A Ride to the Dark Side--RPG

[Amanaduial the archer]

Kane was sure he could defeat Gormel; he could easily kill this weak older man. As Gormel slipped back onto the ground, he smiled, his knife ready in his hand-

He felt the prick of cold metal against his throat- a knife. He struggled for a moment, the adrenaline still pumping in his veins before the knife pressed closer and he heard a familiar voice behind him. "Drop it."

Kane felt anger surge through him and his hand came up to the hand holding the knife at his throat before he stopped, feeling the knife once again closer and he felt a small trickle of blood run down his neck.

"I believe Gormel ordered you to make sure everyone is ready to go, Kane. I can't see you doing that. Now drop the knife!"

Rhana! How dare she?! No, wait- he heard her give a quiet sigh of relief as Gormel lowered his knife. But why-? He relaxed slightly, but only slightly.

Now her voice was beside his ear. "At least let him believe I'm on his side!"

Damn. He paused, but couldnt see her face. He had to trust her, not something which came easily to the wary young easterling. After a moment he dropped the knife. She took away the knife and he angrily pushed away her arm from his throat, picking his knife up from the ground where he had been forced to drop it. Standing he glared right into her eyes for a moment before stalking away back to the camp.

As he approached none of the others looked up before he kicked some turf over the fire. "We're moving. Get ready." He said shortly in reply to the angry protests. He still had the knife in his hand, so none of the protests were that loud.

He sat down, facing the fire, watching Rhana talking to Gormel. Her body language was almost flirtacious and he ground his teeth before looking away, not able to watch.

After a few minutes trying to calm himself down, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Spinning around and stood and faced Rhana, looking down into her face only a few inches from his. She was unperturbed.

"You know I had to do that Kane." She said, her voice calm. He snorted and now his anger was bubbling back up again. "What?!"
"You think you could have won?-"
"Yes! Easily!" He shoved her in the chest, making her step backwards heavily. "I could have had him, and you betrayed me!" He was almost shouting now.

"Keep your voice down you fool!" She hissed.
"Im a fool?!" He shoved her again and she stepped backwards, her foot catching a stone. But as she fell, she grabbed Kanes wrist and he fell on top of her almost, his hands coming out and stopping himself from landing on her, his hands on either side of her shoulders, his face almost in front of hers.

She looked up at him and her expression softened slightly, and so did his. He felt himself calming down but after a moment he pushed himself back into a crouch, regarding her still with anger, but less so.

Standing he walked away, going to the remaining nine horses as he checked they were ready also.

[ January 30, 2003: Message edited by: Amanaduial the archer ]

[Lugbúrz]

Gathering the remaining horses, the company of thieves made its way slowly but surely on foot through the very last few leagues to the Great River. They were fraught with danger all around them, and the altercations did not bate the peril, seen or unseen.

The only travelling conspirator who was noting the squabbling with growing glee was Ulfeg. The old Easterling was aware of their whereabouts and was plotting his split. His acute senses had yet a while before they dissembled into infirmity, and with such skill as he still possessed, he espied their purlieu in silence. Far in the distance he could see a faint light, and still further the faint gleam of water. The rest of the group heard the river too, they took each step with wariness.

"And we are to meet someone here?" growled Gormel, who had been informed that Ulfeg was leading them to the mastermind of this foolish mission. Gormel could not understand the need for a middleman, and distrusted Ulfeg thoroughly, but having no choice with the returning pain, he followed in anger.

"Yes, if we are not killed by the watch of Minas Tirith before that," hissed Ulfeg.

A few more paces and the light became visible to all, and behind that the silhouette of a barge against the bank. They approached quietly until they were addressed.

"Halt! Who goes there?" came a refined voice.

"It is me, Ulfeg, and I bring with me the company of thieves, my lord," replied Ulfeg.

"So the quest was successful?" asked the voice.

'It soon will,' thought Ulfeg, but replied, "Yes, the horses are yet nine in number as you wished."

"Good, get the horses onto the barge, and quietly," the voice commanded. None could see the face of the tall, frail man who spoke.

"Now wait a minute!" shouted Gormel, "those are my horses, and they are not going anywhere until I say so."

"Quiet, you fool! It has taken the lives of many people greater than you to arrange this passage. You will do as I say or you will die," said the voice in an icy tone.

Gormel flew into a rage when he heard these words, and in his wrath he pulled out his sword in a flash and cried out, "you shall die yourself before these horses go onto the boat, and your tongue will be the first to bleed!"

He moved forward in a frenzy of spite and wielded his weapon in a menacing angle, while the other stood calmly much to his disconcert. For an instant Gormel considered stopping, something had told him that this was folly, but his ego was now to be placated. He stood in front of the man and pointed his blade at the shrouded face.

"Are you scared?" he cried.

"Of a wounded Easterling?" came the retort, and many faces flinched among the company of thieves. Some shouted their support for Gormel, and this only heightened his madness.

"Die, you filthy cur!" he roared as he brought his sword down.

Before the thieves could say watch out, the veiled man had pulled out his sowrd in a swift and smooth motion, after which he turned around and striked out to complete the single graceful move.

Gormel's beheaded body collapsed to the ground even as his bloody head rolled down into the river, and after bobbing a while on the surface, it plunged into nothingness.

The thieves watched in amazement at the sword of Gondor, and realized that there was no match for it among them. Without another word they began to load the horses and themselves into the barge.

After everyone was on, the mysterious Gondorian untied the rope tying the barge to a tree and boarded the barge himself. As he did so, he heard a voice in the distance, And a barge upon the water. Come, ride!.

The man calmly urged his men to propel the barge forward, and he smiled at the timing of his escape.

[Airerûthiel]

There was a strange sense of destiny weighing heavy on Maikadurion's heart as he rode in pursuit of the horse-thieves, some way behind his companions. He could not help feeling that this was like cheating on his destiny; fate had chosen this course for him in life and would see it through to the end without fail. He knew that every step he took in the land of the Stewards was one closer and closer to his death and destruction at the hands of either the black forces of Mordor or the Gondorians.

Ælfritha and Malienna had seemingly vanished, and the young half-Elf was left alone in a land he had only the vaguest recollections of. "I was but a child when my family walked in this place," he muttered, "and the knowledge of this country has left me after so long a time." He made his way forward in the gathering gloom that seemed to grow and change all around him, like the unknown monsters of his childhood that he could not distinguish between when the hours of darkness came.

Urging the horse he had borrowed forward, he scanned the countryside for patrolling parties of Gondorian guards. Slowly he made his way along the trail of hoofprints left by the others, but his mind was on the last time he had seen the country of his birth. He could not even remember Ithilien's sorrowful beauty, nor any other aspect of his homeland - all he knew of Gondor was the house of Airerûthiel and Pennrod, his aunt and uncle.

"Halt! Who goes there? What do they call you, stranger of the western lands?" A harsh shout shook Maikadurion violently from his deep and pondering thoughts. He could see shadowy figures garbed in the traditional dress of Gondorian military advancing towards him, becoming gradually clearer. All had their hands on their sword hilts, ready to attack in case he was what they saw him to be - an enemy and a traitor to Gondor.

"I asked a question of you, yet you gave me no answer. My patience lessens as your silence grows. Speak!" The guard who had spoken was clearly a young boy; Maikadurion smirked silently as he watched his contemporary try and deepen his voice and sound important. "We are Guards of Gondor, and we allow none to pass into this land lest they are not friend to us. Give me your name, and make haste with it!" The half-Elf detected a hint of nervousness in the youngest guard's voice, which gave him a new-found superior confidence to speak the truth.

"I am Maikadurion of Ithilien, son to Théomer of Gondor and Rohan, and I come to find my horse and sole companion," he replied. "Neglect the rumoured deeds of the shadowed past that hang over my house and allow me passage. My friends have gone ahead of me - it is of great importance I catch them up."

"You must not have heard us correctly the first time we spoke to you," said the leader of the guards, a muscular and deep-voiced man with a steely gaze and a cold temperament. "You and your brother were forbidden to return to Gondor on pain of certain death by order of the Lord Denethor. The Steward of Gondor does not make pledges of that nature lightly. We have no choice but to kill you." His eyes scanned the other guards, as if deciding whom to select for the gruesome task.

"If it be my fate to die by a blade of Gondor, let me die with the honour I wished to restore to my name," said Maikadurion. "Let me fight your chosen one, and then should I fall it will be fairly won on your part." The guard just grunted in response, clearly ignoring the youngster. Suddenly, his gaze fell upon the runt of the party, and a strange gleam appeared there.

"You boy!" he said. "Draw your blade and fight this vagabond! Spare his life not, lest you wish to face our Lord's wrath on discovery you did not slay the Traitor's heir." The young boy looked terrified, but walked forward nonetheless. Maikadurion bowed low as he had been taught by his uncle, never taking his eyes from his opponent, whose gaze was firmly focused on the floor.

There was a sense of tranquility about Maikadurion as the two adolescents locked blades repeatedly with one another, never able to break the stalemate. He seemed to just be mindlessly exercising the moves drummed into him during his childhood training sessions for one last time. Maybe it was because he seemed to know that these would be his final moments; he was not about to cheat in the card game of life, lest he change the course of what would come to pass for the worse. He knew he would never go back to the White Horse, never see Formenelen again, never know if his companions had survived and completed their quest.

He saw the sword blade coming towards his heart, and knew that his time had come.

~*~*~*~*~

The silence was deafening, drowning out everything around the fallen. It seemed to go on for ever, shouting out the news of Maikadurion's death for all the natural world to hear. "Well," said the leader of the guards eventually, clapping his hands together and rubbing them almost gleefully. "I suspect the Lord Denethor will be greatly pleased with our work in this place. We have vanquished one of his greatest enemies. Once we find the other child, there is no hope for the descendants of one who betrayed his people."

He and the others turned to leave - all save one. The youngest of the soldiers was kneeling down beside the corpse. He had removed his helmet as a mark of respect, his shoulder-length red-gold hair blowing back slightly in the wind. "Why do you stay?" asked the chief guard, growing impatient. "You should be basking in the glory bestowed upon you for slaying one of Gondor's enemies. Let us leave this place and have done with it. The birds and beasts of the fields will give his body the funeral it deserves."

"I..." The boy cast around for an excuse, desperate to absorb his actions' consequences a little longer. "I must clean my blade. We may not return to Minas Tirith before I can wash away the stains of this unfortunate's blood."

The other guards merely shrugged and walked away into the distance until they were naught save black specks on the horizon, leaving him alone with his thoughts. "My brother," the young half-Elf whispered, tears running down his face like two miniature waterfalls. "I did not know 'twas you; I would not have taken your life from this world so early had I known the truth. But I shall bear the burdern of my actions and their consequences for as long as the name of my father's house lives."

After committing his brother's body to the ground and marking it with a carved stone, the young Gondorian threw off his guise as a soldier and dressed once more in the simple garb he loved best - that of a Ranger. Without looking back, he turned his tear-filled cobalt eyes westward, and began the long journey back to the lands of relative safety.

[ January 31, 2003: Message edited by: Airerûthiel ]

[Bêthberry]

Ælfritha could not believe the terrible luck. The barge was slipping away, gliding out five feet, ten feet, fifteen feet from the river bank. By the time she reached the water's edge, her horse could not have made the jump. She sat there, stunned, for several minutes and could have sworn she heard derisive laughter from the strangely cloaked figure standing watching her. The arrival of Malienna at her side brought her out of her stupor. What happened next passed so quickly before Ælfritha's eyes that even after she could barely understand how events transpired.

"We must find another barge, quickly," spoke Ælfritha, turning Nithal around. She and Malienna rode back along the river bank, hoping to find another barge. Instead, they found Izrenna and Deorlin riding towards them. By the time the two groups of riders met, Deorlin fell from his horse. Both Izrenna and Malienna dismounted, running to him.

There was no hope. A crusted line of dark fluid, black and crimson even in the moonlight, soaked his leg, the horse, the sand of the river bank. His face shone with a ghostly pallor, colourless and waxy, and his eyes remained open, unblinking. Izrenna called out to him, holding him, her voice rising hysterically with each call. Malienna, trying desperately to quiet her, began speaking loudly also. The horses were panicking, stomping and snorting, creating even greater noise.

"What intruders to Gondor do we have here?" spoke a sly voice out of the dark. It was one of the Guards, indeed, the guard who had watched the river bank as the barge had pulled away. He approached the two women who knelt beside the dead man.

"We have come..." began Malienna, expecting help, but before she could rise to her feet the guard's sword crossed her throat, leaving a carmine trail behind, and the woman swayed and fell, silently, her mouth still essaying to speak, wordlessly. Izrenna's shrieks grew louder until they were stifled by a second thrust of the bloodied sword, into her heart, a moment before Ælfritha rode her horse into the guardsman and over him. One, perhaps two, hooves crashed into his skull, crushing it, leaving a twitching corpse with one staring eye amid the other three bodies.

Panting with the sickening excitement of terror, violence and horror, Ælfritha dropped from her horse, barely comprehending that both women were dead and that her reactions had been too slow for them. Her spine shivered and knotted and her entire body shook, her head reeling with an unbearable whelter of stunned disbelief and relief for her own survival. Then, across the water, there arose a sound which would have chilled the very saliva in her mouth had her throat not been parched by her heavy breathing. She dropped to her knees, looking out to the river.

[ February 05, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Lugbúrz]

Even as the pursuers were delayed, the barge was getting out of reach of the Western bank and making its way steadily across. The nine horses were tied to the far-end of the barge, away from the approaching bank, a precaution the traitor from Minas Tirith had thought necessary. Now he stood beside them while the thieves were scattered around the barge. His eyes were scanning the Eastern bank, which lay in a murky mist, and as he spied the shore, the mist seemed to stretch out and engulf the boat, and settle heavily on the whole river.

The barge soon came to gently dock against the bank, and in that very instant all on the boat felt despair, for through the fog, they could make out in the bleak light of the lamps, a tall dark menace. Panic did not find the time to enter their bodies, for they stood petrified and hopeless. As the Witch-King moved through the ranks, the bargees fell with no noise, voiceless corpses they had become.

When the Wraith confronted Sadiya, he sniffed at the horror in her eyes, and then perceived the baby. For a moment, his gaze appeared to vacillate and then a black hand slowly stretched out and pulled the baby that was now crying, away from its mother's touch. Lifting it for all to see, as if with a diabolical smirk, he dilatorily choked the very last cry out of the infant and threw the lifeless child at the mother's feet. Sadiya stood for a moment paralyzed without life, and then let out a chilling scream that made even the Nazgul consider her again in fear. But Sadiya slumped to the floor and covered her beloved baby.

One and all were shattered by the stupefying shriek. Even across the Anduin, Ælfritha cowered to the ground in fear, and looked out into the mist between. As she turned around in despair she found an outstretched hand to help her up. It was Anglachel, and behind him stood a grim band of guards from Minas Tirith. On their swords shone the blood of the remaining orcs that had bothered them a while ago. Although the merchant had proven swift to elicit the aid of friends, he knew he was helpless in their quest, and as he aided Ælfritha up, their eyes met and both understood that they could not stand up to this Evil.

And even while they gave up hope, hope anew gushed into the heart of the Gondorian aboard the barge. As he saw the child fall as a lifeless heap, he came face to face with the evil of his folly. Then did he wish most to be within the walls of the White City, safe from the debauchery of Middle-earth, save himself. In a way he felt happy to have rid Minas Tirith of himself, and in spiteful honour he took out his sword for one last time and cut loose the nearest horse.

Kane, who was next to him noticed what the man had done, and understood. As he pulled his sword out too, both of them nodded to each other with pride, and Kane freed another beast. As the beast neighed, another scream they heard, and Kane turned around and dropped his sword in horror. For at the feet of the Witch-King lay Rhana, a sword still through her bossom, for she had gone to Sadiya's aid. As the Ringwraith detached her from the sword, she crumpled with a whimper, but as she collapsed, a hand caught her fall, and she gazed at it with a smile. Her hand extended to stroke the young face and look into its welled up eyes, and she knew that even in death she had found what she had never hoped to find. As Kane closed her eyelids he did not care what was going on around him.

The Nazgul, having felt the Gondorian's intent had charged to secure his prizes, and mete out death. As he fell upon the traitor, all the nine horses had been freed. The clash of swords was monumental. Both swung with a burning rage, and the momentum of the strikes pushed the man ever closer to the edge of the barge. His skill with the sword was no help against the raw evil that wielded the other one. There was no way to fight the dead, and he knew it. A devilish blow severed his right hand and the sword fell to the ground with a clang. Just as the Ringwraith pierced his heart with the fatal blow, the Man of Gondor found the last ounce of strength with which he kicked the plank of the barge that opened out. He fell with awe and was redeemed, because as he met his doom, the nine horses sensed their calling too, and seeing but despair around them they rose in a graceful crescendo, and plunged into the gushing river that flowed before them, not as nine but as one.

The Witch-King let out a horrible cry when he knew his defeat and turned into a Monster of Malice. He turned around and smelt the fawning Ulfeg and came upon him as a hundred mad oliphaunts. Not even the Witch-King could have expected what happened next, for Ulfeg did not die, yet.

As he struck out in hopeless hate, he stopped midway and turned around as if in reply to an urgent voice. And he beheld a most amazing sight, for the horses were being pulled to the Eastern shore, the river had risen as a wave and was channeling the beasts to the bank, as if powered by an unseen force. Unseen maybe, but the Witch-King raised his sword and stood in wonder, as so did Ulfeg, for he had not seen anything like this.

As they stood watching, the beasts were pulled to the very edge even as they struggled to get free and perish in the river. But suddenly, the river swelled in the middle and another wave, much bigger and much more powerful rose above the first and with a merciless vengeance struck out and engulfed the smaller one like an eagle killing a snake. The horses were plunged to the very depths of the river and the exploding waves rocked the barge with a vigour so great that along with Ulfeg, the King of the Ringwraiths also lost his balance into the turbulence of the Anduin.

Kane, who was on the other end of the barge, was knocked off onto the other bank, where he lay for a while in self-pity. He then stood up and saw in despair, upon the escaping barge, the frail outline of Sadiya, who was sitting in ths same place upon the barge, unaffected by the events, caressing the corpse in her arms. As Kane watched, the broken barge flowed into the mist and out of sight.

He fell on his knees, and fatigue gave way to an overwhelming sadness. He started sobbing, and as he looked around him and realised he had nowhere to go, he began to weep. With what little sanity he had left, he looked around once again, and as the first rays of dawn descended upon the horizon, the mist gave way to give him a glimpse of hope. For across the Great River, upon the bank of the enemies of his people, rose the White Tower of Ecthelion. On the very height of Minas Tirith, like a spire rising above the misty waters, it shined of hope to the most unlikely heart.

Warmed by something he could not explain, and did not want to believe, Kane stood up with a fresh determination, and walked forth, a Solitary Leader of the disbanded quest.

[ February 05, 2003: Message edited by: Lugbúrz ]

[Bêthberry]

Ælfritha had refused adamantly the offer of a Gondorian escort.

Never would she be able to forget the sight of the Gondorian traitor turning on them, slashing Malienna's throat, stabbing Izrenna. Nor could she dismiss the agonizing knowledge that her charge into him with Nithal was late, too late, to help either woman. She had become a killer as well; it was a viscious, betraying wretch she had trampled the life from, but still a life nonetheless. That one bloodied eye would stare at her for the rest of her life. And because of it, no thought or sight of the White City could ever be as hopeful as it had once seemed.

There were nights when her fingers suddenly felt strange, as if pin prickles of ice were forming in them and the sensation would spread to her knees and then feet. That night she had known a cold, not just terror, but a cold forbidding annhilation when despair snapped in her stomach like a wolf's snarl and left her heart shuddering.

It bit at her heels on the long solitary trek back to Rohan, to Edoras, a yapping, snarling, howling dog of despair, even as she searched sickeningly for any sign of Beowulf or Currin as she retraced the path of the attack on her return home. Perhaps they had made it out of that river. It was the most she could hope for. Even the loss of her horses, of Eomund's Doric, of the other horses, of all the lives, lives so trusting and quick to come to aid, paled at this despair.

The swift-flowing Entwash, the Snowbourne--neither seemed able rouse her to the joys of animate and inanimate life around her. The soft white snow which blanketed the ground no longer seemed to offer the promise of a surprise, wrapped under its cover.

She looked up, finally, after four day's ride, to see the sentinel rise from the lonely foothill of the White Mountain. Edoras. She longed for the warmth and quiet of her room at The White Horse, before she faced the trek back home, horseless and without profit, to her family. And as her mind voiced that longing she saw silhouetted against the afternoon sun a winged creature flying, flying towards her it seemed. As it approached, she recognized the bird. Wyrd. Bethberry's Wyrd. Come to find her. She bowed her head and murmured thanks for a small sign of community.

[ February 06, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]