner's wrists and ankles and chained him to a ring in the far wall. Abjectly Agannalo sat down on a pile of dirty straw and tried to calm down.

There was something good to be found in any situation. "At least they have not noticed my Ring," he thought. Had they tried to take it, Agannalo would have had no choice but to kill them all... and head back from Angmar the way he had come to wander alone and homeless through the lands.

The Ring, invisible to mortal eyes, was still there, on the middle finger of his left hand, and it meant that he could escape, if the situation became unendurable. The sight of the Ring helped him to regain, if not peace, at least some calm and composure.

Unfortunately, not for long. One of the soldiers assembled in the adjoining guardroom brought Agannalo's harp. The sound of tortured strings made Agannalo jump to his feet. Shouting curses, he rushed to the iron bars, but the guards laughed even more merrily, while one of them plucked the strings mercilessly, trying to play a village tune.

That was more that Agannalo could take. He fixed his eyes on the "musician" and muttered a Dark spell under his breath. "The Captain will understand," thought Agannalo. "There is a limit to anyone's endurance. The King will not miss this rascal."

The tune abruptly stopped as with some pathetic flailing of arms the guard sank to the ground. He thrashed for some time, struggling for breath, then went still. Dumbstruck, the others looked in awe from the corpse to Agannalo and back again. Nobody dared to pick up the harp from where it lay on the floor.

Agannalo returned back to his pile of straw. "This lout had no call to touch my harp," he thought, appeased.

***

After Agannalo was led away to the dungeon, Lieutenant Hyarion ordered everyone to leave the audience chamber. He had never seen another knife like it; he knew from its glow that this was no ordinary blade.

As he stared transfixed at the sheen of the metal, he felt as though he were falling through the surface of the blade. He was being pulled down, down, down, through a world of ice, filled with swirling clouds of misty vapors and stinging snowflakes. He kept falling and falling, until at last he saw the ground before him. It was stark and white, completely covered with snow, and right beneath him was a coffin made of crystal, its lid open and waiting for someone... who? And then in an instant he knew for whom it was waiting - it was waiting for him!

"Dire sorcery!" Hyarion panted, wiping his brow with his sleeve. "I have some knowledge of the craft, but this is far beyond my power! I will keep it, though, and find out its meaning." Carefully, he placed the blade back in its black leather sheath and lay it upon the table. He would take the pale blade and the emerald dagger back to his private chamber where he could study them.

His reverie was interrupted by a pounding on the door. "Sir," came the frightened voice of the Captain of the Guards, "please, I must talk to you!"

"Come in, man, and tell me what it is that has disturbed you," Lieutenant Hyarion said, an edge to his voice. "What now?" he wondered. The day had been a strange one, and he sensed it might become even stranger before it was over.

"Sir, I do not like to interrupt you, but there has been a strange occurrence in the dungeon."

"What?" Lieutenant Hyarion waited nervously to hear the answer.

"One of the guards took a fancy to the new prisoner's harp and was playing a tune to entertain us. Suddenly he fell to the ground, gasped for breath, twitched a few times, and then died! Considering as how he was only eighteen years old and one of the strongest men in the guard, it is unlikely that his heart failed him. That harp killed him! The thing is evil! No one will touch it and the harp just lies there near the dead man's body!"

His eyes wide, the lieutenant gaped incredulously at the soldier. Clutching his forehead, he was silent for a time as he considered what should be done. Not only was Silmadan a thief and an assassin, but he was also a very dangerous sorcerer. Who had employed him to attempt the life of the king? Who else but one of the three kingdoms of Arnor! Which one? Though he was confident that his own dungeon master could get the information out of the prisoner, he thought that the matter was best left to the king. Carn Dum knew methods of torture that would oil even the tongue of a stone statue!

"Captain," he finally spoke, "have the body of the fallen guard removed. At sunrise the prisoner is to be taken to Carn Dum under heavy guard." The lieutenant caught the apprehensive look in the Captain's eyes. "The harp, you wonder? Do not fear. I have some knowledge in spellcraft and neutralizing evil incantations. Have my horse saddled, for as soon as I notify my second in command and prepare a few things, I will be going to Carn Dum with you. We will soon see if this rascal is truly a kinsman of the king!"

***

The news of the strange new prisoner spread rapidly through the fortress. Within less than an hour after the bizarre death of the guard who had dared taunt Agannalo with his harp playing, everyone from the cooks in the kitchen to the grooms in the stable had heard about the incident.

At sunset, the jailer gingerly pushed a wooden bowl of cabbage stew through the bars and used a long pike to shove it closer to the chained prisoner. Wrinkling his nose, Agannalo sent it flying back. The jailer cursed but didn’t press the matter. “They are starting to learn to keep away from me,” the nazgul grinned mirthlessly to himself. He huddled in a corner and waited for the morning.

The only sounds besides the footfalls of the jailer making his rounds and the occasional laughter of guards as they played a game of dice had been the monotonous trickle of water down one side of the wall. At one point during the night, a large gray rat had slunk into the chamber on its nightly search for scraps of food. Seeing Agannalo, the creature had not tarried, but raced squeaking across the floor, seeking refuge in a hole on the other side.

As dawn approached, Agannalo saw the jailer and two guards walking down the hall and then stop at his cell. There was the sound of a key sliding in the lock, and the jailer, a fat greasy man with a bulging paunch, walked through the doorway, followed by two guards armed with spears.

"Enjoy your night?" the jailer squinted at Agannalo. "Now you're not going to like this, but there's nothing you can do about it! Give me any trouble, and you'll have to answer to the guards!"

Agannalo found the situation bizarrely amusing. At any time he wished, he could have all three of them dead on the floor. He allowed the jailer to pull his hands roughly behind his back and manacle them there. "Now you're going with us!" The guards threatened Agannalo with their spears and motioned for him to go out the door.

Once out in the stable courtyard, Agannalo saw his mounted escort of twenty fearsome-looking men. Many of them dark and swarthy, they were all armed to the teeth and appeared to be as ferocious as any criminal who might be found lurking on the docks of Umbar or in the more squalid section of any city of the east. Their black and red livery, however, was splendid, clean and unwrinkled, and their mounts were outstanding specimens of horseflesh. A number of the horses, though, were skittish, shying easily and giving their riders some difficulty. A few of the men lost their tempers at the obstinacy of their mounts, and, cursing, gave them smart blows with their riding crops before bringing the beasts under control.

Lieutenant Hyarion, already mounted on the back of his bay stallion, looked down his nose at Agannalo and then turned his head in the direction of the pack horses. Agannalo sensed that the Southron was gloating over the emerald dagger and the Morgul blade, stored safely away in one of the packs. Agannalo grinned. "The pompous fool," he thought. "At least he is still among the living, but with his ignorant recklessness, I wonder for how long."

A groom held the halter rope of a large, saddled buckskin gelding. The animal was young, no more than four years in age, yellow in color with splashes of white on its stomach and legs and a black mane and tail. Big and rangy, with placid though intelligent eyes, the horse had a slight bulge between the eyes which continued until it reached the nose. In appearances, the horse resembled a draft animal more than it did a riding mount. Agannalo knew, though, that such horses were usually tough and resilient, seldom getting injured, and oftentimes bold.

"Your mount," one of the guards at his side growled. "He is a lot finer animal than that old plug you rode into the fortress. Think you can ride him?" the guard asked without waiting for a reply.

Motioning to the groom, the man ordered, "Bring the prisoner's horse forward! We'll help him mount!"

The groom gave a tug to the halter rope, and the animal took a step, its ears pricking forward. As the horse drew closer to Agannalo, his right ear flicked forward, the left ear back. A tremble ran over the horse's body, then the animal balked, planting its feet rigidly. Embarrassed, the boy tugged fiercely at the halter rope, but the horse would not take one step forward.

"I cannot understand what has gotten into Prince this morning," the shamefaced boy bemoaned. "He is usually such a good beast."

"All right, you," one of the guards pushed Agannalo forward, "you are going to ride that horse if we have to tie you to him!"

The sight of the off-balance Agannalo stumbling towards him terrified Prince. The beast rose on his hind legs, pawing the air. The young groom, pulled off the ground, lost his hold on the halter rope and fell onto the cobblestones. Prince's feet came back down, and then with a kick of his heels, he galloped away across the courtyard.

"Catch that beast!" screamed the head ostler who had just come out of the stable. Then for the next fifteen minutes, the grooms and many of the guards chased the horse as it ran wildly around the courtyard before it was finally captured. As four grooms held Prince cross-tied, the ostler soundly beat the horse over the head with a long, thick stick. "He'll give you no more trouble now, and to make sure of it, I'll have him blindfolded!" the ostler said.

When calm had at last returned, the two guards hoisted Agannalo onto the blindfolded horse's back. Prince shuddered and snorted, but subdued and dazed from its recent beating, he stood steady.

Agannalo used his knees to direct his horse towards the head ostler who was still standing nearby. The man was apparently a barbarian – a stocky squat brute of a man. He jumped startled when he heard Agannalo’s whisper, venomous as a hiss of a snake.

“Make sssure my old Gray is well fed and well tended, osssstler… If I don’t find him hale and ssound when I ssend for him, I will come for thee perssonally, ossstler, and I will ssskin thee alive to make a harness for my new horse!”

In horror the man looked up at Agannalo, his watery blue eyes bulging in his ashen face. Unable to reply, he gulped and nodded many times, shaking all through. Satisfied, Agannalo straightened up in his saddle again. At least no woe would befell his old horse.

In the confusion of the departure nobody seemed to pay attention to this short conversation. Hyarion gave the signal to leave.

Soon the procession was trotting across the drawbridge and onto the road. Occasionally Prince gave a long suffering groan of protest, but followed dutifully behind a trooper who led him with a very long rope on his halter. For some odd reason that no one was able to comprehend, none of the troopers' horses were willing to get near Agannalo, and so it was decided it would be best to lead the steed on a very long rope.

[Gordis]

Chapter 16. Troubles ahead

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Woods north of the Great East Road, morning of November 5, 1347
Written by Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Private Saakaf slumped against the bole of a great oak tree and pulled the stopper from his flask of draught. Lifting the bag high in the air, he let the liquid flow down his throat as he listened to the sounds around him. Accursed daylight shone down through the trees, but the shade was deep here where the company rested.

Sometimes Saakaf just liked to sit and think, and there were many things filling his mind. The image of the beautiful Princess Gimilbeth was predominant in his thoughts, and he relived the one time that he had seen the haughty princess. "As fine a piece of womanflesh as ever lived, an ivory goddess too far above the likes of me," he reflected unhappily. The orc was totally enamored with the princess. As a matter of fact, this was the first time he had ever been in love. He had once had a mate, a fine, big, strapping she-orc, ugly as sin and with a temper that would rival that of a warg, but he had not loved her. The association had not lasted long, however, for she had been killed several years ago in a brawl that broke out with several other she-orcs. He seldom thought of her now.

Off duty during the rest period, he had time to muse, and he found his mind wandering to a scene several nights ago. Pizgal Durburz had been late reporting back after the scouting mission, far too late in Captain Ashuk's mind. After Saakaf had informed Ashuk about his suspicions that Durburz was cannibalizing the hanged man, the captain was enraged. "The greedy lard-gutted bastard! Absent without leave, is he? I know what he is doing! He's taking his fill of the corpse! He will learn he can't do that after he's been flogged thirty lashes with a cat-o-nine! He will regret that little feast! Bring him back!"

While the main part of the company had headed southwest, the captain had detailed a patrol of ten men under the command of Corporal Boshok to find the missing Durburz. Assigned as part of that detail, Private Saakaf had slogged off with the rest of the patrol. Never having gotten along too well with Durburz, who was known among the company as a bully and a braggart, Saakaf was looking forward to the task. It had been a while since any man had felt the kiss of the cats.

When the patrol found Durburz, he was asleep, drunk on orc draught, and engorged upon putrefying man-flesh. The sound of the approaching patrol brought him staggering to his feet, angry at being found, and feeling guilty at his breach of discipline.

"Durburz, you are under arrest!" Corporal Boshok hissed. "Throw down your weapons peacefully and come along with us! Maybe it will go easier on you!"

"I ain't done nothing!" came the belligerent reply, a common response of the guilty person who is not sorry at his fault and is only angry at being caught.

"Neglect of duty," Corporal Boshok said matter-of-factly. "Now quit arguing and throw down those weapons!"

"You're not taking me without a fight!" snapped Durburz as he drew his scimitar and rushed towards Boshok. The corporal had seen the menace in the other orc's eyes. Quickly jumping out of the way, he drew his own weapon as the draught-slowed Durburz charged by. He landed a light cut to the back of Durburz's neck, who roared at the sudden pain and then turned to face his assailant. While some of the orcs howled in excitement at the smell of fresh blood, others placed bets on which would kill the other, with the betting favoring Durburz as the winner. Saakaf, not a gambler, seldom placed bets.

As their scimitars clashed together, Corporal Boshok let the heavier orc drive him back, occasionally landing a blow to exposed skin. The draught had made Durburz clumsy and slow, and he soon began to show signs of fatigue. Those who had placed bets upon Durburz began to mutter.

"Too flatulent to fight, eh, Durburz?" Corporal Boshok taunted him.

"You will see!" screamed Durburz as he came charging and swinging his weapon at Boshok. Ducking as the enraged orc swung his scimitar over his head, Corporal Boshok brought his own blade up and sliced across Durburz' throat. Gurgling blood from his mouth and neck, Durburz fell to the ground, his limbs thrashing. Boshok finished him off with a piercing blow to the heart.

"All right, matey, you owe me a bundle," smirked an orc who had bet on Corporal Boshok. The orc beside him glared.

"I don't remember making that bet," the other snapped.

"You liar! You bet me half a month's pay that Durburz would disembowel the Corporal before the fight had gone ten minutes! You lost! Now pay me!"

"You filthy reneger!" came the angry voice of a nearby orc. "You're trying to cheat my brother! I heard you make that bet with him! Now give him his money or I'll cut out your guts!"

The dispute among the three orcs grew more threatening, and other orcs became caught up with it, with each one taking a side. In the ensuing tumult, Private Saakaf slipped away into the trees and watched from a safe distance.

When the fight was over, six orcs lay dead under the trees, while three were wounded, one seriously. Corporal Boshok had a wicked gash over his right eyebrow, and oozing cuts to his arms and legs.

"Let's get out of here," the corporal ordered.

"What about the dead? Are we going to salvage the bodies? Don't we have it coming to us?"

"Take what possessions of the dead you want and hack off any of the remains that appeal, but be quick. You never know who might have heard the screaming and moaning," Corporal Boshok ordered as he wrapped a rag about his bloody arm. "And Saakaf, cut off his head! I want it for a trophy! You others who aren't injured, whack off Durburz' prime cuts! We feast tonight!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, morning of November 5, 1347
Written by Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Gimilbeth and her entourage set out for the Last Bridge, it became apparent that their previous luck with weather had run out. The morning turned out to be one quite usual for the month of Hithui - wet, miserable, and chilly, with thick mist filling the roadbed to the brink. The horses had difficulty picking their way in this milky substance, but the old road built by High Numenoreans in ages past was well beaten and even, so Gimilbeth's party advanced without accident.

The previous evening they had reached the Great Road and taken shelter in a rundown watchtower near the crossroads. Gimilbeth sent everyone to camp outside as best they could and took possession of the only decent chamber the old tower had to offer - the quarters of the Warden. The man, however, did not seem to mind, awed by the presence of royalty and cowed by Gimilbeth's rather intimidating personality.

So Gimilbeth had a decent supper, a bath and a good night's rest in relative comfort, including her customary nightly green mask. Now, despite the weather, she felt fresh and cheerful. Also, last night she had an opportunity to take out her green velvet dress and try Tarniel's emerald necklace on with it. As she had hoped, it fitted perfectly - which cheered Gimilbeth considerably.

She nudged her horse closer to Gwindor's and asked playfully, "Tell me, Gwindor, do you have any idea why Merendil seemed so grim yestermorn? And, for that matter, why did he send additional guards with us? I guess the gruff Captain being both preoccupied and unusually nice bodes no good."

Gwindor smiled and shook his head. "Do not bother with it, my fair Lady, there is nothing to worry about. While we were approaching Brochenridge, Merendil imagined he smelled orcs. Can you believe it - orcs that far south?" Gwindor laughed merrily, more for Gimilbeth's sake than his own. "I bet the Captain is getting paranoid with too much campaigning."

Gimilbeth frowned slightly. She suddenly remembered Belzagar's pigeon and the vision of orcs she got when she tried to trace the letter with her magic. "I think it is not unusual to find orcs and even trolls in the Trollshaws. But hopefully, we are well past this place now."

"Quite so, my Lady," nodded Gwindor. "Anyway, we are strong enough to discourage any attackers." He guided his black horse closer to Gimilbeth's bay, took her left hand and kissed her gloved fingers, adding in a hot, husky whisper, "I wish most fervently for someone to attack us - then I will be able to prove myself to my Princess in battle!"

"A bad omen!" Gimilbeth's stomach suddenly went cold. "How stupid of him to call misfortune upon us," she thought.

As if to prove her true, one of the scouts suddenly materialized out of the thick mist in front of them.

"There is trouble ahead!" he reported. "A company of armed Dwarves bars our way. They seem unfriendly and ready to fight".

"Stay here, my Lady" - Gwindor instantly became stern and businesslike. "Make the standard-bearer advance. Let them see the Royal colors of Rhudaur."

Followed by the standard-bearer and two score of fighting men, Gwindor disappeared in the heavy mist.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, 1347
Written by Serenoli and Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Almost all the dwarves had soon forgiven the two elves for the cold reception handed out to them by Agannalo. After all, they had more than made up for any prejudices by dangling their long legs all over the ground from that morning till now... without grumbling. Gere had confided to Truin alone her conversation with Alagos, and he had decided they were interesting enough to talk with. And as he led the fashions of their little company, and as he had already been preceeded by his father, it was soon common enough to nudge one's pony near to theirs and engage them in conversation. It certainly lightened up a dull journey.

This morning, they found a new use for the elves. They had barely started the day's journey after a hearty breakfast when they found the elves looking worried beside their new ponies.

Truin told them confidentially, "If you fear riding them for another day, maybe we can excuse you. After yesterday," he paused to allow himself a grin at the recollection, "you would not be considered rude for doing that."

"I appreciate it, but something else troubles us." Alagos replied, his bright eyes on the road behind them, but surely even his eyes could not penetrate the thick mist that had settled down that morning. "Someone... well, a lot of someones.. are on the road behind us. They will be catching up to us soon."

Hroim, listening to their conversation, said, "Well, it could be nothing, or it could be anything. We'd best be prepared."

It was the sign for them to draw their weapons and to pull their ponies and wagons back to the side of the road. They waited, anxiously, ready for anything. The one consolation - no one smelled orc.

A noise of horses and silver armour came through first, and then the fog parted to let through around twenty men, led by a proud-looking man. The royal standard of Rhuadar hung upon itself with no wind to blow it up.

"Halt, dwarf. State your name and business."

Of course that is hardly the way to speak to a dwarf with thirty others standing ready behind him, but Gwindor's blood was running hot today. Hroim looked him up and down and took his time answering. "We are travelling to Tharbad. My name is Hroim, and I am the leader of this tribe."

Gwindor could hardly take offense at this, so he tried another tack. "The Lady Gimilbeth - daughter of the King of Rhudaur -" and a few other titles that quite slid past the dwarves, but which obviously proclaimed her importance, "is travelling this road today. You and your company will kindly move yourself to one side while we pass. She is in no mood to wait for the slow plodding of a dwarf, anyway." The last sentence was meant to be a mutter, but of course he made sure it was the kind of mutter that reached everyone's ears.

Hroim's face darkened. Before he could say anything, Truin spoke up, "What if we're not in the mood to wait out the slow regal tread of your lady?"

Gwindor paused for a second, trying to select the best of three replies that had occured to him. He had just rejected one as too obvious and the other as too subtle, when hooves behind him announced the presence of Gimilbeth herself.

"My lady, maybe you should turn back," he started to say. He was, of course, looking forward to the upcoming fight with the dwarves, just as soon as he managed to let off that very witty reply that he had decided on, and he did not want it complicated by having to look after Gimilbeth. Though a part of him reflected, that would be much more romantic, him slashing away with her at his back... and then she could see him in action, not just hear about it.

Gimilbeth’s voice cut Gwindor short, however. She pushed her bay stallion forward and addressed the angry Dwarves herself.

“Then, good Dwarves, perhaps you would care to join your slow plodding to our slow regal tread - so we could share our road?“ she asked with a pleasant smile. “There has always been friendship between the Dunedain of Rhudaur and the Longbeards of Gundabad. There is no need to change this now. I am Princess Gimilbeth - at your service and that of your family.” She bowed slightly in the saddle, her right hand on her breast as she had learned to do when dealing with Dwarves.

She has seen quite a few of them since she came North. Recently driven from their ancient stronghold of Gundabad, the homeless and impoverished Dwarves spread far and wide through the northern lands, seeking work and shelter. There were some who worked in Fornost, and twenty years ago a whole company of fifty came to labor in Cameth Brin on the construction of the New Palace. Gimilbeth had to admit that, despite their low numbers and diminutive stature, the Dwarves were outstanding masons, every bit as good as their reputation. She was ready to believe that their fabled prowess and resilience in battle were no mere tales either.

Hroim’s frown slowly disappeared, giving way to an uncertain smile. He took off his funny russet hood, bowed from the waist and introduced himself again.

“I am Hroim, the leader of this tribe of Gundabad Dwarves, at your service, my Lady, and at the service of the Royal family. We are now traveling from the Grey Mountains to Cardolan.” The other dwarves gradually let their hands fall from the axes at their waists and bowed, sweeping the ground with their hoods – blues, reds, greens, yellows and whites.

Gritting his teeth, Gwindor made a stiff bow. Inwardly he boiled. Why did women always try to spoil a nice budding fight? Oh, how he wished to hack these poor excuses for a human to tiny pieces!

Meanwhile Gimilbeth continued. “I am glad to meet a compatriot of Master Narvin who built the new Palace at Cameth Brin for us. He looked much like you, and he also had a russet hood – perhaps he was your kinsman?”

“Narvin is my great-uncle,” Hroim replied proudly. “He was one of the best masons of Gundabad. But he went to Khazad Dum about ten years ago and I haven’t seen him since.”

“If you meet him, please offer him my greetings and best wishes!” smiled Gimilbeth. “I repeat my invitation to join our forces, Master Hroim,” she continued pleasantly. “Forgive Lord Gwindor his gruffness – he was worried about our safety. There were reports of Orcs in the vicinity, so your company is welcome indeed if it comes to trouble. And even if there is no trouble, you are still welcome.”

Hroim muttered an excuse and stepped a few paces away to exchange words in his incomprehensible language with the other dwarves. Gimilbeth patiently waited. Her gaze wandered around the company – unlike among the team at Cameth Brin, here there were a few obviously very young Dwarves, with short, soft stubble at their chins instead of full beards. Excluded from the conversation their elders were having between themselves, all of the youngsters were staring at Gimilbeth with wide, curious eyes. Still there were no women or babies among the dwarves. “Do they even have them?” – Gimilbeth was uncertain about the answer.

At that moment, she noticed two tall figures, incongruous among the Children of Aule. Gimilbeth’s heart skipped a beat. Elves! Curse them! As if it were not enough to have to put up with Arinya’s eternal perfection and her nosiness back in Cameth Brin, here there were two male ones! She gritted her teeth and willed herself to remain polite.

The Elves came up and greeted her courteously, and after some brief civilities on both sides, disappeared again in the thick mist.

Tyaron and Alagos... that were their names. Noldor, both of them, and ancient too, if she were any judge. They said they hailed from Rivendell and were now going to visit Emyn Uial, beyond Fornost. It looked like she was going to have their unwelcome company for the whole journey. Ugh!

Meanwhile, Hroim returned and informed Gimilbeth that her kind proposal to share the road had been accepted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
High hill above the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, afternoon of November 5, 1347
Written by Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

High atop a hill above the Great Road, a scouting party of five orcs surveyed the road below them. Corporal Boshok, though still in pain from his wounds of a few days previously, had been put in charge of the patrol by Captain Ashuk. Boshok was lucky in that his wounds were not too serious. Unless a man were fortunate enough to be related by clan to an officer, he might be killed if he could not carry his weight in the company. Even nepotism was not always a guarantee of survival.

The men were under strict orders not to partake of any draught, for they needed their senses to be clear. Other orders called for them to build no fires, but that edict had been in effect ever since they had arrived in the south. Alert and watchful, they kept their eyes fixed upon the road. Any mistake, any slip up, and the whole mission would fail, and no one wanted to return to the north with that stigma.

Corporal Boshok's voice was quiet as he talked to them. Even though they were far above the road, sounds sometimes did strange things. It was always possible that the wind might play tricks and some enemy below hear them talking. Private Saakaf had heard about battles which had been fought just across a hill, but the men on the other side heard nothing, totally unaware that a battle raged close by. When Saakaf had been in training in the north, the Instructing Officer had a fancy word for this phenomenon, "Acoustic shadow."
Once when the officer had been lecturing, he explained. "Years ago, there was a great battle in progress, but a westerly wind kept the general commanding from knowing that his forces were heavily invested. Being in ignorance of the need of his troops, the general did not send reinforcements in time and the battle was lost." Saakaf had not completely understood this concept but he did understand enough to know that wind currents or topographical obstructions such as hills could play havoc sometime with sounds. However, Saakaf was merely a private and did not have to worry about such things. Officers did. What he needed to concentrate upon was the road below him, and the mission that had been given to him.

"Remember, Saakaf, that should any enemy forces be observed on the Great Road marching towards the west, you are to send one of the magic candles blazing skyward. Our other scouting post to the west will observe it and send word to Captain Ashuk and his company down near the bridge. Since you have had training with these amazing devices, you are entrusted with this duty."

Private Saakaf's chest filled with pride as he smiled. He and two others were the only ones in the company who knew how to deal with these strange fiery projectiles. Many thought the candles were pure "magic," one of the strange devices that the Sorcerer King in the north had developed. Saakaf knew better; the flares were nothing more than a form of fire that could be directed on a preset course. Saakaf did not have anything to be concerned about the flares yet, though. Everything was quiet on the road below.

[Gordis]

Chapter 17. Ambushed by Orcs

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, at nightfall of November 5, 1347
Written by Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gimilbeth peered into the gathering darkness ahead and surveyed the high rocky cliffs on the right, dripping wet now. This morning's fog gave way to small, incessant rain, cold and penetrating, a sort of rain that soaked everything to the core. She felt cold, wet and miserable and therefore her ire was steadily rising.

"How far are we from the Last Bridge, Gwindor?"

"I am not sure, your Highness, two-three leagues at least, I guess." Gwindor answered morosely - he was still sulking after Gimilbeth's affront in the morning.

Gimilbeth turned and tried to distinguish the forms of two wagons on the road behind them. She knew that the last wagon harbored her maid Nimraen, her two pages and her clothes, while the foremost one, driven by Callon, carried Hurgon and the two unwelcome Elves. She waited till the wagons finally came into view - and the Dwarves on their stupid ponies were riding right behind. Twenty Dunedain guards formed the rearguard. And all this procession advanced at a snail's pace! Curse the Dwarves! - she had never supposed how really slow a laden pony would be...

"I hoped to reach Iant Methed before dark" Gimilbeth complained bitterly. "They are slowing us down!"

Gwindor said nothing, but "I told you!" was written plainly upon his face. Gimilbeth's temper finally burst out.

"It is all your fault, anyway!" she hissed vehemently. Gwindor's eyes widened in surprise, but Gimilbeth wouldn't be deterred. "You made me angry this morning with your childish attempts to start a fight with those Dwarves. If not for you, I would have never invited them to join us in the first place!"

Gwindor swallowed and lowered his eyes. "As you say, My Lady." he replied calmly. He had learned by long experience that there was no contradicting Gimilbeth when her temper ran high. When angry, she was very unfair and oftentimes cruel. Those nearby only had to keep low profile and try to get out of the way.

"Leave ten men to guard the wagons and round up the others!" Gimilbeth ordered. "We shall gallop ahead with thirty men, and let the Dwarves and the wagons plod after us as best they can."

Gwindor shrugged his shoulders, but obeyed. He stopped the column and a scout was sent to give new orders to the rearguard. Gimilbeth waited, impatiently turning the ivory handle of her whip round and round in her gloved hands.

At this moment an arrow whizzed past Gimilbet's head, followed by a rain of others. The darkness to the right exploded with hundreds of hellish shrieks. Dark, twisted shapes poured from the cliffs down onto the road, shouting war-cries and slashing at the neighing horses and dismayed riders.

Someone screamed: "Orcs! We have run into an ambush!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, at nightfall of November 5, 1347
Written by Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

High up on the cliffs above the Great Road, Captain Ashuk's company of orcs lay in wait in the darkness and cold rain for Princess Gimilbeth's cavalcade to pass by below them. Captain Ashuk congratulated himself on how brilliantly he had planned the ambush. If everything went according to his expectations, Princess Gimilbeth would be in their hands very shortly. His last minute orders were passed down the line of waiting orcs, who received them with joyful expressions of maliciousness upon their faces.

The bowmen were ordered to aim primarily for the horses and kill or wound as many as possible. In the shock and confusion of plunging, screaming horses, the riders would be at the orcs' mercy. Unhorsed, it would be a simpler task to kill the riders. Then after the archers had done their damage, the lads were to rush down the hill. The orders were to kill everyone, save the Princess Gimilbeth and a few prisoners who would be taken for questioning. Any other women whom they might find were to be killed outright, for there was no time to waste in wild orgies. These latter orders had caused some muttering among the lads, but they all knew better than to argue with the captain. Captain Ashuk was known to have a fierce temper and would brook no insubordination.

"Now! They are right below us!" Ashuk whispered to the corporal beside him. Ashuk brought his right hand up and then slashed it down towards the ground in a cutting motion. At his signal, the archers unleashed a volley of poison-tipped arrows. They listened gleefully as the screams of the wounded horses and men below them gave proof that many of arrows had found their mark.

"You fool!" Ashuk growled as he moved forward and knocked a startled archer to the ground. "You almost hit the Princess!" There was no time to punish the careless archer in the way that he should be, though, and so Ashuk let him off with a kick in his groin.

"Attack! Attack, you maggots!" Ashuk bellowed as he drew his scimitar and charged down the hill. His men bellowed out their fierce war cries, feeling the heady rush of battle fury sweeping through their bodies as they smelled the scent of human and horse.

In the aftermath of the blistering rain of arrows, wild pandemonium had broken out through the cavalcade. Wounded men and horses screamed and moaned. Downed horses thrashed and men maddened by their pain tried to pull arrows out of their bodies. Nimraen screamed a long, loud, piercing shriek as she saw one of her wagon's horses go down with an arrow in its spine. She screamed hysterically as she heard the dull thud as another arrow embeded itself in the thigh of the driver.

Mixing in with mad confusion were the orcs' war cries. Both the soldiers and the civilians felt chills go down their spines as they heard the dreadful sounds of, "Diis! Azuluk, agh dik shatraug!" and listened in disbelief to the guttural chants and cries of the orcs.

"Az!" Ashuk screamed as he swung his scimitar and loped off the head of his first victim.

*** TRANSLATIONS

"Diis! Azuluk, agh dik shatraug!" - "Attack! Kill them all, but capture the witch!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, at nightfall of November 5, 1347
Written by Serenoli
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hurgon was taking a break from painting. Dangling his legs from the back of his wagon, he was talking with the two elves he had on board. They had both admired his painting volubly, which was a feather in his hat, for everyone knew elves knew more about art and music than most people. He was still putting on a bit of an invalid act, prompting Callon to look at him guiltily every now and then, and which meant he could take as many breaks as he could without feeling guilty himself.

A shout rent the air. "Orcs! Orcs! We're being ambushed!"

The elves sprang up, their hands jumping to their weapons. Sadly, they were in a pretty small wagon, and both of them fell back again after hitting the roof, hands clutching painful foreheads.

Hurgon reassured them, "Relax! There are no orcs. Its just that deaf driver of the cart behind us, he fancies he sees orcs at every turn."

His scornful laugh was cut short as a big and rather ugly face poked up out from behind the wagon. Two arrows flew behind him, one striking the horse, and the other hitting the 'deaf' driver. He fainted dead away at the sight of the blood running over his leg, and Hurgon was still considering whether he ought to follow that course of action himself, when a third arrow whizzed past his ear and hit the orc plumb in the middle of his forehead. The orc fell with a resounding thump, and Alagos, who had somehow managed to manipulate his bow and arrow in the wagon, pushed past him, followed by Tyaron. The wagon had stopped moving... turning back, Hurgon saw Callon had jumped off, and appeared to be fumbling at his belt.

Like a mother that tries to save her child from a fire, Hurgon decided at once that he needed to preserve his painting. He lunged for it, and rolled it up, and clutching it in one hand, and after discarding his knife (it was caked with paint) he picked up the heaviest paintbrush he had, and crouched as inconspiciously as he could. Unfortunately, someone skewered an orc right into the wagon, and the spear that came through narrowly maissed Hurgon. Screaming, he jumped out of the wagon.

Pandemonium reigned. Or was it chaos?

A huge orc came lumbering towards him. Hurgon screamed again and jumped... to his knees, and crawled under the wagon. The orc bent down, laughing as he tried to hit the painter - unfortunately for the orc, someone saw his huge bottom sticking out, and just could not resist sticking his sword into it.

Watching his own back so he could avoid a similar fate, Hurgon crawled out of the wagon, and saw the two horses that pulled the wagon. Inspiration struck. He picked up a scimitar lying on the ground, and slashed away the ropes holding the horses, and after a bit of pulling and pushing, he managed to get on top of one of them. Kicking his heels into it, clutching his painting to his chest, and waving his scimitar in the air, he set off in the safest direction he could think of - straight into the trees to the south of the road.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, at nightfall of November 5, 1347
Written by Rian
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tyaron listened to the painter talking, torn between amazement and amusement. In all his long years on Arda, he had never met anyone quite like Hurgon. The man had talent - that was undeniable. But for the elves, and for most men that Tyaron had met, talent seemed to go hand-in-hand with intellect. But in this case, the intellect seemed to be noticeable lacking. Or maybe it was just unrecognizeable ...

Alagos was enjoying himself immensely, and kept the painter going with well-timed remarks such as, "You don't say! Tell me more!", and similar comments in that vein. Tyaron started to lose interest, but kept up the appearance of listening while surreptitiously turning his senses to the scene that he could see outside of the wagon, framed by the canvas tent surrounding them. Suddenly the expression in his bright eyes changed ever so slightly; if Alagos had been watching him, instead of the painter, he would have stopped talking and gone on the alert.

Suddenly, a shout rent the air. "Orcs! Orcs! We're being ambushed!" Both Tyaron and Alagos jumped up, but unfortunately they were a little too tall for the wagon and sat down again, rubbing their bumped heads as they reached for their weapons, despite Hurgon's assurance that it was nothing. Tyaron had definitely sensed something amiss, and Alagos had seen Tyaron's expression, and from long experience with his friend, knew that something was up, and they weren't about to be caught empty-handed.

Tyaron senses had not led him amiss - two arrows flew by and found their targets, and man and horse screamed in agony. Then an ugly face peered into the wagon, and got an arrow in the forehead for its trouble. "The art museum is closed!" laughed Alagos grimly as he checked the situation outside, then leapt out of the wagon, another arrow already nocked to the bowstring. "Good shot!" Tyaron yelled as he followed behind his friend, drawn sword in hand. "Stay in here," he added to Hurgon, before disappearing around the corner of the wagon.

Tyaron saw that Callon was at the horses' heads, trying to get them under control. "Get over here!" he shouted to Callon. "You're going to get shot!" But Callon stayed with his beloved horses, trying against all odds to calm them down and even suceeding a little bit. Tyaron and Alagos had gone to the front end of the wagon, and visually and physically sheltered from the orcs coming down the hill by the canvas and the wood frame of the wagon, were working in tandem - Tyaron dealing with the orcs that had worked their way in close, giving Alagos room to shoot those that were coming up from farther away.

But all too soon, Alagos had to abandon his bow and take up his sword, for there were too many for Tyaron to hold off single-handedly anymore.

"Do you remember how to use your sword?" yelled Tyaron, jibing his friend as he slashed one orc in the thigh and then took out the orc next to him with a gash to the jugular as he continued the sword's upward arc.

"Pointed end out, right?" answered Alagos as he skewered one orc, then slashed another almost in half as he pulled the sword out of the first with a sideways motion.

"Only on Mondays," countered Tyaron, taking on three orcs at once and killing two of them, causing the third to flee and the rest to move back and regroup.

Suddenly Alagos, who was closest to Callon and had been keeping half an eye on him, heard the young man cry out and turned in time to see Callon grab his arm, and then pull an evil-looking, black-and-red fletched arrow out of his sleeve, where it had caught in the fabric. Alagos dashed out and grabbed Callon, pulling him back to the elves' position. He ripped Callon's shirt sleeve open at the torn spot with one hand and drew in his breath sharply. What he saw made him drop his sword and draw his dagger, crying out to Tyaron, "Cover me! Callon's poisoned!"

"I have been covering you, you poor excuse for a swordsman!" Tyaron yelled back, covering up his concern with more battleground dark humor, and moving to a more defensive position where he could cover the two men better. "Hurry, hurry!" he added urgently. But Alagos didn't need the admonition; he had seen the grim result of even a scratch like this one too many times.

Alagos had seen that Callon's forearm had a slight arrow scratch in it, enough to make the blood come, but that was not what concerned him; what concerned him was the unmistakeable (to the nose of an elf) odor of orc-poison, confirmed by the sight of a gooey black substance smeared on the shirt and around the wound. Speed was all that mattered now; if he moved too slowly, Callon would surely die. The poison was of the worst type - it spread quickly, but once spread, it brought on a slow, painful death. He only had a minute to get it out of Callon's body before it spread beyond recall.

"Hold still!" he said in a commanding voice, throwing Callon's arm against the wagon frame and pinning it down hard with his body as he took his dagger and, in one quick motion, made a deep, U-shaped cut under the arrow scratch, taking out the poison and the surrounding flesh. Callon yelled out in pain, but had the sense to not fight Alagos; the word "poisoned", along with the serious expression on Alagos' usually smiling face, had impressed on him the direness of his situation. Callon fought the urge to grab at his injured arm, and instead, moved his free hand the other direction and grabbed tight to the wooden frame of the wagon as Alagos flicked the poisoned flesh off of his blade with a snap of his wrist and bent over Callon's arm again, checking for more poison.

"Alagos! Watch out!" yelled Tyaron as a group of orcs made a rush for him and one got past, heading straight for Alagos' exposed back. In one swift motion, Alagos whirled around and threw his dagger at the orc. Callon's eyes widened in amazement as the orc went down with a dagger through his eye. "Got him!" shouted Alagos, letting Tyaron know he could turn his attention back to the orcs in front of him. "I don't like to be bothered when I'm working," he added to Callon with a quick wink as he looked for and found Callon's dagger, and then used it to cut some strips from his cloak. Putting Callon's dagger between his teeth to keep it handy for emergencies, Alagos quickly bound up the wound, which was bleeding profusely.

"Another one!" shouted Tyaron as Alagos was wrapping the wound. With an exclamation of irritation, Alagos held the bandage down with one hand and grabbed and threw the dagger with the other, again bringing down an orc, this time with a dagger through the side of the nose.

"Remind me to balance your dagger when this is over," grunted Alagos as he finished tying off the bandage. Callon nodded this thanks, his breath coming in ragged gasps from the pain, and then his eyes suddenly widening as he saw a fresh wave of orcs coming at them. Tyaron called out to them over his shoulder with a note of desperation in his voice, "If you're done with your primping, ladies, I could use some help!"

"Stay here, or you'll bleed too much," ordered Alagos as he picked up his sword and pushed Callon back against the wagon.

"Not on your life!" yelled Callon, pushing back, and Alagos smiled at him as they rushed together to Tyaron's side, Callon still gasping in pain. Alagos paused for an instant to retrieve both daggers, handing Callon's to him as he said, "Here, have it back - he's done with it now!" Callon took it, disgusted by the foul black blood all over the blade, but wise enough to not let that stop him taking it back. Following Alagos' lead, he quickly wiped the blade and re-sheathed it.

"Stay at Tyaron's side," shouted Alagos above the din as they joined the battle. "He's the better swordsman - but don't tell him I said that!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, at nightfall of November 5, 1347
Written by Valandil
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Watching from the rear, Merendil’s nephew Maredur could just make out in the moonlight the whole line of the train before him. The moment the shouts of the orcs rang out, and their arrows began to come down, the Dwarves dismounted from their ponies, each swiftly grabbing hold of a battle-axe, or some few a great sword, rubbing their thumb along the edge and smiling grimly at one another as they awaited the onrush. Except that one only stayed mounted – not their leader, but the others seemed anxious to protect him.

Then, to his wondering eyes, he saw that Gimilbeth’s page, Edelbar, had bravely jumped from the second wagon and was pulling on the left-hand horse to draw the second wagon right up behind the first. This was hard work because the other horse had taken a shaft and was in a panic.

“Dwarves!” he called out to them, and they turned to hear. “We must fight together or be swept away. Will you stand between the wagons and the attack?” The Dwarves nodded grimly, with one directing the mounted Dwarf to the opposite side of the wagons.

The arrows had done little among those in the rear of the convoy. The few that had found their marks were mostly handled by the chainmail of the Dwarves and Dunedain. Only a couple horses went down, but their riders pulled themselves free. One man had fallen, an unlucky arrow through his eye.

“Quickly, behind the wagons!” he called to his men, and they all followed him there. He had thought to order the group there and come dashing out to left or right to scatter the attack. But even as he rode forward, he saw the orcs fall upon the vanguard, and the havoc they wreaked with their halberds there. He also saw with what violence they fell upon the front of the train. “Gimilbeth!” he thought.

But before they could get to her, they first had to turn back the tide that was now upon them. “Men! Dismount! Archers, form up behind the wagons and fire at will! The rest of you, split up to cover each flank!” The ten archers assigned to the convoy’s guards were all in the rear. If they could get good cover, their steel shafts and bows would tell quite the tale on the assaulting foes. Two of his men helped Edelbar bring the second wagon up against the other – and one of them gave Edelbar a short sword. The wounded driver and the maid were hauled out, both directed to crouch down beside a wagon wheel. Maredur grimaced at the thought, but at least the man's convulsions would be out of sight from the rest of his men, and the maid may be able to give him some slight comfort in his passing.

The Dwarves were just now reaching their post between the wagons and the hills. Only the swiftest orcs had come among the wagons before them, and they paid for it now. Having dispatched their first foes, the Dwarves turned toward to await the following onrush of Orcs.

At first the orcs hit them hard and pressed them back, but the axes of the Dwarves were fiercely wielded, and quickly took their toll. An orc cried out, "Dwarves?? We didn't expect Dwarves!" before a loud "THUNK" ended his complaints.

Those from the first wagon had joined right in. Tyaron came out hewing deftly about with his sword. One of the orcs shouted, "Elves as well as Dwarves? Who planned this anyway?" followed by a "THWACK!" Callon got in some good blows, and Alagos had taken up his own bow at first, until the press of orcs forced him to switch to a sword himself. Maredur saw no sign of the painter, but had plenty else to think about.

The first rush of the orcs was finally turned back by the grim axes of the Dwarves and the deadly arrows of the Dunedain. The Dwarves were now hot for battle with the spilling of orc blood. Little harm had been done among them yet. All now saw how heavily beset were their companions in front, and how poorly they fared. They ordered up together and advanced toward the flanks of those attackers. The Dunedain archers fired on any orcs that stood far enough apart from the shrinking knot of Dunedain defenders around Gimilbeth – or any more orcs that dared come down the hill, though now their arrows were almost spent, and some had already drawn their swords. The Dunedain swordsmen advanced with the Dwarves, or covered their flanks.

[Gordis]

Chapter 18. Capture the Witch!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, 1347, after dark
Written by Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gimilbeth felt cold fingers of fear grip her heart as the pandemonium spread. She fumbled for the hilt of the dagger that she knew should have been at her waist, but her shaking hands failed to find it. Then her bay stallion neighed and rose on its hind legs, lashing at someone with its front hooves. Gimilbeth fell forward onto the horse’s neck and gripped the thick black mane with both hands, trying to remain in the saddle. Someone screamed on her right – a high-pitched wail of death. There were hoarse orc voices all around, shouting in their guttural tongue. Then someone gripped the reins of her horse and pulled it down onto four legs. She turned and beat the attacker on the metal helmet with her bare hands, only to find Elvegil’s contorted face looking up at her. The knight was unhorsed and likely wounded as there was blood on his face.

“Oh, that’s you, Elvegil,” she sobbed in relief.

“Yes, my Lady,” Elvegil’s voice grated. “And Gwindor is there, on your other side. Stay mounted at all costs and we shall defend you until our last breath.”

Gimilbeth looked to her left. Gwindor was there all right, still mounted and slashing away at the blood-maddened orcs. “Rally to me, men of Rhudaur!” he cried. More horsemen appeared out of the darkness, forming a circle around Gimilbeth. One severely wounded guard, now unhorsed, stumbled into the circle carrying the banner.

But the orcs were everywhere. They were coming in waves, covered in their own black blood, mouths gaping in horrible war-cries, red tongues lolling. They paid dearly for their boldness, but their losses seemed to bother them little – new attackers immediately took the place of those slain. It seemed the orcs used long pikes with hooks to drag the horsemen down. Gimilbeth watched in horror as one guard after another were unsaddled, thrown to the ground and torn to pieces by the snarling multitude.

An ear-splitting death scream of a horse drew Gimilbeth’s attention back to her left. Gwindor was lying under his fallen mount, helpless like a beached fish, while a fat red-eyed orc was slashing at him with his scimitar, trying to find a gap in his armor.

“Help him, help Gwindor!” Gimilbeth cried. It seemed her voice drew attention of the other guards, as, despite their own plight, several figures rushed to the rescue. They killed the orc and managed to drag Gwindor to his feet when a new wave of assailants came upon them, led by a strong ugly orc, probably the leader of the others. His red eyes were ablaze and his white-and black painted face was like a mask of death. He pointed at Gimilbeth with a bloodied pike and yelled: “Dik shatraug!”

Gimilbeth sat frozen staring back at the approaching orc when a heavy object hit her knee. She glanced down and screamed. It proved to be Gwindor’s severed head that bounced on the road leaving a trail of red blood in its wake. She felt a wave of dizziness cloud her sight. Striving to remain conscious, she gripped the stallion’s neck and buried her face in the black mane.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, after dark
Written by Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Captain Ashuk could smell the fear that rolled out over the young Tark like waves. The young man was actually trembling. The private beside Ashuk thrust his pike forward, ramming the point into the screaming man's eye. There wasn't time for even a grunt of approval from Ashuk, for the jubilant orc's tongue lolled out of his mouth as the sword wielded by another Tark sliced through his throat. Ashuk slammed his mace over the Tark's head, rending the helmet, cutting through metal, and digging out a trough of blood, skull shards, and brains.

As the man fell, the orc beside him speared him through the intestines with his pike. Another Tark went down in his turn, a look of complete disbelief upon his face as the pike point went through his mouth and came out the other side of his head. Slashing and thrusting, the troop beat its away forward, drawing closer and closer to their objective - the Princess. Gurgling bloody foam, another Tark went down to Ashuk's left.

The way ahead was clearer now, and with another savage battle cry, Ashuk led his troop forward, slashing through the last resistance. He could hear the terrified Princess screaming, "Help Gwindor!" They would help him, Ashuk thought maliciously - they would help him right to the next world! She was not far ahead of him now and more of the lads were coming up on the double.

"Az ta! Az Tark!" Ashuk bellowed, pointing to a man trapped beneath his horse. He heard the sound of steel connecting with flesh, and he smiled as he ran forward. There she was, right in front of him, the witch Gimilbeth, his purpose for being there! He would be the one to claim the credit for capturing her! He would get the glory! No one else!

"Dik shatraug!" He pointed to her with the pike drenched red in Tark blood. He could smell the fear on her, just like all the rest. Even royalty know fear, he thought with satisfaction. The haughty princess was afraid of him and all his lads with their fierce expressions and battle paint. She would learn to fear him even more!

"What a shame that no one will ever get to enjoy her except His Majesty. Curse the lot of the common soldier!" Ashuk thought regretfully. He saw her face and read soul-wrenching terror on those proud, arrogant features. Then she gripped her horse's neck and buried her lovely face in its mane. The Princess was cringing. Ashuk felt like bellowing out his elation.

"Princess Gimilbeth," he called out her name in Common Speech, "hear my name! I am Captain Ashuk! You will remember that name as long as you live!" Then motioning towards her with his pike once again, he barked out the order.

"Dik shatraug!"

And with a howl that would curdle the blood of the bravest man, a mass of orcs rushed towards her horse.

***

"Az ta! Az Tark!" "Kill him! Kill the Tark!" "Dik shatraug!" - "Capture the witch!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, after dark
Written by Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gimilbeth felt dizzy and her head swam. There were clash of metal on metal, curses and terrible cries all around her. Elvegil and the last of the guards fought desperately at her side; both were sorely wounded and leaned heavily on the flanks of her horse. The guard staggered forward a few paces to ward away three approaching orcs. He didn't come back, disappearing in the pile of bodies around the princess.

The orc leader bore down on Gimilbeth. "Flee now, my Lady!" Elvegil cried, moments before the orc drove his pike into his stomach. With the last remaining strength the knight beat Gimilbeth's stallion across the rump with the flat of his sword and collapsed on the ground spewing blood.

Maddened by pain and fear, the bay stallion sprang forward biting and lashing out with its front hooves, but the orc leader gripped Gimilbeth's trailing skirts and yanked her down. She felt the seams at her waist give way, the skirts being ripped from the bodice. At this moment her hand found the ivory hilt of her dagger. Without thinking, she bared the small weapon and, swift as a snake, lashed out at the sneering muzzle of the orc who held her skirts. She aimed for his left eye, but the brute managed to jerk his head away in the very last moment and the dagger ripped his cheek open, baring the hideous yellow fangs.

"Bitch!" the orc yelled. "You will pay for it!" Black blood dripped from his chin, but he held Gimilbeth fast. The bay stallion made another mad rush for freedom and the orcs parted like the sea before the beast's onslaught. The bay managed to fight his way out of the circle of orcs but he was already riderless. As for the princess, she was lying in a heap atop the wounded orc, her heavy damp skirts spread around her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, after dark
Written by Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Captain Ashuk could see the fear in the witch's eyes as she lay sprawled atop him. She would pay for her boldness in stabbing him with her silly little knife! He grabbed her wrist, twisting it viciously and shaking her hand until the dagger slid between her fingers, and enjoyed seeing the agony written in her features. He leered up at her as she grimaced and groaned in pain. Digging his fingers deeply into her hair, the tips of his claws skimming her scalp, he pulled her face down to his. Ashuk kissed her roughly, watching the disgust and terror in her eyes as his loathsome tongue probed between her teeth. Gimilbeth was nauseated at the foul taste of his mouth and felt as though she might retch if the kiss continued.

"You like this, don't you, wench?" he snarled into her ear. "Not so proud anymore, are you?"

Grunting, he kept kissing her, his leathery lips smearing drool over her face and mouth. The orc's bloody cheek oozed onto her skin and his giant paw searched over most of her body, groping her painfully with his talons. Then with a growl and a last painful tweak to her backside, he threw the princess aside. Rising to his feet, he picked up her dagger and thrust it into his belt. With a lecherous sneer on his face, he glanced at her once again.

"Princess Gimilbeth, if you weren't considered prime meat, I'd carve that pretty face of yours with your own dagger. Then, I would be oh-so-careful as I started cutting just under the skin and decorating your flesh with the marks of my clan. If you cried too much and didn't admire my handiwork like I thought you should, I might just cut your nose off to boot! You wouldn't be so pretty then!" Enraged at the wound in his cheek, Captain Ashuk glared down at the woman, his mouth twisting up in a snarl while he cursed her in a language harsh and guttural.

He turned away from her and started barking out orders in Black Speech. There had been a lull in the fighting at this end of the column. In places, the bodies of both man and orc were lying atop each other, the wounded and the living tangled in masses of bodies. Down the road the sounds of the skirmish still raged hot, but at this end, things were relatively quiet, the moans of the injured mingling with a few cheers from the jubilant orcs.

While the rain drizzled down in the darkness, the captain gave the orders for the return home. All those Dunedain at the front of the Princess' entourage were either dead or dying. The captain took the initiative in decapitating one young soldier and turned the rest of the killing party over to his lads.

"All right, men, there is little time to spare. We are all committed to getting the Rhudarian Princess back north, or die in the trying. I am naming Sergeant Ushdurz of the First Company as head of the rear guard. They have the honor of defending our retreat when we leave out of here." As those orders sank in, he turned to a gangling, long-armed orc, who had a cunning, vicious look in his eye. "Corporal Tharb, you are to head up the troop of ten responsible for guarding the Rhudarian princess on the return home. Tie her up, assign a couple men to carry her, and get going now! We will be right behind you as soon as we finish up here!"

"Aye, sir." Corporal Tharb licked his lips and motioned to another orc to help him. Together, they wrestled the struggling, biting, kicking and scratching princess down and bound her ankles and tied her wrists behind her back. Throwing the shrieking, squirming Princess over his shoulder, Tharb gave her bottom a mighty pinch and set off at a sprint at the head of his troop.

"Form on me!' Ashuk shouted as he lifted his pike high. The war horns were just sounding for another charge, when on the ridge to the east, a flare arched upward into the heavens. Captain Ashuk cursed. The flare meant two things: a party of the enemy was heading this way and Saakaf and the group of scouts would be moving towards the trysting place! Curse the luck! Ashuk thought. The knowledge that they might soon be fallen upon by a group of cavalry spread like wildfire among the soldiers. Ashuk scowled. They had been so close to complete victory!

The captain growled out a command which was passed all down the road - "Withdraw in an orderly fashion! If any of you maggots run, I'll hunt you down, and when I find you, I'll have you staked out spread-eagled and rip out your bowels! Now, steady, steady! Fall back! Fall back!"

The war horns blared out again, this time the call for retreat. Now there would be little time to take prisoners or collect booty. However, Captain Ashuk still had much for which he could be proud. They had kidnapped the princess, and there was still the opportunity to take prisoners and booty before the cavalrymen charge onto the scene. They would soon be safe up in the wooded cliffs to the north! Try as they might, no horseman could ever reach them there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road further east of the site of the ambush, November 5, after dusk
Written by Valandil
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Merendil's men had been riding hard - for a day, a night and another day, with very little rest. They had reached Brochenridge a few hours before dawn, just as the moon was going down the night before and had taken a few hours sleep there, only to get right back on the trail before sunrise.

Alarmed at the report of the large Orc band, and the possible danger to the King's daughter, Count Ormendur of Brochenridge had rounded up 30 more of his men to send forth. With the time it took them to make preparations, they had left only a short while before Merendil's 50, but being fresher - might be a good deal ahead. Brochenridge didn't have enough horses left for all Merendil's men, so their own mounts had to ride on with what rest the men had.

So far there had been no signs of trouble. There was very little sign of other movement on the road - tracks probably from Gimilbeth's party, from the 30 men sent ahead, and from some other party as well, but they had seen no other travelers all day.

Merendil hoped that he would be wrong about the Orcs - that they might catch up to Gimilbeth's party, traveling along in safety, and all share a good laugh at his concern. But each time that hope crept into his mind, his heart told him it was not so, and he spurred himself, and his horse, all the harder.

"Captain Merendil! Sir... what in blazes is THAT?" said the man next to him.

Merendil lifted his eyes and saw from the hills far ahead, a trail of flame flying upward through the sky. What the blazes WAS that, indeed? Some strange magic? No flaming arrow would leave a trail of flame like that one... nor could it fly nearly so high!

And what was that? Still further on now, barely to be seen, a second light appeared in the sky just like it.

Tired as they all were, Merendil knew that some mischief was at hand, and that the time for action had come. He raised his right arm high and held it briefly that all his men might see it and called out, "Alright now men... we must fly!" Then throwing his arm forward he drove his horse harder.

And on they rode, westward down the Great Road.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, after dark
Written by Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gritting his teeth, Lammir, the youngest of Gimilbeth’s pages, watched in horror how his Lady was brought down and maltreated by the savage monsters. Tears of rage ran down his face as an orc ravaged her lovely mouth… Lammir was helpless to aid her, as his lower body was solidly jammed between the ground and his fallen horse. He closed his eyes unable to watch further. Minutes passed, long as centuries.

“Kill them all!”

He heard the guttural voice of the orc commander pronounce his Doom. He opened his eyes – to see the struggling Gimilbeth being carried away uphill. The orcs prowled around slaying the wounded and mutilating the corpses. Lammir tried to lie as quiet as dead, although the horrible pain in his arrow-pierced shoulder made it next to impossible.

A clawed hand gripped his hair and jerked his head up. Pain burst in his strained neck and Lammir cried out, forgetting his plan to try to pass for dead.

”Yet alive, little tark-brat?” the orc sneered. “T’will not be for long.”

Lammir felt the wetness of the blood-smeared blade at his throat and mentally sent his farewells to his parents and to his poor Lady. He failed her dismally today…

“Afraid, tark-snaga?” the brute jeered, drool dripping from his chin. “And right you are - but what do we have here, eh? An arrow-wound! Har! Rotten luck, buddy, eh?... I have reconsidered, y’know - I will not cut off your pretty little headpiece, I will leave you to die slowly of poison on yonder arrow. You will squirm like a roasting maggot, you will wail and convulse, while it takes you… slow-like. Pity I can’t stay and watch!” Hooting with laughter, the orc spat at Lammir and swaggered away in search of another victim.

The boy squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to remain conscious. He knew that the orc had told the truth about the poison – he felt its slow fire coursing in his blood.

“Sweet Eru,” he prayed, “let me live long enough to tell the others about the plight of my Lady – and to sent them in pursuit, before it is too late for her.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, after dark
Written by Serenoli
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was an unfortunate obstacle in Hurgon's path to freedom. In front of his horse sprang two people fighting so fiercely neither had the time to pay any attention to Hurgon. For some time he watched them fascinated - it was hard to tell where orc ended and where human began, they were swirling around so fast - but one of them got too close and nicked the horse's leg, and whinnying in pain, the horse thrashed and throwing Hurgon off, ran away in terror. Equally, or maybe more, terrified, Hurgon ran after it, calling its name. His lucky charm strung around his neck to protect him from Gimilbeth's 'evil' spirit, was probably the only reason he was not skewered five times over in this mad dash, because surely one man can not have so much luck at a time.

A horn blared somewhere ahead of him. To the utmost amazement of the shouting Hurgon, he saw the orcs retreating. The closer he got to them, the farther they went back. He had never before frightened anyone or anything in his life - he had been content to be the cowardly one. And these mighty orcs, with their strong muscles and generally ugly faces (what bad luck for a race as a whole to be ugly, he speculated in some distant corner of his mind - it almost justified their hatred for everyone else) were retreating before him! Heartened, he waved his scimitar even more wildly, and screamed louder than ever, trying to think of some good battle-cry. He had no intention of fighting, however, and when something large stepped in front of him, with not one, but two scimitars bared to confront this fearless human fighter, his own scimitar flew out of his hand, and he turned tail and ran for his life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, after dark
Written by Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Captain Ashuk had just hewed off the sword arm of the reckless guardsman who had challenged him. As the man shrieked in pain and looked at his bloody stump in disbelief, Ashuk decapitated him with his scimitar, sending the head toppling to the ground. He licked the warm blood off the side of his blade and found the taste stimulating as always.

After the retreat had sounded, his lads began disengaging themselves from the enemy and falling back towards the cliffs. Though the fighting was at a lull along most of the road, there were still pockets where the hand-to-hand fighting was savage.

A fierce gash on his leathery face and a vicious looking wound on his right arm, a corporal appeared through the gathering misty darkness. Three other stout warriors followed closely behind him.

"Corporal Bidroi with a report, sir," the warrior panted after saluting.

"Out with it, Pizgal!" Captain Ashuk barked.

"As ordered, sir, the men are falling back all along the road in a more or less orderly retreat. I regret to report that there have been a few desertions," the soldier stopped to catch his breath. "There was some fierce resistance from those dwarves that our scouts had reported earlier, but I don't yet have a good estimate of casualties." The orc swayed slightly, dizzy from pain and loss of blood.

"None of the men are wasting time ransacking the bodies and collecting booty, are they?" Ashuk asked suspiciously.

"Not many, sir. After they saw the flare, they just wanted to break off the fighting and get out of here."

"All right, corporal. You need to do something about that arm before you bleed to death. Now get going back towards the cliffs. We'll be right behind you." As Ashuk watched the four men retreat, he heard a loud scream. "The accursed princess! That fool Tharb should have gagged her! If he doesn't shut her up, the Tarks will hear her bleating for miles around!" Another full-throated shriek cut through the night, but ended in a gurgling moan.

"Good!" Ashuk thought to himself. "He's finally gagged her! I wonder what His Majesty wants with a shrew like the princess! Must be planning to hold her for ransom. Maybe her father will refuse to pay and the king will be forced to keep her," Ashuk laughed raucously, remembering the wicked wound she had dealt him. "Or maybe he wants to use her in some kind of sorcery. That is all she would be good for! I hope he turns her into something that she would find repulsive, like a purple spotted lizard!" Although the orc was titilating himself with possibilities for the Princess' transformation by magic, he felt a shudder creep down his spine at the thought of sorcery. The idea of such wonders always made him feel uncomfortable.

Ashuk had never seen any of these sorceries himself, but he had always heard rumors that the king spent hours in his chambers devising marvels of alchemy and invention. His Majesty had been the one who had developed the marvelous blazing arrows which rose high into the air. Such things were beyond him though. It was useless to think about it. He was only a common soldier, after all.

"Never know when one of these workers of magic might decide that you would make a good candidate for their experiments!" All the lads felt the same way; they were fascinated by the concept of magic but feared it. Some of the lads even said that since they were of elvish ancestry, the gift would be with them, too. However, few had ever mastered any of the esoteric arts. They sensed stirrings of powers beyond themselves.

He saw eight of the fellows approach him. Their corporal had just saluted and was about to give his report when he bellowed out a warning. "Sir! Above you!"

Ashuk looked up to see a scimitar plunging downward straight towards him. The sight was enough to make him freeze in fear. He was unable to take a step as he gaped upward at the descending weapon. "Magic! Melkor pro--" he shouted. The words died in his throat as the soldier closest to him shoved him out of the line of the blade.

"Sir!" the private gasped in terror. "Swords don't come flying down out of the air like that! There must be a powerful shaman among the enemy, maybe even an elf!"

Ashuk blanched, turning a lighter shade of greenish gray. "Elves? The Rhudarians are now in league with elves? Come on men! Make haste! Let's get out of here!" the orc shouted in panic as he turned and fled, his men rushing behind him.

[Gordis]

Chapter 19. Methods of Cross-Country Transportation of Captured Princesses


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, 1347, after dark
Written by Valandil
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just as the contingent of Dwarves and Rhudaurian regulars drew almost near enough to engage the knot of foes at the front, the Orcs looked high above them and behind them in fear. Turning, Maredur saw a blazing light flying straight upward into the night sky - like a flaming arrow that left a trail. The Orcs murmured in doubt and began to lose heart; their defense seemed to waver.

Meanwhile, the allies were now near enough to see – that just beyond the line of Orcs standing in their path, more Orcs beyond were rushing about, stabbing, slashing or impaling all the fallen… finishing them off! Then... the rearguard fell upon the Orcs before them in a mad attempt to rescue their fellows.

With a valiant effort, they managed to win that part of the field, as Orcs were hewn by Dwarven axe and Mannish sword. But it was costly ground… and it took time. The Orcs had now withdrawn before them, and continued withdrawing still. One of them called out, loud enough for Maredur to hear, “No good tryin’ to kill ‘em all now – there’s too many left. ‘Sides, we got what we come for!”

Maredur called for torches now, and gave orders for a few men to search for survivors – and to find the Princess Gimilbeth, wherever she might lay amid the carnage. There was confusion among his men at first, finding torches, getting them lit, going through those on the ground before them – all the while seeing the mutilated remains of friends and comrades-in-arms. When a torch at last came forward, the first thing that came into view was the bloody face and fixed stare of Captain Gwindor - and it was only on closer inspection in the dark that they saw that his head lay there by itself.

There was more commotion off to the rear now. Apparently a band of 20 or more Orcs had been separated from the rest, and now tried to join in with the main body. But while the Dwarves advanced before the still somewhat steady retreat of the Orcs, Maredur led the Dunedain, aided by the two Elves, to stand and hold off the smaller group – and then closed with them. The main body of Orcs seemed half inclined to come to the aid of their stranded mates, but some confusion arose in their ranks at about this time – from about the place where the Orc who seemed in charge was. Then, the main group of Orcs melted more quickly into the hills, abandoning the rest to their fate.

The Dunedain pressed into them, while the Elves stepped out to cut off the escape of any to either side. Soon, the grim work was drawing to a close. But just at the last, Maredur lost his footing and fell over a body lying on the ground. The Orc before him pressed the advantage and got off a wicked slash and a broad sneer, before Tyaron relieved from the creature's shoulders the burden of its helm-rest. And then all was still.

Maredur’s sword-arm was badly wounded, but as he winced in pain, he noticed movement in the body beneath him. He rolled off it in wariness, then pulled the head up by its hair with his good hand. “Argh! The fool painter!” he spat, then slammed the head back down to where it had been. A couple of his men helped him back onto his feet and back toward the search among the fallen, while Hurgon lay still in his place, whimpering and moaning.

Reaching the scene of the slaughter, Maredur could see that there were no more living Orcs in sight. The Dwarves had already caught the few that had still been milling about, trying to strip the dead. In fact, that had started when the lone Dwarf still mounted lept down from his pony, took up an axe and sliced through the helm of an Orc intent on the booty of a fellow Dwarf. That had drawn the other Dwarves over, for by that time, the retreating Orcs could be seen no more, and the Dwarves dared not follow them into the woods. They should have saved a few for interrogation, thought Maredur – but he and his men hadn’t done that either.

A man came forward with a report on the search, and Maredur braced himself. It might now fall to him to tell the King of his daughter’s death… to bring her body back to him.

“Sergeant Maredur… all the men in the van-guard were slain. The only one still living is Lammir, page to the princess, but he has taken a poisoned arrow, and has but a short time left.”

“The Princess Gimilbeth, then?”

The man was silent for a moment, looking into Maredur’s eyes, “You had best hear it from the lad, sir.”

He was led to where Lammir lay, squirming and twitching on the ground in the convulsions of the orc-poison. He reached down and cradled the lad’s head in his good hand and asked him, “Young man… what happened here in the front? What is become of Lady Gimilbeth?”

Lammir coughed violently and choked between gagging sounds as he tried to speak. But at last he forced out the word, “Taken!”

Maredur’s face turned still more grim. As hard as would be her death, this was worse. There was no telling what the Orcs would do to her… may have done already!

“What… Did the Orcs do her any harm? Here in your sight?”

Lammir put forth his effort again, “One… with cut face… kissed her!”

Then Lammir’s eyes opened wide and he began breathing rapidly, violently, gasping for air. At last his breathing slowed, and then finally, stopped altogether. Maredur slowly laid his head back down on the ground and then closed the lad’s eyes. He looked at peace now, and Maredur thought that he would be proud to have a son like him one day, any man would – so fair, and so brave… but living still.

He took a step back and sat down upon the ground, while one of the Elves took to bandaging up his right arm. Probably 50 or 60 Orcs had made their retreat, at least. No good trying to follow them now. They had been gone a half hour or more, the moon wouldn’t last more than a few hour more, and his forces were depleated, weary, and mostly unsuited for following a band of Orcs up a trail. They needed Eryndil for a task like this! Of the 40 Dunedain in the convoy, only 13 still lived, 3 with serious wounds and 3 with lesser – including himself. Of 20 Dwarves, 8 had fallen, and 4 more were wounded. They still had 2 Elves and one wagon driver – and a painter! Maredur wasn’t sure yet about the other page and the maid… but they had one less princess than they’d started out with.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the hills North of the Great Road, night of November 5, 1347.
Written by Gordis and Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gimilbeth winced and cried out as a clawed hand painfully pinched her backside. The small, long-armed orc who was carrying her uphill was panting heavily, his red tongue lolling, saliva dripping from his open mouth. Once he reached the crest, the orc wavered, stumbled and dropped his burden on the rocky ground. Gilmilbeth screamed again - a high-pitched wordless wail.

"Lugurz, now is your turn to carry the blasted witch," the orc said, trying to catch his breath. "By Melkor's holy guts, she is as heavy as a sack of stones!"

"Aye, corporal Tarb." Another orc approached, seeming not at all happy to take over.

Tarb produced a dirty piece of cloth from his pocket. "Gag her first, lest she wakes the dead with her wailing"

Lugurz grabbed Gimilbeth by the hair and with assurance born of much practice started to push the filthy rag into her mouth. Here Gimilbeth's stomach finally revolted and she started to vomit.

"Stop, you, stupid snaga!" cried the corporal. "We shall have to wait till she is done, or she will choke to death on the gag."

At this moment the horns on the road blared the signal of retreat. The ten orcs around Gimilbeth exchanged worried glances. The time was running short.

"Well, no time for the gag now. Put her on your shoulder and let us run!" Tarb ordered.

Lugurz complied. Gimilbeth was taller than him by far, so she found herself with her stomach on the orc's shoulder, her legs hanging in front of him and her upper body draped along the orc's back, head down. Blood was pounding in her ears, her bounded wrists were paining her immensely and she was still vomiting - right on the backs of the orc's legs. The company departed at a run, following an almost imperceptible trail.

Hanging there on the orc's shoulder, Gimilbeth suddenly realized that she was afraid no longer. She was disgusted and in pain, but her anger was steadily mounting until it finally drove away all other emotions. Red spots danced before her eyes - she was literally seeing red and shaking from anger, not fear. She was not worried about her safety anymore - she only wished to make the orcs pay for her humiliation. She thought of her little spell-book, now left behind in the wagon - in its hiding place in a secret compartment of one of her trunks. Words of ancient spells were milling in her brain: the knife spell she had used on Broggha, various others that she had learned by heart. "By Melkor! I am a Witch, she thought - let the Holy Darkness help me, if Men would not!"

Gimilbeth concentrated, ignoring her pain, the orcs and her impending peril. She started whispering in ancient Adunaic - making a spell of her own - a spell of death, torture and destruction. Her rage and her strong will fiercely bent on a single goal, she drew mental images on the red background of her closed eyelids - vicious and heady images of the orcs falling under a shower of arrows, of them drowning in boiling water, of them skewered and gutted alive, their severed heads staked on pikes atop a fortress wall.

"O Melkor the Potent," she prayed, "O Annatar, the Giver of Gifts, help me in my plight! Crash my foes like worms under your mighty feet and let the Holy Darkness devour them!'

The orc who was carrying Gimilbeth stumbled and slowed. His pointy ears twitched back trying to catch the words. Few even among the Dunedain knew the ancient Adunaic, but still there were some words it shared with Westron, so what he heard left the orc deeply alarmed.

"Corporal!' the orc whined. "The Shatraug is cursing us!"

"Let the snagalob who thinks she can curse us rant until her dying day!" snarled Corporal Tharb. "She can't do nothing! Lugurz, you are just grumbling because you have to carry her!"

Convinced that Princess Gimilbeth had singled him out for some evil spell, Lugurz slowed to a walk. Frightened though he was of her words in Adunaic, he was even more terrified of Tharb's anger. He had to have some plausable excuse for being unable to carry her, or the corporal would be very angry.

"Sir, my back is aching something fierce! She's done something to it! She's put a hex on me!" Lugurz panted.

"Private, what nonsense! If you don't do your duty, I'll take the flail to you myself! She's just a sharp-tongued harridan! Now quit that sniveling, and carry this vile-mouthed shrew!"

"But, sir, she's so heavy, she's going to break me back! Hauling her around like this will only slow us all down!" Lugurz protested.

"I have an idea," piped up one of the other orcs. The goblin's minuscule size made him one of the weakest orcs in the troop, but he made up for it by his cleverness. Always eager to gain favor with his superiors, he had come up with an idea to handle the problem of transporting the princess.

"What is it?" growled Tharb. "Make this fast! We don't have any time to waste!"

"Sir, let's cut a pole from a stout sapling. Then we can tie the witch hand and foot to it. Two of us will take one end of the pole and two of us will take the other end. We'll carry her like a deer shot in the forest!"

"Four of you to carry one female? You lazy maggots! Two I can see, but four is ridiculous!" Tharb's face had darkened in anger. "All right, private, since it's your idea, you find a sapling stout enough to hold this fat cow's weight! Take another man with you to help you carry it back!"

"Sir," Private Lugurz simpered, "can I put her down now while we wait?"

"Aye, you weakling!" Tharb bellowed. "While we're waiting, gag the wench again so we won't have to listen to her ramblings!"

"Thank you, sir. Carrying her another furlong would be the death of me!" Lugurz dropped Gimilbeth like a heavy sack of rocks. Her eyes flashing with anger, Gimilbeth lay sprawled upon the ground, quietly intoning the words she had learned from her spellbook.

"I'll gag her all right, sir, Lugurz exclaimed gleefully as he ripped off the remains of Gimilbeth's skirt. Gimilbeth opened her mouth to curse him in Adunaic, but the orc leered at her and stuffed a wad of cloth into her mouth. He tied it behind her head with another strip. "That'll keep her quiet!"

"And if it doesn't," Corporal Tharb drew out a wicked dagger, "we'll cut her tongue out and gag her with that!" Quickly he bent over Gimilbeth, pressed the dagger to her neck, and watched gleefully as a thin trail of blood followed behind the blade. Gimilbeth's eyes met him with a look of pure fury. The orc laughed menacingly as he licked the blood off her neck. "Now I don't want any more tricks out of you, Princess! Keep your trap shut and we'll get along quite well!"

"Look here, men!" Corporal Tharb boasted as he held up the blood-stained knife for them to see. "It's just like I said! She can't do anything to us"

Soon the small orc and his helper had returned with a long poplar sapling. Gimilbeth soon found herself trussed up like a slab of meat to the pole. Then the orcs were off, the princess swaying wildly back and forth with the orcs' heavy running feet.

Traveling on a pole like a trussed dead deer was hardly better than hanging head down on an orc's shoulder. At first Gimilbeth felt some relief, but then the agony in her wrists, knees and ankles made her reconsider. Worst of all was her neck - her head lolled left and right at the rhythm of the orc's pace and her vertebrae seemed like they could snap any time. She pressed her chin to her breast to ease the tension, but it soon became evident to her that the moment she lost consciousness would be her last.

The orcs paid no heed to her plight - perhaps their undeveloped brains were unable to grasp the problem, or they simply didn't care if she were dead or alive. Instead, they bickered among themselves - arguing over the turns to carry her. After some time there were already two orcs at each end of her pole - and still they complained about the heaviness of their burden. The smallish orc - the one who had proposed this mode of transportation – jeered slapping Gimilbeth's thigh "Let us cut away all the extra meat and the witch will be much lighter!" The gang responded by raucous laughter.

“Keep your filthy paws off her!” snarled the corporal. “She ain’t for the likes of us! Run ahead, worm, make yourself useful – if you are not strong enough to carry her with the other lads, at least make sure the way is clear.” The smallish orc obeyed.

Gimilbeth couldn't mutter spells anymore but she continued her mind spell-work, imagining thousands of ways for the brutes to die. She found herself quite inventive - the images that flew before her eyes were unparalleled in their viciousness.

Minutes dragged by - long as hours, punctuated only by the trump of orcs feet, their heavy breathing and occasional growls and snarls. Soon the track started descending in a steep rocky ravine. At the bottom there was a small open space - a little mossy mire surrounded by thick old firs. The track ran straight through it and up to climb another ridge. The company slowed and stopped.

"Corporal", pleaded Lugush, "'tis high time for a break! Let us wait for the others to catch up with us!"

"Our shoulders are sore!" joined another. "And we crave a swig of draught to keep us going!"

"Shut up, maggots!" Tharb roared, brandishing his whip. "You gonna carry the witch to the very pits of Hell without whining, if I say so!" His ugly face contorted in worry, he looked back. “The order was to run ahead. We shall wait for the rest in the old camp.”

At this moment a white-fletched arrow buried itself in his stomach. Tharb looked down in disbelief only to get two more - one through his thigh and another in his chest. The arrows were obviously let loose from a very close range – right from the surrounding fir-trees - and Tharb's leather jerkin was no impediment to them. Soundlessly the orc crashed down. The others dropped Gimilbeth's pole and tried to run for their lives, only to fall under more arrows.

Gimilbeth felt the tension in her bound limbs ease as her pole fell to the ground. Half-consciously she pressed her burning face into the soft moss - divinely wet and clean. Tall fluffy heads of cotton-grass were swaying in the moonlight above her. For a moment she just lay there, oblivious of the battle around her, just glad of the respite. Soon she became aware of the Men around her, talking quietly in Westron. One of them squatted nearby - he was eyeing her warily.

"Now - let us look what the orcs were hauling..." the man muttered to himself. He got hold of Gimilbeth's shoulder and lifted her into a sitting position. Squinting in the pale moonlight, he peered at her in utter astonishment. "P-princess..." he stuttered. Gimilbeth replied by an angry glare and motioned with her bound hands for the man to pull out her gag. The other seemingly didn’t understand what she wanted - he half-rose to his feet and called rather stridently "Captain Barund, please, come here!"

Gimilbeth’s rage resurfaced. She hooked the thumbs of her bound hands through the strip which held her gag in place and pulled it over her head. Finally it came loose making a total mess of her hair. She spat the gag out and started cursing and raving at the bewildered man, who, unprepared for this verbal assault, lost his footing on the damp moss, fell back and just sat there blinking at the angry princess.

“My Lady, please, calm down” said another man, with an air of authority about him. “My name is Barund from Brochenridge and I am in charge of these men. Are you injured?”

“Injured?” she spat. “You have the gall to ask me if I am injured? Cut the ropes, spawns of wargs, NOW!”

Using his long sword smeared in black blood, Barund cut the leather ropes that held Gimilbeth’s wrists and ankles together. Then he drove his blade into the ground and started unfastening the clasp of his cloak.

Gimilbeth was up in a blink. Without a word, she grasped the sword and staggered away to where the orc corporal’s body lay. Tharb was yet alive and his yellow bloodshot eyes met Gimilbeth’s steadily.

“Your debt will be paid in full,” Gimilbeth hissed, bringing the blade down on the orc’s neck. It was a messy work. She missed twice, first hitting the shoulder, then the cheek, but with a third stroke the ugly orc’s head was finally free of the body. Surprising even herself, she gripped the tuft of oily hair and raised the head in the air with a savage cry of triumph.

The assembled men stood around watching her silently - in awe or in disgust? Gimilbeth couldn’t care less. Her rage assuaged, she dropped the head and wearily walked back to Barund. The leader of the Brockenridge men took off his cloak and offered it to Gimilbeth.

“I think you will need this, Lady” he rasped looking her straight in the face.

Gimilbeth looked down. Her sumptuous skirts were gone and apart from the now tattered bodice the only thing she had on were the fluffy cream colored knickers elegantly trimmed with lace.

[Gordis]

Chapter 20. The Princess Rescued

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the scene of the ambush on the Great Road, night of November 5, 1347
Written by Valandil
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was an hour or two after midnight when Merendil came suddenly upon the scene of the ambush. Two campfires burned brightly about a furlong up ahead – still distant enough that he retained his night vision though, for he could see the contorted figure of a slain Orc, lying just beside him on the road. Sweeping his eyes about, he saw a scene of discord... and death. He gulped. Had he come too late? Were those Orc-fires up ahead? Well… not likely, for even after a victory, they’d likely not have the boldness to camp right on the road. The thought gave him hope, but he retained his caution.

“Men,” he half-whispered behind him, “Pass it down, to arms – and ride!”

They rode forth, spears at the ready, and in moments had drawn near enough to make out more clearly the forms around the fires. From one fire, two figures already stood and now approached him. Their faces were in shadow for their forms were backlit by the fire beyond. But they were clearly men, not Orcs.

“Gwindor?” asked Merendil, as he drew up his horse before them.

“Dead,” came the reply. “I am your nephew Maredur.”

“And I, Dimloss of Brochenridge, captain of the thirty men sent before you.”

“Tell me then,” said Merendil, “What has happened here?”

Then Maredur told his uncle Merendil of the ambush of the Orcs upon the party, how the rear had been beset and defended itself, aided by twenty Dwarves and two Elves who had joined the company (which spurred further questions from Merendil, answered in their turn). Then, seeing the front engulfed by Orcs, they had turned and driven them off.

“And the Princess Gimilbeth? Was she at the front or at the rear?” asked Merendil with dread, knowing full well where she preferred to ride.

“She was in front sir. For long we sought her among the slain, but after much searching, found that she had been… taken captive by the Orcs.”

Merendil sat upright in his horse and drew in his breath in horror. “How many men did you send after her?”

“Sir,” began Maredur, “we had only a handful of men left, some wounded, like myself – and three or fourscore Orcs escaped. But also, it was nearly half an hour afterwards ere we knew that she lived still, and was taken.”

“Dimloss!” said Merendil, turning to the other, “You are still here. Why did you not pursue?”

“Well sir,” replied Dimloss, shifting from one foot to the other, “We arrived maybe an hour or two after the battle, and it was some time before we had everything all sorted out. And then… we thought it best to wait for your orders, knowing you were so close behind. Besides…” and his voice trailed low, “Orcs are known for killing their prisoners when rescue parties arrive.”

Merendil fumed and stared hard at Dimloss. Was it cowardice or incompetence? He wasn’t sure, but he sure wished he had a man like Taurenol with him.

“Alright then, these are your orders. Round up your men, and quickly. Join them to mine. We go in pursuit of the Lady Gimilbeth immediately. Maredur…” he turned back to face him, “Show us which way the Orcs fled.”

As Maredur led them to the place, Merendil looked about him. The waxing moon was shining bright, but low enough in the west that it wouldn’t do any good for much longer. It was likely a doomed pursuit, but he must press it on. They wouldn’t likely catch up to the Orcs, or be able to follow their trail for long with what moon was left. And if they DID come upon them, it’d likely be in an ambush that could cost him and his men their lives. Still – an attempt must be made.

Maredur had taken them around the greatest heap of dead bodies, and Merendil saw for himself hints of the carnage and slaughter that had been. When Maredur pointed up into the hills to where the Orcs had gone, Merendil gave the order to dismount. Two Elves came forth to join him and offer to act as trackers and guides (which was a greatly appreciated offer – and brightened Merendil’s hopes for their success), but the Dwarves stayed at their own fire, tending their wounded and lamenting their dead.

But as they made ready to depart and take up the trail, they heard a rustling sound off into the woods. Merendil’s men drew back and were silent. The sounds grew, and voices could be heard now as well – not Orc voices at all, but the words were mostly indistinct until they heard;

“And Princess, as I have promised you, my men will FORGET - all that they have seen in regards to your per…”

And just then, from the woods emerged a sight that made Merendil’s heart leap for the sheer relief it brought. For here came Barund with his men, right down the Orc trail. And in their midst, seated high on a sort of stretcher carried by four men, her head stooped low and arms before her to ward off stray branches, sat the Lady Gimilbeth, alive… and to all appearances, quite well.

“It will be the LEAST they can do, Captain, after the unpleasant ride they have given me. But as I’ve said three times before, I desire quiet. Or if you must speak, direct it to your own me…”

At that point, the Lady Gimilbeth’s voice trailed off as she became aware of all those before her, as Barund had just before. But then, after a pause, she smiled and spoke to her new onlookers.

“Greetings Captain Merendil! How charming to see you once more. These boys of yours have taken me on a moonlit stroll through yon forest, but…” and looking down at her litter and bearers, “were thoughtful enough to spare my frail limbs the delight of an actual walk.” And then she rolled back her head and laughed, a laugh of relief that nearly drew her to tears. Barund signaled his men to lower her, and he himself took her hand and bowing low, helped her off the contrivance.

“Lady Gimilbeth, it gives me great joy to see you safe,” said Merendil with a bow. “We have just come on the scene and made ready to give chase, for our hearts dreaded the thought of you in captivity to the Orcs.”

Then turning to Barund, Merendil asked for his report.

Barund told how, on parting the day before, he and his men had only made about three leagues up into the rugged terrain, then camped for what he had in mind for the next day. This morning they had risen early and made ten more leagues by sundown, the Orc trail clear before them. Instead of setting up camp, they had made a short rest until the moon was high enough to give them good light among the trees, but a storm had arisen, so they went forth cautiously, to keep on the trail as well as they might. They had a bit of confusion on the way where the Orcs had appeared to split up two or three ways, but followed on the way clearly taken by the main body. At last, the rain had wiped aside most signs of the trail, but they made their best guesses about how the Orcs would go and kept close watch for more signs.

It was then, an hour or two ago, that they heard an Orc voice singing a strange-sounding song as they drew near a marshy clearing ahead and below them. They waited and watched as a single Orc ran over a path, straight toward them. Then into the forest he came, right up unto the trail before them, and nearly impaled himself on Barund’s spear – though Barund made sure to finish what he had started. Then Barund signaled for his men to ready their bows and spread themselves out along each side of the woods’ edge.

Before long, there came a small band of Orcs, carrying the Princess Gimilbeth in a most undignified manner. They all fell to the arrows of the Dunedain. Inquiring of the Princess, Barund found that more Orcs were likely to follow, so they dragged the bodies into the mire at each side. They had barely finished this task when they heard shouts of a larger Orc party coming near, and drew back to the cover of the woods once more.

Once this body of Orcs came into the clearing they slowed. Their leader seemed suspicious. Then, one of them spotted Orc blood upon the ground, and another found a dropped knife. When at last one found a pole, with which our Princess had been… conveyed, the leader Orc flew into a fury. He rallied his lads, they all drew their weapons and gave chase.

Several Orcs fell before a wave of arrows once more, but they soon engaged Barund’s men along a wide front, for the Orc leader had sought to out-flank them, though not knowing their size by the forest’s concealment. Barund’s men met them along the entire width of their assault, and with superior strength and the higher ground, took a heavy toll. At the last, their leader flew into a great rage and rallied the last of the Orcs for a concentrated attack up into the trail. There, Barund had met their leader in single combat and slain him.

After that, the few remaining Orcs had tried to scatter, though many of them were brought down by Barund’s men. But Barund had called off the chase into the forest, where he felt the Orcs might have the advantage. So they had recovered the one pole, found a second to make a bier for Her Highness – and then traveled on the last league and half to where they now stood.

Well-satisfied with the report, Merendil gave orders for all to camp for what remained of the night. In morning’s light they could sort out the bodies before proceeding to the Last Bridge. But Dimloss’ men must stand guard in three turns, for the men under Merendil and Barund were overcome with weariness.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Near the scene of the ambush on the Great Road, November 5, 1347, after midnight
Written by Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Get a move on, you sluggards! You've rested long enough!" Corporal Boshok growled out the command. There was the usual grumbling among the four scouts, but this time, Private Saakaf was not one of the complainers. It was not that he was eager to fight; no, far from it, for whenever he could, he would stay back while others rushed ahead. He was planning to live a good, long time. If some of the men talked behind his back and said that he was a coward, it never bothered him. He would do just enough to keep his superiors satisfied, but no more. No, he was not one of the brave ones who looked forward to the next confrontation. Let someone else get killed; he intended to remain cautious and alive.

The orcs were soon at a brisk trot, hurrying along to the scene of the ambush. Corporal Boshok was a brave one, determined that his men would arrive in time and give what aid they could to their comrades. "He wants to impress Captain Ashuk because he's working for another promotion," Private Saakaf commented to himself as he loped along at the rear of the party.

Long before they reached the road, the orcs could smell the blood and death. As he flicked his ears forward, listening, Saakaf's sensitive nostrils twitched at the scent. He had a bad feeling about this. Corporal Boshok must have had the same sensations, because he motioned with his hand for the men to keep low to the ground and advance with caution. Far up ahead of them, they could see campfires and the silhouettes of men.

"Saakaf," the corporal whispered, "see what is going on up there. We will wait here for you."

"Yes, sir," Saakaf whispered as he crouched down and crawled forward until he was close enough to see and hear. His heart beat faster when he saw Princess Gimilbeth near one of the campfires. He thought she looked pale, but none too worse for wear. As he looked at the group, he could not take his eyes off her. He licked his lips as he felt a deep stirring for her and cursed his luck that he had not been born a man. He tried to look away, but it was though she had him bewitched. He wondered if she was aware that he was staring at her. She had been talking to one of the Dunedain but suddenly she turned her head and stared straight to the place where he was hiding. He wondered if she saw him and would give him away. At that moment, the officer beside her said something that Saakaf could not hear and she turned her attention to reply to him. Saakaf relaxed; he had not been detected. He had seen all he needed to see and needed to get back to the others before he was discovered.

"All right, Saakaf," the corporal hissed when he had returned to the group, "what's the report?"

"Corporal Boshok, sir, it is my unpleasant duty to tell you that from what I can see, all our men are dead, and the Princess has been rescued." Saakaf bowed his head.

"Damn!" Corporal Boshok exclaimed, his face convulsed in a grimmace of disappointment as he clenched his fist. "All this and we have gained nothing! His Majesty will not be pleased! Not one bit! There's nothing to do for it but save ourselves and get out of here!" The corporal gave the order to retreat, and soon the orcs were silently creeping away from the scene.

Saakaf was glad that it would be Boshok giving the report of the disaster to Alassar, the king's chief advisor, and not him. It was always dangerous to be the bearer of bad news to these high officials. "Well," he thought with glee, "Corporal Boshok always liked to make an impression. I'm sure he will this time, but not the kind he wanted. Maybe he will be tortured. I would like to see that!"

After the orcs had moved back a safe distance from the gathering of soldiers, they fell into an easy lope. In the distance, Saakaf saw something on the ground. The others moved on ahead of him, and when he reached the spot, he bent down and picked the object up. Instantly he knew what it was! The soiled and tattered skirt of Princess Gimilbeth's gown! Breathing hard, he caressed the ornate material. Making sure that no one had noticed him, he brought the cloth up to his lips and kissed it. Then, looking around furtively, he wadded up the material and stuck it in the pouch at his belt. "What Corporal Boshok doesn't know won't hurt him," Saakaf chuckled softly to himself. No one was getting this treasure away from him!

"Maybe someday, I'll see her again and can present it to her in person!" The thought pleased him. He increased his speed, soon catching up with the others before the corporal ever even knew he had tarried behind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At the site of the ambush, evening November 5 - morning November 6, 1347
Written by Serenoli
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Evening, November 5 and Morning November 6

It was a sick sight that had met his eyes when he screwed up enough courage to re-emerge from the trees where he had hid himself. The battle had been an ugly one - and Hurgon, who, shut up in the Palace all his adult life, and having led a pretty comfortable life before that, had never seen a dead man - walked around aimlessly for a long time, shell-shocked. He was hardly aware of what was going on, but finding the familiar faces of the two elves - who appeared to be tending to the wounded - he sat down near them. He was still clutching Tarniel's painting to his chest, and soon afterward, exhausted by all that had happened and all that he had seen, he fell into an uneasy sleep right there on the ground. Luckily, one of the elves had the good sense to cover him up with a blanket - else he might have frozen right where he slept.

The next morning was worse. He woke up feeling guilty - he should have been less cowardly, that was his reproach to himself. So when they started sorting out the corpses, he volunteered to help, even though he would much rather not touch the dead bodies. A vague, undefined sort of thought passed his head, that maybe he would have done better to have run away with Nauremir while he had the chance. Or even better, if he had painted Tarniel properly at the very start, as opposed to giving her purple hair, he at least would have been safe back home in Cameth Brin now.

But nightmarish at it were, that hour passed too, and after washing himself thoroughly, and partaking of the slight breakfast that was available, he had just enough time to scavenge the wagons for his paint supplies. Most of them were spoilt or destroyed - but he thought he had enough with which to finish off the painting. He gathered them all, and one of the ponies that had lost its master was commisioned for his use. And so they started off for Iantbarad - a small fort at the Last Bridge, and Hurgon was not the only one of the party to look nervously around them at the slightest sound.