[Arry]

Arry's post

Gaeredhel sat on his rough made cot, his sword held lightly in his left hand, his sharpening stone in his right. Snick . . . . snick . . . it went as he moved it smoothly along the blade’s edge. His knife, already sharpened lay on the quilt beside him, its keen edge catching the light from the small, slit window in the room. It was cool in the room, with the thick tapestry pulled back from the high opening, but the brothers preferred it to the dim, close, smoky enclosure it had been before they’d tied back the curtain.

‘Push your knife back further,’ came Rôsgollo’s request as Gilly toddled across the thick skin rug the brothers had foraged for in one of the hold’s cellars. A cry of frustration escaped the little boy as his intended plaything was put out of reach. ‘Here, Little Star,’ crooned Gaeredhel, offering the chubby fingers the sheath to play with instead. Gilly plopped down on his amply padded bottom and banged the knife sheath about on the bear skin. It was soon abandoned as some other object of interest caught his eye.

‘How long must we stay here?’ asked Gaeredhel, sheathing his sword. ‘Are we not simply waiting for the next blow to fall from the foul hand of the Witch-king?’

Rôsgollo nodded his head in agreement. ‘There are so few left – I cannot think how we might hold out against him.’ With his own knife, he sectioned a wizened apple he’d managed to secure from what small larder the hold had. He held a small piece out to Gilly, and one to his brother. A last bit, he popped into his own mouth, savoring the flavor. He wiped his knife on his breeches and resheathed it.

Gilly chortled happily as he gnawed the sweet offering. ‘Were it my choice,’ Rôsgollo said watching his antics, ‘I would have us leave these Fírimar to their fated end. No good will come of us staying with them. They care not for us or what counsel we can give. Why should we follow them to certain death?’

‘My thoughts echo yours, brother.’ Gaeredhel fished out a small piece of plain waybread, and leant forth, smiling, as the boy reached for it. ‘Once we cross the Baranduin, we should head south, to the Emyn Beraid and then to Mithlond.’ He looked up at his brother who stood to light the wall lamp as the sun descended. ‘What do you think? Would Lord Ereglin agree to come with us? I cannot see why he would stay, can you?’

‘That is the problem, is it not?’ Rôsgollo continued, drawing the tapestry across the window. ‘We are sworn to guard him . . . however wise or foolish his decision might be.’

Gaeredhel raised his brows as he considered the dilemma. ‘I suppose it is out of the question to simply kidnap him for his own good.’ He was startled as his brother laughed; it was a sound he had not heard in a long time.

‘Should push come to shove, we may have to consider that as a real course of action. I suppose that being sworn to guard him might include guarding him from himself.’

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Saurreg's post

Belegorn was pleased that the address went well. Hírvegil was a natural born leader of men and like all who partook in this gift of genius, he had an irresistible charisma that few could deny. His inspirational speech, delivered by that crystal clear animated voice aroused the fiery spirit of his people within the hearts of the soldiers and filled them with newfound hope and courage. The first lieutenant found it especially gratifying to see that as his men filed out of the barracks, their grey eyes were sparkling and the corners of their mouths curled upwards. Belegorn had little doubt that if their beloved captain was to order them to head back to Fornost and retake the great city right at that moment; they would do so without the slightest hesitation.

Belegorn turned to his captain to congratulate him but was taken aback when he saw the eyes his intent. The very eyes which captivated his audience and held them spell bound during the speech were now dull and lifeless – devoid of the wild fire that spun its hypnotic dance in them a few moments ago. Those grey eyes were still beautiful and clear, but they were heavy, spiritless. It was as if a totally dissimilar Hírvegil was sharing the room with Belegorn; the inspirational captain whom men would gladly lay down their lives down for had disappeared amidst the ranks of exiting soldiers and replaced by the same man whom he accosted in the main hall. For a moment Belegorn felt incredibly depressed and an irrational urge arose to seize the man before him by the shoulders and shake violently just for a glimpse of that hope again. Hirvegil noticed that his lieutenant was staring at him intently,

“Lieutenant, you should get some rest too. You must be tired after your ordeal in the north passage,”

“Sir…” Belegorn begun, but the rest of the words died in his mouth and never came forth. He eluded the still penetrating glance of Hírvegil and stared at the aged stone paved floor like a child who had discovered a secret those around were trying to hide from him. A spider darted across the floor from a cot and disappeared beneath the cracks of a stone curved wall.

Hírvegil narrowed his eyes and spoke, this time a bit more sternly,

“You may speak your mind lieutenant, if there is something you wish to say,”

“Belegorn cleared throat mildly and started a new,

“Beg your pardon sir. I was going ask you if I could have your permission to round up some of the civilians as fillers for the ranks. Some of the men are too seriously wounded for duty and all are too tired. Replacements are needed sir.”

“Very good Belegron,” replied Hírvegil addressing his subordinate by his name, “you have my permission to carry out your drafting. And don’t confine your search to the commoners alone, you may also include the youths of higher society in this exercise. They too must play a part in this nation’s defense, no?”

Hírvegil gave Belegron a wane smile as he concluded. The latter knew that his captain understood his distain for the aristocracy and nobility and must have added the last punt in jest just to lighten the air, but the younger man did not reciprocate. Squaring his shoulders, Belegorn continued in sonorous voice,

“And also, I am in the opinion sir, that the role of the rearguard must change. We are too scant in numbers and capacity to operate under current doctrine. If you would permit sir, I would like to have every single guardsman mounted on chargers and thus fighting as mounted light infantry. Every one of the one hundred is a trained rider – a basic prerequisite for entry into the Rearguard, so there shouldn’t be much problems sir. As for the replacements, we’ll try to pick out accomplished riders and at least those with some experiences handling the noble beasts. At worst, there’s nothing a good crash course in mounted warfare couldn’t solve.”

Hírvegil nodded and replied,

“I am also for this idea. Very well, you may carry out this reorganization of the rearguard lieutenant. Except I feel that a hundred mounted infantrymen would be hard pressed by the enemy in a standard engagement, with or without the crash course. I’m thinking on the lines of reconnoitering and scouting. At this point of time, I will have to pay a higher premium on battles avoided over battles won.”

Belegorn nodded curtly. Taking a step backwards from Hírvegil, he snapped into a smart salute, turned and strode towards the exit into the main halls hoping to find a senior sergeant or two.

As the first lieutenant passed the rows of green painted oak wood cots, he debated whether to stop and speak his mind to Hírvegil but decided against it. After all, a vexing comment would do no good in such times…

Hírvegil son of Sildathar, you give hope to others. Why do you not keep any to yourself?