[Saurreg]

Belegorn ran. His powerful legs pounded the cold floor of the corridor and propelled his body forward in great strides; dark locks flying in the draft. His sword was unsheathed and griped tightly in his right hand; its polished blade shimmering in the light of the torches held by others and fixed on holders along the walls. He could hear heavy thumping close behind him and was assured that his men were still following him. Belegorn ran and did not halt for others to stand out of the way, he simply shoved his pass them. The high pitched scream that sent shudders down his spine was no more and if any incident had occurred, Belegorn was sure it had passed him by already.

Leaving the jumble of bewildered and frightened Dúnedains in his wake, Belegorn continued running and in the dim light of the corridor, he could make out two bipedal silhouettes in the near distance. Every foot step took him closer to the duo and he was able to decipher their forms better; one looked familiar with its tall slender height and broad shoulders, the other was more petite. Both stood with their backs facing Belegorn and his men.

“Thank the stars you’re alright!” exclaimed Belegorn as he came to a stop a few feet from his intents. “I was wor-” The remainder of the words died in his throat and his eyes widened with astonishment as he saw what lay before him.

It was an unnaturally huge arachnid creature; black and hairy beyond reason. Its segmented limbs which the Dúnedain estimated to span at least four feet long when out-stretched were curled up close to its up-turned bulbous body. The hideous head with its array of liquid black globes and immense maniples were cruelly hewed.

“Yer Valars…” began Belegorn, still wide-eyed and staring at the carcass of the fallen beast, “Are there any more of these foul creatures?”

”I do not know sir,” replied Faerim courteous as normal, “But I can only hope this is the only one of its kind here.”

Why am I not surprised it’s you? Thought Belegorn, as the youth turned to face him. The older man eyed the teenager from head to toe scanning for any signs of injury and asked anxiously, “Are you hurt Faerim? Was anybody hurt?”

A new voice answered, and it was pleasing to the ears for it was smooth as silk yet firm but not overbearing. It was unmistakably feminine also. Belegorn turned from the youth and looked onto the face of Erenor, the high elven emissary from Rivendell.

“I do not know Lieutenant,” She replied as-a-matter-of-factly, “Neither Faerim nor I have sustained any bodily injuries, but I cannot say the same for the rest of your people. I fear this expired denizen of the dark might have acquired a victim before we arrive and dealt with it.

Erenor then pointed towards a tunnel that led off from the main corridor. Belegorn walked cautiously towards it and peered through. His keen grey eyes could make out the fluttering wisps of tattered dust caught web that lined the entire circumference of passageway. Arachnid spun web were thin but steely strong. A broken web could only mean that either a fortunate prey had managed to break itself loose or most likely, the creature had dispatched of it already.

Belegorn frowned and his lips parted with bitter disappointment as the Noldorin shared her acuity with him. He had hoped whimsically perhaps, that under his leadership no one would be lost but that has been proven vain now. He nodded slowly in regret to no one in particular and strode towards Erenor and Faerim.

His face was darker and tenser than it was before as he faced the two spider-slayers and resumed, “It is unfortunate. But we have no time to grief now.
Another pressing development is at hand.”

As if on cue, the low boom of a bass drum echoed through the passageway sending alarmed shrieks and yelps from the already cowed refugees. Faerim’s eyes bulged and he looked nervously towards the source of the ominous sound. But Erenor’s cool composure remained and she looked at Belegorn straight in the eyes.

“And what are your intentions Lieutenant?” She inquired, unperturbed.

Belegorn looked towards Faerim and asked hurriedly, “Do you recall seeing any other tunnels leading off from this one at the rear where we passed?”

“Yes sir, I think so.” replied the youth betraying signs of fear.

Belegorn nodded quickly and continued, “Good, this is what I want you to do; lead your people back and enter those tunnels. Get out of this corridor as soon as possible. Destroy any of the markings made when you come across them. Go now!”

The Dúnedain commander pointed to the way which they came from to emphasize his point. Satisfied that his orders were clearly understood, he turned to leave, but stopped and delivered his forethought,

“And if you see your father, tell him he’s in charge now!”

“And what will you do, Lieutenant?” ventured Erenor sternly as she stepped towards the taller man, “This is no time for vain heroics. Your people need you.”

Belegorn sucked in his breath and exhaled slowly through clenched teeth. He turned back towards the tenacious elf and replied, every word enunciated calculatingly,

“And what would you have me do milady? Lead the flight back up whence we came from and let the trolls overtake and slaughter every single last one of us? Or would you have us make a stand in the narrow confines of this corridor against a terrible foe whose numbers we know not of? Nay milady! And neither will I send another brother, husband nor son to take my place and die in my stead! No more milady! No more!”

Belegorn turned his back on the elf with a word of leave-taking. He found the soldiers that followed him standing by the shadows, nonplussed by the confrontation that took place.

“Work with them!” he ordered and left to rejoin the crowd. Belegorn approached the refugeees, intending to identify any individual in need of special attention. But they instinctively backed towards the wall away from him. The lieutenant's eyebrows rose in surprise at the people's reaction to his goodwill but immediately realized why; he had charged through them excessively whilst brandishing a weapon with a look of madness in his eyes, then lashed out at a member of the Elder Race that the people most probably regarded as a supernatural being and then returned to them.

Belegorn closed his eyes and sighed, there is only one word to describe my actions - madness!

He opened his eyes again and regarded the refugees, his people. And they simply looked back with wide frightened eyes, like kittens staring at one who had hurt them before. Belegorn wanted to reassure them, to set their mind at ease, to explain that they had nothing to fear from him. But words fail to emit from his dry lips, for Belegorn knew he had failed already. A leader was supposed to guide, to inspire and to nurture but so far what Belegorn had succeeded was simply to create resentment and fear by exercising his authoritive powers alone.

He was never loved by the men who served under him and now he would be feared and hated by the people who's very lives depended on him.

Belegorn's eyes averted from the refugees because he was unable to endure their judgemental stares any longer. He turned to leave and came face to face with Angore, the elf-guard of Erenor. The two came into arm’s length of each other and their eyes met but both spoke not; Belegorn broke into a sprint back towards the front and the handsome elf continued his way towards his charge.

A hand reached out and grabbed Belegorn by the arm. Belegorn swung around and prepared to defend himself. Instead he was confronted by a familiar head spotting a bandage across the cranium, patch over the right eye and a sling across the left arm. It was one of the company archers whom Belegorn made his harried exodus form the north passage of Fornost with. Discharged due to injuries with full honors.

“Sir, wot’s that noise! Was dat a drum? Und where yer going!”

“Going to do what I must, soldier.” answered Belegorn curtly as he turned but the hand held on still,

“Yer not coming back aren’t cha?” questioned the ex-archer, grey eyes widening with morbid realization.

“We must do what we must. Goodbye soldier. And good luck!” answered Belegorn this time more gently and with a wane smile. This man deserved better.

“Wait sir! Then take this, you might need it!” asserted the war veteran excitedly as he pulled out a huge bulging knapsack and tried frantically to untie the knot, fingers fumbling. Not really knowing what the ex-archer was up to, Belegorn helped him. Prying open the weather stained covers and rummaging through the assortment of personnel belongings, the soldier unveiled a tightly wrapped cylindrical container.

“Here it is sir! Here it is,” grinned the man through his yellow stained teeth, “Fire powder. Same stuff we used back there to roast those filthy orcs, sir. I kept the remainder, made sure it’s all dry and such!”

Belegorn held the insulated container in his hands and shifted its weight in his palm. A plan came into mind almost instantaneously. He smiled and placed his free hand on the shoulder of his benefactor,

“Thank you soldier. Thank you.”

“My pleasure sir! And Good luck!” the veteran replied softly, grasping Belegorn’s hand in his, tears welling in his eyes.

***********************************’

He was alone. He had always known that he would die alone.

Belegorn stood at where he, Angore and the rest of the scouts were when the dreadful tidings of approaching trolls were made. He looked towards the rear where he knew the motley cru was making its hasty withdrawal under the reliable leadership of Faerim and the elves. Noises were strangely muted which was gladding. The only thing Belegorn regretted was not being able to see Carthor before he left; to give him further instructions. But the old soldier should be back there and he would be able to rejoin the rest.

It was time.

Belegorn unwrapped the linen from the cylinder and unplugged the hole to its contains, the familiar acidic stench assaulting his nose. Slowly with great care, he poured a thin layer of incendiary across the width of the corridor between him and the refugees. Taking a few steps back, he lit a bunched fistful of straw with his torch and tossed it onto the black line. Also immediately, a jet of blue flames shot up the walls and licked the ceiling of the corridor lustily. A fiery barrier now existed.

The layer of incendiary was too thin to prevent an overtly persistent troll with a thick hide from dashing through, but there would be painfully excruciating burns and Belegorn was banking on the fact that trolls might be deterred from trying.

Besides, he was going to be the diversion.

Somewhere behind Belegorn, a huge mailed fist drove into a tough leather bounded drum and sent forth strong tremors that shook the ground of the passageway. Belegorn quickly exited the main corridor into a tunnel not far from the flames.

Coming to a stop after a short run of over a hundred and thirty feet or so, he turned and readied himself.