1409 of the Third Age of Middle Earth
Sparks from the burning of stricken war engines drifted up into the black night, seeking the seeming imprenetrable vault that screened out the stars. Snowflakes flickered and flitted mingled with ashes in the night breeze like insects in midsummer. An eerie moan filled the land below the hilltop, rising up from a hundred horns. Wolves and wargs bayed by thousands. Drums pounded out a demonic tattoo and orcs chanted the name of their captain and still the ram pounded against the castle gate. Glowing ceramic vessels flew through the darkness, blacker on black, some smashing against the stout walls. Some made it over the curtain wall to burst within the fortress, emitting clouds of acrid vapor that struck down any who breathed in the air. The Defenders retaliated by launching dozens of glass globes filled with a liquid substance which burst into a voracious flame which clung to anything it splashed into contact with. The men of Arthedain had used this Numenorean innovation to good effect against Angmar's deadly siege engines, setting many aflame. Cauldrons of the stuff were poured down upon those enemies who attempted to throw ladders against the wall. The orcs had lost hundreds before building a ram enclosed in an improvised shelter which was laboriously and with much loss brought up the winding causeway under a punishing rain of fire. All the vegetation on either side of the long winding causeway had long since been burnt away, forcing the besiegers to advance their lines by means of slow entrenchment. To prevent a wheeled siege tower being hauled up by trolls, King Arveleg had ordered the paving stone pulled up as the siege lines were established so that they might be used to throw from trebuchets or to shore up damage to the curtain wall. When the orcs failed to get over the wall by rushing it with ladders in the few section of wall which allowed enough footing for them to mass, Angmar revealed his poisonous vapors and the long running duel of poison and fire had begun.
Under the sorcerous clouds which blotted out the light, trolls had hauled the ram's house in sections, Industrious orcs feverishly asssembling it under a hail of firey pitch and baskets of rubble. After two days of continuous hail of missiles in either direction, the ram had begun its work. The Arhedain had spared no effort to ruin this new threat, dropping fire, stones and arrows from hidden sconces.
Now at the last, orcs and hillmen threaded their way up the causeway from the camps below and from the battlemnents the defenders could see the streams of flame from their engines obliterating masses of them as though vents of lava had opened up in Amon Sul's side. Screams that ought to be pitiable echoed up with the reeking smokes.
“We shall have to ensure that they have nothing left to overwhelm us by the time the doors give way,” Arveleg grimly pronounced as the sound of shrieks from below cut through the din of Angmar's chanting orcs and bellowing war horns.” Arveleg was cut of the old cloth they said, a giant with a barrel chest wearing glittering armor, bearing a helm set with the north kingdom's diadem. His chamberlain and captain stood upon his right. To his left, stood another figure of no lesser height, though trim of build. Straight as a spear, solid as an oak in the storm. A woman in elven mail over which a battle-tattered sky blue surcoat fluttered like a wind rent banner, it's gold thread tracery flashing in the light of distant flames. High cheeks and bright green eyes framed a prominent nose common to the Noldor. Sandy brown hair lashed ragged in the cruel wind that brought the smoke of burning orc flesh and siege towers upward to nostrils once more accustomed to the scent of sandalwood and summer jasmine.
“Arhiril Laicamirill! Mae Govannen! Well met in this dark hour. I fear the worst may be at hand. Our well is still clean. But provisions are low and the Enemy has brought forth great trolls under this sorcerous cloud. They have been pulling a ram housed in a shed covered with prisoners from the garrisons of outworks they took in the lowlands. The flesh of men provides some protection against our Island Fire,” he said, using the common soldier's term for the alchemical fire that rained ruin upon attempts to carry the walls by storm.
The elven lady frowned. “I suppose then we shall make our end side by side. Let it not be said my Lord Amroth is faithless.”
“It shall never be so said, my lady,” the king intoned forcefully. “However I have sent for thee because I do not believe it to be your fate to fall on top of the Hill of Winds, under a heap of fallen foes. The great treasure of this tower must not fall to Angmar. We have sent word to Gondor of our great need. But Gondor is far, though it be strong. Elrond sent you hence with your small company, but you said an army was being raised in the hidden vale. But should this bastion fall, Sauron's lieutenant shall be able to see into the other stones and who knows what mischief my befall?”
“The road from Imladris is held now by the Enemy in strength. Perhaps the pass is now clear enough for an army from Lorinand to march to Imladris and divert Angmar's eye thither. But it seems he is determined to seize this castle no matter what the loss. And it has clearly been steep so far,” Ahmo answered, looking down again at the spot where the bursting jars of magic fire had erased a column of marching orcs. “Do you think you can hold the castle if these trolls batter down the gate?”
“We will fight until only the top of this very tower I left to us. But you must make your way to Fornost, Arhiril.”
Ahmo started.”Fornost! Through all these orcs? I am not Vala.”
“I did not so say, lady. There is a secret way that will lead you out. Not beyond the siege lines. But I trust if any may find a way. It is you.” With that, the king held out his right hand and his seneschal gave to him a bag of the richest fabric sewn with the device of the royal house. Something about the size of a human head was contained within. The King took the cloth with both hands reverently. “Behold the palantir of Amon Sul. Made in the uttermost West and given as gift to the Faithful before darkness claimed Numenor, Arveleg presented Ahmo with the ancient stone in its silk covering.
“A precious thing this is you entrust me with, Majesty. It shall be done as thou will it,” Ahmo answered.
“Six remain of the company you arrived with. I bid thee take them as well. The other five have had their spirits sent West in faithful service to ancient bonds of friendship. And no man of this garrison will rue that I send thee with so precious a burden. Take also the Ring of Barahir. It must go to my son who awaits in Fornost. Should they be lost, it will go ill for the Dunedain. I can think of no other who could bear this burden than the elves. I will not ask any man of this army to forsake his comrades and brethren. There is a sapper who will show you the path.”
“I fear it shall go ill for the Dunedain if this fortress falls before the elves come,” Ahmo said, half turning to go. “But so mote it be.” She tugged off her heavy gauntlet and slipped the storied ring of kings upon her slender right middle finger before pulling the glove back on.
Ahmo left the high tower, descending the stair to where her company awaited. Six knights of Elrond's people clad in heavy hauberks, bearing deadly long-axes for troll hunting.
A stout man of advanced years and a gray beard came to them in the courtyard, beckoning wildly as he limped toward the inner keep, the door of which yawned open, revealing a station where the wounded were aided. “This way, comrades!
The elves followed on up the steps and in past the groaning victims of war. As they did a shout came down from the walls, “They've brought up a ram!” At that, the king began to shout commands. Ahmo's guide appeared, speaking rapidly, drawing in deep breath between each sentence. “I am Amelegon of Tinnudir. I will lead you to the hidden way. It shall be sealed after you so the enemy may not make use of it if it goes ill with your errand, lady.”
“Amelegon of Tinnudir. Show us the way.” Ahmo's spare clothing and the other contents of her rucksack were divided between her comrades and she stuffed the palantir in the empty leather bag, tying it up securely before Aldanil, her old friend through many hard fights helped her get it on, centered and securely fastened. The stone was heavy and the weight was awkward. Nonetheless the troupe followed the old engineer into a great hall in which a wide hearth stood cold and empty save for heaps of ashes. Amelegon took up a long iron poker and thrust it into a notch hidden between two rough hewn hearth stones an pulled hard. To the surprise of the elves, a narrow section of the side o the hearth rolled on some unseen pivot to reveal a hidden hall. Amelegon gestured. “Quickly now! Inside. Follow the path until you find the well shaft. There will be another path there. Turn left there. That will take you north and east.”
“And where does the other path lead,” Aldanil spoke up.
“I know not, noble sir.” Amelegon took up an oil lamp from the hearth, lit it and gave it to Ahmo.
The elves exchanged brief glances. Ahmo spoke up, “Left it shall be.” and ducked into the passage followed by her cohort. The passage was lined with the granite building stones for what seemed like two leagues before becoming a tunnel through limestone widened by the hands of Duendain masons and lined with timber beams. They strode quickly past numerous sconces within which unlit torches jutted forth futilely. The movement of air caused by the open portal behind them ceased and they realized Amelegon must have heaved close the secret doorway. After a long uneven march they discerned an opening ahead. A rope ran up into a hole in the ceiling. The well. Here, a cavern of natural limestone had been given a rough shape. The narrow passage opened into a chamber. Some old rope and tools had been arranged near the hole in the floor into which the rope from above descended.
Aldanil and Ahmo exchanged curious glances. A faint grating sound could be barely discerned from the rightward passage. Casting the lamplight that direction they could make out that the passage sloped gently upward.
“Possibly that way leads upward to allow access to the road. To Waylay besiegers?”
Ahmo considered this, “Likely. To waylay Angmar's army you'd need a far wider tunnel.”
After a short rest for water and a bit of food, they set out again quick marching for what felt like a day and a half when a tremor could be felt under their feet. Aldanil called out softly to Ahmo, “The tower has fallen. Some power. Some sorcery.”
They looked to the scholar-warrior Angast, so called for his voluminous and flowing locks. “Indeed,” he answered. “Some ancient spell has been pronounced. I feel an overflowing well of despair. The triumph of the Enemy has overtaken our friends.”
“I had thought they were going to seal the tunnel behind us,” Ahmo said, frowning. Maybe we ought to wait an see if old Amelegon will come limping this way.” Ahmo's compassion was in earnest but Aldanil faced again to the east. “We must keep going. Should our errand fail, the people of Fornost shall abandon hope, thinking the line of Numenor lost forever.”
“You are wise, Aldanil,” Ahmo answered, kissing his cheek and taking up the lead again, striding with renewed purpose. “Though it seems cruel to go on so without taking the chance, Amelegon surely knows the way out.”
“I hope it is not a secret that was widely shared,” Aldanil answered grimly.
The elves passed another day in the long tunnel, which had begun to rise gently until it came to a stair, which they measured at two hundred steps. Aching from their exertion, they rested again when, as the top, they found an open door of stout, reinforced timber.
Ahmo played the lamplight within, where she saw iron bars festooned with stretched bodies. Turning to her company, she shook her head,
“Quiet” was all she whispered. Soundlessly her sword swept from its sheath, the hilt in her grip giving her comfort. She felt the weight of the palantir keenly as she crept forward. A barely perceptible murmur was heard. Then a cough. She started, senses reaching out in every direction. Her comrades fanned out to either wide. Aldanil had his bow at the ready.
Approaching one of the trussed up bodies, Ahmo beheld the visage of a child. An adan boy whose lips and one eye were purple and swollen from some beating. Near at hand was a mortal woman, presumably the child's mother. Her garments were in tatters, like a corpse shroud.
The child's good eye opened as Ahmo touched his cheek, swivelling wildly. His mouth opened in fear, but the elf's eyes met his and panic melted into unexpected relief and tears. Ahmo's sword sliced the ropes away and Aldanil caught the boy. Meanwhile, Arthandron the warrior-smith had released the woman, draping her in his warm cloak. She croaked in sudden terror at first and he put his hand over her mouth instinctively. Meeting the woman's eyes with his own, he whispered “You are saved. For now. Be silent.” She wept freely as the brawny elf held her up until she stood at last on her own feet.
“How many are there?” asked Ahmo, searching round the cellar, seeing no other prisoners, but many smashed casks and broken bottles liberally scattered about the floor.
The young woman went into a swoon and had to be carried. Inwis, Ahmo's niece and an accomplished minstrel and healer of Imladris tended to the boys' ugly wounds with great skill in spite of the dakrness and obvious danger.
So far, neither of their new charges had offered any useful information about what threat they may face, though presumably it was not insignifcant. Looking about the cellar again, Ahmo surmised a great many orcs or men of Rhudaur must be near to hand by the amount of wine and ale that had been so obviously consumed.
Too much time was going by, she decided. “Angast... your bow. Follow,” she commanded. Quickly she made her way up the cellar steps, stone planked over with oak. Broken glass lay everywhere and crunched under their heels like a rime of fresh ice. The door at the top of the stair was ajar, inward opening. A dim light filtered from the space beyond. Sounds of tearing and popping could be heard. Ahmo slipped into the space, the vague moan of iron hinges not registering to the butcher at his work. An orc clad in bloody rags was busily ripping bits of a pallid man hanging limply from a hook and tossing them into a wooden apple bin. The stone floor of the makeshift abbatoir was sticky with blood. There were no other orcs at hand, A nod from Ahmo and Angast shot the orc through the base of its neck.
The scene was one of supreme horror but this group had seen as bad on many battle fields across millenia.
Angast left the arrow, readying another in an instant. Aldanil, Cirdethan and Medlinor were quickly behind, steel in hand.
“Where are we?” Cirdethan wondered aloud.
“Some estate to the north-east of Amon Sul.”
“Not far enough,” Aldanil grimly added.
“That remains to be seen. So let us see.”
The elves made their way on mousefeet through a patchwork manor house which seemed to have served as a mustering spot for part of the invasion army. But the war had moved north and west as the ring tightened round Amon Sul. Now the place seemed to be a place where shirkers and looters had gathered. They found but five more orcs and cut them down without any real fight, though Angast complained of losing good bodkins when two were ruined beyond re-use.
They found they had time to better tend their charges. A mother and child who had dwelt in the manor and whose hiding spots had been found in the plundering. Sarinil, the young woman was shocked to discover how the elves had escaped Amon Sul.
“That was a well guarded secret then if no one in our house knew of it!”
“Kings keep many secrets and whatever others Areleg kept under his diadem, he won't be divulging I fear,” ahmo said.
“The King is dead?” Sarinil asked.
“He is. Amon Sul is lost.”
“Then the land is lost. How can Norbury stand now if the king is dead?” she wailed and drew the cloak tighter round herself as she sobbed.
Inwis returned with a smile of relief. “Horses. I found eight horses!'
“Where? Lead us!” Ahmo replied with a happy sigh. “Aiya! How have horses come to be here? I' have thought the orcs would have eaten them long ago. Or the wargs.”
Inwis led them down a grand staircase lined with statues which had had their noses hmmered off or heads removed. Across an inner garden courtyard and a right turn into an adjoining buildiing-a grand stablery, whose vaulted roof opened to the sky. Wide open doors yawned a bright late afternoon welcome as the troop warily followed Inwis within, weapons at the ready.
Tied in stalls were indeed, eight horses, who appeared healthy and whole. The elves and their foundlings looked at one another in wonder. Ahmo asked Sarinil pointedly, “They put you to torment and slew and ate your husband but they left the horses in the stable when they moved uphill?
“These were none of ours,” she said.
At that moment several things happened at once.
Inwis cried out and spun, hitting the ground with an arrow shaft protruding from her back. Sarinil screamed, grabbed the child in her arms and threw herself to the ground. Ahmo's shield was up at once, two arrows sprouting from it with dull bangs. Angast half turned at the waist and let fly an arrow at the skylight in the roof above. A man in the red and black livery of Angmar's soldiery tumbled from the roof with a short, sharp shriek. Cirdethan, Arthandron, Medlinor and Aldanil had their shields up, over the prostrate form of Inwis. Angast pivoted in place, his bowstring twitching. Two men who had lay in wait behind a haywain gurgled their last with brightly feathered arrows decorating their chests.
“The healer needs healing!” calle out Cirdethan as he saw to the minstrel. The elves formed a little shield wall round Inwis, Sarinil and the chid.
“Inwis!” called Ahmo.
“The mail held true!” replied Cirdethan. “She is not seriously harmed,” he added as he joind his shield to the others.
“Sarinil! Make yourself useful!” commanded Ahmo. A score of Angmar's Rhudauran soldiery sprang at them from the courtyard beyond the wide door, or leaping from a loft above.
One of these Ahmo caught with her blade in mid-leap. Her calulation of his rate of fall slightly off, she merely hewed one of his legs of at the knee, leaving him screaming on the paving stones. But her momentum carried her sword round to the next man, parrying his wild swing. Her companions were seasoned, reasonably rested and wonderfully equipped. The Angmarin fought well and had clearly been picked for this fight. Duelling with broadsword and buckler, the Angmarim were not the Rhudauran legionairies who filled Angmar's ranks to bolster the ranks of undisciplined orcs. Medlinor, who favored heavier blades cut down two in quick order while Cirdethan's delicate swordplay relieved one foeman of an arm as Arthandron's war axe smote through helm, greaves and shields as though a company of dwarves had sprung from the ground. Angast, bow between his teeth, swung like a monkey on a beam, dodging a blow and gaining the loft ladder. Climbing swiftly, he shot three men down rapidly. Ahmo blocked the way to their fallen Inwis and the woman Sarinil who could not stop her hysterical shrieking. Two men advanced, shields raised and she traded savage blows with them. One was a clearly accomplished swordsman but she remained wary of the other. She had seen any number of masters of the blade laid low by a quick and lucky journeyman.
Her sword turned blow after hammerblow, as she slowly retreated toward her companion. Her sharp eye caught one of them glancing at Sarinil and she struck, switching from blow- counter blow to a deadly quick thrust through the man's curious eye. Her remaining opponent attacked her with berzerk fury. Forced onto the defensive by the man's heavier build, she found her shield beginning to splinter under the attack until a dull thump heralded a respite as Arthandron's war-axe deftly struck the Angmarim's head off.
“You owe me,” he deadpanned, turning swiftly. Ahmo put her boot on the fallen enemy's jaw and yanked her sword free to see they were now alone in the barn.
“Mount up!” she cried and the elves saddled the resting horses and climbed swiftly on after Angast collected bows and arrows enough for Ahmo, Cirdethan, and Inwis. Ahmo spoke kindly to the beast she had chosen, a bay mare. These were not war horses, but only meant to carry Angmar's officers about. As such, they had no barding. Any encounter with archers would likely not be a happy one, she thought, wheeling to confront Sarinil with her son. “You can ride?”
“I can,” she managed. Ahmo had not realized several of her teeth had been knocked out, affecting her speech. An inglorious insult to her nobility, clearly.
“That one is yours. See that you keep up,” she ordered unceremoniously. Ahmo took the boy by the shoulder. “Go with her,” she said sharply, indicating Inwis, who with a good deal more tenderness took the child's hand and sat him upon the horse she had chosen before clabering up behind.
The troop circled once behind Ahmo before riding out of the estate grounds toward the northeast. “And us without a lance or even spear and with one bow,” she frowned.
Arthandron spoke up, “We shall have to find a good vantage for Angast to spy the way ahead.”
Ahmo nodded curt agreement, “We have been led into one ambuscade already. But we must ride hard. These horses are not weary, but neither are they fresh. And ready fresh water is not easy to find west of Mitheithel save nigh to Ost Cyrn or the marshlands south of the highway.
“I presume it has fallen as well,” Inwis chimed in. She hugged the poor foundling as he rode.
“A safe assumption,” Angast answered in his dry tone. “Anywhere help for Amon Sul might have come from will be besieged or invested in some way.”
They rode at a good pace, followinfg the road, marking now and again the distant smoke from the burning fortress on Amon Sul.
None of the elves felt any grief. Of burning an death, they had seen much. Aside from Inwis, who was young, they were all veterans of many fights, having felt both triumph and the bitter sting of defeat.
Sarinil complained once of weariness but was quickly warned by Ahmo not to fall asleep. Nor to stop unless they all stopped for a break to answer nature's call.
Day gave way to night and they continued upon the paved road, crossing the grand Mitheithel Bridge and meeting no sign of the enemy. They slacked their pace, having gained the cover of the thick woodlands of the Misty Mountain foothills.
They found the Bruinen Ford watched by a camp of Rhudaurans. Though they were inattentive and unawares, their number was deemed too many to take at a bound, so Ahmo decided at Medlinor's urging to try the deeper ford downriver. “Echad Candelleth was not beset when we set out. And that is a strong fastness and outwork of Imladris guarded by both men and elves and well hid. I think we shall find help there,” he said.
Ahmo agreed. “It would be well were we able to rest there a day and night. These horses have done much on our behalf and ought to be rewarded with proper rest.”
Echad Candelleth had been built by the elves when Sauron betrayed Celebrimbor and the dark tide rolled over Eregion. In later days, Arnor and then Cardolan had expanded and improved it and in these dire times for the north kingdoms, it had proved a worthy investment and the men of Cardolan and the elves maintained a strong garrison there. Its siting on a craggy and heavily wooded cliff overlooking the Bruinen in a spot where the river was fordable in midsummer.
Medlinor, being most familiar with the commander of the garrison, took the lead as the troop dismounted and followed tortuous paths winding up and down and around the flinty and broken hills. Inwis spoke often to birds and small creatures of the wood. They testified that no evil had come to the land east of the river in the lowest reaches of the great mountains. Men and elves hunted game. The wolves took no more than was their fair share of their land's bounty and were disinclined to approach the habitations of the few woodsmen and hunters who made their abode in the wood. These mostly served the few Inns that had until recently dotted the east road to the mountain passes.
They rode at a good pace south of the road a little. Medlinor knew a good path frequented in peaceful time by elves passing from Imladris to the Havens and this they threaded round hills and stands of scrub oak for two days. They saw no sign of the enemy until they had got within sight of their goal when they took a party of Rhudauran scouts unawares in camp. These they dispatched with a double volley of arrows.
They were ushered into the little castle amidst much enthusiasm and wonder. Since war had broken upon the north scattered refugees had found their way to the refuge, often guided by rangers and borderers. The small castle had a spacious understory where horses were stabled. Some livestock brought by refugees were kept there as well and the incongruous sound of sheep and fowl were heard by the horses, who little minded the unaccustomed companionship in the chill damp and dark.
The gate shut behind them, the elves bade farewell to the woman and her child who passed into the care of the garrisons healers. From the spacious central hall where everyone slept to share the warmth of the blaze in the massive hearth Ahmo and Aldanil were ushered up into the tower, which was built onto the northeast corner of the castle to allow better observation of the northern reaches of the river. Angast, Inwis and the others remained below to stake out spots as close to the hearth as they could manage. Bulky warm furs and wool blankets were provided, as they were clearly special guests.
