Salute the Four Quarters
Before I leave your eyes
Twinn'd in the mirror
Les Mysteres come
-- a fragment atrributed to the sage Sandy Pearlman
The terror was general. It seemed to them in that moment that the final catastrophe had at last arrived after a glorious and bright peace of a millenia and a half.
What was it? Had the dwarves betrayed them as they had in Menegroth? Had they been tricked by some sorcery? Annatar has beguiled the king in all his pride, flattering, divulging secrets gleaned in the service of Aule and stealing away with the patrimony of the Noldor to gather an army.
But the horde of orcs had burst upon them not by treason or wizardcraft but by a series of miscalculations and misjudgements.
None can say in truth that the elves are not valiant or skilled in war. But neither may it be said that the lieutenant of Morgoth was a poor tactician.
The battle on the upper reaches of Glanduin that resulted in Celebrimbor's army being caught in a vice as his unwalled city's streets were suddenly filled with columns of easterlings and warg riding goblins echoed the betrayal of Ulfang the Accursed.
The ring of battle was not something Laicamirill had never heard before. But she had not imagined ever hearing it again after the world was changed. Yet the air was now filled with screams of terror. Screams of anguish. Screams of pain. War cries. Calls to rally. Trumpets and drums and the hammering of steel on steel.
Rhavanielle had come to them not long before in great haste and bade the scribes and scholars bring out all the assorted books and papyri from the most important part of the library and dump them onto a pair of carts she had brought round. They scurried about gathering up the oldest volumes first as they had been asked. As there was no news, there was a smothering sense of fear and dread.
After the most important things had been gathered, Rhavanielle, accompanied by a single guardsman clambered onto the carts and clattered off to the north. “Lord Aegrod needs every one of us to stand and fight! Arm yourselves and fight! I am commanded by the King to bring our knowledge to safety,” she shouted as they rode away.
There was precious little to arm themselves with. But Laicamiril and many of the others followed one of the more martially inclined scribes to a place where a store of spears and other weapons had collected dust for many long years of peace. Here they equipped themselves as best they might in old padded jerkins meant for sparring.
As they emerged from the little militiar armory, and started for the long winding path to the library of the Mirdain, a pair of mountain trolls shambled into the little square, bellowing and swinging clubs of ash limbs. Some of the scribes made a valiant stand. And a valiant end. They were quickly broken by the bellowing monsters. The rest of the group fled in every direction. Laicamiril slipped into a little orchard between two modest wood houses, one of the berzerk trolls swinging wildly, club battering the house frame but missing her hide amidst a thunderous crash and a shower of splintered wood.
Laicamiril darted lithely across the adjoining street, making for the northwest. A loose mob of orcs appeared, already set to plunder. But when one caught sight of her, some renewed sense of discipline seemed to take over. A grim voice hoarse shouted “There! There's one! Get that one!” She dashed up the stairway and slipped once more into gleaming bronze portals of the archive, clutching a spear. Three orcs ran up behind, their rough leather sandals slapping loudly, reminding her of her peril.
She knew every nook and passage in the archive. She felt comfortable she could elude just three but there would be many, many more following behind. The importance of the archive was obvious, the gleaming spires rose proudly over the dying city. The orcs would have no use for it, but the accumulated knowledge would be a lure to their master.
She made her way down polished quartzite halls to the little foundry that was used often by the visiting dwarves. There were weapons there, she was certain. Weapons of greater quality than the flimsy spear she clutched so desperately. And there was a passage to the river, where fresh water was gathered from Sirannon for metal work. A small boat was kept there. Perhaps she could make her way out of danger.
But now, her pursuers had managed to keep up with her, for though her slippers made no noise, she was constantly rapping the spear against walls and doors in her careening and panicked flight.
She bounded down a spiral stair found the door to the forge as one orc cast a javelin down at her. Into the door just in time to avoid the dart, she slammed the heavy door behind here and looked for a way to block it. It opened outward and there was no lock. There had never been any need for one before. She heard the orcs leaping flights at a time.
Eyes darting feverishly, she spotted a broadsword in the dim light of the slowly cooling vforge and gripped the hilt, pulling it free of its ornately jeweled scabbard. At once the silvery blade seemed to light up and in the second before the door was flung open. She held up the sword and as the faces of the orcs were illuminated in the frame of the portal, their eyes grew wide in terror and two fled shrieking.
The third was animated by some vestigial sense of duty. And possibly a knowledge of what punishment awaited one who allowed a prisoner associated with the Mirdain to escape. It's face was lumpy and brutish, but its jaundiced eyes appraised her with a skilled warrior's glare. A thrust of the spear, she dodged. It didn't seem intent on quick murder. She took instinctive and immediate advantage, swinging the sword with an unpracticed backhand. The orc's spear shaft was swept off to clatter onto the bright tile floor. Throwing the spear at her to distract, an iron scimitar flashed in its hand. It tried hooking her hand with a downward slash, but reacting with the skill of desperation, she managed to catch the scimitar's blade with the hilt guard.
The orc stepped in closer as it recovered to try again, kicking her inner left shin hard as it did. She fell onto her knees hard, bringing the blade up desperately to block the killing blow. But as she did, she saw opportunity. The orc, intent on knocking the sword from her hand, by severing fingers if need be, had brought its own blade too far, either from miscalculation or hubris. But the sword in her hand almost of its own accord thrust upward and skewered the monster, which fell over her in a heavy heap.
The hall was silent as Laicamiril pulled herself up onto her knees, gripping the sword as though it were a lifeline in a stormy sea. As she knelt there by the forge, she beheld in the water of a polished birch bucket her reflection. But there was something wrong.
Tilting her head, her other self remained motionless, looming above, a glittering spear in hand. All the same, she was looking into her own eyes, her own familiar face. Some trick of the light. She shook her head and blinked. But there it was still. She turned her head round quickly, looking up. Tall and imposing, she beheld herself but with a grim and humorless eye. She felt as though her spirit were being pulled out of her body. Not a trace of terror did her reflection betray. Only a sudden surprise. She locked eyes with herself and in the instant she tried to form words, it vanished utterly like an apparition.
She blinked and turned with a loud gasp of sudden terror as the air crackled. She was alone. She remembered with a start where she was and why. She made her way quickly down the little stair to where the boat was kept and found it intact. Gripping her new sword, she clambered into the little craft and rowed unnoticed through a dying city to the river and down toward the sea. Somewhere along the way, a pair of elves with a child and a hale young dwarf hailed her from the reeds and they too clambered into the boat.
Overcome with weariness, she fell into a swoon. Surely it had been a trick of the light.
