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Arrow flies,
arrow hunts,
arrow hurries off,
to bring death.
The tip it gleams,
it shimmers, blinks
will penetrate the foe.
The archer stands,
observes wordless,
where his greeting hies.
The sharp eyes' steady gaze
remains upon the flight.
Death, it strikes,
where he aimed.
Last breath.
Life lost.
North of Middle-Earth, Land of the Conclave, Gate to the North, End of the Third Age
An evening quite made to start a successful journey. Light fog hung over the river, the sun had not been able to dry up the land completely during the day and it was the beginning of a cold night. The island's fortress seemed to float on clouds that were flowing around it, swirled against the walls and was gliding off them again, without being able to climb them. Cadhalor's good ears perceived the gurgling sound of the stream beneath the fog.
A soft gloom grasped after him that was to be savored like a light rapture or a breathed kiss. He was certain to excel Thangrineth before the eyes of the Conclave, maybe by arriving first at the being's hide-out and sealing the pact. The thought let him smile, while he observed the surrounding and breathed in the fresh air.
He was wondering however that he was waiting at the arranged meeting point to the right time and there was no Thangrineth to be seen at all. It did not befit the ambitious Elf to pass up on the start of the quest. She would not have ...
Instead of waiting any longer for his rival, Cadhalor played the sequence of tones on a horn that would lower the bridge for him. As he then passed one of the guards he asked out of an intuition: »Am I the first Elf who crosses this night into the north?«
»Yes, that you are«, answered the guard and nodded at him shortly without making any other form of motion.
Cadhalor did not feel better. »When did the last Elf cross?«
»Yesterday«, he heard. »Her name was Thangrineth.«
Boiling rage rose up in Cadhalor. Obviously did his rival have similar thoughts and had decided to be the first at the being and secured the alliance, who would gain the praise of the Conclave all for herself and receive a high rank.
Cursing, he was rushing on Sardaï, his fiendish steed over the bridge that had not been lowered yet to the full extend. His anger seemed to be carried over unto the stallion, who performed enormous jumps, stretched and huffed loudly. Also he sounded angry and put everything into his leaps that brought him without much effort over the gap between water and bridge.
Cadhalor had to tore on the reigns to tame Sardaï. Only as he had calmed down a little, also the excitement of the Dark Elf steed became less. »You feel my emotions«, he said and stroked over the broad, black neck. »Truly, you are unique.«
The stallion huffed and seemed to enjoy the attention of the rider.
Orientating on the position of the moon and the map, the Elf galloped on his steed over the wasteland into an endless plain of grass that almost was two steps high grown.
The first part of the distance would bring him over open regions that belonged to no one. That was good, because there were no guards or border patrols that he had to kill; on the other hand it could happen that he would suddenly find himself infront of a pack of Orcs, a horde trolls or a small barbarian unit that were on the lookout for prey.
Many roamed the no man's land that lay even further north than the farthest tip of the Misty Mountains. He had to think of the Obbôn, flesh-thieves, who were hunting Elves to cut off their skin, noses, the ears and other body parts and tried to fit them on themselves. They were remnants of an old fanatic cult that had existed long ago. At first they had worshipped the Elves as divine beings. But to be close to them, the Obbôn went too far, truly. The cult had ended by the time of Beleriand's fall and was supposed to have died out entirely. But a few of them still roamed about.
Orcs would be his smallest problem. There were other terrible things in the far North that he was sure, most of the peoples of Middle-Earth never heard about.
Cadhalor had no time nor was in the mood for any conflicts. he had to reach Thangrineth under all circumstances. The fact to have been fooled even before the start of the quest was painful, gnawed on him. His face lost its beauty. Cold anger and the want of revenge changed it, let him appear sinister and cruel.
Sardaï hastened in a steady speed over the plains.
It became morning, it became mid-day, and Cadhalor granted the steed a short rest by a slow flowing stream, where it could drink. It was a joy to him to observe how the beast would snatch the biggest fish from a swarm and gulp it greedily. Water alone was not enough for this creature, it wanted blood and flesh. Once have been a Mearas, the Dark Elves had turned it into something fiendishly corrupted, as they did with all their steeds, but Sardaï had not been spawned from these darksome horses. He had lived before on the plains of the South and was pure.
Cadhalor used the opportunity to eat some of his provisions. He took a small can from his bag in which he carried a paste made from different ingredients that gave a warrior everything that he would require on the road. With the dagger he took out a knife's tip and licked it off the blade. Herbs, meat, fat, sweetness and spices spread on his tongue.
He gulped, drank from his water, put the can back into his bag and took forth the map. He always had his arrows and the longbow at hand, in case something hostile was around him. In the north there lived as good as only hostile creatures to an Elf. The long-shafted projectile brought silence however mostly after a single hit, so that he would not need enter direct combat.
He studied the map, estimated what of the distance he had left behind him and what he would reach until the evening. Sardaï moved extremely swiftly. Cadhalor's confidence rose to yet catch Thangrineth before she would reach the border to the land of the Kraggash.
Sardaï huffed and raised his head, reddish water dabbled from his mouth. The ruby glowing eyes looked to the right at the reed-shore.
Cadhalor followed his gaze. The high stems were swaying in the stream forth and back. Still he could perceive a rustling that did not want to fit to the uniform motion.
He let the map fall, took bow and arrow to hand and spied over the swooshing stalks. Then he closed his eyes concentrated on the unfitting sounds, ordered them and allocated them, until he was certain and raised suddenly his weapon: drawing, fingers stretching and the feathered end given free. The arrow buzzed from the string.
A bright, high scream sounded up, something splashed quietly.
Cadhalor drew the edges of his mouth down and opened the lids. By the scream he had recognized that it was a barbarian woman. It could have been worse.
The water that ran from the stalks of the reed had dyed itself red. Without doubt, his shot had struck.
He laid the next arrow on the bow and waited patiently that she would show herself to him.
The splashing and rustling increased. A black-haired woman crawled from the reeds through the low water; in her thigh stuck the arrow. The feather had prevented that the projectile shot straight through the flesh.
The surprise was great as he looked more explicitly: Cadhalor saw a Dark Elvish slave band around her throat. How did she manage to escape the land of the Conclave and why did she still carry the sign of serfdom now that she had managed to flee?
»Do not shoot me, milord«, she pleaded sobbing and raised her head. For a woman of the race of Man she was quite drawing. She had bound a cloth of black lace over her eyes as if she would try to conceal them. She wore a dark grey dress and a black corset over it, on her belt hung a silver dagger.
»How do you know that I am a Dark Elf?«
»The arrow«, she groaned. »The arrows of the Dark Elves are unmistakable.« She crawled forward, out of the water and unto the pebble beach. Judging her movements, he estimated that she did not see.
Sardaï had taken up the scent of her blood and huffed. Hungrily.
Cadhalor waited yet. »What are you doing out here? Have you fled and want to return to your family?«
»Never!«, she called shocked. »I wanted to follow my lady, who ...« She blushed and became silent.
»Who hearkens to the name of Thangrineth«, Cadhalor said slowly. It was obvious. How many Dark Elves were there who made their way currently into the North-East?
She nodded. »My name is Inúr, milord.« She sank down on the dry land and touched the spot of her leg where the projectile was still stuck; quietly she gasped of pain.
»You are not blind yet for long?«
»Milady punished me recently rightly for a mistake of mine«, she answered with a dispute in her voice that he did not overhear. »I followed her to show that I would give my life to save her's. To even out my mistake.«
»You would have given your life almost, truly.«
Cadhalor knew the name Inúr from somewhere. Before a while there had been talk about a barbarian woman from the tribe of Farron of Mirkwood who had followed an Elf by choice into serfdom. By her own choice! Apparently she was fallen for the art as it happened often. The race of Man was susceptible for the beauty of his people and what they created, felt themselves draw, others fell in love with elvish creations or into the apparent cruelty of the Dark Elves. He could not decide what reason was the one for Inúr, but he had also not known that they had meant Thangrineth.
Now he had almost killed her slave. Was the tribe Farron not one of the fiercer ones in the land that were raising a host to stand against the Easterlings?
Cadhalor laid the weapon aside and walked up to Inúr. Under different circumstances it would have been a delight to him to unleash his anger about Thangrineth upon the slave and make her a meal for Sardaï. But as she belonged to the Farron and as she could surely tell him more about Thangrineth's secrets, he would let her live. So or so, she could be of use to him.
»Show me how strong your will is«, he said and cut the arrow shaft shortly over the thigh.
»Milord, what should I ...«
»Pull out the arrow«, he ordered her shortly. »I want to see what is stronger: the fear of the pain or the will to help yourself.«
Inúr groaned, but grabbed the arrow with both hands and pulled on it. As she couldn't see, she was stuck with the tip on the ground, the projectile had not yet left her leg. She screamed up and jerked on the tip, even stretched her leg and tried it again.
Cadhalor observed her face and the battle it displayed. Pain, defiance and anger changed followed each other in quick succession, she even bit her own lips bloody. He could not tire looking at her. With another scream, she pulled the arrow out of herself.
»Better than I had expected, but too much noise«, he said and cut a piece of cloth out of her dress and bandaged the wound. »How did you escape?« Rigorous he was making sure that he did not sully himself with her blood.
»I traveled on a wagon with soldiers that brought provisions to the island fortress«, she explained pained. »I swam through the river and followed the tracks of the steed as well as I could. I could feel them over the long distance.« She raised her hand and sat down. »But I got lost eventually.«
»So I have saved your life«, Cadhalor said with relish. »You are in my debt.«
She hesitated, but then she bowed. »I do everything what you ask, Milord.«
Cadhalor knew that she was playing a game. But the strong will for a barbarian, he liked. He laughed quietly and held Sardaï back who wanted to bite after her. »I am sure I can make use of you at some point.«
North of Middle-Earth, Unending Wastelands, nigh the border of the realm of the Kraggash, End of the Third Age
Thangrineth stopped on top of a hill and beheld the colorful painted wooden palisades that spread in a distance of a mile to both sides. An utterly strange sight amidst the dry, pale grass.
They had to be five steps in height. Ever again, the constructors had brought hatches into the wall through which defenders could hurl any form of object. The rush of colors on the thick, long tree trunks could lead unsuspecting wanderers to the impression that behind the wall awaited a quite joyful and friendly kingdom. The only thing that was missing were the candy canes and the glacéed fruits the barbarians made, which would hang down on long strings.
That impression was vastly deceiving.
Behind the palisades began the land of the black goblins, the alchemists, whose art of mixing ingredients to create poisons was only exceeded by their malice and malignity.
Thangrineth looked over to the gate that had been painted with an absurd green. She took her telescope and regarded the letters upon it.
»Speak friend or foe - and step in. It makes no difference, we kill everybody«, she read half-loud. It was the queer, almost insane humor with which the Kraggash had made themselves an additional terrible name. They were sticking to that what they had written on their gates. But they rewarded ingenuity at times.
»Well, then«, she said to the nervous steed, whose ears were turning back and forth. »Let us see if we can get into a bargain with them.« She kicked with her heels slightly into the flanks of the animal and the steed trotted on.
Overestimating self-certainty rode with her. Everything was going like she had planned. She had left the luckily naive Cadhalor back at home and worked out a satisfying advance for herself. With that she should be before that ridiculous Elf at the being to begin the negotiations. And after that the campaign against all their enemies would begin!
The palisades were only twenty steps away from her.
They had realized she was coming, solitary hatches were opened for a peak outside. The Kraggash observed her, stalked her with their eyes and surely were awaiting that she would ride through the gate. The repressed, shrill giggling was betraying them.
Creaking and invitingly the entrance was opened. A straight road became visible behind it that would lead deeper into the realm. She did not see one of the goblins.
Thangrineth brought the steed to stand. Beyond the palisade rose whispers, the high, shrill voices conjured up disgust in her.
»Hearken«, she called in the common tongue, »that I say neither friend nor foe. Also do I not step inside. I ride.« That should have disarmed the trap. She gave her mount with a short squeeze of her legs to understand that it should move.
The hooves struck the ground, sand whirled up and the stallion huffed threatening against the invisible danger. Step for step they came upon the gate, then Thangrineth found herself on the same height with the hinges and the steed walked over the threshold.
She still got no Kraggash to see. The to the inside opened gate-wings were barring her vision.
»Hold«, sounded the order from an invisible guard.
Thangrineth reined the steed in. »What is it?«
»You did just say friend or foe«, it came sharp from behind one of the hatches in the gate to her right.
»And you may ride, but your horsy steps through the gate«, came the reprimanding hint from her left. »What do you think will now happen to you, Dark Elfy?«
»And what«, it came from above, »do you want in our realm? It has been years since the last one of your kind was here.«
»I wish to ride a bit in your land about and gather the best jokes and jests«, she answered. »The Kraggash are renown for them.«
»So you are a poet?«, one of them screeched.
»Rather a liar!«, clamored another among the laughter of the others. »You are a warrior, Dark Elfy! One can see that right off your arrogant, haughty mug. The spear you surely do not carry around to cook a piece of meat over the fire! In your bragging armor you will certainly not make a soup and slurp it from your sissyish helmet.«
Thangrineth heard multiple clicking sounds, then the two gate-wings swung towards each other, missed sharply the tail of her steed and shut themselves loudly.
Around her stood Kraggash on the wall and grinned at her. They reached her upper thigh at best, wore thin, colorful armor and helmets. The black, by warts covered skin made a harsh contrast to the protection that they wore. The guileful eyes sat far to the front in their ugly skulls that were a little finer than that of Orcs, the teeth were short and strong as Thangrineth saw as they began to cheer and whistle as greeting.
»We honor your feisty attempt to overcome our gate sentence«, one of them called exuberantly, drew out proudly the narrow chest and crossed the thin arms. On his belt hung, as by all of them, an almost leg-long blastpipe. The small arrow for it they carried in pockets on their belts whose tips had been covered with a small glass lid to protect the poison from drying up. »That is why we will not kill you.« He raised the arm and the screaming became downright unbearable. »But maybe the troll will do it for us!«
A loud, animal like roar sounded in the distance.
The Kraggash climbed quickly to the uppermost part of the wall. »Troll!«, he screamed and his companion joined into the screeching.
Thangrineth cursed in her mind. Malignity, malice - She just had gotten the proof how little she could rely on the Kraggash. Sadly there was no other way to the North-east than through their land. She grabbed the spear tighter and put it beneath her arm to use it like a lance.
A heavy creature closed in through the forest that grew to the right and the left of the way. The steps rumbled dull and shook the trees, so that leaves were falling.
Thangrineth saw the troll. It was nigh two steps tall, twice as broad as herself and rather looked like a much too large, naked Kraggash. In its right, it held a thick branch that it had just broken off and was flailing with it already.
»This troll«, one of the goblins called to her, »is the making of our king. Be happy that you may test yourself on it. Its claws are poisonous, surely also for a Dark Elfy like you.« Again did the spiteful laughter sound from their throats.
Thangrineth had no doubts about her victory and swore silently to kill them all after it. Sadly she had to do so quickly to not loose anymore time. Cadhalor would drive his steed on to catch up with her, to overtake her and to reach the quest's target first.
The troll did not slow down, but increased its run even further. The club it swung in a strike from the side that should hit the steed on the neck.
Thangrineth let the stallion evade and stabbed after the throat of the monster from whose claws ran a yellowish substance.
The troll ducked down beneath the attack and hit from below against the spear so that it was almost leaving Thangrineth's hands. Fingers and lower arm were in pain at the impact, the power of the enemy was greater than expected. She required a list, otherwise she would in the end catch a scratch from the claws and seal her fate.
Thangrineth used the force and rolled herself down from her steed over the croup, landed on her feet and gave the stallion the order to attack the troll with its hind hooves. That would grant her a distraction that she would require for her next assault.
Again did the troll evade, the gleaming hooves were buzzing past him. It grabbed the hind-leg and smote it with a powerful strike of the club.
The stallion neighed in ardent pain and bit after the creature, locked its jaws with the scaly shoulder and crunched the bone.
At the same time led Thangrineth her spear upwards, through the throat of the troll that began to rattle and gasp and struck with the club after her.
Thangrineth jumped vertically up; doing so, she activated the hidden mechanism in her weapon and parted it in the middle. The front piece continued to stuck in the flesh of the monster and the second half showed an evenly long, slim blade. That one she rammed through the right eye of the troll and that so powerful that the tip broke through the back of its skull. Blood was shimmering on it.
The troll stood there as if paralyzed, swayed one, two heartbeats long, then fell to the side and buried the hurt steed beneath it.
Thangrineth felt hate rushing through her veins as she saw the stallion suffer. Her list had worked, but she had not wished such an end for the loyal and expensive companion. She tore the two spear-halfs from the troll and turned slowly around; the life essence of the creature dribbled down the shafts and the blades. »I have passed the test«, she whispered sinister. »Who pays me for my steed?« Heralding she raised the short-spears.
The Kraggash who had spoken with her all the time, stood with an arrogant expression on the wall. »Who pays for the troll?«, he answered cocky. »The king himself raised it.« He took his blastpipe from the belt and chose deliberately slowly one of the feathered short arrows. »I think he should decide about that.« He pushed it into the blastpipe.
»First one of you pays.« Thangrineth hurled her spear after a goblin, the blade penetrated the lower arm, following that it became connected with the torso. Screaming did the Kraggash stumble forward, fell from the wall and drove the shaft entirely through his body. »Now bring me to your ki...«
She could not end the sentence. From all sides came small arrows upon her. Some of them broke on her armor, but others could fly through small gaps or struck her at unprotected spots.
Instantly her blood seemed to boil and the colors changed. Toes and fingers became hot, her lower legs became numb and she began to sway. Her feeling for balance was escaping her with every breath she took. The world became even more colorful than the Kraggash had made it and out of one sun grew two dozen, that jumped as laughing, bright balls from the sky and hopped about.
Thangrineth tried to catch one of them. She got one to be grasped by her hands, but the construct perished at touch and hurled her off.
Thangrineth flew and flew and flew ...
