(After 'Tutors. 1/3' )
“Amille!” I called as I swung my cloak about my shoulders, stuffed two daggers in my leather belt and took up my sword. “Amille, there is no time for your pictures. You must leave them.”
I looked out of the high arched window of our main room to see little but the scaled underbelly of the giant worm, as the creature wound itself around our tower. The masonry itself began to groan under the heat and weight.
My mother hurried out of her study, and balked at the sight at the window, but only for an instant. “Weapons, a little food, a healing pack…we must be gone, Carnifinde.” She had two swords, and a few smaller knives at her belt. Her face was red in the growing heat, her hair, like mine, hung lank about her shoulders. “Namarie,” she whispered sadly, though whether to what had been to our home, or to my father who was with our Prince, I was not sure. We made for the stairs as the glass in the window began to crack and shatter.
“Hurry now, we head for the tunnels,” she said, though the heat in the air was burning our throats if we opened our mouths. “We must get to the western edge of the citadel, but from the steam and mist I suspect Helevorn is boiling.” She kissed my hair and pushed me forward.
The sounds of fighting below echoed up the broad marble stairwell. “There are orcs in the gardens,” I muttered.
“There is a fight in the gardens,” my mother replied. “The orcs are not alone.”
We continued down the stairs, past the huge double oaken doors to the library. I bit back tears. All the knowledge and history therein would be destroyed, reduced to ashes. But lives were more precious than records. And we had long memories. What was destroyed could be rewritten in part, if enough of us survived.
Down another level. At one point my mother almost slipped on a step. I put out a hand to steady her and a knowing glance was exchanged. “No room for error here,” she whispered.
There was movement outside that landing’s large window, at the giant drake slithered down to the ground.
“Courage,” my mother whispered. Her normally gentle blue eyes were as hard as steel.
I nodded to her, and cautiously continued the descent. There was the sound of mailed feet on the stairs, muttering in a coarse tongue. We both pressed back against the wall, knives in hand, there was not much room to swing swords. The first we saw was a stringy haired, motley face, with a pair of saucer eyes; that the orc was wearing armour too large for him, was to our advantage. He was unsteady. I reached out, and before he made a sound my knife tore out his throat. The second, a taller and lankier version of the first, made to push me aside, I ducked beneath his reach. My blade hamstrung his foolishly unbooted foot, as my mother plunged her dagger in his temple. We caught him as he fell, and pushed both bodies against the wall. The noise of battle grew louder.
Through the next window we could make out a division of Archers on the battlement walls beyond the Palace, shooting volley after volley into the drake.
“They will not pierce that monster’s defences,” I whispered.
My mother nodded. “Nor the Balrog’s.” She frowned. “Not even our King could prevail over them.”
“Over all at once, no.” I recalled my history. Morgoth dared to send fire against us again?
She reached over and caught hold of my wrist. “And neither of us are Feanaro. We stand no chance. If we see a Balrog, we run. If that Fire Drake confronts us, we run.”
“I will not run from orcs, amille.”
“We will both run unless our path is blocked. Do you understand?”
I did, and I did not. My blood was boiling within me, and that not from any external heat.
The next landing, and then the level that housed my ‘friend’ Antaro. I gasped then coughed. The air was filled with dust and the door to their rooms was covered by fallen masonry and two thick wood beams.
“Amille,” I hurried to see what, if anything, was movable. She stood and listened.
“Quiet a moment, Carnifinde. I hear no movement from inside.”
I did as she asked. I listened too. It was hard to isolate sounds from the growing cacophony below. “Antaro and his father are likely with the guards,” I whispered.
She nodded. Neither of us wanted to leave a mother and daughter in those rooms, but they may also have escaped.”
“There is too much to move. We cannot…wait on a chance someone is in there”
We both flattened against the wall and stepped into the dust cloud, as there was again the sound of feet coming up the stairs. It was Quentaro.
He was also cautious, knowing what others in the tower could be like when defensive. His own hands were away from his sword and daggers, one clutching a damp cloth over his mouth and nose. He trod wide about the corner that we saw his booted feet and edge of his long, most definitely elven robe, first.
“Hurry ladies, there are guards holding back the orcs now the great worm has moved on. The way across the gardens to the well is clear. We can make for the sewers and tunnels. But there are still Balrogs moving freely about the city.”
He ushered us ahead of him.
“What about the others,” I choked, gesturing to the higher level.
“I tried. I cannot move the rubble.” He replied, now pushing us forward as the tower itself heaved. “The building is crumbling. I do not think it will stand much longer.”
“I hope all are out of the tower,” my mothers palling face was clear to me for a moment. “I hope your father is with our Prince.”
They were also my hopes, and I knew that, while the guard of Caranthir would be strong, he himself was one of our best hopes for survival. No son of Feanaro would easily be defeated.
“Come, we must escape.” my tutor spoke forcefully. No scholar, but the fighting spirit ignited in him through following our Kin to the East, was driving him now.
On the landing before the open doors to his family's dwelling stood his wife, Fealasse, holding their young son, Nolion close to her, and a thick leather satchel stuffed with books. Like us, she was garbed in travelling leathers.
“Carnifinde, Aldanis,” she glanced at the satchel. “I hold life in both arms, but I know which to discard at need.” I understood she was trying to protect a few of her husband's most important books, but their son obviously came first. He was quiet, curled against her shoulder. Eyes, wise for his very young age, were large and sorrowful, but he did not cry, not make any sound.
Further down we moved, I saying ‘namarie’ to all the home I had ever known. For an instant my thoughts flashed to Estarfin, but I focused again almost immediately. He had been in Fingolfin’s lands, likely born the first rage of flames and Balrogs. I knew he was likely slain, but my heart and hope did not sink. There was a chance. He was strong and well trained. Onward.
There was a pile of dead orcs just outside the main doorway. We could see the guards engaging with more of the creatures of Morgoth at the southern Tower. They were fighting bravely, as they were taught and as was their nature, but the numbers were overwhelming, and the air, it made one reach with the stench.
“Across to the well,” Quentaro said softly, that we drew no attention. “Alas, it is down a rope to the level of the Lake, then a small side tunnel and a staircase to lower levels. Hurry. They likely know of…”
I turned as my mother looked back sharply at our tower, aghast. At the window of the third floor a small face appeared, her brown hair was, like ours, stuck by the heat to her head and shoulders. Her pale peach dress and ribbons clung to her.
“Vinyare!” my mother cried. “How could this happen?
Antaro’s younger sister it was, waving desperately for aid. I could only think her mother was slain, or badly injured that she stood alone.
Quentaro turned, and closed his eyes at what he saw. “We cannot go back,”
“We cannot not go back.” my mother was racing for the door, the steps….and then, horror of horrors, the Fire Worm crawled again to our tower, beginning to climb up until it was toppled under the weight.
“Amille!” I screamed, forgetting the need for silence. The creature turned, its baleful slitted pupils registering me, and my companions.
“To the well! Quentaro pushed his wife and child away, and moved to stand before me, useless sword in hand.
It was the worst moment in my life at that point. I knew my tutor was putting his life in danger to protect me. I knew we should also be running with Fealasse to that well. I could not move my feet away from where my mother was buried.
“You cannot help her,” Quentaro said clearly. “If she could speak her last words, they would be ‘Live, daughter mine’.
I nodded and bit back my tears of rage. He was right. The best I could do for my beloved mother, was to live myself.
Amille - Mother
Picture: The Dragon in Thargelion by Estarfin
