Sarnûr: A Prisoner's Account

This being an account of Gildin and Ashareth’s experiences during the rescue from Sarnûr.

Ashareth awoke abruptly. It took her a moment to realise that the sound which had roused her was a key turning in the door to their prison. Early experience had taught her not to give Dourhands wearing metal boots an excuse to kick her awake, so she shook her head to clear the last vestiges of sleep and was sitting up by the time the guard reached her cell. Glancing past him, she glimpsed another Dourhand unlocking the cell where her fellow prisoner resided before her view was blocked.

“Up, elf!”

She obeyed the instruction, automatically holding out her arms so that the fetters could be removed from her wrists. The dwarf unlocked them and tossed them back onto the floor, then jerked his head towards the open door. She entered the corridor at the same time as Gildin, and his pale grey eyes met her deep blue ones for an instant before he moved away towards the door, preceded by his escort.

A mark of the respect he had earned them both, she thought, as she fell in behind him. Prior to Gildin’s arrival, the Dourhands had insisted on shackles every time she was brought out of the cell. Pointing out that she wasn’t stupid enough to try and fight her way past two armed guards with only her bare hands had gained her nothing except blows, but Gildin knew how to talk to them, how to appeal to their distant dwarven heritage. Indeed, the Dourhands had fallen so far under the influence of the Enemy that it was possible he knew their traditions better than they did themselves.

They moved deeper into the halls, and with every step Ashareth’s apprehension grew. She could not think of any reason that they would both be taken so far into the fortress unless the promised “emissary” had arrived. She knew very little of this mysterious individual, referred to with a mixture of awe and fear by Dourhands and goblins alike. He had communicated his impending arrival at Sarnûr soon after her capture and decreed that any prisoners taken should be kept alive for questioning. Ashareth had no idea what he wanted to ask, and had so far done her best to refrain from thinking about exactly how he intended to get his answers. She had seen first-hand the difference in Celebrían after torture by the orcs of the Misty Mountains, and knew from the little that Gildin had said of his own experiences that the servants of the Enemy in the west were no more inclined to mercy. Despite her efforts, ugly visions formed in her imagination and swam in front of her eyes…

She stumbled, clutching at Gildin’s arm to prevent herself from falling. He stopped and half-turned, catching her with his other arm and supporting her until she regained control of her feet. The guards halted too, grumbling to themselves but making no immediate move to interfere. Something of her fear must have shown in her face – Gildin squeezed her arm reassuringly and gave her an infinitesimal shake of his head. A slight smile curved his lips as he murmured,

“Telo, avo gosto. Tirio.”

Puzzled but still somewhat steadied by his demeanour, Ashareth nodded, and he let go and turned away once more. At a curt gesture from the foremost guard they started walking again, and this time she paid more attention to her surroundings. She felt a mixture of relief, curiosity and chagrin as she started to observe the signs that Gildin had clearly already picked up on. The activity of the dwarves and occasional goblins they passed was frantic, and all centred around gathering up and equipping armour and weapons. Most tellingly, not a single person they passed was going in the same direction as they were. Instead, they all rushed towards the entrance to the caverns.

Ashareth caught her breath as she realised what Gildin hoped for. He had said that he’d been on a scouting mission of sorts when captured, as part of a joint investigation into the unusual goblin activities in Ered Luin by several of the elven houses and companies. Much of their conversation during the times when they were left alone had been about his own Reniolwaith, and what they hoped to accomplish. Had they and their allies managed to gather enough strength to breach Sarnûr and attempt a rescue?

They mounted one final set of steps and came out into raised plinth overlooking a huge cavern. Here was evidently where the defence was being directed from. A knot of dwarves at the far end were deep in discussion, and fragments of their conversation echoed back towards the elves as they were escorted towards them.

“A party consisting of both elves and men...”

“...several reported holding the entrance and at least twenty more...”

“...lost ten men to their accursed bows!”

The guard at the front held up his hand in a signal to halt, and continued on alone to speak quietly to one of the dwarves in the farther group. Mindful of the guard still behind them, Ashareth inched closer to Gildin and murmured,

“Vellyn cîn?”

“Harthon-”

Gildin’s reply was interrupted by the arrival of yet another Dourhand, who rushed up the steps from the main cavern and stood panting for breath as he delivered his report.

“Chief, the intruders have won through the outer defences, and split up! Two parties have headed for the lower caverns, but another is coming this way! What should we do?”

The most grizzled looking of the group at the end stepped slightly away from the others and scowled blackly at the deliverer of bad news, then directed an even fiercer glare at the two prisoners. Ashareth met his gaze, trying to keep her face impassive. His eyes flicked over to Gildin, and then he grunted and spat over the edge of the plinth before speaking.

“Friends of yours, these fools, are they? Well, friends or no, the ones who went below are in for a nasty surprise, and we’ll take care of the rest! Don’t get no hopes up about being rescued.”

The dwarven chief turned to the nearer of their original escorts and gestured imperatively at the two elves.

“Take these ones through the tunnels. Those goblins can make theirselves useful for once and stand guard while we mop up the others.”

The guard behind them spoke up.

“But, chief…isn’t that where we quartered the warg handlers? What if-”

The grizzled dwarf turned on him with a growl of anger, and the guard quailed.

“If the goblins can’t control their new pets, then his lordship can amuse himself by torturing a couple of them to death instead, can’t he? Move!”

The instruction was obeyed without further questions, and they were hustled even farther into the fortress, well past the main halls, through a set of recently hewn tunnels and then along a narrow natural ledge extending across a sheer rock face. Ashareth split her attention between watching where her feet went on the increasingly rough terrain and trying to gauge the progress of the attackers. Judging by the snatches she could overhear as they passed increasingly panicked-looking dwarves, the defenders had been caught by surprise and were too slow to rally to the points where they were hardest pressed. Despite the assertion of the dwarven chief, there was a chance that the party on the upper levels could break through to them.

They reached the middle of the ledge and were finally shoved into a hollow which smelt strongly of damp fur and rotted meat. Ashareth guessed that the aforementioned wargs were the usual residents, and her suspicions were confirmed as two of them trotted around the corner into the entryway. Evidently they hadn’t expected anyone to be in their accustomed place, and they both halted in surprise. One of them started into the hollow, growling, but was halted by a sharp, high-pitched command from the goblin following it.

Their two Dourhand escorts edged past the grumbling wargs and spoke briefly to the warg handler, instructing him to guard the prisoners and warning him that he would answer for any harm that came to them. The pitying looks they shot the two elves as they left didn’t inspire confidence, nor did the expression on the goblin’s face as he turned to look at them and folded his skinny arms, his face twisted into a sneer.

She shot a quick look over her shoulder at Gildin. He looked pale and a sheen of sweat was forming on his brow. She thought she understood why his control was finally starting to crack – he knew from bitter experience that goblins, and for that matter wargs, couldn’t be persuaded or finessed with words. By contrast, Ashareth felt herself attaining a sort of calmness as she focused all her attention on the last ditch plan which was rapidly forming in her mind. She had conceived a great deal of admiration and respect for Gildin during their imprisonment, and if his Reniolwaith had indeed come to rescue him then she intended they should succeed. Her own fate…well, she would leave that in the hands of the Valar.

The sounds of combat, which had been steadily growing louder for the last few minutes, jumped to a new pitch. Clearly the rescue party was getting close – the warg handler, who had been looking increasingly agitated, suddenly brandished his weapon and charged off to one side. The two wargs, already unsettled by all the unfamiliar activity, were further disconcerted by this departure. The farther of them growled deep in it’s throat and shifted it’s weight slightly, while the nearer one rose up onto it’s haunches, gimlet eyes fixed on the two elves. Ashareth stared back at it, pushing the fear of what she was about to do away as best she could.

“Ashareth…”

She knew she had only moments before the closer warg sprang, and the other would follow. Gildin was slightly behind her and to her left…

“Goheno nin, Gildin.”

She struck hard and fast, catching him in the chest with the heel of her hand and sending him flying into the end of the hollow. The movement took her forward as the warg leaped, and she flung her right arm up as it went for her throat. The jaws clamped shut on her forearm, and a moment later the weight of the beast slammed her back against the cave wall. Ashareth felt a brief flash of satisfaction – her desperate gamble had worked, and the second warg was now blocked from reaching Gildin by herself and the first – and then the pain hit her, and the world started to come unravelled.

Frustrated in the attempt to tear out her windpipe, the warg howled with rage and raked her with its claws. Blood spurted, but her knees didn’t give way until the creature abruptly dropped to all fours, sending a fresh stab of agony through her arm as it’s weight pulled her down to the ground. She could hear Gildin shouting something, and other cries of alarm. Her throat felt raw, and she realised dimly that the screams which were preventing her from hearing the voices clearly were her own.

“Ashareth? ASHARETH!”

Someone was calling her name. The warg’s death-grip on her arm was gone, but strangely that only increased her terror. She was tumbling into the darkness and now there was nothing to stop her falling...