Tale of the Saviour:
The Taste of Battle
The night sky was clear, as was the road before the rider. This rider had a long journey behind him, yet a perhaps longer one before him. This rider carries peace in times of war and safety to where danger holds its iron hand. He knows these lands well and his spear hungers for vengeance. Our mutual vengeance. His horse carries him at twice the speed of a furious elk, knowing exactly what his master’s generous thoughts are. This rider comes in a fearsome armour, as such we have never seen before and even I tremble at. When his horse halted above the pools and reared up, even the bravest Angmarim dropped his sword in confused panic. Anomalous is the might of Lord Nimohtar, our saviour.
Garethred and his loyal bright grey steed, Malheru, crossed the western Forodwaith mountain encirclement and dragged through the well-known icy land of Forochel. Well-known to Garethred at least, for Malheru has joined him after nearly eight years of separation and is not used to this climate. Upon crossing the border with Forochel the air became tough and the horse indicated his displeasure. Garethred jumped off, untied his Henki-clog and covered the horse’s back before jumping on again.
“It's about a day to where we are heading, boy. When we get to the village, they will take care of you. They are kind people, don’t you worry.”
Malheru uttered a satisfied whin and Garethred patted his hair twice, as the horse likes it. They slightly sped up and the upcoming few hours were silent as a graveyard, the only sounds to hear being the stamping of hoofs and the freezing wind. But Garethred quite enjoyed it. He kept looking around, naming most of the snowy peaks inside his mind, and occasionally he would raise a sad face, recalling the times spent with the Lady on precisely this and this spot.
Garethred and Malheru reached the Itä-ma region when the rider suddenly spotted a bearded man in the distance, running – or rather stumbling - towards them. The Lossoth tribesman wore the clothes of Leijona, but they were tattered and blooded. Malheru galloped towards the Lossoth quickly, allowing Garethred to hastily jump off and hold him from hitting the ground. He was fatally wounded, the right side of his chest pierced through, and Garethred knew there is no help for this man anymore. The Lossoth coughed out what seemed to be nearly a liter of blood and uttered a few discontinuous words.
“Sû- K- la… Ang- A… mar…” was all he managed to say before perishing. Garethred closed the man’s eyes and loaded the body on Malheru. The compassionate horse did not show any signs of discomfort at the rather heavy load and made their way to Pynti-peldot, which was just about three miles away. Upon reaching the gate, a guard ran towards them and immediately grabbed the body as if he knew exactly what to do. Garethred nodded at the guard in thanks and patted his horse twice.
“Our friends are under attack, so make haste, boy!”
He didn’t even finish the sentence and Malheru charged forward as if being whipped. They reached the icy pools just before sunset.
The field was swarmed with evil men of Angmar – soldiers, archers and even magicians. Their numbers were vast and their aggression apparent. On the other side of the field were the Lossoth, armoured with heavy fur pelts. The Lossoth were dramatically outnumbered, but their combat expertise was much better off. In general the battle was matched and neither side could get an advantage over the enemy. Garethred narrowed his eyes and closely scanned the battlefield for any hidden traps or obstacles that could give his allies the upper hand. After a moment he charged downhill and through a safe arc he went around the battlefield to join the Tribes. He grabbed his sword, sent the horse to the stables and ran around, looking for Launo - the village’s guard captain. He found Launo lying inside the Elder’s tent, swimming in a pool of blood. His thigh was sliced deep, numerous arteries cut. Panu – the village healer – was taking care of him and Garethred nodded in esteem before storming outside the city gate, aiding the Lossoth in this regrettable battle.
His runed elven spear, Anthel – twice as heavy as a bear pelt but thrice as sharp as a sabre tusk – was being swung around with abnormal agility and Glauraeg – the sharpest sword I have ever seen – cut through the enemies’ chests and throats with vigour and elegance. Garethred has slain at least a hundred foes until fright took hold of them and they retreated to all sides. Some were forced to jump into the freezing lake and drowned within seconds, some were trapped between the Lossoth and the opposite cliff and had no choice but to try and climb it up – in vain. The rest – about half of their remaining men – made their way to the road and tried to run back to the camp. That was the moment when Garethred turned around, facing the tough Tribe spearmen and glanced across the front line. Their cheering could be heard all the way to the Elder’s tent.
“My fellow Northerners, it is about time we teach them a lesson! Look at them, first they storm in here and harass us with arrows, taunts and dark magic, and half an hour later they run away as if being whipped! If they dare to break such peaceful evening and interrupt the villagers from a tasty dinner, why do WE not pay THEM a visit?”
Garethred spoke with a brilliant deep voice, yet anger and vindictiveness was apparent. This man really cares about us.
As expected, the spearmen followed him and they hunted down the laggards at the foot of the army, fighting their way deeper into Jä-rannit.
When Garethred reached the first palisade, the Angmarim realized they must fight unless they want to end up like their friends lying dead frozen in the depths of the lake. They regrouped and turned around, charging against the Lossoth downhill. Garethred saw this and shouted at his allies, who immediately raised their spears upwards. Their spears sticked into the enemies’ chests and one of the most brutal battles I have ever heard of has begun. Garethred later said he did not know what he was doing. His sword, already fully covered in dark blood, pierced chests, sliced stomachs and cut off heads. One by one the Angmarim kept falling to the ground, mortally wounded. The enemy panicked yet again and backed off behind the second palisade. But Garethred and the Lossoth were not satisfied. They used the torches stuck into the ground to burn the palisades and they have even gotten to the burning of tents, when Garethred regained sanity and decided it is enough. The warriors were confused by this, but obeyed and followed him back to the road. One of the Angmarim, drunken from the euphoria of staying alive, laughed at the leaving party. Garethred took his bow, turned around and after two seconds of careful aiming an arrow pierced the foolish man’s throat. The evil servants stayed silent without a move, watching the Lossoth make their steady leave.
Upon his arrival back to the village, Garethred was hailed cheerfully. He walked through the village, then upstairs into the Elder’s tent. He opened the large door and stepped inside. He took his mask off and breathed deeply, his eyes slightly wide. At first we thought he was exhausted, but as he later told us he was devastated about his brutal acts. But we do not deem his acts brutal. Rather just. Yrjänä stepped down the stairs and approached him with a relieved smile. Garethred tried to return it with a head bow, but the leader halted him.
“No need to bow, Nimohtar. We owe you our lives. Perhaps I would offer mine as a gift, but somebody has to take care of this village.”
They both grinned and clasped their hands, breaking into a friendly laughter.
“I don’t want a gift, Yrjänä, as nothing is more gratifying than the fact I have finally reunited with the Lady. But I thank you anyway.”
“Nimohtar, I do not think you realize what have you done for us. Ask for anything reasonable and it will be yours. Anything.”
“Yrjä-“
“Garethred, please.”
The elder pleadingly clasped his hands together and raised a rather irritating smile. Garethred sighed, looked downwards and thought for a moment.
“Your ring,” he said after raising his head up again. Yrjänä took his mammoth-tusk ring off right away and handed it to him.
“May it serve you better than it did me, Lord Garethred.”
Yrjänä smiled again, now in a humorous way. Garethred took the ring and held it against a torch, examining it. He kept a modest expression as he pulled it on his left ring-finger.
“Thank you, Yrjänä. The ring will stay safe with me, I promise.”
“Oh, and no need for promises either. The ring is yours now, do whatever you please with it.”
Garethred nodded and the Elder continued: “We have also decided to celebrate this victory with a great feast tonight. It would be an honour for everybody here if you joined us, Nimohtar. Unless you are really tired.”
“Unfortunately, tired is precisely what I am, Yrjänä. I have to kindly refuse your offer and lay myself to rest, preferably in a smaller tent,” he replied and looked around the vast interior.
The elder nodded in understanding and escorted Garethred outside.
There ends the tale of Lord Garethred Nareloth ‘Nimohtar’, known among the Tribes as Angmar’s Bane. His skills in battle will be remembered and stories told until the end of the Lossoth ages.
