[Anguirel]

The Helm, Ghashthurk thought, as it toppled to the ground! The Dragonhelm was loosed, and the Elf scrabbling for his blade would soon be rent, spirit severed from body. He could tell by the grey veins in his weary face.

"Now, worm-filth!" the Captain shrieked. "The prize is ours..."

But his screeching imperatives went unheard in the sheer, irreparable chaos that was seizing the Orcs crowding for the Elf-maid's blood. Many had joined Bazhrat, eager to take her, remembering the twisted joy that torture of Elven females had brought them long ago. Only a few kept order;

Kragscurk and his detachment repelling the short one, the bearer of the shining broadsword, and his companions, the other blademaster and the pair similar of countenance, from their attempt to reach the gate. But that the twins had been able to reinforce the warriors was in itself a failure. Ghashthurk spat a gobbet of rheum that could no longer instil material disgust onto the ground. The one remaining Orc at his side, the stupendously dull but loyal Rubgrakh, looked to him for orders. Grashthurk spat.

"Possess the helm and roll it, cretin. I will handle the Elf and reorder the scum over there." Obediently, Rubgrakh's essence dissolved into the massive, darkly golden helmet, and it began to tumble down the hill...meanwhile Ghashthurk soared to the scene of the quarrel, slapping and snarling and biting. Cowed, the underlings would stream away from Tasareni, two blocking Lindir, the rest joining Malris's foes...

It was then that the shout from...from Them rang out calling the Elvish name of Red Fury, and even Ghashthurk felt that, had he been solid, his own water would be running down his leg. They wouldn't leave the gate, would they? Surely not? Kragscurk seemed to fear that they might; his lads were flailing their translucent arms with little enthusiasm now, backing away...

***

"The affairs of the deserters who left us to die in the retreat are not ours," said the Diviner coldly, ignoring the guards shouting their lost lord's name. "We should allow them to die and crawl back to us, repentant. Such are the ways of fate."

"Silence, soothsayer," answered the Seneschal with a growl. "They were obeying Lord Maedhros' orders. I knew Malris..."

"And I Lindir," the Mastersmith seconded. "They were no cowards."

"What of Tasareni? You should ask that poor little chit Giledhel about that faithless..." the Diviner began.

"It is time," the Chamberlain said simply, and the exhortations of the sentries and Elves-at-arms faded, along with the forms themselves. For a moment the Orcs would be filled with new heart; until, once more, the Island resounded with the strains of a harp and the sound of a peerlessly powerful, perpetually youthful Voice...

***

He burnt like a white fire within
He ne'er forgot the chains of yore
He would not shun dread battle's din
He hunted e'ermore.
The craven foes would shudder, flee,
Yet ne'er had swiftness as did he,
And when the Prince's trumpets sound,
The Orcs are filled with dole therefore...

***

Just as the Elves had mustered and then receded, so too did the Orcs, still more suddenly than they had come; the next strong wind took them with it, into the north and east. The six comrades gazed at each other; Malris, Lomwe, Endamir and Oremir, still in warlike postures as though trying to seize the gate; Tasa, elevated on the rock where she had crawled for her defiance; Lindir, pale, cold, and shivering, his sword unsteady in his hand, just drawn; and the Dragonhelm of Dor-Lomin, visible in its dull aureate nature by starlight, an unspeaking denunciation.