Thalanor. He had a family name at last - a legacy that stretched both behind and ahead in the form of a son he did not know he had. Time stood still. Shock was still written across Duarion's face as he looked to the stars for guidance. He had told Saeldith he knew how to save their son from his illness, but would it truly be possible? Was the boy meant to be saved? Could he be a true father, like he never had?
The wind picked up and turned Duarion's gaze to the east. In the distance, the forested hills of the Trollshaws rose - a dangerous and wild place. It was into those trees he must proceed.
By the time he reached the cave, the sky was already beginning to brighten. His horse steamed underneath him. Duarion slipped from the saddle and crept to the black mouth of the cave. He could see nothing inside, nor hear anything besides the rustling of leaves on the trees. Perhaps it was safe.
"Well, let's find out," he muttered to himself.
The stony floor was uneven and treacherous. But the thing that assaulted him the most was the stench. Orc-filth. A foul odour that seeped into his nose. Grimacing, he pulled his mask over his face and raised his hood, becoming nothing more than another shadow. Silently, he drew one of his black shortswords. The blades were specially wrought to be sharp, yet dull in colour. A stray reflection from shining metal could break the most carefully planned ambush, so Duarion chose shadow to fight Shadow.
Further in he creeped, staying low and darting behind rock formations. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the gloom. There was a faint red glow ahead, bouncing off the walls.
Good.
Fire caused dancing shapes on walls, making it even more difficult to notice a stealthy opponent. Maybe this would work after all. Duarion began his work. Five orcs fell to his sword, throats cut, before they even knew he was there..He continued to clear the tunnel, working his way towards the chamber. Chanting began to reach his ears, growing louder with every step. At last, he found himself overlooking a vast cavern. A small group of orcs and evil men knelt before a priest and an altar. On the altar was a scroll.
"Ai! Witness the power of resurrection!" the priest called over the chanting. "Nothing will stop us if we can slaughter to save our own lives!"
Duarion watched, frowning. An orc was shoved to the front. It tried to run, but was blocked by the crowd. With a cry, the priest raised his knife and brought it down in the orc's back. There was a gurgle, then silence. The priest raised his hands.
"I am strengthened through death and none can -"
"GONDOR BRINGS YOUR DOOM!"
Duarion's bellow echoed through the cavern. Doom... doom... doom... The gathering raised their weapons, shifting about uneasily. All of a sudden, one of the fires went out with a hiss. There was a clash of metal and cries of death. Duarion darted in and out of the shadows, dealing death then retreating until there were only four men left: the bodyguards of the priest. They huddled together, spears outwards.
A stone rolled across the floor. They turned.
With fury, Duarion landed on them from behind, both shortswords drawn. He sank them into the back of one guard, then proceeded to engage the others. It was a fierce battle of quick blows and agile feet, but every slice and stab from the ranger was surgical in its precision. At last, he turned to the priest.
"You wish for the power?" the priest said. "You want the secret rite that this scroll reveals?"
"I will take the scroll, and it will save my son," Duarion replied, striding forwards.
"You fool! You do not possess the strength of will to harness this gift! Only the servants of the Dark Tower..."
The priest fell silent as Duarion placed the tip of his sword at his throat. "Move."
Slowly, the priest edged to the side. Duarion approached the altar and gathered up the scroll. When it was safely tucked into his belt, he began to back out of the cave.
"Follow, and you die."
The priest looked at him. "Use that scroll, and you will die."
Then, Duarion was gone.
