Resettling the Lost Kingdom

[Himaran]

Olin was relieved when the order to pack up and leave was finally given. He had been at the sight far too long for his personal comfort, and had suffered his share of injuries. The settlement was like a shining beacon of hope, and at last he was returning to it. But his trials were not yet over.

As the many wheelbarrows filled with stone were slowly pushed down the winding path, the dwarf was ready to collapse with exhaustion. And there were miles yet to go. Occasionally a cart would tip, and loud curses would echo throughout the valley. Finally, it became too dark to travel, and the dwarves stopped and built a small camp. Olin collapsed on the ground minutes later, knowing that the journey would end the next day. Finally, his work was over!

Or so he thought.

[Belin]

Unlike the news of Calem, the news of Bear spread quickly. Wolf saw to it. His war-leader was an effective one even when gravely injured; the rage of the warriors was spectacular and necessary, especially if they would have to fight without him. They could not hesitate. Perhaps, reflected Wolf, he should have waited for Flint to return with news of Rook, but they needed to attack soon, before the Southerners had established themselves, while they were perhaps still congratulating themselves on having injured such a dangerous warrior as his brother. In any case, he thought privately, Rook was just as likely to refuse as he was to join battle, or more so.

In fact, Raven’s presence and Bear’s seemed about equally likely. Wolf had to be ready to fight without either.

There had been little sleep for any of them, as Wolf had spent the evening gathering his warriors, anybody at all who was tall and strong enough to wield a spear and angry enough to fight. The second criterion was hardly a problem. Gently, he had had to remove spears from the hands of children and return them to their fathers or brothers or, in some cases, to some man who did not know the child but whose own weapons had been lost. Some of the old men, even more stubborn than the children, were allowed to remain, but Cleft’s niece Kite was firmly discouraged.

“In the very last attack,” Wolf had told her, “at that time when we know we are all going to die, Kite… then we will need your spear. But while we have some hope, I don’t want to weaken the village by letting you be killed.”

She was very young, as strong as a tree root that splits rocks and certainly no less brave than Bear was. “I won’t be killed!” she cried, indignant.

“Good,” he answered. “Don’t.” And he took her weapons and went back to his slowly gathering party of men.

It would have perhaps been desirable for them to have slept, but they needed the time to gather their weaponry and discuss their plans. They were admirable swimmers, and would need to use this to their advantage. He wondered whether the Southerners could swim. He supposed they would find out.

**********************************************

The preparations were nearly complete. As the light of early morning began to find its feeble way through the sleet, Wolf stopped by Cleft’s tent, peering in to see whether his brother was conscious and angry, or asleep and likely to be angry later on. Cleft lay in the tent, sleeping imperturbably, but Bear was nowhere to be seen. Wolf sighed in sudden exasperation. It would be just like him to have taken off on his own, the idiot. Didn’t he ever learn from his mistakes? Didn’t he care at all whether he ended up crippled from walking on a bad leg, or dead from slow reflexes? Growling to himself, Wolf turned—and came face to face with the very man he’d been thinking of, clad in that peculiar armor that nobody else could match.

“You look nice,” said Wolf, sourly. “Can you walk?”

Bear grinned. “Am I not walking?”

“Are you falling down and giving the enemy an advantage?”

His brother drew himself up to his full and impressive height, barely wincing as he did so. “I am Bear,” he said, simply.

“You are arrogant,” snapped Wolf. “But if you are certain, then I can certainly use your help. I was wondering what it would be like to go into battle without you.”

Bear was certain. They returned to the square together, and looked at their warriors.

They were hunters and scavengers. They were survivors of the land that less tenacious people had abandoned as worthless. They were flea-bitten, wet with sleet and armed with spears. There were twenty-seven of them.

*************************************************

About half of them had been sent off to silence the guards. The settlement was absolutely still. Its walls, still being constructed, had numerous weak spots, one conveniently located next to the river. They broke through, as quietly as they could.

Though none of them had planned on sightseeing, the inside of the settlement was unmistakably bizarre and exotic, especially to the many among them who had never been to Bree. These southerners made buildings the way the Bree-men did, with tall straight walls that required a very elaborate and impractical support system. They made the paths between their buildings straight and wide, a waste of effort that some of the younger warriors, either nervous or overconfident, found a source of humor. It was clear, much clearer than in their own village, which building was the most important, and they crept up to it with that careful quietness of which they were so proud.

[Osse]

Silence ran free throughout the settlement; the guards had been quietly eliminated. Without looking, Bear massaged the cramp from his stiff, sore fingers and peeked timidly around the corner of a canvas tent. The weak moon was hiding himself behind masses of cloud and the night was almost pitch black; light from many fireplaces cast long, would-be startling shadows across the open space that lay between his band of warriors and the large wooden structure they were making for. The night was crisp and cold, as the nights in the hills often were, causing his weapon hand to become almost numb.

Reaching inside his pouch, Bear retrieved a small bone square and squeezed it, as he did so, a high-pitch creak issued from it, sounding just like a cricket. Answering clicks were heard from a patch of deep shadow behind a wood hut off to Bear’s right where Wolf and his half of the warriors lay hid, completely indiscernible, like mist in the darkness.

Light suddenly spilled forth from the large wooden building; two men staggered out into the night, wheeling and singing as they came. One peeled off towards a tent, but the other kept coming on towards them. As he passed the group, Bear caught a whiff of wine.

The man stopped right next to the warriors and turned his back to urinate on a tree. Bear quickly nodded at Finch, who stole over to the man and arching his head back slit the southerner’s throat, his blood poured black onto the dew stricken grass, another man never to return to the flower-clad downs of the south.

Finch soon returned to the group, after dragging the man’s corpse into a small copse of firs; his face was void of any emotion, be it anger or hate or disgust, completely and utterly void – the hillmen’s anger was now beyond any reasonable emotion and they all now danced in a steel-like, mechanised waltz of death.

Without a backward glance, Bear strode towards the closed door of the great building, only going out of his way to stoop and pick up a burning brand from a nearby fire. Like a host of locusts, the hillmen descended upon the building. Suddenly Bear tossed his flaming brand high up above the roof of the building.

It came crashing down and smote itself upon the thatching around the guttering of the building. Other hillmen lobbed their torches onto the roof and if the hillmen had stayed to observe, fires sprang up all over it and began to consume it.

All twenty-seven warriors rushed their way into the hall. Southerners sprang up from their seats, many to Bear’s silent, private approval still wore their weapons, at least it wouldn’t be too much of a massacre.

Bear’s musings were suddenly broken when a tall man took a long, drunken swipe at his head with a club. Quickly ducking the blow, Bear slammed his axe into the man’s torso. The hit landed across his chest and he fell crashing back onto a fallen table. Torrents of blood mixed with spilled wine as Bear crashed through the southerners.

[The X Phial]

Borgand had seen to the distribution of prizes, and was about to take Illith and the now sleeping Bregand back to the tent when the shouting started. As one of the least drunk men in the hall, he was almost the first to his feet when the giant hillman burst inside, followed by more than a dozen...no, two dozen... warriors. All were armed and had a sort of berserker rage in their eyes. Borgand's thoughts flew to the women and children still populating the hall. They had to run! Thankfully, there was a back entrance to the hall. It had been planned as an entrance for bringing in food and wine, but it would do as an escape route with the other doorway inaccesible.

Through the shouting, his deep voice rang out...desperation making him louder than even the screams of the terrified children.

"Women and children, out the back. Roland, Cuilad, guard them with your lives! Make for the horses and run to Bree as quickly as you can!"

He caught the eyes of the two boys, frightened and determined. Maybe they would be spared the worst of the fighting now. They were young, but both had proven to be strong, and Borgand needed people he could trust to guard the innocents, but also people who wouldn't be too missed in an all-out battle. He watched them spring into action and had to force his mind back to the issue at hand. He had done what he could for the innocents, it was time to deal with the guilty. He wished he had told Illith once more how much she and the boy meant to him, but couldn't spare the time now. Nor did he want her to stick around so he could tell her. He watched the women stream out the door behind him, thankful that most of them seemed to be keeping their calm in spite of everything.

Borgand drew his sword and advanced on the hillmen. Already, the air seemed thick with fighting. He engaged a wiry young man who was chasing a girl on the cusp of womanhood, buying time for her to escape with the others. The hillman was clumsy with his weapon, but strong in general, and fast. Borgand disarmed him, but wasn't able to cut him down. Something was interfering with his sight, and his breathing... SMOKE! Aware of the threat to everyone in the hall, he shouted once more.

"Everyone outside, the hall is on fire!"

Those who heard him pushed toward the entrance. The others would figure it out soon. Smoke was quickly filling the space, making defender and attacker alike cough and hack. It was an unusual tactic, running into a burning building. Borgand didn't understand these hillmen at all. Did they -want- to die?

Borgand lost track of individuals as he fought his way to the door. He slashed at the hillmen, injuring at least one as he went, trying not to lean too much on his false leg. He had heard no alarm. That meant the guards were likely dead. He wondered, briefly, if Calumdril was among the dead. He had slipped out before the attack and failed to raise the alarm. It did not bode well. Still, perhaps he was simply engaged in the fighting. Borgand sincerely hoped this was the case, had grown rather fond of the ranger. Thinking of rangers, he noticed that they were none of them too drunk to put up a fight. He wondered how much more effective they would be if they hadn't been drinking for several hours.

Borgand dodged an attack, a close one, and parried another. This was bad..he was trapped and his air was slowly failing. He stabbed out in a rather non-graceful, but effective, manner and watched as the wiry young hillman from before fell down dead. His path was clear, and he took it as quickly as his one leg would allow.

He entered the open night, which seemed cold and crisp to his smoke-filled eyes and lungs. Coughing and hacking still, he fought the urge to let his guard down. The hillmen had also made it out, and the fighting was thick out here as well. Borgand looked around, trying to identify their leader. They wore no rank or insignia...cowards. He assumed the largest man must be the leader. The others certainly seemed to rally around him. There was another rallying point as well. A smaller man, older..he might also be the leader. Borgand decided the giant was his best bet, though. These hillmen would value physical power.

The one-legged man advanced toward his target. Take out the leader and dishearten the enemy; it was a well-known and proven tactic. He heard the roof of the town hall collapse as he threw himself into battle; all their work up in smoke. The anger flamed within him, rivaling the heat of the actual flames behind him, and he attacked the large hillman with a vigour he had not mustered since the fields of the Pelennor. Slashing, shieldless, he let his body surrender to the battle lust.

[Carrûn]

Rangers

"They came across the lake..." Thoronmir panted out as best an explanation as he could while the Rangers from the outpost moved as rapidly as they could towards the commotion. His patrol had spotted the two dozen or so attackers as they were swimming and had sprinted around the settlement. Engaging them with four men would have been suicidal. Still, Awyrgan was fuming; to have hillmen slip into the town unnoticed even if he was not the one on patrol was a personal insult. Rherrin and one of the younger rangers had been left at the camp in the event more hillmen arrived or tried to escape. The settlement was well within the range of their bows.

The moon had hid its face, and the darkly clothed men moved like shadows past the dead sentries into the village, pausing only briefly to check in case any of them still showed signs of life. None of them did.

As they approached the city they ran into a mass of people fleeing. The billowing smoke in the center of the town told all to clearly where they had come from. Thoronmir directed them towards the ranger camp, instructed the two lads who led them to have Rherrin escort them to Bree.

As they drew nearer to the main hall they could hear the horse shouts of battle mixed with the screams of the dying, wounded, and innocent. They quickened their pace until they were right next to the burning walls of the hall. The battle was moving outside, but most of the combatives were still in the building which was quickly filling with smoke.

Awyrgan looked at Thoronmir, who guessing his mind, shook his head defeated. "No Awyrgan, no." Awyrgan gave a dark chuckle, green eyes glinting in the firelight. His companions watched in shock and then followed as he leapt through the remains of the burning wall into the fray.

The crashing arrival of the six rangers caused a momentary lull in the battle, giving Thoronmir enough time to skewer a hillman who had been pursing one of the remaining children in the hall. Having failed to draw his sword before entering Awyrgan simply grabbed the nearest hillmen he could find and threw him against the burning foundation stakes he had leapt over. The brutal attack worked with gruesome effectiveness.

As he pushed further into the midst of the battle Awyrgan notice Sulenar. The man was fighting well, abet drunkenly, but had neglected to put down the drink in his left hand. Finding himself suddenly back to back with the drunk man Awyrgan roared over his head that he might fight better with two hands. Sulenar replied that it would be a shame to waste such fine ale. A portion of the roof collapsed, driving the two apart.

A giant of a hillman stood solidly swinging an axe in the center of the battle. With somewhat of a start Awyrgan recognized him as the hillmen Thoronmir and he had encountered while on patrol several days before. He was not the only one to notice. The hillman's eyes followed the ranger as the pair moved closer in the heat of the fight. They glowed.

[Kryssal]

Kaben's mind was filled with fear the second he realized who had burst through the hall's main doors. He stood up so fast his chair rocked back and hit the man behind him. He would have stood there had a young maiden not grabbed his arm and started pulling him towards the back doors. He looked at her, startled slightly, then shook his head as he recognized her to be a friend. When she saw that he was moving on his own she let go and ran head long for the doors, picking up a small, crying child on her way.

A man cried out close to Kaben's right and he turned to see the young man knocked down and trying to get up and away from a quickly approaching hillman. Grabbing a plate and goblet he threw them at the invadors head. They didn't do any damage, but they made the warrior turn which gave the young man enough time to stand and unsheath his sword. As the two started to fight Kaben spun around and made his way once more toward the back doors.

There were hardly any people left in the hall besides the combatants, but once he got outside there were people everywhere. The ones who had fled the hall cried out and woke those sleeping in their near by tents. Kaben was relieved to see that most of those who were being awakened came out of their tents armed and ready to fight.

But where can we go they can't come? Kaben's frantic mind screamed at him as he ran through the tents. He was no fighter, and knew it.

He suddenly found himself at his trading post, his legs automatically directing him there in his fright. Dashing inside he ran to one corner and hunched down. He gripped a small throwing dagger that he had scooped up while passing the front desk, knowing he probably wouldn't be able to use it regardless. Shaking and hearing the cries from outside, he sat there and could think no more.

[alaklondewen]

The shouts of battle finally reached the ears of the old healer, and he woke with a start. His eyes were still blurry and his head thick as he stumbled from his low bed and peaked outside his tent. A thick black smoke billowed from the center of the village and men all around him were engaged in battle with Hillmen. His head cleared with one thought…Cuilad!

Collothion ducked underneath his tent and took hold of his old sword, then he leapt back in to the open air and began running through the village calling his son’s name. Only once did an enemy step in his way and challenge him. With the fury and strength of a wild bear the old healer rammed into the young man knocking him to the ground. Wishing not for battle but for the safety of his son, Collothion let them man live, but took his sword, tucked it in his own belt, and kept running.

The healer searched the tents one by one still calling, “Cuilad! Cuilad!” He threw open the door of the trading post and faced a bewildered Kaben. “Is Cuilad in here, Kaben? Have you seen him?” Kaben did not speak, but shook his head negatively, and Collothion spun and exited the establishment.

On his way out, a fallen villager called out for help, and Collothion rushed to his side. “Help me, please.” The young man pleaded. The healer could not refuse, but he looked up into the crowd searching for his boy as he helped the man rise and half carried him to a nearby tent.

“Let me take a good look at that wound.” The healer gently pulled the man’s shirt from his side where a large about of blood was escaping. “This is a nasty gash, but you will survive.” The young man winced as Collothion squeezed water from a barrel in the tent over the wound. He then quickly tore the sleeve from his own shirt and tied it around the young man’s waist. “Stay here and don’t go out. I will check on you again when I can.”

With that Collothion ducked under the tent’s opening and stepped outside. Placing his hand on his own waist, he had almost forgotten about the weapon he took from the young Hillman, so he pulled out the sword and opened the door of the tent where the young man lay. “I forgot this. I hope the need does not find you, but use it if the occasion arises.”

The young man nodded and gratefully took the sword. Collothion then shut the entrance and continued on his search for Cuilad.