Perilous Journeys. Shadow Over Rhudaur III

[Hurgon Fernik]

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 all his life. 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 the while. 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.

The scimitar meanwhile, flew through the air, must have been quite aerodynamic, it floated like a bird, and Captain Ashûk looked up just in time to see the blade coming straight at him.

[Pizbur Ashuk]

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

Captain Ashûk 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, Ashûk 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 Ashûk 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?" Ashûk 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 Ashûk 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!" Ashûk 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," Ashûk 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.

Ashûk 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 pyrotechnic lights 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 the concept of magic but feared it. They sensed stirrings of powers beyond themselves. 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.

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!"

Ashûk 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!"

Ashûk 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.

[Gimilbeth]

In the hills North of the Great Road, after dark of November 5, 1347.


Gimilbeth winced and cried out as a clawed hand painfully pinched her backside again. 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!"

[scribe]

November 5, 1347 - after dark, on the Great Road to the east of the Last Bridge

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.

[Pizbur Ashuk]

In the hills North of the Great Road, after dark of November 5, 1347.

"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.

[scribe]

for Barund?

[Gimilbeth]

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.

[Merendil]

November 5, 1347 – after midnight – the scene of the ambush on the Great Road

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.

[Saakaf]

November 5, 1347 – after midnight – near the scene of the ambush on the Great Road

"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 Ashûk 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.

[Gimilbeth]

At the site of the ambush, morning of November 6, 1347

Exhausted as she was, Gimilbeth still slept little this night. The autumn wind howled outside her tent and it seemed to her that hundreds of orc voices joined in the hellish choir. The scratch on her neck ached, although it looked like there was no poison in it.

Unable to sleep, Gimilbeth rose well before first daylight and washed her face and rinsed out her mouth yet again. Yesterday she had what amounted to a full bath, but somehow she felt that no amount of washing could ever cleanse her of the lingering orc reek.

Her thoughts wandered back to Cameth Brin. Many there would feel only joy and relief upon learning of her death, certainly the Queen and all her brood, as well as the lords of the Private council... Only her father the King would mourn her, and Gimilbeth's heart filled with warmth for the old man. On an impulse, she found a piece of parchment and her writing implements and sat down on a low stool under the oil lamp suspended from the pole of her tent to write a note to Tarnendur.

My dear Father,

I decided to send you this short note to assure you that I am alive and well, and safe for now.

Yestereve we have been attacked by a large company of orcs. They have been repelled - but our losses are dire. It pains me to tell you that both our kinsmen, Gwindor and Elvegil, have fallen like heroes, defending me from the orcs to their last breath. We have also lost Guramir, Maldor from Aglardin and my poor page Lammir. Please, send my condolences to their families, and to Lammir's parents in especial. Tell them that Merendil will be bringing their bodies back to Cameth Brin for burial.

Please inform Edelbar's parents that their son remains unscathed. All the survivors praise his courage.

As for other losses, Merendil will give you the full report upon his return. As far as I know, we lost about 30 guards and both wagon drivers, one of them dead, another wounded. Merendil sends 40 men with me to Amon Sul, although now, when we are within direct sight of the Palantir, orcs are unlikely to repeat their assault. I hope to reach Amon Sul safely.

Your loving daughter,
Gimilbeth

Having sealed the letter, Gimilbeth stepped out of the tent into the blowing storm. The heavy clouds overhead were rushing to the south, faintly illuminated by the first pale shadow of daylight. The campfires hissed and smoked trailing sparkles in the wind. Near the biggest campfire Gimilbeth spotted the large figure of Merendil - the Captain was already up. Gimilbeth approached and hailed him.

"I need a messenger sent to the King," she said coldly, showing him her letter. "After your last dispatch he must be in a great worry that I wish to assuage as soon as possible."

"But, My Lady," Merendil replied, "the men are exhausted and the horses even more so. I will return to Cameth Brin quite soon myself and I will report to the King."

"Nonsense" Gimilbeth countered sharply. "Just pick the best rider among Brochenridge men and give him one of the surviving horses of my escort. We have been going at a leisurely pace, so the horses are still fresh. The rider will be back to Brochenridge this evening and there Lord Ormendur will send another man to Cameth Brin. In three days the King will get the message, while you and your men are bound to be on your way a whole week, burdened as you are with the bodies."

Merendil grumbled for some time, but Gimilbeth remained adamant. Finally the Captain sighted and ordered Dimloss to send the swiftest rider to Brockenridge with Gimilbeth's letter.

Gimilbeth thanked the Captain and turned to leave, then suddenly stopped.

"Merendil," she said, "I just remembered something... Has anybody seen my ..." she trailed off.

"Seen what, your Highness?" Merendil prompted

"Never mind" Gimilbeth sighed in exasperation. "I better ask Barund."

Merendil explained where the Brochenridge scouts were camped. Gimilbeth found Barund near a campfire, sound asleep. She had to shake the man twice, before he finally sat up and looked at her.

"Barund," she said, hoping that the dim light would hide her flush. "Has anyone seen my skirt - the one that the orcs tore away and discarded?"

Barund blinked. "No, my Lady, I don't think they have. But I can go ask them, if it is important."

"Please do! You know, I have had some ... valuables in the pocket. Jewelry, to be precise."

"I understand, Lady. I will be back shortly." Barund got out of his bedroll and disappeared in the gloom.

When he returned, he only shook his head sadly. A small party of scouts was sent to the mire where Gimilbeth had been rescued, but, well after the sunrise, they have returned - empty-handed.

Gimilbeth sighed. Elessya, the wondrous green necklace, the most precious heirloom of the house of Dauremir was irretrievably lost.

After a meager breakfast - Merendil's men had little food with them - the camp was broken and the company divided. Dimloss was left on the spot of the ambush with orders to bury the dead, guard the corpses of the nobles destined to be taken back to Cameth Brin, and search the surrounding area for remaining orcs. Gimilbeth's depleted party started the short travel to Iantbarad - a small fort at the Last Bridge. Merendil decided to accompany Gimilbeth as far as the Last Bridge with all the Cameth Brin men and Barund's men. After having nearly lost the Princess, he was still worried about her safety. Moreover, at Iantbarad, he planned to find wagons to transport the bodies back to Cameth Brin and to order simple sturdy coffins. Some of the corpses were literally hacked to pieces, many decapitated, and Merendil wished to return the bodies to the grieving relatives in a seemly fashion.