Perilous Journeys. Shadow Over Rhudaur III

[Pizbur Ashuk]

On the Great road east of the Last Bridge. After dark on November 5.

Captain Ashûk could smell the fear that rolled out over the young Tark like waves. The young man was actually trembling. The private beside Ashûk thrust his pike forward, ramming the point into the screaming man's eye. There wasn't time for even a grunt of approval from Ashûk, for the jubilant orc's tongue lolled out of his mouth as the sword wielded by another Tark sliced through his throat. Ashûk 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 Ashûk's left.

The way ahead was clearer now, and with another savage battle cry, Ashûk led his troop forward, slashing through the last resistance. He could hear the terrified Princess screaming, "Help Gwindor!" They would help him, Ashûk 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!" Ashûk 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!" Ashûk 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. Ashûk felt like bellowing out his elation.

"Princess Gimilbeth," he called out her name in Common Speech, "hear my name! I am Captain Ashûk! 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!"

[Hurgon Fernik]

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. He screamed again and jumped... to his knees, and crawled under the wagon. The orc bent down, laughing as he tried to hit Hurgon - unfortunately for him, 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.

[Alagos and Tyaron]

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 3 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 beauty rest, 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 wiped the blade on his pants 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!"

[scribe]

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.

[Gimilbeth]

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.

[Merendil]

November 5, 1347, dusk - on the Great Road east of the Last Bridge

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 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.

[Daurendil]

Cameth Brin Tower, November 5, evening.


This evening Daurendil came home singing “O Lady Fair” – not at the top of his lungs, but loud enough to let at least three levels of the Tower appreciate his rich baritone voice.

“Your hair the color of sunrise…” he sang, noting to himself that it sounded much better than the original “the color of midnight” ever did.

The prince and his friends had spent the afternoon at “The Cock and the Piglet” – a jolly inn near the Market place that served excellent ale and decent Gondorian wine. The Inn was aptly named, as is served roasted piglets and harbored the best fighting cocks in Cameth Brin. This evening Daurendil had placed several quite successful bets, which proved, by the way, that contrary to the popular saying, one could easily be lucky both in love and in gambling.

Daurendil could hold his wine better than any of his friends, proving that the blood of Dauremir ran true in him: as the legend hold, nobody was ever able to out-drink the founder of Rhudaur. The prince was mightily pleased with himself –after such an eventful evening, he managed not only to ride all the way home on his own, but he had fished from under the table and shipped back to the castle his less lucky companions.

‘Never leave your fallen comrades, be it at the battlefield or in a tavern!” Captain Merendil taught him and Daurendil learned his lesson well. Now his drunk friends lay sprawled on pallets on the floor of the Great Hall downstairs, their feet facing the fireplace for additional warmth.

“Your arms like wings of a seagull…” Singing, Daurendil negotiated the steep winding stair to his level and turned right, deftly avoiding knocking down AGAIN the complete set of armor dating back to early Arnor that was exposed on the landing.

At this point he was met by one of his pages, who opened the door and stepped aside to let the Prince pass. “My Lord,” the page ventured, “there is a message waiting for you.”

“Whatever.” Daurendil waved the page aside and continued “Your ruby lips like sweetest wine…” With that he found his bed and fell on it sighing in contentment.

The page knelt at his side and started to remove his boots. “Your Highness”, the page tried again, "there was also a big box delivered with the message. It is there on the table” he pointed.

Daurendil moaned in mock irritation and turned his head to look at the box. The sight of it made the wine fumes leave his inebriated brain. Sobering instantly he sat up bolt upright. There was no mistake - Caelen had returned his gift.

“You said there was a letter to go with it?” he asked grimly.

‘Here it is, my Lord”. The page offered him a silver platter with the letter. Daurendil inspected the seal – it was unfamiliar to him, though he suspected it might belong to one of Northern Thanes. Somehow he didn’t think that Caelen’s family could have a coat of arms of their own – but it looked she was of nobler birth than he expected.

But the letter was not from Caelen as he soon found out. It read:

______
From: Rildorien; wife of Camglas, the son of Borlost, Thane of Nandemar

To: His Highness Daurendil; son of King Tarnendur and the Heir to Rhudaur

It has come to my attention that a family friend, one Caelen of good Dunedain lineage, has received from your Highness the favor of a gift of fine clothing, made especially for her.

She has acquainted us with the unfortunate ruse devised by her brother Callon in hopes of protecting her, and of your familiarity with her true station of life. But, being an orphan, and of excellent, but only common birth, she had at first failed to fully understand the implications that might arise from her reception of such a gift from a young man, notwithstanding that this one came from such a superior young man as yourself.

On being made aware of this, and being the modest and proper young lady that she is, she instantly agreed to return your most gracious gift. Her being somewhat shy and modest, and also to spare you both the awkwardness and embarrassment of a subsequent encounter, I take the liberty, as a friend of the family, to write you this note of explanation. Also, of course, she will be unable to consider giving you a riding lesson - for the continuation of which, a royal groomsman would no doubt be more suitable.

We do thank you for your kind consideration of, and attentions to, the young orphan Caelen, which attentions would no doubt please her parents, were that still possible.

Respectfully,

Rildorien of Nandemar
_____

A wave of misery washed over the Prince leaving tears of self-pity on his eyelashes. “How little does it take to plunge a man from the heights of bliss to the deepest pits of sorrow!” he thought. “Very little, indeed – just a meddling old relative, a mother-hen on the prowl.” He crushed his fist on the dressing table.

But he knew he was being unfair. “Well, I DID know full well that it was not a suitable present for a young lady” he conceded. “I just hoped She would be unaware if it…”

He contemplated the box sadly. The World was stupid. Because of some outdated notions of what was proper and what was not – notions dating back to Numenor, he would bet – he was now left with a lady’s dress and Caelen was left without the riding outfit and without any prize for her victory in the race…That was unfair, and he had to think of something.

Oh, how he wished to ask Ol' Naure what to do! But "the late Nauremir" as his friend was now referred to was far away... gone, gone perhaps forever, as good as dead...

“Bring me some more wine, will you?” he asked the page.

Written by Gordis, the letter by Valandil

[Pizbur Ashuk]

On the Great road east of the Last Bridge. After dark on November 5.

Captain Ashûk 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. Ashûk 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 Ashûk 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 Ushdûrz of 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!' Ashûk 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 Ashûk 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! Ashûk thought. The knowledge that they might soon be fallen upon by a group of cavalry spread like wildfire among the soldiers. Ashûk 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 Ashûk 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.

[Eryndil]

November 5, evening – Cameth Brin

He had THOUGHT about kissing her hand, but decided on a less intimate gesture of a bow while holding her hand… in such a way that it COULD have been kissed. But too quickly, it seemed, he had lowered his hand, loosened his hold, and her own hand had been withdrawn. The final good-byes were said, her door closed before them, and Eryndil and Hendegil turned to make their way back to his home.

As they descended the stairs to the next level down, they came right into the middle of a great commotion. One of the head servants was dashing about, shouting, “Where is the King? Where is the King? Important message for the King from Merendil!” Behind him stood a soldier, who wore signs of long days upon the road and who kept on hand on a small pouch that hung over his shoulder.

“Come on Hendegil – let me get you home quickly,” said Eryndil.

“Why? What could this mean, Eryndil?”

“I don’t know, but it might be trouble. And Callon was with Merendil.”

“I know…” said Hendegil.

They hurried on down the stairs as servants shouted behind them, “He’s not in his Throne Room.” “Not in his Study!” “Not in his Council Chamber – or his private Bed Chamber.” “This guard says he’s… in the Royal Bed Chamber…”

Eryndil walked Hendegil back through the busy palace grounds, the bustling main streets of Cameth Brin, then the quiet, darker streets that led toward his home. When they arrived, he did not stay long, but simply bade his sister get on up to bed - or to join the family - if they still sat up, gave her a hug good-night, and went back out the front door – back toward the palace.

When Erydnil reached the palace, there was not quite the same commotion as when he left, but still more bustle than usual. Eryndil asked to see the King and was led straightaway to his Study, announced, and ushered in. The King was standing before him and Eryndil bowed and said, “My Lord,” and waited for Tarnendur to speak.

“Eryndil? Did your message come so soon? I sent word for you to come tomorrow evening, not this evening. In the morning I must meet with the Council – so I can meet with you advisors only later, if at all.”

“I received no message – yet, my Lord. I was visiting here with my sister when word came of a messenger from Merendil. I returned her to my home and came back to hear what news.”

The King motioned for Eryndil to draw closer, so he complied. Then the King held out the message for Eryndil to read.

“This… this is grim news, my King.”

“Yes…” said the King, distantly. Then, after a long silence, “You say that your sister is in town, Eryndil?”

“Yes, my King,” answered Eryndil hesitantly, wondering at first why this question. Then, remembering his protocol, he continued, “My father the Thane has come as well. He has not yet presented himself before you for he only came today. And… had a bit of trouble on the road. And now, with the matter of Merendil’s message to deal with…” Any noble coming to town unsummoned was to present himself before the King at the earliest possible time.

“Nonsense,” replied Tarnendur. “He shall come tomorrow late afternoon – when I am finished with the Council. I have not seen your father in years now. How is he?”

“Well, my King.”

“You linger still. Is there something more?”

“Yes your Highness,” replied Eryndil. He had been unsure whether to ask. “The messenger who brought this – might I speak with him? I wish to hear more about the situation… directly from him, if I might?”

“Of course, of course…” replied the King, taking a seat and stroking his beard with one hand. “I have dismissed him. I suppose you’ll find him in the men’s quarters. Good night.”

“Good night, your Highness,” said Eryndil, departing. He hoped that the man might be able to tell him anything at all about Callon. Caelen would surely wish to know…

[scribe]

On the Great road east of the Last Bridge. After dark on November 5.

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 rightfully so - 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 has 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.”

Written by Gordis