The Lórien Elves
Nearly a score of Elves had fallen with the first onslaught of the Orcs. And at least as many had been wounded to some degree in the ongoing battle. Others of the Elves, those unscathed, closed about their injured fellows helping them along . . . protecting them from further insult from the base and twisted foe. Those who had died must need be left where they lay. The others could not carry their dead weight lest they in turn be killed.
The steel grey eyes of the Lorinand glittered harshly in the sun’s light as they kept their gazes steady on the Orcs’ attack. Great anger smoldered in their depths, moving from mind to mind among them as they saw the
hroar of many of their kindred being made sport of. It grieved them to witness the filthy hands of the murderous Orcs claw and rend the fair Elven bodies.
The Elves doubled their own attack in an effort to break through to where their Dwarven escort fought fearlessly to reach them. Almost as one the Lorinand hewed their way through the thinning line of Orcs.
A great yell, a fearsome roar, went up from the Dwarven line in their ancient tongue. And even those ears which were not as keen as those of the Elves rang loudly with the mighty rallying cry . . .
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Skald and his companions
Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!
^*^
Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!
He had not seen Riv fall. The forms of the Dwarves about him were a blur as they pushed hard against the dwindling Orc line. The blades of the Elves swung high and low, the glints from them growing brighter as the two companies approached each other across the thin, seething mass of Orc bodies.
The Orcs were pulling back a bit, squeezing out from the deadly lines of Elf and Dwarf they found themselves caught between. Some, their escape cut off as the Elves and Dwarves closed in, were unable to head back south; instead finding themselves harried northward. Their rage piqued by the escape of victory for themselves, they harried mercilessly those smaller islands of Dwarves and Elves they came upon.
Skald saw the Elves chasing the retreating Orcs for a short space, until they were no longer a threat. He thought at first to lend his axe to their sword, but a mighty grip took hold his left arm and he turned, axe raised to deal with whatever foolish Orc had dared come near him. He lowered his axe, seeing it wasTaf Hardhammer and was about to give a warning in jest. Taf’s eyes were wide with urgency and he turned Skald more to the left, pointing down to another group of Dwarves further on.
It was Bror! An Orc had swung his weighty club and knocked his brother hard. He was falling . . . falling . . . in slow motion, it seemed as Skald’s breath caught in his throat. Even were his feet to sprout wings, there was no possible way for him to reach Bror. A great cry of rage welled up from within and erupted from him. Taf shook him and pointed again to where Manni and Vetr stood their axes flying from their hands at Bror’s assailants. Skald did indeed fly himself, then, Taf and the others hard on his heels. They swung their weapons relentlessly as they covered the distance to Bror, clearing a path before them.
Skald knelt beside his little brother, bending down to cradle Bror’s head against his arm. The battle had all but dissipated now; the Orcs either dead or run away. Bror’s helm had tumbled off with the blow; across his left cheek was a large bright red and purpling abrasion, swelling gloriously into a hillock of a bruise. Bror’s breathing was easy and what blood had flown from the injured flesh had all but stopped. He was still quite knocked out though, and unresponsive to any of Skald’s questions or prods. Skald rocked him gently, willing him back to consciousness.
Another Dwarf, Brand, had come to kneel by Skald. His face was strained with grief, his speech coming in short gasps as he told how Riv and Afi had protected him, giving him time to send his silvered arrow up as a call for aid. ‘Afi is dead,’ he managed in a strangled voice. Alarmed, Skald grasped Brand’s forearm . . . ‘And Riv . . .?’ he asked, his voice gruff with fear. He glanced about and could not see his older brother from where he crouched.
‘He lives, still. Though he is badly injured,’ Brand managed. He nodded toward where two of the Lorien Elves knelt down their bodies blocking Skald’s view. ‘They have placed him on one of their shields and will bear him up to the gate on it.’
The Brassbeards, Fastor and Grimsi, had made one of their cloak into a sling on sorts, securing the ends to the shafts of their poleaxes. ‘Come, Skald, let us get your brother into this and start back to the East Gate,’ they directed him, lowering the sling to the ground. ‘And Brand, you come back with us, too. The guards in the East Hall have sent more Dwarven warriors to bring back our fallen.’ None were surprised when Brand shook his head and stood up, going back to stand where his brother had fallen.
Fastor and Grimsi hoisted the makeshift sling and moved at a quick pace away from the battleground. Skald followed along beside for a number of paces, looking to see that the Brassbeards were taking care not jostle Bror unnecessarily. He spoke to Bror as they went along, telling him that Riv was alright and that he had seen Uncle Orin, too, making his way up the slope to the path. ‘I’m going to walk with Riv for a while now,’ he told Bror, giving his brother’s forearm a squeeze of assurance. ‘Some Elves have loaded him onto one of their long shields and are bringing him back, same as Fastor and Grimsi are doing for you. He was hurt . . . some, too,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you up in the Great East Hall,’ he called, veering away from Bror’s litter.
In a little louder voice, he called out to the swaying form as it pulled away from him. ‘And don’t think you’re going to get out of retribution for that trick you pulled on me, mudworm! You owe me little brother . . . and I mean to collect!’
My life and skill pledged to you, Mahal . . . he whispered in a low, rough tone as he ran on.
Just keep my brother this side of the West’s Stone Halls . . . both of them!
His swift feet brought him soon into the company of the Elves who bore his older brother’s still form . . .