Fall of the North RPG

[Osse]

Carthor whipped around the corner, his great bulk a careering shaft loosed over-soon from the string, reckless, almost uncontrolled. The scream rebounding recklessly in his ears as he thrust forwards.

In front of him, shapes emerged from the gloom, their misty forms strengthening into discernable shapes; two tall women, one steering the other firmly but gently down the passage toward them. A slim young man strode tentatively behind the two, his outstretched hand clasping gently the cloak of the leading woman. Hand clamped firmly to the young man's, a lad of no older than three or four shuffled, his curly locks shining in the torch light as he contemplated his small feet.

“What ha…” Carthor started breathlessly, concern twinkling in his eyes as he looked upon his wife and her shaken friend.

Carthor was not to finish his question. Lissi, obviously on a higher plain of nerves and awareness, anticipating his query, launched into a brisk, yet inclusive recount of the events.

“All is well now.” She said, more to the woman next to her than to Carthor. “All is well…”

Carthor ushered the women and children into the middle of the group. He paused for only a brief second as his son passed, the words he meant to say drying in the sun of his emotions. Carthor strode to the front of his group, composed again, and turned back the way they had came. Or so he thought.

In the confusion and hurry that had followed Renedwen’s scream, the group of five or six men that had rushed to her had failed to mark their route. They were now far from the glow of the rest of the group as they stood perplexed at the door of the storeroom, their precious torchlight now hidden, and had no mark to guide them through the twisting and turning tunnels.

To make matters worse, the group had only one torch amongst them, and that was burning dangerously low, particularly for a group who now found themselves stalked by eight-legged foes on one flank, and confronted with a booming, ever present drum-like clamour on the other, especially as the group now contained women and children, one of whom was blind.

Carthor, his stride long and mechanical, paused, suddenly aware of the fact that the return journey was taking far longer than it should, despite the pace of the party being barely half of its careering, uncontrolled canter outwards. Without stopping, Carthor raised his hand, signalling Derigorm, who strode just behind him on his right, his long, fluid steps making almost no noise, to walk beside him.

“Derigorm my friend, it seems we are somewhat, shall-we-say, misplaced.” Whispered Carthor.

Derigorm, stout to the last, merely raised his eyebrows in a half nod, unwilling to be the one to drop the spark on the ever present oil of panic. Instead he merely leaned closer to his old captain and asked what he would have him do.

“Certainly nothing to raise alarm my lad.” Carthor’s answer came soft and subtle, like a gentle breeze licking at one’s face. “Have you still your marker stone?”

Derigorm nodded.

“Mark our route. Discreetly.”

Derigorm spun deftly, his cloak swirling like some great wing, cutting through the air. The man slowed his pace near the middle of the group, feigning to talk to one of the other soldiers, with instruction from Lord Carthor.

At least now we’ll know just how to retrace our steps through this confounded pit. Carthor mused bitterly as he peered forward into the receding gloom.

He was trying, largely in vain, not to flinch as the many tendrils of super-fine, ordinary cobweb that littered the corridors brushed his grizzled face. Chattering footsteps, in rhythms of eight found their incessant way into his mind, whether they were real or imagined, Carthor could not tell. Terror stood nonchalantly behind every footstep, waiting for Carthor to lose concentration, so as to like an uninvited guest, feed off his hospitality.

Suddenly, the torch in Carthor’s right hand spluttered and died, the hiss it emanated both sombre and obvious in the quiet, confined tunnel – a terminal breath audible by all.

Terror now stood in the hall of Carthor’s mind, casually hanging its black cloak on a gilt hook and firmly shaking its host’s hand.

Carthor halted.

“Halt.” His voice echoed with astounding clarity in the confined space, resounding harshly in Carthor’s own ears.

Pulse quickening the entire time, Carthor instructed his fellows to stay close. He was going to have to stop and count off more often now.

Feeling his way with his left hand, Carthor inched slowly but surely down the corridor. Every web that hit his expose skin made him shudder, threatening to allow terror further into his home. The still air was silent, not even the horrible drums were sounding. Carthor could hear the soft scraping as Derigorm, true to his word, marked their route through the darkness.

Something brushed up against his exposed right hand, though it was no web. Lissi’s cold hand met his in the gloom and clasped - two halves of a whole, reunited. Hand in hand they proceeded into the pitch darkness before them, host and hostess, entertaining terror.

Carthor halted suddenly. Largely because he had run into a knobbly pillar of rough-hewn stone.

“Oi!” The pillar shouted, as it turned around and picked Carthor up by the throat.

Carthor right hand fumbled for his scabbard, and found it empty. His broadsword lay forlorn amidst the spilled grains of the storeroom, it's steel length gleaming in the receding torchlight of the rest of the refugees as they departed.

Terror now sat at the very head of Carthor’s table, beaming jovially as it made inappropriate jest.

Carthor’s scream filled the corridor with a shuddering clamour.

“Run!!!”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim rolled to the side, opening his eyes then closing them again almost instantly as a sudden flare of light illuminated the tunnel. The lightning flashes danced behind his eyelids confusedly and he shook his head, his hand coming up to the back of his skull which ached numbly, darting lances of pain jabbing occasionally through the fog. But then he heard a voice, a female voice but one full of fierce strength: Erenor.

Opening his eyes and trying to ignore the pain in his head, Faerim shook his head again and staggered to his feet - before he saw what stood before Erenor and took a step backwards, uttering a single curse-word in shock, his eyes wide in disbelief - not fear yet, for fear can only really set in when one knows what one should be afraid off; and when what one sees cannot possibly exist, the fear is delayed, a ball of nerves thrown in the air leaving the owner shocked and disbelieving.

But what goes up has to fall.

With a yell, Faerim darted to the side as the giant spider in front of him jabbed its foreleg at him viciously, but his reflexes were slower due to his headlong fall into the cave wall, and the jagged point of the spider's foot barely missed his shoulder, ripping the shirt as it snagged across it and scoring a thin line of blood across his upper right arm. Clasping the cut tightly for a moment with his other hand to stem the bleeding, Faerim glowered at the spider fiercely, then ducked out of its way once more, rolling to the side, towards the spider - and grabbing his sword from the floor in the process. Grinning, he rolled onto one knee and stabbed straight upwards at the alien enemy, in the process slashing across its stomach. The creature yelled, a piercing scream that made Faerim physically wince, his hands on his ears. But the beast was not done yet: taking a staggering step away from Erenor (at least Angore won't crucify me for letting her get hurt, he mused abstractedly), it loomed over Faerim, bearing down upon his with giant, gross mandibles. Disgusted and adrenaline pumped, Faerim scrambled backwards on his hands, managing to stagger to his feet, but now pressed against the cave wall. With strength borne of the desperation of a man who faces his death, the youth grit his teeth and swung his sword in a vicious arc straight across. Metal met gristle and the spider screamed again, taking a step backwards as it bellowed its fierce displeasure and pain - as one of it's forelegs fell to the ground.

"How do you like that, you ugly great insect," Faerim muttered grimly, taking some pleasure out of his inhuman foe's pain, although his arm was now aching fiercely - glancing down, he realised that it was bleeding quite strongly now, blood staining his white shirt beneath the tough, battered black coat. If the spider had been a second quicker...Faerim shuddered, imagining how the jagged, pointed talon would have impaled him against the cave wall. Too late, he remembered the elven mail shirt in his coat pocket...

Erenor gave a yell of her own and returned Faerim to the present, as he saw the elf throw herself out of the way of the lurching spider. On her feet in seconds, the lady elf planted her feet and cried aloud something in fierce, fast sindarin. For a moment as she did so, the tableau seemed frozen in Faerim's mind: the lady elf, fair and vicious, her noble face twisted with anger and her grey eyes burning as brightly as the torch in her hand that she held high, illuminating her, her other hand holding her sword ready to stab. Faerim watched her wonderingly - then the voices of others interrupted his reverie and he saw Angore standing beyond the flailing mass of limbs. Throwing his fear and his panic both equally to the wind that did not even bear to stir within these ghastly caves, Faerim launched himself once more at the spider.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor was relieved to see Faerim on his feet and fighting - both for his and her own sake. And considering his inexperience the boy was doing a fine job . "Elbereth Gilthoniel... A tiro nin Fanuilos!" she had cried , asking for the protection of the star-kindler in this place where no stars shone. As the spider recoiled from Faerim's amputation she called to him to take the torch.

Able at last to use her sword to full effect, the fine blade described an arc too swiftly for Faerim's mortal sight to follow. He saw the effect though as foul smelling ooze emerged form the spider and it shrieked. "Now Faerim! " The youth obligingly ran his sword between the creature's eyes. It was clear no further action was necessary.

As they stepped over the grisly remains back towards the main tunnel. Erenor spoke casually, almost off hand "Good work with the spider - who do you feel about tackling a troll next ? ... Ah Angore ...."

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre cursed as Erenor bolted past the lieutenant and down the corridor after Faerim. He had heard the scream as well, but he also heard the drums, and they weren't coming from the same direction. Trolls! Angóre's eyes burned at the thought. His whole adult life he had spent hunting the creatures. It was his sole purpose; the only thing he lived for. Until recently. Until he had aligned himself with these humans, thrown his lot in with them and with Erenor. Erenor.

The Elf stood, torn. Belegorn stood as well, his eyes darting back and forth. Suddenly, with a curse of his own, he collected his men, scrambling back up the tunnel towards the main party and the scream and leaving the Eldar by himself. Angóre looked up towards the well-lighted corridor, hearing the sounds of panic and combat. Surely there were enough of the Dúnedain to fend off the attack, whomever was making it. A lone soldier would make no difference. Except, possibly, to the person he was supposed to be guarding. He cursed again and looked down the darkened pathway towards the sound of the drums. Would the trolls come up on the unsuspecting and frantic Dúnedain train? Would they pass them by in the labyrinth of caverns? Could he take the chance that they wouldn't?

Angóre had always considered himself a warrior, secure in the knowlege that his decisions affected only himself and that if he made the wrong one only he'd know the difference. And up until recently, this decision would have been simple. He would have followed the sound of the drums until he came upon the trolls, and then he would have attacked them until they or he lay dead. He'd spent his whole life, more or less, in one or another stage of this plan. Find the troll, kill the troll. He had taken an oath, sworn in the still-warm blood of his mother, on that fateful day they had brought him her corpse, ravaged by the creatures of Sauron. He had taken an oath...

He swore feelingly. "I'm sorry, mother," the words sounded dragged from his lips. "I'll be back for them." Then he turned, sprinting up the tunnel towards the Dúnedain and Lady Erenor, his charge.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn ran. His powerful legs pounded the cold floor of the corridor and propelled his body forward in great strides; dark locks flying in the draft. His sword was unsheathed and griped tightly in his right hand; its polished blade shimmering in the light of the torches held by others and fixed on holders along the walls. He could hear heavy thumping close behind him and was assured that his men were still following him. Belegorn ran and did not halt for others to stand out of the way, he simply shoved his pass them. The high pitched scream that sent shudders down his spine was no more and if any incident had occurred, Belegorn was sure it had passed him by already.

Leaving the jumble of bewildered and frightened Dúnedains in his wake, Belegorn continued running and in the dim light of the corridor, he could make out two bipedal silhouettes in the near distance. Every foot step took him closer to the duo and he was able to decipher their forms better; one looked familiar with its tall slender height and broad shoulders, the other was more petite. Both stood with their backs facing Belegorn and his men.

“Thank the stars you’re alright!” exclaimed Belegorn as he came to a stop a few feet from his intents. “I was wor-” The remainder of the words died in his throat and his eyes widened with astonishment as he saw what lay before him.

It was an unnaturally huge arachnid creature; black and hairy beyond reason. Its segmented limbs which the Dúnedain estimated to span at least four feet long when out-stretched were curled up close to its up-turned bulbous body. The hideous head with its array of liquid black globes and immense maniples were cruelly hewed.

“Yer Valars…” began Belegorn, still wide-eyed and staring at the carcass of the fallen beast, “Are there any more of these foul creatures?”

”I do not know sir,” replied Faerim courteous as normal, “But I can only hope this is the only one of its kind here.”

Why am I not surprised it’s you? Thought Belegorn, as the youth turned to face him. The older man eyed the teenager from head to toe scanning for any signs of injury and asked anxiously, “Are you hurt Faerim? Was anybody hurt?”

A new voice answered, and it was pleasing to the ears for it was smooth as silk yet firm but not overbearing. It was unmistakably feminine also. Belegorn turned from the youth and looked onto the face of Erenor, the high elven emissary from Rivendell.

“I do not know Lieutenant,” She replied as-a-matter-of-factly, “Neither Faerim nor I have sustained any bodily injuries, but I cannot say the same for the rest of your people. I fear this expired denizen of the dark might have acquired a victim before we arrive and dealt with it.

Erenor then pointed towards a tunnel that led off from the main corridor. Belegorn walked cautiously towards it and peered through. His keen grey eyes could make out the fluttering wisps of tattered dust caught web that lined the entire circumference of passageway. Arachnid spun web were thin but steely strong. A broken web could only mean that either a fortunate prey had managed to break itself loose or most likely, the creature had dispatched of it already.

Belegorn frowned and his lips parted with bitter disappointment as the Noldorin shared her acuity with him. He had hoped whimsically perhaps, that under his leadership no one would be lost but that has been proven vain now. He nodded slowly in regret to no one in particular and strode towards Erenor and Faerim.

His face was darker and tenser than it was before as he faced the two spider-slayers and resumed, “It is unfortunate. But we have no time to grief now.
Another pressing development is at hand.”

As if on cue, the low boom of a bass drum echoed through the passageway sending alarmed shrieks and yelps from the already cowed refugees. Faerim’s eyes bulged and he looked nervously towards the source of the ominous sound. But Erenor’s cool composure remained and she looked at Belegorn straight in the eyes.

“And what are your intentions Lieutenant?” She inquired, unperturbed.

Belegorn looked towards Faerim and asked hurriedly, “Do you recall seeing any other tunnels leading off from this one at the rear where we passed?”

“Yes sir, I think so.” replied the youth betraying signs of fear.

Belegorn nodded quickly and continued, “Good, this is what I want you to do; lead your people back and enter those tunnels. Get out of this corridor as soon as possible. Destroy any of the markings made when you come across them. Go now!”

The Dúnedain commander pointed to the way which they came from to emphasize his point. Satisfied that his orders were clearly understood, he turned to leave, but stopped and delivered his forethought,

“And if you see your father, tell him he’s in charge now!”

“And what will you do, Lieutenant?” ventured Erenor sternly as she stepped towards the taller man, “This is no time for vain heroics. Your people need you.”

Belegorn sucked in his breath and exhaled slowly through clenched teeth. He turned back towards the tenacious elf and replied, every word enunciated calculatingly,

“And what would you have me do milady? Lead the flight back up whence we came from and let the trolls overtake and slaughter every single last one of us? Or would you have us make a stand in the narrow confines of this corridor against a terrible foe whose numbers we know not of? Nay milady! And neither will I send another brother, husband nor son to take my place and die in my stead! No more milady! No more!”

Belegorn turned his back on the elf with a word of leave-taking. He found the soldiers that followed him standing by the shadows, nonplussed by the confrontation that took place.

“Work with them!” he ordered and left to rejoin the crowd. Belegorn approached the refugeees, intending to identify any individual in need of special attention. But they instinctively backed towards the wall away from him. The lieutenant's eyebrows rose in surprise at the people's reaction to his goodwill but immediately realized why; he had charged through them excessively whilst brandishing a weapon with a look of madness in his eyes, then lashed out at a member of the Elder Race that the people most probably regarded as a supernatural being and then returned to them.

Belegorn closed his eyes and sighed, there is only one word to describe my actions - madness!

He opened his eyes again and regarded the refugees, his people. And they simply looked back with wide frightened eyes, like kittens staring at one who had hurt them before. Belegorn wanted to reassure them, to set their mind at ease, to explain that they had nothing to fear from him. But words fail to emit from his dry lips, for Belegorn knew he had failed already. A leader was supposed to guide, to inspire and to nurture but so far what Belegorn had succeeded was simply to create resentment and fear by exercising his authoritive powers alone.

He was never loved by the men who served under him and now he would be feared and hated by the people who's very lives depended on him.

Belegorn's eyes averted from the refugees because he was unable to endure their judgemental stares any longer. He turned to leave and came face to face with Angore, the elf-guard of Erenor. The two came into arm’s length of each other and their eyes met but both spoke not; Belegorn broke into a sprint back towards the front and the handsome elf continued his way towards his charge.

A hand reached out and grabbed Belegorn by the arm. Belegorn swung around and prepared to defend himself. Instead he was confronted by a familiar head spotting a bandage across the cranium, patch over the right eye and a sling across the left arm. It was one of the company archers whom Belegorn made his harried exodus form the north passage of Fornost with. Discharged due to injuries with full honors.

“Sir, wot’s that noise! Was dat a drum? Und where yer going!”

“Going to do what I must, soldier.” answered Belegorn curtly as he turned but the hand held on still,

“Yer not coming back aren’t cha?” questioned the ex-archer, grey eyes widening with morbid realization.

“We must do what we must. Goodbye soldier. And good luck!” answered Belegorn this time more gently and with a wane smile. This man deserved better.

“Wait sir! Then take this, you might need it!” asserted the war veteran excitedly as he pulled out a huge bulging knapsack and tried frantically to untie the knot, fingers fumbling. Not really knowing what the ex-archer was up to, Belegorn helped him. Prying open the weather stained covers and rummaging through the assortment of personnel belongings, the soldier unveiled a tightly wrapped cylindrical container.

“Here it is sir! Here it is,” grinned the man through his yellow stained teeth, “Fire powder. Same stuff we used back there to roast those filthy orcs, sir. I kept the remainder, made sure it’s all dry and such!”

Belegorn held the insulated container in his hands and shifted its weight in his palm. A plan came into mind almost instantaneously. He smiled and placed his free hand on the shoulder of his benefactor,

“Thank you soldier. Thank you.”

“My pleasure sir! And Good luck!” the veteran replied softly, grasping Belegorn’s hand in his, tears welling in his eyes.

***********************************’

He was alone. He had always known that he would die alone.

Belegorn stood at where he, Angore and the rest of the scouts were when the dreadful tidings of approaching trolls were made. He looked towards the rear where he knew the motley cru was making its hasty withdrawal under the reliable leadership of Faerim and the elves. Noises were strangely muted which was gladding. The only thing Belegorn regretted was not being able to see Carthor before he left; to give him further instructions. But the old soldier should be back there and he would be able to rejoin the rest.

It was time.

Belegorn unwrapped the linen from the cylinder and unplugged the hole to its contains, the familiar acidic stench assaulting his nose. Slowly with great care, he poured a thin layer of incendiary across the width of the corridor between him and the refugees. Taking a few steps back, he lit a bunched fistful of straw with his torch and tossed it onto the black line. Also immediately, a jet of blue flames shot up the walls and licked the ceiling of the corridor lustily. A fiery barrier now existed.

The layer of incendiary was too thin to prevent an overtly persistent troll with a thick hide from dashing through, but there would be painfully excruciating burns and Belegorn was banking on the fact that trolls might be deterred from trying.

Besides, he was going to be the diversion.

Somewhere behind Belegorn, a huge mailed fist drove into a tough leather bounded drum and sent forth strong tremors that shook the ground of the passageway. Belegorn quickly exited the main corridor into a tunnel not far from the flames.

Coming to a stop after a short run of over a hundred and thirty feet or so, he turned and readied himself.

[Kransha]

The deeps of the Ered Luin were home to many things. Trolls wandered throughout, as was known to most denizens; some goblin bands scouting the mountains sometimes delved deep enough to penetrate the cavern bulwarks; wolves or wargs from the outside in packs occasionally wandered through smaller, burrowed openings in the mountainsides were they opened to the valleys between each mighty, white-capped peak, and even more bizarre creatures, like the hordes of white-wolves from the south or wandering spiders from the distant forests made there ways into the deeps. These things, though, did not spend their lives in the caves; most ventured inside to suit swift purposes: hunting, sightseeing, sanctuary.

The only things that were always in the caverns were the original residents, though none of the others ever caught sight of them.

Narguzbad the Twenty-Third’s ears were not what they once were in terms of hearing. His beard, once black as night and sleek like the fur of a wolf, was grayer than gray these days. His eyes were nestled between vast pouches of rough, armor-like skin that sagged over weary eyelids, but the two bulbs that lay past all of this were grim and fiery, brown in color but tinged with bloody red like a raging inferno. He still held the passion that a warrior of his caliber was reputed and expected to possess. After slaying many things, the bladed axe at his hip was still sharp after being attended to each day with a dwarven artisan’s whetstone and the warhammer strapped to his back had lost none of its weight or intimidation factor. He was a soldier through and through, even after two centuries living in the darkness of caves that had once been rich with the light of Dwarf wealth. Still, though, he had lost the honing of his senses, at least those besides his ocular senses. Years of darkness made him almost nocturnal, surprisingly, whereas his ability to hear noises far off, and smell life in the deeps was dimmed severely.

Despite all this, he was who he was, and that was the Lord of the Ered Luin (technically). In reality, he controlled little in the Blue Mountains, save for a motley band of Dwarves who were the sole survivors of a once-great kingdom. He did know were everything was – almost everything – which was generally advantageous in so vast a realm. He had, in his helmeted head, stored knowledge of the cartography of most of the cavernous deeps, the cities, now ruined, of Belegost and Nogrod, and even the ultimate depths, caves and mines that belonged to things he had never faced…and never hoped to face. Those enigmatic creatures could be blamed for the death of his great-great-grandfather, Narguzbad XXII, but the Dwarf held them no malice. Many strange things had taken the lives from his ancestors. His father, Azaghâl XIII, had been crushed by a giant mithril knocker on one of the vaulted double-doors in the chambers of Old Nogrod. His great-great-great (seven greats) grandfather, Barazbud IV Flamehair had been killed by a flaming goblin shield flying like a proverbial discus (long story). Narguzbad himself expected to die a bizarre death, but he had come to terms with this. Being alone in such an expansive region conditioned one to such things.

Of course, he was about to find out that he was not alone.

“Lord?”

The gleaming, aged eyes swiveled about with the madness of a great warrior in their sullen sockets. Narguzbad saw nearby his Grand Vizier and Arch-Counselor, Zinshathûr, who was also the Chancellor of the Belegost Senate, and High Priest of Oromë. Most Dwarves in the caves had a string of titles, since there were so few of them to occupy important positions, and strings of titles sounded nice. Honestly, it was suspected that the Dwarf-King who had installed the titling custom, Barazbud II, had been a bit insane. Most Dwarf-Kings nowadays and, come to think of it, most Dwarves in the caves were actually a bit insane, but none of them knew or cared. They had wisdom, strength, and fancy titles. What else did they need?

“Yes?” replied Narguzbad, Lord of Nogrod, Regent of Belegost, Emperor of the United Blue Mountains, Warchief of the Khazâd, and Commander-in-Chief of the Belegostian Legions, stoutly.

“There is news, milord.” Narguzbad snorted, a puff of steamy mist swelling and pouring from his hefty nostrils. “There is always news, Zinshathûr, and it is seldom good news. If it is interesting news, however, it would be very nice to hear it.” He grinned a little, the whiskers of his beard flailing like little maces. Zinshathûr, entwining one prickly stump of a forefinger in his long, grayish matte of beard, replied with reproachful bemusement. “It is very interesting news, milord.”

He said nothing after this, prompting Narguzbad to lean forward and say, in a conspiratorial whisper: “Well, out with it, man.” Zinshathûr, who was actually odder than most other Dwarves, by virtue of his strange duties, nodded, his lower lip folding up over his upper, and paused for effect. “Milord,” he intoned, “There is something in the deeps!”

There was no real reaction. Narguzbad coughed. “Zinshathûr, there is always something in the mines. Spiders, orcs, wolves, trolls. If it is a horde of walking ale-mugs, filled to the brim, then, perhaps, this would be a situation worthy of note.” Zinshathûr nodded, as if he’d expected all this. He leaned forward again, his eyes narrowing into mysterious slivers, and said, “Milord, there are things in the deeps!” Narguzbad was obviously a bit peeved at this point, but he’d gotten used to the actions of his Grand Vizier. Quietly, and without a hint of the annoyance that was bulging in his gut, he said, “What things?”

“Afterborn!”

This, in fact, was something interesting. Even though he had nothing in his mouth to splutter with, Narguzbad spluttered – quite a lot. He was standing in a large, empty chamber that opened into many diffusing passageways that crisscrossed through the “royal chambers.” As the voice of the Dwarf-King formed the single syllable “What?!” his word echoed magnificently through the room, bouncing off the arches of the high ceiling and reverberating deep into every inlet and side-hall. The armored Dwarven guards stationed at each door, and meandering throughout the room busy with one thing or another, all turned, eyes widened and throats sealed, creating one drastic holding of breath that created a sort of vacuum. As if in retaliation, Narguzbad gasped for air. “Afterborn? You mean,” he halted, “the Edain? Men?”

“Yes.” Spoke Zinshathûr, “There are men in the deeps. Scouts near the ruins of Gabilgathol’s warehouses saw them roaming. They have set up a very large base camp in the eastern antechamber, and have many men.” He looked about with suspicious grimness, and a familiar paranoia. “Perhaps they are invading.” There was another vacuum created as all the nearby Dwarves inhaled, but Narguzbad shook his head quickly, to assuage their fears. “No,” he said, “They would not do such a thing. The Edain fought by our side, or we by theirs, at the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. They were at times misguided, but would not make war on us.” He considered for a moment, looking morose, “Besides,” he said depressingly, “They probably do not know we are here. We’ve not talked with their kind for generations. They are probably from very far off, one of the lesser kingdoms.”

Zinshathûr nodded a dank little nod, and the other Dwarves drooped, their flowery builds wilting in accordance with the mood. “But,” said Narguzbad, perking up, “They are here, and they are many in number, yes?” Zinshathûr nodded again, a confused look on his face. “Perhaps they have food, supplies, or a camp on the outside. That would explain the orc incursions of late. Their expansion may have pushed goblins into the caves.” Suddenly, Narguzbad looked ecstatic. “Lads,” he said, to the room mostly, “This could be our chance for emancipation from these catacombs. If there is civilization near enough, we may venture to it.” There was a beam of light, metaphorically, that filled the room with vigorous happiness. A kind of joint cheer rose from the Dwarves, but Zinshathûr hushed them solemnly.

“Milord,” he murmured, “They are many, but they are not the Afterborn in the Old Books. They are different. They speak a different language, which none of the scouts knew. We will not be able to communicate.” The conversation, so far, had been held in the Dwarves’ tongue, Khuzdûl, for they knew no Westron. The mood fell again into the dank depths, but Zinshathûr, who seemed at first defeated, ventured a hopeful remark. “But,” he said, “there are others among them.” Narguzbad watched him with less-than-patient eagerness, awaiting a reply again. “Elves! The Elves, though, are in a splinter group far from the base camp. They have ventured into the dark caves miles from here, and are probably in danger.”

Narguzbad was not excited, but he became instead meditative. “We have known the Elves more than we have their mortal kin. Some volumes in Elvish are in the Library, I think, but I do not think any of us are fluent.” He looked around the room, and got only reluctant head-shaking. “I suppose we all have a rudimentary knowledge of it, but it will not be easy to communicate. But, we must try. If the Afterborn and Firstborn come bearing news of the outside world, we must seek them out in force.”

He turned from his Vizier, and addressed the guards. He knew scouts, excavators, and other dwarves (perhaps a hundred, which was all that had survived the long centuries) were elsewhere, but they could be brought together. “Go hence,” he said majestically, “and assemble all the Khazâd of Nogrod and Belegost. We must reorganize and find the Elves and Men. They may be in dire straits even now, having gone into the lairs of dark beasts, and we must find them if we are to obtain the sustenance we require. We must move quickly, if we can, and unite with them. This is our chance, lads. To arms!”

With a shout, a gnashing of teeth, a glaring gleam of axe blades and mace spikes, and a clinking of plate and chain mail that rustled the hazy, fogged air, the Dwarves surged together in the chamber and through the passageways that led northeast, towards the Dúnedain and Eldar in the distant caverns.

Watching Zinshathûr swish along behind them, Narguzbad leaned down and kissed the dully shimmering ring on his forefinger for luck, then followed his kinsmen into the deeps.

[Saurreg]

The wait was excruciatingly agonizing and Belegorn was engulfed in both excitement and terror. His instinct was to scream but the absolute control of his faculties and years of experience and iron discipline suppressed the urge and he was able to remain quiet and still in alertness. In the silence and stillness, he could feel his heart pounding faster and faster as the stomach continued its frantic churning of adrenaline. The hormones coursed through the veins of his body; steeped into flesh, tickled other organs and touched the skin. His senses were heightened and his breathing became ragged. His right hand grasped the hilt of his unsheathed sword so tightly that the knuckles turned white and his trembling left hand threatened to crush the thin stalk of the flaming torch.

The trolls were yet to come and a sudden sharp crackle in a distance before the soldier made him realize that time was running out;

A brilliant shade of blue illuminated the wall of the main tunnel behind the fiery barrier that was created. For some time the vivid sapphire hue waxed strong and was unremitting but then capricious ripples started appearing; random little ones at first but increasing in magnitude and occurrence as the seconds tricked passed. Soon the entire surface seemed to flicker and swayed unsteadily whilst waning. The thin line of incendiary was burning itself out and its intended recipients were no where in sight. Belegorn’s plan was falling apart and there was nothing he could do.

Just as the Dunedain was falling into a state of despair, a booming roar echoed through the tunnels of stone and sent jolts of shiver down his spine; it was the unmistakable bellow of a troll but the fell beast sounded a long distance away. Regardless, Belegorn readied himself and stared intently ahead towards the entrance of the tunnel he was in. He strained his ears and listened, and sure enough more livid feral cries filled the air. But that was not all; despite the loud bellows of the trolls, his sensitive hearing could make out fainter cries in the midst of the cacophony – clearer and higher pitched. Belegorn’s eyes widened in fascination as he continued to listen.

Above the increasing din, the sudden and unmistakably shrill cry of a woman reached belegorn’s ears. Someone else was crying out in urgency also, but in a more measured voice that Belegorn instantly recognized: “Run! Run! Save yourselves!”

Carthor!

Without pausing for a thought Belegorn ran back into the main corridor. The brightness and heat of the fiery barrier stunned him temporarily in his state of heightened senses but he recovered quickly and ran towards the voice. As he continued towards the source of the clamor the blue light behind his back dimmed progressively and at a distance it suddenly disappeared.

The fiery barrier was no more and Belegorn was now the only obstacle standing between angry trolls and their quarries.