[TomBrady12]

The sun sunk lazily behind the long southwestern spur of Meneltarma, sending shades of pink and orange shimmering across the western horizon. The small party moved slowly and solemnly east along the slightly rising turf. Cresting the slow rise, they stood upon the brink of a shallow valley. There, tucked between the roots of the mountain, lay Noirinan, the Valley of the Tombs. The silent vale shone eerily in the fading light, the last rays of sun glinting off the tall obelisks and wide arches of gold. “It is beautiful,” Marsillion whispered softly to himself. “Beautiful and terrifying.”

“How tragic it is,” Tiru said with tears welling in his dark eyes, “that these dead are treated with such reverence, while my people are butchered and robbed to provide this obscene overflow of wealth.” Kâthaanî took the swarthy man compassionately by the hand as they turned south and continued to ride slowly along the rim of the valley.

There had been no sight of the pursing soldiers since early morning, and secretly Marsillion wondered if he had taken the meandering to a bit of an excess. The group had planned earlier in the day to journey east to the brink of Noirinan before turning briefly south to bypass the sacred hollow. From there, they would pick up the main road leading east to Armenelos before making camp for the night. They had agreed that in order to be a believable decoy they should at last begin to progress toward their supposed objective. They had just reached the road connecting Noirinan and Armenelos and begun a few paces east when they heard a loud call ahead of them. Scanning the road, the three comrades saw to their dismay four of the King's Men, bows raised, deadly arrows fitted to the strings.

“This game has gone on quite long enough, indigent faithful,” the leader of the group bellowed. “You are under arrest by order of the King of Anadûnê.”

Marsillion glared at the soldier, the same officer he had encountered earlier. “How can this be,” Marsillion raged. “The King has sailed away from this land. He could not possibly have given such an order.”

“The High Priest has been granted the authority to carry out justice in the absence of the King,” the officer replied smugly. Turning toward his small contingent of soldiers he spoke with contempt, “Arrest them.” Dismounting their horses the three soldiers were momentarily forced to lower their bows. Not a word passed between any of the Faithful, the Kariborim were in control now. As soon as the bows were lowered Nitirú, Ruki and Mani spun on their heels and bolted west into the sacred vale of Noirinan. Marsillion heard the arrows, fervently singing, as they flew harmlessly by and clattered to the ground beneath the raging hooves. They had escaped, for the moment.

The three rescuers were carried at breakneck speed down the main street into the heart of Noirinan. Past elaborate memorials commemorating ancient victories, through the final halls of the mightiest politicians and generals the world had ever known. The Kariborim far outdistanced the horses of the King’s Men, but a greater problem was arising. The heavy pounding of the racing hooves throbbed throughout the valley, echoing off the great stone buildings, alerting all the King's Men ceremonially standing guard at the most sacred tombs and monuments. The three fugitives raced through the torch lit city, unaware of the gathering throng of curious guards in pursuit. The punishment for disturbing the peace in Noirinan was death, and Marsillion knew it all too well. They came flying at last to the very roots of Meneltarma, the holy precipice rose sharply before them. Ahead lay the tombs of the Kings, delved deeply into the silent depths of the mountain. Behind, a multitude of guards, their bright helms and intricate armor glowing red in the torchlight. Marsillion pulled Mani to a halt a few paces in front of the pillar of Eärendil, the great statue in the likeness of the heroic mariner. Marsillion dismounted, followed closely by Kâthaanî and Tiru, and walked slowly and reverently up the great granite steps to the very feet of Eärendil. He could feel the guards ebbing closer, yet kept his back to them, bowing briefly beneath the mighty statue.

“Who art thou who so arrogantly disturbs the slumber of the Kings?” one of the guards finally spoke. “Dost thou know thy punishment is death?” There was no response from the three still figures at the feet of the hero. “Declare yourselves, lest you feel the chill of our spears.”

Slowly Marsillion turned toward the guards, as did Kâthaanî and Tiru. They were greatly outnumbered, but it was with boldness and conviction that Marsillion spoke. “I am Marsillion of the house of Thoronfaer. These are my kinsmen, Cerveth and Arkrision of the house of Melethroch.”

The guards expression morphed quickly from curiosity to contempt. “Those names are not recognized here,” he spat viciously. “So you are members of that treasonous sect from Rómenna, aye? Elf-Friends you call yourselves? Fools! I tell you this as a last warning. The power has gone out from the Elves. The King of Anadûnê is the ultimate power now, and we are his right arm.” As he spoke this, the assembly of guards lowered their spears toward the Faithful. “Renounce your folly now and you will stand trial before the High Priest. Continue along your traitor's track and you shall die now.”

Marsillion was about to speak, but to his astonishment, Cerveth beat him to it. “We shall never turn from the path we have chosen,” she said with tears forming in her deep grey eyes. “Faithful we have been, and faithful we shall remain. Never shall we turn our backs upon the powers that brought us out from certain death in Beleriand so long ago. I know I speak for all of us,” she said as she knelt and kissed the stone foot of Eärendil, “when I say we would rather die here, knowing we serve the greater Lord, than die tomorrow at the abominable hands of Sauron the Manipulator.” She stood, reaching into the small sack that she kept on her back. Out from the sack she pulled a long bladed knife, the tarnished silver handle tight in her trembling hands. She held the rusted blade above her head and cried, “Now I give my own warning. Whether by my hand or another, none who would raise arms against the servants of the Valar, the true Lords of the Earth, shall survive to see Yestarë.” When she was finished she dropped her hands to her sides and waited for the reply.

“I see you have chosen death,” the leader of the guards said, with utter contempt. “Kill them.” With that the assembly of nearly twenty armed soldiers of Westernesse moved against the three silent patriots.

“Let us go from this world gloriously,” Marsillion said coolly as he withdrew his shining sword from its hiding place on Mani's broad back. Looking over his shoulder he saw Tiru, with almost a smile upon his time worn face, retrieve the long, elegant bow, borrowed from the family armament, and fit an arrow to the taut string.

“What I do now,” the dark swarthy man said, drawing the string to his ear, “I do for my master.” The long black shaft slid through his stubby fingertips. The arrow stayed true to it‘s target, puncturing the polished breastplate, and embedding itself deep within the chest of the bold spoken leader. The tall Númenorean commander dropped immediately to the cobblestones, his ashen face staring blankly into the west. The fight was on.

Marsillion watched and waited as the guards rushed up the cold stone towards him, the bowstrings of Cerveth and Tiru singing in his ears. Many of the guards, who were armed only with spears, fell victim to the ferocious hail of arrows as they raced forward, intent on combat. Marsillion felt the blood run hot through his veins as the first guard to the top went straight for him, hurling his spear with frightening speed just over the younger man’s shoulder. The spear struck the knee of the great statue, but even the brutal strength of the heave could not harm it. The now unarmed man raced onward toward Marsillion, only to be cut down by the arching swing of his heavy sword. On rushed another, with a great thrust of his long weapon, which was easily sidestepped. Momentum carried the stately guard on past Marsillion, who, with a lightning flick of his strong wrists, carved a great wound across the back of the retreating guard’s thigh, sending him flailing helplessly to the street below. Just then, Marsillion heard a scream that would stay with him for the rest of his life. He turned and saw his cousin, unarmed, in the grasp of a familiar man, his long slender dagger pressed firmly to her delicate throat. There stood the leader of the King's Men who had been following them for days, and who they had eluded only minutes before. His company had come quietly from behind in the mayhem and struck unseen.

“That is enough,” the Captain roared to guards and Faithful alike. “These three are to be taken as prisoners to Arminalêth. They shall stand trial before the great Lord Sauron. Bind the slave and the girl,” he ordered his men as he turned on Marsillion. “As for you,” he sneered, “you who would seek to make a fool out of me. Arrogance, young one, your father should have warned you against it. You wonder how we knew of your mission I suppose, and I don't blame you. Every family has a weakness Nimilroth, even the proud house of Narâkmanô can be cracked. You relied heavily upon your half-wit cousin for information on our movements, did you not? Well, what if I were to tell you we relied heavily on him for information on yours?” He paused, seeming to let the revelation sink in.

“That can't be so,” Marsillion moaned, tears filling his blue eyes. He knew it must be true, for what other source could have told them, but he hated to believe it. “Not Nusaphad,” he almost whimpered.

“Oh yes,” laughed the guard. “If it makes you feel any better, young one, the asking price was very high; but in the end he was convinced to see our point of view. Everything can be bought you see, even life long friendship,” he paused, “when the price is right. Now, Nimilroth, tell me, who has been made the fool in the end?” As he said this he struck hard across the face of the slightly taller man, his iron plated gauntlets tearing brutally across his fair forehead. Marsillion droped to his knees in agony, the sting of blood stealing his vision. “Bind him,” the assailant said casually as he turned and mounted his horse.