Fall of the North RPG

[CaptainofDespair]

The pale light of the new morning had risen, and issued forth its rays upon the land. However, all was still cold and bleak, at least to the counselor. He had awoken with a yawn, but still retaining some exhaustion, he fell back onto his cot with a resounding thud. He could hear soldiers running about the camp. “Just morning combat exercises,” he thought. But then, an emissary, one different in appearance than the normal ones, probably one of Hírvegil’s, tore open the flap to his rather weakly built tent, and spurted out a few words. “Milord Mitharan, your presence is requested by the Captain. It is of utmost urgency.” The counselor groaned, attempting to refuse the summons by all means. But, at long last, he wearily rose, and put on a few articles of clothing. Wrapping himself in a fur robe as he exited, he muttered, “The Captain better have good reason for dragging me away from a near-slumber...”

The camp was aroused, full of excitement. But over what, the counselor knew not, and probably cared not for. It took him a few moments to find his way through the crowds of soldiers who were pacing about, but he eventually made it to the Captain’s tent. He could hear Belegorn’s voice, but he could not decipher the words, save for “The elves are secretive, who is to say they have told us the whole truth or in this case the very truth of the matter itself?” The grogginess would soon pass, he hoped, or not. He would rather be sleeping. Lazily, he folded back the corner of the tent’s flap, and stuck his head, and a bit of his upper torso, into the Captain’s chambers. Hírvegil looked up from his hands, but did not respond. So Mitharan did, in his most tired and irritated speech, as he pushed his way past the leather hide flap. “Why have I been roused from slumber? The reasoning for such intrusion of my rest had better be good, Captain.” At this, the world-weary captain did respond. “We have a situation, counselor. Orcs have come in the night, and captured the Elven emissaries of Lindon and Rivendell.”
“Captured?” That was the only response to the event the young counselor could muster. He looked at the captain in dismay, pondering the next course his mind would take. After a moment he added, “What is the course of action you are to take, or have you summoned me here for counsel, as is my purpose?” The captain could only nod, and Mitharan took this to be a ‘yes’ at the latter portion of his query. “Then my only counsel is on the Elves to determine why they were taken. As for the initial purpose of this train, continue with its course.” The counselor sighed, adding, “I would recommend allowing all to rest, as may have been intended, while allowing scouts, and military detachments to go forth in search of these lost Elves.” He paused, allowing himself to take a breath, and wake up a bit more. He continued from there, attaching, “I believe this path would allow us to continue to Ered Luin, and search for the Elves without much pause. The King would not be pleased to lose a nation-saving alliance because we allowed the Elves to not only be captured, but be kept as hostages.” He bowed low, and exited, finishing with “I will be in my quarters if needed for further counsel,” as he pushed past the flap in the tent, and out into the morning air.

As he left the presence of the captain and his lieutenant, he could not help but marvel at the stealth of the orcs. But, those thoughts would have to wait, he needed to return to his tent for another stint of sleep. He meandered his way through the droves of militia and guardsmen, slowly at first, but then at a speedier pace, as his desire to sleep just a mere moment more forced him on. He cared not for who he bumped into, and nor did he notice much. But, once in awhile he would attract a scowl and “Hey! Watch where you’re going!.” Finally, he had arrived in his home away from home, his own personal lodgings. As he plopped down onto the rickety cot, he heaved a sigh of relief, and tried to slip into his world of dreams. But alas, he could not, for his mind was not at ease. “How could Orcs slip into the camp without anyone knowing? They would need an especially crafty and strong-willed leader to keep them from marauding and plundering the camp. Yet, this cannot be the work of the Witch-King, or his chief minions.” He closed his eyes again, and rubbed the side of his head, trying to weave his way through the maze of thoughts that was his mind. “Whatever the case, they had a purpose. Perhaps the Elves themselves could be the answer...”

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen was happy to look after the boy, she knew where the Elves were going, she had heard the whispering in and aorund the encampment and knew they would want to find their kin. It was not just their kin who they sought but the woman and her child. Thinking of what might have come to pass had she been the unfortunate one caught by the orcs sent a shiver through her. She hoped they would be rescued, and so she gladly answered the request to care for the orphaned boy.

Rosgollo had a look of fear in his eyes when he spoke to her, his words polite but his mind elsewhere, and yet she noticed that when he bade farewell to the child, his expression changed and Gilly did not see that harried look, but the same kindly warmth he had always seen in the Elf's face. If this Elf does not return, she thought, then the child will only remember the kindly face of his protector, he will not know his fear as he has not seen it. So smiling, and heartened by what she had seen pass between the two, she gathered the boy towards her with a warm smile of her own.

Her son, awake and attempting to crawl about the tent, noticed Gilly and laughed; the older boy immediately headed towards him clutching some kind of sweet bread that Rosgollo had given him, and sat with the infant, breaking off tiny pieces of the dainty for him to suck on. Renedwen watched the pair for a few minutes and half closed her eyes, imagining herself safe at home. It was a comfort to her to see the children innocently playing and forming a bond while outside fear began to stalk the camp after the events of the night before. But she could not dream for long. She had to take this chance to gather her scant belongings and take stock lest it soon be time to move on again.

The familiar feeling of foreboding came over her just as it had done the night before the sudden evacuation of the city, and she sought her comfort in making herself ready. There was nobody now to tell her otherwise, she reflected sadly to herself as she rolled up the blankets and strapped them tightly into a bundle. She might even warn Lissi to do the same. The other woman did not carry around the burden of fear as much as she did, she seemed to be hopeful, but Renedwen decided she would tell her about her fears all the same. It was the least she could do for someone who had helped her.

As she finished her work, Renedwen shook out her cloak and her husband's sword lay on the ground where it had been hidden all night beneath her dark blue mantle. Gilly noticed it, his eyes caught by the bright blue enamel decorations, and he stopped playing and reached out a hand to take up the weapon. Too late, Renedwen saw him attempt to lift it.

"No," she said, her eyes wide. "You must not touch this. It is far too heavy for a boy to handle. And sharp". She was not, however, frightened that he might come to harm, but afraid he might tell somebody about what she was keeping hidden. She bent and picked up the blade, and took it firmly in her hand. It felt odd to her, strangely heavy and firm to grip, yet as she moved it, she noticed how lightly the blade moved. This was more than a mere ceremonial item, it had been made by one of the finest smiths in the city, a fitting reward for her husband's efforts, and as she handled it, she realised why he had bade her take it. Even with the scant skills she had learned all those years ago in her youth, on those miserable days when her father had made her learn skills which she deemed to be pastimes for boys, she realised that with this blade she could defend herself.

She carefully placed the sword back into the sheath which hung from her belt, and skung her cloak about her shoulders; once more the folds swung forwards and concealed the existence of the blade. Nobody would take this from her now, she was more determined than ever. It had been fear of the loss of something so dear to her husband which had at first driven her need to conceal it, but now it dawned on her that trouble might be coming and she would yet have need of this to defend her son. A shiver passed through her again as she thought of that, and turning around, she saw that Gilly had been watching her every move.

"Shall we go and find some breakfast?" she said to the boy, knowing that the thought of food would distract him from what he had just seen. And more than breakfast, she thought to herself, some news would be welcome. She smiled warmly at the boy, and he nodded his agreement eagerly. "Then let me wrap up little Derendur against this chill and we shall go." She caught her breath for a moment as she said her son's name; it had also been the name of her husband.

"Let me help you", said Gilly, finding the infant's fur hood and offering it to Renedwen with an eager look. He touched her hand gently, hopefully, and she drew him towards her and hugged him.

"Yes," she said. "You can help me." It seemed to her that he had already forgotten about the sword.

[Arry]

The tent flap was thrust back hurriedly as Rôsgollo made his way from the tent. Renedwen had agreed to keep Gilly with her while he was away. The youngster had fretted at his leaving, but was reassured in the arms of the woman. Rôsgollo had kissed him lightly on the forehead before leaving him with a piece of sweet waybread. ‘I will return, little one. Until then enjoy the company of your new friends.’ His hand went up to smooth back the fine hair from the boy’s face. He bowed slightly to Renedwen, thanking her once again for her help.

Gaeredhel waited outside the tent. ‘It is done,’ Rôsgollo said. He was starting off when his brother touched his arm. We need to go back to the tent. The horses are packed; Angore awaits us just beyond the perimeter. He has already found the tracks for us to follow from the camp. Let us hasten. Gaeredhel moved toward where their fellow guard waited, his brother following close behind.

It was then that Faerim spoke up, presenting his request and then his argument to the brothers. Gaeredhel was impatient with the intrusion, but Rôsgollo heard the young man out. Here, at least, was one of the Second Born willing to put himself forward to aid them. And he seemed so eager, the looks he cast at them trying to pick up on any approval of his offer. Rôsgollo could barely suppress a smile, despite the gravity of the situation.

Do not be hasty with him, brother. He is much as you were. Gaeredhel’s brows rose at this comment. But Rôsgollo continued. He is eager to play in the grim game of battle. To wield his blade again against the present foe.

Pah! Young fool! Gaeredhel could not help smiling, though his brother’s words were dark. Then let him come with us. Gaeredhel gave his brother a sly look. But since you seem to be his champion at the moment . . . He paused and gave his brother a considering look Indeed the champion of the young and lost of this ragged band of men . . .then, you may keep watch over him.

Rôsgollo turned his gaze to Faerim. I think he will acquit himself well . . . despite your doubts. It should not be much work.

Gaeredhel laughed abruptly, startling the few passersby near the little group. ‘Oh, I will remember your words, brother!’

Faerim looked at the Elves wondering at what seemed to have passed between them. Rôsgollo motioned him to follow along with them as they made for the perimeter of the camp. ‘Gather your gear quickly, Faerim. We will take you up on your offer. Bring the extra horses. Meet us there,’ he said lifting his chin toward the edge of the camp where the Orcs had entered. ‘We will wait for you for a space of time. Angóre has already gone ahead following the trail. We will meet with him at mid-day.’ He stopped for a moment and looked at the young man. ‘Go now. Hurry. We will not wait long . . .’

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim almost leapt a foot in the air when Gaeredhel suddenly laughed. The elves had been silent for so long - and he had come to the conclusion that they were most certainly communicating in some way, although to ask probably wouldn't be polite - that the sudden sound surprised him. He looked from one brother to the other, wondering what conclusion they had come to, but he did not have to wait long. Rôsgollo raised one eyebrow at his brother, then motioned to the Dunedain youth to come with them as he began to walk briskly.

"Gather your gear quickly, Faerim. We will take you up on your offer." At the elf's words, Faerim grinned widely, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise and delight, and he resisted with difficulty the urge to punch the air. Trying to regain a more serious composure, he listened to the elf's swift instructions, then nodded respectfully. "You won't regret it, Captain Rôsgollo, on my honour." He wasn't even sure whether it was the correct way in which to address the Rôsgollo, but it didn't seem to matter right at that moment. Unable to restrain himself, he shot the elves another brief grin, then left them to prepare.

As Faerim came through the tent flap and cast around for the few belongings he would need, he wouldn't have been able to describe the strange feelings that had welled up when the elves had accepted his offer. Pride, that they thought him good enough to come with them? Delight? No, surely not: it was a dangerous mission that they were embarking on. But independance? That certainly had a part in the compound; and a sense of excitement and, maybe, honour. Hold it back, Faerim lad, you don't want to dally with that yet; wait until you've got this done, then you can have time for honour...

Bow, quiver of arrows, knives slotted into place, sword at his side and his coat pulled hastily on: Faerim had what he needed. Renedwen had left the tent, taking her son and Gilly with her, and the tent was otherwise empty - so far so good, Faerim supposed, it allowed him to get out quicker. But as he moved towards the opening, a figure blocked his way, and he saw his father standing in front of him. He nodded his head respectfully and gave his father a smile - the first sign that Carthor, cynically but realistically, might have picked up upon that something was not right. "Good morning, father."

"Morning, Faerim," came the gruff reply. Carthor eyed his eldest son, standing slightly hunched in front of him because of the tent's low ceiling, and his gaze fell on the bow slung over his shoulder. He blinked, then looked back at Faerim, raising his bushy eyebrows slowly. "Going somewhere, son?"

Faerim hesitated, then made an indeterminate noise and shrugged, looking past his father. A flicker of impatience may have showed in his eyes, for Carthor's brows rose slightly higher and he moved his hand casually in his son's way. "Where?" he asked sharply.

Faerim shot him an almost impatient glance, tempered only by his respect for his distant father. Since when did Carthor care where he was going? He had never cared in Arthedain, only nudging his son into place when Lissi hinted at it, or when he got in his way - their relationship could hardly be described as close. So why now? Faerim knew the answer, but not the reason for it: over the time since the refugees had left the broken city, something seemed to have changed in his father. He seemed capable of emotion, for crying out loud! Faerim hadn't spent much time around his father relatively, but he had noticed the changes - how could he not? His father's changed attitude to his mother was more subtle; but his attitude to Brander, a mixture of tenderness and even a sort of pride in what his blind son could do, was truly astonishing compared to the past. Faerim wasn't sure what to make of it but, even in his hurry, he supposed it was reason to tell the reason for his departure - even if not in detail.

"I'm going to help some acquaintances with a few things," he answered cryptically. Carthor raised a sardonic eyebrow, suddenly alike to Rôsgollo, and he looked sternly at Faerim with dark blue eyes. "A fight?"

Faerim cocked his head on one side. "Not...exactly. I won't be getting into trouble, father, don't worry." He couldn't help a little sarcasm added in the last sentence. Sighing, he tried again, looking his father straight in the eyes and becoming more serious. "I am going to help the elves, Father. They needed help and..." he shrugged, looking away, as if it was nothing much, trying to shield his impatience. Carthor remained silent, and Faerim eventually looked back at his father - and on his father's face he was surprised to see a small smile and...was that pride? Carthor did not speak and Faerim eventually spoke again. "Could...could I borrow your horse, father?"

Carthor frowned slightly, then the smile returned and he sighed, seeming suddenly so old, seeming suddenly to know the gravity of his firstborn son's situation. He nodded and laid a hand on Faerim's shoulder. "Aye...aye." He seemed about to say something else, but instead simply grunted and nodded, releasing Faerim. The boy smiled solemnly back at his father and nodded in thanks, before he darted out of the tent opening.

There were few horses in the camp which could now truly said to be spare; but there were a fair few that could be said to belong to pretty much anyone. With Arthedain, men had fallen in their hundreds, but not all of their steeds had fallen with them, and some had been taken out of the city, having been seized by fleeing citizens or simply released when the soldier's, forced to run from the barracks, had opened the stable doors to give them some chance of survival. The people of Arthedain had had to learn fast, and although some stubbornly contented themselves with walking, many of the less experienced riders shared horses or took turns to ride, but wouldn't have a clue how to look after the animals, and so left them pretty much in the care of the army. As a result, there were some horses that could go missing for a while and would not be especially missed - and sure, wasn't Faerim going to return them in a while? Having managed to gain and saddle two such steeds - a young bay mare and a grey stallion - along with North and his father's stallion, Faerim led them by their reins to where the elves had said they would meet him.

Mounting up, Faerim organised himself briskly on North's back, sticking one knife into the horse's saddle beside the pommel, putting on his gloves and trying to sort the horses reins into some semblance of usefulness. Having worked at the blacksmiths, he was used to working with several horses at once, and had often been asked to test out several horses at once to make sure that their shoes fitted correctly; he was therefore able to quite professionally organise the horses together in a fashion that they would be able to run together. However, what he didn't let on to the watching elves was that the horses he had tested out before were generally lame, very young, or very old: in short, the ones that might have had trouble with new shoes and would not have been running all too fast in them. This could, he supposed, pose a new set of problems, but he glossed that over in his mind. He could handle this: the elves trusted him too, and that gave him some sort of confidence, as well as being a dire warning not to fail. Straightening up, he shifted in his saddle to get most comfortable and shook his hair back out of his face, looking to Rôsgollo. He nodded. "I am ready."

[Kransha]

The counsel of Belegorn and Mitharan had, thankfully, been swift. Mitharan was already gone from Hírvegil’s tent, so lengthy deliberations would not be necessary. This meant that, if a decision could be reached soon, the Elves might be appeased. The problem was the decisions that had been made so far. Mitharan spoke ever for the King, but even he did not seem insistent upon dedicating force to the Elves, or perhaps that was his weariness speaking. Belegorn, his growing comrade, had proposed something easier, more logical, but less politically correct. That was the rub for Captain Hírvegil.

“Belegorn,” he said to his lieutenant, pulling off the bracers he had just put on as he spoke and casting them onto his bedroll, “You know, do you not, that I must listen to Mitharan above you?”

“Yes, sir. He is a Lord, I am a soldier – as you are – his words hold far more importance.”

“I did not mean that. I merely meant…” Hírvegil trailed off uncomfortably, realizing with some annoyance that Belegorn was right. He was a slave of politics, even if it was his prime enemy. Mitharan had done nothing to earn his hatred, but the profession was what he disliked. People like Mellonar had doggedly attacked him and his father for years. His father, Sildathar, remained defiant into old age, but Hírvegil was fast losing that defiance and becoming a lapdog of the political system, in the thrall of the counselors of Arvedui: a sad fate indeed. After a moment of looking troubled, Hírvegil shook his head to shake off the nagging doubt instilled in him, and said, “You speak some of the truth, Belegorn, but the lords of Fornost do not lead our armies.”

“No, Captain, you do.” Belegorn said this as if he knew how much the truth’s irony stung Hírvegil, and it did. The Captain eased his own mental anguish by shifting the spotlight. “And someday,” he said, grinning a weak grin, “you will do so in my stead.” Belegorn barely acknowledged the praise, “Now, a decision must be made.” Belegorn again looked noncommittal. “No need to tell me, sir. I know this.”

Hirvegil nodded and rubbed his stubble-ridden face. “The Elves may not relent,” he said, “so we must be quick. If only your proposal and that of Mitharan’s could be adapted. Alas, I do not think the Elves desire our help overmuch.” Belegorn’s response took the words from his mind. “Then why extend it to them?” Hírvegil shook his head darkly, murmuring, under his breath, “Politics, again.” Belegorn agreed. “Politics, of course.”

“Their decisiveness,” said the Captain, after a brief pause, “and our lack thereof, is what is making this complicated. If they could keep their fiery heels planted in the ground for one moment longer-” He was interrupted by a windy gust from the tent entrance as the flap flailed upward and a feebly armored figure, uniformed as a watchman, burst in, breathing unsteadily. Belegorn and Hirvegil spun about as he spoke. “Captain Hirvegil,” said the man through stifled, terse breaths, “word spreads through the camp.”

Hírvegil did not exactly what this meant, so he responded incredulously, “When orcs steal into a camp in the middle of the night and vanish, word does tend to spread swiftly.” But the watchman shook his head abruptly, flinging loose hair from side to side. “No, milord, word of the Elves’ doings is what spreads now, replacing the old word. It has been overheard that they plan to depart to track their kinsmen, regardless of your aid.” Hírvegil stifled a gasp, but noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Belegorn did not react. “Are you sure of this?” He questioned urgently. The guard nodded, relying more on gestures to convey the answers, since he was out of breath. “Yes,” he replied, “they were overheard speaking with the youth who you spoke to before.”

Hírvegil’s eyes widened and narrowed at the same time. “That lad? What was his name: Forim? Fordim? Ah, Faerim! It was Faerim.” The soldier let his drooping head nod. “Yes, sir.” Hírvegil’s look became confused revelation, and then turned to sour resignation, and he dismissed the watchman. “Thank you, friend.” He said, the confused air of emergency gone in his voice. “Now, be off, and see to your duties.”

As the guard, with a hasty nod, left the tent, Hírvegil sank back and relapsed into deep thought. ‘Fools,’ he thought, ‘arrogant fools.’ He was now glad that he had not made the acquaintance of the Elves before, for they were proving to be no more than stubborn and insubordinate. He understood where they were coming from, but could not fathom the mood that led them to this doom they had perceived. He admitted that the contradictory views of Mitharan and Belegorn surprised him, but he should’ve expected as much from both. Hírvegil’s own sensory and mental perception of his circumstances had dulled to the point where he could no longer determine the course of action others would take, which had once been a prized skill of his. Thankfully, his prowess in battle or under tactical pretenses remained sharp as sword-steel, and he acknowledged this with gratitude to the Valar, who had left the favored parts of his aging mind intact. Though he was no longer blessed with the wisdom he’d held, Tulkas allowed him strength and sapped no power from him, despite the graying of his beard with passing seasons. This, at least, would allow him to devise a proper plan for the circumstances.

He weighed Belegorn’s, Mitharan’s, and the Elves’ views against each other on a three-pronged scale, trying to sort out each. Belegorn’s, the perspective of a soldier, an officer, and a man after his own heart, appealed to him most. The Elves displeased him and seemed to shun his aid even if he were to give it. Perhaps they would function best left to their own devices. Then again, Mitharan, steady regardless of his youth and candor, had pointed out with political tact what should be done to ease the Elves’ plight and please the King, when they reunited with him. Both views were worth consideration. The Elves seemed to support Mitharan’s view, but they did not care what Hírvegil did with the refugees, and would probably be content if he dismissed them, and sent them off on their own. It was a puzzling dilemma, but one that he resolved to quickly overcome. He spoke to Belegorn, who now stood pensively in his tent nearby.

“All is moving too quickly, Belegorn. I should have slept this day through.” He kneaded his brow, plucking a tell-tale gray hair from the foreground of his scalp and quickly dismissing it after a suspicious inspection. Belegorn, though more sprightly than he, gave hearty agreement. “We all wished for that, Captain, but orcs do not sleep as we do.” Hírvegil growled slightly. “Nay, and neither do the Eldar.” His lieutenant’s brow was piqued in interest. “You trust the Firstborn less and less, I see.” said Belegorn.

“I had not talked with them until this morning. Now, I hope never to treat with them on such a matter again. Their cooperation is much desired, but I fear it will never come, for they are an independent sort. In most, I would admire this, but here and now it is folly. But, I will not brush them aside. The King shall have his alliance.” He stood up, sounding very firm as he did so, and pulled his bracers on again. Belegorn rose with him expectantly. “You are going to lead the Dúnedain after the Elves?” he questioned, but Hírvegil shook his head. “No, I am not. Excuse me, Belegorn.” With that, the Captain of the Rearguard swept out of the tent.

[Kransha]

It did not take Hírvegil long to find the Elves and the boy who was supposedly going to accompany them. He found them saddled up on the outskirts of camp and, looking disheveled and tired, hurried up to them, trying to maintain a look of dignity as he addressed the three Elves and the Dúnadan. “My noble friends,” he said, outstretching his hands, “I know you are busy at the moment, but I must intrude. I have to speak with Master Faerim.”

The boy looked taken aback (by either the fact or the title applied to him), but the Elves gave him their usual monotone looks. “You know we are leaving, then?” said Gaeredhel quietly. “Yes,” responded the Captain with serene grace, “secrets are had to keep in a camp as small as this. I know I cannot dissuade you from your course now that I know of it, and I fear I have not the time to send aid with you, for the lord of this camp and my officers are still discussing the matter – resolution will not come soon enough. I know your choice is made but, if I may, I would like a chance to speak with my kinsman before he leaves at your side. I wish to offer him thanks and parting words, if I may”

Gaeredhel glanced suspiciously at Faerim. “If he so wishes.” The boy took a moment (one of impatience for Hírvegil) to respond, but in the end agreed. “I will.” He said, and dismounted. Rôsgollo took his horse carefully as Hírvegil, with a glimmer of a grin, led Faerim back. The young man became a bit more wary as Hirvegil led him conspiratorially away from the Elves, but did not refuse Hírvegil’s hand. As the two stopped, farther from the watchful Elven eyes, Hírvegil began.

“Alright, lad, I ask you to listen to what I say now very carefully.” Hírvegil's voice lowered in volume immensely, for he knew how well the Eldar heard earthly sounds. He spoke in a consistent whisper.

“Captain Hírvegil?” Faerim looked surprised, and, if Hírvegil had been in a more perceptive mood, he might’ve noticed the well-masked worry on the young man’s face. He did not; far too busy pretending to be brisk and energetic himself. “That is my name, last I checked.” He said, with a good-natured smirk on his face, well meaning but enigmatic. Faerim did not share his false merriment. “What brings you here?” asked the boy. Hirvegil, his grin fading idly, dove on into his pre-prepared address. “I wanted to speak with you.” He began simply, “After our “collision” earlier, I was unable to treat with you in the presence of the Elves. Now I can thank you properly for your aid, which was much appreciated. I have no wealth at the moment to repay you, but perhaps I have a job for you instead.”

“Captain,” the boy responded, “I fear I won’t be able to any jobs for you in the immediate future.” But Hirvegil was not daunted. “Oh, but you will.” He said, a clever glint in his aged eye, “You are going with the Elves.” Faerim saw this as a statement of fact, but still had to digest it. “Well, yes.” He said, but Hírvegil plowed on. “No need to hide the fact now, boy.” He said, assuring, “Now then, you are going with the Elves. I must assume that this is your own choice, yes?” “I thought so. I shall not make you remain, as I should, but I will instead reward you in this way. You may serve your people by doing one simple thing for me.”

Faerim did not really reply to this. He seemed to understand the situation, but indicated neither agreement nor disagreement. Irked but steady, Hírvegil continued. “It will be some days before you and your new companions overtake the orc raiders. Some distance behind you, there will be scouts and trackers of mine, a small party, trailing the Elves. On the eve that you reach the orc encampment, light torches in your camp. If the orc host you face is of great size, light only one; if it is small enough to be handled by the Elves, light two, and if the Elves plan to turn back, for whatever reason, light three; if the Elves could manage the orcs with some assistance, light four. Is that clear?”

The young Dunadan again looked noncommittal, but posed a question before replying in earnest. “Pardon my asking,” he said, with polite hesitation, “but, why? Can you not simply send soldiers with the Elves now?” Hirvegil grimaced inwardly, but maintained outward patience.

“Forgim-” “Faerim” (Faerim corrected) “Yes, of course – Faerim, this matter is one too complex to discuss in the short allotment of time we have. Suffice to say, this group could not stand the loss of many soldiers. If I was to send troops with the Elves, they would be resigned to their fate. If they encountered a great many orcs, they would be decimated, if not worse, which would be a terrible detriment to the journey ahead of our people, yours and mine. If the Elves can handle them, there is no use in wasting good men. If the orcs are many, than the mission is suicide anyway, and sending men to their deaths would be folly. With your help, a major loss could be avoided. Your service would be invaluable.”

Now the Dunadan seemed bitten by confusion, with a hint of anger brought on by Hírvegil’s plan. “So, you would let the Elves hasten to their deaths while your men stand near enough to save them?” The Captain let himself grimace outwardly this time, and stood up sternly, his pleasant features straightening into his soldierly sour look. “Faerim, who do you serve, the King or the Elves? If you do this, I will reward you with anything and everything that is in my power to give. This is the chance of a lifetime for you, lad, I suggest you take it. My men will follow the Elves whether or not you do this thing, and you will receive your reward if it is done, but if you reveal what I have said to the Elves, I will have no choice but to charge you with treason and, as a soldier, ill conduct and espionage, as far as your little escapade earlier. I am not a harsh man, or a demanding one. Do this not for me, but for yourself, and your people. They are depending on you. Good day.”

He turned, now, not waiting for an answer, to the Elves on their steeds nearby, and gave them a bow of farewell. “And good day to you all.” He said, loud enough for them to hear, “I wish you luck in your mission, and hope you return to us with the quarry you seek in tow. I wish I could have sent my assistance with you, but I am bound by my duties to the crown at present. Again, good fortune to you, and especially to you, Faerim.” He almost winked, but knew the Elves would see it, so he simply smiled heartily and waited for the motley quartet to depart.

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre was kneeling by the tracks, perhaps a hundred yards from the edge of the camp when the others rode up. Gaeredhel quickly filled him in on the captain's decision and Faerim's presence. Angóre's face remained impassive, but the merest flicker of his eyes betrayed his unhappiness with the situation.

"I wonder if we were not over-rash with the good captain," he said softly. "Look here." He showed the brothers the tracks of the orcish company. "The group that executed the capture is here," he said indicating the relevant tracks, "but they are met here by a much larger force. The numbers are unclear, but I cannot make out individual tracks from here onwards so I would guess the company numbers at least twenty, more likely forty or fifty. If they were taking care, walking in file to confuse our efforts there could be as many as a hundred orcs ahead of us. Our situation has suddenly become much more desperate. We cannot defeat such numbers."

The youth, Faerim, spoke. "Then we do not fight. Perhaps we can enter the camp stealthily, and effect our rescue without being seen?" Angóre seemed to see the lad for the first time. "And then what, son of Man? We would certainly be pursued when the rescue was discovered. Would you have us bring the whole of the Orcish company down on the rear of the unsuspecting Dúnedain train?"

Gaeredhel spoke next. "Perhaps we could lead them away from the Dúnedain camp, into the wilderness. We might even make for Imladris... or the Havens. Enough of our kinsmen dwell there to repulse this company of Orcs. In any case, we may simply have to cross that bridge when we come to it. We cannot abandon our charges to the Orcs."

Angóre nodded, but his face was grim.

[CaptainofDespair]

A gloomy atmosphere hung over the primordial camp of the orcs. The elves and the two Dunedain slumbered against an outcropping of rocks, guarded by many of the chieftain’s most loyal orcs. It was a boring and tedious task, but they knew reward would come soon enough, for they were stout warriors, who supported their overlord. Nagbak himself was tired of resting now, for they had been slumbering for nearly the whole of the night, and past the dawn of the morning. He was now growing restless, for something was on his mind. His lieutenant, he often hung at his lord’s heels like a dog, spoke up, hoping to see into the mind of his chief.

“Great chieftain, we have been here too long. Humans, or the other wicked elves will come soon,” he muttered. Nagbak sat silent on a rotting stump of a tree. A few silent moments passed before any life could be seen in the chief’s body. Finally, he replied to his subordinate, with a slight twitching to his left eye, “Prepare to move out. We are at least half a day from meeting up with our reserves.” The underling, knowing the whole of the story was not revealed yet, inquired more into his master’s plan. “Yesss, but we are to be soon hunted, my captain,” he replied. Nagbak knew the situation would grow desperate, and even his loyalists might mutiny if pressured by an enemy who would relentlessly hunt them, until none remained. “I know, Grutazg. Which is why I have something for you to do.”

The quirky under-chief looked confused for a moment, unable to understand what his ears had heard. He was loyal to his master, and he was left bereft of all intuition that might have led him to believe something dangerous was upon him. Thus, he could only wonder what sort of reward was upon him. “Grutazg, my loyal lieutenant, you are to do me, and all orcs, a service. You will depart here with half of our boys, and turn back to the southeast. Hopefully it will delay the trackers that will be following our tracks soon. From there, head to Gundabad if you can.” Grutazg scratched his head, and nodded. Then, he responded, “Yes, Chief Nagbak. But what of yourself?” The old orc let forth a hardy laugh, from the pit of his gut, and he slapped his compatriot on the back. “I will be departing with the rest of our boys, along with the hostages. We will head to the west, then follow a small, partially frozen stream to the north, where we will meet up with Razhbad and my reserves. If all goes well, our tracks will never be found after reaching the stream, and our mission a success.” At this, the chief left the company of his underling to muster his personal guards, and the hostages.

The rest of the early morning was spent preparing for the departures. Grutazg had acquired the force he needed, and had made his way back into the forest, to put into action his chieftain’s plan. Meanwhile, the Chief had finished his personal preparations, and, after feeding a semi-poisonous berry to the elves and Dunedain (for the purpose of leaving them in a groggy, and for a time, unconscious state), was readying his own guards for the journey. A few shouts and grunts were all it took to rile his men into the mood for a long march, and the order was given to move out. At the same time, Grutazg had done the same, and left with his force to the southeast. Neither was unsure of what would soon happen, if the plans would fail, and the mission be defeated.

As he had planned, and as he scouts had told him, Nagbak came to a small stream, which, if his luck were to hold, wouldn’t be on any maps the trackers might possess. Here, he gave the order to his men to turn into the stream, and wade up it, as far as they could. The hostages were be bundled over the backs of the carrier orcs, and placed in the middle of the group, should trouble arise. Nagbak, kept himself at the head of the column, where he would receive the latest information from his scouts who were being sent ahead to keep the path clear. To ensure the scouts weren’t picked up, he had set up a forward screen along the stream, to guard against any ambushes. This was his plan thus far, and he continued to hope it would hold well, for his sake, and his hostages’ sake.

[Arry]

The Elves had pushed their horses as much as they dared in an effort to catch up to the Orc troops. They were resting now, in a small clearing near the tracks they had been following. It afforded them some measure of cover against the chill air and left an easy view of the route the Orcs had taken with their captives. It was not only the horses who were relieved at the rest, but Faerim also who welcomed a chance to replenish his energy.

Rôsgollo threw him a spare blanket from one of the extra horses they’d brought as the young man sat on the ground, his back resting against a log. Faerim had offered to make a small fire to drive off the chill, but Gaeredhel had spoken up, saying there would be no fires until the captives were freed and all were in a safer place. ‘Orcs have eyes and noses. We cannot afford to have them know our little group is following.’

It was only a brief rest before they pushed on again. The track led them southwest from the Dunedain encampment. The Orcs had traveled quickly despite the burden of their captives and had made no effort to conceal the direction they had taken. A while later, the Elves and Faerim came to a rocky area where it appeared the Orcs had made a brief camp. Angóre and Gaeredhel scouted about the perimeter while Faerim and Rôsgollo attended to the horses and kept watch.

‘Did you find where they have gone?’ asked Rôsgollo as his brother came running back.

‘They have split up, it seems,’ Gaeredhel replied. ‘Some heading southeast, another group of equal size it appears, heads west. I followed for a length down the southwest track. Again, they make no effort to conceal themselves from any who might be on their trail. I could not tell if they bore the captives with them or no. Angóre has gone scouting down the west way. Let us wait here until he brings back his report. Then we can decide which route to follow.’ He looked hopefully at his brother.

‘Nay, there is no answer. Something clouds Lord Ereglin’s mind.’ Rôsgollo shook his head. ‘I can only hope he will break free of it at least for a brief moment and give us word of himself and the others.’

The trio hid the horses in a small clearing among the boulders, then hunkered down themselves to keep watch for Angóre . . .

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre moved slowly along the western troupe's trail. This splitting of the Orcish strength worried him. When they had first come to the place where the party had split it had made him glad: the obvious explanation was that the foul folk had quarreled, whether over the captives or the direction was, of course, unknown. But Orcish quarrels tended to leave corpses in their wake, and no sign of conflict could be seen. Already Angóre was starting to have a healthy respect for the unknown captain of these Orcs, and this further solidified his feeling. It was a rare captain who could split his troop, sending some off in a clearly diversionary tactic. Especially when prisoners and spoil lay with one group.

He had been working his way along for perhaps a quarter of an hour when he came to a small stream. He frowned. This did not look good. The Orcs had entered the stream and moved along it, in which direction Angóre could not tell from where he stood. The little stream had started to freeze in the chill of the night before, and for a moment Angóre hoped he might be able to tell their direction from the broken ice reaching out from both banks, but the Orcs had stuck to the center of the stream and if they had broken off ice, Angóre couldn't tell the difference.

Gaeredhel had only just finished giving his report when the trio heard the slow clop of Angóre's horse. They looked up at him expectantly as he entered the clearing, but he shook his head in negation. "I cannot tell," he said simply. "Any luck from you?"

Gaeredhel shook his head as well. Angóre sighed. "There is a frozen stream not far from here. The Orcs I was following entered it, in which direction I cannot say. But they cannot have stayed in the water for long; the cold would sap the strength from their legs. But it is worrying nonetheless; it is the first thought they have taken to throwing off pursuit. I fear it will only become more difficult to track them from here on."

Faerim spoke slowly. "If one of the troops is taking care to conceal themselves, and the other isn't, I'd guess that the first troop is the important one and the second is the decoy." He looked up at Angóre, who nodded in agreement. "That would also be my guess. But the orcish captain has proved so cunning thus far I would not put it past him to take advantage of this. I do not know if we can afford to leave one column alone entirely."

"How far ahead would you say they are?" Rôsgollo asked. "Not far," Gaeredhel spoke up, "I would say not more than a few hours." Angóre nodded in agreement with Gaeredhel's assessment. "Then," Rôsgollo continued, "we might follow both trains and when we've found which contains Lord Ereglin, send word to the others."

"I'm not sure I like that idea," Faerim said. "It'd be at least another whole day while the other two caught up, even if we could get a message to them immediately. Throw in the Orcs' movements and we could be separated by half of Arnor right when we need to act."

Angóre nodded again. "I agree with the boy. We must choose one, and pray that it is the right one. I would choose the westward trail, but it is a baseless guess and I do not lead this company. What do you think?"

[Novnarwen]

He was back at the Inner Sanctum. He was sitting on his mother's mare, helpless and afraid. By hearing the voices filled with horror and despair, he felt little and unimportant where he sat, weak even. He wondered how it would be if could see. What would he see? Would it be different from what he was seeing inside his head? Would it be worse or better? The feeling of anxiety rose inside of him as time went by. He was shaking wildly where he sat, waiting for something to happen, or someone to come. Who? What? Surprised by being alone, he knew what it was that worried him. Desperately, he called out for his brother and his mother. “Lissi, Faerim?” His voice echoed, and yet it sounded faint and distant. His breath went hurriedly, and sped up as time went by. No one answered. Again he called, but there was only silence. Silence. There was nothing, not a single sound. Why? How come time seemed suddenly to stand still? Stricken by this, he tried listening attentively to anything that was going on. rRegardless of how much he tried however, how much effort he put into calming himself and listen to his surroundings, there was nothing.

His mother’s mare grew uneasy, sensing the same oddness of the situation as himself. He held the reins of the horse firmly, deciding never to let go. With the absence of his family, mother and brother, the horse was all he had. When a few minutes had passed, the urge, or need, to understand what was going on took command over him. Being afraid of the danger with revealing ones location to a possible enemy, he nevertheless decided that it was the only thing he could do. With a shaking voice, first silently, then aloud, he called out. “Hello!?!”

Brander woke up. He opened his eyes, expected to see as if his whole life had been nothing but a dream. Black, black as always. “Faerim, are you here?” He rolled onto his back, feeling a silent breeze touching his skin, softly, and as he heard the sound of fabric waving in the wind, he knew that what he first had feared was definitely untrue.

Calling for Faerim again, but hearing no reply, he realised that it was probably passed mid-day, and he didn't blame his brother for having gone out while he was asleep.

[Arry]

‘I have found Orcs to be clever, to a point,’ said Rôsgollo. ‘Cunning, in fact. But in a straight forward way. Nothing so refined and intricate as thinking they can make us believe that the group who is taking care to conceal its tracks is the one with the hostages when it is not. My thought would be that we try to overtake those Orcs heading west.’

Gaeredhel nodded his head at his brother’s words. ‘What bothers me also is that they have split their strength. They cannot know how many Elves and Dunedain will come after them. It concerns me that the group with the captives has plans of meeting up with a larger force. If we are to free the hostages, then it should be done before the Orc troops increase in number.’

‘The stream presents another problem, as Angóre has said,’ continued Rôsgollo. ‘He could not tell whether they went north or south along its course.’

‘But if the water is frigid, then they will have to come out of it at some point not far from where they entered as Angore said.’ Gaeredhel crouched down and with the point of his knife drew two parallel lines in the dirt to represent the stream. ‘Were I the Orc leader,’ he said, ‘I would have my troop travel as far as they could in the cold water. And ahead of my column I would send out scouts to see what problems lie ahead. They would not keep to the watery track but range out along the embankment and the areas to each side of it. Surely, if we travel just a small way up or down the stream we should be able to pick up these lone Orc tracks, coming and going.’

‘We can split up then, when we reach the frozen stream. Do you not think so, Angóre?’ Rôsgollo asked. ‘Since we are on horse, the time spent to find the scout tracks should be short. Two of us can go north and two to the south. Gaeredhel and I will split up, and keep in touch with one another as we travel along. When one of us has found the column’s direction the he will give notice, and the other and his companion can hasten back.’

‘Why can’t you ask the other Elves where they’ve gone, then?’ Faerim voiced the obvious question. He’d listened closely to the discussion and had wondered previously at the Elves ability to speak with each other without words.

‘A fair question,’ Rôsgollo answered. ‘And normally it would not be a problem to do so with Lord Ereglin. But something clouds his mind, keeps his thoughts hazy, and him hard to reach. I can sense that he is not far away, but I cannot rouse him to aid us in our search. At some point I am hoping he will break through whatever dams his thoughts, but until then we will just have to proceed as we are doing now.’

‘We should make haste, brother,’ Gaeredhel urged, making his way back to where his horse was tethered.

They mounted their horses and made their way as quickly and quietly as they could to where the westward tracks of the Orc group met the stream. Angóre and Gaeredhel, it was agreed, would head north, up the stream, while Faerim and Rôsgollo searched to the south

[Kransha]

The day after the night raid passed slowly and groggily, despite turmoil in the camp. Confusion abounded, but a very lazy sort of confusion in which no one wished to be energetically bewildered, merely tired and unknowing. Word of the Elves’ departure quickly spread, but none seemed to object. Though knowledge of the orc break-in was a douse of realism to the train, it was not disheartening. After days of sleepless traveled, all that most cared about was that they had not been harmed by the orcs, and that the orcs were gone.

Hírvegil organized a small detachment of tracking Dúnedain from the unit Belegorn had arranged and sent them to do what he’d told Faerim they would – follow the Elves. They were to keep far away and strictly avoid contact with the Elves, unless they encountered the orc host. Based on the signals he hoped Faerim would give, their actions would be determined at a later date, and would, hopefully, not involve the other Dúnedain further. The worst possibility would be the loss of all Elves and the trackers, the best being the safe rescue and arrival of the Elves at the camp again – it was impossibly to foresee which was more likely to occur. The Dúnedain rangers were resigned to this stealthy task and, under the command of a minor commissioned officer, left the camp on the still-burning tail of the Elves and their idiosyncratic companion.

Now they’re seemed to be a layering of knowledge in the camp. Some had no idea what had happened, some knew only that the Elves had been kidnapped, some knew Hírvegil had sent out rangers, and some knew almost everything about what had transpired through spreading gossip. Hírvegil prayed that most knew less about his plans than he did, though some seemed to know more. To his chagrin, Hírvegil discovered that the counselor Mitharan had found out most of the happenings of the day when he came for the second time into Hírvegil’s tent. The rustle of leathery tent flap awoke the Captain from an unsteady slumber, one he sorely needed, and caused him to sit bolt upright in alarm. His shoulders, arched like the hairs on a cat’s back, sagged and relaxed when he saw the visage of the lord, but he was filled with consternation.

“The Elves are gone?” questioned Mitharan plainly. Hírvegil sighed again and spoke, his voice indistinct in the moments after waking. “Yes,” he coughed, “their impatience could not be helped.” Mitharan’s hasty air settled, and he slowed the pace of his words and breath, stabilizing. He paced nobly about the tent as Hírvegil rose from his bed, wishing he could remain in it for once. Mitharan’s question came in a stabbing manner that annoyed Hírvegil, but its bluntness could not be helped. “You did send some soldiery with them, did you not?” he intoned, less as a question and more as an accusation. Mitharan was not a caustic, sardonic creature like his unrelated kinsman Mellonar, but he was obviously displeased.

“Not with them;” groaned Hírvegil, brushing a couple of loose hair strands out of his eyes, “behind them.” Mitharan either did not comprehend this, or he was beating around the bush. “Dúnedain may not have the swiftness of the Eldar,” he said, “but that is no reason-” Sternly, Hírvegil interrupted, pleading with invisible forces to end this uncomfortable conversation. “Lord Mitharan, they departed too hastily to assign a unit to them. There was nothing I could do.”

Mitharan looked indifferent. “You could have been more decisive, Captain.”

“I’m sure I could have, but, alas, I was not. What’s done is done.”

The counselor never became louder or more aggressive, but his words became more stinging in time. “What’s done is the alliance between His Majesty and the Firstborn by your negligence. Captain Hírvegil, I respect your abilities, but this matter cannot be dismissed as it has been. If you knew the Elves were going to depart unaided, you should’ve detained them. Now we risk losing all the Elves when some could’ve been saved.” He spoke directly to Hírvegil, a strange trait for a politician. Most counselors Hírvegil knew would speak their petty woes to the universe rather than to one, insignificant man, dramatically stroking their own egos. Mitharan was, at least, slightly different from all of them. Hírvegil tried to pacify the lord. “At this stage,” he said, “I do not believe anything can be done.”

“I was taught, Captain,” Mitharan continued, unheeding of Hírvegil’s words for the moment, “that something can always be done, even if it is not the something that will induce a desirable result. I suggest you try to remedy this matter in what way you can. If nothing comes to you, I will not persist, but the King will know of it, if not by my word then by the lack of Elves in this camp. I bid you good day, Captain Hírvegil.” With a very meager bow to the Captain, Mitharan whisked himself like a regal gust of wind out of Captain Hírvegil’s roomy tent.

As Mitharan departed, Hírvegil fell back on his bedroll for the fifth or sixth time that same day, heaving a heavy sigh from his weary throat. He rasped and let himself cough once, then returned to breathing steadily. Mitharan was right in more ways than one, and his passive objection struck Hírvegil hard as he realized his mistake, one of many he’d made. He contemplated a new course of action, but none presented itself. The only recourse available was to try to figure out what the Elves were planning so that he could send word to his trackers to outmaneuver them. With a somber look on his cold face, he ushered in the guard who’d stood at the entrance to his tent almost all day and spook quickly to him. “That boy;” he said, “Faerim, does he have family in the camp?”

The guard hesitated, and then nodded readily. “Yes, sir. He is the son of Carthor.” Hírvegil’s brow rose at this. He had heard tell of Carthor, the lone survivor of the Arnorian Vanguard who’d been rescued from the ruin of Fornost while all his companions, dead, fleeing, or injured, had eventually expired. “You mean Carthor of the Vanguard?” he inquired curiously to affirm his suspicions, “The survivor?” Again the guard nodded, but after no hesitation. “Yes, that is he.”

Hírvegil let this information sink in in silence, and then spoke up, mouthing his thoughts vocally. “Now that is an interesting development.” He mused, mostly to himself, “Have Faerim or the Elves been seen treating with any others of the Dúnedain?” Again the guard nodded, more steadily though, and with less haste or hesitation. “Just one, sir,” he paused slightly, “a woman.” Again Hírvegil’s curiosity was piqued. He did not think of the Elves as folk who would deliberately interact with any Dúnedain, but perhaps this woman was an acquaintance of Faerim’s. He would soon find out, he supposed, and let the matter rest in him.

“Do you know her?” asked the Captain of the Rearguard, and the guard gave positive response. “Yes, I believe she could be located.” Hírvegil let slip another moment of contemplation, and then spoke up in an orderly fashion. “Very well, have the woman and Carthor brought to my tent. If there are other family members of the boy who went with the Elves, bid them come as well.” He waved his hand dismissively and the guard allowed himself a curt bow and a polite, “Yes, sir.” before he departed the tent.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim was glad to be paired with Rôsgollo as they mounted up and followed the frozen stream south, travelling at a trot father than a faster gallop, so as not to miss anything vital along the way. Rôsgollo unexpectedly offered to take one of the horses that Faerim had brought along, so the boy would have less trouble leading two than three, and he took up the offer, surprised but glad: it was a sign of companionship or appreciation or...something, he wasn't sure exactly what, that he was glad of from the elf. It meant that Rôsgollo really didn't regard him simply as a burden.

But as they travelled in silence for several minutes along the banks of the stream, the steady sound of the hooves on the hard, frosty ground drumming out an almost sopophorically relaxing beat, Faerim could not help the unease that had been growing in his mind. He thought over what Hirvegil had said, the captain's words spinning over in his mind again and again.

"Who do you serve, the king or the elves? If you reveal what I have said to the Elves,I will have no choice but to charge you with treason and, as a soldier, ill conduct and espionage, as far as your little escapade earlier..."

Treason...

"What did you say?"

Faerim's head jerked up guiltily as his neck snapped around to face Rôsgollo. For a moment, a panic seized him: elves could not read human minds, could they? Sneak through his thoughts without his realising... Rôsgollo's wording caught up with him and he realised he must have said the dreadful word out loud. Shaking his head, he replied hastily, "It was nothing. Just...just nothing."

The words were on the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill out of his lips any second if he spoke any more to Rôsgollo, so he fell back into an unhappy silence. Hirvegil had placed a terrible burden on him here, for what was he to do? The Captain had said that his men would follow them even if Faerim did not light the torches when they camped; but how would they know where to go when even the elves, with their tracking skills, were not sure? Without their help, the firstborn would likely not stand a chance; yet if Faerim lit the torches, he would risk killing them all anyway. Unless he told Rôsgollo why he needed to do so...in which case Hirvegil would try him for, among other things, treason! He nearly cried out in frustration. Faerim was not even sure what the penalty for treason was...at this alarming thought he frowned in worry: surely the death penalty could not continue when the king of Arthedain did not even have a city any more? Unless he was to be made an example - and so much for honour then, if he was executed for treason! What was he to do?

Who do you serve, the king or the elves? Hirvegil's words taunted Faerim and he remembered how much he had wanted to answer at the time. The king had seemingly abandoned them, leaving in a different train along with his ministers and his court. The legends of the kings of old told of monarchs who would follow after their people to the very end, leading them wisely all the while - how could Arvedui do that when he wasn't even within several miles of his people?! Yes, as a soldier, he served the king of Arthedain - but right now, trotting beside Rôsgollo with only elves within at least a five mile radius, it was the elves, not the king, who he had to get along with.

"What is the matter, Faerim?" Rôsgollo's words once more interrupted his thoughts. Realising his frown had been ever deepening, Faerim smoothed out his expression and shook his head, brushing his hair distractedly away from his face. "It...it is nothing," he replied, for once unconvincing in his pretence. But as his frown began to form once more, he sighed and asked the rather worrying question that had been nagging. "Rôsgollo, can..." he hesitated, unsure of whether this would strictly be polite, then carried on regardless. "Can elves read the minds of men?"

Rôsgollo gave him a very strange look, then actually laughed, a joyful, musical sound that, though quiet, seemed to echo joyfully. Faerim felt a little foolish but found himself smiling slightly at the sound anyway. The elf turned to him with a sidelong grin and replied, "Do not worry, Faerim. Neither myself nor my kinsmen will be probing your thoughts, never fear." He laughed again and shook his head, then grinned slyly and added, "Why, should we try?"

Faerim felt his blush stand out against his pale skin and didn't try to brush his hair from his face this time, so it was at least partially hidden. No matter what the elf said, Faerim felt sure he could somehow read his thoughts! Taking a steadying breath, he forced a smile and shook his head. "Of course not, Rôsgollo. I simply wondered whether you felt any clearer on what Captain Hirvegil wanted that I do."

The elf snorted derisively and for a moment more they rode in pensive silence before Rôsgollo spoke again, his piercing grey eyes facing straight forward as if it did not matter much, although his curiosity was evident. "What was it that Hirvegil said when he took you to one side, Faerim?"

Faerim replied instantly with a nonchalant shrug and a casual tone. "Merely a few words of warning - try not to get myself killed. 'Can't think why he should actually care particularly, but then, I suppose it would not bode well for any of the parties concerned if the captives were not rescued and a Dunedan was killed, all because Hirvegil did not instantly send his troops with enough haste."

Rôsgollo nodded slowly, thoughtfully, but only gave a short reply of, "Indeed."

Faerim felt almost faint with the realisation of how close he had come to telling the elf. However much of a rebel he may have been in the city, he could not help the anxiety of these consequences that Hirvegil posed to him, however baffling they were. Why should it matter so much if the elves knew that Hirvegil simply wanted to know how many men he needed to send? One of the horses slipped and staggered forward as his foot fell into a hole in the icy ground and Faerim reigned him in quickly, soothing him softly to stop him or the others from bolting. Concentrating on that, he tried to force the thoughts of Hirvegil's hidden threat from his mind, and concentrated on following the path.

[Arry]

The man dissembles . . . and not well . . . Rôsgollo turned over the few statements Faerim had made. There was no need to read the young one’s mind, his emotions played across his face like heat lightning on a hot summer’s evening. Hirvegil had bound the boy with promises, or threats, more likely, and even now was using him as his informant. And to what purpose, the Elf wondered. Faerim looked torn with the consideration of whatever decisions he was asked to make. If Hirvegil were using him to hedge his bets about this mission, it seemed likely that Faerim would fare ill no matter the outcome, either by his own conscience or the brute hand of the captain.

What was it the young man had said . . . ‘I suppose it would not bode well for any of the parties concerned if the captives were not rescued and a Dunedan was killed, all because Hirvegil did not instantly send his troops with enough haste . . .’ Interesting choice of words. Does he imply that Hirvegil means to somehow weigh his options before committing to the rescue mission? Would he truly leave us to our own devices with no support. If that is so, then . . .

Brother? Gaeredhel’s query drove the tangled web of thoughts from Rôsgollo's mind. He asked if they had as yet found any sign that the Orcs had gone south since neither he nor Angóre had seen anything out of the oridinary as yet.

Faerim had ridden a little ahead, his gaze was bent to the ground, looking closely for any sign of movement the Orcs might have made along the stream. He shook his head as Rôsgollo drew up to him. ‘Let us range out a little farther from the edges of the stream, the Elf suggested. Motioning for Faerim to take one side while he took the other.

We have found nothing yet . . . Rôsgollo said in answer to his brother’s query. At least in the way of Orcs . . . but there are other thoughts I would share with you when we are together again. The Orcs may not be the only ones who wish us ill . . . who conspire to bring us harm . . .

[Nuranar]

Thinking... thinking... always thinking...

Lissi sat on the ground gazing into the little campfire, her mind far away from the cluster of tents huddled in the hills. Her heart ached in Faerim's absence. Why had he gone? She had not heard his discussion with the Elves. Carthor had seen him when he came to the tent, but he had volunteered little information and Lissi feared to question him, to imperil the tiny developments of warmth he was showing. She hoped that he was changing, but in the meantime... The man who should have been her shelter was shutting her out.

Her thoughts raced through the possibilities. Clearly the Elves and Faerim had gone to rescue those who were taken. But how many orcs were they pursuing? Where had the orcs gone? Why had they taken the Elves captive in the first place? What if they were trying to draw the refugees out? What if they were planning an ambush? Even now -

Forcibly Lissi tore her mind from the thought. Why was she so wrought up? She long had known and accepted the fortunes of war; at least, she thought she had. No - this was the power of a mother's love, this vital force that set at naught the philosophy and reason of her intelligence. She told herself that Faerim had gone because he knew he had to do it, just as he had known he had to rescue Renedwen and her child. She told herself he was doing his duty as he saw it, just as she was - trying - to do hers. She told herself all this and set her mind to strength. And still she was afraid.

Lissi willed her body not to tremble, not to disturb Brander. Her younger son sat at her side, head resting on her shoulder. Renedwen held her sleeping son in her arms, the child Gilly wrapped in a cloak at her feet and sleepily playing with his fingers. Carthor snored gently, propped against a box close to the fire.

Brander abruptly stiffened and raised his head. Startled, Lissi realized what his quicker ears had caught immediately: the quiet clank and squeak of armor. A soldier was approaching. He was unseen in the early dark of winter, doubly hidden from her light-dazzled eyes. Lissi laid a reassuring hand on Brander's arm.

A shape gradually loomed up through the smoky dusk. Lissi saw the vague outlines of a guard's helmet and dull glints of firelight on metal. "Is Carthor here?" the man said.

Carthor was immediately awake. "Carthor here, sir," he said, jumping to his feet. Too fast. Lissi rose swiftly and took his arm as he swayed, still weak.

"Captain Hírvegil requires your presence," the man said. Eyes adjusting to the dark, Lissi saw his face. He looked tired. Glancing around their circle, his gaze fell on Renedwen, beautiful and austere, and the children with her. "Madam," he said, bowing slightly, "the Captain wishes to speak with you as well. As well as you, ma'am," he continued to Lissi, "you and your son." He gestured to Brander, still sitting by the fire.

Lissi's fear returned in full force, but with something to do she could pretend to ignore it. Quickly she called a neighbor over to tend the fire and stay with Gilly. Renedwen's face never changed as she rose carefully and wrapped her son more closely against the cold. Within very few minutes they were following the guard back through the tents, Lissi at Carthor's side and Brander holding her hand.

[Kransha]

When the guard who Hírvegil had sent returned to his tent with a Dúnadan man, a boy, and two women, Hírvegil had fully dressed himself, complete with his usual panoply, glistening dimly in light that spurted in through the tent flap. The sound of clanking plate and jingling links of chain irritated his aching head, but he ignored the imaginary welt on his scalp and mustered a commanding look as the five Dúnedain civilians were escorted, somewhat confusedly, inside. The innards of the tent had been rearranged, with two rickety stools and two rickety chairs that had been scrounged recently from supply wagons placed in a semicircle, facing away from the tent entrance. As the four came inside, Hírvegil put on his most amicable face and welcomed them with a venerable gesture.

“Welcome, welcome.” He said, recalling the noble etiquette his father had taught him, “Please sit. It was hard enough to find stools and chairs in our many supply wagons, so I would appreciate it if you utilized the accommodations procured.” The Captain’s grin lit up, but then faded into an expected dark and serious look as the quartet began to sit. The man who Hírvegil assumed was Carthor aided one of the two women, the one who looked to be of higher birth, with brighter, bluer eyes that bore a simple radiance which Hírvegil had to admit caught his interest. The other man, a boy really, did not aid the other, more simply clad woman. This boy had his eyes gently closed for some reason, but was able to find his own seat easily enough, though he gave no unnecessary aid to the older woman who sat, after carefully making sure he had sat down, at his left. Once all were settled, and Hírvegil had duly looked them over, the Captain of the Rearguard spoke.

“No doubt” he began, “you all have at least some idea of what is going on. But, before I begin, I would like to at least know to whom I speak. I have not had the pleasure of meeting any of you, but I do know one of you.” He looked admiringly to the man garbed as a soldier and took his hand in greeting. “Carthor, it is an honor.” He had heard tell of this man, the lone survivor of the doomed Vanguard of Fornost, a resident celebrity, in more blunt terms. He was the only man to have been so far at the front of the Arnorian troops at the battle that he could witness the goings-on in the outermost sanctum – the first to fall. Carthor responded as a venerated man-at-arms might, throwing off the veil of Hírvegil’s flattery.

“Moreso for myself, sir.” He said, and bowed from the waist, somewhat stiffly. Hírvegil responded in much the same manner. “Now is not the time for flattery.” He said with a good-natured glance at the others around.
“From what I have been told, I admire you all the more.” This was true, even though he knew not what real admiration he held for the man. Surviving the annihilation of the Vanguard was no mean feat, but Hírvegil knew Carthor had not achieved it alone. “I met your son, and I knew that the father of that boy must be a strong fellow, worthy of praise.” He laughed as if he’d made a good joke, and Carthor showed some sign of bemused amusement. Hírvegil turned to the woman at his right, looking at her serene face and grey eyes. “And you must be his mother.” He said, noting immediately the apparent fragility of the woman, though he knew it might be a planned or unintentional façade on her part.

“Yes.” She said, “My name is Lissi.” She gestured to the boy who had not aided her in sitting, “This is my son, Brander.” Hírvegil, going through traditional motions, extended his hand to the lad, but he did not take it customarily. Instead, he looked blankly forward with closed eyes and, as he heard his name, bowed meekly in the general direction of Hírvegil. Perplexed, Hírvegil retracted his hand. “It is a pleasure,” he murmured, and then looked quizzically at Carthor. “Wait, this is Faerim’s brother?” Carthor nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

Hírvegil, despite his upbringing, could not help but stare at the boy with closed eyes, unable to continue. He peered darkly into the young man’s face, seeing a pale but kind expression, that of a friendly person with a good heart. But Hirvegil could not perceive the boy’s heart, instead he could only perceive the boy’s noticeable lacking. “You are…blind?” He questioned, wishing immediately afterward that he had not mentioned this, but no one seemed even remotely offended.

The boy did not hesitate, or seem remotely affected by the observation. He nodded simply. “Yes.” Hírvegil masked his surprise and impolite interest. He marveled at the strangeness of this family that had been produced for him: a stalwart, foolhardy son, a blind brother, a famed, venerated father, and a mysterious mother – what a brood indeed. Shaking himself of the reverie inwardly, he managed to unglue himself from the family and look to the final woman, noticing for the first time that the bundle in her arms was a baby, seemingly asleep. He did not let his gaze linger on the tranquil visage of the child and looked to the woman, venturing a question. “And you are a friend of Faerim’s?” He asked.

The woman seemed to hesitate very slightly, following Hírvegil’s gaze as it fell periodically on the baby clasped maternally in her arms. “Yes,” she glanced at Carthor and Lissi, “– I believe I am now. My name is Renedwen.” She bowed as well, but, now that introduction had all been made, Hírvegil did not have the time or sense to return the acknowledgement, and continued on eagerly.

“Very good. Now that I know all of you, I have a grave matter to discuss with you.”

A few wary looks were exchanged, none of them noticed by Hírvegil as he stood and walked before them. He began, using an interrogating tone, but not a suspicious or stabbing one. “As you probably know,” he said quietly, “the Elves have gone after their kin, and Faerim with them. They left without divulging their real plans, only saying whither they were going. I need to know, in short, if any of you have any idea of what plans they have. If not, that is all well, but if so, I must demand that you speak now, for the political stability of the Dúnedain in exile is at stake. If you know nothing, then tell me what you know of Faerim and the Elves, for it may be an aid to my next plans to know their minds.”

[Novnarwen]

If Brander could see, this would definitely be the time where he would turn his gaze towards his mother. With penetrating and questioning eyes, he would try to learn what his mother thought of this question, or demand. Instead, the blind boy sat still, trying to digest the questions placed upon him and his family, what in truth was news.

"I must demand that you speak now, for the political stability of the Dúnedain in exile is at stake. If you know nothing, then tell me what you know of Faerim and the Elves, for it may be an aid to my next plans to know their minds.”

The Political stability of the Dúnedain? It sounded odd, absurd even, that his brother was part of something that was obviously dangerous. Either way, voluntarily or involuntarily, Brander could not imagine that Faerim, his own brother, would risk the safety of his fellow kin in order to follow another; the elven. Furrowing his brow, he thought of the many events that had taken place the last couple of days. He realised that he hadn't at once really spoken to his brother. It was nevertheless unbelievable that Faerim would go off without telling him. They had always had a close relationship, and realising that, Brander started wondering whether there had been a reason behind his brother's silence on the questioned matter. Was there a reason, aside from the fact that his brother thought him a cripple? Instantly, he swallowed, reproaching himself for even thinking his brother thought in such a manner of him. Faerim had always been so kind; the only one who had understood and been encouraging him to be independent. However, was there truth in what he had thought? Had his brother intentionally kept this a secret, thinking that Brander would not be in any use anyway?

For a moment or two, the blind boy considered all the possibilities around Faerim's decision to keep whatever it was that he was doing secret. It was only now that he first realised that none of his parents spoke, and neither did Renedwen. Did no one know anything about Faerim's intentions; were they as ignorant as himself, or did they know, but were unwilling to tell?

[Lalwendë]

The moment she entered the tent, Renedwen was impressed by the presence of the Captain. He was as her father had been once. Stern, strong and proud. Yet unlike her father he did not bear a grim countenance. He wore a mask of confidence, and she could see that he would never entertain any possibility of failure, at least openly. He was here to do the task the King had set him and nothing would prevent that, not even his own feelings.

As she sat down a strong sensation of rebellion surged through her. She did not want to be here, she would rather be anywhere than here. Why could she not be let alone? What might the Captain think she had to answer for? She felt sure all was certain to end in disaster so she could not see any reason to even try to maintain any semblance of order and discipline. She would sit here and say little if anything, and so set her mouth in a straight, grim line and stared coldly at the walls of the tent.

She did not care particularly for the Elves, or had not done so. It had been for the sake of the captured mother and child that she had allowed herself to go along with the plans of the Elves. It was the thought that if the same fate should have happened to her, then she might have been able to cling to the hope that someone might attempt a rescue and so save the life of her son. For her own fate she cared little beyond the needs of the infant. So when the Elven brothers had brought Gilly to her she had readily agreed, for the sake of the safety of her kinswoman and her child. Then when she had seen the tenderness with which Rosgollo had treated the boy she had realised with a shock that Elves were not distant and lofty folk. They too wanted to save their kin, and this was natural. As natural as her worries for the captured woman. She had been surprised that no men had been sent along with the Elves after the Orcs. Of course, the men had as usual had to discuss and debate the matter while time passed by. All these thoughts raced through her mind and made her angry with the Captain.

Yet as soon as he addressed her and did not respond with the courtesy she had given, she realised that there would be little point in trying to rebel against this man. He was a Captain of the Dunedain, just like her father had been, and with that came a resolute will, the ability to dominate and it was useless to try to do anything contrary to the wishes of such men. Her husband had been the opposite, still possessed of leadership, but where he had only ever wanted to please, Captain Hirvegil would not care if he pleased or not.

It was to her that he turned first, and after a few respectful words about her father and husband he went straight into his questions. Trying not to look him in the eye she told him that she knew the Elves merely through helping with some ‘domestic matters’. She did not go into detail and remained as frosty as possible. The Captain, however, sought detail.

“So, you would say,” he continued. “You were helping with matters which would allow them to proceed on their course of action unhindered? What sort of matters might they be?”

Renedwen, knowing full well that the Captain would not be pleased to know that Rosgollo had been sheltering a Dunedain boy, saw that she would need to deflect this question. She answered by giving him a long and detailed speech on matters of the hearth and home, of airing blankets and scouring pots and seeing that fires did not burn out. As she had hoped, the Captain’s eyes began to glaze over and he turned away and coughed. But then he turned back with another question.

“And the youth? A noblewoman such as yourself, to take an interest in him. It is interesting, is it not?” She could see that this question was not a casual one, that the Captain was posing a potentially awkward question, and she took a deep breath.

“He saved me from the city. I owe him a great debt. So I listen to him, and allow him to watch over me. Such a care is a fine and noble interest for a young man to take. He watches over me just as he watches over his own mother and brother. He will be a man to be proud of one day.” Renedwen’s icy coolness started to deteriorate at this point as she thought of everything Faerim had done and why all should be proud of the lad. She did not lose her temper, but her voice became hard and it rose in defiance. She did not look at Lissi but knew that Faerim’s mother listened to the words with pride.

“So you would say that he has much pride?” said Hirvegil, watching her closely, his brows knit sternly.

“Pride enough to do what he can in the face of this almost certain disaster,” she answered. “Letting our kinswomen and the Elves be taken in the dead of the night bodes badly for our escape. What will be next? I dare not say it. No, I will not denounce him. He has done what any worthy man might wish to do and offered his assistance where it was needed. And I am sure he will do what needs to be done to help the Elves in their rescue, if they are not already too late. Of this bravery we should all be proud.”

She swallowed hard and finished her speech. The Captain continued to watch her, and she looked deep into his eyes for a moment, realising she had probably said too much. He raised one eyebrow slightly and blinked slowly, shutting her out, before he turned away. He was through with his questions to her for now. She looked down at the floor, proud that she had stood her ground and had her say, but suddenly afraid that she might have said too much in her cold anger.

[Nuranar]

Osse’s post

The introductions were over. The formalities had dissipated like smoke on the breeze, their true frailty clearly seen. Carthor could perceive a slight pause in the sturdy frame of his Captain, a great breath before the plunge.

“Very good. Now that I know all of you, I have a grave matter to discuss with you.”

Carthor’s mind stood suddenly alert, like some sentry who had been caught slouching lazily against the wall of his post, dreaming of malt beer, by his tyrannical lieutenant.

“As you probably know,” Hírvegil said quietly, “the Elves have gone after their kin, and Faerim with them. They left without divulging their real plans, only saying whither they were going. I need to know, in short, if any of you have any idea of what plans they have. If not, that is all well, but if so, I must demand that you speak now, for the political stability of the Dúnedain in exile is at stake. If you know nothing, then tell me what you know of Faerim and the Elves, for it may be an aid to my next plans to know their minds.”

Carthor had expected as much from his Captain, and his reply had been hot on his tongue. As the first syllables prepared to roll out his lips, Carthor hesitated. He realised that what he had been about to say was perhaps not true, he realised he knew little of Faerim’s motivations. His hesitation must have been noted in the room as Hírvegil’s probing tendrils of speech wrapped themselves around the women, Renedwen, who promptly burst into speech in his son’s defence. Carthor half listened, as he mused upon the real reasons of his son’s blind faith in the Eldar…

Thankful for, and not a little perplexed at, the ferocity of Renedwen’s defence of his eldest son, Carthor threw himself into the breach to ease her suffering at the hands of the incredulous and penetrating Captain of men.

“My lord Captain,” Carthor began strongly, “I know nothing of the Elves’ plight and only little of why my son would be involved … and only that through my own deductions.”

Hírvegil donned an air of intense interest, his head almost craning forward on his neck like some great bird as he absorbed all the information that was sent bounding into the fences of his attention.

“Faerim is a young man, eager to exceed expectations, brave, even foolhardy to some extent, much like we all are at such an age. My son however, is driven by loyalty – I can only suppose that our esteemed Elven comrades must have acted in a way as to instil a sense of loyalty, or even fealty in my son. For this I can speak neither for nor against, as I have been travelling, much apart from my desires, aside from the Rearguard and cannot speak of his doings, or of whom he corresponds with during these times.” Hírvegil smiled softly at Carthor’s words, yet his air of interrogating interest remained.

“However,” Carthor plunged on, “I must insist that it was his chivalrous and loyal nature that propelled him into this plight – traits the soldiery of the Rearguard are renowned for my lord, surely such a deed is commendable rather than worthy of reprimand?”

Hírvegil was as quick as a whip crack, landing on Carthor’s statement with the ferocity of a falling hawk, talons extended for the kill.

“You speak the truth Carthor, son of Harathor, loyalty and commitment are commendable attributes… when instilled in their proper institution. Has Faerim thought of his loyalty to his regiment? What of his comrades in the Rearguard, left forsaken? Or more importantly, his loyalty to his family? Do you not feel deserted Carthor? Has not your eldest son forsaken his family? His sightless brother? His loving parents?”

Carthor felt the bite of those talons, their glossy black lengths piercing his heart, finding therein what had previously gone unseen. He could find no reply.


Nuranar's post

"How dare you." Lissi's voice, low and menacing, cleaved the charged atmosphere. Hírvegil stared at her, visibly startled. "Your duty is to protect those under your command. When you fail, you do nothing to rescue them. Instead you seek the ruin of others." She stood straight and still. Her eyes flamed in the twilight.

The captain reassumed his dignified bearing. "And what is there to ruin? A disobedient boy?"

Lissi clenched her teeth, fighting to control the fury. "My son has disobeyed no one. He fought bravely in the front lines" - a pause and a coldly significant eyebrow - "and yet was never mustered in, nor his service acknowledged. You have no authority to command him. He saved this lady at great risk to himself. Who are you to question his motives?"

Her words stung a dull flush into the man's cheeks. Hírvegil strove to control his expression. "He deserted this people. This people and his own family!"

"He did nothing of the kind." Lissi's lips curved into an insolent smile, but her eyes glinted hard like ice. "You call rescue desertion? These people were taken from under your nose. You above all people should know the vital imperative of action. But you dawdled. Who would be content to abandon his kin while authority debates? You should have known what the Elves would do. And my son has gone where you feared even to send others. He is aiding those whom your responsibility is to protect. He is sacrificing him- "

For the first time Lissi's voice caught. Gathering tears glimmered in the lamplight, then she turned swiftly to her other son. "Come, Brander." Hand on his arm, Lissi left the tent, chin held high and without a glance for the captain.

The tent flap slid back into place with a soft swish. Hírvegil stood motionless in the silence. Renedwen, after one pointed look at him, rose quietly and exited. Carthor looked expectantly at Hírvegil, who yet did not speak. He rose to attention carefully, said, "Captain," bowed slightly, and followed the others' example.

[Garen LiLorian]

It had been perhaps half an hour since they had split; Angóre and Gaeredhel to the north and Rôsgollo and Faerim to the south, and Angóre was starting to get worried again. Half an hour of slogging through this frigid water should have been more than any creature would bear, and yet neither he nor Gaeredhel had spotted so much as a print in the soggy riverbank. Gaeredhel was checking back with his brother with more frequency now, and Angóre could tell that he was bothered as well. But Gaeredhel spoke only to update Angóre on the south parties' progress and Angóre spoke not at all; all his attention focused on the muddy bank.

In the end, it was Gaeredhel who found it. He had been patrolling the western bank while Angóre took the eastern and the prints of a whole troupe of orcs could clearly be seen in the mud on that side, leaving the river and moving off to the woods before continuing northwards. He called to Angóre, who quickly joined him. "I have informed my brother, and they will be rejoining us shortly," he said as Angóre jumped down from his horse. He laughed. "See! The water has proved too cold for them after all! I was starting to get worried. And look, these tracks cannot be more than an hour or two old. We may catch them up during the night tonight, if our luck holds and we are set no more puzzles."

Angóre's face lightened as he examined the tracks. It certainly seemed as though Gaeredhel had the right of it. "Let us continue on then!" He said desicively, "The afternoon wears, and I would catch them before the light is gone entirely; I do not like the thought of tracking in the dark against so cunning a foe. Tell your brother to make haste!"

"Wait a moment!" Gaeredhel cried. "You have missed a piece to this puzzle. Look, some of these tracks are older than others. The captain must have sent scouts ahead of him, and I would know why before we charge ahead."

"What can it matter?" Angóre asked impatiently. "Do you fear an ambush ahead? If they were to set such a trap, we have passed several places to do so, certainly. I think they must be content with their river trick. Come, let us go!"

"I do not know what it is I fear," Gaeredhel responded slowly, "but something about this is not right. We shall continue, but be on your guard! I shall tell Rôsgollo to make haste."

The Elves moved off at a brisk trot, eyes scanning the clear tracks of the orcs as well as the trees ahead. Gaeredhel seemed ill at ease, and his eyes scanned ever the surrounding trees. After a while he spoke. "Rôsgollo has turned away from the river. He cannot be more than a few minutes behind us. Let us wait for him here! A threat is growing in my mind."

But Angóre was unmoved. "We are close now, and I grudge every moment that Lady Betheril and Erenor remain in captivity. Your brother shall find us soon enough, whether we wait or no."

Gaeredhel slowed his horse to a walk. His keen eyes scanned the trees. "Do you not feel it?" He cried "there is danger here! We are being watched by unfriendly eyes. Let us stay!"

Angóre checked his horse and turned, frowning. "I see nothing," he said, giving the trees around them a cursory glance. "I-"

He was interrupted by a black-feathered arrow that buried itself in his horse's shoulder, missing his knee by inches. The beast screamed and reared, throwing the lithe Elf to the ground and taking off through the woods. As though the arrow were a signal, harsh cries rent the still air and dark forms leapt out at them from the trees.

Angóre rolled to his feet, unharmed but dazed as the orcs closed with him...

[Arry]

The eastern bank. There are tracks. Gaeredhel’s message was brief, the tone guarded.

‘Make haste, Faerim.’ Rôsgollo turned his horse northward, urging it along the river’s bank. ‘They have found where the Orcs left the water.’ Unconcerned any longer that they might be seen, the two riders bent over their mounts’ necks, using their heels to drive them on to a gallop. The lengthening stride of the horses brought the man and Elf very near the area where Angóre and Gaeredhel had stopped.

There is danger here! Gaeredhel’s warning was loud in his brother’s mind. Faerim and Rôsgollo were yet to clear a small cluster of trees that hid the others from them. They are waiting! came the even more urgent message.

‘Your weapon!’ cried Rôsgollo as the two elves came in view. Angóre’s horse had been hit and was running off, leaving his rider to face the approaching Orcs on foot. Gaeredhel had nocked an arrow to his bow and was firing into the running Orcs. There were nine of the creatures – two with bows, the others with blades or clubs.

Rôsgollo drew his bow and hit one of the Orcs in the shoulder. The creature screamed, dropping his bow, and pulled out his own sword. At a dead run he charged the Elf. An arrow from Gaeredhel’s bow brought down the Orc, inches from his brother’s horse.

The mass of Orcs was close enough that Rôsgollo drew his own blade and charged in among the three nearest him, bringing one of them to his knees with slicing blow. He had just turned his horse, readying himself for another pass through when a cry from Garedhel brought him up short. The lone Orc bowman had let fly a cursed missile as his Gaeredhel raised his right arm to let fall a blow from his blade. The intended Orc target was battering at Gaeredhel’s mount with his club, causing the horse to rear and strike out with his forelegs. The arrow pierced the Elf’s unprotected armpit, driving itself through his chest muscle until the chainmail shirt stopped its exit.

Rôsgollo flew to his brother’s side as Gaeredhel fell from his horse . . .

[Saurreg]

Meanwhile back at the camp

Belegorn stared at the wide openness before him, taking into view the wide expanse of snow-covered plains and the endless sky. He was lingering by the perimeter of the camp where he saw off the small detachment of guardsmen sent to support the elves and the teenager – the bold and confident one he spoke to during the journey. The veteran soldier sighed softly to himself, turned his head towards the cluster of drab grey tents behind him before turning back to continuing gazing at the natural landscape.

He had just managed to accost the troop of riders before the set off for their mission and spoke hastily to their commanding officer – a young sergeant who was recently promoted for his conduct and valor during the exodus from Fornost. The advice and command Belegorn urgently gave whilst grabbing the young man’s wrist still resounded in his mind,

Keep a sharp lookout at all times. Be prudent in your judgement, do not simply charge at the enemy when the signal is given by the boy. Be your own judge; assess the strength of the target before taking action. Remain downwind when approaching orcs and always remember to remain mounted at all times. Should the strength of the enemy be too much to bear, turn head and fly like the wind. Care not for the elves or the boy then, they are the masters of their own fates. Scatter your men in different directions, each to make his way towards Ered Luin individually. In no way must you all ride back together towards the camp.

Good luck! And may Oromë keep you safe!

As the intrepid little band thundered off into the horizon, Belegorn felt a sickening thud in his gut, the feeling one acquired when ill-fortune foreboded. He instinctively felt that the brave young sergeant and his equally youthful subordinates were heading towards their own doom. Belegron felt that they were sent to their death by their beloved captain, discarded like worthless pawns on a chessboard.

Hírvegil had bypassed the chain of command by approaching the men directly and giving them their marching orders for the mission. Belegorn had known that Hírvegil had been won over by Mitharan’s “carefree” comments and was determine to aid the elves on their foolhardy and very suspicious “rescue” mission and he was not convinced by Hírvegil’s reasoning. But to do so behind his immediate subordinate’s back was surprising. Indeed Belegorn would have been kept in the dark had not one of the militia burst into the tent when he was questioning his assembled sergeants, to tell him that a group of mounted horsemen were making their way to the perimeter of their camp.

Hírvegil had changed both in body and mood since the day they left Fornost. He was colder and more isolated than before. It would seem that the captain had fermented distrust in his first lieutenant; for what reason Belegorn knew not. Had he not been faithful in carrying out his duties? Or was it due to his undying devotion to king and country? Belegorn remembered how Hírvegil’s countenance changed when the former reminded him of their duty to the king and his orders.

And what if the day came when Belegorn was made to choose between duty to King and friendship to Hírvegil? Which path would he take?

The first lieutenant searched the dark recesses of his mind and an answer surfaced, in the form of the first three lines of the soldier’s pledge he made when he entered the regiment of the king, decades ago.

We, soldiers of the Royal Arthedain Army
Do solemnly and sincerely pledge
Our true faith and allegiance to King and Country…

Belegorn’s mind was made up as he reentered the camp. If subversion of any sorts arises, he would suppress it. Or die trying.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim drew his horse back as North reared suddenly in fear, as Rôsgollo charged forward into the melee towards his brother. The boy took in the scene in a second: Gaeredhel lay fallen to one side, Rôsgollo leaping off his horse to his side, but nearby Angóre was kneeling on the ground, is horse nowhere to be found and with a stunned expression on his face although he was already readying himself. Although he knew the elf was probably far more capable than he at handling himself, Faerim doubted the javelins that Angóre carried would be as easy to use from the ground as opposed to on horseback; he also knew that with three skittish horses in tow, he was going to be about as useful as- well, as they would expect him to be. And he knew he could prove himself to be far more than they expected.

Killing two birds with one stone, Faerim drew his sword and chopped swiftly through the rope that held the first horse to North, then at the one that held this one to the one behind it - he had no time to do more than that, and the other two bolted almost immediately. Taking the first, Carthor's stallion, by the reins, he rode over to Angóre, yelling to the elf as he came towards him. "Angóre, quick!"

The elf looked up, surprised, but caught the reins as Faerim threw them at him. Not wasting a second, the elf mounted smoothly, while Faerim rode on, bringing North around in a semi-circle towards the orcs, building himself up to the conflict as he raised his sword, his knuckles white on the stallion's reins. As he galloped towards it, the orc who had been running at Gaeredhel and Rôsgollo froze and looked across at him. Giving a makeshift battle cry, Faerim drew himself up suddenly and swept his sword around in a arc of bright steel, and such was his momentum that the orc's expression of surprise remained on it's face as it's head flew from it's shoulders. Grimacing in distaste as the black blood smattered onto his sleeves and gloves, Faerim slowed slightly as he re-adjusted his grip, then made for a second orc, hoping simply to do the same thing.

What the boy did not have the experience to know was that in a small scale battle, simply hammering out the same tactic on different foes rarely works more than once. This time his intended victim was ready and, as Faerim swept his sword down towards it's head, the creature ducked smartly, raising it's own blade to clash against the stroke that would have decapitated it. The jarring connection caused Faerim to cry out in shock and pain and his fingers uncurled as a reflex - causing his sword to fall, embedded in the ground. Flexing his fingers painfully, Faerim regained his wits as North headed straight for the woods, ducking not a second too soon as a low-flying branch threatened to tear his head from his shoulders. Gaining control of his terrified steed once more, Faerim turned him with some difficulty and, his sharp mind working quickly, realised that he needed to play the same ace card as he had in the falling city of Fornost. Praying that it would work, he unslung his bow and quiver and nocked a bow quickly. He barely had time to think before he shot, as a charging orc rushed him, it's bloody, nail-endowed club held high as it yelled fiersomely: Faerim shot with a cry of surprise and, more out of fluke than anything else, the arrow connected with the orc's shoulder. It fell back with a snarl, turning protectively over it's wounded shoulder, then resumed it's course of action with a vengeance. But this time Faerim was ready, and had time to sight at his opponent: the orc fell, a bow in it's neck, less than four feet from North.

That was the fifth orc taken care off, but four still remained, and their constant battering was like an assault on the senses as well as a physical assault. Despite all his training, North was obviously terrified by the haphazard melee in which the elves and Faerim had been so outnumbered, and his eyes rolled crazily and his black coat flecked with spittle and shining with sweat, shifting his feet and tossing his head. As the orc's arm spasmed by North's hooves, the horse took off at a canter once more, understandably spooked. Gritting his teeth and holding on desperately with his knees, Faerim turned to sight at his next victim and loosed another arrow, then another, taking down a sixth orc. Three remained, and Angóre, now mounted on Carthor's stallion, saw to a seventh victim. Cutting their losses, the remaining pair turned tail and fled through the trees, almost vanishing in an instant. Faerim shot one arrow, then another, and another after their backs, but it was Angóre's javelin that rewarded them with a dying cry of anguish. His lip curling both in satisfaction with the kill and irritation for the last orc who had got away, Angóre urged his mount on and sped after the last one - presumably hoping to kill it before it got word back to the orc camp.

Faerim slowed the skittish North to a walk then, with difficulty, to a halt, trying to regain his breath and soothe his horse. Dismounting painfully, he tentatively brought his hands up to the horse's nose and, although he shied and whinnied at first, North eventually calmed down enough for Faerim to rest on hand on his nose, stroking it gently as he 'shh'-ed the horse like a small child after a nightmare. Hooking the stallion's reins over one hand, Faerim curled a lip in disgust at the orc's blood on his fingers and rubbed his forefinger and thumb together curiously: the liquid was thick and sticky, like tar in texture and appearance. Glancing at the blood's previous owner, Faerim shuddered slightly and had to swallow down the violent urge to retch. Wiping his gloved hand on his longcoat to remove the blood, he tied North up to a tree and made for the spot where his sword lay, still shuddering slightly, embedded several inches into the ground. Pulling it out with as much strength as he could muster, Faerim bent and wiped it across the ground in a rough attempt to clean it, before he looked at the orc who had caused him to drop it. It lay face down, the steel-tipped javelin that had killed it rising from the small of its back, almost comical in it's absurdness. Curiousity about his brutal attackers once more overtaking Faerim, he reached out a foot and rolled the creature over, the javelin propping it onto its side. Looking at the orc's face, Faerim repressed the urge to physically recoil: the stubby, dirt blackened features were curled in an expression of anger, pain and, more disturbingly, fear, and despite their ugliness, they seemed almost human for an instant. Then the moment passed: Faerim had been told before than men sometimes felt remorse for their actions on a battlefield when confronted with the faces of the dead, wondering about the victim's background, family, life... But looking at the features of the dead orc, Faerim doubted it ever could have cared about any of those things.

Tearing his gaze from the orc, the boy turned and walked slowly away, heading for Rôsgollo and Gaeredhel. As he reached them, he heard hooves and turned, half heartedly raising his sword, but it was Angóre, not one of the enemy, who dismounted. Giving the elf a quick smile, he turned back to the other two, concerned.

[Arry]

‘You . . . cannot . . . stay . . . with . . . me!’ Gaeredhel groaned out his declaration in short bits. Rôsgollo had stripped his brother of his bloodied tunic, leather vest and chainmail shirt. He forced the rest of the arrow’s head through Gaeredhel’s flesh, snapped it off, and then withdrew the remainder of the shaft. ‘It only pierced the skin and if it grazed the muscle, it did not tear enough that I cannot use it.’ He grimaced as his brother prodded at the wound. ‘It burns no more than the arrow you mistakenly placed in my leg when we were children, brother mine,’ he said forcing a smile in an effort to make light of it. ‘It does not burn in a way that makes me think it is poisoned.’

Rôsgollo dismissed his brother’s claims with a snort. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘it is an Orc’s arrow and filthy from whatever they have hunted before.’ He took his water bottle and sluiced the wound as thoroughly as he might. ‘I have brought a small amount of herbs, thinking we might need them for the prisoners. We can spare some small amount for your wound.’ Rôsgollo fished in the pouch at his waist, bringing out several silver-grey leaves. Chewing them into a paste, he covered the exit and entrance wounds as best he could, then bound the shoulder with clean strips from his own tunic. Once done, he helped his brother put on his own shirt and other gear.

The four held a hasty conference on how to proceed. Rôsgollo held back his preference that they ride back to the Dunedain encampment for reinforcements. Gaeredhel had already read his thoughts on this and gainsaid them. You will have to tie me to my horse to have me go back now. Aloud, Gaeredhel urged them to go forward in the pursuit. ‘We are so close now. We cannot afford to let them hide themselves away from us again.’ He clasped his brother’s shoulder. ‘We have sworn to keep him safe. We must press on.’

‘Do not speak to me of our duty,’ Rôsgollo said quietly. ‘I know it all too well. But my heart speaks of my first duty, which is to you.’ He gazed shrewdly at his brother, gauging his response to his next proposal. ‘I will continue on with Angóre and Faerim to the Orc camp, if you will return to where we first found the Orcs had entered the river. Wait for the Dundedain that will be sent to aid us and direct them to us. We will leave an easy trail for them to follow.’ He paused for a moment, tensed against his brother’s answer.

Gaeredhel was silent, his thoughts guarded. He read the resolve in his brother’s eyes. ‘I will agree to this.’ Rôsgollo took in a sharp breath of relief.

Though I doubt any Men other than Faerim will rush to assist us . . .

-----

Rôsgollo watched as his brother mounted his horse and turned back south, down the river. Angóre, Faerim, and he resumed their progress northward keeping as low a profile as they might to avoid other Orcs left to watch the trail. In due time, they approached the Orc’s encampment, their own presence hidden by the thick stands of trees that grew along the edges of the eastern perimeter.

Dismounting before they drew too near, Rôsgollo stayed back to keep the horses quiet while Faerim and Angóre went quietly forward on foot to scout out the camp . . .

[Mithalwen]

The journey, had mercifully passed in a blur, but not enough of one to totally obliterate the jolting horror of being carried by an orc. To be in such close contact with the foul creatures, bitter enemies of the Firstborn was in itself torture. Yet one evident fact penetrated Erenor's returning consciousness as the orcs arrived at their campsite - the yrch had not harmed them. The orcs had provided them with food - repulsive maybe but seeming as good as they possessed and no harm had come to their persons, nor even their possessions.

The march over,the hostages had been dumped in a group. The others seemed fairly inert, but since Erenor was concealing her own awareness it was possible the others were doing likewise. A low groan from one of her stirring companions, corrected this idea. Erenor realised the truth. She had been given a smaller measure of the drug - her original and then feigned drowsiness from her headwound had made the orcs cautious with their dose. "Excellent", she thought, "they really do not want us dead".

Her train of thought was halted by a strange sensation; she felt watched. This was ridiculous; she had been watched with more or less attention, by orcs since her capture, but this was different. She looked around her surruptitiously. Their guards were still there but with thier captives bound and seemingly unconscious, they were engrossed in the universal activities of soldiers after a long march, preparing food and fire and easing sore feet. There were sentinels about the camp but they were looking out not in.

Besides the sensation was benevolent, she felt sure that elvish eyes or at least elvish minds were seeking her. She stole glances at her fellow emissaries on either side. Though they stirred she knew it was neither of them.

Erenor opened her mind, surely if their guards had survived the orc raid, they would have come after them? Or perhaps by some blessing her earlier attempts at seeking aid from her kindred afar had not been in vain. She fixed a picture in her mind of the camp, and then visualised the still concealed weapon, wondering if she could reach it without being discovered. Any elf near and so inclined woudl be able to read her thought: she trusted the orcs had not the skill. It was a risk but one she had to take. The presence seemed strong to Erenor but as she waited for some response, her hope faded in to fear that her feeling was some cruel side effect of the drug.

[Kransha]

With the questioned individuals departed, Hírvegil sought comfort in lying on his bed again. He should really be up and about; he had spent far too much time during the day isolated in his semi-spacious temporary quarters, most of that time sprawled on a disheveled bedroll. The Captain’s mind had used up its daily reserve, which was significantly less than usual, and felt both peaked and spent, both different feelings as far as he was concerned. One encompassed the pain in his head, the other the uselessness of his thoughts. Both put him off extraordinarily as he lay, thinking dejectedly about his predicament.

He was not himself. He, Captain Hírvegil of His Majesty’s Rearguard, had been spoken down to by a middle-class soldier’s wife, a common woman. He usually never even considered the class stations assigned by his archaic society, but he had always considered himself part of a specialized caste, a warrior class of elite comrades. Never had he held himself above others, but as that woman, Lissi, spoke to him in such a caustic, condescending fashion, and then had the nerve to walk out on him, he felt petty societal prejudice rearing its ugly head in him. Was he so different that he could not hold sway or command with common-folk? This was not the Captain of the Rearguard.

Hírvegil started to wonder if the fall of Fornost had altered him, changed him in some way. Usually, inspiring wartime oratory came from him passionately, as the speech-craft of ancient lords of war, but his words to the troops at the North Downs had been weak and threadbare, lacking in his typical abilities. His stratagems were not themselves either. Under most circumstances, he could’ve efficiently devised a solution to this whole sorry dilemma, but today his mind was dulled and content to beat lazily around the bush, concocting second-rate schemes which he could not even issue in a timely manner.

His father would have easily concluded the situation with a thought out solution, and so would he have done if he were the man he was but a month ago. His father would’ve done so many things differently, and this was no consolation for that father’s son. Rolling uncomfortably back and forth, wishing for sleep, Hírvegil pushed memories of his past glories away, trying to remain firmly rooted in the present, rather than the more desirable past. He rubbed his eyes and closed them tightly, scratching his scalp with an aimless hand that had nothing else to do, trying to empower himself with the spirit he’d once possessed.

Now he resolved that something had to be done. The lord he’d been charged with was obviously displeased with him, morale among the soldiers was dropping (through lack of information, disillusion, and other motivations), his own lieutenant seemed to have lost some confidence in him, and even the civilians were reacting negatively to his actions. Though his logical half spoke out against it, he blamed, inwardly, the Elves. Their stalwart braggadocio had cost him the support of his people. Yesterday, he’d been merry, ready for a good night’s rest and a needed period of slow, plodding travel that would tax neither him nor those beneath and around himself. Instead, through the arrogance of the Firstborn, as well as their clumsiness and the stealth of their orcish adversaries, he found himself unconscionably depressed and with no recourse he could see. The only things he could do where go on, go to the Elves, or stay where he was. Remaining static was out of the question, since that would just worsen the situation, and too many would react aversely if he chose to march on. That left one option.

Two minutes later, Hírvegil yawningly ambled outside his tent, fully armored and ignoring both the jingle-clank of his panoply and the orderly greeting of his guard who had been stationed outside his tent for hours and hours. With an ill cough, he dragged himself through the camp until he reached Belegorn’s tent. His blurry vision caught sight of the lieutenant some distance away, heading towards the tent and him. Belegorn’s look of withered disappointment overshadowed feigned surprise at seeing Hírvegil. “Captain?” he said.

“Belgorn,” Hírvegil mumbled, slurring syllables together as he spoke with both haste and tiredness, “Arise all able-bodied men.” His lieutenant looked at him confusedly, his eyebrow rising unnoticeably beneath a stern forehead. “Captain, I’d say all able-bodied men are aroused already. Day passes swiftly, and all men have woken and know of the evening’s transpirings.” Hírvegil barely heard this, picking at his ear with a hand encased in an embossed leather glove, minus his plate-mail gauntlet. “Good, good, get ‘em ready to move out.”

“Move out?”

“Ye, we’re headin’ after the Elves.” Hírvegil’s refined annunciation was all but gone, replaced by a slummy, country accent caused by the weariness of him, in voice and mind and sight. Belegorn stared at him as if he were mad. “Sir, you just dispatched a unit of rangers to-” “I know that, lieutenant, but we’re going to catch up with them, we are. Organize all troops into their respective companies and have some guards and watchmen appointed to remain in the camp and keep lookout. All soldiers are to move out in an hour. We will trail those blasted Elves at a speed even their proud steeds can’t match and finish this whole sorry affair with one swordstroke. I’ll take no insults from commoners and politicians, nay; we’ll slay all those elf devils ‘afore the day is out.”

“You mean ‘orc’ devils, Captain,” interjected Belegorn, still very confused. He looked a look Belegorn had never before seen – one of utter disbelief and utter incredulousness. It would have amazed and intrigued Hírvegil, but his eyes were focusing instead on a blank spot somewhere in the distance, past his trusty lieutenant. With a grunt and a blink, Hírvegil managed and “Umm…” followed by, “yes, I do. Now, get on it.”

With that (and another yawn), Hirvegil plodded back to his tent to get another hour of sleep.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn placed the feathery quill down and picked up the parchment. His grey eyes darted left to right swiftly as he proof-read what he had written. It wasn’t elegant prose for the writer was not a man of letters, but it contained the necessary information and instructions. Satisfied with his work, Belegorn held the parchment close to his face, blew gently to dry the ink, rolled it up and bonded it with a brown linen strip. He then turned towards the waiting messenger and handed the scroll over to the youngster with a stern instruction,

“This parchment contains the necessary information and instructions that the counselor Mitharan would need. In the absence of the captain and I, he would undoubting be in command of the column. Hand it over to him immediately and make sure that he reads and understands its contents.”

The youth nodded quickly and left the tent. Belegorn watched as the young man weaved and zigzagged before disappearing among the cluster of canvas tents. It would have been more appropriate if Hírvegil had approached Mitharan personally, but the commander was in no position to do so, not in his current state. He had appeared red-eyed with exhaustion before his deputy, lifelessly dote and speech slurred. More shocking than his tardy appearance and unbefitting bearing were his orders – absurd and totally incomprehensible.

Belegorn meant to protest immediately but Hírvegil left as sudden as he crashed, trashing about as he made his way hurriedly and clumsily towards his warm cot. For a moment Belegorn’s eyes widened and an unexplainable rage arose. His gloved hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his bejeweled sword and he felt an irresistible urge to pursue his outrageous commander and smite him with all his might and fury. But the terrible torrent subsided as soon as Hírvegil disappeared from view and Belegorn was left horrified by the dangerous hatred he felt. It took a while for Belegorn to regain his faculties. The time taken to draft the memorandum to Mitharan helped.

Belegorn adjusted his sword belt and affixed his dagger into its sheath on the left side of his body at the belt and retrieved his helmet and cloak from the wicker basket by his cot. He stepped out reluctantly out into the open and issued an order to a militia orderly to pack up his belongings. He had no idea how long he’ll be away and when the column would move again.

Tucking the wide rimmed helmet beneath his arm, Belegorn strode towards the marshalling ground where his charger and men awaited him.

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

The grey winter sky offered no warmth and the sun was no where to be seen, being blotted out of the sky by dark clouds and fog. Just as well, for it mirrored the feelings of the first lieutenant and his rode across the assembled front of the riders and inspected each youthful face carefully. The mounted men stared on ahead passively like mannequins while the horses reared their great muscular necks in agitation. The aura and mood emitted by them were all too apparent to Belegorn; fear and insecurity were the orders of the day.

When the assembled riders were ready, Belegorn sent a messenger for Hírvegil. He looked towards the green pennon of the Rearguard in anticipation but the flag hung limply in its folds, inanimate on the pole. A forebode of the darkness to come.

[CaptainofDespair]

Even the strongest of the orcs need a rest at one point or another. Nagbak had figured this, and since the icy chill of a winter stream will sap the strength out of any creature, even the mighty trolls of the East, he had decided to make haste, and find a camp site quickly. His scouts had located one particular meadow, nestled in a thicket. Due to the lack of supplies, he would seek this place, but not before making one final arrangement with his subordinates.

Sloshing up out of the chilling waters of the brook, and onto a frozen embankment, the orc contingent hurried, with Elven cargo, to their pre-determined location. An hour or so later, they finally arrived at their location, a small patch of snow-covered grass, just large enough to lay out proper defenses. The chieftain’s subordinates ordered that the hostages be dumped in a cluster, and be given a small watch. The rest of the orcs, excluding those on perimeter sentry duty, would be allowed to rest their feet, and treat any wounds they may have sustained along the march. Nagbak, meanwhile, busied himself with attending to the scouts, of whom the last were arriving.

As Nagbak seated himself on a rigid, rather uncomfortable stump, a small snaga, only about half the height of his master, came waddling forward, in the usual bow-legged walk of the orc. “Massster...the rear guard you left behind has not returned...dead they are...” The chieftain, with his face in his large, cold palms, muttered a few words to his slave-scout. “I assumed this much. Now, do you have any other news?” The little orc, looking almost as if he had exhausted the last of the resources in his near-desolate mind, thought for a few moments. After scratching his head a bit, his eyes lit up, and he enthusiastically gave his reply to the query. “Oh! Indeeeeed, chieftain! Razhbad has arrived!” The old orc, at the mentioning of this, perked up, and lumbered forward, almost tearing the stump out of the ground as he lurched up from his perch. “Excellent! I take it he is downwind of the camp?” The snaga nodded delightedly, bouncing as he walked beside his powerful and noble chief. “Very good. Have him ready to rush to our aid at a moment’s notice. If my instinct serves me correctly, the humans and Elves will be upon us soon enough.

[Kransha]

When the messenger came to Hírvegil’s tent, he had to be yanked forcefully from his slumber. When he finally awoke to find himself being violently shaken by the confused young man, he had to be told carefully what was going on. The knowledge registered with him after a few minutes and, since he was already suited up, though very disheveled, he was able to traipse over to the marshalling field outside the camp to meet Belegorn. He did not speak to his lieutenant, or even acknowledge his presence, and his only words were to the youthful messenger as he helped the captain onto his mount, saying that he needed no aid.

Less than a few seconds later, he fell off the horse.

He didn’t retreat into thought, for he couldn’t comprehend that he wasn’t himself. With a minor bruise from the fall, he remounted and wordlessly signaled the troops to move out. He was totally incommunicative, his face sweaty and wrinkled, the youth of his position gone. Perhaps he was just sick. A plague had taken his mother from him years ago, and the disease might be lying dormant in him, in a happy slumber until his system was weak enough to let down its guard. He showed many signs of generic ailment – tiredness, confusion, feverish activity, dysfunctional behavior – it seemed perfectly obvious. But Hírvegil didn’t get sick. He could not remember a time when he had felt bad, besides his chronic headaches. Had the fall of Fornost triggered some downward spiral?

The Captain of the Rearguard did not for a moment realize what he’d become in a day. Yesterday he’d been a healthy, fit, normal fellow. Over the course of the journey from the Downs to the Hills of Evendim he’d been depressed and detached from cold reality, but not so distant and changed. Now he was different, his elegant devices stripped from him and his powerful mind dulled like an age-old blade, similar to the one that hung feebly at his side. That sword, at his waist and in his soul, no longer burned with the mental or physical fury it had once. His sickness, though, that which caused that sword to loose its deadly edge, was untraceable, in a fashion. Personally, Hírvegil was unaware of how much he’d been altered, so he was unable to trace the cause, and his comrades knew too little about the circumstances.

Hírvegil, still without words, in the limbo of life proceeded onward. His quiet ushering bid the riders move. The steeds all hesitated on the grounds, braying noiselessly to themselves and glancing with eyes full of foreboding at the sky, which was caught between night and day, a mixture of shade and light. Hírvegil was at first oblivious to the hesitation of the troops, even of Belegorn, mounted close at hand to him. His horse teetered as he did atop it, but he managed to swivel the beast precariously about, and his face formed a look of dim displeasure, his sweat-soaked brow furrowing.

“Move.” He coughed in a barely commanding manner at the large clump of reluctant horsemen. Half of them didn’t hear him. Bewildered by angered, he continued to prod the horse into spinning about, watching its unwieldy form sway beneath him. “You heard me,” he yelled, his voice again rasping, “move!”

This time, most heard him. Many snapped to sharp attention and started cantering slightly forward, or meandering about. The rows began to diffuse over the field, but most remained stationary. As Hírvegil glanced around at the indecisive cavalry, Belegorn expertly wheeled his own steed about and sidled up next to the commander, startling him. After a quick intake of breath from Hírvegil, he settled and inclined his drooping head to look at his lieutenant. Quietly, but with an air of command himself, Belegorn spoke. “Captain,” he posed, “are you sure you want to-”

Hírvegil, even in his state, could guess what Belegorn was saying. Swinging himself foolishly to on side on his horse, he said “Yes, I am sure.” His face was only tempered with anger, for the look of sickness and hurt dominated it. After a brief silence between the two officers in the midst of the Rearguard, Hírvegil nervously posed his own question. “Are you questioning me, Belegorn?”

Belegorn did not answer directly. “Perhaps you are not well, sir.” He ventured.

The Captain was used to being commanding, but he could not be now. He tried to brandish a scolding finger at the Lieutenant, but succeeded only in batting at the air and sliding over on his saddle. “Don’t you think I know whether I am well or not?” he snapped, spitting accidentally, “I’m perfectly fine.” He spun himself again, driving sharp heels and glimmering spurs into his mount’s flanks that sent it rearing up and forward. His voice rose, catching the attention of all the nervous soldiers of the Rearguard. “Now, all of you; move! We must catch up with the Elves and our riders within mere hours. We must push ourselves to the greatest swiftness we can muster, is that clear?” His possessed roar faded like a dying gasp in his throat.

There was no answer. The chatter of gossip among the soldiers disappeared and was replaced by silence, accompanied by a mélange of accompanying emotions. The Rearguard’s confidence in their leader had not broken, but his behavior was cracking it slowly but surely. Like good soldiers, the riders placed themselves back in their respective lines without hesitation, organizing into four neat columns. They looked to their captain for guidance, for leadership, for the words of the man they knew – but they got none of that.

“Good.” groaned the man who’d been their captain. “Now, ride!”

So they rode.

[alaklondewen]

Nilpaurion Felagund's post

While her body laid motionless on the frigid ground, Bethiril’s mind was in a place of violent turmoil.

Barely a month ago, the decision would have been easy. Erenor and Angóre meant nothing to her, and she would have betrayed them, despite their kinship, to fulfil what she had hoped to do. But now, despite the feebleness of the bond between them, the act of treachery needed she needed to do could not now be done without a great struggle.

She did not want any of them to be freed by force. She wanted this crisis resolved peacefully. Surely, the Orc chief’s plan made sense—with a land to call their own, the Glamhoth would, perhaps, no longer need to take up arms. Then the Firimar, seeing that the Orcs are no longer a threat, would follow suit. A lasting peace—all she had to do was make sure that none of them escaped. All she had to do was bring to their captors knowledge of Erenor’s concealed weapon. All she had to do was warn the Orcs of a plan to assault their camp.

But her heart, which she had kept under control for so long, now rebelled against her mind. Bethiril had begun to love her fellow emissary, the love of an older, wiser sister for a younger sibling with wisdom of her own, but who too often moved impetuously. She had sometimes thought of trying to win Erenor over to her cause, yet realised that in stifling the free spirit within, she would destroy her.

And in betraying your friend, you would destroy yourself.

She was roused from her thoughts by Ereglin, who wanted to know whether she was fine or not. There must be other ways of fulfilling my mission, she said to herself, as she set all thoughts of treachery aside.

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alaklondewen's post

The flickering of a nearby fire seared Ereglin’s opening eyes, worsening his already excruciatingly aching head. A groan slipped from his dry, rasping throat as his hands instinctively pressed his temples, trying to relieve the throbbing pain that clouded his mind. After a moment, the elf attempted to open his eyes again, but he only managed to squint at his surroundings. He took in a deep breath of the chill wind that swirled around him and lifted his hair from his shoulders. As he let the breath go, an overwhelming nausea surged through his body and he retched into the grass beside him. Once his body purged whatever was left of the poison the foul creatures had fed him, his mind became clearer and he was able to take in the components of his environment.

Berethil lay crumpled nearby in a fitful unconsciousness. Behind the Counselor a handful of orcs bickered in their abrasive tones. The elf assumed that these were their guards as none were closer, and the other orcs, beyond their fire, were paying no attention to the captives. Ereglin slowly turned his eyes around to the other emissary, Erenor. The lady did not appear to suffer the illness he felt, but with her eyes closed, she displayed peace and control.

Ereglin laid his head back against the cold ground again as tried to contact his young guard. Rôsgollo… The lord let his thought carry in the wind hoping he crossed the mind of one of his guards. He called again after several moments of silence and was greeted this time by the hopeful voice of his guard’s thought. Lord Ereglin! How do you fare?

I am well enough…weak from poison, but I will survive. Ereglin opened his eyes and studied the stars overhead. It seems I am several miles west and north since I was last awake.

Yes, my lord. We have tracked the orcs’ progress and are just outside the camp now. Rôsgollo answered quickly.

That is good, my friend. Ereglin paused as the throbbing in his head returned and he grimaced with pain. After several breaths, the aching began to lessen again, and the Counselor spoke again with his guard. How many soldiers strong are you?

Several moments passed before the young guard answered the question. We are four strong, my lord…my brother and I along with the Elven guard, Angóre, and a Dúnedan youth have come for you.

And what of the Dúnedain army?

[Arry]

The Dunedain . . . Rôsgollo’s thoughts were hesitant at Lord Ereglin’s question. He sought a way to frame his answer in a better light.

Come, Rôsgollo. I am no child to need your words couched in softer phrasings. Speak plainly. They did not come for us. Ereglin’s piercing statement unleashed a flood of words . . . the hesitancy of the Captain from the first . . . his excuses . . .

But we have come, my lord. Along with Angóre and a young Dunedan soldier who offered his aid. We three must serve, and it must be enough with your aid and what information Lady Erenor has given us. Rôsgollo regretted his lapse as soon as he had thought it. Lord Ereglin picked up on the number three, saying he thought there were mention of four.

And so there are . . . said another voice, breaking in on the conversation. Gaeredhel came softly up on foot behind his brother. I stayed behind for a moment to see that no Orc followed after us as we approached their camp. There were none. Nor did I see any sign of Dunedain troops approaching. Gaeredhel smiled grimly at his brother. Though, I left signs of our way that they might read should they come.

Rôsgollo’s eyes played over his brother’s advancing form. He seemed fit enough, though he noted he held his right arm close to his chest, and led his horse with his left. He would not be able to use his bow and his blade work would be weaker with his left arm. But then, he thought, he need only whack roughly at the Orcs; they were not known for their skillful moves, only their brute strength.

A hurried conference was held between the three Elves, and Lady Erenor contacted. She was, it seemed, less drowsy from the Orc’s potion. It was her that had first shown the outlay of the camp, bringing the would be rescuers near to where the prisoners were held. And she was the only one with a weapon still available to her. What of Bethiril? And the woman and child? Rôsgollo asked.

Bethiril had feigned drowsiness as had the other two Elven prisoners. She was as awake as either of them. The woman and child had not been drugged at all. There had been no need. The Orcs had made it plain they would kill the child should the woman give any trouble. To her they had given the task of ministering to any needs the Elves had. The child was kept close by her.

Let us speak with Angóre and Faerim; they are the ones closest to you at the moment. We will devise some diversion and then let you know of it. Can you ready yourselves? Near the back of your tent, I think. Wait for our instruction. Rôsgollo motioned for Gaeredhel to come hold the horses, saying he should be ready to ride quickly with them in tow when he was called. He was going forward to find their other two companions and give them word of what he had learned. Once a plan was in place he would let everyone know of it . . .

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

In the end, the three decided a simple diversion would be the best. Angóre was left to keep watch on the prisoners’ tent. Faerim and Rôsgollo circled around to the opposite side of the camp, staying low and out of sight as they gave the near perimeter a wide berth. Dried, fallen limbs were hastily gathered into a pile about a tall evergreen tree with low growing branches; while among the gathered limbs were stashed a great number of pitchy cones. Retreating a distance away, Rôsgollo let Angóre know what they had done and told the Elves within the tent to gather now at the back of it and await his signal. Fixing a large pitchy cone to an arrow with strips from his tunic, he lit it, and sent it flying toward the mass of gathered limbs. The piling caught fire, the flames flashing quickly from one pitchy cone to another, until the mass was ablaze.

Faerim and Rôsgollo sped quickly away from the blaze which now whooshed up behind them, catching onto the cones growing in clusters among the living branches. The flames licked hungrily upward seeking to consume the tree. The Orcs caught sight of the blaze and scrambled in disarray to stop the spread of the flames from the tree over the dried grasses toward their camp.

Now! called Rôsgollo. And Erenor cut the rough cloth of the tent, as Bethiril and Ereglin handed out the woman and the child. Gaeredhel had mounted his horse and now moved forward with the others in tow. Ereglin exited from the tent next, followed by Bethiril. Erenor stood guard, her knife in her hand. And well she did as one of the Orc guards was sent in to check in on the prisoners during the melee. She dispatched him before he could raise the alarm, then left the tent herself.

Rôsgollo and Faerim made it to where the others were gathered, now mounted on horse. It would not be long before the Orcs would suspect that this suspect blaze had something to do with their hostages. And in fact, they had barely mounted when from a short distance away, an Orc voice rang out, calling his fellows to give chase . . . the prisoners had escaped!

The Elves and Faerim rode hard away from the Orcs . . . their only thought now to reach the safety of the Dunedain encampment . . .

[Kransha]

The sight of a veiled blaze on the horizon and the singing scent of fire’s smoke was barely recognizable to Hírvegil as he wobbled uneasily on his horse, sweaty fingers clasped around an ice-like metal hilt that swung at his left flank, rapping fitfully against the battered haunches of his steed. He barely heard the ceremonious gasps and sounds of recognition that rippled through the Rearguard, but few could have. The Rearguard’s entire mass was surging, at almost break-neck speed, across snowy plains ands through icy ponds and puddles, kicking up a gargantuan cloud of white dust in its wake.

Some men who rode behind their captain wondered if they even knew where they were going. Those at the front who could see the many skewed tracks left by galumphing orc feet, subtle Elven treads, and heavy Dúnedain horseshoes steered the line chaotically in one direction and the next, trying to keep them all together. The horses rushed madly at times, with no steady orders to abide by. Soon enough, though, they were forced to slow a rein themselves in when they encountered sight of the first group of Dúnedain to be dispatched, which was slowly riding towards the distant blaze as well. When they collided, no words were exchanged, or given by Hírvegil, who continued to lead on like a drunken hero. As the confused trackers were absorbed into the quick-moving cavalry host, it was left to their comrades to explain to them what was going on. Though all was anarchy and disorganization, the columns surged on like a wave of spearing flame.

They were borne over ridges, through iced over marshlands, and every which way, no longer following tracks but simply heading onward to the fire. Belegorn was now generally in the lead, and was doing his best to keep Hírvegil himself from charging off in a more divergent direction and leading the troops astray. He wheeled about Hírvegil’s steed every few moments, pulling the mount forward and riding his swiftest so that he and his captain would not be overwhelmed by the unbridled force behind, which was having its own troubles. Hírvegil sat, quietly oblivious but caught up in the grandiose cacophony and the fueling noise of riders and the dun of battle to come. His eyes were glazed over and he looked to some oaf with armor slapped on him who’d been feebly superimposed on a horse, but his mind was working with great speed, reliving its glory days. The dreams were becoming reality, even though he had no control over his thoughts or movements in the chaos. He smiled to himself, then grimaced, then wretched, then smiled again, and laughed, and guffawed, and reeled, and did many things which had nothing to do with the thing that came before. His hands, weakly gripping the reins of his mount, swung madly from side to side. Belegorn kept shooting his hand in expertly to try and manage the horse if it became to unsteady, but Hírvegil ignored him, or didn’t notice. He was too caught up in the glory of the charge – which was quickly spiraling more and more out of control.

Hírvegil’s eyes only saw dim, multicolored blurs galloping towards him over the nearest hill as yells of “Elves!” and “Riders!” echoed behind him. “What’re those?” mumbled Hírvegil, leaning over towards Belegorn as he bounced up and down, “Orcs?” He had obviously not heard the cries, or horribly misinterpreted them. Belegorn managed to hear his faint mutterings because of the short distance between him and the captain, so he could respond. “No, Captain,” he yelled over the din into Hírvegil’s ear, jogging his senses a little, “It is the Elves! They seem to have succeeded!”

“Good,” grumbled the Captain, “kill ‘em.” He didn’t see the look of bewildered horror on his lieutenant’s whitened face. “No, sir,” cried Belegorn, “Elves.” As the riders thundered behind them, Hírvegil considered, his head bobbing like a fisherman’s baubles. “Oh, right. Well, don’t kill them.” Belegorn’s loud groan could be heard at Hírvegil’s side, but it was cut off with another sharp breath and gasp of recognition as Belegorn peered forward. “Captain,” he said very urgently after a moment, “I think the orcs are behind them!”

“Ah,” murmured the dreary Captain of the Rearguard, “Kill them then.”

Belegorn nodded curtly and maneuvered to the side, turning his head as much as possibly. As the Rearguard closed the distance between it and the Elven riders, who had seen them long before, it was more and more becoming evident that the cavalry had reached a momentum in could not brake in an instant. It was going so fast, so hard, that it could not be stopped except by some great obstacle. In order not to hit the Elves, they could only turn and amass together. At the top of his ragged lungs, Belegorn cried out. “TO THE LEFT!” his voice thundered terrifically, “RIDE LEFT!”

Slowly, the huge troop began easing left frantically. The Elven riders also pulled their horses right. Since the Elves were in a more convenient position to do so, they maneuvered their horses hard right, but still they could barely turn fast enough. The Rearguard rode on, thundering, booming onward; trying to steer, to turn, or do anything. As the distance between the horde and the few Elven steeds became mere meters, there was still a chance the Elves would be trampled by the uncontrolled cavalry. The distance closed, further and further until at last it disappeared.

The two forces missed each other by less than an arm’s length. The cavalry of the Rearguard, like a colossus, swept past the four horses, who were met with a sonic blast from the moving wave of sound and a plate of dust that fell atop them. As they at last passed the Rearguard, another force appeared – the orcs.

This time, no attempt was made to steer out of the way, even though it would’ve been much safer to stop and then attack. The grand host of a hundred, magnified by some divine imagination to look like a thousand, continued towards the orcs. Some tried to stop, and were pushed on by those behind them or sucked backward and spit out of the guard’s rear. Others spun off to one side or the other and swiveled to gain balance. The core group, though, with Hírvegil and Belegorn at its head, quickly lanced over the next lump of a hill, veering madly, towards the goblins sprinting towards them. When the orcs realized what was happening, they made every attempt to turn or get out of the way, but to no avail.

With no recourse, the two forces collided, the Rearguard overwhelming the small band of orcs who’d caused them so much trouble.

Of course, Hírvegil saw none of this, since he blacked out a moment before the collision and was hurled from his horse when it was bodily thrust against a routed orc.

[Garen LiLorian]

The rescue had gone smoothly, though Angóre still held fears about the pursuing Orcs. Though they were not mounted, and the Elves' train could easily outpace them, Orcs were notoriously unshakeable and the Dúnedain encampment lay less than a days ride away. He had no wish to bring a hundred orcs down on the civilians in that camp.

And now they were fleeing those very Orcs. Angóre held tight the mane of Carthor's stallion, feeling the very unusual weight of another person with him. His horse had been lost in the ambush and there had been no time to recover it, which had left the party one short. The ancient war-horse was the strongest of the beasts brought by Faerim and so Angóre had in front of him lady Bethiril, seemingly much the worse for wear from her captivity. Her eyes were strangely unfocused and it was all Angóre could do to keep her from sliding off to the side as the big war-horse galloped on, flying before the orcish host. In truth, the orcs were still grouping, scurrying about by the light of their burning camp like an anthill exposed to the sun. But Angóre knew better than to trust that sight. He could sense, away and to the left, a group of small fast goblins very nearly keeping pace with the horses of the Elven train and horses tire before the soldiers of the Enemy. Before him, Bethiril shifted again, and slouched heavily against Angóre's arm, causing Carthor's horse to veer left before he could respond.

It was Faerim, in this group of keen-eyed Elves, who first spotted the Dúnedain host, and he cried aloud. The darkness hid the sloppyness of the rearguard's movements, and to the eyes of the rescuers they looked proud and mighty. "We are safe! Hírvigil! Hírvigil and the Dúnedain!" The lad cried, standing in his stirrups and raising his sword, and a seemingly echoing roar came from the host of Men as the plunged forward, spears lowered.

Angóre's joy turned to shock. "They cannot see us!" He cried. "They will ride us down! Ride left, and may the Valar turn them aside!" He did not wait for a response before wheeling his horse. But the sudden movement caused Bethiril to shift again, and she would have fallen had not Angóre's arm been there. His arm buckled with the unexpected weight, pulling on the horse's mane, and Carthor's well trained stallion turned obediently back to his right as Angóre fought with the weight in his arms. It took him long seconds; seconds he could ill afford to lose, but he got the emissary upright again, groaning softly, and turned his attention back to the horse.

Carthor's stallion was a veteran and had stood his ground in many combats. He trusted implicitly the warrior he carried, and this is perhaps why he stood his ground in the face of the Dúnedain charge while around him the horses of the others fled madly to the left. It very nearly cost him all he had to give. Angóre's eyes were wide as he urged the warhorse to a dead run. The Dúnedain charge was nearly upon them, and it seemed impossible that he should make the edge of the charge before it overwhelmed him.

The last spear actually passed over his head as he cleared the line, the spearman wide-eyed and sawing frantically at the reins of his enraged beast to try to avoid this lone Elf. The stallion's tail flickered briefly in the breeze of the passing host, and then he was past; the host thundered past him towards the Orcish camp.

[Saurreg]

The ground itself trembled with awe as the multitude of heavy cavalry hooves thundered across the open plain towards the enemy, producing a colossal white plume within its wake that could be seen for miles around. Emerald green cloaks fluttered wildly in the draft, numerous mail rings clattered sharply and the immense chargers neighed and snorted in anticipation. The winds swept pass the ears of each man and intoned an air of invincibility. War cries of “Oromë!” and “For Fornost!” greeted the sky.

Onwards the mounted guardsmen charged, as each pounding hoof step brought them closer to their enemy, their quarry. As the fiery host approached the mass of terror-struck orcs, shaking lances were lowered and the cavalry galloped forward into the last lap with reckless abandonment. Faced by the terrible spectacle before them, the orcs lost their nerves, broke rank and rout. The slaughter began.

Belegorn of the Rearguard felt the hooves of his mount pound the ground, felt its power and felt the irresistible allure of the battle. There was always something special in horseback fighting, an indescribable rush that would made even the most battle weary cavalier grin with excitement. The first lieutenant had not felt this “alive” for a while, not since the chaotic retreat from the old city where his and the lives of his men stood at the edge.

The Dúnedain spotted his opponent – a large imposing goblin clad in black fur and mail, armed with a crude halberd. Pulling the reins of his charger with a loud and reassuring ho, he turned the magnificent animal towards the pike holder and galloped towards it. The speed of his approach was less than that of the initial charge, but what Belegorn intended to accomplish required more in terms of accuracy than alacrity. The rochecthel was the nonpareil weapon of the cavalry arm; scientifically engineered to provide both shock and wield-ability. With the right angle of approach, adequate momentum and a strong spear arm, it was guaranteed to penetrate anything. And right then, Belegorn was quite intent in introducing his rochecthel to the orc.

The orc caught sight of the incoming horseman and instead of fleeing; it showed remarkable courage and chose to stand its ground. With a grunt, it planted the halberd into the frozen earth and tipped the elaborate end of his weapon towards man and beast. The confrontation then turned into a deadly duel of nerves versus reflexes. Should the orc be nonplussed and quit the yoke, its life would be automatically forfeited. But should its courage prove steadfast, and then it was up to the rider to discharge his lance at the right moment and at the right spot before his horse veers to avoid the obstacle and expose its master to certain doom.

Seconds passed like hours and time slowed to an excruciating crawl as Belegorn galloped up to huge snarling goblin. In those moments his senses were heightened and he could hear the strain in the charger’s deep snorts and feel its fear and uncertainty at the enemy it was forced to face. The pounding of the hooves was painfully apparent and reverberated in his head like beats of huge drums.

Timing was everything.

Belegorn marked the exposed collarbone of the orc and urged his mount forwards…

The creature let out a ferocious roar of defiance, yellow eyes staring straight at its adversary’s…

The leave shaped tip broke through warty skin, penetrating tough flesh, sinewy tendons and dense bone before it met something more delicate and fragile. With a grunt of exertion, Belegorn twisted the lance and it snapped as it should. He allowed the steed to continue its gallop for a short distance before turning back to look; the collapsed orc was mortally wounded and hot steaming ichor spewed from the mangled shoulder where half a lance still protruded from.

Grinning with satisfaction, Belegorn disposed off the then useless lance and immediately drew his cavalry saber from its sheath. Surveying the carnage around him, he moistened his lips, placed his horn to his mouth and blew to rally his men,

“To me guardsmen! To me children!”

[Amanaduial the archer]

As Faerim rose in his saddle and held his sword high to his kinsmen, he felt a rush of exhileration course through every inch of his self as the crowd of Dunedain roared back seemingly in reply. But his grin soon began to fade as the men lowered their spears and began to charge forward.

Towards the elves.

Faerim's grin slipped from his face in horror and his eyes widened before he gathered his senses and galloped to the side of the host, going as fast as he possibly good so as not to be run down by his own allies. The weight of the elf behind him felt strangely heavy although she was not ungainly: she sat well in the saddle, moving with his own movements, obviously an excellent horsewoman, but she seemed as unfamiliar as he in this way of riding - neither were used to travelling with another with them. But the newly rescued woman had determinedly mounted up on a horse of her own and had fled in a trice with her child, a boy of about ten - thereby leaving the elves and Faerim another mount short, and so meaning that the lady Erenor had to travel with Faerim: they had to get away as swiftly as possible and it had been the quickest way, the other spare horse having been with Gaeredhel. But at least she seemed awake, much more so than the other female elf, who was slumped across Carthor's mount with Angóre - indeed, Erenor had been the most alert of all, chillingly efficient in her cutting the throat of an orc who threatened to thwart the rescue attempt. Feeling her weight against his back as she leant forward to streamline their passage, Faerim glanced back for a split second, seeing the fair, noble face staring straight forward, keen eyes fixed on their target: the edge of the Dunedain line.

The horses of his own kinsmen were dangerously close now, travelling too fast to stop, and the pair of riders still had about twenty metres to the end of the line. Leaning over North's neck, his fingers woven white into the horse's mane, he dug his heels in and urged him on desperately at a dead run to the end of the line. Come on, come on, I cannot have got this far to be run down by my own cavlary...!

With a last spurt, North charged forward and was out of the way of the Dunedain line with barely a second to spare. As they thundered past, swords held high and in full armour, Faerim realised just how close it had been, feeling almost faint with relief. But there was no time to spare now: the line of Dunedain thundered on and, Erenor or no Erenor, this rescue mission was not over yet. Drawing his sword, he turned his head and had to yell over the furious drumming of horse hooves and the sound of battle for the elf behind him to hear. "This hardly seems practical, my Lady, but it seems we shall have to fight together," he yelled, trying to sound confident.

Faerim felt rather than heard her exasperated sigh, then the glint of silver rose so dangerously close to his eyes that the hairs on the back of his neck rose. "It shall have to do," she replied grimly. Faerim inclined his head and shifted his fingers nervously on the swore hilt, but Erenor interrupted his preparation, adding, "You may like to use your bow though: it is a more practical way of fighting when there are two of us: there is less chance of you hitting me."

Deciding not to take the comment as an insult, Faerim nodded once and wordlessly sheathed his sword, but loosely, ready to pull out in a second. His bow ready to hand, the youth steeled himself for the impact of his very first battle, and pulled hard on North's reins and gave a short, fierce yell, digging in his heels. With a whinny of delight, excitement and terror that reflected Faerim's own terrifying mix of emotions, the horse reared back then set off at a gallop through the Dunedain ranks and towards the battle.

North was a nimble horse, and fast, and although he carried two riders, he was spared all the extra weight of cumbersome armour that others wore, with Faerim crouched low over his neck, his face almost touching the horse's flyaway mane. They reached the front ranks fairly quickly, jostled though they were by other riders. As Erenor raised her vicious looking curved sword - both beautiful and dangerous, probably rather like the lady herself, Faerim mused uncomfortably - Faerim tightened his grip on the saddle between his legs and took his bow from his back, ready strung, and raised it to his face. The orcs were coming straight for them, a solid wall of stolen fur, fangs, gruesomely stained weapons and glaring, half-dead yellow eyes. Fighting the urge to whimper or run away, Faerim braced himself for the impact and let fly with the first arrow. But even his good aim could only delay impact for a moment of two and when it came, it was so sudden that the youth felt like he had been flung into a brick wall.

Inexperienced in battle as his rider, North reared up, lashing out with his hooves at the dark beasts that assailed him and doing his bit. Faerim did his best to hold on and continued to fire, against all odds, into the mass of creatures, focusing only on the tip of the arrow and it's intended target, barely even aware of Erenor behind him as she swung time after time, hewing down those who came too near. Taking a second to regain himself as he almost slipped from the saddle, Faerim snatched at North's reins and urged him on once more, moving him forward through the melee - and the horse obliged, trying to run from this sharp, jagged place, an assault on every one of his sensed. Erenor almost slipped at the sudden movement and Faerim grabbed her wrist to steady her, more as a reflex than anything else. As soon as she had regained her balance on the fast moving horse, Faerim let go and turned his attentions back to his bow, firing another three arrows into the melee around him. But it was too much concentration to keep up, and his eyes and both arms were tiring quickly from this method of fighting: he knew he couldn't keep it up.

As an orc charged towards them with an awful yell, Faerim turned, startled and unable to take it down at such a close range, and it's blade almost took off his leg before Erenor's blade arced across sliced it's head from it's shoulders at such a speed that the body of the orc did not stop for a moment afterwards. North danced out of the way, equine eyes wide and fearful, and so it was the unfortunate soldier close by to Faerim who bore the brunt of the orc's weight: the man was taken unawares as the heavy body of the orc slumped across him and the spiked armour caused his horse to rear in pain. With a yell, the hapless man fell from his horse onto the muddy, churned up ground and, despite Faerim's attempt to get to him, an orc got there first, cutting the soldier's throat in passing. Faerim drew back in horror but Erenor barely paused: seizing the now redundant horse's reins, she swung across onto it's back from North's and was settled in the saddle in an instant. Giving Faerim a brief, grim nod, she raised her sword once more and continued her attack.

Faerim hesitated, marvelled at the elf's cold, business like efficiency in taking the dead man's horse, and in that precious second he very nearly lost his life as an orc attacked from behind. Faerim turned in an instant, his hand finding his sword and plunging it backwards into the orc's thick torso with lightning quick speed, but the closeness of his death standing by had jerked the young man back to his senses: sword now ready in his hand, he swung it around in a wide circle and, surrounded by his kinsmen, he attacked.

[Arry]

In the midst of battle, unwelcome death . . .

Lord Ereglin waved them on. The trio had ridden somewhat beyond the area where the Orcs were fully engaged with the Dunedain troops, and had stopped to look back on the fighting. Rôsgollo and Gaeredhel kept close to Ereglin’s mount, making sure the Elf was strong enough to maintain himself astride the horse. He assured them he was, urging them with his motions to join in the fray.

The Orcs were disorganized, frantic in their fighting. Striking out wildly against the Dunedain onslaught. For their part, the brothers mowed down a good number of the creatures that came against them. But, then, Gaeredhel grew tired; his right shoulder increasingly painful. The strokes of his blade were slower, less forceful. And several times he was almost unseated as an Orc with a lance pushed past his blade and struck against him.

Rôsgollo had been keeping parallel with his brother, and seeing him falter, he drew nearer to him, cutting through the few Orcs that crowded about him. Two Orcs with lances now harried Gaeredhel, and Rôsgollo could see, as his brother shifted in his saddle, the stain of blood enlarging on his right shoulder. Gaeredhel’s wound had opened up, and even now the blood trailed down his side beneath his shirt, a small rivulet running red down his high boot. An unfortunately aimed blow from one of the lances knocked the Elf to the ground. The two Orcs bore down on Gaeredhel, the one’s club bashing soundly against the Elf’s head with a sickening sound as the other drove his lance just above the neck line of the mail shirt, where the exposed throat lay.

Too late Rôsgollo came close enough to strike a blow against them. Already he could see the light fading from his brother’s eyes. With a cry he drove the Orcs away from his fallen sibling, slashing at them with grim determination. He drew his horse to a halt very near Gaeredhel’s now still form, dismounting quickly. He stood over him, slicing at the oncoming Orcs with a precise economy of strokes. He would hold them off, he thought, until he could secure his brother’s body from the foul creatures.

The Orcs, for their part, were attracted to one of their foe on foot. They pushed in against him in increasing numbers until the very weight of them bore him under; their clubs and blades bringing him to the same still repose as claimed his brother. Like ants over dead leaves, the Orcs swirled in their frenzy and just as quickly dispersed seeking other prey . . .

[Kransha]

Hírvegil’s eyes peeled open hesitantly, the lids apparently unwilling to lift themselves off the swollen orbs beneath. He blinked and felt again, the surge of reality rushing up to meet him. The sting of a wound on his forehead came into focus, and the stink of recently dried blood wafted odiously into his flared nostrils. He instinctively moved his now un-gauntleted hand to his brow, feeling the thin crust of dry crimson plastered to the rent skin there. There was some wet blood still simmering in the wound. With a pained breath, he arched his back, shifting numb legs beneath him so that the ruffled sheet beneath him was kicked aside.

“Captain?”

The voice was Belegorn’s, and it stabbed Belegorn sharply. Hírvegil winced, gritting his teeth and slapped his palm against his brow as it throbbed once and then again steadily for a few seconds. His eyes managed to focus as he turned his heavy head towards his lieutenant. “What?” he groaned, twisting his mouth about around his tongue and screwing up his face to accommodate the words, “What is it?” As the fuzzy vision presented to him became clear and acute, he saw Belegorn nearing him, scooting closer on a rickety stool. Overhead was the willowy fabric of his tent’s drooping flat roof. He rubbed his eyes firmly, working bony fists into the red-rimmed sockets, trying to beat out the pain in his head, as Belegorn spoke.

“How do you feel?” asked the lieutenant patiently. Feeling a little better, Hírvegil tossed off a glib response. “Like I’ve been drinking all night.” He said. Then, after looking down at the quiet earth for a moment, he glanced up at Belegorn quizzically. “Have I been drinking all night?” The lieutenant grinned half-heartedly, but did not laugh. Instead, he simply shook his head with minimal briskness and replied.

“No, you fell from your horse. Thank Oromë you were not trampled.” He gestured, indicating the wound on Hírvegil’s forehead. Hírvegil continued to look at him, blinking erratically, with a questioning look on his face. “Trampled?” he mumbled, mostly to himself, and then his eyes brightened – a revelation. “Ah, yes, I remember.” Again his mood changed suddenly to one of urgent distraction, “Belegorn,” he whispered sharply, holding his breath, “were we victorious?” The answer was obvious, but Belegorn indulged him.

“Yes, but our charge was ill-planned. More men were lost then needed to be...including,” his tone became solemn, and Hírvegil shifted unreadily, "some of the Elves". Hirvegil looked stricken, his face losing a hint of its still vague color. Seriously, he spoke. “How many?” asked the Captain, his own voice becoming slow and steady. Like a well-oiled machine, Belegorn rattled off casualty numbers from memory. “Two Elves, fourteen of ours dead, three mortals gravely injured, and many more with minor wounds. Luckily the maids of the camp volunteered to tend to them, though little real tending or medical attention was needed. The loss was unfortunate and, dare I say, it unnecessary." He paused, letting Hírvegil absorb the information.

"Which Elves were slain," questioned the captain gravely. Belegorn instinctively lowered his head, the words flowing from between seemingly closed lips. "Gaeredhel and Rosgollo, the two guards of one of the Mithlondhrim emissaries." Hírvegil looked at him, his eyes dim and unseeing, like those of one blind. "How have the Eldar taken this?" His question was darkly made. Belegorn's reply was one of semi-dejected confusion. "They are, as usual, enigmatic. Obviously they mourn his loss, but I do not know their post-mortem rites for comrades in arms, so I cannot speculate."

After a moment of pondering, Hírvegil questioned his second again. “How long was I-”

“Less than a day, Captain.” Belegorn deftly interjected, anticipating what his captain would say, “I hope you feel better. I must say,” he paused again, an uncomfortable lump welled up in his usually stern and resolute throat, “you were…strange, yesterday; not yourself.” He said this all with great uneasiness, but his tense shoulders sagged with relief as Hírvegil’s downturned head nodded. “No,” he acknowledged, “I was not. Your honesty is always refreshing, Belegorn, but we cannot dwell on that now. We must make haste to the Ered Luin.” With a little more spring in his step, though a still feverish one, he rose. Belegorn, though, bade him remain seated wordlessly.

“Captain,” he said, “I must advise that we wait a day. This ordeal has left many tired, traumatized, injured. It may not be sensible to push the Elves on after losing two of their company. It will be hard to resume our appointed course.” Hírvegil, though, did not heed his good advice, shooting a watered-down glare of arrogance and familiar Dúnedain hubris at the lieutenant. “Since when,” he intoned, “have the Dúnedain bowed to such petty challenges? We will journey on before the sun reaches…” he trailed off, realizing, to his mild dismay, that he did not know what time it was. “Belegorn, where is the sun now?”

“It has just risen on a new day.”

“Very well.” Continued the captain haughtily, rising to his full height, “We must not be felled by this loss, and the Elves will have to perservere beyond it. We shall ride out before noon.”

[Kransha]

The ride to the Blue Mountains was just about as somber as the ride to the Hills of Evendim. It was much longer, but just as uneventful as the first. It dragged on, but, though the year was progressing steadily out of winter, ascending to lands farther north brought heavier snowfall. Valleys became glaciated, plains bore no more tufts or patches of refreshing greenery, trees became bare, and the sky seemed locked in some mockery of dusk, a wintry haze descended on the lands and the traveling company of wanderers.

I was some weeks before they passed from rough plains to rolling hills, and then into rocky straits of land, rivers of snow beneath great tides of ice-stained rock. Earthen crags of stone jutted up occasionally, giving way to deeper canyons and high rising land bridges that forded the chasms. Mountains loomed, overwhelming the shadows of sloping hills, and snowy white became deep grey and shaded black of the high rock spires shooting from mountainsides, cliff faces, and the towering peaks. The overall altitude of the land varied dramatically, so much that looking up or down might become nauseating. Before the last ranks of the Dúnedain stood one of the largest ranges of mountain peaks in all of Middle-Earth, to their eyes at least.

Hírvegil’s mood remained contemplative and dark, even as signs of civilization presented itself. Dúnedain watchmen from the first troop had been stationed in posts on the manmade roadways leading through columned passes, which stretched, looped, wound, and intertwined into the depths of the cavernous ridges, beneath the mountains. Light faded around them, but it remained and soon increased in the Dúnedain hearts. The Elves, though, were more reclusive then before, perhaps in the face of their loss. As long arches of stone closed off the vague sight of sunlight above, dancing shadows pattered like wolves around them and the black roads descended deeper and deeper, but torches of guardsmen welcomed them, some new and some old, those of the Dwarves who had marked the entrances to their caverns centuries ago.

Roads delved into the earth, into moist caves first, then through narrow, twisting tunnels in which the columns of men and women had to be packed tightly and thin out into slivers of lines that wound downward, snaking through the spiraling corriders. As the whole train spread into the lower areas, corriders became collonades, widened in width and height. The torches illuminated less of rooms as they grew more expansive. The geometric designs seemed to ripple over walls and rectangular pillars that stretched seemlessly upward to hold up ceilings that might as well have been the very sky itself, considering their massive lengths. The numbers of Dúnedain guardsmen increased, and soldiers began to populate the areas that the second train of Dúnedain entered into. Many filed into the ranks to speak with officers and gain relayed information about what had occured on their journey so they could bring it back to the king. Soon enough, the Dúnedain had been herded into more well lit areas, where they were greeted with a small concourse of counselors, soldiers, and courtiers who had earlier arrived.

Talk ran rampant quickly, with so many things to talk of. Both groups, upon arriving in the Ered Luin, were low on food and supplies. No one was starving yet, and all were eating healthily, but supplies could not hold out indeffinately, and the Dúnedain needed some new food source. The cavernous rocks of the Ered Luin did not seem like the best place for farming or herding livestock. Another favored topic of conversation was the skirmish that had cost the lives of the two Elves, Gaeredhel and Rosgollo, though most officers avoided touching on this subject so as to be politically correct, as well as simply to be polite. Many things were talked of, but the most popular subject was the one at hand. The King was taking counsel with his inner circle, about to address the people for the second time in as many months.

Soon the situation became a duplicate of what had occurred at the North Downs fortress. Uncontrolled masses, lessened since their last assembly, filed into the largest of the room, escorted on their borders by now unarmored guards who kept their ranks, unsteady and swelling, in check. They eventually amassed in the atrium, the most tremendous of the preliminary rooms. It was not as grand as some of the long-winded cavernous halls and great rooms that lay beneath, but it was grand all the same, high and long, a gargantuan chamber with a vaulted roof unseen by the naked eye, high above the cracked floor. Upturned furniture carved of rough and course stone lay strewn at random throughout the room, which was soon cleared aside by laborers to make room for a granite tablet that was suitable as a platform, which was pushed slowly to one side of the chamber and centered. The Dúnedain clumped around the platform, chatting expectantly, admiring or loathing their surroundings, and engaging in numerous discussions of the bizarre circumstances.

All fell silent when a lone figure swept up onto the newly erected platform. It was King Arvedui.

A feeling of repetition swept through the room as well with his arrival. This was almost mimicry of what had occurred at the North Downs’ and it made room for an uncomfortable air in the vast chamber, which spread like wave through every last Dúnadan. With somber voice but kingly manner and a majestic gait, King Arvedui of Fornost, monarch of Arnor, addressed his people for the second time, breaking apart the deathly silence like a rusty blade.

“My people;” his voice boomed, “my people who have come with me through great hardships; my people who have endured the fall of their fair city, assault and assailment from all sides, death, toil, and darkness: the grace of the Valar has seen us this far safely. Your bravery has led us here, to more darkness, but in the darkness light can be found! We may have lost friends and family, but we have stroven onward victoriously, swept across a great distance, and are now safe for a time. We must now relieve ourselves of blades and shields, and take up the pickaxe and the hoe, for it is time for us to live again.”

“We may be dwelling here, under these damask roofs, ‘neath pillars of mighty Dwarven stone, for a long time. We cannot farm or make a living as once we did in fields lush beneath the sun, but we can still live! The Dwarves who lived her in elder days kept great catacombs brimming with wealth and supplies for their rampant wars. We must find their coffers; find their reserves, so that we may survive where they did not. The caves around, above, and below us may well be home to dark beasts, those left by those past days, but they will not deter us. So now, I, your king, give you orders.”

“Separate into groups, all of you, and be not segregated by petty whims. Let soldiers, men, women, and children all stand and be counted, for all shall be needed. But let these concourses not be great, no more than ten or twenty perhaps, and be of watchful eyes, all, for you shall disperse into the catacombs of the deep. For reasons of solidarity, let our friends, the Eldar-kin, go together, but with a fellow of rank to escort them, and others. They have lost friends, so I am told, but have remained with us throughout, and deserve our thanks and reverence. Do not fear the depths, Dúnedain, for the depths hold nothing insurmountable. Now, my friends, be off into the caves, and bring back with you whatever you find to this, our new camp – our new home. Hope and luck to you all, by Manwë’s thunder and the light of Varda find your way!”

And he walked off of the platform.

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

Some minutes later, the room was abuzz with talk again, and the officers were separating into their respective groups. Hírvegil, though, retreated unceremoniously from the din, heading with others off into some of the offshooting cubicles, dank, dusky chambers that rimmed the vaulted atrium. Belegorn and other commissioned ranks edged through the tightly packed crowd (significantly less than it had been at the North Downs) and diffused slowly into the same side chambers. Belegorn found his Captain sitting and taking deep, chest-heaving breaths on a frigid stone stool with a shattered corner and a broken limb. He looked even more tired than usual, if such a thing was possible. Hopefully, Belegorn moved towards the Captain and spoke to him with hasty words passing between his lips.

“Captain,” he said, “Shall I form some groups among our company? I will assign an officer to the Elves as the King commanded and you may oversee-” Hírvegil interrupted him with a raised, flattened hand, as he sagged in his battered seat. He spoke in an almost mournful tone, saying words that sounded as grave as death. “Belegorn,” he uttered soberly, “I am not going on any of the expedition groups. I am staying here.”

For nearly a whole minute, Belegorn gaped at him until finally stammering, “But why, sir?”

Hirvegil sighed deeply at this question he’d expected, pulling his hand across his brow and using his broad index finger to analyze the bruise left by his forehead wound. “I do not feel well,” he paused almost after each word, leaning back on nothing, his silence drowning out the din of officers’ loud discourse, “and when I say this I do not mean that I am merely ill. I do not feel like myself. I must rest. Please, Belegorn,” he sounded almost pleading, a strange emotion coming from the staunch Captain of the Rearguard, “do not question me this once. I have received permission from the King’s lords to remain behind.”

“Indeed he has.” The vulture’s voice cut in.

Belegorn swiveled about to see a familiar, pale face – Mellonar. The white-faced shade of a politician hovered behind the Lieutenant, who glared at him, but a simmering grin peeled over Hírvegil’s face instead of the expected scowl. The counselor moved closer, swooping down like the carrion-fowl he was so often likened to, his shadow slim and bent over as it was cast out over the broken stones of the floor. “Ah, Mellonar, you old fiend,” spat Hírvegil with a grim cough, “I thought, or rather, I hoped you had perished on the journey from the Downs. But, your visage does at least remind me of home.”

“Likewise, Captain.” Grinned the lord, licking his colorless, pursed lips and brushing a single loose strand of greasy hair from his face, “I see you are not in good spirits. Your haphazard victory at Lake Nenuial may account for that. I fear my long-time friend is losing himself in this mad time, but you:” he turned, gliding on his slithering robes, towards the lieutenant, who did not flinch openly as Hírvegil did, “You are a specimen indeed, unlike your commander. Word of your accomplishments this season reach many ears, Lieutenant Belegorn of the Rearguard. Even a wise old counselor like myself has seen the promise in you. This is why I caved to your superior’s request – yes, it was I” he interjected into the sentence with a biting in his voice directed at Hírvegil, a usual caustic addition, “–I wanted to see your skills at the helm. You shall lead the group containing the Elves.” Belegorn looked a bit flummoxed by this, and Mellonar’s snaky grin widened, the leathery edges of his mouth curling upward. “Also,” he continued with cold reserve, “take this boy I have heard of, Faerim,” he said the name (like he said all names) with disdain, “and his family, who aided the Elves. They will feel more assured with mortals they know of nearby. Also, I delegate to you the counselor Mitharan, who seemed so eager to go off with you and your braggart captain to the ends of the earth, and any others who the Elves associated with.”

Hírvegil cut him off seriously, ignoring the sardonic nature of his foe. “There was one, Belegorn. A woman called Renedwen. Take her as well.” Mellonar’s lip curled, his ire aroused, but he nodded. “Yes, that will do. What a motley crew you’ll make; splendid. I would wish you luck, lieutenant, but I am sure your captain has given it to you already, and his wishes far outweigh anything I might give you. Good day, Belegorn, Hírvegil. May “Manwë’s thunder” see that you do not fall prey to the creatures of the caves, or whatever terrible things decide to gnaw on your ankles.” He cackled merrily under his breath, “Farewell.” With that, he spun like a bird in mid-air and maneuvered gracefully out of the room, his feet never touching the ground.

As Mellonar disappeared, Belegorn shook his head and turned away; preparing to leave and assemble the group, but an unsteady hand on his pauldron stopped him. His head turned slightly to see the wavering arm of his captain and hear his quiet words. “Good luck, Belegorn.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

[Novnarwen]

Mid-day was slowly passing and the rays of the sun shone more weakly as the minutes passed. The sky was dark blue, covered with light, white clouds and the weather was warm and pleasant. One could think that on a day like this, people would be out and about, enjoying the last bits of the sun before it would disappear behind the mountain tops. Surprisingly enough, no one could be spotted anywhere. Inside a cave of average size however, in the Ered Luins, there was indeed life. Usually, it would be silent in the caverns at this time of day, but for some odd reason there was particularly much noise....

“Wwwwhat’s he dddoin’ heeere?” The question formulated was directed towards a big figure, clad in green scales, which lay huddled up against the stone wall.

“Shh! He’s asleep!” Riva, also known as the Old Hag, said fiercely.

The tone in her voice reflected the amount of power she now possessed. Being the only one of the trolls in Stuttering Stuga’s clique that could cook decent food, she had gained respect. It was not the sort of respect Stuga had, but Riva didn’t mind. She wasn’t a typical leader. She was in fact more than pleased with the position she had managed to hold on to for so many years, and with the lack of competition to get her position in the clique, it seemed that she would be the chef amongst them until the end of her days. Luckily for her, this was to her advantage; Stuttering Stuga had ordered everyone to take good care of her, to make sure she didn’t die. Or rather, Stuga had figured that this would suit them all perfectly well, if her death could be delayed yet another couple of years. She would cook, and they would eat. Amongst the trolls there hadn’t been much resistance, but a few problems had indeed arisen with the decision of offering Riva all what she wanted and needed to secure her wellbeing. However, the massive leader had made sure it would never happen again, by giving the trolls accounted for a few hits with the largest club he possessed, and they had thus far kept their mouths shut, and had not dared speak of the special services offered to her.

For a moment all of the trolls stood silently watching the figure that lay on the stone floor, fast asleep.

Even though deeply offended by the Old Hag’s rash and reprimanding words, Stuttering Stuga kept his mask. He needed her, everyone did. He couldn’t just beat her for her disobedience like he did with the rest of the scum surrounding him; it would simply make the others wonder why they had taken him seriously when telling them not to hurt Riva. No, beating her now, in front of the others, would be in nobody’s favour, especially not his. With this he realised that he was almost thrilled by his own resolution, which had led to the stunningly brilliant conclusion of not beating her, and he giggled in excitement.

“So, yer letting him stay?” Riva, the Old Hag, asked, seeming almost pleased with herself. She had obviously been convinced by Stuga’s satisfying grin, and had no idea that it was something else that made him smile.

“Weweah non mmmwy geeen scaldesss tttbat Bett, be Eeevpllelled, bbbis gggoin ttpo blleeve.”

“What he intended to say, is that he swears on his green scales that Frett, The Expelled, is going to leave . . .

“Bthisss ibntttan”

“He adds . . ‘this instant!’”

**

And the reader may wonder who of the trolls said what, and what actually one of them said. It is difficult to tell, as one can only guess what a highly, frustrated troll would say and how he or she would sound like. Well, let’s go a bit backwards.

After Riva had started believing that the figure huddled up in the corner was being allowed to stay, it was Stuttering Stuga who spoke. He, too frustrated by Riva’s misconception to talk in an orderly manner, had answered in the best way possible. Naturally, a stuttering, frustrated troll can’t be any good, and so the words spoken had come out in an exceptionally odd way. The other trolls surrounding him had of course not understood a single word, well, except for Grawa.

Grawa thinks he is a remarkably smart troll. It is maybe true; he is at least smarter than the other trolls in the clique; he is the only one who understands what Stuttering Stuga says, regardless of how he says it. In that way, Grawa is without a doubt the best translator ever known to the ‘Troll(an)’-kind. And if that’s not enough, Grawa has also the great pleasure of being Stuga’s favourite cousin, but it ought to be mentioned though, that Grawa is to be sure the only cousin Stuga has.

**

Anyway, after having translated, Stuga nodded to his cousin, and nudged him hard in the ribs. It was a sign of gratitude of having such a great cousin, who actually understood him. It was a sign of satisfaction. By the look of Grawa, one could see that the extra attention paid to him by his cousin had meant something, and without noticing it himself, he turned slightly pink.

“WHAT?!? Please! It’s enough. Poor Frett! He’s starvin’. He just came. He’d been wanderin’ in the caves for days without findin’ food! He’d almost turned himself into stone by walkin’ in the sunlight! Give ‘im a chance!”

It was at this time, when Riva, The Old Hag, had raised her voice to the absolute that Frett, The Expelled, woke up from his deep sleep. Looking upwards, he let his gaze wander; his big, bleary eyes shone ghostly in the dim cave. Noticing that everyone stared at him, he rose instantly, bewildered. He moved his head in an awful pace, from left to right and right to left. It seemed that the silence that had fallen over the clique of trolls seemed to confuse the poor Frett. What was happening? Were they mad? Was his mother, Riva, going to let him stay? Rolling his eyes, he stood looking at Stuttering Stuga. Twice my size, he told himself. No, more. More, much more than twice my size. Four maybe? Yes, that must be it. Can I take him? I can jump… jump at him.. Oooh, he reminds me of one of those, huge, fire-breathing, hard scaled... monsters!!! He blinked, letting his big, weary eyelids rest for a moment before he opened his eyes again. But I can do it.

**

Before we continue, it is important to say that Frett can't really do anything. Not anything at all. This is why he was expelled from this hopeless group of trolls in the first place. It was due to the fact of his clumsiness, his insane clumsiness, that drove everyone else insane, except from his mother, Riva, who of course like all other mothers love their children regardless of their abilities (or disabilities). Of course, as every other problem, Frett's case was taken to the Troll Council (which only Stuttering Stuga is a member of) and, unfortunately for Frett, the case was stamped as hopeless. In fact, the case was just as hopeless as Frett himself. So, in order to keep the good quality that the other trolls in the clique possessed, and not let the group be set back only because one didn’t function normally, Frett was expelled from the group; thus the title. It was decided that Frett was never to show his clumsy face again. He was only allowed small portions of food, which his dear mother Riva made him. But other than that, no one was to keep in contact with the fellow, which wasn’t really a problem at all. The other trolls were perfectly fine with letting Frett walk, as useless as he was.

Stuga’s solution to the problem, chasing after Frett with a club, making him promise to disappear and threatening to eat him alive, worked for quite some time. Frett was even renamed to Frett, ‘The Expelled – On Probation’ for a while, but the clumsy fellow had to ruin it all. Today was actually the third time this week he had shown his clumsy-presence in the caves, and Stuga was naturally starting to lose his patience.

**

Without a warning, Frett sprang into the air, but in doing so, he stumbled, not unexpectedly, in his own feet and landed right in front of Stuttering Stuga. Without hesitating, the large troll grasped Frett, The Expelled, around the neck and held him tightly. “Beengiguh,” he growled. Suddenly, Stuttering Stuga set up a great pace, and started walking. His great feet made the earth shake, and in mere desperation of the situation that had occurred, The ‘Beautiful’ Uruva called out;” Where you takin’ him?!?”

“Enough,” Grawa said, silently.

“Uh?”

“Enough. Stuttering Stuga’s had enough.”

“WRAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! He’s goin’ to kill ‘im!” The Old Hag made a grimace before she started running after Stuga, who had only just disappeared from their view. Judging from the thundering sound in the caves, all of the other trolls followed.