Fall of the North RPG

[Saurreg]

Belegorn tilted his head back and regarded the ceiling of the underground hall in awe. He raised his torch in a vain attempt to illuminate the ceiling but quickly recognized the futility of his insignificant act. Unless a towering scaffold was erected and a wide brimmed cauldron of flaming oil placed on it, there was no way he could scrutinize the dwavern rock carvings with adequate lighting.

Great were the crafts of the masters of stone, thought Belegorn admiringly as he continued to view the inspiring works of art above him, turning his head this way and that like a tourist in a strange but wonderful place.

“Magnificent!” The wide-eyed man remarked aloud idly to himself, “Simply magnificent!”

A shrill and youthful voice chirped excitingly,

“My lord Lieutenant! The exploration party has been assembled. Twenty men strong as ordered ssarrr!”

Belegorn shuddered as the nasal voice cracked at the last noun. He looked towards its source, eyes squinting and mildly irritated by one as audacious as to interrupt his private moment of awe and contemplation. The messenger turned out to be a red-cropped, pimpled faced youth, short and skinny. He looked at belegorn in a pleased manner and smiled cheekily. But this boy wasn’t any errand boy of the moment, scampering to deliver a message to the most ferocious man in the vicinity for a token or two. This was a boy clad in an ill-fitting leather hauberk and brandishing a blunt twin-edged blade. The youth saw that Belegorn was eyeing him and his crooked grin drew even wider.

“We should leave now sir!” The youngster exclaimed with unbridled, unnatural glee.

Belegorn was less enthusiastic. First things first,

“Egad! How old are you boy? What are you doing with a sword? Don’t you have other toys to play with?”

The boy recoiled as if caught in surprise by a poisonous snake. He quickly recovered his composure and replied haughtily, “The name’s Nevhith, son of Torgar! I will be turning fourteen next spring, sir. And this… This is no toy! I was invited into the king’s army this morning and this is my weapon. I will kill orcs with it! Hah!”

He swung his sword menacingly through the air to emphasize his point before adopting a stance that he thought would exemplify his battle-readiness. Belegorn thought he looked like a frog, armed with an extra large tooth-pick…

‘********************


Belegorn waked slowly pass the assembled men, scrutinizing each face intently. The soldiers were adorned in light chain mail shirts and heavy cloaks. Aside from their swords and daggers, they would be carrying no other weapon for what they were about to embark on was a mission of exploration and not battle. Possibilities of encounters with the enemy were slight, or so claimed by the king’s agents who planned this bizarre mission.

Whoever heard of food hunts in an underground series of deserted caves?

As Belegorn brushed pass each face, he could smell the odor of dried perspiration and multitudes of bandaged wounds gone funky. The men stared passively ahead, well drilled in ways of military ceremony and discipline, but the lieutenant knew only too well that they were all dying to scratch themselves in the most awkward of places. Nevhith son of Torgar grinned, Belegorn ignored him. All the men of the severely reduced Rearguard were already injured in one way or another and these few together with some militia volunteers were the remaining ones capable of and bearing arms. Not the most pleasing to the eye, but they would have to do.

Resigned to fate, rather than being pleased, Belegorn cleared his throat dramatically and addressed the troops,

“Men! This mission comes from the King himself! We are to venture into the lower levels of this dwarven stronghold and to seek out whatever resources that are of use to us and appropriate them. But leave any sarcophagus or burial ground alone! The last things I want are stunted specters chasing us!”

Belegorn paused for effect but no one took the bait, his attempt at humor failed miserably. He droned on,

“The caves and tunnels are dark and slippery so watch your footing. Torches to spare are limited so stick close to one another and look out for more on the mission.”

Finished with his address, Belegorn ordered eight of the men in the front row to pry open the metal doors that led to the destination of their supposed objectives. The men grunted and strained before the twin doors finally creaked and moaned before parting. A cold draft blew into the hall and torches flicked.

Belegorn was the first to enter.

[alaklondewen]

The last few weeks had passed by as quickly as the ground had passed under the hooves of Ereglin's mount. The Elf did not remember much of the dreary, monotonous days, as a fog had continued to cloud his mind. Part of the problem came from the poison to which he had been exposed (it took a couple of days after his rescue for its effects to wear away), but mostly he was grief-stricken. The death of both of his young guards had been a terrible blow to Ereglin. It had been their duty to protect him…he knew this, but they had not lived long enough to truly enjoy the beauties that were bestowed on Middle Earth. This thought is what hurt him most, and he felt responsible for their demise. Rationally, he knew better, but his heart still bore the guilt.

The arrival of the refuges to Ered Luin had yet to raise his spirits. In fact, the Dwarven stronghold (however vast) felt oppressive to Ereglin. The stone was cold, and even though many torches were lit to illuminate the area…it was a far cry from the sun’s rays on a warm day. The Councilor wondered at the strangeness in the Dwarves’ concept of beauty. What a pity? He thought.

A pity? Ereglin was surprised when another thought answered his. It was Bethiril, who stood at his side as they readied themselves to be forced down the passages of the mines in search of food.

The Lindon emissary looked at her momentarily before cracking a smile. There are no windows.

The Imladris emissary’s melodious laugh pierced the tense air and brought several curious glances toward the Elves. Ereglin sighed. He had not heard laughter in too long a time, and it felt good to smile again. Although it did not last, as the Dunedain soldiers began moving the group along.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Bethiril was recovering slowly from the whole experience with the Orcs, although she had concern for Ereglin, the emissary from Lindon. After all, he had lost both his guards to their Orcish captors. A pity they had to die when they shouldn’t have. But Bethiril knew there was no turning back the slow yet ever-ticking hands of time.

What a pity. Bethiril started when she heard a reply. Perhaps the Sindar had read her mind. Yet when she looked at him, the emissary was looking not at her, but at the dark Dwarven hold.

A pity? Bethiril answered as she stopped beside him.

There are no windows. Bethiril could not help laughing aloud. After all the troubles this journey had brought them—to him especially—he still had mirth in his heart to joke. She saw Ereglin smile, an ominous spell broken.

The group began to move again. Bethiril wanted to find her fellow Noldo, but before they parted, she answered. But what would you need a window for? To gaze at the wonderful Dwarven architecture? She heard Ereglin chuckle as she walked to the back of the group. He perhaps understands my cause better than anyone here, she thought. A pity two Elves had to die to pay the price for that understanding.

[Nuranar]

Lissi hated the caves with a passion. She had lived all her life in the city, but the times she'd loved best had been out on the land around it. Even this wretched, fearful refugee life had a strange wonder to it: the fascination of wandering, of an ever-changing landscape, of being enclosed by nothing. Most of the people seemed to fear it, afraid of the very space and emptiness that soothed her. They liked the solid security of thick walls. Much good those did back in Fornost! she thought in disgust.

Space, freedom, the ability to see! Lissi didn't want to hide behind walls, she wanted to see what was coming and prepare - or go out and meet it on her own terms. But in these horrible holes in the ground, everything was changed. Everywhere the thick, soft darkness pressed in. A wandering torch might keep it at bay for a little space, but it was always there in the corners, ready to conquer again. The very size of the place worked against them: An army could hide in any of these massive halls, protected by the ominous dark. And they were to divide their forces (and get lost, most likely) and look for supplies? Brilliant, indeed! Lissi thought bitterly.

Casually, she glanced around. If anyone else felt her apprehensions, they were concealing it with great skill. Was she just paranoid? At least no one looked happy about what they were doing. No - take that back. That kid in uniform was far too excited. He would be a danger, to himself if not the whole group.

Despite the bitterness, her mind was trying to plan ahead. There was little she could do to organize their party; the soldiers should handle that, and even if they were incompetent they would not welcome her interference. Carthor could handle himself; he had already recovered his own arms and taken back the bladed stave she had brought from their house. He had not once mentioned rejoining the ranks, however. Instead, he spent most of his time with Lissi, riding beside her and trying to talk. Lissi did not want to repulse him, but she had been hurt so badly in the past she was afraid to open up to him. For now, theirs was an easy, warm, but superficial relationship.

Faerim - well, Faerim was still grieving for the Elves who had died. Her eldest son seemed so mature and so capable that she had come close to forgetting how young he really was. These were desperately hard times for anyone, but particularly for such a young man. Old enough to know his duty and able to carry it out, he lacked the knowledge and steadiness of greater maturity. And his affections, as much as he might have argued the point, still had the warmth and generosity of childhood. He was only just learning how much it could hurt to care for people. There was strength in him, though. Lissi knew he would be ready for whatever came.

And there was Brander. Lissi's gaze slid over to him, sitting silently against the wall near her. He had never been very communicative, but instinctively she knew how terribly it must hurt him, to be blind in this situation. Not only was he unable to help defend the group, he was a liability: Someone else had to take care of him especially. Lissi could not imagine how she would feel in Brander's place. She had done her best, though, teaching him to ride well, to understand what his horse was doing, even to follow her without being lead, using his ears and trusting his horse. But he had never responded or even thanked her. She knew Carthor's disappointment in him had deeply hurt Brander. He had certainly resisted all of Carthor's repentant overtures. Perhaps he was angry at her, too. Lissi shook her head. Perhaps he was forgetting - he wasn't the only one Carthor had hurt. But whatever happened, she had to take care of him. The club Faerim had brought back was still in their gear somewhere.

Their gear - Lissi hopped up quickly, then bent to Brander. "Come on, Brander," she said, smiling so he could hear the friendliness in her voice. "We need to get some things out of our gear." Her son rose carefully, holding an elbow away from his side. "Of course," he said. Lissi took the arm easily, thus able to guide him without trouble. They had worked out the system some little time ago, and it worked well.

Carthor was sharpening his sword not too far from their piled-up saddles and small heap of saddlebags and packs. Lissi knelt and rummaged through it, her hand pausing as it touched something smooth and cold, then moving on to find the club. "Here," she said, pressing it into Brander's hand. "Do you remember this?"

He smiled - very slightly, but it was there. "I do."

"You may need it, I think. Why don't you ask Faerim to show you how to use it? You might be able to work out some signals, too. He'll be better at that than me." She called Faerim over and left the two of them together.

Swiftly then she selected the most essential articles from the rest and filled the smallest pack. Last of all she slid out the short sword Faerim had given her. Finding a long strap among their gear, she cut it to size. With that and some narrower pieces of leather she rigged a makeshirt but effective swordbelt.

Swiftly Lissi stood to her feet and shook out her travel-stained skirts, then buckled the belted sword around her waist. She was glancing toward the boys when she surprised the look on Carthor's face. He was still sitting there, but grinning in surprise and admiration. And the gleam in his eye was reflected from no lantern. Lissi raised an eyebrow and winked coquettishly. Then she turned and walked away toward their sons, swishing her skirts.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim had been moving in a daze over the journey to Ered Luin, his eyes dull and his speech infrequent. The death of the two elves had hit him hard, as hard as if one of his own friends had died. But could he even have called Gaeredhel and Rosgollo his friends? They had remained distant and spoke little, and yet...and yet they had trusted him. They had gone behind the backs of every other Dunedan in the camp, but they had trusted Faerim.

Surely that stood for something?

Propped up against one of the stone walls, out of the way of the rest of the Dunedain, Faerim shifted uncomfortably in his half-lying position, staring at the ceiling high above with disinterested eyes. What did it matter now, what his relationship with the brothers had meant? They were gone now, passed into whatever peace elves believe in, whatever oblivion their souls transcended to...if they believed in souls, that is...

"We do," said a mellifluous voice from nearby, answering his thoughts aloud.

Faerim started and sat up, looking around at the owner of the voice, his hand on his sword although he had already recognised it: Erenor. The elf was sitting about a metre from Faerim, her hands clasped around one raised knee, watching him brightly as if she had been there all day, her cool grey eyes watching him as if studying some rare animal. He returned her gaze silently for a moment, then nodded courteously although suspicion flickered in his eyes: she had listened in to his thoughts, and it made him uncomfortable. However, he did not show his misgivings when he spoke. "Good day, Lady Erenor."

"The souls of elves go to the Halls of Manwe, Faerim; we do not simply pass into an oblivion." Erenor continued as if she had not heard the boy. "We go back to the the bossom of the Vala, the creators, and to our ancestors...." She trailed off wistfully, looking through Faerim, her gaze distant. Faerim watched her for a second, then looked away. "You listened in to my thoughts," he said shortly.

Erenor raised her eyebrows. "I did not 'listen in', Faerim," she replied sardonically. "I have just seen that look before in they eyes of those who grieve. Why is it that you grieve so for a pair who you barely knew, who did not share your generation, your interests, your race?"

Faerim did not answer. Erenor arched one eyebrow and Faerim looked sharply at her, angry at the uncaring action. "Do you not care that they are gone, Lady? They died fighting a battle brought about by your rescue-"

"-And similarly I fought in that battle, as did you, and a hundred other men." Erenor cut him off sharply.

"They saved your life, Erenor!" Faerim instantly regretted his angry outburst, his disrespect in calling her directly by her first name, in snapping at her: she was a lady, and an elf, and he suddenly felt his pitiful seventeen years shrink at those ageless, immortal eyes. He averted his gaze, looking at the ground. "Apologies, Lady, I did not mean to snap, I was-"

"I understand." Erenor replied shortly. Faerim flinched inwardly at the coldness in her voice, but when he looked back at her, she was watching him with her head on one side and a new, unexpected emotion in her eyes, a sort of interest, as if she had just found that this strange, rare animal really did have claws and was capable of caring for itself. She gave him a small smile as if reaching out to him. Her voice had a gentler note.

"When I said before elves believe is souls - believe was not the right word. We know that the fea of a slain elf is called to Mandos but after a while they are released to dwell in the realms of Bliss. Do not grieve overmuch for Rosgollo and Gaeredhel they are together an reunited with their kin who have gone before. They chose their path and knew the risk. Battle is a necessary evil, Faerim; No one would chose it - it is the fruit of the seeds of evil sown by Morgoth. Evil will not be eradicated until the world is remade. We have to fight it when we find it lest the world be entirely overgrown.

You should know this; you are of a line of warriors -as indeed am I . Loss of life of those near you has to be expected - although it may be harder for you than I. You are young and the fate of men is sundered from ours. Warfare is not something to delight in for its own sake but it may prevent a greater evil. Do not shy away from it - you have skill in battle, I have seen that."

The Dunedan youth looked surprised at the unexpected compliment, and couldn't help grinning back at her. Flicking his eyebrows up and down, he replied, "You weren't at all bad yourself, Lady."

Erenor laughed, and the sudden, joyful sound seemed to signify some sort of bond or alliance between she and Faerim, however distant. She gave him a sort of satisfied, appraising grin, nodding slowly. Rising in a fluid motion, she held out a hand and Faerim stood. Looking to where a group of men were gathered, the elf looked slightly disdainful. "My kin and I were called to join that motley group in some exploration of the tunnels. You are no doubt expected to join them: some of them appear several summers younger than yourself even."

Faerim sighed and nodded, looking sidelong at the group, led by Belegorn. "Times have become rather desperate for the Dunedain," he murmured softly, his voice older than his years, and Erenor gave him a curious glance.

She thought for a moment and rummaged among her belongings. Anyone who had bothered to notice such things would have noticed that they had increased somewhat from the small pack she had borne from the evacuation. She handed Farim a cloth wrapped bundle which contained a mail shirt and a dagger. The youth started when he recognised them as belonging to the dead elvish guards. "Don't be squeamish - they need them no longer - I think they would approve

Bending to retrieve his sword and sheath, Faerim buckled the belt around his slim waist and stifled a yawn: sleepless nights had left him tired, like many of the travellers. Reaching out, he took Erenor's gifts with utmost care, as if they were more precious and rare than the finest stones mined from these caves throughout the years. The mail felt strangely solid in his hands, and their heaviness surprised him, although of course it made sense: where mannish chainmail was concerned it was deceptively light, of course, but the elves...they had seemed magical, weightless. A foolish concept, Faerim thought wryly, turning the mail in his hands. Gaeredhel and Rosgollo were as solid as you. More so, probably. In that moment, the childish magic of the elves that Faerim had imagined died a little - and his understanding increased. Stowing the folded chainmail in one pocket of his coat, he attached the fine dagger onto his belt, on his right side. Feeling strangely reassured by the heaviness in his pocket, Faerim looked once more up at Erenor. "Thank you, my lady," he said softly. She smiled back and inclined her head, and with that, started briskly towards the group led by Belegorn.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

She finally found Erenor, who had just finished talking to a Dúnadan youth. It was the one had joined in the mission to rescue them from the Orcs. He looked at the boy, who was even now putting on a sheath around his waist. Even the youth we arm now? she thought. What is Middle-earth coming to? She approached the lad.

“I have not thanked you yet . . .” she stopped, having forgotten his name.

“Faerim, m’lady.” He grinned, then bowed. He still had the gangling awkwardness of a teenager. And yet he volunteered to join war-hardened Elves into an Orc camp. Perhaps, like any young man, he thought himself to be untouchable by death.

“How old are you, Faerim?” the emissary asked. The lad stared down, and he began to scratch the ground with his foot. He seemed uneasy at the question.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim looked down, uncomfortable with Bethiril's curiosity. Why had the elf asked how old he was? It was the sort of question that one would ask a small child who was playing at being older than he was, puffed up with childish importance and full of maturity that he did not possess. Was that how the elves saw him? As a foolish child? The boy's fingers faltered slightly on the buckle of his sword.

But then, what right had they to judge him? Faerim had had access to practise with weapons since he was fourteen years old, since he had started his apprenticeship in the blacksmith's workshop. He had the ability to wear this sword, more than some of the soldiers several summers older than him who had joined the army already. He looked up and fixed Bethiril with his clear, bright gaze, raising his chin. "I am seventeen years old, my lady."

"Seventeen?" Bethiril seemed surprised, but whether it was that he was older or younger than she had expected Faerim didn't know. He glanced at Erenor, but she was studying the other elf's face also. He nodded, maybe a little too quickly. "Aye, seventeen - I will be eighteen this spring." If we ever reach spring...

Resisting the urge to ask the elf how old she was, Faerim began to walk towards where Belegorn had gathered and was prepping a group of men. The elves followed, and Faerim continued. "You are right in thinking I was technically too young to join the army," he said, then looked up at Erenor's surprised face and grinned. "Aye, I can guess what you're thinking sometimes as well, Lady Erenor. But due to the...the seige on Fornost, every man able to wield a weapon with some ability was drafted into the army. I have been trained with a sword and bow since I was young - it has always been my intention to join the army, as my father and his father before him have done." He shrugged. "It did not matter that I was a year too young; you have both seen that I can use a bow, certainly."

Bethiril frowned slightly, her eyes flickering away from Faerim's, but Erenor laughed. "I suppose you aren't bad," she conceded sarcastically, a reference to their previous conversation. Faerim grinned cheekily, shaking his blonde hair from his face although he just managed to restrain the urge to wink at her - an alliance with the elf was one thing, but he was fairly sure that Erenor would not appreciate the gesture. But he was not able to restrain the next question he asked Bethiril. "Why do you ask?"

The elf's step faltered slightly and Faerim wished he could retract the question, or at least the tone it had emerged: as a challenge. Pale skin reddening, he shook his skin. "Apologies, my lady, forget I asked..." he muttered hastily, speeding up slightly towards where Belegorn stood, blushing furiously.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

As the Elves watched Faerim walk away, Erenor spoke up. “Why, indeed, did you ask him that?”

Bethiril shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said in a weak voice. “Just curious, I guess.” A few moments passed before she spoke again, this time in her normal, melodious voice. “So, here we are, and the remnant of Arnor, despite all our efforts to stop it. What do we do now?”

“Let us speak to the king again,” Erenor suggested.

“Can we speak to the king again?” What followed was a suppressed chuckle. “That Mellonar protects him. He’s already sent us out of the way twice, after all.” Bethiril looked at Erenor, hoping that she did not yet know of her last attempt to talk to the king. But she was silent. At hearing Mellonar’s name, her eyes flickered with a barely suppressed flame.

“Too bad. The Orcs were much better to us then he is,” the older Noldo said in an attempt to bring Erenor out of her deadly mood. It worked, but not in the way she hoped. Erenor recalled the event that almost broke her pride in her abilities.

“I am sorry,” Bethiril said, and she meant it. She realized a moment later that she was no longer the cold emissary that she was. What has happened to her?

“Never mind that. We must catch up with our group.” With that Erenor began walking back into the caves.

[Osse]

The news that the Dunedain would be organised into small groups and sent into the darkness of the Dwarven halls to search for supplies had fallen rather lightly on Carthor’s shoulders. Little had broken the monotonous rhythm of the slow, crawling journey to the Ered Luin. Indeed, since the rather turbulent events of the orc-raid, Carthor had found his mind growing steadily impatient with the never-ending, plodding pace of the column. He was sick of skulking through the wind-swept landscape like some disgraced animal, turned loose from its den by its once-lesser counterparts. Their arrival in the Blue Mountains and the changes it brought had been welcome.

Carthor sat musing by his open leather pack, his hands hovering over it, holding a length of salted pork wrapped carefully in damp linen. His wife's slight, beautiful frame was just striding away. To break his state, Carthor looked wistfully down at the meat in his gnarled hands, like some spoilt child contemplating an old toy that had grown void of its appeal. For weeks on end Carthor had eaten this same, meagre fare. The once supple flesh now sat bitter and leathery on his tired tongue. Carthor longed for new meats – game had been sparse during the journey, and time to snare it equally so. Carthor relished the thought of the chance to gather new supplies, if only to relieve the monotony.
Still, as he looked down at the joint in his hand, he was smitten with its importance. The refugees had little left now, scarcely enough for a month and that with a tight belt. Much hope lay in the finding of new food in this dark, lonely world of stone.

Carthor’s musings were suddenly broken as two well worn, soft-soled leather boots appeared in front of his nose, their shiny tan surface shimmering slightly in the frail, flickering candle-light.

Quickly, gracefully, Carthor stood. Placing his right hand on his cloaked breast, he saluted the Lieutenant of the Rearguard.
Bowing his grizzled head, he addressed the tall man before him.
“Hail, Lord Belegorn.”
“Hail Carthor, son of Harathor!” Belegorn’s voice was soft yet commanding, subtle yet full of power.

Raising his chin, Carthor removed his hand from his breast and surveyed the man before him.

“I am not one for delay Carthor, so I will not tarry with unneeded formalities.” Belegorn wasted no time, like a stag pursued by a brace of hounds, he leapt straight into the purpose of his visit.

“As you know, Carthor, we are to search this pit for useable stores. We here, and our Elven kindred, shall all go together as one. For the purpose of their protection, the king has placed myself, along with some of the Guard, in this particular party.” Carthor sat patiently, despite his words, Belegorn was addressing unneeded formalities.

“I need someone with experience to help me lead the party, both the Guard and the others. I need you to help me lead the party Carthor.” With startling pace, Belegorn had thrust into the point of his speech.
“You are both seasoned and experienced, which is far more than most of the ‘men’ I have under my command at this point in time Carthor.”
Carthor chanced a brief look over to the waiting ranks of the Guard, and was appalled to see the youth thereof. Surely these boys had seen far too little life to be allowed to fight. As his eyes strayed over the ‘men’, Carthor’s gaze fell on a pale, freckled young man, his great cloak and breastplate ridiculously large on his slight frame, surely no more than twelve summers old, the boy had a grin from ear to ear.

“What say you? Will you aid me in this endeavour?” Belegorn’s voice was settled and steady, yet a look of almost-pleading could not be hidden from his grey eyes.

Thoughts of his inner vows to refrain from violence flicked through Carthor’s mind, images of the quiet, responsibility-free days he had hoped for danced like a candle-flame in his conscious, the blood filled days, the horror-filled nights - all gone.

And then the flame flickered and died. He heard a voice say: “Verily my lord Belegorn, I will aid you in your plight.”

Carthor realised the voice had been his own.

[Saurreg]

A smile shaped on Belegorn’s lips as the gladdening words of Captain Carthor reached his ears. He thrust his hand out and offered it to the older man in friendship and solidarity. Carthor was caught unprepared by the spontaneous act and hesitated at first, but he quickly accepted the sincere hand shake and Belegorn could discern a glitter in his new-found comrade’s eyes.

Belegorn took the opportunity to study Carthor’s face in the pale light of nearby torches. Age and weather had roughed the rounded face leaving countless lines and wrinkles, and the scarred nose with its dented ridge was a testimony to the countless battles and tribulations the man had faced. But this was not an odious face; in fact the piercing blue eyes, distinctive forehead and grey hair gave the man an aura of power and an air of regality. Carthor belonged to the elite division of charismatic men who were born to lead, just as Hírvegil was.

His features were also strikingly familiar. Belegorn could have sworn that he had seen the same well set pair of blue eyes somewhere before, not too long ago.

“Pray tell Lord Carthor,” asked Belegorn, “But do you have a son and is he with us?”

Carthor broke into a grin with unsuppressed pride, “Not just one Lieutenant, but two fine strapping lads! I should think that the one you have in mind is Faerim, my eldest born. Folks say he resembles me the most, especially at eyes and forehead. But his has delicate features, good looks from his mother’s side I reckon. And thank the stars for that!”

Both men laughed out loud and their laughter caught the attention of curious bystanders near them. Both men winched when Nevhith decided that he was privy to the conversation an emitted a shrill laughter of his own. Ignore him, mouthed Belegorn to Carthor with his back to the intruder. Eyeing the boy from head to feet, Carthor wisely agreed.

“Faerim, so that’s his name…” mused Belegorn to himself, “Fine lad! And he seems is to be on good terms with the fairer folks. Perhaps… Perhaps he would be interested in a position in the Rearguard.”

“Aye... perhaps,” remarked Carthor with less enthusiasm, eyes falling away from Belegorn’s.

Sensing that he might have inadvertently touched on a raw nerve, Belegorn acted to diffuse the rising tension.

“Let’s see; Nesse? Nehit? Nevhith? Yes! Nevhith! Come here boy and make yourself useful!”

Like an eager puppy anticipating a treat, the scrawny youth scampered towards the two men but before Belegorn could continue, Nevhith was already introducing himself to Carthor,

“Yes, I am Nevhith, son of Torgar! And I am no boy, I am a man! And this is my-”

“Yes! Yes!” Interrupted Belegorn, waving his arm impatiently, “Now listen carefully, this here is Lord Carthor – a captain of the king’s army. You will now go and find the senior sergeants and tell them that Lord Carthor has hereby agreed to help us and all men of the regiment are to obey his every command and pay him the same respects as they would to Captain Hírvegil himself. Understood? Now off you go!”

Nevhith snapped into what he thought was a formal Arthedain salute (it was not) and bolted off into the semi-darkness, delighted with his “important” errand.

Belegorn turned to Carthor and gave him an apologetic look.

[Lalwendë]

Since they had left for the Ered Luin, Renedwen had allowed herself to retreat into the comfort of her memories. Her only concern had been for the boys; her son had been as quiet and sleepy as ever, but Gilly was troubled. The boy was now totally alone and the loss of the Elven brothers hit him hard. Through the journey she had been forced to wrap him in her mantle as the child barely stopped weeping; when he was not crying, he seemed to gain comfort from clutching a little bag that he had been given by the brothers. She was thankful that she had a horse and could allow the beast to bear them along as her thoughts had long since flown elsewhere, the grief of the child was too much.

Now they were in the chill confines of the deserted Dwarven stronghold, she seemed to wake and her senses became keen. This was no place for survival, she could tell from the moment she stepped foot in there. It was long abandoned and like all such places seemed all the more desolate for its lack of life. Lanterns which had not been lit in many years were draped in cobwebs as thick as snowdrifts and carvings which would once have been revered for their beauty now lay thick with grime and dust. This place was cloaked in gloom, permanently hiding what it had once been; she reflected sadly that this was how her own city would look before many years had passed.

This was a place of death. Her only thought was to join the search for provisions in the hope that something might be found that could sustain the children until they could leave the place. Alert to every sound and movement, she kept the boys close and made certain the sword she had carried for so long was close to hand. She had a sensation that something ill was afoot.

Finding a resting place for a break after some time in the search, she allowed the boys to nap. She told them no stories of darkness in here, it was a dreary enough place, and she felt that monsters would be all too real an idea; instead, she gently sang while they dozed. As he slept Gilly released his tight grip on the leather bag he carried and for the first time Renedwen noticed it. It was finely made as all Elven crafted goods seemed to be, and soft. Perhaps this was why the boy found such comfort in holding it, she thought. Yet on looking inside, she found something precious. Wrapped in deep green leaves was some kind of bread which also smelled as sweet as cake. The boy had food. Quietly, she wrapped it up again, and put the bag back into his arms. The Elves must have known what would happen, she reflected, and they must have left him with something to sustain him.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn politely refused Carthor’s invitation to partake in the meal of unsavory dried meat the latter was consuming before being interrupted. Taking his leave from the veteran soldier, the lieutenant resumed his rounds and attended to his people. Like old Carthor, most were breaking their fast or trying to catch whatever rest they could before Belegorn decided that it was time for the subterranean expedition to continue. He would have preferred individual scouting parties to be sent out before having civilians make the journey themselves, but the king had made his decision and there was nothing he could do but abide by them.

The mood in the corridor was glum and lifeless and Belegorn passed by many without them even noticing. It was as if the very darkness of the tunnels had sapped the life out of the people. Even his soldiers who were usually sharp and alert, seemed daze and inattentive; not one managed to salute or even acknowledge the presence of their commanding officer in time. The situation was indeed perturbing and Belegron knew he had to get his charges out of the underground as soon as possible, but the complexity of the interlinking tunnels acted to oppose his will; every turn off the corner produced new foreboding passageways that left one undecided and witless. Unless he had in his service a cadre of scouts with superior senses to piece together some sort of decipherable pattern in the labyrinth they were in, there was no way they could exit the dwarven fortress in good time, or even at all.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Belegorn failed to notice that somebody in his way and bumped into the latter. With the mind to apologize, Belegorn looked upon his intention and discovered that it was Faerim, the son of Carthor. And from the looks of it, the youth seem to be lost in a world of his too.

“Forgive me Faerim,” begun Belegorn sheepishly, “I should have been looking at where I was going.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim stumbled slightly as a taller, thicker set figure pushed past him, and turned angrily towards the latter. Recognising the individual as Lieutenant Belegorn, Faerim hastily mellowed his expression and nodded stiffly to the superior soldier. Since Hirvegil's strange request and even stranger threats, however thinly veiled, before Faerim had set off with the elves, the youth had felt less sure of the leaders of the army. For a time, in his own mind, he had angrily laid some of the blame for Gaeredhel and Rosgollo's deaths on the Captain of the Rearguard; now, as his frustration had disintegrated over the weeks to a complex regret and sadness, his anger at Hirvegil had softened as he resigned himself to the fact that the blame could not be laid entirely at the Captain's door. He had not been himself over the last few weeks... But although he was no longer so much angry at those in charge of the army, he remained wary of them. Of course, he had no reason to be cautious of Belegorn specifically, having spoken to him but once, at the very start of the exodus from Fornost when Faerim had fairly blagged himself into the army, outgoing and brassnecked. But the young man's cynicism was maturing rapidly, and that seemed a world ago. For this reason, his greeting of the lieutenant as he was literally shaken from his reverie was rather more formal than it might have been a few more weeks ago. Approach with caution.

However, Belegorn could not, in this instant, have ever been called exactly fear-inspiring. He looked positively sheepish, Faerim noted with surprise, as he turned back to the younger man, apparently forcibly removing himself from his own world, too.

"Forgive me Faerim; I should have been looking at where I was going."

Faerim almost started in surprise, taken aback at Belegorn's words. Firstly, the lieutenant had called him by his name: Faerim could not help but be impressed. But secondly, and even more surprisingly, the lieutenant was actually apologising to him. Taken off-guard, Faerim floundered slightly, lost for words. "I...erm, that is, it was my..." Inwardly shaking himself, Faerim pulled himsef together and yanked himself out of the pit of sycophancy that he knew he was headed towards. Nodding politely, he started again. "My mistake, Lieutenant Belegorn; I fear I was as lost as you were."

Belegorn nodded slowly, looking intently at Faerim, and after a second, the youth looked away, clearing his throat and glancing towards where Carthor sat with a few other men, a look of busy determination on his rough features. The second surprise in as many minutes: Carthor had never had much authority to wield, yet he appeared to be commanding several of the men to do things. And they were obeying. Fascinated for the first time in many years by his father's activity, Faerim was distracted from Belegorn until the lieutenant spoke again.

"Your father's new appointment suits him well, Faerim," Belegorn murmured enigmatically. Faerim turned, his eyebrows raised and his lips half open, to the other man, frowning slightly. "What do you mean, sir?"

Belegorn grinned more openly, rubbing his stubbly chin thoughtfully as he too turned his eyes to Carthor, then back to Faerim. "Why, his appointment as a Captain," he replied, smiling.

Faerim's jaw dropped open as he stared incredulously at the lieutenant. Captain?! The young man could not actually remember a time when his father had last been promoted; Carthor had stood still in the army for years, drink and gambling ensuring that his pitted features remained solidly behind the stripes of the same rank apparently for all eternity. Faerim, like Lissi, had stopped expecting more, respecting his father for his history but feeling the regular pangs of contempt for his future, and for every time a younger, less able man passed the older war veteran simply because his father could not motivate himself to change things. So now to see his father finally promoted...why, Faerim might as well have been told that Arvedui had been bumped off the top spot and Carthor had been crowned king in his place and he could not have been more surprised. Stunned, he simply stared at his father, and as Carthor caught his eye, the older man gave a small, anxious smile, raising a hand self-conciously to his eldest son like a boy looking for his father's approval as he stepped out on a new venture, anxious for his parent to see that he really could do it: a strange role reversal for a father and son who had never been close, for a seventeen year old who was half-accustomed to looking after his family.

Smiling back at his father, Faerim gave a small laugh as he tore his eyes away and took once more at Belegorn, nodding silent thanks to the lieutenant. Belegorn smiled modestly and began to walk away, and as he did so, Faerim saw his eyes turn to the two elves, Erenor and Bethiril, who stood conversing a few metres away. He watched them for only a moment, but it was notable to Faerim when he was watching for it, and the sharp-witted boy wondered about it, wishing he could see the older man's expression. The elves did not appear to notice, but Belegorn nonetheless appeared to come to some sort of decision, for he made a small, decisive sound in the back of his throat and half turned back to Faerim, weighing him up appraisingly with sharp grey eyes. After a moment, Belegorn nodded, apparently satisfied with what he saw, and began to walk once more, but this time beckoned for Faerim to walk with him.

Confused, the youth obliged, falling into step with his superior. "Sir?"

[Saurreg]

Belegorn walked slowly towards the direction of the elven emissaries. He was still a distance away from the duo and other movements along the passageway masked his presence so that his intents did not notice his approach, as yet. When young Faerim stepped along side and joined him, the older man solicited softly.

“You alone know them best,” begun Belegron with his eyes still on the two elves, “tell me Faerim, what are the moods of our elven friends? Do they resent us? Bear us anger?”

A moment passed without reply and Belegorn stole a side glance. Faerim had a perturbed look on his handsome face and the former guessed that the young man was in a conflicted state of mind – wanting very much to oblige the lieutenant but at the same time not wanting to erroneously committing any natters that might deal his very special friends harm. Belegorn smiled inwardly; whatever slight irritation he felt due to the hesitation was more than off set by his approval of the youth’s sense of loyalty and responsibility.

“Well lad?” he asked, this time with a bit of deliberate curtness. Faerim and he were closing their distance with the elves.

Almost immediately, Faerim turned his head and look at Belegorn with the sense of doubt disappeared and indignation in its place. Good! Though Belegorn, much pleased with his little test. The boy has fire in him!

Faerim began sternly but yet with politeness, “My lord Belegorn. As much as I would like to indulge in your inquiry, I should think that I own my friends a measure of privy. Especially when I know not what are the intention behind it.”

Ye Gods, the boy’s bold! A surprised Belegorn thought, as he looked at Faerim in the eye. The youth’s face was composed and he did not bate a single eyelid when Belegorn’s piercing grey eyes met his own sapphire blue gems. Belegorn smiled wanly and tried to diffuse the tension.

“Faerim,” he begun, soft and gentle again, grey eyes softening, “rest assured that I mean our mutual friends no harm with my inquiry. I merely sought to discern their moods and to see if they would fit into what I have in mind for the remainder of our journey underground.”

Faerim cocked his head and raised a skeptical eyebrow in suspicion. Belegorn chuckled and revealed his intentions to the precocious youth.

“If you’ve noticed, our progress in the caverns and tunnels of the stunted folks is tardy and unsure. In the dark, this place threatens to seal us in for eternity. Unless we can decipher a pattern in this complex labyrinth of stone, our chances of leaving this place are none.”


Belegorn looked towards the elves and continued, “The Eldar possess gifts of the senses beyond yours and mine. Should they aid us, this expedition would stand a higher chance of success.”

“You want them to be our eyes and ears, as scouts.” Faerim concluded for Belegron, nodding.

“That is all.” Belegron assured again.

“Well,” begun Faerim, “I know they are still grieving for their fallen kinsmen silently, but I do not think their grief would affect their faculties; they’re a resilient lot. They do resent our indifference to their plight however, as well as the king’s haughtiness. Ask nicely.”

Belegorn smiled, “That’ll do lad. Come! Let us go talk to the elves.”

[Mithalwen]

Erenor listened to the Dunedain's request and it occured to her that taking a lead in this foolhardy expedition might provide a small chance of surviving the original folly of the retreat to the mountains. For all the king's praise of their loyalty she felt as much hostage of the Dunedain as she had of of the orcs. And at least the yrch had been considerate enough to render them oblivious and had kept them in the open air - and had demonstrated a concern for their survival. Strange indeed were the fortunes of the world. In fact she wondered if this party was intended to fail.. Mellonar the Perpetually Obstructive would be only too happy to relate how they had nobly given their lives in the cause... and was it coincidence that all the dunedain who had associated with the emissaries were together.


The darkness was opressive but the further they went the closer they would be to the far side .. a west gate would be perhaps their only chance of escape, a small group might be able to make their way unobserved by the enemy south through Lindon to the Havens. There alone did she believe they would find succour. The king would never listen. Disobedience might be their only hope - but for the time being she would keep her own counsel.

The elf woman met the Dunadan's gaze steadily though she stood some inches shorter, and at last, she answered, " Lieutenant Belegorn, I am willing to do as you ask, and maybe Lord Ereglin will also. We seek food and if there be any, chances are we will find other beings who regard it as their larder. For that reason it may be wise that we go a little ahead. If you wish one of your soldiers to come with us, I suggest it should be Faerim, who has the soft footedness of youth and is used to our ways" .... she gave a half smile, well aware that it was not necessarily a skill that would be appreciated by all his kindred. "The Lady Betheril does not bear arms so it may be safer for her to lend her skills to the rearguard, for we my not explore all the small side tunnels that may give passage to some creatures, though not elves and men. Nevertheless the choice is hers."

Waiting for the others to respond, she glanced into the tunnel beyond, hand on her sword hilt. So used had she become to wearing her mail and sword that walking armed and armoured felt as natural to her as her own skin. she looked at the boy. I wonder if he can learn the osanne she thought.

[Garen LiLorian]

"As my Lady and my charge have accepted this from you," Angóre said softly, disapproval coloring every word, "I shall do so as well. But I do not know what you expect us to find. I do not believe we shall find any food fit for Elves or Men down these long-abandoned shafts of the Naugrim. Like as not, we will only find dust, or other pathetic creatures as desperate as ourselves and as hungry. Tell me, Belegorn of the Rearguard, why do you ask us to take the lead in the search?"

Belegorn repeated his explanation of Eldar senses, and Angóre chuckled mirthlessly. "I assure you, captain, I have no craft to lead us through such gnawings and worm-holes as these. Mayhap we can catch some small and unwary denizen of these holes, if indeed they are not utterly abandoned as I believe, but we would do better to mark our path carefully and retrace than rely on the senses of the Eldar to escape these wretched mines."

[Kransha]

“You realize that you cannot lead in this state.”

“Of course I can, and you know I can.”

Mellonar scratched his jutting chin thoughtfully, assuming the port of a philosopher, quiet and contemplative. He leaned back on the “imported” divan he had procured from the Arnorian supply wagons and lazily blinked, allowing an icy grin to perk up his colorless lips. “You do yourself too much credit, Hírvegil. You are sick, we both know it, but you, as always, are to stubborn to admit it. Perhaps it is a strain of the plague that harried us years ago, or a new strain. You are often in close proximity to the orcs and the dead. You are probably the most likely to fall ill in all the land, considering your exploits.” He feigned concern deftly, but Hírvegil was neither satiated nor amused. The Captain of the Rearguard sat woozily in a stone chair near Mellonar’s divan, leaning both arms on his downturned sword, which was stuck between the cracked floor stones.

“You are no physician, Mellonar, nor are you a healer – quite the contrary. Your prognosis is hardly one of an expert. I will be well after some rest, and the King no doubt has confidence in that. Besides, both of us want Belegorn to demonstrate his prowess as a commander and, after what happened to their brethren, the Elves probably despise me. It is better that I remain.” Mellonar clucked his tongue like a chiding school marm and giggled under his breath, obviously delighted by the whole situation.

“Yes, by the Valar, you’re a stubborn fellow, just like your father before you.” Hírvegil grimaced. His already whitened, pale face losing what little color it had as he became livid. “Don’t you bring my father into this, snake.” Mellonar looked slighted. “Snake? You call me this when all I wish to do is help you? I compliment your parentage and I am titled a serpent. Hírvegil, have you no shame?” He cackled noticeably, and Hírvegil’s face regained its color, but flushed irate red. He sputtered a little, feeling as if he should say something caustic, but nothing came from him, and he simply sat, rocking meagerly and flushing deeper and deeper crimson as Mellonar noticed his discomfort – and laughed again.

“I do not relish-” laughter “-your discomfort, Hírvegil, but it is rare that I see such an proud man of Númenórean blood, reduced so much, and yet so very arrogant still. You have not even the sense to admit your illness, but, t’is all the more humorous for me. The counselors in the King’s Chamber speak even now of what transpired at the Hills of Evendim; you are not what you once were, Hírvegil, do not pretend you are.” As these words fell from Mellonar’s lips, his tone remained an intonation of political sarcasm, but now deathly grave, as if the very syllables had become pale and grim. His eyes, bright with merry wickedness, lulled into serene dankness that peered, with some curiosity, at Hírvegil, as he snarled deep in his throat. “My mistakes,” the Captain said with a harsh rasp reverberating in his sore throat “shape my future successes. You are one to speak of such things, a politician whose career has been forged by underhanded movements and shady dealings. My faults are honest at least.”

“You fault may be honest,” Mellonar said in reply, slowly now and with no joy in him, all happiness having evaporated suddenly, “but you, Captain of the Rearguard, are not. You did not fare well, I dare say, and our troops have suffered. The Elves may have had their aristocrats rescued from the maw of goblins, but the loss of those two guards will cost us all.” He paused, gracefully, and settled back against the divan, easing into its sooty cushions like a wriggling serpent. “And,” he whispered, even though no one else was in the room, “I hear of other shortcomings. Some of the citizens have spread rumors, Hírvegil.”

The Captain’s graying eyebrows rose questioningly, both hairy tufts as skeptical as hairy tufts could be, “What rumors?” he said, his voice as deadly as a sword, but without the commanding strength of a well-forged weapon. Mellonar made a noncommittal chuckling noise.

“That boy, Faerim son of Carthor; you tried to enlist his aid in spying on the Elves.” Hírvegil winced, remembering this. He had felt dreadful doing that, weeks ago, but it seemed to be a perfect solution considering the circumstances. Darkly, he nodded, his head drooping downwards. “Yes, I did. As far as I know, he did not uphold his end of the bargain, but I blame him not. The situation became very chaotic later on and it would have been monstrously unjust to charge him.”

Mellonar perked up, his hooked nose giving a little rigor-mortis-like twitch, that of a dead rodent. “Charge him with what?” Hírvegil winced again, but not because of painful nostalgia. He shouldn’t have assumed that Mellonar knew of everything he had told the boy on that chilly Evendim morning. Obviously, someone had overheard snippets of the conversation of the camp borders and word had diffused fierily throughout the refuge of the Dúnedain. Now, inadvertently, he had given away the source of his guilt, the ruthless attempt by him at bribing a Dúnadan youth, a shady maneuver that rivaled some of Mellonar’s. With uncharacteristic reluctant, Hírvegil dove onward, “I did threaten, at one time, to charge him with high treason if he did not comply with my plan. It was a moment of weakness, one which I am sure you will cherish, but it is in the past. I do not know if that boy has forgotten the fact, but it was never brought up again. I certainly don’t intend to bring charges against him now, so the matter rests. You have your answer.”

Mellonar drew a long, manicured fingernail against the cushioning of the divan, drawing a bit of fuzz stuffing like blood from a wound, and placed a finger before his mouth, pursing his lips in contemplative repose. Then, he threw himself up suddenly, his billowing fur robes fluttering as crows arched wings and alighting on the floor, kicking up some cobwebs that had settled between the cracks in the stones during their conversation. “That is all one, Captain. See that you get well before matters become…” he halted, “complicated.” The word seemed strangely impacted, ringing like a weighted bell that struck and sounded in Hirvegil’s already pounding skull. “I am off to do what you cannot: lead. I suggest again that you consult someone skilled in leech-craft, or perhaps simply consult a leech and let him do the job, without the hassle of social interaction. Farewell.” With a self-satisfied grin, Mellonar swished dramatically out of the room, leaving Hirvegil to wallow in the pain induced by unknown ailments and well-known ills.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"I would be glad to go with those who will scout ahead, Lieutenant Belegorn, if you so wish," Faerim said respectfully, glancing at his superior curiously although he inclined his head courteously. He saw Erenor look sharply at him and, out of the corner of his eye, he caught her smile. Belegorn also shot him a sharp look, then, after a moment's hesitation, he nodded. "Aye; Lady Erenor, if you are to take Faerim with you whilst you go ahead, as you have suggested, and Lady Bethiril can accompany the rearguard, if you deem it would be helpful."

Faerim could not help getting the feeling this swap appeared to be something like a hostage exchange - one of ours for one of theirs - but somehow he did not mind. Erenor had proved intriguing company and whilst he would probably make no difference in the rearguard full of over-eager, under-trained youths, he suspected he could be of some help if he was to go ahead in this smaller group. He bowed his head to Belegorn, accepting the order, but the Lieutenant still seemed distracted, frowning slightly as he regarded Angóre perplexedly - deep in thought over the elf's words, no doubt. At length, he spoke. "You are right, Angóre, about the importance of marking our tracks so as to get out of these blessed mines - you would have no more skill than we in retracing our footsteps?"

"Not so as to hang the fates of half the army on, Lieutenant," Erenor replied quietly. Belegorn nodded, looking troubled as he rubbed his fingers across his stubbly chin thoughtfully. Faerim ran over the possibilities in his mind, then alighted upon one as his thoughts grazed over it. How to mark their tracks back to the other Dunedain...

"Maybe if we were to leave a...man-" Angóre chose the word carefully and with a certain tone of disapproval as he glanced non-too-subtly at Nevhith, who still hovered nearby. "- behind in the tunnels every couple of hundred yards, or at every crossroads - we should easily be able to trace our way back that way, and if there was a problem we could call back to them and they would be able to return the cry to bring us back the right way?"

Erenor, Ereglin and Bethiril nodded thoughtfully, apparently liking the idea, but Belegorn shook his head, worry for his troops presiding. "A practical idea on the outset, Captain, but what if something was to come along the tunnels? They would find our men on their own, and then where would we be? A score of men down and even more lost."

The elves looked disheartened and fell once more to thought, but Faerim silently mulled over his own idea. Maybe it was that he was younger than the rest of them: their childhoods and childhood stories were far behind them - gods, who knew if the elves even had bedtime stories? Looking at Angóre's pale, solemn stone face, he somehow could not imagine those stern features tucked up in a cot, snuggled into a delicately embroidered baby blanket... Feigning a coughing fit so as to cover up his smile as the image sprang through his head, Faerim looked away, but as he did so, he once more caught Erenor's eyes: she appeared to have been watching him all the time, once again with this air of study about her fair features. She raised an eyebrow sardonically at him and Faerim grinned back behind his hand, wrinkling his nose impishly. Angóre cast a disapproving glance at the pair, then fixed his eyes on Erenor. "Lady Erenor, Lady Bethiril, have you any thoughts on the matter?" he asked, like a teacher reprimanding a child caught talking in the back of class.

Faerim jumped in first. "Actually...actually, Captain, I have an idea that may work. What if we were to leave a trail behind us, so to speak, tracing our way back to the camp? Nothing special, mind, just something large enough for us to see and follow back - say a cloth or spare item of clothing tied to the rocks so as to mark our way out of the mines?"

The elves seemed to be mulling over the idea, frowning slightly as they mused what flaws it might have, but Belegorn gave a faint half smile as he nodded slowly at Faerim. "A trail of bread crumbs," he said softly. Caught out in his fairytale source, Faerim blushed and looked away, feeling suddenly even more juvenile. But the elves, it seemed, did not quite understand, and Bethiril jumped in. "Oh no, Lieutenant Belegorn - why, we are short enough of food as it is, that would be a waste of..."

Belegorn shook his head, smiling at the elven emissary. "A turn of phrase, my Lady, a mere turn of phrase." He looked back at Faerim. "Alright, Faerim, we shall try your 'trail of breadcrumbs' through the mines - it is as good an idea as any, I suppose, and I cannot see a problem. Oh, except..." He frowned, sagging slightly as he found the flaw. "Except...if there is some creature in these mines, surely it would help them trace us all the more easily?"

The reply that came was grim. "If something is to find us, Lieutenant, believe me: they shall find us just as easily with or without a trail of petals." Faerim looked across in surprise at Erenor as she used not 'breadcrumbs', but a second reference to the childish tale from which he had had the idea. Caught out...

Belegorn nodded, pursing his lips but in agreement. "Let us hope not, my Lady, let us hope now." Looking around the small group of elves, plus, as always, Faerim, the man's expression resolved and he gave a deep sigh of satisfaction, before murmering a few words and striding away to the rest of the soldiers, holding himself with a bearing strong and tall as he went to address them. As the elves fell to talking among themselves about how to conduct the scouting party, Faerim continued to watch Belegorn, his head on one side like a sparrow having seen something unexpected in a murky lake: maybe not all the superiors in the army were quite so ready as Hirvegil had been to threaten him - maybe Belegorn was that glimmer beneath the pondweed. Smiling to himself at the thought, Faerim turned back to his new companions to hear their plans about the scouting party.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor mused on Faerim's idea and cast her mind back to the distant days when she had learnt to scout and track for fun - fate had not required her to use woodcraft much for real, her status meant that she was invariably accompanied by elves skilled as rangers. Angore was a fine guide across country or through wood but these tunnels seemed to be affecting him, she thought. And of course the deaths of Gaeredhel and Rosgollo had affected him ... the whole wretched episode. Erenor was aware that their guard opened his mind seldom but she tried to reach him with her thought nonetheless. He was unreachable but she hoped that his bitterness and misery would not blind him completely. She also hoped that Berethil would not insist on joining the advance party. If they met trouble the unarmed woman would be a liability but if she remained they could communicate with the main group by thought quickly and silently.

"when we track in woods we leave signs. In these tunnels it will be necessary only to mark junctions. We will not need much material .. or maybe it would be possible to mark the stone somehow". She looked at the walls and tested them with the blade of her short knife..... the fine line could be maybe it would be enough... but she doubted it . Then out of the recesses of her memory a fact emerged. The Noldor, alone of the elves shared the dwarvish delight in metalwork. "Chalk! - see if there is any chalk around" she ordered .

"My lady Erenor, I don't think that there will be - these walls are hard stone" said the captain.

"Not in the walls! Around", The elf was at her most imperious, impatient that what now seemed obvious to her was lost on the others. " The dwarves worked metal here didn't they? Chalk is used as a flux when smelting copper and iron... " Erenor realised this was not the moment for a lecture on metal production " the dwarves would have needed it in quantity and they are unlikely to have taken it with them - I think we just passed some work shops - perhaps you could send a couple of your ...men back to have a look?"
Men! boys scarce out of babyhood who made Faerim look like a hardened warrior... nevertheless the lad was bright, and brave. There was somehing about him she liked and she gave him a quick smile while they waited for the boys to return. She would have to be careful though since it might do him no good to be seen overmuch as an elvish protege.

After a few minutes the lads returned with handfulls of soft white stone. "You see Captain? Chalk " said Erenor taking a pocketful before advancing, sword drwn into the tunnel.

[Garen LiLorian]

She had only advanced a few steps down the tunnel before she felt Angóre's cold hand on her shoulder. She looked up at his disapproving face. "You may do as you wish, lady Erenor," he said quietly. "But as long as I remain your guard I would order you at least in this; let me go first! I will walk ahead some ways and remain alert for dangers. I'll wait for you at intersections."

He turned to the young man. "I am entrusting the safety of Lady Erenor to you, Faerim. See that no danger befalls her; her life is more important then mine. Or yours." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and vanished into the darkness of the tunnel."

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Bethiril wanted to step back from the conversation. She knew little of caves, and less of exploring them. But she found no way of exiting gracefully, so she stood there awkwardly, like a peasant watching the discussion of nobles.

I’m sure nobility wouldn’t include allusions to children’s stories in their lofty discourses. She hoped no one would discover that she knew the tale. As unbelievable as it sounds, she had heard of it from an old man from Dor Lómin who somehow found his way to the mouths of Sirion. But Bethiril didn’t want her image . . . tainted.

Well, she thought, my acting was pretty good. She gazed at the stone roof above. And what will we find here? An edible cottage? She almost laughed, but then remembered, And what evil thing will we find residing in it?

[Lalwendë]

The air was acrid as though something had been burning, yet it was also chill and clear, and there was no sign of any recent fire. All was desolate, and there was no sign of life let alone the kind of life that might want the cheer of a fire. Renedwen was more unsettled than ever, even though she was not alone. Lissi at least came along with her, and though they did not talk together, her presence at least was a small comfort.

Renedwen was now troubled with her son. Since his birth he had been remarkably quiet, and this had been a blessing on this journey, but he had begun to grizzle when they left behind the daylight, and now they were deep underground, he had begun to cry. The noise echoed in the dark passageways and she saw how the others winced at the sound. If there was anything living down here, it would surely hear them now. Seeing the disquiet on the faces of her companions, she only felt worse. There was little she could do, as she dared not let go the hand of little Gilly, who now clung to her as though she were his own mother. If she did not have him to care for then she could attend to her son, comfort him, but now she had two to care for, two frightened boys.

Something in the cries of her son chilled her heart. It was more than cold or hunger, as she had made sure he was not suffering from either of those; it was terror. She knew that coming into this dark place, leaving behind the wide open skies, had awakened a dim memory of the terror that had assailed them back in the city. It was as though a curse had been placed upon them and the child was voicing what no adult dared to mention.

If she could but speak with someone, she might get some help, but she was frozen not just with foreboding but with fear of her companions. She knew she had been aloof and had made sure they could see she could cope; it was her way of withdrawing after her grief, and now that the silent tears had passed she did not know how to approach anybody. She looked at Lissi when she thought she would not be noticed doing so, wondering how to speak to this other woman who had been so helpful many weeks ago, but she could not find the words.

The company stopped in one of the passages and Renedwen, busy with the boys, walked on, not noticing that her companions had halted. Gilly tugged on her hand and eventually let go. Panicking, Renedwen spun about and looked for the boy, but stumbled backward. Her fall was halted by something soft, but instead of standing up again, she found she was unable to move, suspended with just her toes touching the ground. The more she tried to stand upright, the further she got from the floor, until she was hanging there, held by something sticky she could not see in the gloom.

Remembering a familiar childhood tale, a chill went right through her. She tried to scream for help but the words stuck in her throat. Like a nightmare she could not wake from. And then her cry for help suddenly echoed along the passageway, but the nightmare did not stop.

[Osse]

It had not been the skill of the Eldar that had led the Dunedain to the small storeroom; rather, it had been through a misunderstanding. The party had become stretched out, winding through the corridors of the city like some giant millipede, the head often having no knowledge of the whereabouts of the tail. Belegorn had delegated the organisation of the party into Carthor’s capable hands. Not wishing to rely solely on the Eldar’s prowess, Carthor organised, as suggested, the end-man to mark the route the group had taken with the chalk the Elves had found earlier. For this task Carthor had chosen a capable young man, Derigorm.

It was because of Derigorm that the party stumbled across the little room. Derigorm, white chalk in hand, had fallen back slightly, far enough behind to be unable to see the glow of his comrades’ torches in front of him, and as the group took a passage to the left, Derigorm turned into a smaller stone doorway to the right. The room on the right turned out to be a small square room, roughly hewn from the living rock, with shelves of softer, smooth stone placed along its walls. On every surface stood stone and clay jars, ranging from great round vessels to small intricately patterned pots.

Suddenly aware that Derigorm was no longer with them, Carthor, located near the rear of the column, had halted the group. Soon after, Derigorm’s husky voice came running through the corridor behind them. Now at the head of the group, Carthor strode towards the sound of the younger man’s voice, finding him standing torched raised at the entrance to the chamber.

“What is it?” Carthor’s question was short, Derigorm’s answer matched it.
“Have a look.”

Shards of pale grey stone crunched and crackled under the leather soles of Carthor’s boots, rudely disturbing the quiet of the small chamber. The torch held aloft over the man’s grey head cast long, flickering shadows around the room, glancing off the glossy stone surfaces like droplets of water.

Every vessel, every jar, was broken - as if in a fit of fury the room had tried to consume itself. There was no surface that was not covered in the crushed remains of the containers.
Evidence of their contents littered the floor; grains of barley and oats, as well as other grains indiscernible in the ruddy light, spilled around the broken pots like waves breaking on jagged shores. The smell of broken clay, stale air and slowly rotting grain wafted like plant tendrils through Carthor’s nostrils, its mustiness sitting like some great carrion-fowl at the back of his parched throat.

Carthor was aware of the fact that the remainder of the group was pressing him in from the corridor behind.


Stepping forward further into the chamber, Carthor raised his hand, signalling the rest of the group to follow him forward. In the far right corner of the square chamber, a great shelf had been up-ended, its contents falling in ruin upon the cold stone floor. On the wall where the shelf had been standing, was a small, square, cunningly crafted door. The shelf, in its original space, would have completely concealed it.
Indeed, the door was hard enough to see in the dim torchlight as it was. Were it not for the huge flakes of broken stone around its edges and rutted centre, the door would have been near-unidentifiable. Carthor had seen such marks before, as if great hands had beaten upon the rock in their fury, rock-like themselves. The marks sent a shivering quake down his crouched spine, which ran like an electric current, shimmering through his entire body. Putting the thought of those who had made such marks from his mind, Carthor beckoned to the men behind him to come closer, and using the tips of their swords attempt to pry the door open.

Carthor’s broadsword fell clattering and cold from his hand as a scream rang out through the corridors behind him, echoing and resonating like some contorted, twisted musical instrument, playing chords that shook his soul. Turning, Carthor joined those rushing towards the scream.

[Nuranar]

Lissi was learning to deal with the dark. At first, every instinct urged her to stay in the light, to dog the footsteps of the torch-holders. But their spasmodic progress was frustrating, and soon her steady pace found her a position forward of the middle. With only the flickering reflections of the torches to see by, Lissi watched the ground carefully, as much for herself as for Brander. Her eyes became so accustomed to the murk that direct torchlight pained them like the glare of the noonday sun.

Now she trailed along behind Renedwen, Brander her side as always. Sometimes she held his arm, sometimes his hand; sometimes he simply grasped her sleeve or her cloak, but it was her task to guide him safely. Her eyes noted unevenness in the floor and deep shadows in the walls, which could hide doorways, with the same ease she negotiated rough ground while riding. But even as she did so Lissi worried about the other woman. Renedwen seemed to be brooding over her husband's death; she never spoke if she could help it and seemed to ignore Lissi's existence. With the additional burden of Gilly, Lissi thought she would need help, but the lady had stayed cold and untouchable. Lissi watched with concern, aching to help. But she was afraid, afraid of the other woman's pride and disdain and grief. She imagined those brilliant blue eyes, flashing with anger and rejection, and shrank within herself. But she could not stop worrying.

Just as they turned a corner, Lissi thought she heard a low-pitched "halt" from behind. "Did you hear that?" Brander asked, stopping. "Yes," she replied. "I'm glad I caught this one." Brander's sense of hearing was far better developed than hers, a fact which had become very important. Sounds were both easier to hear and more confused in these tunnels; sometimes they echoed clear and far, sometimes the echoes made it impossible to tell the source, and occasionally those same echoes canceled each other out and nothing was heard. They made their way back to the main body. Carthor's voice was raised, but he was out of sight; apparently he was investigating some sort of chamber.

They were nearly to the opening when a shriek rang down the tunnel behind them, a cry for help, shrill with terror. Lissi tingled with horror, fear, and shame all at once. "That was Renedwen!" she gasped to Brander. "Wait here!" She spun and dashed back, the soles of her shoes slapping softly against the stone. The dark beyond the turn blinded her briefly and she slowed. Then a small glimmer appeared in a shadowed turn-off and resolved into Gilly's terrified little face. He dashed up and wound his arms around her knees as Lissi stooped to him. "It's all right, I'll take care of it!" she tried to assure him. Glancing back, she saw Brander's shadow approaching carefully but steadily. "Go to Brander!" she said firmly, untwining his arms and shoving the little boy toward the light. Drawing her sword, she turned away. "I'm coming, Renedwen!" she called. "What is it?"

"I'm caught!" The other woman's voice broke in a panicked sob. "Please help me out of it. Please - hurry, hurry!"

"I'm here, I'm here," Lissi said, slowing as she neared Renedwen's voice, straining to see. What was she caught in – a hole in the floor? A cave-in? Something was clouding the tunnel ahead, something that entirely absorbed the thrice-reflected torchlight. A spot of deeper dark seemed to move... "Renedwen?" There - the white blur of a face. "Here," she whispered. Lissi advanced carefully, sword angled in front of her. Abruptly the blade was deflected and seemed to slide on an invisible obstruction. She hesitated, then reached out her hand. Soft and sticky and slightly elastic... Lissi jerked her hand back with a sudden shuddering horror. "Renedwen, are you all right? I know you're caught, but are you and the child all right?"

The other woman's voice trembled. "I'm all right, but I think I hear them." Her voice trembled and rose hysterically. "They're crawling along the walls, they're on the ceiling and the floor, they're coming for me!"

"Stop it!" Lissi snapped, trying to banish the images from her own mind. The light had improved marginally, and she could see Renedwen's form suspended near her, caught near the edge of the web. "I'm coming for you now." Swiftly she moved in, side-on. Sword ready in one hand, with the other she reached for Renedwen and slid her arm around her waist. The web's supple cling wound about her arm and shoulder and fastened to her skirt, but she swung at the rest of the threads with her blade.

Hastily she cut away the web above and around Renedwen until she could slide down to the floor of the tunnel. Still keeping a trim grasp on the other woman, Lissi pulled and cut and worked the two of them loose. As they stumbled from the branch tunnel they met with Carthor's party, including Brander with Gilly. Lissi explained hastily; unsurprisingly, no one was inclined to investigate the turnoff further. The two women followed them back toward the safer discovery slowly. Lissi held the taller woman closely, feeling her tremble, speaking softly and reassuringly, trying to calm her down.

[Mithalwen]

The value of the elves as an advance party had perhaps been undermined by the bickering of Erenor and Angore. Noldorin ladies of high rank do not appreciate being overruled by their guards; still less to they enjoy being undermined publically and before mortals. Erenor would have had to have deferred to Berethil and maybe even to Ereglin, the longest serving elven emissary, but, despite her respect for Angore as a ranger and fighter, she felt he had overstepped the mark. And she had refused to yield.

Since Angore was determined to stay ahead and Erenor was equally determined not to be left behind , they had moved swiftly. Faerim was young and agile and well able able to keep up with their steps if not the hissed exchanges in Sindarin ( though the elvish tongue was still known and used among the Dunedain, the speed and volume of their speech made it hard to distinguish their words ). Their gist, however, was easy enough to follow.


The scream roused them from the folly of their dispute. It rang and echoed aroung the tunnel and caused the elves and the boy to turn and retrace their steps, their light footfalls obscured by the lasting resonance of that terrible cry.

As it subsided, Erenor sensed another duller sound, it seemed, from the other direction .. the one they had been heading for before the scream. It was duller, irregular but repeated frequently - like the pounding of great drums out of time. The sound was still distant but getting nearer, heavier. Looking at Angore she knew he heard it too, though it was yet beyond mortal sense.

"Faerim, if you aren't wearing that armour, I suggest you put it on very soon, but now draw your sword and run". The elves and the boy fled back towards the scream, Erenor careful to keep Faerim ahead of her, for whatever Angore had said, she felt his young life to be precious. As she ran, Erenor tried to reach the mind of Bethiril - both to discover the cause of the scream and to warn them of the danger that threatened, for the sound had not augured a friendly presence, rather about the worst thing that she could imagine finding in a cave save a dragon.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim obeyed Erenor without a word. The steady way in which she had given the order came from the mind of a woman who has just worked out what they are against and does not want to panic anyone - including herself. And if an elf of thousands of years more experience of the world than he was worried, Faerim had a feeling that whatever he was imagining didn't even come close. Turning tail immediately, he ran backwards, closely followed by the other two elves, although he did not immediately draw his sword; the light in the caves was little enough as it was and with the torch in one hand, he could not risk stumbling and thereby both putting out the light and possibly stabbing himself - not, he mused, a particularly heroic death for anyone, even a seventeen year old boy who was probably thought of by half his companions as a fool already.

The pounding seemed to be getting closer and closer, louder and louder, the ominous, muffled beat becoming stronger and faster and thought growing in confidence as the elves ran from it, swelling with the victory. Was it his imagination, or was the floor even now pounding along with the beat? No, impossible, nothing could be so large as to shake these caverns - impossible.

Beneath Faerim, the floor trembled suddenly, the very pebbles leaping and, with a yelp, the boy stumbled forward, barely catching himself in time as he carried on running, the torch flickering.

Possible.

Fear suddenly caught up with Faerim and as he turned the corner he flinched away from a sudden flare of bright light. Drawing his sword, he blinked against the light, before recognising his fellow soldiers. Faerim barely even paused in his step as he continued in his headlong sprint. "Run, quickly! There is-"

Belegorn grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, pulling him back. "Faerim, what is this nonsense-"

The floor shook, and for a second, Faerim saw the impossible: through Belegorn's capable, unshakeable gaze flashed a sudden dart of fear. He swallowed, trying to catch his breath, as Belegorn stared down the tunnel as Angore and Ereglin burst into view, followed closely by Erenor, all three with sword drawn. The lieutenant didn't question the grim expressions on their faces, and neither could he question the drumming, now unmistakably real, that pounding stronger and stronger by the second. Turning to his men, he signalled them back down the tunnel. "Retreat, men! Retreat back down the tunnels!"

"Lieutenant Belegorn, wait." It was Angóre who spoke. "To take the men back that way - we are leading them directly back to your people. The unarmed Dunedain are sitting ducks for these foes."

"And what foes exactly are these?" Bethiril interjected this comment, appearing behind Belegorn, the only one in the tunnel without a weapon - a fact that Faerim immediately noted and which he doubted Angóre had dismissed either. Erenor answered her, looking directly at her companion with a steady, no-nonsense gaze. "That sound, in such a place? What would you guess, Bethiril?"

For the first time in Faerim's sight, the calm, smooth porcelain of Bethiril's face faltered and her eyes widened. "It cannot be," she whispered.

"You know it is, Lady Bethiril," Erenor almost snapped in reply. "That sound is all too familiar, and you know it as the dwarves would have."

"And what sound is that exactly?" Belegorn inquired exasperatedly. His sword was now out, ready to run or fight as he glanced repeatedly down the tunnel the way the elves had come from.

Bethiril's expression was haunted as she took a few steps down the tunnel away from the pounding. She turned wide eyes upon the lieutenant and gave a simple, unexplained answer, but one that would inspire fear into the heart of any who knew what it meant. "Trolls, Lieutenant. Trolls."

Belegorn's jaw dropped, the answer wreaking the same effect upon him as it had upon the elves. Behind him, a few of the older soldiers had stayed, unmoved by his orders as they had seen that their leader stayed, and one of them swore softly, spitting on the ground and taking to his heels unashamedly. A few stayed, themselves holding a torch, but they were as spooked as Belegorn. Faerim looked from Erenor to Belegorn, seeking some explanation as to what these things were, what Bethiril's answer implied, before he saw Erenor's grim expression and understood that now was not the time for explanations. The elven lady had her eyes fixed upon Belegorn. "What would you have us do, Lieutenant?"

A scream echoed down the corridor, then another, desperate, urgent, high pitched - female. Fear drenched Faerim as he realised what this meant: besides the elves, there were but two women in the party: his mother and Renedwen. And the realisation, along with the sound, shook him to the core. Without thinking, every nerve balanced on that scream's echoes, Faerim was within seconds sprinting full pelt down the tunnel, torch held high. As he turned the corner he came to a crossroads in the tunnels, he heard Erenor's cry, then something lunged at him out of the side tunnel, hissing viciously. With a yell, he fell sideways, tumbling head over heels; as the torch extinguished itself, Faerim's world was plunged into darkness...

[Novnarwen]

Stuttering Stuga & Co

While walking, the troll in Stuttering Stuga's grasp had stopped moving. The long struggle had finally ended, and the caverns were silent once again. A lifeless body remained, whose arms and legs were dangling in an urgent rhythm; the rhythm of a killer's pace.

"S-s-s-silent, eh?" Stuttering Stuga said, grinning satisfyingly. Only minutes ago, gasps and choked cries had left the other troll's mouth. Now it seemed that he had given up against Stuttering Stuga's immense powers. "I was-s-s g-g-gettin' s-s-ick of y-yer, ya kn-n-now. C-c-an't have t-t-that," he said, thinking aloud. He thought of the moment he discovered Frett in the cavern, their cavern, for what seemed the hundredth time, together with the clique. Was it so difficult for him to understand that he was not one of them? They didn't want him; he was annoying, ignorant, useless, lazy and he spoke too much.

Suddenly, when going over Frett's absolute uselessness in his head, it struck him as odd that Frett the Expelled had become so silent. He didn't call or even move. Was he not feeling good? He certainly had an odd colour on his face, but he seemed to be asleep. But then, why were his eyes open? Shaking his head, he decided to shake the troll he bore as well. It was a wonderful feeling; shaking was fun. And while doing so, the limbs of the troll swung in a hurried pace, back and forth.

***

In another tunnel, which bent into the opposite direction of where Stuttering Stuga and the newly deceased Frett were, a gang of trolls was lost in the dark; among them were Riva, the Old Hag, Uruva, the ‘Beautiful’, and the intelligent Grawa.

“We’ve lost track of him,” Grawa said loudly to the others, pretending to be smart. Uruva rolled her eyes; they knew that much. They didn’t need ‘I’m-important-and-smart’, Grawa, to tell them that. “We have?” The female troll said mockingly. It annoyed her that this fool of a troll always said the most obvious things in the world, as if the rest of them were too stupid to figure anything out by themselves.

“Yes,” Grawa started, seeing his chance to impress Uruva, who he, like Stuga, had always been very taken by. He turned to her, and trying to be smooth, he started;” Yes, my dear Uruva. My guess is that we lost Stuttering Stuga for some time ago. I guess that we’re at least a mile apart. It can be more, I guess. I guess that if Stuga really wanted to kill Frett, he must have done so by now. Then, I guess, Frett is dead.”

“STOP GUESSING, YOU TWIT!” This time it was the Old Hag’s turn to speak. Overhearing Grawa’s resolutions and the final conclusion had made her red-faced with anger. With a desperate cry, she aimed at him and jumped. The two of them fell over, the Hag having a tight grasp around Grawa’s neck. Rolling from one side to another on the stone floor, the two were quickly involved in a battle of life and death. The other trolls, who had only just noticed the two of them fighting, came over and gathered in a circle, surrounding them. “Come on, Riva! Show him who’s in charge!” It was obvious that the older troll had an upper hand; she was a rather big lady, and it seemed that this was to her advantage for once.

Giggling with delight over the little performance, the rest of the trolls watched Riva smacking Grawa a handful of times, and it was only when Grawa called out for help, crying that he surrendered, that they finally tore the two apart. Grawa seemed to be quite embarrassed by the incident, and didn’t dare look into Uruva’s eyes. She, who had enjoyed seeing Grawa humiliated, could nothing but laugh.

*

They had walked for another hour or so, now going backwards, aiming for their cavern. They had already failed in the hunt for Stuttering Stuga and Frett. At last they decided to make their way back, hoping to find Stuttering Stuga there. They didn’t care about Frett, The Expelled. He had no right to be in their cavern anyway; not a word of their dismay towards Frett was uttered to his mother, Riva, though. Anyhow, Riva objected naturally to their decision about going back; she even threatened to stay behind and starve herself to death. When they told her that this was okay, that if this was what she really wanted, she was welcome to do so, Riva immediately changed her mind.

Nearing their home, they were alarmed by a scream. “Where did that come from?” Uruva asked, not expecting any reply.

“MY FRETT!!!!” A moment passed, and all of the trolls started to run down the tunnel.

It was only Grawa who noticed that the smell that hit them didn’t come from any troll. It was the smell of unexpected, and most likely uninvited, guests. Before he was able to warn any of the others, it seemed that Riva, who was in the lead of the running company, had come to the end of the tunnel. She stopped, and looking around, she discovered that it was certainly not Frett who stood in front of her, but someone else; a stranger.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor saw a mass dart out and back of the side tunnel and Faerim falling but the light form his torch was extinguished before he hit the ground. Whatever it was it was not a troll - but it's exact nature was irrelevant - whatever her guard might think, she would not leave the boy to his fate. Where was Angore anyway? she thought momentarily before the evidence of her ears told her that there were more foes than one in these tunnels. She reached the side tunnel entrance and was aware of the boy at her feet - but she did not dare check on him until she knew what enemy they faced.

She raised her own torch in her left hand with her unsheathed sword held tightly in her right. It was not the ideal weapon to use one handed, its fine curved blade was used to best effect two fisted, but against creatures of the night, light could be as potent a weapon as steel - and she decided that the extra reach gave it the edge on her dagger.

Its flickering light illuninated a scence of ghastly beauty , the tunnel seemed to be draped in a kind of thick gauze wrought of shining cord, luminous and strange. Erenor gasped in wonderment before realising that it was not gauze but cobwebs... but cobwebs unlike any she had seen before... she realised exactly what the darting mass was at the moment it returned.

Scion of a noble line of warriors Erenor did her utmost not to show her feelings, since if Faerim had not fallen victim to the spider's poison she must give him confidence. Nevertheless it was the most frightening experience of her life (she had not the time for fear when the orcs had taken her from her tent). She remembered her father's words "If you cannot conquer fear, you will never conquer an enemy"... she wondred how this creature compared to the enemies he had faced in Mordor. There was not time to wonder further. The creature advanced swiftly did not move as swiftly as the elf who slashed at its legs with her sword.

The creature made some noise but whether of fear or pain, Erenor did not know but it soon tried to attack again. Erenor jabbed towards it with her flaming torch and then sliced across its montrous head with her sword. It was not the easiest of foes - so large, almost as tall as she but so much wider. Faerim she thought, if you are conscious.. I could use some help

[Osse]

Carthor whipped around the corner, his great bulk a careering shaft loosed over-soon from the string, reckless, almost uncontrolled. The scream rebounding recklessly in his ears as he thrust forwards.

In front of him, shapes emerged from the gloom, their misty forms strengthening into discernable shapes; two tall women, one steering the other firmly but gently down the passage toward them. A slim young man strode tentatively behind the two, his outstretched hand clasping gently the cloak of the leading woman. Hand clamped firmly to the young man's, a lad of no older than three or four shuffled, his curly locks shining in the torch light as he contemplated his small feet.

“What ha…” Carthor started breathlessly, concern twinkling in his eyes as he looked upon his wife and her shaken friend.

Carthor was not to finish his question. Lissi, obviously on a higher plain of nerves and awareness, anticipating his query, launched into a brisk, yet inclusive recount of the events.

“All is well now.” She said, more to the woman next to her than to Carthor. “All is well…”

Carthor ushered the women and children into the middle of the group. He paused for only a brief second as his son passed, the words he meant to say drying in the sun of his emotions. Carthor strode to the front of his group, composed again, and turned back the way they had came. Or so he thought.

In the confusion and hurry that had followed Renedwen’s scream, the group of five or six men that had rushed to her had failed to mark their route. They were now far from the glow of the rest of the group as they stood perplexed at the door of the storeroom, their precious torchlight now hidden, and had no mark to guide them through the twisting and turning tunnels.

To make matters worse, the group had only one torch amongst them, and that was burning dangerously low, particularly for a group who now found themselves stalked by eight-legged foes on one flank, and confronted with a booming, ever present drum-like clamour on the other, especially as the group now contained women and children, one of whom was blind.

Carthor, his stride long and mechanical, paused, suddenly aware of the fact that the return journey was taking far longer than it should, despite the pace of the party being barely half of its careering, uncontrolled canter outwards. Without stopping, Carthor raised his hand, signalling Derigorm, who strode just behind him on his right, his long, fluid steps making almost no noise, to walk beside him.

“Derigorm my friend, it seems we are somewhat, shall-we-say, misplaced.” Whispered Carthor.

Derigorm, stout to the last, merely raised his eyebrows in a half nod, unwilling to be the one to drop the spark on the ever present oil of panic. Instead he merely leaned closer to his old captain and asked what he would have him do.

“Certainly nothing to raise alarm my lad.” Carthor’s answer came soft and subtle, like a gentle breeze licking at one’s face. “Have you still your marker stone?”

Derigorm nodded.

“Mark our route. Discreetly.”

Derigorm spun deftly, his cloak swirling like some great wing, cutting through the air. The man slowed his pace near the middle of the group, feigning to talk to one of the other soldiers, with instruction from Lord Carthor.

At least now we’ll know just how to retrace our steps through this confounded pit. Carthor mused bitterly as he peered forward into the receding gloom.

He was trying, largely in vain, not to flinch as the many tendrils of super-fine, ordinary cobweb that littered the corridors brushed his grizzled face. Chattering footsteps, in rhythms of eight found their incessant way into his mind, whether they were real or imagined, Carthor could not tell. Terror stood nonchalantly behind every footstep, waiting for Carthor to lose concentration, so as to like an uninvited guest, feed off his hospitality.

Suddenly, the torch in Carthor’s right hand spluttered and died, the hiss it emanated both sombre and obvious in the quiet, confined tunnel – a terminal breath audible by all.

Terror now stood in the hall of Carthor’s mind, casually hanging its black cloak on a gilt hook and firmly shaking its host’s hand.

Carthor halted.

“Halt.” His voice echoed with astounding clarity in the confined space, resounding harshly in Carthor’s own ears.

Pulse quickening the entire time, Carthor instructed his fellows to stay close. He was going to have to stop and count off more often now.

Feeling his way with his left hand, Carthor inched slowly but surely down the corridor. Every web that hit his expose skin made him shudder, threatening to allow terror further into his home. The still air was silent, not even the horrible drums were sounding. Carthor could hear the soft scraping as Derigorm, true to his word, marked their route through the darkness.

Something brushed up against his exposed right hand, though it was no web. Lissi’s cold hand met his in the gloom and clasped - two halves of a whole, reunited. Hand in hand they proceeded into the pitch darkness before them, host and hostess, entertaining terror.

Carthor halted suddenly. Largely because he had run into a knobbly pillar of rough-hewn stone.

“Oi!” The pillar shouted, as it turned around and picked Carthor up by the throat.

Carthor right hand fumbled for his scabbard, and found it empty. His broadsword lay forlorn amidst the spilled grains of the storeroom, it's steel length gleaming in the receding torchlight of the rest of the refugees as they departed.

Terror now sat at the very head of Carthor’s table, beaming jovially as it made inappropriate jest.

Carthor’s scream filled the corridor with a shuddering clamour.

“Run!!!”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim rolled to the side, opening his eyes then closing them again almost instantly as a sudden flare of light illuminated the tunnel. The lightning flashes danced behind his eyelids confusedly and he shook his head, his hand coming up to the back of his skull which ached numbly, darting lances of pain jabbing occasionally through the fog. But then he heard a voice, a female voice but one full of fierce strength: Erenor.

Opening his eyes and trying to ignore the pain in his head, Faerim shook his head again and staggered to his feet - before he saw what stood before Erenor and took a step backwards, uttering a single curse-word in shock, his eyes wide in disbelief - not fear yet, for fear can only really set in when one knows what one should be afraid off; and when what one sees cannot possibly exist, the fear is delayed, a ball of nerves thrown in the air leaving the owner shocked and disbelieving.

But what goes up has to fall.

With a yell, Faerim darted to the side as the giant spider in front of him jabbed its foreleg at him viciously, but his reflexes were slower due to his headlong fall into the cave wall, and the jagged point of the spider's foot barely missed his shoulder, ripping the shirt as it snagged across it and scoring a thin line of blood across his upper right arm. Clasping the cut tightly for a moment with his other hand to stem the bleeding, Faerim glowered at the spider fiercely, then ducked out of its way once more, rolling to the side, towards the spider - and grabbing his sword from the floor in the process. Grinning, he rolled onto one knee and stabbed straight upwards at the alien enemy, in the process slashing across its stomach. The creature yelled, a piercing scream that made Faerim physically wince, his hands on his ears. But the beast was not done yet: taking a staggering step away from Erenor (at least Angore won't crucify me for letting her get hurt, he mused abstractedly), it loomed over Faerim, bearing down upon his with giant, gross mandibles. Disgusted and adrenaline pumped, Faerim scrambled backwards on his hands, managing to stagger to his feet, but now pressed against the cave wall. With strength borne of the desperation of a man who faces his death, the youth grit his teeth and swung his sword in a vicious arc straight across. Metal met gristle and the spider screamed again, taking a step backwards as it bellowed its fierce displeasure and pain - as one of it's forelegs fell to the ground.

"How do you like that, you ugly great insect," Faerim muttered grimly, taking some pleasure out of his inhuman foe's pain, although his arm was now aching fiercely - glancing down, he realised that it was bleeding quite strongly now, blood staining his white shirt beneath the tough, battered black coat. If the spider had been a second quicker...Faerim shuddered, imagining how the jagged, pointed talon would have impaled him against the cave wall. Too late, he remembered the elven mail shirt in his coat pocket...

Erenor gave a yell of her own and returned Faerim to the present, as he saw the elf throw herself out of the way of the lurching spider. On her feet in seconds, the lady elf planted her feet and cried aloud something in fierce, fast sindarin. For a moment as she did so, the tableau seemed frozen in Faerim's mind: the lady elf, fair and vicious, her noble face twisted with anger and her grey eyes burning as brightly as the torch in her hand that she held high, illuminating her, her other hand holding her sword ready to stab. Faerim watched her wonderingly - then the voices of others interrupted his reverie and he saw Angore standing beyond the flailing mass of limbs. Throwing his fear and his panic both equally to the wind that did not even bear to stir within these ghastly caves, Faerim launched himself once more at the spider.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor was relieved to see Faerim on his feet and fighting - both for his and her own sake. And considering his inexperience the boy was doing a fine job . "Elbereth Gilthoniel... A tiro nin Fanuilos!" she had cried , asking for the protection of the star-kindler in this place where no stars shone. As the spider recoiled from Faerim's amputation she called to him to take the torch.

Able at last to use her sword to full effect, the fine blade described an arc too swiftly for Faerim's mortal sight to follow. He saw the effect though as foul smelling ooze emerged form the spider and it shrieked. "Now Faerim! " The youth obligingly ran his sword between the creature's eyes. It was clear no further action was necessary.

As they stepped over the grisly remains back towards the main tunnel. Erenor spoke casually, almost off hand "Good work with the spider - who do you feel about tackling a troll next ? ... Ah Angore ...."

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre cursed as Erenor bolted past the lieutenant and down the corridor after Faerim. He had heard the scream as well, but he also heard the drums, and they weren't coming from the same direction. Trolls! Angóre's eyes burned at the thought. His whole adult life he had spent hunting the creatures. It was his sole purpose; the only thing he lived for. Until recently. Until he had aligned himself with these humans, thrown his lot in with them and with Erenor. Erenor.

The Elf stood, torn. Belegorn stood as well, his eyes darting back and forth. Suddenly, with a curse of his own, he collected his men, scrambling back up the tunnel towards the main party and the scream and leaving the Eldar by himself. Angóre looked up towards the well-lighted corridor, hearing the sounds of panic and combat. Surely there were enough of the Dúnedain to fend off the attack, whomever was making it. A lone soldier would make no difference. Except, possibly, to the person he was supposed to be guarding. He cursed again and looked down the darkened pathway towards the sound of the drums. Would the trolls come up on the unsuspecting and frantic Dúnedain train? Would they pass them by in the labyrinth of caverns? Could he take the chance that they wouldn't?

Angóre had always considered himself a warrior, secure in the knowlege that his decisions affected only himself and that if he made the wrong one only he'd know the difference. And up until recently, this decision would have been simple. He would have followed the sound of the drums until he came upon the trolls, and then he would have attacked them until they or he lay dead. He'd spent his whole life, more or less, in one or another stage of this plan. Find the troll, kill the troll. He had taken an oath, sworn in the still-warm blood of his mother, on that fateful day they had brought him her corpse, ravaged by the creatures of Sauron. He had taken an oath...

He swore feelingly. "I'm sorry, mother," the words sounded dragged from his lips. "I'll be back for them." Then he turned, sprinting up the tunnel towards the Dúnedain and Lady Erenor, his charge.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn ran. His powerful legs pounded the cold floor of the corridor and propelled his body forward in great strides; dark locks flying in the draft. His sword was unsheathed and griped tightly in his right hand; its polished blade shimmering in the light of the torches held by others and fixed on holders along the walls. He could hear heavy thumping close behind him and was assured that his men were still following him. Belegorn ran and did not halt for others to stand out of the way, he simply shoved his pass them. The high pitched scream that sent shudders down his spine was no more and if any incident had occurred, Belegorn was sure it had passed him by already.

Leaving the jumble of bewildered and frightened Dúnedains in his wake, Belegorn continued running and in the dim light of the corridor, he could make out two bipedal silhouettes in the near distance. Every foot step took him closer to the duo and he was able to decipher their forms better; one looked familiar with its tall slender height and broad shoulders, the other was more petite. Both stood with their backs facing Belegorn and his men.

“Thank the stars you’re alright!” exclaimed Belegorn as he came to a stop a few feet from his intents. “I was wor-” The remainder of the words died in his throat and his eyes widened with astonishment as he saw what lay before him.

It was an unnaturally huge arachnid creature; black and hairy beyond reason. Its segmented limbs which the Dúnedain estimated to span at least four feet long when out-stretched were curled up close to its up-turned bulbous body. The hideous head with its array of liquid black globes and immense maniples were cruelly hewed.

“Yer Valars…” began Belegorn, still wide-eyed and staring at the carcass of the fallen beast, “Are there any more of these foul creatures?”

”I do not know sir,” replied Faerim courteous as normal, “But I can only hope this is the only one of its kind here.”

Why am I not surprised it’s you? Thought Belegorn, as the youth turned to face him. The older man eyed the teenager from head to toe scanning for any signs of injury and asked anxiously, “Are you hurt Faerim? Was anybody hurt?”

A new voice answered, and it was pleasing to the ears for it was smooth as silk yet firm but not overbearing. It was unmistakably feminine also. Belegorn turned from the youth and looked onto the face of Erenor, the high elven emissary from Rivendell.

“I do not know Lieutenant,” She replied as-a-matter-of-factly, “Neither Faerim nor I have sustained any bodily injuries, but I cannot say the same for the rest of your people. I fear this expired denizen of the dark might have acquired a victim before we arrive and dealt with it.

Erenor then pointed towards a tunnel that led off from the main corridor. Belegorn walked cautiously towards it and peered through. His keen grey eyes could make out the fluttering wisps of tattered dust caught web that lined the entire circumference of passageway. Arachnid spun web were thin but steely strong. A broken web could only mean that either a fortunate prey had managed to break itself loose or most likely, the creature had dispatched of it already.

Belegorn frowned and his lips parted with bitter disappointment as the Noldorin shared her acuity with him. He had hoped whimsically perhaps, that under his leadership no one would be lost but that has been proven vain now. He nodded slowly in regret to no one in particular and strode towards Erenor and Faerim.

His face was darker and tenser than it was before as he faced the two spider-slayers and resumed, “It is unfortunate. But we have no time to grief now.
Another pressing development is at hand.”

As if on cue, the low boom of a bass drum echoed through the passageway sending alarmed shrieks and yelps from the already cowed refugees. Faerim’s eyes bulged and he looked nervously towards the source of the ominous sound. But Erenor’s cool composure remained and she looked at Belegorn straight in the eyes.

“And what are your intentions Lieutenant?” She inquired, unperturbed.

Belegorn looked towards Faerim and asked hurriedly, “Do you recall seeing any other tunnels leading off from this one at the rear where we passed?”

“Yes sir, I think so.” replied the youth betraying signs of fear.

Belegorn nodded quickly and continued, “Good, this is what I want you to do; lead your people back and enter those tunnels. Get out of this corridor as soon as possible. Destroy any of the markings made when you come across them. Go now!”

The Dúnedain commander pointed to the way which they came from to emphasize his point. Satisfied that his orders were clearly understood, he turned to leave, but stopped and delivered his forethought,

“And if you see your father, tell him he’s in charge now!”

“And what will you do, Lieutenant?” ventured Erenor sternly as she stepped towards the taller man, “This is no time for vain heroics. Your people need you.”

Belegorn sucked in his breath and exhaled slowly through clenched teeth. He turned back towards the tenacious elf and replied, every word enunciated calculatingly,

“And what would you have me do milady? Lead the flight back up whence we came from and let the trolls overtake and slaughter every single last one of us? Or would you have us make a stand in the narrow confines of this corridor against a terrible foe whose numbers we know not of? Nay milady! And neither will I send another brother, husband nor son to take my place and die in my stead! No more milady! No more!”

Belegorn turned his back on the elf with a word of leave-taking. He found the soldiers that followed him standing by the shadows, nonplussed by the confrontation that took place.

“Work with them!” he ordered and left to rejoin the crowd. Belegorn approached the refugeees, intending to identify any individual in need of special attention. But they instinctively backed towards the wall away from him. The lieutenant's eyebrows rose in surprise at the people's reaction to his goodwill but immediately realized why; he had charged through them excessively whilst brandishing a weapon with a look of madness in his eyes, then lashed out at a member of the Elder Race that the people most probably regarded as a supernatural being and then returned to them.

Belegorn closed his eyes and sighed, there is only one word to describe my actions - madness!

He opened his eyes again and regarded the refugees, his people. And they simply looked back with wide frightened eyes, like kittens staring at one who had hurt them before. Belegorn wanted to reassure them, to set their mind at ease, to explain that they had nothing to fear from him. But words fail to emit from his dry lips, for Belegorn knew he had failed already. A leader was supposed to guide, to inspire and to nurture but so far what Belegorn had succeeded was simply to create resentment and fear by exercising his authoritive powers alone.

He was never loved by the men who served under him and now he would be feared and hated by the people who's very lives depended on him.

Belegorn's eyes averted from the refugees because he was unable to endure their judgemental stares any longer. He turned to leave and came face to face with Angore, the elf-guard of Erenor. The two came into arm’s length of each other and their eyes met but both spoke not; Belegorn broke into a sprint back towards the front and the handsome elf continued his way towards his charge.

A hand reached out and grabbed Belegorn by the arm. Belegorn swung around and prepared to defend himself. Instead he was confronted by a familiar head spotting a bandage across the cranium, patch over the right eye and a sling across the left arm. It was one of the company archers whom Belegorn made his harried exodus form the north passage of Fornost with. Discharged due to injuries with full honors.

“Sir, wot’s that noise! Was dat a drum? Und where yer going!”

“Going to do what I must, soldier.” answered Belegorn curtly as he turned but the hand held on still,

“Yer not coming back aren’t cha?” questioned the ex-archer, grey eyes widening with morbid realization.

“We must do what we must. Goodbye soldier. And good luck!” answered Belegorn this time more gently and with a wane smile. This man deserved better.

“Wait sir! Then take this, you might need it!” asserted the war veteran excitedly as he pulled out a huge bulging knapsack and tried frantically to untie the knot, fingers fumbling. Not really knowing what the ex-archer was up to, Belegorn helped him. Prying open the weather stained covers and rummaging through the assortment of personnel belongings, the soldier unveiled a tightly wrapped cylindrical container.

“Here it is sir! Here it is,” grinned the man through his yellow stained teeth, “Fire powder. Same stuff we used back there to roast those filthy orcs, sir. I kept the remainder, made sure it’s all dry and such!”

Belegorn held the insulated container in his hands and shifted its weight in his palm. A plan came into mind almost instantaneously. He smiled and placed his free hand on the shoulder of his benefactor,

“Thank you soldier. Thank you.”

“My pleasure sir! And Good luck!” the veteran replied softly, grasping Belegorn’s hand in his, tears welling in his eyes.

***********************************’

He was alone. He had always known that he would die alone.

Belegorn stood at where he, Angore and the rest of the scouts were when the dreadful tidings of approaching trolls were made. He looked towards the rear where he knew the motley cru was making its hasty withdrawal under the reliable leadership of Faerim and the elves. Noises were strangely muted which was gladding. The only thing Belegorn regretted was not being able to see Carthor before he left; to give him further instructions. But the old soldier should be back there and he would be able to rejoin the rest.

It was time.

Belegorn unwrapped the linen from the cylinder and unplugged the hole to its contains, the familiar acidic stench assaulting his nose. Slowly with great care, he poured a thin layer of incendiary across the width of the corridor between him and the refugees. Taking a few steps back, he lit a bunched fistful of straw with his torch and tossed it onto the black line. Also immediately, a jet of blue flames shot up the walls and licked the ceiling of the corridor lustily. A fiery barrier now existed.

The layer of incendiary was too thin to prevent an overtly persistent troll with a thick hide from dashing through, but there would be painfully excruciating burns and Belegorn was banking on the fact that trolls might be deterred from trying.

Besides, he was going to be the diversion.

Somewhere behind Belegorn, a huge mailed fist drove into a tough leather bounded drum and sent forth strong tremors that shook the ground of the passageway. Belegorn quickly exited the main corridor into a tunnel not far from the flames.

Coming to a stop after a short run of over a hundred and thirty feet or so, he turned and readied himself.

[Kransha]

The deeps of the Ered Luin were home to many things. Trolls wandered throughout, as was known to most denizens; some goblin bands scouting the mountains sometimes delved deep enough to penetrate the cavern bulwarks; wolves or wargs from the outside in packs occasionally wandered through smaller, burrowed openings in the mountainsides were they opened to the valleys between each mighty, white-capped peak, and even more bizarre creatures, like the hordes of white-wolves from the south or wandering spiders from the distant forests made there ways into the deeps. These things, though, did not spend their lives in the caves; most ventured inside to suit swift purposes: hunting, sightseeing, sanctuary.

The only things that were always in the caverns were the original residents, though none of the others ever caught sight of them.

Narguzbad the Twenty-Third’s ears were not what they once were in terms of hearing. His beard, once black as night and sleek like the fur of a wolf, was grayer than gray these days. His eyes were nestled between vast pouches of rough, armor-like skin that sagged over weary eyelids, but the two bulbs that lay past all of this were grim and fiery, brown in color but tinged with bloody red like a raging inferno. He still held the passion that a warrior of his caliber was reputed and expected to possess. After slaying many things, the bladed axe at his hip was still sharp after being attended to each day with a dwarven artisan’s whetstone and the warhammer strapped to his back had lost none of its weight or intimidation factor. He was a soldier through and through, even after two centuries living in the darkness of caves that had once been rich with the light of Dwarf wealth. Still, though, he had lost the honing of his senses, at least those besides his ocular senses. Years of darkness made him almost nocturnal, surprisingly, whereas his ability to hear noises far off, and smell life in the deeps was dimmed severely.

Despite all this, he was who he was, and that was the Lord of the Ered Luin (technically). In reality, he controlled little in the Blue Mountains, save for a motley band of Dwarves who were the sole survivors of a once-great kingdom. He did know were everything was – almost everything – which was generally advantageous in so vast a realm. He had, in his helmeted head, stored knowledge of the cartography of most of the cavernous deeps, the cities, now ruined, of Belegost and Nogrod, and even the ultimate depths, caves and mines that belonged to things he had never faced…and never hoped to face. Those enigmatic creatures could be blamed for the death of his great-great-grandfather, Narguzbad XXII, but the Dwarf held them no malice. Many strange things had taken the lives from his ancestors. His father, Azaghâl XIII, had been crushed by a giant mithril knocker on one of the vaulted double-doors in the chambers of Old Nogrod. His great-great-great (seven greats) grandfather, Barazbud IV Flamehair had been killed by a flaming goblin shield flying like a proverbial discus (long story). Narguzbad himself expected to die a bizarre death, but he had come to terms with this. Being alone in such an expansive region conditioned one to such things.

Of course, he was about to find out that he was not alone.

“Lord?”

The gleaming, aged eyes swiveled about with the madness of a great warrior in their sullen sockets. Narguzbad saw nearby his Grand Vizier and Arch-Counselor, Zinshathûr, who was also the Chancellor of the Belegost Senate, and High Priest of Oromë. Most Dwarves in the caves had a string of titles, since there were so few of them to occupy important positions, and strings of titles sounded nice. Honestly, it was suspected that the Dwarf-King who had installed the titling custom, Barazbud II, had been a bit insane. Most Dwarf-Kings nowadays and, come to think of it, most Dwarves in the caves were actually a bit insane, but none of them knew or cared. They had wisdom, strength, and fancy titles. What else did they need?

“Yes?” replied Narguzbad, Lord of Nogrod, Regent of Belegost, Emperor of the United Blue Mountains, Warchief of the Khazâd, and Commander-in-Chief of the Belegostian Legions, stoutly.

“There is news, milord.” Narguzbad snorted, a puff of steamy mist swelling and pouring from his hefty nostrils. “There is always news, Zinshathûr, and it is seldom good news. If it is interesting news, however, it would be very nice to hear it.” He grinned a little, the whiskers of his beard flailing like little maces. Zinshathûr, entwining one prickly stump of a forefinger in his long, grayish matte of beard, replied with reproachful bemusement. “It is very interesting news, milord.”

He said nothing after this, prompting Narguzbad to lean forward and say, in a conspiratorial whisper: “Well, out with it, man.” Zinshathûr, who was actually odder than most other Dwarves, by virtue of his strange duties, nodded, his lower lip folding up over his upper, and paused for effect. “Milord,” he intoned, “There is something in the deeps!”

There was no real reaction. Narguzbad coughed. “Zinshathûr, there is always something in the mines. Spiders, orcs, wolves, trolls. If it is a horde of walking ale-mugs, filled to the brim, then, perhaps, this would be a situation worthy of note.” Zinshathûr nodded, as if he’d expected all this. He leaned forward again, his eyes narrowing into mysterious slivers, and said, “Milord, there are things in the deeps!” Narguzbad was obviously a bit peeved at this point, but he’d gotten used to the actions of his Grand Vizier. Quietly, and without a hint of the annoyance that was bulging in his gut, he said, “What things?”

“Afterborn!”

This, in fact, was something interesting. Even though he had nothing in his mouth to splutter with, Narguzbad spluttered – quite a lot. He was standing in a large, empty chamber that opened into many diffusing passageways that crisscrossed through the “royal chambers.” As the voice of the Dwarf-King formed the single syllable “What?!” his word echoed magnificently through the room, bouncing off the arches of the high ceiling and reverberating deep into every inlet and side-hall. The armored Dwarven guards stationed at each door, and meandering throughout the room busy with one thing or another, all turned, eyes widened and throats sealed, creating one drastic holding of breath that created a sort of vacuum. As if in retaliation, Narguzbad gasped for air. “Afterborn? You mean,” he halted, “the Edain? Men?”

“Yes.” Spoke Zinshathûr, “There are men in the deeps. Scouts near the ruins of Gabilgathol’s warehouses saw them roaming. They have set up a very large base camp in the eastern antechamber, and have many men.” He looked about with suspicious grimness, and a familiar paranoia. “Perhaps they are invading.” There was another vacuum created as all the nearby Dwarves inhaled, but Narguzbad shook his head quickly, to assuage their fears. “No,” he said, “They would not do such a thing. The Edain fought by our side, or we by theirs, at the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. They were at times misguided, but would not make war on us.” He considered for a moment, looking morose, “Besides,” he said depressingly, “They probably do not know we are here. We’ve not talked with their kind for generations. They are probably from very far off, one of the lesser kingdoms.”

Zinshathûr nodded a dank little nod, and the other Dwarves drooped, their flowery builds wilting in accordance with the mood. “But,” said Narguzbad, perking up, “They are here, and they are many in number, yes?” Zinshathûr nodded again, a confused look on his face. “Perhaps they have food, supplies, or a camp on the outside. That would explain the orc incursions of late. Their expansion may have pushed goblins into the caves.” Suddenly, Narguzbad looked ecstatic. “Lads,” he said, to the room mostly, “This could be our chance for emancipation from these catacombs. If there is civilization near enough, we may venture to it.” There was a beam of light, metaphorically, that filled the room with vigorous happiness. A kind of joint cheer rose from the Dwarves, but Zinshathûr hushed them solemnly.

“Milord,” he murmured, “They are many, but they are not the Afterborn in the Old Books. They are different. They speak a different language, which none of the scouts knew. We will not be able to communicate.” The conversation, so far, had been held in the Dwarves’ tongue, Khuzdûl, for they knew no Westron. The mood fell again into the dank depths, but Zinshathûr, who seemed at first defeated, ventured a hopeful remark. “But,” he said, “there are others among them.” Narguzbad watched him with less-than-patient eagerness, awaiting a reply again. “Elves! The Elves, though, are in a splinter group far from the base camp. They have ventured into the dark caves miles from here, and are probably in danger.”

Narguzbad was not excited, but he became instead meditative. “We have known the Elves more than we have their mortal kin. Some volumes in Elvish are in the Library, I think, but I do not think any of us are fluent.” He looked around the room, and got only reluctant head-shaking. “I suppose we all have a rudimentary knowledge of it, but it will not be easy to communicate. But, we must try. If the Afterborn and Firstborn come bearing news of the outside world, we must seek them out in force.”

He turned from his Vizier, and addressed the guards. He knew scouts, excavators, and other dwarves (perhaps a hundred, which was all that had survived the long centuries) were elsewhere, but they could be brought together. “Go hence,” he said majestically, “and assemble all the Khazâd of Nogrod and Belegost. We must reorganize and find the Elves and Men. They may be in dire straits even now, having gone into the lairs of dark beasts, and we must find them if we are to obtain the sustenance we require. We must move quickly, if we can, and unite with them. This is our chance, lads. To arms!”

With a shout, a gnashing of teeth, a glaring gleam of axe blades and mace spikes, and a clinking of plate and chain mail that rustled the hazy, fogged air, the Dwarves surged together in the chamber and through the passageways that led northeast, towards the Dúnedain and Eldar in the distant caverns.

Watching Zinshathûr swish along behind them, Narguzbad leaned down and kissed the dully shimmering ring on his forefinger for luck, then followed his kinsmen into the deeps.

[Saurreg]

The wait was excruciatingly agonizing and Belegorn was engulfed in both excitement and terror. His instinct was to scream but the absolute control of his faculties and years of experience and iron discipline suppressed the urge and he was able to remain quiet and still in alertness. In the silence and stillness, he could feel his heart pounding faster and faster as the stomach continued its frantic churning of adrenaline. The hormones coursed through the veins of his body; steeped into flesh, tickled other organs and touched the skin. His senses were heightened and his breathing became ragged. His right hand grasped the hilt of his unsheathed sword so tightly that the knuckles turned white and his trembling left hand threatened to crush the thin stalk of the flaming torch.

The trolls were yet to come and a sudden sharp crackle in a distance before the soldier made him realize that time was running out;

A brilliant shade of blue illuminated the wall of the main tunnel behind the fiery barrier that was created. For some time the vivid sapphire hue waxed strong and was unremitting but then capricious ripples started appearing; random little ones at first but increasing in magnitude and occurrence as the seconds tricked passed. Soon the entire surface seemed to flicker and swayed unsteadily whilst waning. The thin line of incendiary was burning itself out and its intended recipients were no where in sight. Belegorn’s plan was falling apart and there was nothing he could do.

Just as the Dunedain was falling into a state of despair, a booming roar echoed through the tunnels of stone and sent jolts of shiver down his spine; it was the unmistakable bellow of a troll but the fell beast sounded a long distance away. Regardless, Belegorn readied himself and stared intently ahead towards the entrance of the tunnel he was in. He strained his ears and listened, and sure enough more livid feral cries filled the air. But that was not all; despite the loud bellows of the trolls, his sensitive hearing could make out fainter cries in the midst of the cacophony – clearer and higher pitched. Belegorn’s eyes widened in fascination as he continued to listen.

Above the increasing din, the sudden and unmistakably shrill cry of a woman reached belegorn’s ears. Someone else was crying out in urgency also, but in a more measured voice that Belegorn instantly recognized: “Run! Run! Save yourselves!”

Carthor!

Without pausing for a thought Belegorn ran back into the main corridor. The brightness and heat of the fiery barrier stunned him temporarily in his state of heightened senses but he recovered quickly and ran towards the voice. As he continued towards the source of the clamor the blue light behind his back dimmed progressively and at a distance it suddenly disappeared.

The fiery barrier was no more and Belegorn was now the only obstacle standing between angry trolls and their quarries.

[Saurreg]

And they marched.

Through the halls of stone, over treacherous chasms of never ending depth and passed gates of wrought steel.

And they marched.

For they were the Khazâd; the Children of Aulë. Gonnhirrim; “Masters of Stone” and Naugrim, “The Stunted people”

And they marched.

Because for the first time in a long while, a host had entered the depths of their sacred underground kingdom and it was neither foe nor food.

And they marched - for civilization!

Narguzbad XXIII halted to catch his breath and wiped the sweat off his brows with his huge gloved hand. It has been more than sixty-score years since his heavily booted feet trampled across the very trail he was on and despite the dwarves’ reputation as lords of the great underneath (a dwarf never looses his bearings!), the scion of Azaghâl XIII was quite lost. He turned his thick neck this way and that, scratched his ruddy cheek in confusion and quickly reproduced the map #214 of the underground caves and tunnels from underneath his helm and scrutinized the chicken-scratch with great intensity. Vice-Vizar and Arch-Counselor Zinshathûr stooped nearby leaning on the hilt of his great twin-bladed battleaxe and wheezed uncontrollably. The forced breathing irritated the map-reader and he looked across in annoyance at his Pontifex Maximus who could only give a “can’t help it” apologetic shrug in reply. The Holy Khazâd Emperor shot a “I don’t care, now stop that” look back, stuffed the parchment vack under the protective headwear and turned to look upon his great army; the Imperial Guard of Holy Khazad-dûm, the White Guards of Tumunzahar, the Blue Guards of Gabilgathol and the chosen axe-throwers of the Sacred Hammer.

Nineteen equally anciently wizened faces looked up and regarded their liege lord, the Grand Duke of Tumunzahar. One or two smiled cheekily and revealed blackened teeth and gaps between them, the others kept their mouths closed because the wind hurt their bare gums. For the first time in a long while, the great army was fully assembled in full battle order in heavy reinforced helms with sloped neck guards and close fitting cheek guards, tailor-made ring-mails fitted with lamellae plates and studs, thick leather vests and armed with an assortment of weapons ranging from dragon head war-hammers to terrible twin-edged broadswords. Narguzbad XXIII sighed quietly and thought that it could have been better but considering that fact that nineteen was all he got, dwarven logic quickly established that nineteen vertically-challenged bicentennial warriors was better than no vertically-challenged bicentennial warriors and so he’d better make do with what he got.


Chancellor of the Senate Zinshathûr had fallen asleep already, leaning precautious on his heavy weapon. Narguzbad XXIII elbowed his prime minister roughly and without waiting, continued his journey. Twenty-one pairs of heavy steel soled boots broke into a march without any unison.

After consulting his map, the lord of the Blue Mountains was sure that beyond the next stone bridge laid the tunnel where the afterborn from the East would most probably venture through. He also knew through the map that it was also the lair of a giant spider. The Great Elector of All Khazâd never liked spiders and for moment he toyed with the thought of perishing in an epic battle with the arachnid.

There were other worthier enemies of course. Mused the king who was suddenly acutely aware of his old age and the looming darkness that would engulf him in bed. A death without honor.

The great Khazâd contingent was midway across the last stone bridge and Narguzbad XXIII was contemplating whether or not to grant the leader of the Afterborn the favor of kissing his right hand when he thought he had the din of battle ahead. Dismissing it as a wild fragment of his imagination (that was become more frequent nowadays) he continued marching. But the sound did not disappear but became louder and louder. Even old Zinshathûr who was hard of hearing was looking forward intently. Narguzbad XXIII halted suddenly and turned towards his brave warriors with widened eyes that flashed with excitement and glee. Every other Khazâd was grinning from ear to ear also (even those without teeth) and were looking intently at their great leader. The great leader placed his thick and stumpy index digit before his pluckered lips in the universal sign, turned tail and broke into a brisk trot towards the sound of clashing blades and roaring beasts. The other Khazâd followed closely with unsuppressed smiles as the years left them like cumbersome coats unrobed.

And they ran.

For honor, glory and victory.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor's elvish senses, attuned now to the echoes of the caves and heightened by the battle with the spider picked up the cries in the tunnel behind. Belegorn was not alone against his foes. She remembered her fathers words "We must do our duty and we must obey orders - but sometimes it is our duty to disobey orders.

Bethiril would have to lead the refugees away - if not to safety, at least as far as possible from the trolls. She who was about to break an order gave them quickly and calmly. "go as swiftly as possible but mark your path so that we may find you again all being well - use ranger marks that the trolls may not follow if it goes not so well. I am going after Belegorn; it would be craven to let him face them unaided - but I fear some of our party have already crossed the trolls path. Any who come with me must do so of free will - Angore, I release you from my service. I am no longer Emissary, for the kingdom as we knew it is no more. If you feel obliged to guard go with the Lady Bethiril, who bears no arms - but I think the needs of us all would be better served if you consented to join me against the trolls. " So saying she turned and torch in one hand and drawn sword in the other she ran after Belegorn, aware of feet and voices following her but not of the identity of their owners.

As she ran, her voice murmered a chant the words of which seemed to pass to her lips without the intervention of her conscious mind: she felt guided by something out herself.

"Oh Lady Varda, dost thou watch me even here in these dark tunnels, far from the light of thy stars?" she thought. Though far from the mightiest of the firstborn she was of the Calaquendi, a noldo of a noble house and a power was in her strange to mortals even though they be Dunedain and a light was about her as she ran than was not the product of her torch.

Yet she blanched when she saw the sight that Belegorn had seen shortly before. The mighty captain Carthor, in a trolls grip and several other trolls about him. And some other refugees, a young man, two women and a small child. It was hardly going to be an even contest even if the man was armed ... Erenor hoped she had some followers and they would arrive soon. But there was no time to waste, and moving with speed that no mortal and certainly no troll could match, she attacked. Her fine weapons and speed must serve in the place of brute strength. Her priority was to aid Carthor and hope he was able still to fight when the troll released it's grip. But that was her rational mind... subconsciously she was still chanting, her voice increasing in volume the until the chant echoed around the cave walls. She planted her torch in a wall sconce and soon her blade started to sing it's own strange song as she swung it two handed to meet troll hide with optimum power.

[Osse]

The air was rushing out of Carthor's lungs like flour from a sieve. The searing pain in his flanks blinded him, his thoughts were clouded, as if some great shroud had been thrown over the life-lamp of his mind.

Carthor was being examined.

“Wha’da you lot fink he’s doin’ here? We aint seen none of is kind ere for ages.”

“Dunno.” Another troll answered the first. “Wonder if ders’ any more of dem…”

As if in reply to the second troll, Carthor’s captor tightened his vice-like grip around the Dunedain’s torso. The last of his breath dragged from his compressed lungs, Carthor swooned.

Soft chanting filled his mind. The soft, yet powerful feminine voice resounded in its polished halls and corridors…

Carthor’s head snapped up, suddenly lolling on his neck no longer. Though his torso was held in the mighty grasp of his detainer, Carthor still had use of his arms. Coming harshly to his senses, as if drenched in ice-water, Carthor reached down to his boot, and drawing his worn utility knife stabbed at the marble like flesh of his assailant.

The troll cried out, its booming voice whipping like threads at Carthor’s ears. Dropping the Dunedain onto the cold hard floor, the troll brought its mace-like hand up to its mouth and sucked away the trickle of dark, dark blood that was collecting like pooling rain water there. Carthor rolled as he hit the ground, the knife in his hand glinting in the darkness, in accord with the eyes of the one who held it.

Carthor was aware, in the dim light, of at least two others present in the corridor, from the sounds of their voices. Where Lissi and the others were, he didn’t’ know. He pushed them out of his mind and joined the tall shape of Erenor as she hacked at the trunk-like legs of her foes.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn stared in astonishment as gravelly faced Erenor of Rivendell went up against one of the hulking behemoth, screeching like a Gramian wildcat and swinging her keen blade this way and that. What spirit! As amazed as he was by that reckless act of Eldarin courage, he was even more impressed by the fact that she (Erenor) whom he (the dumbfounded one) left way back in the main tunnels had actually reached the enemies swifter than he despite the greater distance to run.

Mysterious was the prowess of the fair folks. Learn to respect it or be damned!

The passive one departed from his state of quiescence and ran towards a troll of his own intending to cut it down the size. He skillfully ducked as the brute swung its powerful scale-clad arm at him and dodged in anticipation when his opponent let his club fall. Belegorn meant to strike immediately when the beast was in its most vulnerable state immediately after its failed attempt to squash him, but the impact of the titanic blow was literally earth shaking and it sent the would-be opportunist tumbling backwards, losing the grasp of his torch that cluttered across the damp stone floor before being extinguished.

The attacker landed clumsily on his back and searing pain that coursed through his spine made him grimace. But the expression of physical agony soon turned into horror as he became aware that he was in the shadow of the troll which had raised its cruel weapon above its hideous head attempting to perform again what it failed to accomplish the first time.

And it would not miss this time.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor was not quantifying the damage she was doing and she was aware of others fighting around her and of the angry roars of injured trolls - but she knew unless fortuitously placed or delivered with extreme strength a knife might have no more effect than an insect sting. THe brutes were enormous. Erenor stoud around six feet tall but the trolls were about that much wide and half as high again. Still she chanted and the sound resonated about the chamber. I am an insect that buzzes aswell as stings she thought laughing inwardly for a moment as she sliced a great weal into troll hide.

Then she became aware of of a mighty club raised and the Dunedain captain lying in it's shadow. With the catlike agility of her people she ran and leapt up nearly twice her own height to catch one handed onto the club as it swung down. The troll changed the direction of its blow trying to shake of Erenor and as she swung she slashed at the trolls face with her sword.

Releasing her grip before she could be smashed into the cave wall she scrambled onto the back of another troll, like a child carried pick-a-back. As she did so she dropped her precious sword which clattered to the floor, far out of reach. With one hand she tightened her grip around the troll's neck and reached for her dagger with the other. It had saved her a couple of times already and she hoped it would not fail her now.

The troll reversed backwards into the cave wall crushing Erenor against the cave wall. She felt her mail grind into her flesh; she jabbed her knife into the troll's neck and it roared and moved forward again. But it was a brief respite. the troll drove backwards with greater force. Erenor however had reached forward with her dagger and with her body trapped between the wall and the troll, used both hands on the hilt, which was turned away from her, and all her remaining strength to drive the blade through one of the trolls eyes.

The creature fell forward in it's death throes, but for Erenor, the chanting had stopped when breath had been forced from her body "Maltore!", she gasped and was briefly aware of fallingand of her head striking something before she lost consciousness.