(Warning for battle scenes))
We reached the well and looked in.
“We cannot climb down there,” Fealasse protested. “The fumes, the air is poison.” Nolion began to sob a little, picking up on his mother’s distress.
“Valar alone know what they have put in the Lake,” I said, biting back tears of my own, “but the heat from the Balrogs and Fire Drake…they make it far worse. We would choke down there before we got anywhere near the western exit.”
The moving focus of the nearby confrontation headed towards the Palace. More orcs joined from the side streets, pushing back our troops. I saw my riding instructor, Alcarwe, fall under a blow from a cudgel, and be trod under foot. Words came into my mind slower than I cared for, words of wisdom from those who had taught me. My riding instructor…I recalled being told ‘If they have archers, then escaping on horse is unlikely to succeed. If they have a shield wall you are unlikely to break through unless in numbers…but in a general battle a horse can help.
“The horses,” I said hurriedly. “Look, there are still some horses by the stable.”
Indeed there were. A couple of the unfortunate animals lay on the ground with spears embedded in them, but others were trying to stand their ground, though I could almost feel their terror.
Quentaro turned his head. “We would be easy targets, none of us wear full armour, nor do the horses.”
“If we stand here we die. If we go down the well, we die. If we try and fight, we die. The horses offer but small hope, but it is better than naught.”
Fealasse nodded at my words. There would be fighting on the streets and beyond the gate, but with skillful directing of our horses, was it possible?
Quentaro nodded once. “Out of the East Gate and turn left, make for the south east hill fort.”
It was decided.
We hurried back over to the stables, over piles of bodies, both elves and orcs. Some faces I recognised, I tried to push the image from my mind. Later, I told myself, later we could grieve.
My roan mare, Mahtare, sensed my arrival, and kicked her way out of the stall, there were four other horses standing skittishly nearby. Aiding his wife and child onto a large, reasonably calm, chestnut brown stallion, Quentaro swung up behind them, encircling them that he took any arrows or spears. Then we were away, across the gardens, out down the promenade before the palace, dodging rubble and masonry and flaming carts, as if it were a normal day to us. Mostly the groups fighting ignored us. Occasionally an orc turned, but we were not worth the effort.
We turned left, not the main gate to the Dwarven stronghold, but the eastern one to the forts. There was fighting, of course. We slowed. At that gate there were archers.
“We dismount and run, hiding where possible?” I spoke my thoughts aloud. Then there was a rumble behind us and the heaviest of footfalls. Folk scattered. Orcs scattered. A wave of extreme heat struck us and our horses. Thankfully they were bred from those we brought from Valinor. Afraid, yes of course, but still amazingly under our control.
‘Balrog?’ I mouthed the word, unable to say it.
Quentaro’s jaw tightened. “Indeed. But it is heading to the palace, not the gate.”
‘My father’, I wondered. Was he still there, or with Caranthir trying to drive through a path so that his people may escape?
We turned back to the gate and the archers, as a group of hawks were set upon them. Elquasse and her folk were making a path of their own. The birds flew at the archers' faces, at their eyes, pecking and clawing. Some few were hit by the arrows, but most made the contact required. Orcs screamed and flailed about, as feathered predators took out their sight.
“Charge!” One of our captains was leading his men into direct battle now. The gate may be cleared for those who would escape?
One glance down at the desperate faces of our would-be defenders.‘I should be fighting with them’, I thought.
“Come, we can pass here.” Quentaro urged the large chestnut house forward. An orc bounced off the horse’s left shoulder, but no damage was done to the horse. I followed, Mahtare keeping close, and taking out a blinded orc under her hooves.
Out of the city, we swung to the left, away from the main road, and headed for the trees. Just two horses, heading into the mountains. We were no threat. (Later we found a few dozen had come the same way as us, though the majority had followed the prince through the southern gate.)
“Do not look,”
Of course the first thing one wishes to do when hearing such words, is look. But Quentaro would not speak without reason. Fealasse turned away, and covered her son with her cloak. They would do as recommended.I looked briefly, and wished I hadn’t. Among the bloodied heads and branch and twig-like spines, ripped, not cut from their bodies and placed on makeshift pikes, was my childhood friend, Caro.
My stomach churned, I wanted to vomit..but no….’Be strong, Carnifinde’. Until we are out of this, be strong.’
And we rode past that most gruesome of sights under the cover of the tall pines, further up and further east, into the mountains.
The horses were exhausted. Their pace was slow, but the change from blistering heat to snow covered heights was good in a way. At least it felt good to breathe fresh air again, though the cold made our parched and burnt skin ‘burn’ even more. We turned away from the hill forts, but kept under the treeline. Slowly and steadily we turned south.
I was numb. Oh, my burning rage was not deeply hidden, but at that time all I recall was a numbness. I had thought we could never be defeated. I had believed that, even if battle raged in the west, around Barad Eithel, no army would get past Princes Maedhros and Maglor. How had we all been so lulled into complacency? How had we been so foolish? My thoughts concerning my life were challenged and unmade in that ride under the trees. My mother was dead, some of my friends were slain, my father was likely slain, Estarfin… ai…my dreams were likely slain. All I could think was my cousins to the south may yet remain? The people of Ambarussa were far to the south. Let it be, they still ride free.
We made camp after several more hours. Barely visible through the trees was the flame that was the remains of our home. Our city burnt to the ground. Our dead and dying piled into the boiling lake. A few times we made out riders on the main road to the south. They were not going to the Dwarves. They would likely and wisely have shut and bared their gates. They were going to the lands of Ambarrusa, as I had suspected.
We would join them as soon as we could. But at that moment I sank into the snow, wrapped my cloak around me, and drifted...
There was a call, it was Fealasse with her son in one arm and her sword in the other hand. It was very dark, as we had not risked lighting a fire. An orc and warg patrol had crept up on us.
Quantaro had his sword in hand, and had one brutish warg down, the two horses were fighting their own battles. Inside, I screamed. Enough! It was as if someone had set light to my inner flame again. I stepped back under the darkness, feet silent on the snow, sword in hand and I circled, grabbing one orc by the neck and slicing his throat. I dropped him where he stood, dodged back into the trees and circled swiftly to the other side. Another on the edge…Quentaro was fighting like the warrior he was, I kicked the legs from under the hindmost orc and dragged him under the trees, my sword severing his head from his body. My blood was raging, all I could see was flames. Another..this mounted on a warg, I moved to stab the warg in the belley when there was another cry, a howl I knew well. A wolf pack? The wolves were upon the two remaining wargs who, while much larger, were outnumbered. I plunged my sword through the rider’s head as he fell from his seat.
‘Take down the rest’ I called, as if I was suddenly a pack leader. But the wolves needed not my words to bring down abominations. Then they left as swiftly as they had arrived.
‘Racanare’ Quantaro spat out. "Fire wolf are you, to do that. Thank the Valar you were with us.”
I didn’t understand then. I was no wolf, and never have I been, I think rather, like some of our folk were able to do, my fea called to all of nature to give aid, and the pack were the nearest. ‘Racanare’, how ironic.
Quentaro had many bruises, and was bleeding from a wound to his head, but once we reached the refuges the following day, he was placed on a hand drawn cart and tended to by healers. Fealasse and Nolion rode slowly beside him. I checked back with them many times. They had saved my life. I would not desert them now.
But my self appointed task was to search for my father, my other childhood friends, any I knew and cared for. And those I cared little for. We were all the remnant of Thargelion. We could not fail to survive.
