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Malris, deriving all the comfort he could from the Forlindon wine, the Lorien waybread, and the dressing he had made sure was applied to Tasareni's hurts, still felt the chill, the undeniable hostility in the air, that set the others on edge. His conversation with Tasa had come to the end of all that needed to be said; they now understood each other's anxiety, the nervousness all six of the Noldor gathered near Himring's majestic gate and rusting, raised portcullis were afflicted by. Something was far from right. Now only Endamir and Lomwe were still groping at its nature in their words; at any other time Malris would have verbally castigated Endamir's fears, but now...
Some instinct guided his storm-grey eyes upwards, to the lintel of the gate's arch. There he saw the arms of Maedhros, once High King, Lord of the Dispossessed, Elven-prince of Himring; and beside them the smaller ensign of Maglor, twin stars refueling the hope and rekindling the fire in his heart.
"Up! Quick! Friends...we need to get inside the courtyard..."
He finished the last draught of his wine-goblet and began to rush for the gate. The others would sense the tone; the order given when lord, life and land was at stake, the order that brooked no disobedience; and they would follow as quickly as they could, as the screaming of the wind rose.
***
So. The shorter one, like a filthy cat, the one who had carried Red Fury's banner when Ghashthurk's stalwarts had fallen...he was onto something, he was leading a rush for the gate. Wise, the long-dead Orc hieftain had to confess. It was true that he and his little band would never dare to venture in there. There were many restless Elves within, swifter than they, the Chamberlain of the Palace, the Mastersmith, the Seneschal, the Diviner, the Lady with her pack of Orcs gone funny.
But though incorpereal Elves could outstrip and torment bodiless Orcs, still bodiless Orcs were faster by far than Quendi tied to flesh. It was easy, very easy, to block the short fiery one's way, with four of his strongest minions. Meanwhile the rest of them went for the sullen craftsman, the bearer of the Dragonhelm. It could not adorn Ghashthurk's head now, but it would rest in the cairn. Bazhrat charged off in a completely variant direction; Ghashthurk knew his game, and chuckled. He was going to play with the Elven-maid.
The spirits flashed into occasional sight now, causing their victims to recoil, more in disgust and pity twisted to fury than outright fear; but horror would be enough to start with, and fear would come, after a little of the stinging. The wounds of Coavalta scarcely slit the body, but disconcerted the spirit. Eventually, these Noldor would separate from their hroar, leaving their corpses to moulder. They would flee into the fortress, and weep and wail with the other houseless Elves.
And the Dragonhelm would rest in the cairn.
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