Death on the Downs
Arvaethor:
The wan light of early morning crept over the North Downs with slow torpor, the night seemingly refusing to give up its hold. There was smoke and the acrid stench of something else, all too familiar on the wind. Blood had been spilt this night.
The two figures, tall and cloaked, stood upon the crest of the hill looking down upon what once had been a farm. The world seemed to hold its breath at the tragedy painted before them.
In a field stamped and torn by shodden feet lay a horse dying, its flank pierced by dark fletched arrows. There, black charred shapes curled up and huddled together by the door to a barn that smouldered in the damp air. The great enemy had written their foul deeds across this place like only that breed could.
The taller of the two figures turned his face down towards his companion, pale grey eyes cloaked in the shadows of his hood. The shorter figure nodded, and the pair split up, one going left and the other right.
Aduialant:
The shorter figure, her face hidden by a deep hood, drew an arrow from its quiver and strung it upon the bow she carried as she approached the charred wreckage. Approaching the horse, she solemnly aimed and shot, putting the animal out of its misery before muttering a soft prayer
Torvellon:
A voice cut through the silence from the direction of the barn, steady and strong but not loud or shouting.
“Your mercy does you credit, there was nothing more you could have done for her.”
A tall man stepped from the shadows of the barn, leaning upon a sturdy staff of dark iron.
“Mae govannen”.
Arvaethor:
As he moved around to the east, skirting the broken line of fence, he paused, something unseen making the hair on his neck rise. A voice rang out, the loudness of it almost obscene in the quiet, sleepy world he moved through.
He turned towards the voice. His body was tense but not rigid, feet sliding apart lightly, almost imperceptibly adopting a duellist stance. The voice had the grit of the secondborn, but the man's inflection and eloquence spoke of something more. Tall he was, but grey of beard. Both old and yet... vital with hidden strength.
The words of the Sindar coming from those lips short-footed him for a moment.
"Suil..." he replied, his voice low and flat. He kept his eyes upon the man but searched for Aduialant out of the corner of his eye.
Aduialant:
With unearthly swiftness the elf woman spun on her heel and knocked a second arrow, aiming for the chest of the stranger before her. Her hood fell back as she spun and her pale face shone in the moonlight, her eyes burning silver as she glared.
After a moment she hesitated. Lowering her aim slightly she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper in the night air
“And are you deserving of that same mercy, Edan?”
Torvellon:
Rather than flinching back or reacting in anger, the man simply raised his eyebrows.
“The wheel of judgement still turns on that matter, I'm afraid. But I assure you I mean no harm. I saw the smoke and came to see if help might be needed; I'm afraid I arrived too late. I am Torvellon, though many simply call me Grey Alder”.
The man bowed deeply, respectful and practiced in his movements.
Arvaethor:
A long moment passed as the man bowed before the two elves. Such a strange turn was it that for a brief second Arvaethor was stunned to silence.
He raised a hand, turning his head towards his companion.
"Daro...meleth nín," he said softly. Relaxing his stance.
"It would seem we are all too late to help these poor souls."
He said in the common tongue, letting out a sigh, weariness suddenly weighing on his heart and limbs.
"Oft of late has that been our fate..."
"You are not of these lands, it would seem to my eyes. I take you to be more than a tiller of earth. What brings you hither?"
He said as he knelt down, inspecting a blackened shard of iron beside the post of the fence. A frown creased his pale visage. A white hand upon a black field, faded but worn proudly across its surface.
Aduialant:
Taking heed of her partner, the elf woman lowered her bow and relaxed slightly, though her eyes were still wary. She glanced down towards the horse once more, still in mourning for the beast, but quickly returned her gaze to the strange man.
Torvellon:
Torvellon stepped closer slowly, taking care to show nothing that would be mistaken for aggression. He took notice of what the male elf inspected.
"I have seen that symbol more and more in these lands recently. Always in connection with dark deeds. A Shadow seems to have descended from the mountains."
He seems to look upon scenes distant in both time and place for a moment, before he turns his gaze back upon the pair, a shimmer of intrigue gleaming in his eyes.
"Unusual to see the fairer race this far north. I would think to find elves on their journey west or taking shelter in Imladris."
Arvaethor:
Arvaethor turned his head up towards the stranger. Cold grey eyes stared into the man's weathered face, as if searching for something there beneath those shaggy brows. The moment stretches, the elf's face calm and unfeeling. Finally he blinked, nodding to himself, releasing the man from his gaze. Standing smoothly, he reached up with both hands and pulled back his hood.
Hair, long and free, spilt over his shoulders. It was the colour of virgin snow and held back by a circlet of silver worn upon his brow. His skin was barely less pale than his hair, his features fine-boned as all of his race. Despite the youthfulness of his visage, his eyes were hard and determined, a deep well of sadness and resignation.
He bowed his head respectfully.
"Well met, Torvellon, who is known as Grey Alder. I am Arvaethor Haldirithion, guest of Lord Elrond. And this..."
He said, his hand indicating the tall female elf prowling at his side.
"Is Aduialant of the halls of Thranduil."
He glanced at his companion as he said this, a look silencing the protest he knew was coming.
"We return from the sea's mouth to the halls of Imladris. Our journey has taken a strange path. The land tenses with unease; bird and beast tremble in their den. The servants of the great enemy are abroad in these parts."
His fingers rubbed at his temples as if a great pain disturbed him.
"We are troubled, for though his spies have ever gone hither and anon on their foul errands, they have always done so in secrecy. And yet these are burning and salting the earth before them. Some unknown will give their feet urgency and the confidence to march in lands once peaceful."
He paused for a moment in thought.
"And this symbol disturbs me much; I fear some design that has yet to reveal itself."
The elf turned his steely gaze upon the man once more.
"I thought these lands guarded. Watched and patrolled by those who my eyes tell me you hold sway with, despite these simple trappings you cloak yourself in. Where are your people, Torvellon? What has happened to their long watch?"
Aduialant:
Aduialant returned her arrow to its quiver and stepped closer to Arvaethor, clenching and unclenching her free hand as Arvaethor gave her name freely. As she gazed upon the grizzled figure before her thoughts turned to another she had known many years past.
“If you are as Arvaethor has implied, I have no quarrel with your folk. Though I second his question; where are your people? These lands are desolate and cold, and you are the only soul we have met for many days. Who now keeps watch over Arnor’s ghost?”
Her hostility had faded, if not her wariness. There was a curiosity in her silver eyes; her black hair blew about her shoulders in the breeze.
Torvellon:
Torvellon shifted his weight and leaned heavier on his staff, as if a weariness had of a sudden taken him. His eyes flicked up to the snowy peaks some leagues distant, as if expecting something dire to reveal itself.
"The Rangers still watch where they can, though much diminished have become their numbers of late, especially here in the far north. Many have chosen to concentrate their efforts - to protect what folk still live in the Bree-lands and the Shire - rather than keep watch over cold stone and hollow halls.”
Torvellon took a deep breath, exhaling with a slight grunt of determination. Then it seemed he stood taller, shoulders wide and set, his momentary fatigue banished by conviction. He smiled then, though it was strained.
"As for myself, and in regards to your earlier question Arvaethor, not all honor their duty with bow and blade. There is still much that can be learned among the ruins; secrets that can, perhaps, keep the mistakes of the past resting where they sleep."
The strange glint returned to Torvellon's eyes then as he spoke.
"But how is it you know naught of this already? An Elf must range far indeed to go beyond the tidings of what has happened here these years past. Far, indeed, and to places darker still, I would venture."
He raised his hand then, as if to ward off a rebuke.
"Ah, forgive me. I have been told my curiosity oft does me as much harm as it does credit. I shall not pry if, as I suspect, your duties are as solemn as mine.”
His smile became warmer and more genuine,
"Though... if that were the case, I might suggest we travel together?"
Arvaethor:
Arvaethor remained kneeling. As the stranger spoke, he returned his eyes to the shattered metal at his feet. He traced the worn symbol with the delicate touch of his fingertips, as if willing meaning to show itself to him. The emblem was vague but somehow familiar. It was like a word stuck on the tip of one's tongue, elusive and yet so close.
He sighed, the throb in his head returning, and with it the familiar weariness that weighed upon him so. The man seemed trustworthy, but Arvaethor had little dealing with the race of men, and they appeared hasty and unreadable to his eyes. He knew that Aduialant was more familiar with the secondborn than he, at least those of the Dúnedain.
Even from here he could feel her wariness, written in the slight tenseness of her limbs. But if she thought this man an enemy, he would be dead already. That was all the proof he needed; he would trust to her judgement.
He rose slowly, eyes peering up at the ashen sky. Whoever did this could be no more than an hour's ride at most.
"I must confess that I do not pay much heed to the tidings of your people. Oft are they guests at Lord Elrond's halls, and ever has the Elfstone dwelt there when he was not abroad. There is much that vies for the counsel of my ears in these times. You guess close to the mark, though; for many years I have ranged far from the valley of Imladris. For these are dark days, and the paths walked darker still."
He faced the man, his pale visage calm and unreadable.
"Forgive my words, spoken in haste. Ill-formed were they. I question not your bravery nor your dedication to the duty that binds you. For you travel in the wake of those who would cow lesser men. We intend to pay blood with blood. If the lady Aduialant has no complaint, then I would welcome you, Torvellon of the Dúnedain."
He caught the silver eyes of his companion.
"Meleth nín?"
He said softly, awaiting her decision.
Aduialant:
Aduialant cast her eyes downward in thought, before passing her gaze between Arvaethor and Torvellon. Her eyes were deep wells of memory as they settled on the man before her, and for a moment it seemed that they pierced right through to his soul. Her voice was measured and soft as she spoke, a whisper on the chill wind of the North Downs.
“Ever have I held distrust in my heart towards those unfamiliar, and I fear dark days are upon us, wherein we must beware the unknown. Though perhaps it is more wise to embrace allies where we may: a risk worth taking in my mind. Many years ago by the count of men, I was friend to one of your folk. Wilder he was called, and I trusted him well. Were he here, I am sure he would bid me accept your offer. And so I shall; I have no reason not to.”
In that moment she placed a palm to her chest, dipping her chin in a gesture of respect. Without another word or look she stepped away from the two and began to search the bodies of the dead, picking at their charred forms with the end of a long, pale knife she produced from its scabbard. She seemed wraith-like in the dim light, her soundless, fluid movements at odds with the jagged ruins of the farm.
Torvellon:
As Aduialant flitted between the prostrate forms, Torvellon moved to inspect the arrows that protruded from the horse, now mercifully put to rest. He spoke as he worked, though whether to himself or the others it was hard to discern.
"The fletchings are crude. Black, but water repellent; perhaps a cormorant of some sort? Shafts are heavy, would not fly far, nor very accurately, but very damaging on a strike. Most likely shot from a short, tight bow; perhaps of horn or treated wood."
He gave a grunt of effort as he pulled one from the flesh and examined the head, grimacing as he did so.
"Small barbs along the tip, made to break off and inflict lasting pain and injury. Needless cruelty, as they do nothing for the flight of the arrow, nor its penetration."
At last he stood, exchanging a grim look with Arvaethor.
"Orcs.”
He stated simply, throwing the arrow down as if it was a snake that had just bit him.
Arvaethor:
A loud croak split the quiet of the grey morning as Torvellon made his proclamation. A series of large black crows had gathered on the roof of the gutted farmhouse. The owner of the croak tilted his head to the side, taking the interlopers in with beady eyes as he waited for his grisly feast.
Arvaethor let out a muttered curse beneath his breath. Orcs had always burnt and destroyed indiscriminately, as was their want. But these lands were barely populated, nothing more than farmland and a few small towns such as Trestlebridge.
The creatures had to have come down from the mountains from either the north or the east. A long way to travel out of their usual territories to pillage farmers and old men. No, purpose drove them here. Guided and focused intent was written across this scene like an artist signing their work.
But why? And for what purpose? He knew not, and that bothered him far more than he cared for. Ever since he and Aduialant had left Ered Luin, they had found signs of the enemy, sacked villages, and broken bodies. The long peace was over; that was becoming clear. They must take all that they had learnt to Lord Elrond with all haste. But they could not stand idly by while their strength could make a difference.
“Yes... And judging by the fires still burning and the state of the dead, they could not have been here less than an hour or two ago.”
He said, looking at the man with sympathy. He knew what it meant to fail in one's duty and for others to pay the price.
“They cannot be far. The sun has risen, and they shan’t travel under its gaze. Lost in their bloodlust, they must have stayed overlong and have gone to ground to wait till nightfall. We shall find the maggot breed and avenge the fallen. May the land be safer for it. You are free to join us, Torvellon.”
He walked quietly to where Aduialant was crouched over the bodies of the farm's inhabitants. Her face was blank as if she were lost in some old memory. He reached out and placed a hand delicately upon her shoulder. She tensed for a moment, her pale face snapping up to meet his. But then the tension faded away as she recovered from her dark thoughts and reality closed in again.
“Have you a trail we can follow, Gwathien?” he asked softly.
If there was even the barest trace of a track left by the enemy, she would find it; sharp were the eyes of the Lady of Twilight.
Aduialant:
Aduialant shifted her weight from one strong thigh to another as she began to move in her crouched position, a she-wolf stalking her prey. Her keen eyes roved across the dirt and debris beneath her feet as she moved toward the edge of the homestead; eventually, they found purchase upon the faintest of indentations etched into the black soil.
“Here,” she indicated, turning her moon-pale face to the man and elf at her back.
“Orcs, most fortunately, are ne’er too difficult to track. They care not how their studded boots trample the earth, and are oft more concerned with swiftness than with stealth.”
She returned her attention to the ground before her, her brow furrowing with concentration.
“The maker of these tracks faced southwest, as did his companions: many feet, perhaps ten, give or take a few…not so large a group as to best the three of us, though a simple farmer would quickly be overcome.”
She paused to wipe a bead of perspiration from her brow as she stood, then moved back toward her companions, gesturing toward the ground.
“I suspect that these beasts came down from Angmar, for what other dread orc-home lies more near? At the center of this struggle the tracks become more muddled, of course, but they then continue southwest, toward the river. Perhaps they head toward Dol Dinen: I cannot say unless we leave this place and follow.”
In that moment a croak split the silence once more, and Aduialant looked up towards the murder of crows still watching them. She chewed the inside of her cheek and frowned.
“In my time I was friend to the birds of the Greenwood, as I was ever among them in the forest canopy. Would that I could understand the bird-speak of these onlookers: I suspect they would have much news for us.”
Torvellon:
"They might bear news, but not for us I would guess. In my experience the crows of this region are a curmudgeonly sort. More likely to just tell us to go away or ignore the question all together and ask if we have worms for them."
Torvellon spoke matter-of-factly, as if remarking on the weather.
"Now ravens, there are a mischievous and curious lot. Sticking their beaks into other people's business and flying away with their food tins!"
His eyes tracked the tops of the trees as if looking for something.
"However, their keen eyes are always watching, and how they love to gossip; if, that is, you can gain their trust. Like the Dwarves they are, slow to trust but ever-lasting in their friendship if they do."
Torvellon returned his gaze to ground-level to notice the subtle look of distaste on the male Elf's noble features, and the glare of annoyance marring the beautiful features of his companion. He remembered, then, the old lore of the elves and their many shared grudges with the sons of stone. He coughed, his cheeks reddening slightly.
"Ah, forgive me, I do tend to ramble on when the subject is of interest to me. Discretion is of greater need now, of course. "
Aduialant:
At his words Aduialant tilted her head and narrowed her eyes slightly, as if reappraising the Ranger.
“Knowledge left unshared is knowledge lost, I often say.”
She stated simply, before making a courageous attempt at a half smile.
Arvaethor:
Arvaethor watched as the wood elf moved from indent to indent, her silver-grey eyes keen and shining beneath her heavy hood. Her movement was smooth and graceful, catlike and measured. He admired her for a moment more before he focused on the situation.
He pulled back his cloak and tightened the thongs so that it remained open and would not restrict his movement in combat. He went through his routine slowly and methodically, making sure all was well.
Adjusting the fit of his greaves, vambraces, and pauldrons so that they were not loose, he then made sure the scabbard at his hip was easy to reach. He pulled back his long white hair and fastened it with the circlet he wore upon his brow. Finally he knelt and removed the long object bound in cloth upon his back, laying it reverently upon the grass.
Unfastening the leather straps and pulling free the cloth revealed a long scabbard of dark leather, and from its apex, the hilt of a sword. It was silver and expertly wrapped in a vine-like motif. Pale adamants were set in the pommel, and as they were revealed, they caught the sun's rays and appeared to glow like the lights of Elbereth.
A small smile crossed his lips as he ran his fingers delicately across the sword. He uttered words too quiet to be picked up as he did so, his eyes closing shut for a moment. Upon opening them he pulled the blade slightly from its scabbard, testing the draw. Nodding in satisfaction, he wrapped the weapon once more and returned it to his back.
"Wherever the Orc came from matters not. We shall find them in whatever lair they have made for themselves and be avenged upon them."
He looked out towards the southwest, the direction Aduialant had indicated. As they had followed the road earlier, they had spied many farms in that direction, close to the river. That did not bode well for the simple farmers of this land.
"Find us our prey, meleth; their doom is near," he said with a bow of his head towards his companion.
He turned then towards the newcomer.
"We would welcome your blade in this Dúnedan, if you will follow. Then let us make haste."
At that, Aduialant set off down the slope that led towards the river, her eyes ever upon the ground as they moved. Quickly and quietly her two companions followed behind, scanning the horizon for trouble.
At the bottom of the hill they reached a copse of trees, and passing through, the ground levelled out. For a mile or so they skirted an ancient stone wall, keeping low so as not to be spotted from afar.
Farmland spread out before them. The stench of burning filled the air with its acrid tang. Slower now, they crept forward until beyond a short hill they came upon the burning farmstead. Beside it stood a barn, untouched by the flames. At this Aduialant motioned for them to stop. The three companions crouched upon the crest of the hill. Unspeaking, she nodded towards the large building, her eyes telling them all they needed to know. Their quarry lay inside.
Torvellon:
Torvellon kept pace behind the two elves, any seeming of frailty gone now that haste was needed and danger close. As they approached the barn the trio spread out and kept low, keeping hedges and hay bales between them and their destination so as not to draw attention from any lookouts. Even so, Torvellon wondered at how they were not yet spotted, until at last they drew within meters of the open doors and the answer became obvious. Inside, foul voices could be heard raised in anger; the orcs were bickering among themselves, most likely over spoils or what direction to take next. It never ceased to amaze the scholar that for all the hate within the orc, what they truly seemed to hate the most was each other.
"...put you in charge? I says we take a breather. Have a look around, see what we can nab!"
"The Master wants these farms burned, we burn 'em! Move on t' the next! Ain't nothin' 'round 'ere worth takin' anyway, just rusty tools an' stale bread. Or d'you wanna explain to 'im why 'is orders weren't met?"
"N-no, a'course not! But you didn't even let us take that arm I cleaved from the last peasant! I'm starving!"
The orc-filth would not stay unawares for long, their apparent fear of whoever this "Master" was would soon override any greed they may be feeling, Torvellon was sure. Only one thing for it then. With a glance at the others to make sure they were ready, he took a deep breath, then kicked in the door.
"Forchalad! Annúminas!"
They charged.
Aduialant:
Aduialant sprung out from behind a hay bale and planted her feet squarely a distance away from the open barn door. Her hood was thrown back, her ebon-locks gleaming in the light of the setting sun.
Swiftly and without hesitation she drew an arrow from her quiver and set it upon her bow string. A harsh twang split the air as an arrow whipped past Torvellon’s cheek and buried itself in the back of the foremost orc, dropping him to the hard dirt floor.
The lady made no oath nor cried no lordly name; death came silent and grim to all her foes, their last breath the only sound on the wind
Arvaethor:
The barn doors, weather-worn and scorched, yielded to Torvellon’s dusty boot with a resounding crash that shattered the eerie calm.
The wan light of early morn spilt into the room through the now breached door, illuminating a congregation of foul orcs and goblins.
The loathsome creatures hissed and bellowed, recoiling from the intrusion of the sun's hated rays. Time seemed to slow as Arvaethor, swift and sure, joined the side of the Dúnedan. His keen eyes swept the chamber, piercing the malevolent gloom within. Amidst the chaotic sprawl, clear numbers were hard to discern, but the tally appeared to approach a dozen and a half, a greater force than anticipated. Among them, a motley assembly of slight, hunched Goblin breed and larger, brutish Uruks. There was something else towards the back he had glimpsed for just a moment, larger, more upright, and broader than the filth of Mordor.
But then he had no more time to ponder, for the enemy, recovering from the initial shock, threatened to erase their fleeting advantage. A loud twang resonated, and the nearest Orc fell, lifeless, a dark-fletched arrow embedded between its shoulder blades. At that signal, time snapped back into its regular cadence, and the horde surged in.
Arvaethor smoothly unsheathed his elven blade from its scabbard at his hip. There was no time and space to free Silvegil, so the short blade would have to suffice. Standing tall, his countenance set in a stony mask, he drew a deep, measured breath. He needed to prevent the enemy from overrunning the Dúnedan or slipping through to assault Aduialant. Better he draw their ire upon himself.
“Gurth an Glamhoth! An i rîn Gondolin!” He bellowed, stepping forth to meet the brutish onslaught.
Calm descended upon him, troubled thoughts no longer pressing in upon his mind. The weight of the past faded away, freeing him to concentrate on the placement of his feet and the angle of his blade. He became what he was always meant to be, a honed weapon wielded against the heart of the enemy. His sword traced a dance of moonlight in the darkness of the chamber, slashing and turning, slicing through sallow flesh. With footwork and honed skill, he kept the mass at bay, black blood pooling about his feet.
To the right, Torvellon had begun to chant words of power as he fought, his voice growing in volume and depth until the syllables smote the malevolence that pervaded the air around them. As he wove ancient incantations, the light streaming in through the open door seemed to intensify, the fog shifted as if alive about the feet of the Orcs. They screeched, and not a few of the lesser kind turned to flee only to meet the swift edge of the man's blade.
The air was alive with the harsh snap of bowstring as Aduialant plied her craft. Every shot was precise, hitting the mark exactly where she needed it to. She focused on those towards the back who had bows or those attempting to flank her companions. She killed with the lethal grace of one who had stalked the woods of Middle-earth for more than an age.
A goblin descended from the rafters, cruel jagged blades poised to strike Arvaethor. She knew he was too pressed to counter in time. Before its feet had even left the wooden beam, it let out a gargled croak; an arrow of the forest realm lodged in its throat.
A booming voice, brimming with anger and violence, filled the cramped space. The larger figure Arvaethor glimpsed earlier moved through the throng, punishing those who dared flee. The elf saw it clearly now; it was unlike any orc he had ever seen. The skin of its face and tree trunk-like arms was red-brown, unlike the grey and sallow hues of its companions. Clad in heavier, blackened armour, it bore a short, broad-bladed sword foreign to the forges of Barad Dûr. Blazoned upon the creature's chestplate was the strange device they had seen earlier that day, the white hand…
"Dulg thrakat! Dulg lûg!” It roared, slamming a fist into the nearest orc.
Its words galvanised those around it, spurring them on in their bloodlust. It seized a goblin forcefully.
“Go, get to Gurzlum and warn the others. Bring reinforcements. Run, you maggot!” it ordered, thrusting the smaller creature towards the back of the barn.
Before Arvaethor could warn the others, it slipped through the rear doors and vanished into the morning fog.
The horde pressed in harder, the pungent, animal, and sulphur stink of the enemy almost unbearable. The fighting had only just begun…
Torvellon:
Torvellon stood with his staff held before him, using it to turn aside the black blades sweeping in at him. He fought methodically and defensively, thrusting Carhgeleb in and out as opportunities presented themselves, all the while concentrating on his words.
The sunlight, wan and hazy just a few moments ago, was pouring into the barn now with an intensity that blinded and panicked the lesser of the Orc breed. At the same time it seemed to guide the strikes of the three ambushers, its rays warm and comforting upon the man's back. Not a few times was Torvellon about to be overwhelmed, only for his assailants to be downed by the deadly accuracy of Aduialant, or to be cut down by the peerless swordsmanship of Arvaethor.
Torvellon was grateful for their skill, for he was sure he could not have taken on this mob alone; who knows how many more innocents would have died while he sent for the necessary reinforcements from his Ranger brethren.
Aduialant:
The sun was rising as Aduialant ran into the barn. As the trio fought, many of the Orcs quailed at the light streaming bright from the gaps in the ceiling of the barn. They cowered at the back of the structure, where they were struck down by her arrows and Arvaethor’s blade. But some resisted the light; how could this be so? They should not be able to withstand the harsh glare of the morning sun.
There was no time to think on this now. An Orc was pressing its advantage against the ranger. Aduialant knocked an arrow and let it fly, and it found its place in the Orc’s back. One more down.
Whilst she slew the Orc harassing Torvellon, another had managed to make its way to her left flank. She spun to meet it and made to shoot it down, but quarters were cramped, and the Orc was upon her. It knocked her bow aside and grabbed her by the shoulders, slamming her hard against the barn wall at her back. The breath went out from her and she gasped; but this was not enough to take the fight from her. Without a thought she drew one of her knives and buried it in a gap in the Orc’s armor, jamming into his ribs. But the Orc was strong, and he did not let her go. She jammed the knife in again, struggling in his grip, and cried out for help.
Arvaethor:
Aduialant's cry rang out, piercing and clear in the cacophony of the barn. Arvaethor’s gaze swiftly snapped towards the sound. Panic, an icy shard of dread, seized his heart. He faltered, an Uruk almost getting the better of him as it rushed forward on his left.
He had to help her, save her…
His heart was like the gallop of hooves in his ears, spurring him on despite his movement being hampered by the thick press of stinking Orc bodies surrounding him on all sides. Time seemed to slow as the stooping black figure pinned the elf maiden against the wall of the barn. A sinister delight etched across its vile visage as it leisurely drew forth a barbed knife. Arvaethor gauged the distance between them with the pulsating beat of his heart.
Ba-bum, one step…
Ba-bum, two steps…
It was too far, the gap insurmountable. She would die painfully like so many before her. He would lose her like he had lost the others.
Ba-bum, three steps…
The creature raised its weapon high, a look of savage triumph on its face.
Realisation dawned—he wouldn't reach her in time.
Memories, bitter and unbidden, flickered before his eyes.
Ba-bum, four steps…
She cries out, a long, piercing scream. He turns, rushing back towards the lament. Her ruby dress caught, she has fallen, the pack surrounding her with howls of glee. Horror in her pale eyes as she reaches out a delicate hand towards him. Ash falls like languid black snow as the white city burns. Their cruel blades meet her throat, her lifeblood mixing with the scarlet of her torn dress…
Ba-bum, five steps…
He had to save her... he had to…
Crimson fire dances upon the waters of Estelín, separating him frustratingly from the unfolding massacre. Ancient Saelor, venerable scholar of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, lets out a hoarse cry of defiance as he ushers a group of young students to flee. The barbarous horde doesn't even slow as they cut him down, smashing aside the stool he had been brandishing as a deterrent. Their laughter fills the burning halls as they rush after the children…
Ba-bum, six steps... still so far…
In his haste he let go of all notion of defence. Frantically, he cut and cleaved a path forward, the silver of his sword flashing again and again. An Orc blade finds his side and bites deep, forcing the rings of his chainmail shirt into the wound. Another finds a gap between vambrace and shoulder, leaving blood to run down his arm.
Ba-bum, seven... Ba-bum, eight…
The orc pressed its blade to Aduialant's exposed throat. He could see its lips moving, taunting her before it ended her life. He willed every fibre of his being to move faster, adrenaline singing in his veins as he took one last step. Putting all his momentum into his front foot, he leapt, weapon coming down in a deadly arc.
It's too late... He had failed. She would die, and he would lose her. He would not make it...
Miraculously, his blade cleaved deep into the beast's neck the moment before it could fulfil its fel deed. It let out a porcine squeal, black blood spurting violently from the wound as it crumpled to the side.
Panting, he rose, time snapping back into its normal tempo. He turned towards his love and looked upon her with adoring eyes, a grateful smile upon his pale lips.
A colossal shadow suddenly barreled into the elven warrior, sending him sprawling. A guttural war cry that shook the rafters of the barn split the air.
“I will take your head for Sharkû!” snarls the agent of the White Hand, looming over Arvaethor with a broad black blade…
Torvellon:
Though he struggled with his own fight for survival, Torvellon beheld Arvaethor's great feat of skill and determination. Had the other swordsman been but a moment slower Aduialant would have suffered a cruel fate at the end of that dark blade. The danger was far from overcome, however. The orcs, though their numbers thinned, fought with a ferocity Torvellon had seldom seen among their kind - and now a particularly monstrous specimen of that vile breed was taking advantage of Arvaethor's hampered defenses.
Its massive blade fell, and Torvellon wanted to close his eyes at what surely must be his new friend's demise. CLANG. Even wounded Arvaethor proved swift, parrying the blow at the last moment and rolling aside to gain enough distance to rise to his knees. CLANG. Another blow just barely turned aside, and Torvellon could see now that the Elf's wounds were serious. He would not last long without help.
Dispatching one of the two orcs before him with a quick thrust, Torvellon partitioned his mind, making use of the meditative techniques his father had taught him all those years ago. Consciously he focused on staying alive, paying attention to the movements of blades and the defensive sweeps of his own staff - parry, feint, thrust, twist.
Subconsciously, he began to sing:
Of sleeping strength, waking.
Parry, feint, cut.
Of heavy coat, shaking.
Dodge, cut, thrust.
Of stomping tread, with claws of dread.
Of piercing eyes within proud head.
Walking now, building speed.
Sniffing out the tracks that lead.
Hither, come - toward battle's drum.
Before old friends to blades succumb.
As he finished his song Torvellon looked up to see Arvaethor on his back again, struggling to lift his sword against one last powerful blow. He was too late. He had failed his friends, and the Orcs would continue their rampage among the innocent.
BOOM
Dust fell from the rafters as something slammed into the barn doors hard enough to crack the thick supports inward, and all went still for just a moment…
Aduialant:
Blood thundered in Aduialant's ears as time slowed, each passing second a lifetime. The Orc who had bested her pressed his weapon cruelly against her pale throat, and where it bit into the skin her lifeblood began to run down into the folds of her cloak. She met the Orc's gaze with a fierce glare; she would not die with her eyes closed in fear.
She could hear somehow, through the thundering of her heart, a strange song from the mouth of the ranger....not the words, but the rhythm of his chanting as he called upon whatever being he believed in. She was ready to die...but there was Arvaethor, eyes blazing as he cut desperately through the throng and clove his sword deep into her attacker's neck. She was free, and now Arvethor was on the barn floor, and a great Orc was above him.
"I will take your head for Sharku!" It bellowed, before a great CRACK split the air and gave pause to the battle. She gasped, her eyes flitting from her prone lover to the great barn doors.
CRACK! they went once more, and a great bear barreled into the fray, taking down everything in its path.
Aduialant used this moment of confusion to spring forward, her knife gleaming in the filtered sunlight as she landed between Arvaethor and the Orc leader who had felled him. A guttural scream left her body as she stabbed downward, burying her weapon in the Orc's thigh. It bellowed and hit her square in the face, knocking her off balance.
She caught herself before she fell and sprang forward again, drawing her second knife and swiping it across the Orc's stomach. Behind the fell creature the bear tore off the arm of a lesser Orc, and the ranger finished it off. It would be over soon.
Her opponent ignored its new wound and came at her face again but she ducked; twisting around him, she screamed once more and buried her knife in the back of its neck. She made to stab again but she was pushed roughly into a wall as the bear interrupted the duel and separated the great Orc from its head. Then silence fell.
