A Tale of Beleriand

[~Theodred]

The light snowfall began to come again as the party trudged onward. In the front of the column, Tarendur continued to walk in stride with his new friends, gazing slowly around for signs of danger. He was glad to have found good friends in this endeavor. For so long he had traveled alone, and it felt good to be with amiable company.

He turned back to the others, who were listening to Daedhel quietly whispering a story of the Sindar. The young elf had proven himself to be both a skilled musician and an excellent storyteller, and Tarendur had grown rather fond of him. Barret and Caldárus were listening intently, but Follnor Laurent was staring distractedly at the path ahead.

“What ails you, Lord Follnor?” Tarendur asked. “You usually show great interest in our elven minstrel’s stories.”

“I am filled with a sense of foreboding,” he said without breaking his stride. He did not glance over at Tarendur and he continued to stare at path ahead.

“It is natural to have misgivings in places like this and times like these,” said Daedhel, his story apparently concluded.

“Yes, it is,” Follnor replied slowly. “But I have felt it before and…” He said no more and was silent.

The others looked up at each other apprehensively. Follnor persisted onward, his eyes on his moving feet. Looking about nervously, a figure caught Tarendur’s eye on the path ahead. It appeared as if Daedhel could see it too. Watching closely, the form in the distance materialized out of the swirling mist. It was Beregor, the guide. The others gradually took notice of him as well. In a few short moments he was at their side.

“Hail, Beregor,” Barret said genially. “What news?”

“Ill news,” answered Beregor solemnly. “We cannot use this path any longer. There is a huge rockslide blocking the passage. I will tell them to stop the wagons. I need to speak with Heir.” And with that he hurried off swiftly along the column.

Soon the wagons rolled to a halt and Tarendur could hear the anxious voices of their occupants. He turned to face his companions who were standing with worried expressions on their faces. Follnor Laurent was standing still, his eyes still looking down at his snow-covered boots. Tarendur son of Taerwë was beginning to share his ill sense of foreboding.

[Dracarys]

Gethred son of Gundor awoke with a start. The peaceful tranquillity of sleep deserted him completely, and he began to panic. Why were the wagons stopped? The air had gotten colder, and the forests had been replaced by jagged rocks. He shivered and glanced frantically about. Others were conversing in low tones nearby, apparently also unaware of why the column had stopped on a windswept stretch of path without their leader’s consent. A low voice near Gethred’s ear made him jump.

“Urgent news, Lord Heir,” said the voice of Beregor the guide. “We must speak privately. Come.”

Gethred shivered again and sat up, his joints and muscles sore. Wordlessly, he followed Beregor a short way away from the halted train. Beregor eyed him intently before he began.

“I was further up along the path, scouting,” the ranger said in a soft, calm voice. “And we cannot continue on it any longer. A massive rockslide has blocked off this way through the mountains since the last time I was here. We shall have to find another route.”

Gethred’s mind immediately went back his previous thoughts that night, replaying them as if they were a fool’s dream. The worst of the mountains was not over. No doubt the worst had not yet begun.

“What are our options?” he finally managed to ask, swallowing hard as he did so.
Beregor seemed to ponder the choices over, even though he had in all probability been considering them the moment he saw the enormous pile of boulders in their path.

“We could scale that mountain and come out on the other side of the rocks,” he suggested.

Gethred thought no idea could be that preposterous. Rage crept into him at such a ridiculous notion. “But, what about the wagons? How will the women and children climb a steep mountain? It isn’t possible.”

“It is very possible,” replied Beregor, apparently unfazed by Heir’s growing temper. “We simply abandon the wagons, carry what we can on our backs and allow for three or four more days in the mountains than we planned.”

“We cannot do that! I will not permit it!” Gethred struggled to keep his voice to a harsh whisper. “These people have been through too much. I cannot put them through this. Is there no other alternative?”

“Yes, there is one other,” Beregor answered, still speaking in that all too calm voice. “We can back track a little ways, and then cut through a small wood to join the main road.”

“Of course, the main road, why did you not suggest that option first?” Gethred said impatiently, relief at an easier alternative on his face.

“Because,” responded Beregor, in that outrageously serene voice, “on the main road we would be seen by everyone for miles around. I do not know who else is in these mountains now, but we would be seen by friend or foe alike,” he concluded.

Gethred sighed. He was beginning to feel the weight of the burden again; that all these people’s lives depended on him. The burden was too much. He could not bear it.

“What would you have me do?” he asked tentatively, his tone filled with resignation.

“I would rather have you scale that peak than walk so openly into danger,” he said gravely, the carefully composed voice now rough and urgent.

“But I cannot. We cannot. We just cannot do it!” Desperation had crept into Gethred’s voice. Such a decision like this could not be placed on a man. Did the Valar make such decisions as these, ones that could cost lives if the choice made was false?

“I know,” Beregor said simply. He was looking down, and it appeared as if a tear was in his eye. “Let’s hope that I am wrong.”

Gethred took a deep breath. He could dwell on it no longer. Realistically, there was no other alternative. “We take the main road.”

“Very well, my lord,” Beregor said brusquely, and he strode off before Gethred could say any more.

[~Theodred]

The air grew steadily colder as the night moved on. Tarendur pulled his warm cloak further around him to ward off the chill as a frigid mountain breeze swept down on the company. The land around the main road was different from the terrain of the path they had been following until only a few short hours ago. Where the old path had wound steadily around the mountains, curving sharply to accommodate the form and slope of the nearby peaks, the main road drove right through the central valleys, making it a straighter and easier way to follow. Many jagged rocks and boulders had marked the old path, but the new one was mostly smooth stone, shaped out by the strong winds over the years.

The traveling refugees had only been on this new road for a brief period of time, but they had already covered quite a distance. Looming up ahead, Tarendur saw that they passage cut through a colossal canyon, seemingly cut from the solid rock ages ago by forces greater than he could comprehend. He noticed something odd, as they approached this gorge, the Easterling seemed to be hurry off to the back of the column, but after a while he thought none of it.

Presently they were at the huge rift’s gaping mouth and then they were within. It made Tarendur slightly uneasy to be walking with towering walls blocking off escape on either side. He glanced nervously about. His traveling companions seemed to have mixed emotions of this wonder. Barret was clearly in awe at the naturally hewn wonder. Daedhel noticeably admired it as well. But Caldárus remained impassive, and Follnor, though impressed appeared to be still overshadowed by the uncertainties that plagued him. From behind them came a movement, and Tarendur whirled quickly around to spot Ranor, the servant he had befriended making his way toward them.

“Greetings, Lord Tarendur,” he said pleasantly when the Sindar caught his eye. “I thought I would walk a ways with you, at least until we pass through this majestic marvel.”

“I take it you appreciate the physical beauty of it,” said Barret happily. “Imagine, all this, surely made by the hand of Aule! It’s just so…” the dwarf trailed off, apparently overwhelmed with emotion.

“Yes, yes, it’s all very good,” Ranor replied cheerfully. “Though I think…”

Several things happened at once, so rapidly in succession that it was as if it was all a blur. At one moment, Ranor continued to talk amiably, the next, an expression of mingled shock and pain was on his face. Tarendur felt something fast speed past him, then another. When he turned to look at Ranor again, it was as if a bolt had emerged out of his neck. The servant gurgled and clutched feebly at the shaft imbedded in his throat before he fell, dead before he hit the ground.

Tarendur, his pulse quickening dived sideways as another arrow fell in the spot where he had stood moments before. In an instant he was up. The others still seemed confused as to the situation, all but Follnor Laurent, who had already dodged his own incoming arrow. However, Tarendur son of Taerwë knew what was happening. It was clear to him immediately.

Up on either wall of the great canyon, orc archers stood poised with their bows strung, the moonlight glinting eerily off their armor. It appeared as if two bonfires had sprung up as well. They were preparing fire arrows. The others seemed to have grasped what was happening. Their weapons were being drawn simultaneously. Tarendur drew his own bow in one swift movement and launched an arrow back up at their foes. A blood-curdling scream went up from the opposite end of the rift’s floor. Easterling berserks were charging straight at them. The booming sound of Barret Horn’s voice echoed loudly off of the canyon walls as he bellowed: “Defend the wagons! We are being attacked!”

[~Barahir]

Chaos ensued, thereafter, as people were running about, in mass panic. Gethred was doing his best to get the people in line, and create some order, but it was simply impossible with the hail of arrows coming from either side of the great canyon. People were falling dead, like stones, and there seemed to be little he could do! Quickly, he ordered the wagons to form a small circle around the women and children, and those unable to fight.

At the same time, Tarendur had taken charge of the situation, by getting nearby mercenaries who were equipped with long bows to fire upon the orc archers. Once the wagons had formed a circle, the archers moved within, and out rushed twenty or so men along with Follnor Laurent and Caldárus Arscúveth. They brandished their bright swords, as the Easterlings came toward them with seemingly equal fury. Follnor could see their scowling faces, as they drew close.

Follnor, Caldárus, and the other men clashed with the Easterlings, then. Arrows continued to whistle by, as Follnor cut off the head of one man, and in almost the same motion, stabbed another through the chest. One of the mercenaries was taken down by an arrow through the stomach, though, and two more were killed by the Easterlings. Caldárus turned, and hewed the legs from under one man, and swiftly brought his blade down upon his skull.

As the mercenaries under Follnor and Caldárus fought bravely against the oncoming Easterlings, Tarendur was felling orc archers who were constantly bringing down Gethred's men. Daedhel put aside his harp for a long sword.

"I do not revel the use of such a tool," he said. "But I shall do what I must." Unsheathing the sword, he held it with both hands, as he closed his eyes, as if saying a quick prayer. With that, he ran toward the battle front.

Gethred was busy ordering the defense of the women and children, and of the wagons. He had his sword drawn, but still hoped not to have to use it. He hoped that the mercenaries would hold the line.

By now, though, the company was effectively trapped by the imposing forces. The bonfires now illuminated the battle, despite the moon's departure behind the clouds. Tarendur did his best to hold back the Easterling berserks with constant arrow volleys, but he could do little to stop them. Gethred had men running around trying to douse fires that sprung up by the orc's flaming arrows, with what little water they had.

Follnor and Caldárus fought to push the Easterlings back. They seemed to be weakening the first wave. Caldárus raised his sword, and was about to bring it down upon another man, when he suddenly felt the bite of a scimitar in his right arm. With a cry, he let fall his sword, and covered his arm with his other hand. At that opportunity, the Easterling came forward again, ready to finish him off. Suddenly, though, he stopped where he was, his eyes wide. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, and he fell to his knees. Behind him stood Iridon Staredal, blood dripping from his notched sword, and a cloth tied around his head, where he had taken a glancing. Lifting Caldárus up over him, he ran back toward the wagons. "We must get you out of the battle, for the moment. You're no good out there, sitting with an injured sword arm!" he said. Follnor came running after them.

"What is going on?" he demanded.

"Your friend was about to be killed," responded Iridon, slightly annoyed. "What else would you have me do?"

"I simply thought that-"

"That what?" said Iridon. "You didn't think I was some sort of traitor, did you? Nay, I am not so low as one in our company who would betray his friends."

"Who?"

"You know of the Easterling in our party," he said. "It was he, I think, who betrayed us to those who are attacking us now. He is nowhere to be found."

Just then, they reached the wagon circle. One wagon had been overturned, as a wave of attackers had made an attempt to breach the 'wall' protecting the refugees. Dead bodies lay around it, arrows protruding them, and several stout men were now attempting to lift it back upright. Iridon set down Caldárus within the circle, and he and Follnor flew back to the front line again.

The battle was furious, despite the chill of the bitter wind, reminding all that winter was soon to come. While Follnor and Iridon were gone, the tide had changed for the mercenaries at the front. Their numbers were dropping. More hired men came in from within the wagon circle, to bolster their numbers, but still they were pushed back, by the intensity of the Easterling's attack.

"What do you think of our odds, Follnor Laurent?" Iridon cried, amid the sounds of battle.

"We have no chance!" he yelled, trying to hold his ground at the same time. "We have less than 15 men remaining, and they have, what? Fifty? It is impossible!"

"Nothing," said Iridon as he pushed his sword through a squat Easterling, "is impossible!"

Follnor did not share the elf's apparent optomistic view of the situation.

[Bregor]

Clear on the other side of the wagons, Barret Horn, the dwarf, fought bravely along side Brór and Frór, and six others, against the tide of Easterlings, who were continuing to push them back, as more came in from the canyon.

Barret swung his axe madly, taking down many foes. Brór and Frór also fought fiercely, as only dwarves are able. A man nearby swung, and knocked off the head of an Easterling, but was shortly after felled, with an arrow in the throat.

"Our numbers are waning quickly!" cried Barret. "We must fall back to the wagons!"

"We cannot!" said Brór, who was beside him. "We are blocked from behind, and surrounded!"

Turning, Barret saw that it was so, and they were being closed off by at least twenty Easterlings.

"Then we must break through," said Barret. "We shall only be killed more quickly if we remain out here in the open!"

With a cry, he lept forward, and clove the head of one man, quickly blocking a blow, and returning another almost immediately. Brór and Frór folloed him right into the fray, and the others soon learned of what they were doing, and also made to charge through. Two more of the mercenaries were felled by orc arrows, and another by a well placed scimitar. Barret continued to push the attack, as five more Easterlings came arrived to stop them. Brór put his axe into the chest of one, and Frór felled two more. Barret cut deep into the fourth's stomach. Another mercenary wearing a cloak about himself was also with them, and he put his spear right into the fifth imposing Easterling's chest.

Barret looked in wonder at the dark figure. But he did not gaze long, for he suddenly found himself with a scimitar in his right side, where the armour does not protect. Wincing from the pain, he limped aside, and was just able to avoid losing his head, and as he did so, he saw a bright spear fly past him, and there was a thump as the Easterling came to the ground. Barret lay on his back, as he looked over at him.

The cloaked figure ran up to Barret, and threw back his hood.

"I am called Fearohir. Are you hurt badly?" he said.

"Aye, my right side has a bad cut," said Barret.

Just as Fearohir turned to see the cut, though, the elf felt the sting of an arrow through his right shoulder. He gave a cry of pain. But to his horror, when he looked to remove the shaft, he found that it had gone through his own shoulder and into the dwarf's chest. He pulled himself away, and covered his head with his hands. Then in a fury, he withdrew his spear, Anorilos, from the body of the Easterling, and called out to the rest of the mercenaries nearby.

"Move, now!" he cried. "Back to the wagons! Retreat back to the wagons!"

They all ran back, as a hail of arrows followed them. By the time they made it back behind the carts, though, only Brór, Fearohir, and one other mercenary named Glinus remained.

Fearohir had his hand upon his right shoulder. "Quckly! To the defence!" he said. "They are still upon us!" As he said this, he felt suddenly weaker. He clenched his shoulder in pain, and fell to the ground.

[~Barahir]

Meanwhile, however, Iridon and Follnor continued to fight alongside, though their numbers had dropped significantly. Only five men remained outside the wagons, fighting, in addition to Follnor and the elf. Caldárus was wounded, as was Fearohir. Barret was dead, and many others, as well, and Daedhel was nearing exhaustion.

"We are winning," said Iridon to Follnor. "See their numbers drop?"

"Do not be so sure, yet," responded Follnor, as he swung hard at an Easterling, but missed. Blocking the return blow, he regained his stance, and ran the Easterling through.

"Why do you say that?" asked Iridon. "Have ye no faith in your own kin?"

"I cannot speak for their own strength. And I fear, also, that the enemy is still hiding their numbers. We cannot stay here. We must retreat to the wagons, as all the others have."

Of Iridon's war band, only two now remained standing. Suddenly, the elf sprang forward, raising his sword, and called to the others.

"Onward, now! We will crush them!"

Without another word, he rushed headlong into the fray. Both of his remaining warriors followed him, as did the other three men. Immediately, one of the men was slain. Follnor followed them, in an attempt to sway them back to the wagons. Iridon was engaged with three Easterlings, though. Though a brave fighter, Iridon's poor leadership decisions placed his men in mortal peril.

Follnor cried to Iridon, "what are you doing? You fool! You shall make corpses of us all! Get back to the wagons, immediately!"

Iridon, however, did not hear him, amidst the heat of battle. He took a small spear wound in his left leg. With his sword, he broke the spear in two, and slew the man thereafter. With another swing, an Easterling found himself lying in his own blood, on the ground. Again, he took a hit in the leg. Suddenly losing his footing, he fell to the ground, and received a slash to the shoulder, as well. Follnor and Iridon's one remaining guard dragged him away, quickly.

"I am wounded," he said, "but I can still fight! Unhand me, immediately!"

The elf guard, Calenasîr said nothing. Two Easterlings, however now came after them.

"Take him to the wagons," said Follnor. The elf hesitated. "Do as I say! Your lives are at stake, and you cannot fight with your master's leg wounded, or he shall perish! Go now!"

Turning, he ran to meet the Easterlings. Swiftly, he made a fierce swing into one's chest. The man fell to the ground, with a cry. The other swung at Follnor, nearly knocking off his head, as Follnor ducked down. From his kneeling postition, he made an upward cut, gashing into the Easterling's outstretched arm. As the man recoiled, Follnor instantly rose, thrusting his sword through the man's chest.

Follnor saw that the fighting had now shifted, however, past him, and some dozen Easterlings were now within the circle of wagons, and another group was headed toward it, as well, coming from behind him. Running as fast as he could, he helped Calenasîr pull the struggling Iridon back to the wagons, and immediately rejoined the fight.

[~Arathorn III]

Beregor had been some way ahead of the wagons when the sounds of battle came to his ears. He was in a clump of trees on a small rise above the main road. A glance had alerted him of the situation.

Cursing his recklessness in scouting ahead, he crept down the slope even as the first of the Easterlings met the front line in a resonance of steel. Shafts of light sped from the canyon wall on the west, as half-concealed archers wreaked havoc upon the vulnerable free folk below. A single orc body lay collapsed on the cliff.

Deciding that the deadly threat from the canyon wall could turn the tide of battle for the worse if not dealt with, Beregor made his slow way up the side of the canyon. He was careful to stay concealed, and made little noise, as only a ranger can.

It was difficult to tell, but judging from the sounds below the battle did not fare well. The wild cries of the Easterlings overwhelmed desperate calls of retreat. There was a fire somewhere. The smoke rising was making breathing harder.

After some minutes Beregor arrived a few paces behind the orc archers. There were only five left. Three lying on the ground had arrows protruding from their chests.

His best protection now was surprise. He left his longbow and quiver on the ground, no longer a burden. Drawing his longsword with his right hand and a small throwing dagger with his left, he quickly devised a plan. He would confuse the orcs. Time was his best weapon.

One of the orcs was preparing to fire his crude bow. Without warning, a dagger protruded from its throat. It fell lifeless to the ground. The arrow fled wildly from the limp bow. The creature by his side hardly had time to notice all this before its skull cracked under a mighty swing of steel. Three archers remained. One lost its head before it could load a quarrel into a crossbow of sorts. Another had managed to draw a short scimitar, and the other ran down the slope, shrieking. The lone assailant swung madly at the tall man, just missing flesh, as Beregor jumped back. The orc tried a wild stab, but its killing stroke was blocked, and a dagger sunk into its heart.

Beregor wiped his sword free of black blood and sheathed it. He retrieved his longbow and crept to the edge of the cliff. The battle was a mess. It seemed as though a few mercenaries were retreating into a mock hold, its sides the wagons. A few score Easterlings were closing in on all sides.

A bow whistled overhead! Looking across the canyon Beregor saw a lone archer with a longbow, loading another arrow. That lone archer raised his bow. It was the last thing he ever did. A body pitched down onto the rocks.

‘Lets hope that other rat didn’t alert the others of my presence’, thought Beregor.

The Edain took stock of the battle below.

[~Theodred]

The battle was raging all around Tarendur with furious intensity as he launched his last arrow into the sea of oncoming foes. Taking stock of the situation from under the small rock outcropping he stood upon, he found that his fellow defenders had been driven back to inside the ring of wagons. For some reason the orc archers on the canyon walls had departed. Tarendur hoped they were not moving into a position that enabled them to rain deadly shafts upon them with more accuracy. They had thus far wreaked havoc on the wagon guards and defenders.

Of the five archers who had followed him beneath the low ledge, three were already dead. They had been killed in the deadly exchange between they and the orcs on the cliffs above. Tarendur could see their bodies lying sprawled around him, lifeless. The one remaining bowman was a man of Heir’s household. He too was out of arrows. The tide of the battle was quickly surrounding them. The Easterling berserks had momentarily fallen back, but the looked to be preparing to mount another wild charge. The two would need to fall back or else be surrounded.

“Come,” said Tarendur to the archer, “there is nothing more we can do here. Let us retreat to the protection of the ring of wagons.”

“And let us hasten, for the enemy is closing around us,” Heir’s man replied.

The two hurried out from under the ledge and dashed toward safety. The burning carts glowed in front of them. Two of them were aflame and burning brightly, and one was overturned. It was about thirty yards from under the overhang to the wagon train. Tarendur was very fleet of foot. Swiftly he ran, crossing half of the distance quickly and effortlessly. He would have made it to the shelter of the wagons easily had he not heard a sickening thud behind him. Turning around sharply, he glanced back to see how his companion was faring.

The man of Heir’s household stood transfixed in a spot a short ways behind him, a jagged spearhead protruding from his side. A large Easterling warrior had hurled the deadly javelin and he eagerly came up and wrenched it out, preparing for the killing blow. The wounded bowman gasped and fell to his knees just as Tarendur began sprinting back to him. Quick as lighting, both his short swords were thrown at the Easterling, even as he dashed to aid his injured companion. The first caught the berserk in the chest, the second in the throat, felling him instantly. In one fluid movement Tarendur retrieve both of his daggers and knelt to assist the archer. Blood dribbled out of his mouth as the elf dragged him upright. Just then, a bloodcurdling shriek erupted further behind them. It was followed by dozens more accompanying it. The majority of the Easterlings were renewing their attack.

“Leave me,” the man sputtered, spitting up more blood.

“Nay, I cannot leave a comrade in arms to die,” Tarendur replied. In another flowing movement the elf had picked the brave warrior up and begun running back to the wagons to the best of his ability. The Sindar was strong, but not strong enough to carry a grown man without difficulty. It seemed as if they would be overtaken by the mob behind them.

Luckily, help arrived in the nick of time. Just as he was nearing the wagons, Follnor Laurent leapt over the barricade, closely followed by the elf guard Calenasîr. The two darted forward, their swords glinting fiercely in the firelight to cut down the forerunners of the second Easterling charge, giving Tarendur the time to bring the hurt bowman into the waiting arms of the mercenary Glinus. With that achieved, he joined the remaining guards atop of an overturned wagon. It had become the focal point of the Easterling attack. Iridon Staredal clambered up to join them. He was hobbling, and his left arm was hanging limp, but his mouth was set and eyes were ablaze with wrath. Follnor and Calenasîr hurried over and climbed on shortly afterward, and the warriors set about repulsing the Easterling attack.

“At least those foul orcs have stopped firing their arrows upon us,” said Tarendur to Follnor between blows. The man grunted in acknowledgement.

“A strange union it is, for orc and Easterling to be working together,” Daedhel added, swaying slightly from loss of blood. The minstrel’s comment struck an odd chord with Tarendur. Their cause must be important for them to fight side by side, he thought. Surely they must have been intent on waylaying their party. It was certainly not a chance encounter. "Have you seen Barret?" Follnor asked after a while. "I have not," Tarendur answered, narrowlingly parrying a heavy blow. Follnor fought silently from then on.

The situation had become grim for the defenders. Of all the mercenaries, only seven remained standing. Even more men of Heir’s household had been killed. Of the seven, all were bleeding badly from numerous cuts and gashes. Daedhel stumbled sideways and collapsed from his wounds. A glancing blow to the helm rendered Calenasîr senseless. An axe to the stomach of a man of Brethil brought the number of warriors still fighting down to four. Tarendur, Follnor, Glinus, and Iridon were all exhausted. And then the Easterlings were temporarily withdrawing, giving the warriors some much-needed time to breathe.

The wind was now changing, blowing the smoke and sounds of the battle off to the North. Some men and women of Heir’s household were still fighting off an attack at another overturned wagon. Even some mothers were brandishing weapons menacingly in case their foes went after their children. Grouped in the center of the circle near the only intact wagon were the bodies of the wounded and dying. Caldárus and the bowman he had rescued were both unconscious, but Gloredhel was tending to them. Tarendur could see Heir moving quickly about, trying in vain to stop the raging inferno in what had once been his wagon. The man appeared both frantic and utterly worn, and at that moment the elf greatly pitied him.

Then the terrifying shriek echoed off the canyon walls once more. It seemed as if the berserks had replenished their number, and they were charging toward the wagons yet again with renewed fury. It seemed as if there had been more than a hundred Easterlings throughout the night, an unprecedented amount in these mountains. Dawn was just an hour away, but the Sindar did not believe they would hold out that long. Taking a deep breath, Tarendur Atanion braced himself to meet the enemy, and hoped he would have the strength to continue fighting.

[Aragil]

Thinad awoke suddenly. He was sweating. "Strange," he thought, "The tempurature is cold." He stood up, and quickly packed his sleeping bag, and his quilt. He took a quick glance outside and saw two of his guard, sitting by the firepit. He turned his matters back in, saw his armor and quickly walked over to it. He quickly put on the breastplate, and then the shin guards. The rest of his armor quickly followed. He placed his helmet on, and opened the tent. One of the two guards that was on duty was looking into the sky with puzzlement.

There was smoke rising from below, making Thinad very suspicious. "Have you gathered any information regarding the source of that smoke?" inquired Thinad.

"No sir, we thought we should wait for you to awake first," was the reply. Thinad turned to Arael and said "We must investigate further in this, pack up the camp with haste."

Slowly and careful not to make any noise, they moved forward. Watching their steps, they ventured down the side of a bluff until they reached a level outcropping that ended abruptly at the edge of a cliff. From their vantage point, they could see bright lights in the distance. However, before he could get a closer look, Thinad suddenly heard the sound of footfalls.

Quickly he motioned for his men to conceal themselves in the nearby trees. Thinad situated himself so that he could see the possible enemies approaching, and yet he was still hidden. Near the cliff's edge a small group of grey-clad warriors appeared and halted. Thinad raised his arm to ready his men to strike, but then he faltered. One of the warriors had begun to speak in low tones. Thinad had been prepared to receive the harsh guttural speeches of the Easterlings or the wicked speech of the orcs, but it was neither. It was then that he realised, they were not orcs, but elves and Edain.

[~Theodred]

The six grey-clad warriors seemed to be stopping for a short rest. Two sat upon the ground and sipped from their canteens while another milled about. The others seemed to be observing the horizon. Upon closer inspection, Thinad noted that they did not seem at all like a well-organized troop. Apart from the similar coloring of their garments, their appearances were quite different; the two nearest to Thinad seemed disinclined to bathing, but a handsome youth in close vicinity appeared to be the model of a nobility. Indeed, it was as if they were a motley rabble. These warriors were outlaws.

A particularly keen-looking elf stood silent, staring intently toward the lights below, with his hood thrown back. Upon his belt he wore a large sword, and a dagger. A longbow he wore on his back, and a quiver of gold-fletched arrows. The the light-haired elf looked stern, at present, keeping vigil in the cold night. Thinad wondered at him.

Finally Thinad signaled to his companions that they were to proceed toward these warriors, following him peacefully. They moved forward. Thinad stepped into the open first, and almost immediately the six men noticed and accosted them.

"You there!" said a tall and large man brandishing an axe. "Who are you, and why are you here?" He had a mane of black hair and a shaggy beard covering his face.

"More importantly, how many more do you have with you?" jeered a rather pale young man, drawing his sword.

The outlaws had their weapons drawn, and pointed at Thinad, and by this time, his companions had begun to step into the light of the fire, as well. Two dozen more outlaws had come up in the meantime. They surrounded Thinad's party and crowded around the elven warriors threateningly.

"Peace, lads," exclaimed a newly arrived cheery-voiced bowman with crimson garments and a curling red moustache to match. Though he appeared youthful, a lock of silver streaked his auburn hair. "Give the officious one time to explain himself!"

"I am Thinad of Gondolin," began the green-eyed elf, still slightly taken aback by the change in situation. "And these are the soldiers under my command. We heard and saw some of your men, and at first we believed that you might have been orcs. However, when we saw that it was not so, we decided to make our presence known, as you can see."

"Haha, orcs you say?" laughed a portly dwarf. "I confess, some of us resemble the scum of Angband more than others. Particular Fardhen and Heldor over there. They aren't fond of washing behind the ears if take my meaning."

With that remark, both parties started to smile, and soon, they were all laughing. To Thinad, it seemed as if the tension was broken. The outlaws lowered their weapons, and the Gondolindrim were able to breathe easy again. Thinad stood tall among the men, and all who looked upon him wondered at his nobility. Finally, a dark-haired Sindar stepped forward, and taking Thinad by the arm, said, "Come, then, hither. We must take you to our master. I do not believe he is far. He should be just over the ridge, yonder."

"And of the others I brought with me?" inquired Thinad.

"They shall remain here, under our guard," replied the elf.

The Sindarin outlaw led Thinad out of the away from the others who were now conversing quietly and collectively observing at the glowing lights in the distance. They passed the elf whom Thinad had seen earlier, and their eyes met. The other seemed transfixed, momentarily, however, the outlaw's grip brought him away, and up the slope of the ridge.

Sensing a kindred spirit, Thinad opted to question the his elven escort. "What is your name?" he asked as they continued to trudge. At first the guard did not respond. Thinad had all but decided that he would not when the elf replied, "I am called Niriand," keeping his eyes upon the gound before him

"And how," said Thinad, continuing, "did a Sindarin warrior like yourself get involved with a band of outlaws?"

Again, Niriand was slow to answer, as if contemplating the proper words to use. Thinad began to suspect that either he was usually reserved or that he had qualms about revealing personal information. "I would never have thought that I would be here, an Sindarin elf among outlaws, four months ago. And I never would have believed that I would willingly fight along Noldor, months before that. However, war and battle can result in uncommon alliences."

"After the Nirnaeth, when the Noldorin company that I joined to fight for was decimated, I wandered Hithlum with no goal or purpose. Then I met our master. He and his followers were being pursued across Dor-Lomin by the minions of the Dark Lord. When others were giving up, he was offering a strong resistance. I joined with him as soon as I could discover their location. Now we try to keep the peace in these mountains, battling orcs, Easterlings and all of the servants of Angband. As you can see for yourself, we have rallied all kinds of fighters to our cause."

Thinad pondered over the elf's sudden outpour of words with wonder. Not many warriors could do what the leader he described had done. Thinad had not realized that there were those who actually defied Morgoth's control in Hithlum. At least if there was resistance, then there was hope.

Thinad felt that he should not seem to be interrogating his guard, but it appeared that they did not have much further to continue. "Who is your leader," he asked. They had quickly reached the top of the ridge, and were now quickly descending. "Does this elven warrior know that Turgon is now High King of the Noldor?" he pressed.

Niriand laughed. "We assumed that King Turgon had already made the claim. And Lord Hadolorn is not an elf; he is a man."

As the idea that a mere mortal was fronting the resistance in Hithlum sank in to Thinad's mind, Niriand stopped suddenly. Then he gave a low whistle. Emerging from a cluster of nearby trees came another dozen warriors, about half of which were female. Thinad wanted to know just how many people had been incorporated into Hadolorn's band. Then, one more figure stepped into the open.

The sight of him made an immediate impression on Thinad. Everything from his handsome features to his lordly raiment to his dignified demeanor marked him as the emblem of nobility. Radiant blonde hair, deep blue eyes, and considerable height identified him as a proud member of the House of Hador. Slung over his shoulder was a massive unsheathed broadsword, emblazoned with an emerald on the hilt. Only this man could have been the esteemed Hadalorn of Dor-Lomin, the leader of this band.

"Did you observe the fires burning in the distance, Niriand?" Hadolorn asked.

"Yes, we saw the fires on the canyon," replied Niriand. "Something is amiss."

"I feared as much," said Hadolorn gravely. "It must be them." His eyes then fell upon Thinad. "And who have you brought me?"

"He is an elf, my lord, and has named himself Captain Thinad of Gondolin, said Niriand.

"I see, then," said Hadolorn. He stood in thought for a moment. "Lalaithoniel is on a patrol with the others now. Assemble the others. We must take action quickly. You may leave us."

Niriand bowed and departed. Thinad was left with the man who he now surmised to be Hadolorn, and the few remaining with him.

"Meithran, my kinsman, take these men here after Niriand, for I wish to speak to Thinad alone." Hadolorn said to the warriors present.

"Men and women, my lord," said a homely wench with a pike. The other women nodded their agreement, except for one, a strikingly beautiful girl with brown hair. She only adjusted her quiver and blushed.

"Yes, of course, women too," added Hadolorn thoughtfully, not the least bit annoyed. Quickly they bowed, the one called Meithran leading, and hurried after the Sindar in the same manner.They proceeded up the ridge again, the warrior Meithran and the female archer exchanging shy glances. To Thinad, these people did not resemble the types of outlaws he had heard of.

As if reading Thinad's thoughts, Hadolorn said, "not all of the warriors with me are common criminals. All, however, have lost something at the hands of the Dark Lord's servants."

"I suppose," was Thinad's distant reply. He still did not feel well about being around outlaws, no matter how noble.

"Now, Thinad, we may have easier discussion," said the man. "I am Hadolorn, and I lead these men. Tell me about yourself. Why are you here?"

[~Barahir]

"Me?" asked the elf, seeming tentative. "My brethren and I are but a small force sent forth from Gondolin."

"And your errand?"

"That is something I am afraid I am not permitted to speak of to you," Thinad replied. "I may only tell you that it is a sincere mission bestowed upon me by great king Turgon himself. My errand is such."

Hadalorn sat by a large pine, musing, for a while, before he spoke again. "Fear not, good elf, then, for my men and I shall not keep you from your duty to thy king. But I pray you stay with us for the night, at least. It is a chill winter coming, and tonight is no exception."

"Nay, I could not stay with you," said Thinad.

"I implore you!"

"I cannot. That is all," said the elf, standing up. "Good evening, though, Hadalorn."

Hadalorn stood up, as well, from the shadows in the tent, as Thinad hastened away. The thought of outlaws still made him uneasy. Hadalorn stood for a moment, by the tree, thinking. He then exited, as well, following Thinad back, as the elves prepared to leave. Turning around, the elf stopped before Hadalorn.

"What is it you require?" said Thinad. "I have not much time."

"If you will but hear me out, good elf," said the man.

"I listen well," said Thinad. "Be quick, though, for time is of the essence."

"Indeed it is," Hadalorn and I have been tracking a band of both orcs and Easterlings traveling through these mountains. Alliances such as those are a rare sight. My scouts have brought me news from afar, this night. They have found two large bonfires on either side of the great canyon, just north of here. I sent four men out to get a closer look upon the source, but none have yet returned, and I fear an ill wind of fate is come."

"If indeed it is an ill wind of fate, then what would you have us do, here?" asked Thinad, wary of becoming too involved. Help you scout more, so that others can simply get lost in the woods, shot down by Orcs - for that is most certainly what they are."

"That is not my will, Thinad. Do not take me for a fool," Hadalorn responded. "What we must do is attack them from behind, to spread them out. Why are they there? Obviously they are attacking someone, or something. That is the only reason as to why they would be camped out on either side of such a remote mountainous region. What ever it may be, it is our duty to put down these foul creatures."

"It is only my duty to serve my Lord, and to see his will done, adan."

"Of course," said Hadalorn, drawing up his cloak. "Should you reconsider, I shall still be beneath this tree."

With that, the man turned, and sat with his back against the trunk, looking up at the stars. Thinad stood looking at him, until he could not bear it. Then, he returned over the ridge to where his men were waiting, the outlaws departed.

"My lord?" another elf said.

Stirring from his thoughts, Thinad glanced up into the night sky. The stars were bright, but for the smoke in the north.

"Yes, I am here, Dírhael," he said, still looking into the sky, pondering.

[~Arathorn III]

The wind was harsh. The raven was forced to lower in favour of an easier current. It spied movement on the ground below. Ever curious, the bird cautiously circled the clearing. A battle was taking place, a furious battle. A heap of static bodies circled a small group of wagons, where a handful of warriors defended an oncoming tide of what appeared to be wild men. They had long shaggy hair and ugly dull swords and axes. As the raven watched, the wave of attackers subsided, and the mound grew higher.
These men must be possesed!
They looked tired, in the raven's estimation. A score lay wounded, in between the wagons, where they were tended by women and children.
He studied the warriors. Two elves and three men remained standing. They were covered in blood. Even at this height the noble bird could sense the anger emanating from their persons. They must be beyond tired, in that realm where the brain shuts off, and all action turns cold and automatic.

The Easterlings were again massing, preparing a last assault to utterly overwhelm the fell defenders. The drum beats rolled, a harsh horn winded, and the attackers charged, their screams and shouts clouding the empty air.

Suddenly, an orc archer caught sight of the bird, and sent a swift arrow through to air to meet him. The raven nimbly twisted aside, and rose out of bowshot.

[Tarcristiel]

Hearing a noise ahead, Lalaithoniel raised her wooden staff, signaling the small patrol to halt. Tilting her head and closing her eyes, she listened to the sound. As she recognized it, her body slumped. Not more orcs, she thought. She opened her eyes and motioned two of the patrol forward.

They crept toward the source of the noise and then melted into the bushes. Lalaithoniel looked at the other member of the patrol. He returned a rueful grin.

They waited in silence, if you could call it silence. The orcs were making quite a racket. Perhaps they had not heard her patrol. She took a sip of water from her wineskin.

Suddenly the noise the orcs were making ceased, to be replaced by the sounds of a scuffle. Notching an arrow to his bow, her comrade moved forward, only to halt when they heard a birdcall. Lalaithoniel looked expectantly in the direction of the sound. Through the bushes returned the other members of the patrol, one a tall elf, the other a much shorter man. The two were grinning so she relaxed her stance.

“Worried, little sister?” the elf said to her.

“Only that you’d break your neck on some foolhardy stunt.” She shook her head. “What did you find, Orëthoniel?”

“Two orcs that most likely snuck away from their patrol.” His face grew grim. “They will kill Firstborn no more.”

“What if they’re missed?”

“Then their leader will find their bodies and realize they killed each other in a drunken brawl.”

“Good work. Let’s move on and rest elsewhere. Best not to be in the neighborhood if they are discovered.” She picked up her staff and headed south.

[Aragil]

Thinad gave much thought to their situation under the starlight, which was actually most beautiful on this night. Clearly in view, Thinad saw the sickle of the Valar, a clear message to any followers of Morgoth that this was clearly an ill night to be out. Thinad parted his hair from his face, and looked at Dírhael with piercing eyes.

"I don't feel comfortable with these Edain, Dírhael. I think we should leave for the smoke up to the north, it looks very suspicious." said Thinad with his usual seemingly worried composure. "It is your command, sire." reminded Dírhael sounding usually soldierlike.

Thinad shood his head, and looked at Dirhael again. "Lelyamme onot-or." whispered Thinad in Quenya. "Hecilohta."

After he said this, he quickly walked away from Dirhael, and began to climb down the hill that they were on. When he reached the bottom, he gave a hand signal to Dirhael, and he quickly ran down to where the other elves were being held. Thinad also stealthily went from the ranger camp, and hid in the trees on a plateau. Once there, he searched in his pack for something, and he pulled out a short silver horn, with golden runes at the tip, and placed it to his lips, he looked to and fro, and saw no one with his elven vision, so he blew on the horn, signaling his comrades.

(If anyone wants the translations, ask me and I will gladly give them to you. )