Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Encaitare]

In the camp remained around one hundred orcs and a captain. Glûtkask had not gone to the battle, having entrusted Lushurd to carry out his instructions. He knew that Lushurd was scarcely cleverer than a pile of dung, but the lieutenant could follow orders. In his tent, he gnawed on a bit of dried meat and squinted at the rough map. When his lads got back, they would take a little rest and then start moving again. They would have to cross the mountains; there was supposed to be a pass through which they could travel. Glûtkask grumbled to himself at the thought of traveling through the mountains in this damnable cold. Not only would it be unpleasant for him, but all of the soldiers would find it unpleasant as well, and they were sure to gripe about it all the way to the other side.

Finishing the meat and rummaging in a hairy rucksack for more, he wondered when they'd be getting back. There were only a few of the Elvish scum coming to the valley, so ideally, Lushurd would be bringing the company victoriously back to camp soon, and they'd be off again with a nice high morale. Maybe they'd be in a good enough mood from having bashed the brains out of the enemy that they wouldn't mind the weather so much.

As this more optimistic thought crossed his mind, a panting scout burst into the tent.

"Captain!" he managed, through his uneven breath.

"What? Have you got news from the valley?" By Sauron's hairy toes, it'd better be good, Glûtkask thought.

"Yar. They..."

"Speak up, scout!"

The scout swallowed, and talked quickly. "I was waitin' halfway between the valley an' here, in case there was news. An' then someone came rushin' up to me, told me to take a message back to you. He said things was going fine until out of a door in the mountain came a bunch of Dwarves an' trapped ours between them an' the Elves."

Glûtkask growled. "And our lads can't take care of a few Dwarves?"

"He said it was somethin' near a score of them. Too many for them to take. They're goin' to retreat." The orc scout looked very much like it wanted to leave the tent as quickly as he could.

"Retreat?!" he shouted.

The scout cowered. "Probably better to save what lads they could..." He stopped speaking at a fearsome glance from the captain, and then scurried outside.

Last time I trust that half-wit lieutenant to do a job for me -- assuming he's still alive, that is. Glûtkask planned to give Lushurd a piece of his mind; he figured the wretch could use it.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Artamir watched Losrian depart hastily from her archery practise, his eyes, as sharp as his father's, following the young elf-girl's back until she turned under an arch towards the smith's quarters and was lost to sight. Raising his eyes to Leneslath, he started slightly as his friend caught his eyes directly. Ever a clown, he exaggerated the movement comically; Leneslath grinned, then nodded down in the direction that Losrian had taken. "Taking an interest are we, Artamir?" he asked, slyly.

The other grinned back and shook his head, bracing his hands on the cold stone of the ramparts and jumping up backwards to sit on them, swinging his feet casually, the heels of his leather boots thumping dully against the stones that guarded the city. "My mother's apprentice," he replied, by way of explanation, then added, "Nice try," with a wink. His older friend rolled his eyes and swung his feet up on the ramparts beside Artamir, settling comfortably back against one of the battlement pillars as if about to go to sleep. The other slapped at his legs playfully, knocking them down. "Hey! Fine example of Celebrimbor's service you are," he scolded, grinning. Deepening his voice, he made his face sterner, looking at Leneslath as if over a pair of spectacles. "After all, we all have a solemn duty here, all of you young rogues should come to realise that-"

"-for we are the defenders of this city," the older youth continued, doing a near-perfect mockery of Captain Dimloien, the soldier whose unfortunate task it was to train the young elves. "The upholders, the protectors, the line of defense that...et cetera, et cetera." Leneslath made an exaggerated hand motion as if bowing, then turned to Artamir, pointing a shaky, accusatory finger at him. "Especially you, you Aramir, Atamor, whoever you are! Pay attention, or-"

"-Or you'll end up just like that no-good scallywag Leneslath!" his friend interrupted triumphantly, ducking as his scandalised companion took a swipe at his head. Jumping off the rampart, he nodded to the newest of the sentries, who had come to join Leneslath - Artamir himself was not actually a sentry, not yet; that duty would wait until he came of age this summer. Performing a low bow to the two elven soldiers, he swept an imaginary hat off his head. "Gentlemen, I shall leave you!"

"Someone's in high spirits today..." muttered the newcomer sourly as Artamir turned to go, an elf of roughly the same age as Leneslath - the younger elf's antics were playing havoc with his headache, the very same reason he had turned up late and with bags beneath his eyes. Artamir merely grinned back over his shoulder and turned down the narrow spiral staircase in the city walls.

~*~

In the palace overlooking the ramparts that bordered the citadel, Narisiel's eyes did not take in her son's antics, merely turning to the window as an excuse to look away from Celebrimbor while she swallowed against the lump that had lodged itself in her throat. She had thought about this conversation, had run it through in her head again and again the night before, but faced with Celebrimbor himself now, she felt out of her depth.

"Forgive me, my friend; I simply cannot explain to you what I have felt these many years."

Narisiel glanced sharply over at the elven Lord, but his expression seemed genuine. But how could she know? After all, even as she stood so civilly in his rooms facing him, the elvensmith doubted that the older elf could ever guess at the depths of betrayal that she could feel boiling at the back of her mind, stagnant from years of waiting, unreleased, in years of silence. But she would remain calm. She would. She had to - had to know what had become of the rings?

"Forgiveness is a high price to pay from a century of silence, my Lord," she replied, her voice soft and almost croaky coming from a throat dry from nervousness. Celebrimbor did not flinch: he took the words calmly, inclining his head in acknowledgement and looking away from a moment but then, to his credit, looking up once more to meet Narisiel's eyes. She appreciated the gesture and, after a moment, gave a single nod, and asked for the answer that she needed to know to put her mind to rest.

"Tell me of the fate of the rings, Celebrimbor. What has become of them now?"

And even as she asked it, Celebrimbor's expression told her that she was probably not going to like the answer...

~*~

[piosenniel]

To his far right Riv could see Skald moving in a deadly forward march against the back line of the Orcs. The Brassbeard cousins and the Hardhammer men flanked his younger brother, lending their fury to the attack. The Grimsteel brothers advanced in a death dealing dance of shield and club.

On his left, somewhere in the melee were Bror and Orin, their companions forging their way through the scrambling Orc line with fierce determination. Riv gave a grim smile, acknowledging his youngest brother’s burgeoning skill.

Caught unaware by the unrelenting fury of the Dwarves, the Orcs seemed unnerved and had begun to retreat from their attack on the Elven warriors. The Elves, for their part, were fighting coolly back against their foe. And though they had lost several of their company to the Orcs’ weapons, it seemed that a fair number of Orcs had also fallen to the Elvish blades and arrows.

Riv pressed his advantage as the Orcs began to take rout. He and Afi Glitterfist laid into the Orcs with their warhammers - the sharp spikes and great heavy heads cutting and smashing at the hateful adversaries. Then one of the Orcish captains rallied his troops and they turned from their flight for at least a moment. They seemed more willing to face the weapons of the Dwarves than to go against the wishes of their leader.

The Orcs now pressed their own attack, their sheer number forcing Riv and his companion backward. ‘Best you send up the silvered arrow, Brand,’ Riv grunted at the Dwarf on his left. ‘Despite the defense of the Elves against the foe, if this rally of theirs continues we will be undone. We will need more Dwarves to aid us.’

Riv stepped forward, putting himself between the stirred up Orcs and Brand. Afi, too, moved up beside Riv, giving his brother time to draw back his stout bow and send the shining arrow high into the sun’s light. The nearby Orcs bore down on them even as Riv and Afi swung their heavy hammers with all the force and speed they could muster.

Afi was cut down by a wicked blow to his head as he fought back two large Orcs; one wielding a great iron club, the other slashing wildly with a jagged blade. Riv grasped his weapon in both hands and swung it hard against the Orc with the club. The brute lurched back, his upper arm broken by the force of Riv’s hammer. The Orc with the blade, however, seized the advantage and ducking beneath Riv’s upswung arm, drove his blade in a slicing manner against the exposed right underarm of the Dwarf, where the chain-mail did not reach.

Riv, bleeding freely, stumbled back. Transferring his warhammer to his left hand he attempted to hold off three other Orcs who had now turned their attention to him. Brand by this time had nocked another arrow and took aim at the largest of the advancing trio, sending the feathered shaft deep into the Orc’s chest. His foul companions paid his demise no heed. With gruesome grins on their faces they struck out at Riv, knocking him to his knees.

The larger of the two raised his stout wooden club, intent on making mincemeat of the Dwarf’s head . . .

[Folwren]

The heat of battle blazed about Bror and his companions. At their feet lay the orcs that had fallen, most were quite still, others still twitched, but no one noticed them. Their bodies were trampled as more orcs came and the dwarves found proper footing to wield their weapons. The vile creatures had redoubled their attack after attempting to retreat. Why they didn’t retreat, Bror wasn’t aware, but they seemed to have pulled together and their assault was stronger and he and his friends were pushed back.

About him fought the Ironfoot brothers with Kerrin and Geln, the others he had recruited. Close with them was Orin and his dwarves. Bror smiled grimly, as another orc fell at his feet and he jerked his spike from its skull. The foe seemed to lessen where they fought and he paused to look up in the direction of his brothers, to his right.

His heart sank and his courage weakened. Brand stood behind the wall made by Riv and a couple others, raising his bow towards the sky. The sunlight flashed off the shaft of his arrow as it was released and shot upward like a silver flame.

‘Well, no wonder they thought we needed to do that,’ he said to himself, glancing about him. ‘We have most of the dwarves.’ And instantly acting upon that thought he began to forge his way towards Riv and his companions.

They was only a few paces away, really, but with so many orcs in between and all trying to kill him, it seemed like a lot farther to Bror. He hewed right and left with his axe, cutting their legs out from under them, and then finishing them off with a second blow.

He looked up again when he thought he had almost reached Riv’s side. He almost had, but almost carries no weight, and he was still out of reach, and his axe would be of no help. Riv was bleeding, the blood coursed down his right side from somewhere beneath his arm, Afi lay beside him, stretched out on his face and one side of his head apparently crushed, and two more orcs were surging on, almost on top of Riv.

Bror saw it all in a flash. A lumbering orc stumbled in his way, with a furious roar, he knocked him to the side and lunged forward.

‘I’m too late! I can’t get to him!’ He dropped his axe and groped at his belt, pulling out his favorite weapon. He didn’t think of it now, nor did he consider the training he’d given himself, the hours spent figuring out the angles and the strength needed in the twist of the wrist. The throwing axe spun from his hand and the orc that had just knocked Riv to the ground stumbled backwards and fell. The second orc lifted a club and Bror bit back a terrified cry, snatched at a second axe, and let this one go faster than the first.

His aim was true. The hideous beast fell back. After staring for scarcely a second, Bror stooped and picked up his battle axe again and ran to Riv. Forgetting everything else instantly, he fell to his knees by his brother’s side, dropping his weapon for a second time to support Riv as he appeared to be losing consciousness.

The battle still raged on about him. He heard Dwarven voices above him, shouting in some confusion. A movement uncomfortably near from the orcs’ side caught his eye and he turned his head in time to see a small, wiry orc taking a swing at his neck with his sword. Bror threw himself back out of its path, dragging Riv down with him, and then struggled to his feet.

His hands were empty and his mind was black with fury. He cursed himself and the orcs viciously, searching with his eyes for his axe. He dove under the second swing of the orc, and having caught sight of the desired weapon, snatched at it, turned again and lifted it in a desperate attempt to block the next attack.

It turned it partially and the sword glanced off the haft and struck his right shoulder. His armor turned it and he could almost have laughed. His mirth was cut short by a violent shock from his left. The wind was expelled from him and his body flung back into the midst of his fellow dwarves. His senses reeled, and lights flashed in his eyes. For only a moment, and then all went black and still.

[Firefoot]

Within minutes of the Dwarves’ attack, the advantage had shifted unexpectedly and completely. Faced with foes on both sides, the dismayed Orcs were forced into a retreat. Grimkul fell back only reluctantly; fighting was the one thing he excelled at, and in the furies of the fight he was a fearsome figure. At Ulwakh’s urging, however, he fell back with the main company. Ulwakh, being neither large nor strong, disliked battle on principle. His work was self-preservation, and battle utterly defied this goal.

As they neared the slopes which they had only just charged down, Lushurd reversed the orders: “Stand and fight, you cowards! Or you’ll catch it hot back at camp!”

Grimkul returned eagerly to the fight, Ulwakh less happily following along nearby. Somewhere along the way Grimkul had replaced his scimitar with a heavy wooden club, which he swung at any Elf or Dwarf unfortunate enough to stray near. Though less handy for killing, the club was an excellent tool for rendering its victims disabled or unconscious.

But on occasion, Grimkul had a clear shot to bash in the head of his opponent. One of these opportunities came along when he, Ulwakh, and a third orc who had hooked up with them found a badly wounded Dwarf in the midst of the battle. Another Dwarf took out the third Orc with his bow, though neither Grimkul nor Ulwakh gave their fallen fellow a second look. With cruel sneers on their faces, they bore down upon the wounded Dwarf mercilessly. Grimkul raised his club for the killing stroke when he was struck in the chest by a flying axe. He fell back, winded and bruised more than anything else, for his chain mail had turned the blade by some kindly trick of fate.

As Grimkul recovered, Ulwakh darted in, wielding his scimitar with expert precision that Grimkul could never hope to achieve. He caught the pair of Dwarves off guard, causing them to dive to the ground under his scimitar, one of them apparently unconscious or near so. The other Dwarf fought valiantly to counter his attacks but was too distracted by Ulwakh to notice that Grimkul had sufficiently recovered and was charging at the Dwarf who had robbed him of his kill. With a mighty swing, the club struck the Dwarf in his left side. The Dwarf fell to the ground and did not get up, but Grimkul did not have time to pursue the kill because at this point the force of Dwarves seemed to swarm upon them, forcing Grimkul and Ulwakh back.

Their retreat was not quick enough for Ulwakh, however; as he parried the blow of one Dwarf, another’s axe found its mark in his lower leg. Black blood spurted from the deep wound, and Ulwakh howled in pain, reeling upon the offender. Grimkul had not the resources to defend his comrade as he was busy fighting off Dwarves on his own.

It was the same way across the battlefield. Despite being outnumbered, the Elves and Dwarves had rallied phenomenally, and the fierce battle cries of the Dwarves echoing in the hills instilled slivers of fear into even the staunchest Orcs. Lushurd’s orders to stand and fight turned into pleads as the Orcs ignored him and retreated once more. It was now the Orcs who were outnumbered, and they had no cause to fight for. Grimkul took an arrow in his shoulder as they reached the slopes; Ulwakh was limping badly and it took near all his effort just to keep up with the much reduced company. They had only to reach the little pass… hopefully they would not be pursued. Even Grimkul was downtrodden; he delighted in killing not being massacred.

Lushurd seemed to realize his was a lost cause. “Retreat! Retreat!” he cried. Though the main body of the Orcs already had. Upon reaching the sheltered pass, most of them turned and fled back towards camp, Grimkul and Ulwakh among them. Neither knew nor cared whether those stragglers who were behind the main force lived or died; it was everyone for himself now, and none of them fought a losing battle.

[Arry]

The Lórien Elves


Nearly a score of Elves had fallen with the first onslaught of the Orcs. And at least as many had been wounded to some degree in the ongoing battle. Others of the Elves, those unscathed, closed about their injured fellows helping them along . . . protecting them from further insult from the base and twisted foe. Those who had died must need be left where they lay. The others could not carry their dead weight lest they in turn be killed.

The steel grey eyes of the Lorinand glittered harshly in the sun’s light as they kept their gazes steady on the Orcs’ attack. Great anger smoldered in their depths, moving from mind to mind among them as they saw the hroar of many of their kindred being made sport of. It grieved them to witness the filthy hands of the murderous Orcs claw and rend the fair Elven bodies.

The Elves doubled their own attack in an effort to break through to where their Dwarven escort fought fearlessly to reach them. Almost as one the Lorinand hewed their way through the thinning line of Orcs.

A great yell, a fearsome roar, went up from the Dwarven line in their ancient tongue. And even those ears which were not as keen as those of the Elves rang loudly with the mighty rallying cry . . .

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Skald and his companions

Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!

^*^

Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!

He had not seen Riv fall. The forms of the Dwarves about him were a blur as they pushed hard against the dwindling Orc line. The blades of the Elves swung high and low, the glints from them growing brighter as the two companies approached each other across the thin, seething mass of Orc bodies.

The Orcs were pulling back a bit, squeezing out from the deadly lines of Elf and Dwarf they found themselves caught between. Some, their escape cut off as the Elves and Dwarves closed in, were unable to head back south; instead finding themselves harried northward. Their rage piqued by the escape of victory for themselves, they harried mercilessly those smaller islands of Dwarves and Elves they came upon.

Skald saw the Elves chasing the retreating Orcs for a short space, until they were no longer a threat. He thought at first to lend his axe to their sword, but a mighty grip took hold his left arm and he turned, axe raised to deal with whatever foolish Orc had dared come near him. He lowered his axe, seeing it wasTaf Hardhammer and was about to give a warning in jest. Taf’s eyes were wide with urgency and he turned Skald more to the left, pointing down to another group of Dwarves further on.

It was Bror! An Orc had swung his weighty club and knocked his brother hard. He was falling . . . falling . . . in slow motion, it seemed as Skald’s breath caught in his throat. Even were his feet to sprout wings, there was no possible way for him to reach Bror. A great cry of rage welled up from within and erupted from him. Taf shook him and pointed again to where Manni and Vetr stood their axes flying from their hands at Bror’s assailants. Skald did indeed fly himself, then, Taf and the others hard on his heels. They swung their weapons relentlessly as they covered the distance to Bror, clearing a path before them.

Skald knelt beside his little brother, bending down to cradle Bror’s head against his arm. The battle had all but dissipated now; the Orcs either dead or run away. Bror’s helm had tumbled off with the blow; across his left cheek was a large bright red and purpling abrasion, swelling gloriously into a hillock of a bruise. Bror’s breathing was easy and what blood had flown from the injured flesh had all but stopped. He was still quite knocked out though, and unresponsive to any of Skald’s questions or prods. Skald rocked him gently, willing him back to consciousness.

Another Dwarf, Brand, had come to kneel by Skald. His face was strained with grief, his speech coming in short gasps as he told how Riv and Afi had protected him, giving him time to send his silvered arrow up as a call for aid. ‘Afi is dead,’ he managed in a strangled voice. Alarmed, Skald grasped Brand’s forearm . . . ‘And Riv . . .?’ he asked, his voice gruff with fear. He glanced about and could not see his older brother from where he crouched.

‘He lives, still. Though he is badly injured,’ Brand managed. He nodded toward where two of the Lorien Elves knelt down their bodies blocking Skald’s view. ‘They have placed him on one of their shields and will bear him up to the gate on it.’

The Brassbeards, Fastor and Grimsi, had made one of their cloak into a sling on sorts, securing the ends to the shafts of their poleaxes. ‘Come, Skald, let us get your brother into this and start back to the East Gate,’ they directed him, lowering the sling to the ground. ‘And Brand, you come back with us, too. The guards in the East Hall have sent more Dwarven warriors to bring back our fallen.’ None were surprised when Brand shook his head and stood up, going back to stand where his brother had fallen.

Fastor and Grimsi hoisted the makeshift sling and moved at a quick pace away from the battleground. Skald followed along beside for a number of paces, looking to see that the Brassbeards were taking care not jostle Bror unnecessarily. He spoke to Bror as they went along, telling him that Riv was alright and that he had seen Uncle Orin, too, making his way up the slope to the path. ‘I’m going to walk with Riv for a while now,’ he told Bror, giving his brother’s forearm a squeeze of assurance. ‘Some Elves have loaded him onto one of their long shields and are bringing him back, same as Fastor and Grimsi are doing for you. He was hurt . . . some, too,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you up in the Great East Hall,’ he called, veering away from Bror’s litter.

In a little louder voice, he called out to the swaying form as it pulled away from him. ‘And don’t think you’re going to get out of retribution for that trick you pulled on me, mudworm! You owe me little brother . . . and I mean to collect!’

My life and skill pledged to you, Mahal . . . he whispered in a low, rough tone as he ran on. Just keep my brother this side of the West’s Stone Halls . . . both of them!

His swift feet brought him soon into the company of the Elves who bore his older brother’s still form . . .

[Durelin]

The elf-lord was putting words together in answer to Narisiel's question before she voiced it. He knew he had explaining to do, and he would not shy away from it as he had before. It was time for the two of them to bring to an end the old tension between them that had completely ruined their friendship, as well as Celebrimbor's friendship with her husband, Sirithlonnior.

"Tell me of the fate of the rings, Celebrimbor. What has become of them now?"

"I should have told you right away what became of them, but I was fearful, mainly of my own shame. All the great Rings are in the hands of that Annatar now, all except the Three." Celebrimbor buried his face in his hands, now unable to look even at the faces of his companions. Maegisil knew what he was going to say, but it was still painful for him to speak those words that revealed all of his guilt. "We were deceived. I was deceived. It was I who worked with that...that thing..." His voice was growing cruel and bitter with disgust, as he was sickened both by the servant of Morgoth and by he himself. Narisiel watched and listened in confusion, but waited, knowing that Celebrimbor would explain.

"Sauron now has the Rings, except the Three."

"Sauron?" Narisiel blurted out before she could catch herself. Both Maegisil and Celebrimbor had expected this response, as the counselor knew his lord had kept almost everything concerning the Rings secret, even from many of those who helped make them.

Maegisil had been disappointed with his lord, as it seemed he had turned the creation of them into a personal project, and of course the Dark Lord had kept him under that impression. But he was not so disappointed in the fact that the Lord of the Mirdain was deceived, rather he had been saddened that Celebrimbor had not invited him to help in the forges. For a moment, Maegisil's mind dwelt on the possibility of making his own magic rings, and he briefly daydreamed about how he would have doubly deceived Sauron and kept the rings and used their power himself. Then he realized what it was he was thinking about playing with, and he shook those thoughts out of his head.

"Yes, Annatar was indeed the dark Deceiver," Celebrimbor said softly, almost choking on every word. It was getting hard for him to speak. He was revealing things that he had not told anyone in over a century. Maegisil was the only person he had told, as he had been unable to hide anything from his friend, who had waited for him, and who had been there the day his task was completed, and he had marveled at the beauty of his Rings. He had been particularly fond of Vilya, and he had picked it as his own, slipping it on and wishing to make it an heirloom of the Lords of Eregion...

"He felt the evil as soon as he donned the Ring," Maegisil said, and then, though he did not know it, paused just long enough to give his lord time to be pulled out of his thoughts and realize that they were talking about him.
"Which one was it?" the counselor then asked.

"Vilya," the elf-lord said, the name feeling strange on his lips. His mind drifting back deep into thoughts of the past, he spoke as if he were talking to himself. "I believe that to be the finest, though all three are equal in their power."

"They are now hidden, in the hands of worthy bearers of our people," said Maegisil, trying to explain more to Narisiel, knowing that his lord's words were most likely only helping to confuse the elf woman. He understood that Celebrimbor was at the moment unable to speak directly concerning the Rings, but he could not help but feel disappointed again, as he had many times since the creation of those rings. It seemed that the Lord of Eregion was not completely able to face his past, and it had seemed that way for far too many years.

"And yet I expect them to become the bane of our people." The Lord of the Mirdain had not yet brought his head up from resting in his hands.

"But the most powerful of the Rings are in the hands of our people, and their power protects them from the threat of Sauron," said Maegisil.

Finally Celebrimbor raised his head up to look at his companions. Several tears ran down his otherwise composed face. "There is no power here in Eregion to protect us."

[piosenniel]

Pain . . . there had been pain . . . he remembered that . . . and then a deep blanketing darkness . . .

Muffled sounds broke in on his reviving awareness. The sounds of boots echoing against stone and the flow of voices. His brother’s voice. Skald – worried and demanding. The soft calm voices of others . . . like gentle breezes soughing through leaves, he thought.

There was the sound of crying and the cool touch of a hand on his brow. One fat tear fell splashing near the corner of his eye, skidding in small warm rivulets into the thick tangles of his beard. His eyelids unglued themselves and fluttered open. A familiar face swam into view, followed by another crowding over him.

‘Riv?’ The ragged voice of his wife called out his name, a hint of hope lifting it at the end.

He could see his brother turning now to call someone else over. Then the faces of Skald and Unna drew back as an unfamiliar face loomed over him. Dark haired, angular, free of any beard. Grey eyes that glistened, as granite does when it catches the light. An Elven face!

‘Welcome back, Master Dwarf!’ the Elf said. His hand and arm slid under Riv’s shoulders and brought the Dwarf to a sitting position. ‘Your wife has made some rich, good broth for you. Will you try a little, now that you are fully awake?’

Riv blinked his eyes, bringing the rest of the room into focus. It was the great gathering hall for the Stonecut family. About it were a number of beds holding Dwarves and Elves with varying degrees of injury. Among them came and went a number of Dwarven healers from the different families and with them strode a number of the Elves, conferring over those hurt.

The Elf who had raised his head for him must be a healer, Riv thought. Having checked Riv’s bandages, the Elf stepped back as Unna and Skald rushed in to support him. They piled pillows and cushions at his back; then, Unna, a smile of welcome and relief on her fair face, fetched up the bowl of broth she had made and began to spoon some toward his lips.

‘Here, now, wife!’ growled Riv, looking disconcertedly at her. ‘I’m no babe in diapers to need feeding!’ He reached toward the spoon with his right arm, bringing on a deep groan from the awakened pain.

Unna laughed, a bright, light sound that spilled through the space between them. Skald smacked him soundly on his left shoulder with a, ‘What do you think you’re doing, you great blockhead! That Elf just got you stitched back together! And now you want to start bleeding all over yourself again!’

With a snort of bare acquiescence, Riv settled back against the piled cushions and took a mouthful of broth. The pain in his left side and arm was beginning to dull again as he kept it still. Before he took another bite, he glanced about the lamp-lit room.

‘Where is Bror?’ he asked. ‘And Uncle Orin? And those others of our companions who went with us?’ He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs from his memory. ‘Last I remember was Brand, knocking an arrow, the silvered arrow, to his bowstring. There were Orcs, then, rushing madly at us.’ Riv frowned, and shook his head again. ‘After that, there is only darkness . . . until now . . .’

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo moved through the city streets, coins jingling in his deep apron pockets. He was on his way to Celebdur's workshop, eager to see what Celebdur had done with the knife. Cainenyo passed through a long, shadowy alleyway, a shortcut he saw two boys take yesterday, and emerged on Celebdur's street. Crows huddled on rooftops and watched as Cainenyo knocked on Celebdur's red-painted door. The sounds of smithy-work echoed through an open window and Cainenyo heard the brisk footsteps of the silversmith. The door soon swung outwards and Celebdur stood in the sunshine. "Hello there, I've got your knife right here," he said at once and he reentered the shop before Cainenyo could say a word.

Cainenyo whistled a half-hearted tune and watched the people go by as he stood in the street. This awkward patience did not last long, for Celebdur was back at the door, presenting a long package of string and paper to Cainenyo in pure regal-fashion. "Here it is, adorned with silver blossoms by your very own son." Cainenyo took it into his hands, considered for a moment whether to open the package now or later, decided on the latter, and slipped the knife into one of the deep pockets of his apron.

"How much do I owe you?" Cainenyo asked, thrusting a gloved hand into another pocket and fishing around for a handful of silver coins. He knew that good silver was becoming expensive these days.

"Nothing at all!" Celebdur exclaimed, "It was made by your son, my apprentice. Think of it as a gift." He turned back into the shop. "Good-bye, Cainenyo," he said.

"Good-bye, and thank you," Cainenyo said back as the red door shut. Cainenyo had some extra cash and some free time. He had already finished the candelabra this morning, an Alassante could handle any customers. Cainenyo darted through another alleyway, next to Fëaglin's shop, and avoiding clothes-lines and crates of fresh vegetables headed to market, Cainenyo made his way to his favorite part of town.

Cainenyo paused for a moment near Celebrimbor's palace, where he heard the joyful voices of young soldiers on the ramparts. Cainenyo could make out the faces of servants and councilors in the tall windows, and watched their expressions, trying to watch what was happening in the home of the Ring-Maker. But Cainenyo did not tarry long. Soon he was again roaming the streets, heading towards the docks on the river.

[Arestevana]

A violent blur of noise, color, and emotion filled Gilduin’s memories of the past moments, hours, days. He could not think how long ago he had stood at the edge of the Mirromere in those terrifying moments when the first arrows flew. The forward party had made a hasty retreat to the main contingent before knocking arrows to string. Barely had he fired his first shot when the enemy was among them, cruel blades cutting mercilessly. Gilduin remembered little of the fighting he had done. His first arrow had fallen far short, and there had been no time to shoot a second before the orcs closed.

Far outnumbered, the contingent had retreated to the mountains, leaving behind them the bodies of their dead. Etched into his mind were images of the horrors to which those corpses were abandoned. Every step toward the safety of Hadhodrond was tortuously slow, beset as they were by orcs, and the jeers of their attackers echoed through the valley. The arrival of the dwarves was their salvation. The orcs had retreated when faced with the fury of the dwarven attack, though not without inflicting grievous injuries on many warriors, elven and dwarven alike.

Now they were gathered somewhere beneath the mountains, in a great hall of stone. The injured were being treated by healers of both races. Gilduin heard a deep voice nearby and saw a dwarf looking up at him.
“Are you injured, Master Elf?” the dwarf asked.
Gilduin, about to reply in the negative, realized that he did not know. He paused and glanced down at himself. The lower portion of the standard shaft was covered with black orc blood, and his clothing and armor were stained black and crimson. Some of the blood was his own, he realized abruptly, noticing for the first time a long cut on his left arm.
“It appears so, my good sir,” Gilduin said, slightly shaken.
The dwarf nodded and peered at the wound. “It does not look deep. Hold still, and I will dress it for you.”

Gilduin waited patiently while the healer cleaned and bandaged the cut. Then he thanked the dwarf and moved away, scanning the large room for any sign of Vaele. He wondered how his friend had fared in the battle. The archer had shot several arrows before the orcs closed, Gilduin recalled, but he could not remember seeing Vaele in the fray. Making his way through the diminished gathering of the Galadrim, Gilduin glimpsed a familiar flash of dark green.
“Vaele!” he called hopefully. “Vaele Andarion?”

[Folwren]

Bror’s head pounded. The figures in his sight were blurry and it hurt to try to focus. He shut his eyes and shuddered. The Dwarven voices around him grated on his ears and he wanted to tell them to go away and let him sleep, but he thought that it might even hurt to talk, so he remained silent.

After a few moments of lying in what he thought to be perfect misery, his senses became clearer and two voices became distinct. They were speaking near him, one was familiar and the other was quite different than what he had ever heard. At the moment, he couldn’t decide if he liked it or not.

‘Yes, I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ it said. ‘When he wakes up, he’ll have a ferocious head ache, but little other damage. The bleeding was minimal, and nothing was broken. I have to say he was very fortunate. Such a blow as your son described him to have taken could have easily taken his life.’ Bror opened his eyes again and turned his head.

‘There. He is awake,’ the stranger said. A tall form moved slightly towards him. ‘Go on. I’ll continue checking the others.’ Bror shut his eyes tightly to try to clear them of the fog and dimness of everything and then reopened them. A dwarf was approaching him and in a moment, he recognized his father. A weak smile came to his face and he held out his hand as though he were a child. Viss Stonecut made the last few steps to his side and took his hand.

‘Father,’ Bror said raspily.

‘Well, Bror, you met your first battle in a way to be proud of. You saved Riv’s life.’

‘Is he here?’ Bror asked, looking up at him. ‘He wasn’t killed?’

‘Yes, he’s here. He wasn’t killed. He’ll be alright.’

‘What happened?’

Viss told him what Skald had related to him when they had met. All of the battle leading up to the regrouping of the orcs, and how he had seen Bror knocked down and had run to him, frightened that he might have been killed. Bror managed another faint smile.

‘Dear Skald,’ he muttered. Then he sighed. ‘I should have been with Riv. We had most of the Dwarves on our side. Uncle Orin and all the others we had brought with us.’

‘Don’t think about it now. You both will be up on your feet in little time at all. Soon you’ll be quite ready to be back hammering. For now, just rest. I’ll see what I can get you to eat.’ Bror shut his eyes and nodded and Viss drew away quietly.

[Arry]

A week had passed and most of the Elves were on their feet, Skald noted. ‘Saw some of them take mighty hard blows. That one there took an arrow clear through his leg. Must have the constitution of a slab of granite.’

His father chuckled, nodding his head ‘yes’. ‘More like diamonds,’ Viss said. ‘Full of clear light and near impossible to crack.’ He glanced for a moment toward Riv who still looked pale. ‘We’re the granite, I think,’ he went on. ‘Hard to rend . . . hard . . . but it can happen.’

Skald touched his father lightly on the forearm. ‘But he’s alright. The healers say he will soon be well. And Bror, too! Look there where he’s up and about.’

Viss smiled at his middle son and clapped him on the back. ‘You’re right . . . you’re right . . .’ He watched, the smile fading on his face, as Skald crossed the room to scoop up Leifr and deposit him on Riv’s lap. ‘For now at least . . .’

----------

In a fortnight, all were well enough to don their mail and helmets; to pick up their axes and spears and bows. Thirty-five Dwarves were mustered to bolster the remaining eighty Elves. King Durin was taking no chances that the Orcs had not somehow crossed the mountains and would harry travelers on the western roads.

Riv and Bror and twenty of the other Dwarven warriors led the party out of the West Gate and east down the wide track that ran along the northern bank of the Sirannon. Skald and Orin were with the others of Dwarves who formed the rear guard.

Five days at a steady pace and they would reach the Elven city . . . Mahal willing . . .

[Durelin]

When her husband had left that morning, Sairien was troubled by countless possibilities of what could go wrong. Even she had heard the whispers of war, and she knew that these were far more than just rumours, not simply by her instinct, but also by the way Maegisil reacted when she questioned him. “Please, do not talk of war, too!” he had said several days ago, obviously exhausted by a day of counsel with his lord. She wondered how late her husband would return tonight.

There was too much on her mind to succeed in getting anything done around the house, and far too much for her to simply sit around and occupy herself with various things. She had to find something…but not here. Memories and worries and concerns hung around her home, clinging to every wall and strung across every door. Sairien had to get out of the house.

Soon she was in the streets of Ost-in-Edhil, and her head cleared a little with the freshness of the air and thoughts of her destination. Today was like most other days, when she decided to escape for a little while, and dream of being someone else, or at least, somewhere else. To help her depart from the concerns of her everyday life, she always went down to the river, by the docks, where there were still people, but she was still quite alone.

The river always reminded her of the sea. She knew there was a great difference between the two, even though it had been so long since she had seen the sea. She would never forget any detail of the ocean landscape as she had seen it. Practically every day she missed it, and there were days when she missed it for more reasons than simply its beauty. She had looked across the sea and known that many of her people had crossed over it into the West, and she had felt something calling to her, and more than the sound of the gulls… Sairien had held on to that feeling, keeping it deep in her heart and not allowing herself to forget that sensation, a feeling of joy and a feeling that she was soon to reach her home if only she took a few steps into the sea, and yet a feeling of sadness and fear that if she left she would leave behind too many things. That was before she had met Maegisil, and now she knew some of the things she would have left behind had she had gone over the sea.

But sometimes, like today, she could not help but feel that something more waited for her. And she knew that her husband could depart with her, if only he didn’t still cling to this Middle-earth, to Eregion, and to his lord. He clung to his wife as well, but she knew he could not pull him away from Ost-in-Edhil and Celebrimbor.

Arriving at the docks, Sairien walked cautiously along a small stretch of wooden planks that spanned a short distance across the water. This small outcrop of the docks usually was unoccupied, and she had stood upon it or sat upon it, looking down into the water, across the top of it, and down its winding path of snake-like flowing. But today, there was another. It was an elf who Sairien vaguely remembered seeing before. She recalled he did ironwork, but she could not be sure. She moved quietly across the boards to where he stood at the edge of the dock.

“May I join you, sir?” she asked in a soft voice.

“Why, of course,” the elf responded, smiling at her kindly.

“I am not used to finding anyone here… I love this place, but I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone else discovered its beauty,” she said, returning the smile.

“Well, I am both sorry and glad to be the first to do so,” he said with a small laugh. “My name is Cainenyo.”

“And I am Sairien.” Cainenyo…the name did not ring any bells, which irked her. “Perhaps you know my husband, Maegisil?”

[Encaitare]

The orcs straggled back into camp, snarling in resentment at their defeat or tending to their wounds, in many cases both. Glûtkask spied Lushurd trudging at the head of the bitter group, holding his right arm. The lieutenant looked up, and seeing Glûtkask, came towards him. He looked as though he was in great pain, but that was not important. They had failed to carry out Sauron's orders; he would be most displeased.

"Report, lieutenant! How many did you lose, and why in the name of Mordor did you retreat?"

"More than half," Lushurd replied wearily. "We would've crushed them if the Dwarves hadn't snuck out from behind. We were, we were felling 'em like trees..."

"And you could not stand and fight?"

Lushurd fixed on him a narrow-eyed frown. "That sounds like Elvish talk to me. What did you want us to do, fight to the last man? When it's our skins on the line out there, I'd rather live to fight another day, thank you." He turned to leave, but Glûtkask lay a heavy hand on his shoulder and wheeled him about. "What?"

"I'm not yet finished with you," the captain said through bared teeth. "What's the state of the survivors?"

"Some have minor wounds, and some got banged up pretty bad." Lushurd glanced down at his arm, which he was still clutching with the other. "And some got lucky and aren't hurt at all... though I'm inclined to think they're just yellow-bellied and decided to stay out of the fray," he said slyly.

Glûtkask did not miss the implication; his voice became lower and harsher. "Let's see that wound of yours, then, shall we?" He tore Lushurd's grasp from the injured arm; the orc howled in pain. This attracted the attention of the soldiers, who looked on with interest. This was good -- sometimes a good example was just what they needed. The wound was deep; a sword had slashed nearly to the bone. Black blood had been clotting around it but was flowing freely once again now that the stop was removed.

"Coward, am I?" Glûtkask hissed at the seething lieutenant. "And you think you're going to fight another day? With your sword-arm nearly hacked right off?" Lushurd's hand went back to covering the gash.

"Yes, Boldog, I--"

The all-too-familiar sound of steel punching through armor and burying itself in flesh cut short his words. Lushurd crumpled to the ground, Glûtkask's axe protruding from his torso.

"Wounded like that is as good as dead," Glûtkask informed Lushurd as he drew his last breath.

He placed a booted foot on the deceased's chest and pulled the axe free. "Kharn!" The now sole lieutenant came forward. "Lushurd has died from the wounds he so... nobly sustained. We'll be setting off tomorrow a bit before noon. The sun'll be high, but it'll make the cold more bearable." He glanced disdainfully at the corpse at his feet, knowing that the orcs would soon fall upon it like scavengers. "Get this bit of carrion out of here."

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo was unfamiliar with that name, and responded to Sairien's question, "I'm afraid I have not heard of him before. I am an angdan, so perhaps he has purchased some of my wares once before, but I do not remember him." He brushed some dirt from his apron and gazed across the sparkling river. It was now that Cainenyo got a good look at Sairien's face. It seemed to be filled with both grief and joy at once, and all sorts of other subtle feelings he couldn't exactly make out.

"Maegisil, is he one of the city's smiths?" Cainenyo asked, out of curiosity. There were few people in Ost-in-Edhil he had not heard of, and Maegisil was one of them.

"No, he is one of Celebrimbor's counselors. They are close," she said. Sairien sighed and her voice turned more secretive and worried, "Have you heard the rumors of war? I have asked my husband about them, but he won't answer me."

"Yes, I have heard rumors, but I am just as lost as you, "They say that orcs are mustering in the mountains, and that Annatar has betrayed us." Cainenyo felt the worry gnaw at his heart. Would his family survive if the city was attacked?

He and Sairien began to walk together along the dock. A breeze blew from the south, and Cainenyo brushed the hair from his face. It felt good to be able to one's worries and fears. Cainenyo's mind eventually turned to his wife. Alassante only dismisses the rumors of battle as nonsense, he thought, doesn't she listen to the signs? She knows I have forged many more swords these days than candelabras. Why won't she listen? Cainenyo considered voicing his thoughts to his new friend.

"My wife, Alassante, says the rumors aren't true. I hope they're false, but I know that war is coming. Everybody knows. "Cainenyo said. He stared at his feet and the planks of the dock. "What do you think will happen to the city?"

[Firefoot]

The surviving Orcs arrived back at the camp more or less together in a straggling, drawn out group. Grimkul and Ulwakh were near the back; Grimkul was mostly unharmed, but Ulwakh could barely walk. The bleeding had only let up not stopped, leaving a straggling trail of black blood on the cold ground where he walked. Ulwakh kept up only because he had to - an Orc that stayed behind was not merely left behind but very likely chopped to pieces by other Orcs for sport.

To all appearances, Grimkul was of little help. He provided no shoulder to lean on or any moral support – in fact, he seemed not even to notice Ulwakh at all, keeping up a running monologue about the pushdug Elves and Dwarves. What he did do was threaten with snarl and brandished scimitar anyone who seemed to be entertaining the idea of attacking his weak companion. Thus in his own way did Grimkul show his slightly twisted loyalty and in the same way Ulwakh was appreciative, though he said no word of it.

Though he tried to deny it, Ulwakh was excessively weak from pain and lack of blood by the time they reached their patch of ground. No longer able to support himself, Ulwakh collapsed to the ground, barely retaining consciousness. Wordlessly, Grimkul dug into his pack and pulled out a container of a brownish-colored paste-like substance. He removed a glob of it with his fingers and smeared it on Ulwakh’s wound.

The medicine, if it could be called that, had few if any healing properties. Its chief purpose lay in stopping the blood flow and keeping the wound closed, and it did not work as well in cold temperatures such as these. It also burned like a cold fire upon application, and tended to itch fiercely once it had dried all the way. It was healing of the most rudimentary sort, and its use was the furthest knowledge either Orc had in the topic.

In his passing moments of clear thought, Ulwakh was worried. He knew from his information gathering that the Captain intended to head over the mountains once this attack was over, and he worried that he would be unable to keep up. He would have had enough trouble on a regular basis, but with the strenuous crossing of the passes, he couldn’t even be sure that the wound would stay closed.

But there wasn’t anything that he could do.

[Durelin]

Sairien was beginning to feel that she was not the only one lost, and it did not comfort her as she expected it would, to not find herself alone; it frightened her even more. How could everyone be so naïve? She knew it was not their fault any more than it was hers, and she felt slighted that Celebrimbor and his mighty court only allowed whispers and rumours of war to drift to the ears of Ost-in-Edhil’s citizens.

“What do I think? I think we will not have time to think before our enemy is upon us,” she said, feeling all her fear crashing down and flowing through her words like the water in the river before her. She turned away from Cainenyo, shaking her head. “I am sorry...”

“Do not worry...” the elf cut her off, “any more than you already do, any more than we all do.”

Sairien thanked him. He understood: he had a wife, and most likely at least one child. A child... Sairien felt tears form in pools at the bottom of her eyes, and he vision blurred. She tried so hard to hold them back, but she was forced to blink, and a couple tears ran down her face. Cainenyo pretended not to take notice, knowing that it would only make it worse if he was too consoling. If only he knew why she really cried. It was not because of the anticipated war. It took her only a moment to compose herself.

“I think Ost-in-Edhil is a grand city,” Cainenyo began again, breaking the silence, “and I think she can withstand any attack from a rabble of orcs.”

Sairien heard his words as hollow. She was not sure if he meant them, if he truly believed that the city was safe, but either way, she could never believe them. She had seen her husband return home looking ragged, as if the war had already started and he were returning from the front lines. She had even heard him talk in his sleep of war, of death, of fear... Those late nights when she was kept up by thoughts and bad dreams left her helpless.

“I think we both know that there are more signs that point to more than just a rabble of orcs,” Sairien said after another long pause. “And I think we both know the name that hangs on the edge of all of our tongues, but slips off it as soon as it is about to be spoken...”

Cainenyo only looked at her. Sairien met his gaze for a moment, then turned back to watch the sunlight flit upon the water. Somewhere between them, one name floated unspoken amidst all their fear: Sauron.

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo felt a deep sadness come over him. He knew in his heart that the city was no more than a house of cards in a foul wind, ready to fall at the slightest breeze. He placed a gloved hand on Sairien's shoulder for a brief moment, and turned to leave the glittering river. Now he truly noticed the dismal outlook of the future and the way the city seemed so frail and fragile when set against the might of Sauron.

As he passed Celerimbor's palace Cainenyo felt in his heart a new anger. He felt anger towards Celebrimbor and the Mírdain for believing Annatar's deceits, and how they too readily let him ride into the heart of Ost-in-Edhil to forge his wicked plan. And Cainenyo also hated Sauron himself for ensuring the city's doom. How could the Mírdain have accepted him? How could they have so happily welcomed the Lieutenant of Morgoth? Cainenyo passed the palace with a fiery heart.

And how many villages must be razed to the ground for Celebrimbor to act? Death tolls were rising, and even more refugees poured into the city each day. The city was not a haven, but a trap. Within these walls the people would be slaughtered if arms would not be taken up, if soldiers were not mustered, if the people lived in silence and did not do something.

With these words in both heart and mind he passed through the city. Cainenyo bought a few flowers for his wife at a florist with the coins in his pocket that were intended to pay for the knife. He was soon passing through the shadowy alleyway next to Fëaglin's shop. Across the street he saw Celebdur's red door open and Arenwino stepped out. A cool wind was now whistling down the street and Arenwino was dressed in a dark grey cloak. He spotted his father emerge from the alley.

"Hello there, father," Arenwino said, "what have you been up to?" His voiced sounded too joyful for these dark times.

"I was just down by the docks," he told his son, recalling Sairien's distress. They walked together down the street. After some moments of silence Cainenyo finally said, "Are you worried for the city?"

Arenwino was surprised by his father's question. "The city may be attacked, but we are not without allies." A weak glimmer of hope grew in Cainenyo's heart.

[piosenniel]

Five days of steady traveling had brought the thirty-five Dwarves and eighty remaining Lorinand to the crest of low-lying hills just above the place where the city of the Jewelsmiths lay. It was a fair morning, the early light filling the land west of the shadows of the Misty Mountains with the promise of a day well begun. Below the small hillocks on which they stood was the Sirannon, and there just beyond it, the juncture of it with the River Glanduin.

In the clear light, the river and the stream seemed shining fillets of bright silver. And there upon these fair wrought bands was the city of the Mírdain, set like a fair jewel; its structures the well-made facets that caught the light and sent it forth again. Pennants and banners of silks in many colors flew in the morning’s breezes. It was an altogether breathtaking sight. And no matter the number of times that Riv had stood in this same spot looking down upon it, still his dark eyes glinted with the beauty of it.

Lovely . . . lovely! he murmured to himself. I would be hard put to make a setting and gem so fair as this. He shivered a little as the fingers of a colder breeze curled round his neck, raising the hairs along his forearms. The old Dwarf saying came to his mind as he drew up the collar of his cloak. ‘Rock lizard walking over my tomb!’ his grandmother would say.

Riv shook off the chill, calling for the Elven standard bearer to come forward. ‘Unfurl your banner, Master Elf. And Uncle Orin, give a call on your horn. Let them know below we’ll be there soon.’ He laughed, shading his eyes as he stood, hands on hips, looking down on Ost-in-edhil. ‘Though, in truth, those keen Elven eyes have already spied us out and who we are and how many. Still, we’ll keep to the courteous forms and announce ourselves as friends.’

Orin raised the curled, silver horn to his lips and gave three blasts . . . two long punctuated by one short.

Their spirits raised by the pleasant sight of the Elven city, the Dwarves and Elves of Lorien made their way quickly to the city gates and were welcomed in.

[Encaitare]

The camp was busy the next morning; the orcs gathered up their scant belongings and bundled into whatever extra bit of clothing they could use to protect themselves from the cold. When they moved out, the only evidence to their presence were a few spent campfires and the odd corpse -- several of those who had been badly wounded had not lasted the night.

Kharn took a position at the very back of the regiment, ready to goad anyone who started to fall behind. Glûtkask was at the very front; Kharn was glad to get away from him. The captain had been in a fouler mood than usual since yesterday's skirmish, and he had kept eyeing Kharn as if daring him to do the same as Lushurd. Kharn, however, preferred to mind his own business. As for the rest of the soldiers, they seemed to have forgotten the brawl entirely -- after all, these things were not uncommon.

Grimly silent, they started off through the mountain pass.

[Kath]

Ugburz limped along behind his troop, cursing under his breath at the Elf who had got him in the leg with an arrow. The wound wasn't deep but it was making it difficult to move as quietly as Glûtkask had demanded when they set off and the orcs around him shot him glares as he shuffled along. His only source of comfort was the memory of the way he had killed the Elf who had shot the blasted thing at him. He grinned cruelly as he remembered the gurgling sound the creature had made as he had stabbed his knife into its back.

He hadn't seen a great deal of the battle as he'd been at the back of the regiment when it marched in and had been fighting on the sidelines, unable to get any further in due to the flailing of various arms and limbs. It would have been more dangerous trying to get through his fellow Orcs than fighting Elves the way things were going. It was only later after the order to retreat and their arrival back at the camp that he realised this apparent panic had in fact been exactly that. Those at the front had been caught between Elves and Dwarves and while they were trying to retreat the orcs behind were trying to advance, causing the crush.

Back at the camp it soon became apparent that Glûtkask was not happy with the way things had gone. Ugburz had quickly made himself scarce, trying to patch up the hole in his leg while he had the chance. The night had passed quickly if coldly, the remaining orcs had been swiftly organised into lines and they had set off before the sun had even cleared the horizon. They had been walking now for hours and Ugburz was both hungry and in pain, but it didn't look as though they were going to be stopping until Glûtkask had marched himself out of the foul mood he was in. Muttering under his breath Ugburz hefted his pack further up on his shoulders and walked on.

[Firefoot]

The march was cold – no one could deny that. It could hardly be considered inordinately difficult, though; that is, unless that one was Ulwakh.

He limped along, doing the best he could to keep up, and for the first hour or so he did fairly well, once some of the initial stiffness (resulting mostly from the cold) had worn off.

Then, conditions seemed to take a turn for the worse. The company reached the start of the mountain pass, and the terrain grew to be rougher and rougher. Ulwakh’s limp became more pronounced, and the now-hardened goop which Grimkul had spread upon the leg to stop the bleeding cracked. In this lay the one benefit of the cold weather: the blood had thickened, so that the flow was not nearly as heavy as it might have been. After a little while, it stopped of its own accord. This did not help Ulwakh, though, who was still recuperating from his severe loss of blood the previous afternoon.

Once more, Grimkul did what little he could to help, fending off other Orcs with a nasty look or, in an unusual display of what was almost affection, catching Ulwakh by the arm to keep him from stumbling too badly.

In the grand scheme of things, however, these helped little. Very slowly at first but with increasing rapidity, the pair dropped back through the ranks until they were almost in the very back. Once or twice Ulwakh glanced back and saw Kharn eyeing him, as if considering a choice word or two.

Ulwakh’s old reluctance to attract the attention of anyone higher up resurfaced. For a little while he redoubled his efforts to keep up, knowing his very life might depend on it. In doing so, however, his wound reopened and this time it was not nearly so quick in mending itself.

About half way through the march, Ulwakh knew that he was nearly spent; save by some happening of extraordinary luck, he doubted he would be able to continue at this pace. He stumbled.

“You mountain maggots aren’t even fit to march!” jeered Kharn from behind. “We shoulda left you back at the camp this morning – you’re just holding everyone else back!” Ulwakh scrambled back to his feet with difficulty – he had to hang on, had to keep going…

But Grimkul’s irritation awakened – no one insulted Ulwakh but him, and as for ‘mountain maggot,’ well, he came from the mountains, too! At Ulwakh’s fierce persuading, Grimkul held his peace for the moment, but Kharn had noticed how easy it was to cow the smaller one and took more frequent opportunity to insert his jeers, and not just towards Ulwakh, either. Grimkul did not take the goading well and finally refused to be knocked into submission any more. An ugly look on his face and hand on sword hilt, Grimkul turned to face the larger, higher-ranked Orc.

“Grimkul, don’t,” pleaded Ulwakh vainly.

“You,” said Grimkul, putting a particularly ugly emphasis on the word, “leave him alone.”

Kharn appeared somewhat surprised by this resistance but largely unfrightened. “And what are you going to do about it? Attack me?” he scoffed, though he had moved his hand to his own weapon lest he be caught defenseless. Ulwakh cursed to himself, knowing the direction this was headed and not liking it at all.

Thus provoked, Grimkul drew his scimitar; the sound echoed faintly in the mountain pass. Snarling, he launched a furious blow towards Kharn, who had just enough time to get his own sword between the opposing blade and himself. Hearing the ring of metal upon metal, the entire company stopped. Ulwakh sank to the ground, taking the opportunity to rest for a moment for its full value, though he did keep a pair of twisted throwing knives at hand should they prove necessary.

Grimkul backed off for a moment in the stunned silence. Kharn, thinking that Grimkul had learned better, lowered his weapon slightly. There was a shout from the front of the line – the Captain, thought Ulwakh – which diverted Kharn’s attention for the barest second, which Grimkul took advantage of. No longer heeding his scimitar, Grimkul simply lunged upon Kharn, bringing him down with his momentum. They hit the ground with Kharn on bottom and within moments Grimkul had his broken dagger pressed to Kharn’s throat.

“Now, what were you saying?” Grimkul snarled.

[Arry]

In the city of the Jewelsmiths

‘Too exposed here. Don’t you think?’ Skald stood with the others in the great square while the leaders of the city welcomed their kin from Lorien. The Dwarves had fallen back, as the Mirdain crowded about the company sent by the Lady. Riv’s eyes, he noted, moved here and there taking in the sights of the city. So engrossed was his older brother in his own thoughts that he did not hear Skald’s whispered observation.

Skald stepped a few paces away to where his younger brother stood. Bror, too, was looking about. Skald could not tell if his thoughts about the Elven city were positive or negative. ‘Well, what do you think, little brother?’ Skald asked, jutting his chin toward the great, light structures that thrust up from the earth like tall crystals. ‘It’s too . . . well . . . open . . . for my taste. No place here to make a stand, if you ask me. Which no one did, of course. But seems to me if you’re going up against . . . that black-hearted bootlicker . . . you’d best have some good thick rock between you and his filthy Orcs and such.’ He shifted from foot to foot, anxious for the meet-and-greet to be over. They’d seen the Elves safely to the city; their task was done in his mind. The sooner they were safe within the halls of Khazad-dum, the better he would feel.

[piosenniel]

Encaitare's post


Kharn was pinned to the snow-dusted ground, still holding onto his sword but unable to use it. He glared up at Grimkul, being careful not to move too much lest the blade cut him.

"Get off me, you stinkin' rat. You'll make the captain angry, and then you'll have more to worry about than whether your useless friend over there can keep up." Grimkul did not move, and Kharn actually feared for his life. He was careful, however, to let his face betray nothing but arrogance. "Didn't you hear me? Or are you deaf as well as daft?"

There was silence as the two fiercely stared at one another, neither moving; the orcs nearby looked on, wondering if they were going to witness the second killing of their own in two days. Another shout was heard, louder than the first, from Glûtkask up ahead. Kharn had no doubt that the captain would not hesitate to kill Grimkul on the spot.

"Grimkul," the orc on the ground said, twisting his head in the direction of the noise. Grimkul turned to look at his friend, and Kharn seized the moment to deliver a punch to his assailant's throat. As Grimkul gasped for breath, Kharn was able to push him off and climb to his feet. Grimkul tried to get up, but Kharn kicked him and he stayed down, catching his breath.

"No need to fret about your friend," Kharn said cruelly. "I think I can help him move along. Now get up." He waited for Grimkul to pull himself up and move in front of him, casting anrgy, resentful glances his way. Kharn wasn't about to let some crazed, murderous soldier behind him -- that was an invitation to get your back cloven or your throat cut. Why was he so protective of the injured one, anyway?

He took a whip that hung at his belt and let it roll out. He cracked it, watching with relish as some of the orcs flinched at the sound and what it forbode. "Here's some motivation for you slugs," he grinned, looking evilly at Grimkul and Ulwakh. "And especially for you two. Now move!"

[Folwren]

‘It is very open,’ Bror answered absently, his eyes roving about the structures. ‘But they are beautiful.’ He felt an uneasy movement from Skald and he finally looked back down to earth at him. ‘What’s gotten into you?’ he asked, half amused. ‘Anyone would think that this Sauron fellow has got you scared stiff without even giving you a glance at him. You’ve been too serious since Riv told you about Him and all that. Why worry? Our walls are thick, even if these walls aren’t. His shadow will not trouble us beyond that which our mountain already casts on our halls.’

He stopped and looked back up at the white buildings around him. A second thought passed through his mind and a shadow of some sadness crossed his face and clouded his expression. The great caverns in which he lived may remain untouched, as he truly believed, but he suddenly realized that it would be a grim and woeful day when such a city as this were destroyed and laid in ruin on the ground.

His dark, foreboding thoughts were broken before long. Skald was tugging at his sleeve and Bror turned impatiently. ‘Come on,’ was all his brother said.

What in world’s bothering him? Bror wondered. He hasn’t hardly been acting himself at all these past weeks. I ought to do something about that... And with thoughts of how he might get Skald out of his quiet, uncomfortable mood (Bror thought it was uncomfortable) with different pranks that would have to call for some sort of revenge, Bror followed his brothers and the rest of the dwarves back down the wide, fair streets and out of the gates.

The road home was before them - well known to a few of the dwarves. Their futures also stretched in front of them, but no one had trod that path before, and likewise, no one could tell where it would lead.

[Arestevana]

“Unfurl your banner, master elf,” called out the rough but pleasant voice of one of their guides, a dwarf called Riv.
Gilduin gladly stepped forward and loosed the standard to display its colors. Beside him the one named Orin gave voice to a silver horn. Though not the clear, poignant song of elven horns, the call still sent a shiver down Gilduin’s spine, ringing through the hills like the voice of the earth itself. As the echoes faded, the elves of Lindórinan and their dwarven guides went down to the city of the Mírdain, glittering like a bright gem in the morning sun.

They were met at the gates and welcomed inside, where they gathered in a great central square. While Celeborn and Eldegon talked with Celebrimbor and others leaders of the great city, the Mirdain crowded around the contingent with welcoming smiles. Some of those from the golden wood had friends or kinsmen among the jewelsmiths, and there were joyful excalamations as they found those they knew among the crowd.

Gilduin, recognizing none of the smiling faces of the Mírdain, looked instead at the fair white buildings of the city. Themselves a work of great craftsmanship, they rose with graceful strength to proud spires adorned with bright pennants. It seemed that every part of the Ost-in-Edhil had been crafted with most loving attention. Both delicate and diamond-strong the city seemed, composed as it was of silver and white. Bright flowers and vibrant silks ornamented the streets and buildings like jewels.

As mithril to silver and gold is this city to Gondolin and Lorien the Fair. Gilduin thought, transfixed by the beauty that surrounded him. He turned to Vaele, who stood beside him.
“Surely, my friend, this city is the greatest work of the Mírdain!”

[piosenniel]

‘Mami! Mami!’ came the high piping voice as he spied the smiling face of his father peer round one of the entryway’s stone uprights that led into the Stonecuts’ kitchen area. Leifr ran fast as his little legs would carry him, his feet slap-slapping over the smooth, polished floor.

‘There’s my boy!’ cried Riv, crouching down, arms outstretched. He gave the boy a gentle bearish hug; then holding him at arms’ length he kissed him on the brow as his fingers went up to brush back several errant curls. Leifr clung to his leg, giggling, as Riv rose up, taking a ride along one his father’s great thick leg as he made his way with one stiff leg across the kitchen to his wife.

Unna was watching from her place by the granite sink. She had turned at Leifr’s cry, her eyes kindling with relief and laughter. Leaning her back against the lip of the sink, she dried her hands on her apron, watching with delight the approach of her husband.

‘What?!’ said Riv in a deep voice, his brow raised as he stopped and looked toward her. ‘Where’s my girl? The one who used to come running when her handsome hero returned from dangerous missions?’ He motioned for her to come over to him. ‘I’ve one leg left, my dear. Wouldn’t you like a little ride about the kitchen with the little lizard on my other leg?’

A bright ripple of laughter escaped, filling the space between husband and wife. ‘Oof!’ returned Unna, her laugh now quieted into a smile. ‘I’m sure I would crush your hero’s feet, boots or no, if I were to take up your offer.’ Her hand strayed down to rest on her great belly. ‘I’m afraid while you were gone my weight’s gone up a stone and a half at least!’ She drew near him and placed his hand on her rippling belly. ‘The baby’s dropped. And I’m eating constantly . . . seems he . . . or she,’ Unna said, looking up into Riv’s face, ‘needs food, food, and more food for this last spurt of growing.’

‘Grandma says she’s like a starved dragon, Papi,’ Leifr put in. ‘Eat anything not hidden under a rock.’ Both his parents burst out in laughter at this passed on comment.

‘Come, sit down,’ said Unna motioning to Riv’s chair at the table’s head. ‘I’m not that ravenous. There’s a bit of ham left and a loaf of bread from today with sweet butter. And you’re in luck, I just finished tomorrow’s soup and left it near the fire to gently cook.’ She soon had a hearty meal set before him, and a cup of ale. For Leifr she poured a small cup of cider and gave him a sugared cookie, studded with nuts. Seating herself to Riv’s right, she picked at pieces of his buttered bread, watching him fondly as he ate. ‘Is this the last of the Elves coming through,’ she asked as he chewed on a bit of ham and bread. Will you be close about now . . . at your own forge?’

He smiled, knowing the answer she desired . . .

[Arry]

The months since the trip to the Elven city with those from Lorien had been quiet ones. Stay at home ones. Safe ones, for the most part, save for the reports that came in with increasing frequency telling of more Orcs and other foul beasts that crept like a dark blight west from Mirkwood and Sauron’s black lands, and south from the old tunnels in the northern Misty Mountains . . . all heading toward Eriador. The Dwarves had gathered themselves safe inside their halls. Venturing out only if great need called them. There was plenty for them to do at their own forges . . . and truth be told, they liked their own company best of all . . .

His niece was born a month after their return from Ost-in-edhil. It was a joyous event, the birth of a fine, healthy baby . . . and doubly blessed in that it was a little girl. Ginna, she had been named, her father holding her high above his head in the great hall that all might see her and give welcome. Her dark brown curls had glints of red that lay deep within them; her big, dark eyes glittered like faceted obsidian beneath the bright lights of the glassy lamps set round to light the room. She was a welcome gift and for a long space of time the joy of her coming pushed back the shadow that niggled in the background thoughts of Stonecut family.

----------

‘Ach! You’ll pull out my beard little nieceling!’ Skald sat in the oaken rocker by the fire, his feet propped on the raised hearth. The baby, now four months old, lay on a little quilt spread out along his leather clad thighs, her dark eyes catching the light from the crystal lamp above. Little stars glinted in the inky darkness of her pupils, as she watched with rapt attention the movement of her uncle’s face above her own. Skald’s beard had come near enough her fat little fists for her to entwine her fingers in it. And she wriggled and cooed as she yanked on the hairy toy.

‘You know,’ he said softly to her as he gently disentangled his beard from her hands. ‘You know you were almost called Dagny, don’t you? Your mami wanted to name you after one of the long gone aunts of hers, her favorite. But your papi, Riv, he’s my big brother, you know, he took one look at you and said your name was Ginna. “Enchantress.” ’ The baby’s eyes followed the nodding and shaking of Skald’s head and the smiles that creased his face as if she understood his every word. ‘It’s a good name, that one,’ he went on, letting her wrap her sturdy fingers about the thick little finger of each of his hands. ‘You’ve certainly enchanted your old uncle, here.’

He raised a brow and putting on a serious face, snorted at a sudden thought just come to him. ‘And don’t think when you get a little older you need to be trying your magics on any of the young bucks that come hanging round, hats in hand. No dimpled smiles or peeking looks from beneath those long lashes of yours.’ Skald hmmmph’d and nodded at her. ‘They’ll be having to pass my inspection before they get in arm’s length of you, little Gem!’

As if in protest at the unfair boundary he’d declared, Ginna puckered up her little face and began to fuss. Her legs and arms stiffened out and she let out a wail of complaint. Unna, hearing her daughter’s howl, scooped her up from Skald’s lap. She cuddled the little one against her shoulder, rocking her gently until the protests subsided. ‘Never tell a woman what she can and cannot do, brother-mine,’ she said, her mouth curved up in a smile at him. ‘We don’t tend to take that sort of thing well, at any age.’

‘Well, then, I’ll try to remember that, m’lady ,’ Skald answered, an abashed grin bowing his lips at the corners. ‘Nonetheless, the young scamps will have to get by Riv and Bror and me before they go bothering her with their calf eyes and such!’ Unna laughed quietly and shook her head at him.

Skald rose from his chair and fetched a cup for Bror and himself. Taking the ladle from the hook hanging near the hob, he dipped into the small kettle of mulled wine and poured them each a generous portion. His younger brother had sat near him and the baby, playing some soft melodies on his harp. Between the two of them, they had learned a number of lullabies and little songs that Ginna seemed to like. Bror’s head was bent over as he listened closely to the quiet notes his fingers plucked. Skald’s back was to the inattentive musician as he fixed the potation and stirred the steaming cups with a small wooden spoon.

‘Put your harp away and have a drink with me while Unna puts the baby to sleep,’ Skald said, placing a cup in front of his brother. ‘Riv should be done soon. He’s finishing up some helmets for the Hardhammers; setting them with those blood red beryls he and his crew got from one of the lower mines. He’ll join us, I’m sure, when he comes up.’ Skald set an empty cup on the hearth near a chair he’d drawn up for his older brother. His own cup he picked up, and raising it to Bror, winked, saying, ‘To your good health little brother!’ He took a large swig and swallowed it, his glittering eyes on Bror.

His guard down, the youngest Stonecut brother, set his harp carefully on the floor beside him and picked up his mug. He joined Skald in a big drink. No sooner had the warm liquid hit his tongue than he spluttered, turning red in the face at the vinegary taste, and spit it back into his cup.

‘Gotcha!’ Skald laughed aloud, and was as quickly shushed by Unna from the corner where the cradle stood. ‘Oh, here!’ he said, clapping Bror on the back as he continued to sputter. Skald dumped the contents of the sour drink down the sink, and in full view of Bror, ladled him out another. He handed it to him with a wink and sat down in his chair, rocking back as he thrust his feet toward the coals. Bror glared at him as he sipped the undoctored drink, trying to drive the sour taste from his mouth. Skald laughed again, this time quietly and shook his shoulders.

‘Oh well,’ he sighed, grinning a little at his brother’s discomfort. ‘I suppose I shall have to be on the look out now, won’t I . . . for some payback trick of yours . . .’

[piosenniel]

Folwren's post



‘Oh well,’ Skald sighed, still having the impudence to smile at him. ‘I suppose I shall have to be on the look out now, won’t I...for some payback trick of yours.’

Bror’s look was almost black as he sized his older brother up. The taste clung to his mouth and it seemed nothing he did would cure it. ‘That’s low, Skald,’ Bror finally said, scowling. ‘It’s a dirty trick.’

‘Most of the things you do to me are considered dirty tricks, too.’

‘Yes, but I haven’t done one for months.’ One corner of his mouth pulled back in consideration and he stared at the dark wine in his mug before taking another drink (not that it helped much). ‘Well, it’s not been for a long time, anyhow. And, yes, to reply to your question, you will have to be on the look out. But I’ll tell you now, your eyes won’t be sharp enough, nor your ears keen enough, to avoid the trap I’ll lay. You’ll only know what hit you afterwards.’ Skald only laughed at him, and Bror, already having something forming in his head, smiled back. To his surprise, Skald threw his head back and laughed again, even louder.

‘Skald Stonecut,’ Unna said with some sharpness on the edge of her voice, ‘either halt that din of yours, or leave at once. Ginna will never get to sleep if you keep on so.’

Skald looked somewhat abashed and Bror’s smile turned into something rather impish before he had the wits to hide it behind the mug. Neither of them had the chance to say anything more before Riv walked in. He looked tired, and whatever Bror’s merriment was left instantly dried up. Skald and he glanced at each other.

‘Hello, Skald and Bror,’ Riv said as he passed them. Bror and Skald watched as Unna greeted her husband and they went to the cradle and talked in low voices as Riv watched his daughter sleep.

‘I wonder what’s gotten into him,’ Bror said. Skald just shook his head.

‘Nothing but a hard long day’s work,’ he answered.

‘He is kind of late, isn’t he?’ Bror commented, looking away from Riv. ‘What did you do all day?’ And so a conversation got started. Riv joined them with his mug after a few minutes. They talked of small matters. Nothing was said of the growing whispers of war. The shadow had not touched Bror, and as yet, he wasn’t aware of it affecting either of his brothers, though Riv may have thought some on it.

After a while, Bror finished his second mug of ale and pushed back his chair. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you fellows,’ he said. ‘Old Jollin wants me at the forge early tomorrow. Goodnight.’

His brothers bid him goodnight as he picked up his harp and went out. He sang quietly to himself as he followed the dim corridors to his room. Before going to bed, he sat for some time in deep thought and consideration. The taste of vinegar - or whatever it had been that Skald had so backhandedly put into his drink - had finally left his mouth, but the thought of it remained. He couldn’t leave him unpaid, and he didn’t intend to. Besides, it was far better to do something against Skald when he had some sort of reason to. Then he might at least have some sort of chance to escape payment.

‘Not very likely, though,’ he muttered finally, pulling off his boots. ‘If you end up successfully pulling this off, Skald won’t be accepting it as revenge for that tiny prank that you got tonight. There will be some serious reckoning to do...’

But Bror wasn’t one to decide against something that could afford such fun because it might get him into a little bit of trouble with his older brother. So, satisfied that he had a workable plan, he laid down, pulled the covers up over his head, and instantly fell asleep.

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

During the next few days, Bror did nothing out in the open in preparation for what he intended to do for Skald. While in his room, he worked with ropes and knots, pulleys, and other things that he thought may help him in his plan. Finally he was satisfied with the trap itself. The only thing he missed was bait. At first he thought it would be simple enough to rig the thing right in front of Skald’s door, but studying the situation, he found that there was no place to hang the ropes, and besides that, it was too visible.

A chance soon offered itself when Skald one evening told his brothers of a commission he had been hired for. He would be leaving early the next morning to take some of his workings across the mines to an old dwarf.

‘You’re leaving early?’ Bror asked, studying Skald carefully. The older brother only nodded. ‘Really early? Before any one else is up?’ Skald nodded again, raising an eyebrow expectantly. ‘Oh, I was only wondering. You’ll still be eating here, I guess. Well, good,’ he said, after Skald had given him yet another affirmative answer. ‘I’m happy for you. I hope it all goes well. Good luck.’ He got up and excused himself and hurried to his room.

He took out his stores of ropes and then settled down to wait. Before long, everything was quiet in the halls and corridors. He cautiously set out from his room and retraced his steps to the kitchen. No one was there and everything was dark. He stepped back out to the hall and fetched one of the night lamps and then bore everything with him to the pantry at the back of the room. Skald usually came here in the mornings before work and since he would be leaving early, there would be little or no chance that Unna or Riv would come there before Skald.

He worked silently setting the ropes. The hooks in the ceiling used for hanging pots and pans and sometimes meats served to hold the cords. His hands moved quickly, tying knots here and twisting them there, some to move, and some to remain fast. Finally, he was finished. He studied his handiwork and then bound the end of the rope to another hook in the wall before taking the night lamp back out and leaving the pantry and kitchen as silent and dark as it had been when he had come.

A long string he rigged from there to his room. On the end he attached a small bell. It would wake him as soon as his victim was caught and he would go untangle him. As soon as that was finished, he cast himself on his bed and slept.

The violent ringing of his bell alarm woke him. He started up out of bed, feeling as though he had only slept a moment, and went running out towards the kitchen. He arrived there in less than a minute. A lamp sat on the table, turned low and a cap belonging to Skald was on a chair. A large smile broke out on his face but the next instant it was wiped off as he realized that two voices came from the pantry, belonging to both of his brothers. Riv must have gotten up early as well, to see Skald off, Bror figured.

The light from the lamp did not reach back there, so he picked it up and took it with him. He stopped at the door. One of the two brothers hung by his foot upside down, with his head a few feet from the stone floor. The other stood on the ground, searching with his hands some rope to cut to try to get him down. Bror stood for a minute in the doorway with the lamp upraised. The brother on the ground turned to look at him. His eyes glittered in the light and Bror’s mouth dropped.

It was Skald looking at him. He had caught the wrong dwarf.

[piosenniel]

Arry’s post


Skald was in two minds about this trap that Bror had set. It was elaborate, ingenious, even. A worthy response, indeed, from the baby brother. It had only taken him fifty years or so to bring the art of practical joking to this new pinnacle.

And best of all, to Skald’s way of thinking, it had rebounded on Bror in a way much better than any revenge Skald might come up with. The silly git had neglected the first rule of practical joking – make sure the target you aim for will be the one you hit. He chuckled quietly as he fussed about with the web of cords that entangled his older brother. Riv, for his part, was red in the face, his eyes narrowed dangerously, as he twirled like some great last leaf of autumn on its spindly stem.

‘Who do you think taught me the art of playing tricks on someone?’ came the muffled question from Skald as he fished about for the right rope to cut. He’d turned his head back for a moment to see who’d crept into the room behind him. ‘You are dead, little brother, so-oo-oo dead!’

He reached up with his knife and began to saw on a likely looking cord . . .

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

Pio’s post


‘By the King’s long beard! Stop your yammering and get me down from here! Or you’ll both be dead!’

Riv took a swat at Skald’s shoulder to emphasize his point. The motion, however, did nothing but make him sway on the cord and swivel about precariously. This only made him more angry, and he bellowed out a few more blazing incentives for his quick release.

‘And you!’ he growled dangerously at Bror. ‘This is all your doing, isn’t it? Get over here and show the plodder here what he needs to do.’ He put his hands to his already pounding head and shook it. ‘How is it that I am saddled with such fools for brothers?’

‘Perhaps you should not say such things about your rescuer,’ Skald mumbled, his knife sawing at one of the taut lines.

Riv glared at what he could see of his younger brother. ‘Rescuer? I wouldn’t be in this fix if you and Bror were not always trying to one-up each other!’ He swung round to where Bror was standing. His youngest brother’s eyes were wide as he stared at Skald, his finger pointing in a trembling manner. Gibbering sounds were coming from him. ‘And now what is the matter?’ Riv asked, frowning. ‘Tell me . . . wha . . .’

The command was cut off as Skald’s knife severed the rope. It slid through his hands like quick-fire as he tried to catch it, burning them raw with its passage.

Riv hit the floor with a hard thump. He’d twisted enough to land on his shoulder, the poor joint jammed against the unforgiving stone floor with all the heft of his body behind it. He cursed as he tried to get up, a sharp pain coursing through his left chest. Skald stood waving his rope burnt palms in the air, hurling loud invectives of his own.

‘What is going on you three? You’ve wakened us all with your yelling?’ Unna had come running from her and Riv’s quarters when she’d heard the raised voices. Her hair was all undone, her eyes still puffy from sleep. In her haste, she’d thrown on her husband’s robe and now stood pulling it closer about her as she gazed at the scene in the kitchen. ‘At tricks again! When will you ever grow up?’

Leifr peeked around the length of her robe, wide-eyed at the cursing and the tangled heap his father was in. ‘Papi? Are you alright?’ he whispered.

‘I’ll be alright in a moment,’ Riv said, trying to gather his wits about him, not wanting to frighten his son. ‘Maybe you and Mami can fetch me a little something to drink. I’m thirsty.’ Leifr nodded his head slowly and tugged on Unna’s hand. ‘Your uncles, here, can just give me a hand up.’ He waved off his wife and son, then motioned for Bror and Skald. ‘Gently does it,’ he grunted softly as they helped him up to a chair at the table. Sharp pain lanced through his left shoulder whenever it was moved. By the time he was seated, his face was pale and slick with sweat. With his right fist he grasped Bror and drew him near, whispering so that Unna and Leifr did not hear.

‘Get the healer. Tell him I think my collarbone is broken.’ He winced as he drew a deep breath and nodded for Bror to be off.

[Envinyatar]

Folwren's post


Bror turned away from Riv and walked quickly and half blindly towards the door. He stumbled against Skald and looked up. The blood that had left his face when he first saw Riv instead of Skald hanging from the ceiling, came flooding back. He grabbed his shirt sleeve and before Skald could resist, had pulled him in silent furry into the hall outside the kitchen.

‘You great blundering idiot,’ he fumed, ‘anyone would know how that trap works if you only stopped to think for a moment. Where’re your brains? You should have known that cutting that confounded rope would have brought him down faster than a boulder. Now I’m off to get the healer ‘cause Riv thinks he’s broken his collar bone.’

‘It’s not my fault!’ Skald replied shortly.

‘If you weren’t such a -’ Bror seemed to stumble on the next word - ‘fool then it wouldn’t be your fault and none of this would have happened. At least he wouldn’t have fallen. Do you think I’d rig such a thing and be stupid enough to not have a way to let you back down when you stumbled into it? Why was he there, anyway? Why weren’t you? Oh, never mind,’ he growled, and before giving Skald a chance to reply he turn and ran off as quickly as he could go. He tore up the hall to his own room, dressed himself properly as quickly as he could, tugged on his boots, and headed back out to get the healer.

The dwarf doctor was very surprised at being woken by Bror pounding on his door so early in the morning. He came out and as soon as he heard Bror’s report, hurriedly got what he thought would be needed and went out with him.

‘How on earth did Riv Stonecut break his collarbone before dawn this morning?’ he asked as he and Bror hurried along the dim corridors and halls. ‘Did he fall out of bed?’

‘No,’ Bror said sourly, ‘he got tripped up by some ropes.’

‘Ropes, was it?’ the old dwarf repeated, glancing shrewdly at Bror.

‘Well, I set a trap for Skald,’ Bror admitted, wanting to talk too much to keep silent, and being completely unable to tell a lie just now, ‘but Riv stumbled into it and Skald, the bloke, cut a rope and sent him tumbling. I didn’t even have a chance to tell him he could just untie the thing and let him down as safely as...well, the upshot of the matter is, Riv fell and says he thinks he broke his collar bone and I was sent to get you and I don’t think he wants his wife and son to know because he told them he was just fine.’

‘Ah. I see.’ He asked no more questions for the rest of the way and Bror remained silent.

When they arrived at Riv’s kitchen, Skald had gone. Unna was there, dressed and prepared for the day, making breakfast. Leifre sat at the table with his hands on the table in front of him and his eyes wide and moist. Unna looked up from the stove where she was frying eggs and her eyes were sharp and piercing as she looked at the healer.

‘He’s in the other room. I think he’s waiting for you.’ The dwarf nodded and went off. Bror began to follow him, but Unna’s words stopped him. ‘You can’t go in there, Bror. Riv wouldn’t like to see you just now I don’t think. Besides,’ she added in a gentler voice as a look of pain crossed Bror’s face, ‘Leifre needs company. He’ll be alright, though,’ she said even more quietly.

Bror nodded and turned to go to Leifre. ‘Want to help me take down the rest of these ropes while we wait for breakfast?’ he asked. The boy looked up at him and then got down from the chair. Bror was surprised when he came and took his hand and practically led him to the pantry.

‘Yes. Will you tell me what happened? Papi wouldn’t tell me.’ They stopped in the doorway and Bror looked with fallen and crushed pride on the ropes that hung loosely from the ceiling and lay limp on the ground.

‘I was trying to catch Skald, but your Papi stumbled into it instead. Then when Skald cut the wrong rope...well, then you know what happened. Come on.’ He dropped the lad’s hand and bent to work. Leifre stood still with his head to one side.

‘It was supposed to be a joke?’

‘My dear Leifre,’ Bror replied with his back to him, ‘this was the best prank I’ve completed ever. It was pure bad luck that it was Riv who happened to land in it. And it was even sorrier luck that Skald got to him before I did.’ He stopped and bit his lip, coiling a length of rope as he thought. The bad luck hadn’t stopped. He had known as soon as he saw Riv hanging there, before Skald had told him he was as good as dead, and long before Riv had just about confirmed the statement by telling Skald that he probably was dead, too, that his prank had gone wrong in more than just one direction. He knew that Skald may have been angry with it, but he wouldn’t have been into very much trouble, but Riv had done nothing to deserve this. Bror would never have dared to intentionally hang Riv upside down like a ham. Now he’d done it, accidently, to be sure, but he’d done it nonetheless, and Riv had gotten hurt, which made it ten times worse, and he had no idea what his older brother would say (or do) once he was in some sort of state to do so.

All he could do now, though, was wait. Leifre was there by his side now, untangling ropes and helping him coil them and when they were finished, they took them back to Bror’s room. When they returned, breakfast was ready and Unna invited him to eat with the two of them. He accepted her invitation.


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Pio's post --- a truce is called for . . .


‘Hold still!’ Riv stopped his wriggling as the healer manipulated his shoulder area, sending lancets of pain coursing through his chest. ‘This isn’t the first time this collarbone’s been broken, is it?’ asked the healer, running his fingers along the thin bone’s length.

‘Well, no . . .’ Riv answered cautiously, the tips of his ears reddening as he recalled one of Skald’s pranks. There had been a set of seven smooth stone stairs leading down from Skald and Riv’s room in their younger years. Sometime, in the middle of the night, Skald had sneaked out of his bed and oiled the second and third one from the top. Riv, as was his routine, bounded out of bed and made for the stairs at the sound of breakfast being made in the kitchen. He’d lost his footing, of course, and managed to slip and tumble head over heels to the landing. The sound of his brother’s laughter still echoed in his ears.

He’d gotten back at him, though, the very next week. A half dozen old and fetid duck eggs tucked carefully inside Skald’s pillow. His younger brother had lain his head down intending to get a good night’s rest, only to have the stench of rotten eggs come fuming up from his pillow; along with the sticky goo that came through the ticking and clung to the side of his face and hair.

Riv’s thoughts were wrenched back to the present as the healer bade his assistant hold the thin, flat bar of unbending metal against Riv’s chest as he bound it on tightly, wrapping the wide strips of cloth over it and around Riv’s broad chest, then over each shoulder in a figure-of-eight pattern. It hurt like the blue blazes for a moment as the bone was pushed into placed. Riv bit back the string of curses hovering at the edge of his tongue. Leifr had already expanded his vocabulary this morning he was sure, and needn’t hear his father add a few more choice phrases. Once, though, the sling was in place, the pain subsided and Riv found himself able to use his left arm in a limited manner. With the aid of the healer’s assistant he was able to get his tunic back on. And by the time he’d reached the entryway to the kitchen, he’d managed to let his temper cool.

He stood in the shadows of the doorway looking at Bror and Leifr as they sat at the table and Unna as she moved about the kitchen making and serving them breakfast. Bror, he noted with some satisfaction, had a guilty, sort of shamefaced look about him. And Unna, he saw, seemed to be keeping up a steady stream of commentary as she poured the tea and milk or scooped the eggs and ham onto the plates. ‘Good!’ he thought. ‘She’s giving him a pointed lecture on the error of his ways!’ With a barely suppressed smirk on his face he made his way to his chair to sit down.

‘And just what are you smiling about?’ Unna asked him as he looked up at her. She pinned him with her dark eyes; hmmmphing as she served him up a plate. ‘You’re the oldest brother and the one who started all of this, I’m sure. Skald first and he, of course, carried it on with Bror. And didn’t I just hear my own son asking if it was a joke? And in a manner that made me think he’s quite interested in the whole process!’ She stabbed at Riv’s piece of ham with his fork and cut it into manageable pieces for him with forceful cuts of her kitchen knife.

And all the while asking the grievous question of how was it that she had given birth to only one son and yet had to deal with the actions of four childish males. Her voice rose sharply as her complaint continued and soon, the baby began to cry. ‘Now look what you all have gone and done!’ she declared. With a swish of her robe, she turned and left them staring at her retreating back.

‘Mami’s quite tired, son,’ Riv explained in a gentle voice to the wide-eyed boy. ‘Ginna fussed most of the night and wouldn’t be quieted by any but her mother.’ He smiled encouragingly at Leifr. ‘Let’s finish our breakfast; then you can help us clean up the kitchen. I’m thinking I’ll be needing a little help sorting through the new gems we got in yesterday. You can be my assistant.’ Leifr’s face brightened at the prospect of a day with his father and he began shoveling eggs into his mouth.

Riv sat back, picking at his own breakfast with his fork. Bror, still quiet, sat looking at his own plate of food. ‘Well, little brother,’ Riv said, looking closely at Bror. ‘What say we call a truce for now? My collar bone will take a good six weeks or so to mend. And my dear wife . . . well she will most likely be frazzled until the baby lets her sleep the whole night through. She’s more likely to snap than my collar bone if we do any more ‘tomfoolery’, as she terms it. If you’re agreeable, I’ll let Skald know where we stand.’

Leifr had finished his meal and gone to the slops pale on the other side of the kitchen to scrape off the few remaining crumbs of breakfast from his plate. Riv leaned toward Bror, his eyes twinkling with the thought of some future mischief, and said in an undertone, ‘After I’m healed, though, and Unna’s back to her sunny self . . . the white flag comes down and it’s every Dwarf for himself!

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Folwren's post

‘That sounds good,’ Bror said, looking up for the first time since Riv arrived. ‘At least I won’t have to worry about it for a while.’ He looked with a deal of chagrin at Riv. His older brother was composed, but something in his face told Bror that he was still in some pain. The white bandage and cast around his shoulder made him wince and he looked back down at his half eaten breakfast. ‘I ought to be going. Jollin will be expecting me soon.’ He pushed back his chair and got up slowly, as though he were tired from his rather exciting night. He paused with his hand on the back of his chair and looked again at Riv. ‘I’m sorry, Riv,’ he finally said. ‘It wouldn’t have happened like it had it gone my way.’ A small smile came to Riv’s face.

‘No, I dare say it didn’t happen like you wanted it. I would have much rather have seen Skald up there than myself. But, ah well, it can’t be helped. Until later, little brother.’

Bror turned and went out. His spirit lifted and he actually smiled again.

‘You actually got out of there unscathed,’ he murmured to himself, turning his feet in the direction of work. ‘But it won’t last like that for too long, don’t expect it to,’ he added quickly. ‘Until Riv is better and Unna is her old sunny self.’ He smiled even broader. ‘By that time, I may have been able to invent something not quite so dangerous, but as equally fun! Every Dwarf for himself, he said. That joins him in the game.’

But then a voice from the other side of his head replied. ‘That meant you, Bror,’ it said. ‘He’s not going to show the least amount of kindness when it comes to luring you into some sort of trap. You can expect something rather uncomfortable.’

However that may be, Bror could feel no worry about it at the time being. There were many weeks between now and when Riv said the white flags would come down and until then, Bror put it out of his mind.

[CaptainofDespair]

“The gears of war slowly turn…”

The shrouded visitor to the Dark Lord now stood before an assembled army. It was impressive, both in the sheer volume of troops, and in the vast multitude of its contingents. Easterling spearmen and swordsmen from Rhûn, Variag axemen from Khand, and numerous assortments of Orcs from Mordor, were the backbone of this army. It seemed unstoppable to those who prepared to march beyond the land of the Shadow, but the mysterious cloaked warlord thought otherwise, and he voiced this to his new underlings.

“Captain…”

“Yes, milord?”

“Is my army prepared? I grow weary of this choking atmosphere,” answered the seemingly mystical being wrapped in the heavy cloth. “Indeed, it is, milord. We are ready to depart as soon as you give the command.” A heavy sigh emanated from the hood. “Excellent. But first, there is a small matter to attend to,” responded the lord. Beckoning with a metal clad hand, the warlord summoned his captain closer. “Captain, it is your duty to keep this army organized. I will not have it running about plundering at will. That is not the purpose of this expedition.” The captain, an Easterling, was well regarded amongst his own soldiers for organization. But, he knew he might not be able to handle the orc rabble. This, if anything, would get him “relieved” of his duty, and he feared it. “I will do as you command, milord. But, the orcs are not easily commanded. They might prove difficult.” A hideous and wicked laugh rose out of the depths of the warlord’s hood. “You need not command them to keep them in line. Use fear. Make them fear you, and they will do as you order. Show them no mercy.” The captain bowed, and turned to depart, hoping to be given dismissal of his lord’s presence. But, as he turned away, the brooding voice of the warlord stopped him. “One last thing, commander...” A shiver of cold fear ran up through the spine of the Easterling. “Yes, milord?” Sensing the distraught fears of the captain, Angoroth smirked, and laughed inwardly. “Give the order to march.” The captain sighed, relieved of his burden of fear for the time being, and departed.

The army lurched forward, and began the arduous journey to Eregion. The muffled thudding of thousands of iron-shod feet shook the earth in its monotonous drone. It marched at a steady pace, so as not to tire the force en masse, which in turn produced a great roar of unending movement. At the borders of Mordor however, Angoroth departed the army, leaving the captain with a single message; “You will meet me at the borders of Eregion. I have…things…to do.”

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

Having departed his legions, Angoroth rode hard into the north, leaving only dust in his wake. For many days he pressed on, his horse nearly dead from exhaustion. Riding through stone and wood, river and field, he at last came to his objective apparent. A small hill, covered in dying brown grass, with a lone, gnarled tree upon the crest.

There, he abandoned his mount, and went to the base of the seemingly dead tree, and began ripping at the bark and limbs, tearing much away. He then laid out the bark in a circle around him, tossing a strange powder upon it, and placed the branches in the center. Using another branch, which he had put to the flame, he ignited the circle of bark, and then finally set ablaze the centerpiece of his fiery portal.

As the flames rose higher, he began to chant indecipherable words in a tongue that only he knew, one of his own devising, praying to his master. Dropping the hood, he revealed his face to the fire. The crackling and flickering flames imposed an eerie glow on his unmarred visage. His eyes told a silent tale as they reflected the light of the blaze; his past, his failure. Ever silent, he drew forth a knife, blackened but unused. He fell to his knees, and plunged the blade into the flames. Watching the flames violently engulf the knife, he smiled a wicked smile, and withdrew it. Slowly, he pressed its glowing, dull edge to the contours of his face, and drew it along the bone, letting the blood run forth freely. Pulling the blade from his cheek, he plunged it again into the flames, and cleansed it of his tainted essence. With its edge heated further in the flame, he ran it along the lines he had slashed into his face, searing them with hot metal. Breaking his painful silence, he uttered a message into the glowing flame. “From the fire, life is born. In the fire, all is cleansed. In the fire, life is ended. And in the fire, lies redemption.”

With a circle of flame still burning about him, he cast his now blood-soaked cloak into the engulfing fires, watching it turn to ash with sickening delight. He finished his prayers and chants to his former lord, Morgoth, and rose up from his kneeling position. Stepping through the still burning ring of choking flames, he left behind his failure, and thrust forward to his atonement.

[Durelin]

Early Spring - 1697 S.A.


The arrival of allies brought new hope to the majority of the residents of Ost-in-Edhil, the small contingent from Lorien seeming much larger than in reality. This may have been the feeling of the citizens, but the Lord Celebrimbor and his counselors did not share in it. The imposing certainty of war was only a more ominous presence in their minds, seeing that it was not long their city that had heard the call to war. The entire Elven race in Middle-earth had heard it, and even the Dwarves had been brought out from their rich caverns. Celebrimbor had started sending out small companies to quell minor raids on outlying towns in Eregion, and already those who had suffered orc attacks were coming into the city, alive and dead. The reports from the troops were always the same: complete destruction. This was Sauron’s goal.

But it could not be reached yet. An army was being assembled; anyone who did not wish to remain as ignorant to the danger as possible would realize that, and would prepare for it. Celebrimbor realized it, though he avoided coming face to face with it. All knew that Ost-in-Edhil was not completely defenseless, and thus many had much hope for the city, and Celebrimbor did his best to encourage this feeling. Most were more than willing to fight to defend their homes, and the lord of the city called all of the Elven men to take up arms. The forges around the city now worked only with iron and steel, and many craftsmen took up the sword – something they had not done in hundreds of years.

For over a year, the Lord of Eregion oversaw the preparation of his city for war. All of the faces he saw he tried to fix in his mind, and would hold them there, hoping to only ever see them again alive and well. By the early spring of 1697, as an unusually mild winter was coming to a close, one that had falsely led the Elves to a renewed hope, Ost-in-Edhil was feeling ready for any attack from a rabble of orcs.

No one had seen anything that could be called an army yet. Scouts had very little to report, and the quiet made Celebrimbor even uneasier. A few suggested that maybe there would be no war, that the small raids that they had suffered the past year were all there was, and as those had seemingly been put to an end, it was time for the city to return to its normal and more productive state. Few saw swords and shields as a sign of production like they did fine crafted jewelry and similar more beautiful creations.

But no one could help but look to the east, and wonder what lay beyond the Mountains of Mist, especially when the sun rose red from behind them. Celebrimbor was all but tormented by such images, seeing his city covered in blood in his dreams. He would walk through the city late at night, jumping at almost every shadow, his hand always at his belt, groping for a sword hilt that had not hung there for many years, and expecting an orc to jump out at him from behind every building and outcrop. Maegisil often stood out on the small balcony on his home, and saw the dark, frightened figure of his lord on the street below, and every time, Celebrimbor noticed his gaze. Neither dared to call out, each not wanting the other to know that they could find no rest, as they both saw their fear as weakness.

But though his despair was deep, Celebrimbor was glad and very grateful to the Elves of Lorien who were willing to fight for a land that was not their own. He was gladdened to see that the Elves were still united against the Enemy, and felt that if such remained the case, there was no way they could be destroyed. An Elven lord would always rule somewhere in Middle-earth.

He had met with the Lord Celeborn and the commander of the Lorien contingent, Eldegon. The Dwarves who had escorted them and the Lord of Lorien had returned to his forest home, both wanting to be with their people if Sauron’s destruction began to spread beyond Eregion, but Celebrimbor was very glad to have Eldegon and his troops, all skilled, determined, and loyal.

He had met several of these troops personally, and he tried to recall as many names and faces as he could. The names Vaele and Gilduin both stuck out in his mind, particularly the latter, the standard bearer. There were so many of these soldiers that he knew the names of, had spoken with…he was so determined not to let them die, though he knew that there would be little he could do. But his own life was not on his mind, only his obligation to his people. Thus was he able to harden himself, and save his tears for when he was alone.

Then, the torturing calm before the storm came to and end, and all fears were suddenly more real, as scouts returned, barely able to speak, with a new report. The army had been seen on the borders of Eregion itself. They saw orcs, easterlings, and all manner of strange creatures by the thousands, the tens of thousands…they did not know. And though Elgedon, who Celebrimbor had appointed as the military commander of the defense, demanded a more detailed report from the scouts, the elf-lord had heard enough.

He dismissed them, glancing at Maegisil to see that fear was also in his eyes, though there was no surprise. The Lord of Eregion held onto his composure for a few more moments, instructing Maegisil to accompany Commander Elgedon and call a council, the first official council Celebrimbor could remember holding in almost a decade. Alone, he closed his eyes to see hundreds of familiar faces, empty and lifeless, and he shook with fear.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The bright sun through Artamir's closed eyelids gave a deep red-tint illumination to the darkness of his eyes, his head tilted slightly towards it like the petals of a delicate flower. Once more, the young soldier was reclining somewhat precariously on the city walls, head propped up by his rolled-up cloak, one knee casually raised and one loose hand hanging somewhat dangerously down on the outside of the wall - one hand venturing out of Ost-in-Edhil's boundaries, and most of his mind venturing away with it as he dozed in the sunlight on his precarious perch like a sleepy cat...

"You again? You young scruff, tell me: what do you actually spend your days doing, besides cluttering the place? Any chance of any work being done, or is it all play for-”

Artamir initially started, sitting bolt-upright like a sleeper waking from a nightmare, before he recognised the face that went with the mocking voice – Leneslath, his voice deepened so as to mock their commander, but on his shoulder, the early morning sun glinting off them smartly, his new officer’s stripes were anything but fake. Maybe war had not yet broken, but already the pot-shots taken by the orcs and wild men were paying, Eregion was counting her casualties, and their guilty subordinates were rising into the shoes of dead men. Such dark thoughts were far from Artamir’s mind though as he relaxed, sitting back against the parapet against which he had been resting earlier. “Ah, hush, Captain Windbag; I am not due on watch yet. Not ‘til second watch…” he sighed lazily and shrugged himself more comfortably against the cold stone as into a goose-feather mattress.

“Captain Windbag nothin’. And this is second watch, you great lazy lummox; unlike some, I am not in the habit of hanging around the sentry posts for fun.”

“Lummox yourself,” Artamir muttered petulantly, opening his eyes into narrow slits, the whites glittering brightly as he glared balefully at the older elf. Finally conceding, he swung his lithe legs wearily off the wall and stretched his arms and shoulders up and back as if unaware of the perilous drop not half a foot behind him. Lenesltath didn’t take the bait by flinching towards him as he usually did – the young officer was more naturally a foot soldier and wasn’t exactly overfond of the heights with which Artamir was so at ease with and so gleefully teased him – and instead leant the unfurled standard he had been carrying against the wall and took off the pack he had been carrying, kneeling down to fish efficiently inside it for something or other. From a foot above him, Artamir looked down, his head cocked to one side as he blinked, still clearing sleep from his eyes. “I thought I was on watch with that grouch Tereborn this morning? Forget not a morning person, that boy isn’t even a…a life person—”

“He’s ill, Artamir.” Something about the way Leneslath’s hands paused and the tone in which he said the words made Artamir stop, taken aback. His friend looked up, biting his lip, a gesture that made him look even younger. “The villagers who came in last night brought their dead with them, or as many as they could carry. Seems that…that the dead bodies were a little older.”

Artamir grimaced, nodding and wishing he had chosen a better wording for his previous supposedly-humorous sentence. Despite the occasional casualties among the citizens of Ost-in-Edhil, those who lived in the villagers that sprawled for miles around the great city were far worse off, and the exodus of villagers from the countryside into the Ost-in-Edhil more than made up for the losses – much more. Even the affluent, well-spaced city was becoming crowded, and where there is crowding, even a hint of sickness spreads fast…

Squinting up at Artamir against the sun, Leneslath changed the subject to a hopefully less depressing topic for such a bright morning. “But what about you; you have been sat here since…when? Do you just live here now?” he teased with a grin. Artamir returned the gesture, but his smile was a little sad as he raised a hand to try to smooth down his dark hair. “Maybe, maybe!” he replied with a somewhat rueful laugh. Leneslath frowned, giving him an odd smile, but didn’t speak, bidding him with his silence to continue. Artamir sighed and jumped down from the wall, turning to face the rising sun, now hanging some way in the sky, although the moon was still visible in the West. “My father is spending more time with his platoon, and my mother more time still either in her forge or with Lord Celebrimbor. And when they are both together…” Artamir paused, looking at his fingers as he curled them almost protectively into fists. He shook his head, looking up once more into the sun, then sun shining boldly onto his handsome face. His friend nodded, rising from his knees and standing just behind the other. “I understand,” he replied quietly. He shrugged, although the gesture was lost on Artamir. “Both your parents are needed, now that—”

“I know, I know. But when they spend so much time away, and then finally when they come together…” the younger elf interrupted abruptly, his fingers tightening. His face softened once more as he straightened out his long fingers slowly over the stone, the surface smoothed from years of the hands and boots of bored sentries. He half turned to face Leneslath. “I wish I knew what was happening. I wish I could help.”

The other elf nodded, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder; he knew that Artamir was not only speaking with regard to the strain that had been put on his own family by the plight of the city. When Eregion they were sworn to protect seemed to be entering such dark times, yet everyone seemed afraid to openly declare the inevitable… Leneslath gave Artamir an awkward, comforting pat. “I know how you feel, Artamir,” he said softly. “Everyone does now.”

~*~

Not one hundred metres away but invisible to her son, hidden as she was once more in her forge, Narisiel was also caught up in thoughts of her family. Leaning against the door, looking out under the eaves of the holly bush that remained flourishing around the entrance, her arms folded, she stared up at the walls, imagining the whereabouts of her small family, where they could be, what they were doing. Nowadays she didn’t always know. During the days she was away in her forge, meeting with others of her own profession as they, with the rest of the city, made practical preparations for the unspoken war; going to the palace to speak with Celebrimbor; or just sitting here, on her own, wishing, wishing so hard that there was only something more that she could do. But it was not only the strain on the city that had recently caused Narisiel’s unhappiness…

A sharp, shouted command from the archery practise ground not far from the smith’s workshop caused her to turn slightly, so appropriately fitting in with the object of her thoughts as it did.

Sirithlonnior.

Ever since the forging of the rings, when the betrayal had become evident and Narisiel had shyed away from Celebrimbor and his household, separating herself from the Lord of Ost-in-Edhil in hopes of unravelling herself from the whole sorry business, her husband had supported her in her decisions, and had himself become more remote from Celebrimbor; the two men had once been good friends, but the distance of one hundred years and Narisiel’s broken trust had stretched between them. And in that time, although her mind sometimes did come back to dwell on the rings, the pair had been happy, had flourished, had had they precious son…

But now, ever since Narisiel had begun to work more closely with Celebrimbor once more, another distance had grown, this time between herself and Sirith: as she and her Lord became closer, she and her husband seemed to drift further apart. And bridging the distance seemed so hard now… She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the memory of last night’s argument, a row in the aftermath of which she had left silently in the morning without waking Sirith, a row in which he had said things, thrown about accusations, which he would no doubt wish to take back later, but which seemed to hurt all the more even for that.

“Remember what he did to you before, Narisiel, remember how he dropped you into such a dangerous business – do you want to get into that again?”

“A dangerous—?! For gods’ sakes, Sirith, doesn’t that seem a little rich coming from a soldier?”

“That’s what I do, Narisiel! That is my job! At least I'm honest about it, I’m not the one working under alterior motives—”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I am wondering whether it isn’t so much the draw of Celebrimbor’s counsel that is taking my wife from me, but maybe the great Lord himself…”

Narisiel squeezed her eyes tight shut, forcing back the tears that she had cried silently onto her pillow last night after she had left the room without another word, hounded by her husband’s all-too-belated apologies. Words spoken in spite may exaggerate feelings, dramatise and dress up what is not there, but sometimes, maybe more often than not, they reveal the true feelings, opinions that have brooded and festered under the surface and now explode like a filthy wound, leaving so much hurt to both parties in their wake. Did her husband truly believe what he had said? How could he think that…

“Good morning, Narisiel.”

The smith’s eyes flew open wide abruptly as her head snapped around to face Maegisil. She relaxed: the voice had surprised her from her thoughts, but her fellow counsellor had become more of a friend in recent years. Both of them kept their silences on many things, but nevertheless they were able to talk, and to laugh. Now, looking at other elf, a man who would not judge her and who knew her just well enough to confide in, Narisiel felt her worries bubbling up, needing a release… But they would have to wait for a while, it seemed; Maegisil’s expression was grave.

“A council has been called, Narisiel; Lord Celebrimbor wishes you, and the others, to come to the palace as soon as possible.”

“A council?” Narisiel straightened up, surprise written on her pale face. “An official council? What has provoked this?” Maegisil did not immediately answer, and the sense of foreboding in Narisiel’s chest began to grow. “Maegisil?” she pressed. “What is it?”

The other did not reply for a moment, looking up at the walls where the sentries, oblivious, made small talk as they watched the horizon for the threat that would all too soon come; where Narisiel’s so-precious son was growing up, a soldier, threatened by a danger that Narisiel herself had helped to create. When he looked back, after a moment’s silence, his solemn eyes confirmed her fear. “The enemy’s army,” he replied simply. “They have been sighted.”

The elven smith stared at him for a moment then, without further ado, she fumbled to undo the sturdy leather apron and, with the female elf still wearing her workman’s clothes, the pair made for the palace as quickly as possible.

[Mithalwen]

Like Artamir, Losrian was sitting high on the city walls tucked in a niche. Her life had changed rather in the past months and it seemed to her that this was one of the few places one could breathe freely and she was protected from any stray arrows by over a foot of pale stone. Despite the sun she was glad of her cloak as she ate her habitual midday meal of bread and cheese and watched the people milling around the city.

So many people now... her own household had doubled in size. Laswen's parents had arrived from the outlands. They would have come anyway for the birth of their grandson but with the danger increasing they were also refugees. Losrian had yielded her chamber in the house to them and now slept in a tiny room - part of the loft above her brother's workshop.

She was not sorry for all activity in the house now revolved around her tiny nephew. While he was adorable the constant baby worship got a bit much for Losrian... especially when he was newborn she hadn't understood how the others could just look at him for hours - it wasn't as if he did anything apart from gurgle and wave his tiny fists in the air. Oh,and pull her hair - for some reason the infant had seemed to find her silver tresses so much more appealing than the dark ones of his parents. Part of her wondered if such focus on the child was normal or if it was enhanced by the desire to think of anything but the approaching menace. The child had been named Galmir by his father but his mother name was the bleak, if realistic, Dagorion - scion of battle.

Now just on a year old Galmir was more entertaining but also more demanding as he toddled about engaging the adults in his childish prattle. Losrian was content to return to the house only for mealtimes. Laswen's parents had brought as much of their stores and stock as they could and they were fitted in wherever possible - part of the workshop was a makeshift byre and the rest of Losrian's loft was filled with grain and so forth. many of the outland dwellers had done likewise and the city seemed bursting with people and beasts, all feeling the tension of the storm that approached, a powderkeg that was waiting to explode.

Losrian filled her days with activity. She had fewer domestic tasks but there was plenty of work for the smiths. She could not even guess now how many scores of arrows she had crafted - for the past few months it had not been a question of developing her skills but putting such that she possessed to best use. And she kept up her archery, now using a longbow to match her stature - a coming of age gift from her brother. It had been a slightly incongruous gift - especially as that day Losrian had looked "like a lady not a tomboy" in the dress that Laswen had crafted - but it was one they all feared she would need.

[Firefoot]

Life since the passage of the Misty Mountains had not been going well for Grimkul and Ulwakh. In fact, this was the worst life had ever been since their enslavement to Mordor several years back. Ulwakh regretted it every day that he had not taken Grimkul up on his suggestions of fleeing; even Grimkul understood that there was no chance of that now. Kharn made sure of it.

Kharn made sure of a lot of things. He made sure that if an example needed to be made, the example was either Grimkul or Ulwakh (usually Grimkul). He made sure that they were always strapped with the worst of the camp duties when there were duties to be done. He made sure that the frustrated Grimkul never got his way with any Orc who, knowing that Kharn would indirectly protect him, took advantage of either of them. And if Grimkul did put a foot out of line… there was always the whip. He wouldn’t actually kill either of them – Grimkul in particular was useful on the front lines, and besides, Kharn enjoyed the bit of sport. And if the Captain asked… well, Kharn could always say that they had been causing trouble. Such was not unheard of from Grimkul. Not that he regretted his past actions; he mostly just wanted to add Kharn to his list of conquests.

Only occasionally were Grimkul and Ulwakh able to temporarily escape Kharn’s notice in the bustle and confusion of camp, and these times were a blessed relief.

Kharn had not forgiven Grimkul the embarrassment of being put into such a vulnerable position in front of the rest of the troops, and he wasn’t going to let Grimkul forget it. So almost daily, Grimkul’s infuriation and humiliation grew, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. The instant he had the chance, he would put a knife in Kharn’s back… except he never seemed to have the chance. Not a good one, anyway; Ulwakh had always dissuaded him for if he were to kill the second-in-command, Grimkul would be killed, too. So Grimkul was stuck biding his time until he got an opportunity in which he could pass off the killing as either as an accident or “someone else did it.”

And Ulwakh needed Grimkul as much as, if not more than, ever. His leg had never really healed, and he still walked with a slight limp. The wound might seem to be finally healed, only to open up again after a hard day’s march. More often than not, the open wound became infected. This repeated process had left his calf little more than a dark mass of tough, scabby skin. And once more, Kharn was no help: during the marches, Kharn became quite free with the whip when Grimkul and Ulwakh were stuck near the back, and by the frequency with which the whip hit his leg, Ulwakh figured he aimed for it.

Life was a misery, and the only respites had been village raids, when all Orkish cruelty was turned towards the Elvish settlements of Eregion. Each village was raided, pillaged, and plundered, and any inhabitants they found were cruelly killed. Then the villages were burned to the ground, nothing left but ashes. Grimkul took a moment to reminisce over the last such village, two days previous. They had been fortunate; the Elves living there had not already fled as in some other villages. He smiled maliciously recalling the terrified screams of the children and the horror and helplessness etched out in their Elvish faces. The villages had all been too small to give real fight, and Orkish casualties were minimal.

He knew that this last village was one of the last that they would destroy; even he was not so dull-witted as to not realize that the company was hastening south with increasing speed, and Ulwakh had gathered that they were going to meet a much larger army, one to quash the great Elvish city. Small raids weren’t the objective any more; the Dark Lord wanted greater conquests. So while Grimkul hoped there would be at least one more raid, Ulwakh doubted there would be.

Grimkul was startled out of his pleasant memories by Ulwakh’s hiss, “He’s coming!” This was one of those nights where the two of them had managed to steal away from Kharn’s attention, and whether he was just wandering this way or if he was looking for them, neither wanted to find out. They quickly picked up and moved in the other direction, into the heart of the camp. They settled in, inconspicuous among the other Orcs. Grimkul’s murderous gaze never left the second-in-command, though. Ulwakh might be content to play hide-and-seek, but as for Grimkul… One of these days, he promised himself. One of these days, Kharn would wish that he had left Ulwakh and him alone.

[CaptainofDespair]

A bedraggled horse slowly passed by the lines of soldiers, and they stood in silence, alert and fearful. It had been a hard ride for Angoroth, but it was necessary. Everything was necessary now. Another horse, though slightly smaller, trotted up beside the Dark Lord’s servant. The Easterling captain charged with bringing the army to Eregion, was ever fearful, more so than any of his men, for a great burden was rested upon his shoulders.

“Milord, the army is assembled, and prepared to march to the City.”

“I can see that, Captain,” was the monotonous, and yet angered response from the Commander of Mordor’s Armies. “You are also late, Captain. You were to have arrived here three days ago.”

“I know, milord. But, we were del…” His response was cut off by a simple gesture from the black armored Commander. “I do not want excuses. You were given a relatively simple task. You failed. And failure is rewarded in only one way, Captain.” Another gesture from the Maiar summoned up a squad of horsemen, who escorted the ex-commander from the presence of his lord. Turning to one of the other horsemen, who remained behind to receive further orders for the execution of the captain, Angoroth spoke. “You, lieutenant, are the new captain. Do not fail me.”

*~*

The army had marched only a few more miles into Eregion, and had now set up a large, bustling camp only a two day march from Ost-in-Edhil. Reinforcements arrived daily, they were reserves intended to depart with the army, but could not be mustered in time. Scouts were also being dispatched, to locate Elven resistance forces outside the city, and to locate forward expeditions; orcs and men sent months ahead of the main force to cause havoc and pave the way for the main battle group.

Word now reached Angoroth that a sizeable force of orcs was just arriving in the camp, one that had been out raiding and pillaging in recent weeks. His new captain now reported this to him, with great angst, for he knew the mind of his commander, and his thoughts on Orcs. “Milord, a large contingent of orcs has arrived in the camp. They are seeking accommodations, and they wish to join our battle force.” Angoroth rose up from his chair, from which he had spent many hours in quiet contemplation, and addressed his underling. “It’s as if we didn’t have enough of that rabble.” Sighing, he finished his thought, “Very well, send them to the western palisade with all the other orcs.” The captain nodded eagerly, bowed, and casually left the presence of his commander, careful to not show too much fear.

The hustle and bustle of the large camp was a welcome sight to most of the arriving orcs, who much desired rest and food. The orc leadership, save for a few who were needed to sort their troops, was escorted to meet with their new commander. The Easterling captain, whom Angoroth did not yet know the name of, presented them in proper fashion to his master. “Milord,” piped up the captain, “these are the orcs who have led much of the havoc of the past few weeks in Eregion.” He paused, allowing his lord to scan the motley group. “They are, in order of rank, Glûtkask and Kharn, both of whom led the forces against the Witch’s Elves, milord.” Angoroth, with his barbute helm obscuring his face, only nodded and uttered a short message. “Thank you, captain. You may return to your duties.” The captain bowed, and retreated at his dismissal.

With the departure of his captain, Angoroth was left alone with the new orcs. Masking his disgust for the creatures, he began a sort of dialogue with them. “I am Angoroth, the Hand of Sauron, tasked with the destruction of Eregion. Whatever your orders were prior to this, they are to be forgotten. Only mine are to be followed.” The orcs muttered and nodded grimly. “Excellent. Now, rest yourselves, for war comes soon.”

[Envinyatar]

Through the great forests to Tharbad and turning northward to Ost-in-edhil - Spring 1697 S.A.

‘The trees seem fewer here than I remember,’ Ondomirë said, shifting in his saddle to look about the forest. ‘Were they not thick as a lamb’s wool in the winter? At least, that is how I remember them. But then that was long ago, before the seas rose and swallowed fair Beleriand.’ He narrowed his eyes and looked through the well spaced trees. ‘What has happened here, I wonder?’

One of his bowmen, one with as many years as himself, rode up beside him. ‘Men!’ he spat out. ‘Men are what has happened here. How Lord Elrond’s brother can have chosen them is beyond me.’ Ondomirë looked at him curiously. ‘How so?’ he asked, wondering at the vehemence in the Elf’s voice.

‘There were once small enclaves of men who lived near these forests. The forest met their needs. Animals for food; wood for shelter and for warmth. And they in turn respected the gifts, taking only what was needed and with thanks.’ The Elf paused, shaking his head at his thoughts. ‘Now those men whom the Valar have favored with Elenna have traveled in their great ships back to these shores. Their navy is great; they are hungry for wood. And their little island cannot supply such grand trees as these and in such number to satisfy their needs.’ The Elf’s chin lifted slightly, his eyes shifting to some backlit shadow that moved in the distance. ‘Look there, sir,’ he murmured.

It was tall, very tall, Ondomirë thought. Moving with an easy grace, the shadow moved close to one of the trees. It’s head, seeming crowned with leaves and branches, bent near the tree’s own crown, and sinewy arms with long slender fingers touched something on the bark. For a moment the two were still, the tree and creature, then crown and head dew apart from each other. Turning sideways in a measured movement, the tall creature pulled back, disappearing in a few long strides beneath the further canopy of trees.

‘Was that what I think it was,’ he asked, his eyes lit with a deeper wonder. ‘I had heard of them but only in vague tales and those from some of our woodland kin.’ He looked quickly at the Elf beside him. ‘Not to offend by the use of that term . . . woodland. It is only that they have such an interesting and varied set of stories they tell about the places where they dwell. Much of which I have had no experience of.’

‘No offense taken, my captain,’ the other Elf said, his brows raised at the quick apology by Ondomirë. ‘We are fond of stories . . . we woodland kin,’ he went on, a grin crinkling his eyes. ‘And yes, that is what you think it is. One of the Onodrim, shepherding his trees, caring for them as he might.’ He looked upward to where the taller trees fingered the morning sky. ‘There is still a great peace and harmony here among them. Yet on the edges of their thoughts it seems a sort of fear has grown. Fear and some brewing hatred. Though not against us, I think. There is still some recognition of the Eldar. But suspicion hovers in the shadows and they are not as welcoming as they might be.’

The leafy branches of a nearby tree brushed his shoulder as they rode by. Ondomirë repressed a small gasp as some ancient awareness flitted at the corners of his mind. ‘Pardon my intrusion,’ he said, nodding at the branch he had ridden into. The other Elf laughed, watching as his captain nodded courteously toward the tree. ‘Why, sir, you would make a most capable woodland Elf . . . what with your courteous ways and your quick mind!’

For a space of time, the two companions rode together, Ondomirë picking the other’s mind as they went along. The forest took on a life of its own with the words of the other Elf. And Ondomirë wondered at it as he looked upon the trees and their lands with fresh eyes.

A number of weeks passed as the large company continued its eastward trek, nearing the River Gwathló. There was a crossing there, at one of the mannish towns, Tharbad. They would skirt the town and cross further south at a deeper ford, then head north toward the Mirdain city. Three weeks, Ondomirë thought, and probably a bit longer. Lord Elrond would want to spend a few days resting his troops and consulting with his captains. Scouts would have to be sent out; the approach to the city looked at. The enemy’s movements taken into account . . .

[Durelin]

On their way to the palace, Maegisil tried to inform Narisiel of the most recent events, speaking more hurriedly than he usually did, as well as more casually, being on much more familiar terms with the elf woman than in the past. Over the past year and a half or so, he had come to regard her as a friend. He had no idea if she shared this feeling of friendship, but they spent some time together. He had been worried that Sairien would take his associating himself with another woman the wrong way, but she had yet to say anything of that sort. Narisiel and Sairien had met before, and his wife seemed to get along with her quite well.

You’ve never asked, though, have you?

He quickly disregarded this thought, knowing it was for another time, but knowing also in the back of his mind that he had been putting off so many things, particularly surrounding his wife. But no one could have known from his voice that so many things troubled him.

“Lord Celebrimbor has been completely silent the past few days, and this news has only made him worse. I’ve asked him what he wanted done, but he didn’t say more than three words to me until today. And still, he talks very little. But that is why I hurried so to get to you. He’s finally called for council, and if we slow down at all…” Maegisil trailed off, having too many words to choose from.

“He might change his mind…” Narisiel said, finishing his thought.

“And he might not ask for any help again,” he added gravely, “which he needs.”

Narisiel nodded, and Maegisil went back to watching his feet moving quickly below him. He picked up the pace a little bit, his feeling of urgency increasing as he recalled events before he departed from the palace, picturing the fear he had observed in the faces of all those present. The Lord Celebrimbor had tried to hide his fear, and perhaps to those who did not know him so well, such as the scouts and Commander Elgedon, he appeared quite calm. But Maegisil had seen immense distress on his lord’s face, though the elf-lord’s whole demeanor had been tainted with sadness and stress for many years now. The counselor recalled a different Celebrimbor from long ago.

“I’ve almost forgotten how Celebrimbor used to smile and laugh with my wife and I at dinner, when I would never have dreamed of being called a ‘counselor,’” Maegisil said after they had walked in silence for a few moments. He spoke more slowly and cautiously, unsure of himself and of confiding in Narisiel; not because she was not a friend to him, but because he often got needlessly embarrassed about sharing anything at all personal. He had always been that way, even with his wife, which he knew frustrated her to no end. Sairien had always gotten him to open up in the end, though. At least, she had in the past.

Narisiel looked at Maegisil, and, catching his eye for a moment, said, “So have I. Almost.”

She smiled slightly, and her companion could not help but smile back. But the two fell into silence again, each with a head crowded with thoughts, walking as quickly as they could without making fools of themselves in the city streets. No one spoke until they reached the palace, and they merely exchanged surprised glances when Taurnil met them in the entrance hall and said he was to lead them to Celebrimbor’s chambers. Maegisil had expected that the lord would hold a council in the great Hall, inviting all of his various counselors and courtiers to inform them of the situation. But it seemed that councils, courtrooms, banquets, and performances were things completely of the past in Ost-in-Edhil. The Hall of the palace had not seen more than about five people for many years. The forges were the only things that had not gone silent.

The two found the Lord of Eregion sitting in a large, ornate wooden chair, looking gloomy, pensive, and worried, and yet still quite regal. Maegisil paused in front of the door, tucking away the image of his lord in his mind. He was not sure why he did so, but suddenly he felt that he could almost cry. But then the moment passed, and he stepped forward into the room, looking around him. Commander Elgedon had returned, and one of the scouts from earlier was standing behind and slightly to the right of where he sat on one of the couches, but other than that…

“Yes, Maegisil, this is the ‘council’ I have called,” Celebrimbor said in a weary voice; he had read the look on his friend’s face. The counselor felt a twinge of pain and sadness, hurt slightly by his lord’s tone. Narisiel did not seem happy with the elf-lord’s attitude, either. Maegisil noticed her glare at him, even if he didn’t.

“Well, if this is who you wish to aid you in a time of war, then so be it,” Maegisil said simply, meaning every word of it. Celebrimbor seemingly ignored him, turning to Narisiel. “So he dragged you into this, as well?”

“I thought that was your wish,” Maegisil cut in, sounding a little indignant, but the lord silenced him with a gesture and continued.

“I am sorry that what we did has come to this. To think that a few rings could have brought Eregion to an end…my glory to an end… It has brought me to an end.”

His words and the tone in which he spoke frightened his two friends, and Elgedon eyed the elf-lord with great concern. Celebrimbor had done what Maegisil had been afraid he would do for the past two years: he had given in. And for a moment, the counselor wondered if his lord had not given in to Sauron over a century ago.

[Arry]

Khazad-Dum . . . Spring 1697 S.A.

Patrols went out more often now, and no longer just into the area beyond the East Gate. Now the Orcs and other dark creatures were roaming in the land beyond the West Gate, too. Guards had been set to keep watch ere Sauron’s minions came too close to the gates. And Durin’s Tower now was kept fortified against any intrusions from that direction.

With the lengthening of the shadow from the east, Skald had returned to those early skills taught him by his father. The forging of iron tips for arrows, the barbed tips for oaken lances – these filled his days now. His skills for engraving on stone were put aside; the chisels wrapped in soft leather, the hammers all hung neatly from their hooks. There was armor, too, to be made. Thick helms lined with leather were to be proof against the cudgels and swords of the Orcs. Chainmail, greaves, and vambraces. Metal coverings for the small wooden shields that would hang on the stout arms of the Dwarven warriors.

Swords and long-knives were an altogether different set of skills. One which Skald had not sought to learn. At the Steeledge forge where he was bound this morning with a load of fine iron bars from the Stonecut smelter, he knew he would find Oren manning the bellows for his brothers as they plunged the cold iron into the red coals and brought it out again to be laid on the long anvil and beaten thin, and reheated, and folded and beaten again under the stern eye of their father, Nori. Sharp, serviceable blades would emerge at last, fastened to sturdy grips. Double edged and hefty enough to slice through the neck of a filthy Orc with one swipe.

He’d declined Oren’s offer to make him a sword, saying that it was still the axe that fit best in his hand. ‘A sword will only make me more likely to get cut down,’ he told his friend. ‘Even a sword a finely made as those by your family, still it would take some sort of magic for it to be of any use to me.’ He clenched his fist as if closing it about the thick wooden handle of his axe. ‘A mattock or my pole-axe and I’ll hew down Orcs as easily as a sharp knife cuts butter.’

Skald made his good-byes and headed back toward his family’s workplace. ‘Remember,’ he called back to the Steeledge men, ‘tomorrow evening, there’s to be a gathering in our Hall. My father is tapping the kegs of ale he’s been brewing this last month. Riv and Bror brought in two deer that we’ll be roasting; Unna’s baking bread . . . you can bring what’s needed to fill in the corners of your appetite.’ He grinned at Oren’s father. ‘Your wife’s dried apple pie would be a most welcome addition to my trencher!’ With a last wave, he turned down the hall and headed homeward at a quick pace.