Carniquessë suppressed a yawn, perched atop the rocky outcrop making up of one of the hidden watchposts scattered all around the plains of Tumhalad. It seemed a morning like many others: sun high in the sky, white clouds rolling lazily in the blue sky and a gentle breeze swaying the blades of grass below. The silver streaks of the rivers Nenning, Naerog and Teiglin were perfectly distinguishable westward and if she turned her gaze in the opposite direction the lone, stoney hill Amon Rûdh stood above the eastern edge of the high moorlands, unperturbed by fog nor storm. Nothing out of the ordinary.
“Slacking on the job?” said a voice behind her. She turned her head to look at the owner of the voice with a crooked grin. “You know me better than that”. The Eldar who spoke responded with an earnest smile. He was old. Old and his posture slightly curved, a very rare sign of aging for their kind whom appear youthful the entirety of their lives. One would wonder what was such an individual doing in the middle of nowhere instead of spending his time peacefully in Nargothrond. In truth, there would have been no other place for him to be; his was the task of commanding the newest batch of scouts from the fortress, scattered across Talath Dirnen to various outposts. Keen eyes, quick wit, yéni of experience and the privilege of having learnt archery under the Vala Orome himself made Cúnion the natural choice of leader for their small group. He could laugh and banter with them one moment and the other have them shoot a hundred arrows at a practice target with no reprieve demanding perfect aim.
Carniquessë appreciated such distinction between leisure and duty even though she was never one to mingle much with her fellow scouts, being solitary by nature. At times they would make up a contest between them to see whom had the truest aim. This was one of the rare times she’d actually allowed herself to enjoy company and to boast her skill. “I can shoot at a squirrel hiding in the highest branches of the pine trees in Dorthonion, an archery butte is child play to me”. She often said so and it was true. However, she could never win against Cúnion. It stung to admit that it would probably take her years (if not yéni) to be able to best him, but such admission didn’t impede her to start a friendly rivalry between them.
She did not take offense at his accusation of laziness. It was said in jest and besides, he knew the word “slacking” was not in her vocabulary. Turning her eyes again to the horizon, she motioned at the westernmost of the three rivers, Nenning, which marked the border between Círdan's lands to the west and Nargothrond to the east. “Nothing to report on that side. It seems like after razing the cities of the sea folk the enemy’s forces didn’t bother marching further”
Cúnion followed her gaze. “Hm… perhaps they are content with defiling Brithombar and Eglarest” his tone was seething of hatred and bitterness. The loss of the two Falathrim’s cities years ago was a grievous blow that resonated even in their own hidden realm. “I cannot imagine how that filth managed to rout all of them out… did they not have enough defenders?” asked the elleth.
“They must have… which leads to the question of how strong the enemy truly is… and how long can we hope to fend him off our own land” answered her captain.
“We have secrecy to our advantage”
“Had. We had secrecy, until that mortal convinced the King to build that damn bridge over the Narog.” Again his voice was dripping venom. Carniquessë sighed. Her captain didn’t like Túrin one bit. She agreed with him but at the same time she felt to be too low in ranks to dare voice her opinion on the matter. It disturbed her as well, how much King Artaresto valued Túrin’s counsel (or “the mortal” how Cúnion called him) over that of his own kin. To think that the words of warning brought by Cirdan’s envoys fell on weak ears… the bridge should have been destroyed and the Doors of Felagund closed. Mortal’s counsel won and the bridge was visible from the rocky outcrop, over the silver glint of river Narog. Again, it wasn’t her place to discuss their King’s decisions.
Yet… an uneasy feeling lingered in her mind. With the harbor cities conquered, she felt like it was a matter of time before the enemy moved to attack the next elven realm. Yes, Nargothrond was safe but… for how long could any of them resist against the horde? How many more years? Even Doriath as protected as it was… shifting position she shielded her eyes from the sun and looked to the east, past the Lone Hill where the faintest line of green marked the beginning of the beech forests of Doriath. None could trespass the Girdle without permission of the King… would he let them in, if it came a day where that would be the last bastion still standing against Morgoth?
Her thoughts were interrupted by movement in the corner of her left eye. Squinting her eyes Carniquessë focused her gaze north where a faint, wispy, grey trail of what could unmistakably be smoke rose far, far on the horizon. As if in confirmation a sudden gust of wind blew their way, carrying the smell of burnt grass and… worse. Gasping, she shot to her feet “En! Hesto!”*
“Yes I can see it… what in the…”
“Ai!” The shout of a lone rider echoed, galloping at full speed towards them from the direction of the fortress, bearing the colors of the royal messengers. “CAPTAIN!”
“Ú-mára…* (not good) With me, soldier”. Cúnion run down the roughly carved stairs down the rocky hill, Carniquessë right behind him and the other scouts turning their heads bewildered, leaving their tasks to see what was going on. The messenger dismounted, bowing and handing a sealed letter to the captain. He broke the seal without any ceremony and started reading. His brow furrowed more and more as he read; then, with a deep sigh, he crumpled the letter and turned to face them. Carniquessë had never seen his face so grim.
“The horde of Morgoth moves towards Talath Dirnen. By order of the King, all of our hosts are to assemble and… meet them in open battle, on the plains of Tumhalad”
All the elves present started murmuring, some alarmed, some in disbelief, some confused. So far, they managed to keep the plain safe thanks to the rangers, hidden towers and ambushes. That was their style, not… open battle. Carniquessë knew by the displeased visage of their captain that he was thinking the order to come not from Artaresto himself, but “the mortal”, so unlike their king it was to abandon caution for clash.
“QUIET! This is the word of our King, and we shall obey, wether we agree with it or not. Gather your belongings, we are to meet the main banner from Nargothrond. You saw the smoke, yes? Well, that is not from orcs, but dragon. Steel your hearts and muster your courage, for the dragon has come with them. There won’t be anywhere to hide if we lose… or win”.
Silence fell instantly upon the circle of elves. Carniquessë felt her own morale fall under the ground. Her musings of just a few hours ago become a reality. She never doubted her capabilities, nor those of her fellow comrades. Facing an enemy face to face was the opposite of what they were used to, but she could still be convinced that they would prevail. A dragon though? How could any of them, from the cavalry to the archers be supposed to fight against? She roused from her musings only when Cúnion shook her by the shoulders. “I said move! Saddle your horse and please… please don’t let panic get a hold of you. I know you’re better than that”. She just nodded, trying for words that didn’t come.
The dragon had come. Glaurung had come for them.
Cúnion: son of curved one, quenya
*En Hesto! over there captain!
*Ú-mára not good
