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Dye your blade with blackness,
so that no one sees it flash.
Paint your face with the night,
so that no one sees it shine.
Turn your spirit into somberness,
and the darkness obeys you!
- Dark Elvish Wisdom
North of Middle-Earth, seventy miles north of the Iron Mountains, Late Third Age
The weather made a sudden turn, as soon as she had left the borders of the Kraggash behind her. From now on, Thangrineth no longer rode through rain, but through snow.
The bumpy road, on which she was continuously heading to the north-east was going ever up hills, and at last led her into mountain ranges. The surrounding rock was of a dark brown in color with black streaks.
As much as she hurried and spurted on her steed, she still had an eye for the world about her. The attentiveness of the warrior was unified with the curiosity of the painter, who sought for new motives to be drawn on the canvas. There were many of those here.
What Thangrineth saw in this landscape was entirely different from the land of the Conclave. Wind, ice and water had granted the rocks in the passing of ages the most bizarre forms, torn off pieces or had sharp edges become soft and round.
Behind every curve of the path a new surprise was waiting for her. Rock formations rose like needles from a valley a hundred steps into the air and were enfolded by clouds. Thangrineth laid the head into her neck and tried to look up to the tips, what the levitating clouds made impossible to her. She let her gaze wander to a wall that had been decorated with holes and from which green water fell down roaring into a gorge.
One thing was certain: This land had been deserted from all living creatures.
Neither Man nor monsters or animals were meeting her on her path. It was to Thangrineth's advantage, she did not have to stop to fight. Still, she found it strange that she saw no one on the broad street on which she moved. The powers seem to have made this land for their own amusement. And for artists.
The Dark Elf discovered no villages or settlements, not even a farm or the tent of a nomad. Soon she left the rock needles behind her. By the coming of the evening she rode astounded through dried out rivers and thought to be moving through the veins of an enormous creature. The walls opened and shut above her, the ground had been made flat through the water.
Thangrineth could not hold herself from taking off her glove and touch the stone. It was smooth as polished marble, what caused problems to the horse. For every misstep it made and came into sliding, it received a strike with the reins against the nostrils. After fourteen of these hurtful lessons, the beast had learned, but she was still not satisfied. »Slow creature! What would I give for a steed of my kind instead of you.«
She wished for more time to rest. To paint. Such motives no one could show off in the realm of the Dark Elves. But she had to reach the mysterious being, before the poison was unfurling its effect. She strongly believed that she would have then enough time to gaze upon the beauty of the land in peace. I do not submit as easily as Cadhalor.
As she left the dried rivers, the path led even further up the mountain range. To the right and left of her were fields of snow, a forest protruded from a small gorge, the tipped, leafless branches of the trees' crowns rose up like pleading arms. Thangrineth fell in love with the sight, would remember it. Another picture that she had to ban unto the canvas.
She was still traveling through complete solitude.
There had to be a reason that nothing lived in these parts for long. But she was not eager to meet the reason herself. She was always eager for a battle against barbarians and scum; she loved it, to play with them before they would die slowly or quickly. The velocity with which death met them and carried her name depended on her mood. But a fight against that which had bled out this landscape was certainly none that would be quick or easy.
The experience with the Galran Unuk had let Thangrineth become more wary. Those who possessed powers had to be killed swiftly. She was almost certain that a higher power had desecrated this land, although she felt no reminder of it.
The steps of the horse lost their rhythm and became uncertain, its strength was dwindling.
»Loose your footing and you will die in the fall«, the Dark Elf promised to the animal and saw a large ledge to which she was leading it. There she gave it moss and lichens to eat that she had scratched from a stone and lay down beneath her blanket. The horse huffed, sniffed on the gift but did not touch it. It was shaking, the sweat froze to its fur.
Thangrineth found no sleep. She was terribly cold, the wind was blowing around the peaks and carried the snow into the smallest gap. As much as she cowered down, the flakes found her and sailed down on her. None of her abilities helped against that. If I do not escape any time soon this ice-hole and come into warmer places, I will surely freeze to death.
The horse issued a wailing sound and collapsed. The arduousness of the merciless ride had demanded its tribute.
That saves me killing you. Thangrineth got up. »O Eastern Winds! O star-lit Night!«, she called and raised the arms against the sky. »Send me a sign. Something that lets me gather hope that I will be able to complete my mission!«
The powers remained silent.
She looked to the empty eyes of the horse, her gaze moved over the fur where the sweat had frozen to a cover of crystals. With the glittering, diamond-like skin it looked much better.
Soon the same would happen to her. She found the thought a little comforting that she would freeze and become hence imperishable in this manner, although her immortality ended.
»Ye powers!«, she called from her deepest spirit. »Do you wish that the realm of the Dark Elves becomes weak and even crumbles to dust, so let me fade. But we are the true children of Ilúvatar, his offspring and of divine nature. My mission must end well!«
The wind turned and carried a scent to her - fire!
»Creator you will be proud of me«, she spoke excited, took her weapons and followed the smell. Her boots left no tracks in the snow and caused no sound as she was daring out of her hide-out in the cover of the night and sneaked along the path. An ability that could bring the enemies of her people to despair and toss them down into abyssal fear.
The moon stood high at the sky, the snow on the mountains reflected the silvery light almost so strongly, that one could think it was the middle of the day.
Thangrineth allowed herself to enjoy the sight for a little while, to listen to the silence and observe her own breath as it became white steam, rising up to the clear firmament. I will succeed. She hated that in a moment of weakness she had doubted that.
The path that she followed made a sharp turn to the right and gave the look free unto an tremendous basin.
There stood to Thangrineth's feet, certainly a thousand steps beneath her an enormous number of tents and huts in all sizes in a wild array. Solitary fires burned in between. A broad path winded itself down and led straight through the encampment.
On the opposite side of the vale, right infront of a gorge rose an imposing fortress. And the street to the north-east that Thangrineth had to take to reach the being ended right infront of its gate.
Thangrineth cursed loudly. To her eyes it seemed as if an army had prepared itself for a long siege against the fortress. How long they were waiting there already, she could not tell from the distance.
Imbeciles. Where are their rams and siege-towers? She set her gaze on the surrounding mountains. The path had not been made for nothing, the mountains appeared harsh and repellent and defended itself against any attempt to be climbed. To that came the devious fields of snow. The white was fresh, soft and came easily into sliding. It would take a lot of strength to find a way over the mountains and past the fortress.
So with the head through the wall. Either so that no one in the host would realize her presence or with a fitting deception. For such a distraction would serve a fire, for a town made of tents was especially easily catching flames. She could also murder their commanders, or she caused such uproar among the animals that they broke out and devastated a part of the encampment. Anything that caused confusion would help her and amuse her as well.
Smiling, she began her descend into the basin that proved not to be very hard. The necessity was turned into a fine little game that served her entertainment.
As soon as she reached the vale, she remained with the cover of the shadows. During her exploration she saw quickly that the assailants were of the race of Man, a people of barbarians with rough faces, thick beards and simple jackets of fur over the inferior armor. Thangrineth shook her head. And they walk upright and with a rolling gait as if they could best giants.
Another quirk of the barbarians showed here: They had brought women and children along.
Thangrineth would never come to that idea. The Dark Elves ever had led their wars quickly and hard, long sieges her people had always avoided. Where barbarians needed their rams, Dark Elves used their cunning and guile. Women and children had no place at the front.
Thangrineth however was delighted of that quirk. The barbarians would become more susceptible, more vulnerable. As soon as their females were attacked, they forgot any carefulness and self-protection and ran blindly into almost any trap.
At some buildings she discovered signs of long weathering. She estimated the numbers of the gathered Man to be about five-thousand and that this camp existed already longer than a few weeks or months. Her lips were formed to a malicious smile. That was also another trait of the barbarians: They did not even live for very long and then they wasted their time with fighting.
Thangrineth made use of her powers, stretched the shadows to quickly dart over a free plaza and listened to the conversation in one of the tents. She perceived parts of the talk through the thin walls. Something about a retreat and negotiations, but she barely understood the throatily language. She did not care any further for that. Unseen and unnoticed by the guards, she left the wanton open encampment and sneaked up to the gate of the fortress. I did not even require a distraction.
The bulwark that was meeting her here would have been a challenge if it would have been about a normal siege to her.
She estimated the fortress' wall on a length of two arrow shots and twenty steps high. It showed several signs of impacts, rocks had been hurled, broke and shattered. One could see very well where the stones had met the wall. The faction in the bulwark had closed a few gaps with new rock; infront of the wall lay broken ladders, arrows, crumbled remains of rock - witnesses of merciless attempts to storm the bulwark. The gate itself was only four steps broad, like the road and three high.
On the defensive walkways, Thangrineth saw flames rising from braziers and guards walking up and down. Two towers rose ten steps over the wall. Parts of catapults gave away what stood on top of them.
Excellent. The Dark Elf smiled. The by gaps and cracks covered wall served her more grip than a rope would have and the hand full of guards she did not fear. She did not even need to kill them in order to pass them. Again she could save up important time.
She bound her spear with a leather strap to her back and began her ascend. Small stones sometimes broke loose when she pulled herself up, but the sound was not loud enough as that it would have peaked the interest of the soldiers.
Slowly she pulled herself over the edge of the wall, looked from left to right.
I come from the stupid to the naive, she thought in disbelief. The guards were just walking in opposite directions, the faces turned away from one another. Something which Dark Elves would never do. To her, it was an invitation to sneak past them.
Thangrineth looked to the rock gorge that showed itself behind the bulwark in the mountains. The street of the north-east led through that rip in the landscape, several bridges and ropes had been stretched over it. As there were no buildings behind the wall, she estimated that the inhabitants of the fortress had retreated into the mountains themselves. Four broad, swinging wooden bridges were leading from there to the defensive walkways.
What Thangrineth did not like: She could not see the end of the gorge. It performed a soft curve. Twenty steps through the alley or hundred, maybe thousand? A ravine could - by all her abilities and skills - quickly become a trap.
She just thought about how she could get the quickest way to the chasm and considered jumping from bridge to bridge, climbing her way on the rope, as she saw a shadow quickly fleeting over the ground nigh the wall.
Dogs? Thangrineth inhaled the cool air, stared at the wraith-like outlines.
After a closer look they however were revealed as four-legged beasts, feline and equipped with great teeth. They were as large as a young horse.
Thangrineth remembered to have heard of these great cats before. Are they the reason that the people of the bulwark live in the mountains and not right behind the wall? The beasts could however also be used as additional gate-keepers. The powerful paws were certainly strong enough to tear through most kind of armor that the barbarians were wearing.
After she had seen one of the creatures, she discovered more and more of them. They lay on the ground, with their legs drawn to their body; the coloration of their fur gave them the image of a mere rock in the night. She had not expected that! Can I get past them unto a bridge? Are they easily fooled?
Quickly she looked after the guards that were heading towards one another again. She made herself a little smaller and concentrated on the darkness again. With her mind she grabbed it like a piece of cloth, stretched it, made it even more black that not even light could penetrate it. Any brightness was sucked up and only enforced the gloom. These two sad figures will not see me.
The guards felt subconsciously that the shadows had changed and walked, most likely without realizing it themselves on a route over the walkway that did not lead them through the blackness. But Thangrineth saw their faces now.
They were brown of color, with dark eyes and bony traits; their bodies were strong and they wore short-trimmed black beards. Beneath the long mantles they wore armor that appeared a lot better than those of the barbarians. Easterlings!
Then let us see what those cats will do when someone throws a gift before their feet. As the guards passed and turned their backs to one another, Thangrineth took her spear and increased the shadow in such a measure that they both had to pass through.
One guard was on the same height with her and could have touched her, if he would have reached out with his hand, but as part of the blackness, she was save from discovery. The Dark Elf pushed the guard with the blunt end of the spear so that he lost his balance and fell down from the walkway into the courtyard. Excited she observed the fall and the events that followed.
The guard had not hit the ground, there the beasts came running towards him already, jumped and displayed their teeth. As soon as the soldier touched the ground they were upon him and dissembled him with their large jaws and claws.
The remaining guardsman looked down into the yard, took a horn from his girdle and put it into his mouth. The instrument issued a dull, loud sound.
The slaughter continued. Clashing the armor was ripped apart and thrown away. The skin was literally shred to pieces, the dark red, soft flesh was being ripped out. Red blood of the soldier splashed about, while the teeth cut through the ribs with ease. Drowned in their feeding frenzy, these beasts evolved an unbelievable speed and power: Arms and legs of the soldier were cut off and instantly taken away, defended against others and quickly devoured.
Ugly, but quick and deadly, the Dark Elf concluded disappointed. Now there was only the way over the ropes and bridges that she would have had to reach first. It did not escape her that the beasts were looking up to the walkway. The eyes were set on the remaining guard, a growl escaped their throats and the teeth were displayed. More so than before.
In the mountain, lights awoke, lamps were kindled.
Thangrineth would retreat. Her experiment with the guardsman had a greater effect than she could have estimated. And she most likely had to bury her plan of getting through the fortress undetected.
Then I need to set something greater into motion. She swung herself out of the shadow, directly infront of the guard, who set down his horn and wanted to reach for his weapon. But before his fingers closed around the hilt of his sword, the tip of the spear had penetrated his chest. Blood seeped from the wound.
»You would not object if I take you with me, East-man?«, Thangrineth asked friendly and devious at the same time and hurled the man shortly over the wall. Quick as the wind, she hurried after him.
Reaching the ground, she heaved the soldier unto her shoulders and ran. Although she managed to carry the man, his weight pressed Thangrineth's boots into the snow. This time, she left tracks behind.
And that was the plan.
»I have no idea what he is talking about. Tell him that.« Hasban the Seven-Strong, chieftain of the Wind-sons stared at the translator. He sat with his torso uncovered at the untidy table, on which stood the remains of his evening meal that was impregnating the air in his tent with its heavy smell. A cup was thrown over, ale was spilled between the plates.
The chieftain scratched his head, his black hair a single mess. He did not even have had the time to bind his pants correctly and it was all the same to him.
To his opposite stood four armed Swerthings, as he called the Easterlings of the tribe of the Jembina, that looked indignant at him and spoke all at once to the translator. Their tongue was crude and dark and Hasban would have liked to strike them all down.
»Tell them that my mood is not on its peak.« He looked into the cup and took a gulp; the beer revived his spirit. »They pulled me from my two women in the middle of the night to tell me that I am supposed to have send a spy and murderer.« He burped repressed and looked at the intruders. The Swerthings were very anticipated about the event, he could hear that from the tone of their voices.
Hasban really had no clue what the Jembina were talking about. He could also not imagine that one of his soldiers was attempting a solo run on the bulwark. Why? The negotiations with the gate-keepers had been going well and he stood shortly before speaking with Uoilik, the lord of the tribe, to sign a pact with him. His army was calling for rest. It would end the year-long war for the right to march through these mountains, for the Wind-sons required that route for their hunt and the trade that would ensure their survival.
He pointed with the cup towards the Jembina. »Tell them, that I find the nightly deed also as senseless and hard to explain.« How he longed to be back with his women, to continue there where the Swerthings had stopped him.
»I shall tell you from Uoilik that he would like to belief you, as he too sees no reason for that murder. But it has happened«, the translator spoke, who was a Jembina as well. »And the tracks of the assassin lead into your camp.«
Hasban knew that he could not soothe the minds of the Jembina by words only. »I come with you and you will show me those tracks«, he said and emptied the cup.
His blonde woman came up to him and laid his pelt-mantle around his shoulders, his red-haired wife helped him with the weapon girdle and together with the blonde they gave him the mighty sword. It was heavy, as it was suitable for a Wind-son and it could crack open the armor of the Jembina with a single, swift strike.
The chieftain stepped into his boots and followed the foreigners out into the night.
Before his tent, that had been his palace since four long years, had gathered thirty armed men. Some of them held lamps and torches, others weapons in their hands. His people had taken note of the visitors and feared for the worst.
»Calm yourselves!«, he called to them. »Away with the blades. The Jembina were tricked, nothing more.« In short he summarized what the reason for the appearance of the Easterlings was. »Should it be revealed that one of you has something to do with this, I will have him or her executed«, he added. »I, myself, live since eleven years before the gorge, have grown from a boy into a man, have taken wives and spawned fine sons myself, who know their home only from stories.« With a hard gaze he looked at each of them. »Must I remind of the many, bloody battles, fights and sieges? I have taken up negotiations with the Jembina and luckily found someone who thinks as I do.« He formed his hands to fists and shook them threatening. »Four years of talking - for nothing? Because of senseless thirst of revenge? I will not let my home-coming be thwarted by that!« With these words, he walked on, after the Jembina. Twenty men he took with him as bodyguards.
While they marched through the encampment, he remembered how he had received the crown of the Wind-sons from his father. That had been four years ago. Hasban also remembered how they had returned with goods from the realm of Dale and stood suddenly before a shut gate and were repelled by the Jembina.
Originally, this fortress had belonged to Dwarves, but a fight must have erupted that the Dwarrows had lost. The Jembina however had not seen reason to let the Wind-sons return to their home. Hasban knew not why till the present day. He prayed with every rise of the sun that his people had not yet forgotten them yet behind the mountains.
Hasban swore the one of his people who had something to do with the assassination a terrible death: He would let ice spikes grow through him and kill him slowly. Or first he would pull all of his nails and teeth to increase his suffering, strike the fingers flat with great hammers and ... The sight of the trace was interrupting his thoughts. It did indeed lead from the bulwark to the other side of the camp and could not be overseen. The blood allowed no doubt.
Hasban felt sick of anger. This idiot has been so stupid and took a trophy!
»Let us follow the tracks«, he said and drew his sword. »Tell Uoilik that I will slay the man or woman who did this, myself.« He marched through the snow, always after the tracks, through the encampment up to a small hut. On the wooden door he saw small drops of blood.
His men mumbled.
Hasban's mouth became a thin line. Fandati lived here, the former love of the chieftain and an exceptional warrioress. They had not parted well with one another. Should it be her manner of revenge on him, to destroy his success?
The chieftain stormed through the door. »Where are you, Fandati?«, he roared through the dark room. The Jembina came after him, three men with lamps sought to enter the hut as well.
In the shine of the light, they saw Fandati at the table, her head sunken to her arms. To her feet lay the body of a Jembina soldier, her sword stuck in his chest and the blood ran from the wound and flooded the ground.
»Fandati!«, Hasban called in rage. »What have you done!?« He made a step forward and kicked against the edge, so that the table would push her back.
The woman was hurled backwards, crashed with her head against the wooden wall and remained still. The eyes were open, milky and stared lifeless against the ceiling. From her chest seeped the red life essence.
Hasban hesitated and looked at the Jembina. His last action or has she killed herself?
»Uoilik says that it is plain what has happened. You, chieftain Hasban shall see all negotiations as null and void«, the translator said with a note of unhappiness in his voice. »For one requirement was that the killing would end. As we both see, it hasn't.«
Hasban found it worst that he could not even punish Fandati anymore. But then his mind was telling him that not all could be as it seemed.
He turned to the Jembina, the sword ready for battle. »Ask Uoilik the following: Where is the weapon with which Fandati was slain? Where is the head of the soldier? Why is there a track from the fortress into the camp, but none out?« He observed the Swerthings, as they were questioned like that.
The Jembina were considering his words for a long time.
Hasban used the opportunity and gave his men orders. »Send out the guards that shall seek through the entire camp. They shall bring any Swerthing, any child, any woman or man who has Jembina blood on their hands to my tent!«
The men nodded and disappeared outside, in their stead, new guards stepped into Fandati's home. The chieftain should not remain alone with the Easterlings.
»We do not know«, the translator said finally. »Now, that you speak of it, it appears even as strange to us. Also that our guard-pets have not signaled us the arrival of any intruder is unlikely.«
»Then it was neither a Jembina nor a Wind-son who performed these murders«, Hasban concluded.
»There is almost no other conclusion, yes.«
»But who«, Hasban lowered his sword as sign that he would inflict no harm on the company of Easterlings, »could draw an advantage from a battle between our people?«
»It is likely that someone wanted to make us attack one another«, the translator said.
»We will find him«, answered the chieftain and scratched his broad chest. »I have given my men ...«
The lamps were extinguished.
Crashing the door fell shut, the heavy beam was laid before it. Instantly after, the first death-scream rung up. It had hit one of the Wind-sons.
»To arms!«, Hasban roared and raised the sword, retreated until he felt the wall at his back. The sword he held before him, swung it to defend himself against any assailants. »Assault!«
It clashed several times and new screams came loud. Swords and bodies fell to the ground, other desperate, incomprehensible calls originated from the Jembina. The at times screeching, high voices of dying men conjured up the illusion that even children were being slaughtered. The room was filled with the scent of blood. Much blood, while it became ever more quiet.
Hasban had the terrible feeling that the darkness was penetrating him! It crawled into his veins, let the blood rush through his heart and brought it to pump faster and glow. He was sweating. A fear took possession of him like he had never known. No enemy, no predatory animal, nothing had ever caused in him what he just suffered. Blind, he swung his sword.
Everyone seemed to have been visited by the strange foe, except for him. Around him died his friends, but he could not do anything against that.
The wall at his back, he hoped that men from the encampment would have heard the tremor and come to his aid. Strikes hit the heavy door, it would not take long anymore until help was here.
The terror made his fine hair on his neck rise up, and he believed that something closed in on him. Something deadly. Silently, he prayed to his gods.
»Your death is Thangrineth«, a female voice whispered into his ear. She sounded silken and dangerous at the same time. »I will take your life, but to your comfort shall be said: You give it for a higher reason, Hasban, chieftain of the Wind-sons. Just as your people.«
Hasban struck screaming and without sense about him, met metallic resistance. The pressure was answered, he fled along the wall and fell over an obstacle on the ground, landed on a corpse. The smell of blood was penetrating, warm liquid was spread over his face. »What are you?«, he called and hit blindly forward.
»For your people I will be a Jembina, chieftain Hasban«, answered the winsomely voice. »I will run with your cut off head through the encampment and rekindle the hate that was thought to have died. Your barbarians will seek revenge and will unleash a storm on the fortress in this night that will force the Jembina to their knees. You can be proud of that, chieftain!«
Hasban received a hard strike between the eyes. Dazed he lost his strength for a moment, lost even the sword. »No«, he stammered and could no longer breathe, something stung in his chest. His heart was racing as if it would explode any moment.
»With that I can continue my journey«, the unseen enemy said and laughed quietly. »Who would have thought: You barbarians are of use for something after all.«
Hasban rallied all power that was left in him, drew his dagger and jumped with a scream of rage against the voice, there where it had sounded up. He flew past the assailant. His heart seemed to be scorched by the fear. He was robbed of his will.
»Your sword shall help me to behead its master«, the unknown said, then it buzzed.
Hasban knew the sound very well. Uncountable Swerthings had heard it, ere they died. Some revolting warriors had heard it, ere they had received their last punishment.
But it was the first time that Hasban had to hear it, while the strike was meant for him. The blade caused its own sound. Unmistakable, threatening and powerful.
He thought oddly of the goods that he could now no longer deliver home, then an ardent pain shot from the front through his throat. Yet before he could scream, his neck was cut and the backbone severed by the mighty strike. The blade rushed out and crashed into the wooden bench, remained stuck.
For the chieftain of the Wind-sons, the wait to return home had come to an end.
