The plan made, the pair moved quickly. Rhavanielle slipped into the room behind the celebratory orcs, keeping close to the wall. Right behind her, Sfeithi, clad in his blood spattered armor leapt onto a long table and kicked vigorously at the remnants of an orcish feast.
“Khazad Ai Menu!” he roared.As bones, drinking cups and crockery flew in every direction as though a trash bomb had gone off, two things happened at once; Rhavanielle sprang from beside a cabinet, her pale legs practically shining in the dim torchlight and the orcs as one spun round angrily, fumbling for their cast-off weaponry. The elf practically flew toward the immense urn. She uttered a single melodious syllable and the staff at once channelled her adrenaline charged will into it's halo of humming faerie-fire. One orc had taken up a chair, intending to clobber her with it. She twisted aside, dodging the clumsy attack easily, twisting away from the assailant. Her sword-stroke riposte was aimed instead at the ancient wooden bracing holding up the water urn. The elf-steel sliced through the ancient wood in an instant. Now on three legs, the bracing collapsed instantly under the weight of the urn. The chimney that fed glacial melt water from Zirak-Zigil's lofty slopes burst asunder in a spray of masonry. Rhavanielle and two orcs were painfully pelted with shards of stone, but the greatest danger was the collossal urn which toppled immediately beside them and exploded, chunks of thick ceramic heralded a brief wave of icy water. At least ten of the orcs who had just begun to gather the courage to rush Sfeithi were immediately crushed. Others were knocked aside by the barrage of fragments and the wave of water that lurched from the ruin of the urn toward the other end.
The first thing to go wrong was that the table Sfeithi had leapt upon was upended, sending the dwarf into the air and into the water. The flood would have been only shin, deep, but the violence of its release made the water churn into a small wave. The second was that Sfeithi's axe bit into an orc who ran at him as he recovered his footing. Unable to recover the weapon from the creature's chest, Sfeithi hesistated for a moment. Rhavanielle had jumped onto the tripodal wreck of the bracing that had held the urn.
“Sfeithi! MOVE!” she screamed. The seven orcs who remained ambulatory ran for Sfeithi, waving clubs, scimitars and furniture wreckage. The dwarf's hand let go the axe haft as he sprang onto a groaning old shelf, throwing off the orcs who'd moved toward the door, expecting their enemy to flee that way. Recovering quickly, they came on, splashing through the water that by now was only ankle deep, much having already escaped down the drainage grates.
A sudden blinding flash and rush of steam accompanied the choked off screams of the orcs as Rhavanielle thrust the crackling end of her staff into the water. All their remaining pursuers went rigid. The eyes of more than one exploded outward in a spray of black ichor. The stink of an orc den was magnified by the stench of their burning hair and flesh. Not one remained alive. Rhavanielle withdrew her staff. She and the dwarves exchanged glances.
“Is it safe?,” Sfeithi stammered. The elf nodded and Sfeithi fell rather than hopped off the shelf. He ran to the dwarf and freed him from his bonds. Rhavanielle hopped lithely down from her own unsteady perch, leather clad feet pattering on the wet floor.
The dwarf they had freed, clad in the whip-slashed and bloodied remnants of a wool tunic winced as he gingerly felt his wrists. His hands were purple from the ordeal. “By thunder!” he said, flexing his fingers painfully. “I was just hoping for them to get it over with and cut my throat! Sfeithi! I thought you were done for.”
Sfeithi retrieved his axe from the orc's charred corpse with a scowl. “Oh so did I, Gorm!. So did I. But Pointy here pulled my bacon out of the fire just in time.” He nodded to the elf who sketched a little curtsey.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Rhavanielle. Gorm looked as though he wanted to ask for the story, but blinked once and scurried about retrieving the gear the orcs had taken from him.
“After that thunderclap and with this stink, I'm guessing it will be a while before any of them will be bold enough to peek in here. But when they do, it will be in force...”
“And we'll want to be far away,” finished Gorm.
Rhavanielle led the way out as they retraced the way back to the plundered dwarf camp. There, they salvaged what they could of travelling gear. Gorm and Sfeithi sadly agreed with one another that is was useless to continue their expedition under the present circumstances A dozen lives had been lost and not a thing gained. Rhavanielle for her part, now had what she had come for. Now carrying dwarven brands they crept up the stair to the Dimrill Gate, the elf leading the way, Sfeithi and Gorm conversing in their secret tongue. No enemy stood in their path, though the weight of failure and loss lay heavily on the backs of the dwarves and each step up the grand stair to the gate was trod as though through a mire until at last the brightness of Rhovanion dawn caused them to catch their breath as at last they stood on the landing and looked out over the Mirrormere.
Breathing in the clean air of Nanduhirion, Rhavanielle smiled and kissed her fingers and murmured thanks to the unfailing labor of Arien. The dwarves merely blinked and adjusted their grip on weapons. They seemed to have slain the orcs charged with guarding the gate, for no challenge came. A solitary sentry, facing south, nearly blinded by the sun Sfeithi shot in the back with his bow and now nothing stood in their way.
“Well we're out. Now what?” grumbled Gorm as they stood at the edge of the great lake. Rhavanielle finally had a chance to have a look at the second dwarf. Beard shot through with silver, Gorm was clearly the elder of Sfeithi, despite the latter's balding pate. Clad in mail and loaded with packs and shod with heavy boots, they looked proper dwarves to her. As an elf of the Rhovanion forests, she had seen little of dwarves since the days the dragon entered into their mountain.
Rhavanielle had a bit of dried fruit and sat on a rock, glad to have a rest after their adventure. “Well we can't go to Lothlorien,” she said.
“Well you can, I wager,” muttered Sfeithi. His voice betrayed a quavering note. Gorm grunted.
“I'm not leaving you two in the lurch. I've been to Lothlorien. They'd accept me. I lived there once. For many years. But they'd never allow you two to do more than camp on the eaves.”
“Are you going to Daleland, then?” Gorm asked, puzzled. He exchanged a quizzical glance with Sfeithi. The sorceress nodded, still looking out over the lake. She turned her head half over her shoulder to regard the pair with one eye.
“Daleland!” she grumbled. “Daleland, they say!”
She brought her knees up as she sat and lay her chin on her folded forearms. They could practically smell the smoke of frustration hovering about her.
“You're from Thranduil's realm. Why not just take us that far?” Gorm asked. Sfeithi said nothing. He felt he already knew.
“I'd planned to go by sea. Down Anduin by boat from Lorinand,” she said, using the archaic Sylvan name for the realm of the Galadhrim. “My quest takes me far far to the east. I told Sfeithi, already. I have a quest to undertake.”
Sfeithi suddenly said something in Khuzdul. A string of harsh syllables that sounded like gravel in a bucket to the elf's ears. Gorm pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“A quest, eh? Well this is something,” Gorm spat, gesturing broadly as though to encompass not only Sfeithi but the shades of the other dwarves who had died in the battle of the camp within Moria. “We had a quest too. You see the result. Lives gambled and thrown away for a chance to recover some shred of my forefathers' stolen glory. No thank you, Miss Elfie. I've had enough questing. I'll settle for delving for ore in the Iron Hills.” He slumped onto a fallen log. Sfeithi just looked pained.
“I, too grieve for your loss. The courage of your people..” the elf began. Sfeithi held up his hand.
“Courage. Foolishness. Whatever you want to call it. Let us be silent now and listen to their voices on the morning breeze one last time as we take our rest. Then we should all be on our way. The orcs will only stay scared until dark and by then we must be long away. Then I, for my part will follow Rhavanielle. She has been a true and good friend.”
Gorm nodded assent. There really was no other way.
