Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Arry]

Khazad-Dum . . . Spring 1697 S.A.

Patrols went out more often now, and no longer just into the area beyond the East Gate. Now the Orcs and other dark creatures were roaming in the land beyond the West Gate, too. Guards had been set to keep watch ere Sauron’s minions came too close to the gates. And Durin’s Tower now was kept fortified against any intrusions from that direction.

With the lengthening of the shadow from the east, Skald had returned to those early skills taught him by his father. The forging of iron tips for arrows, the barbed tips for oaken lances – these filled his days now. His skills for engraving on stone were put aside; the chisels wrapped in soft leather, the hammers all hung neatly from their hooks. There was armor, too, to be made. Thick helms lined with leather were to be proof against the cudgels and swords of the Orcs. Chainmail, greaves, and vambraces. Metal coverings for the small wooden shields that would hang on the stout arms of the Dwarven warriors.

Swords and long-knives were an altogether different set of skills. One which Skald had not sought to learn. At the Steeledge forge where he was bound this morning with a load of fine iron bars from the Stonecut smelter, he knew he would find Oren manning the bellows for his brothers as they plunged the cold iron into the red coals and brought it out again to be laid on the long anvil and beaten thin, and reheated, and folded and beaten again under the stern eye of their father, Nori. Sharp, serviceable blades would emerge at last, fastened to sturdy grips. Double edged and hefty enough to slice through the neck of a filthy Orc with one swipe.

He’d declined Oren’s offer to make him a sword, saying that it was still the axe that fit best in his hand. ‘A sword will only make me more likely to get cut down,’ he told his friend. ‘Even a sword a finely made as those by your family, still it would take some sort of magic for it to be of any use to me.’ He clenched his fist as if closing it about the thick wooden handle of his axe. ‘A mattock or my pole-axe and I’ll hew down Orcs as easily as a sharp knife cuts butter.’

Skald made his good-byes and headed back toward his family’s workplace. ‘Remember,’ he called back to the Steeledge men, ‘tomorrow evening, there’s to be a gathering in our Hall. My father is tapping the kegs of ale he’s been brewing this last month. Riv and Bror brought in two deer that we’ll be roasting; Unna’s baking bread . . . you can bring what’s needed to fill in the corners of your appetite.’ He grinned at Oren’s father. ‘Your wife’s dried apple pie would be a most welcome addition to my trencher!’ With a last wave, he turned down the hall and headed homeward at a quick pace.

[Nurumaiel]

The sound of music drifted to Heledharm's ears, and he followed it. He walked with his head bowed, and his expression was perturbed. When he found Erinlaer, strumming softly on her harp and skipping back and forth every so often. He watched her solemnly, and gradually she became aware of his presence. She looked up brightly, but her smile faded when she saw his expression.

"Is something the matter?"

"You do know," he said, speaking slowly and thoughtfully, his eyes lowered, "that we are preparing for war?"

"Why, yes," she said. "But I don't believe that war will come." He raised his eyes quickly to her face, and she laughed lightly. "I have heard talk of war from you, and from my mother and father," she said. "But I couldn't possibly believe that it's true. Everything seems the same... all light and happiness."

"It seems so to you, perhaps," said Heledharm, "but it is now war is considered a certainty. There will be war, Erinlaer." He hesitated, and looked away. He was afraid of her eyes when he told her what he had to tell. "An army is being assembled," he murmured, "and I have certainly decided to be part of it."

"It's quite right of you," she said with a smile. "It will certainly give my parents pride."

"You feel no fear?" he cried.

She tilted her head and gazed up at him in genuine bewilderment. "Why should I?" she asked. "Certainly nothing will happen to you." Then she lifted up her harp and began to play again.

He turned abruptly and made for the door. When he reached it he stopped, and half-turned his head, and almost made the decision to go back and speak with her again. But he decided against it, and left the room. Her music followed him... bright and merry, unburdened by any cares and fears.

He had been afraid that she would be frightened and distressed at hearing that he was to be in the army. He had not wanted that. But he was disturbed even more by her steadfast disbelief that evil might come, her insistence on cheerfulness. He wanted her to realise evil while he was there to comfort her, not when evil touched her by his death.

[Folwren]

Bror was grinning broadly as he and Unna spoke a last word together. She went her way and Bror turned to put his harp somewhere safe until he could put it away after the gathering had broken up. He turned and walked back to his place at the table and was about to sit down again when he noticed his brothers and father sitting in a small knot several paces away.

His curiosity was instantly peaked and instead of taking a seat there, he walked towards the small group his family made. Reaching them, he leaned on both Skald and Riv and bent his head to hear the words they were speaking so soberly and quietly. The smile that was still flickering about his face faded as he caught his father’s words.

‘-Thousands of them storming about the city. I’ve heard them described as ants coming out of an ant hill...marching on in endless lines.’

‘What?’ Bror asked abruptly. ‘Thousands of what about what place?’

Riv waved him off, shrugging his shoulder to make him stand up. Bror stood accordingly and glanced about for a chair or stool of some sort. He pulled a nearby one up as Skald asked a question.

‘They want our help?’ Bror looked at him and at first was inclined to smile, but after a second’s thought decided not to. His brother had the look of having drunk overly much ale, but the very fact that he looked entirely in his right mind and without the least amount of merriness in any shadow of his face, caused Bror to think twice on the conversation he had just entered into. His eyes turned to his father as he answered.

‘They need help and have asked for it. Even if they hadn’t asked, I don’t think that we could very well sit here and let them all be destroyed. Our turn would come next, invariably. There’s little safety under any mountain when such an army is just outside of it, and swiftly growing.’

[Envinyatar]

Drawing closer to the city


As had been his wont, Lord Elrond kept them well west Tharbad; far from the prying eyes of as many folk as was posibble. They were a large force, relatively speaking, and horsed. But the Elven riders and handlers kept their charges quiet as they passed from the forested regions of Minhiriath.

Along the southern reaches of the River Gwathló they found a wide, shallow ford. The banks eased down from the trees’ edge in a gentle slope to a finely pebbled strand. A number of Elven warriors from the horsed columns crossed first, scouting the other side of the river for any sign of the enemy. When they assured themselves they could find no trace, the wagons began their slow crossing flanked by the rest of the columns. Lord Elrond rode ahead of this part of the van, joining his scouts on the other side.

It took most of the day for the entire force to cross. The wagons were big and heavily loaded. And often times the team would balk at the sight or feel of the river’s current.

The forest grew thinner as they drew away from the Gwathló, the countryside edging into what would soon become a vast expanse of hilly wastelands. Elrond turned them northward, passing just to the edge of the last dense stand of trees before stopping for the night.

‘He’s sent out scouts,’ Ondomirë told his squad captains when they had gathered in his tent after the evening meal. ‘They’ll map the lay of the land for us and spy out what forces Sauron has posted against any aid reaching Ost-in-edhil.’ He leaned forward in his chair and poured himself a glass of the dry, red wine his aide had left for the meeting. With a flick of his chin he passed it on to the man next to him, indicating it should make the rounds of the table. ‘I’ve also asked,’ he went on, ‘that the four bowmen we sent from our company scout out good, defensible positions for us to take should we need to fall back as the army advances. Most of the enemy we think will be concentrating further northward in the hilly lands to the north and south of the Sirannon and Glanduin rivers. From what we understand, Sauron is bent on destroying that enclave of the Noldorin jewel-smiths. Some very personal grudge, it would seem. And not just the city, but the population, too.’

They talked late into the night, then parted, each to their own squad’s billet. Lord Elrond held back their advance the next day, waiting for nightfall before crossing the Old South Road. From there, he took them into a sector of low-lying hills. They camped again in a hollow set among the hills, with sentries posted in the dense brush and rocky outcroppings that lined the hill tops. He sent out scouts again, instructing them to come as close as they might to the enemy’s troops.

They were now just a little more than a four day march from the city . . .

[piosenniel]

King Durin calls for counsel . . .


King Durin enjoyed times such as these. He was the third king blessed with the glorious name of Old Durin Himself and he looked with fondness over the gathered families in the Stonecut hall. Good food, strong drink, and the company of hearty friends and companions! he thought to himself. Mahal has surely graced our forges! May he continue to do so . . . he added, gazed slipping fondly from family to family.

He patted his wife’s knee fondly as she listened to the lovely song that Unna had just begun. ‘Youngest boy shows a growing talent with his harp, don’t you think?’ he whispered, leaning toward her. A movement to his left and an insistent calling of his name made him look away before she could answer him. It was young Tori Deepdiger, and by the look on his face it would not be welcome news.

~*~

Before Riv could answer Bror’s questions, a great wave of silence spread through the hall.

The King was standing on the small raised platform where his family sat and had raised his right hand high in the sky. To either side of him his sons stood calling for quiet and the attention of those gathered. The Stonecuts turned their faces to him, dark eyes troubling at what he would tell them all.

Bror looked questioning at his father. Viss leaned toward him, his eyes troubled. ‘It’s the same news that we were discussing just before you and Unna returned to the table,’ he said quietly. ‘And by the looks of the King’s face there will more unwelcome detail than we’d want to trouble us here beneath the mountain.’ He jutted his chin to where the Deepdigger lad had stepped down from the platform and was making his way toward the door. ‘Deepdigger boys drew the patrol about the Western Gate with some of the Brassbeards. There’s been fighting not a league from the mountain. A messenger from the city, bound for King Durin was ambushed by Orcs. Some of the lads tried to drive them off, but they were set on hard by the Orcs, who swarmed against them like vicious ants from an anthole. They near overwhelmed the patrol, who drew back quickly. Viss paused, a hard look in his eyes as he went on. ‘Two of the Deepdiggers were slain. They held back the Orc assault while their fellows found the safety of the mountain and closed the doors hard against the dark foe.’ Viss rubbed his big calloused hands along his thighs. ‘I’d taken a barrel of ale out to the fellows at the gates. And some meat and bread. Old Deepdigger had been brought to the gate by his sons and was just hearing the news. His sons were all for hacking their way through the Orcish mob to retrieve the fallen, but Old Deepdigger knew that naught would come of that save he lose more of his family. Council was taken quickly and I’m thinking that Tori was sent to the King to tell him what had happened. I hied myself back here to let riv and the others know what little I did.’

~*~

King Durin’s face was grey as the stones from which the hall was carved. In only a few short breaths of a man, the evening had gone from one of joy to one of disbelief, anger, and then sadness. But it was resolve now that set his features into deep hewn lines. He asked that the hall be cleared, women and children be taken to their quarters for now, the ale cups put away. The fathers and sons old enough for fighting he would have stay. There was grievous counsel to be heard tonight and hard counsel to be thought on for the morrow.

The story was told in clipped tones how the patrol had encountered the Orcs and how two of the Deepdiggers had fallen. The Elven messenger, the King had learned, had come from Celebrimbor, who feared that soon his city would be besieged. And beyond besieged, destroyed utterly and the Elves there along with it should the Sauron’s armies prevail. It was a surety they would prevail entirely should help not come. There were tens of thousands of foul men from the south, Orcs, and other loathsome creatures who were pouring into Eregion.

‘It is the Elves that their Dark Lord has some particular interest in,’ the King continued. ‘But he holds no love for the Dwarves, either. And once this goal of his is accomplished, who can say he will not turn his eye to us.’ He paused looking over the sea of somber faces gathered about him. ‘I would take counsel with you,’ he said, his gaze going about the group. ‘Celebrimbor is my good friend. And were it only me, I would lend him my axe without thinking. But it is not only my decision. Should we choose to assist the Elves wives will lose their husbands and sons, that is a surety. Perhaps we should just stay safe here beneath the mountain; ride out this dark storm. Strengthen our own defenses for an attack. Make safe our families and our forges.’ He saw some of the men nodding ‘yes’ to this statement; others narrowed their eyes, considering the costs, their minds uncertain.

‘What say you, Dwarves?’

[Durelin]

Maegisil walked quickly out of the palace, keeping his eyes straight ahead, moving his eyes only to look down at the steps he was taking down two at a time. His teeth were gritted and he repeatedly clenched and unclenched is fists, trying to release his anger while keeping his composure. It took all of his strength to just keep walking; he wanted to punch something and scream aloud like a child. He could not remember ever feeling this way, and he was unsure what to do, except to hold it all in and continue the disgusting feeling in his stomach.

Sooner than he expected, he found himself in the palace courtyard. He stopped for a moment, realizing that he was unsure of what exactly to do. Should he be the herald of Celebrimbor? Or should that job be passed to someone else? Should he even remain a counselor of the lord, or should he break all ties with the elf? Perhaps he should not even bother to get it announced to the city that the Lord of Eregion was going to speak…perhaps it was time to wash his hands of it all…

He looked around him, taking in the view of the courtyard, and seeing bits and pieces of the rest of the city. Renewed grief grew in his heart and he suddenly felt as if he could cry. He cursed himself for ever thinking that he would abandon his city to destruction, that he would save his own life and the life of his wife with no thought to his people. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he began walking again quickly across the courtyard. Soon he had reached the palace’s gate. It was not huge, but still quite large, and was beautifully crafted with mithril silver through the generosity and help of the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm. The guards rushed to open the gate for him, observing his haste.

It was just past midday, the busiest time of day in the city. It was practically bustling with a speed greater than you would expect a city of immortals to ever move. The city had never been more alive. Maegisil felt a swell of pride in his chest as he thought about his people, and beheld the lively city, knowing that innumerable masterpieces had been created within its walls besides being a masterpiece itself. A few people turned to glanced as the palace gate opened. For a moment, Maegisil thought he saw hopeful faces be shot down, looking for the great Lord Celebrimbor, and receiving yet again only his counselor.

Maegisil could only remember shouting perhaps twice in his life. He had never liked shouting, he had never liked showing anger, and he certainly had never liked bringing attention to himself. Now he would do all three. He stood just outside the palace gate and took several more breaths as he closed his eyes, preparing for his heart to speak. Though it was not the composer of the words, it had composed the music.

“People of Eregion,” he called out to the elves in the streets. He paused for a moment, and not just for affect; he had shocked himself at the intensity and volume of his voice. He had gained the people’s attention. “The Lord Celebrimbor will speak to his people. Tell your friends and loved ones to gather in the palace courtyard to hear him.” He turned around to talk to the guards at the gate, still speaking loudly. “Leave the gates open for the people.”

It took several moments for the guards to respond, as they stood looking at Maegisil with some confusion. The palace gates had been opened for very few people over the years, and everyone had gotten used to the idea that the palace was off limits to most, and that their once visibly kind and benevolent and wise ruler was now a mysterious, invisible presence that represented the doom of the city rather than prosperity. But after the palace guards saw that Maegisil was in no mood to wait, they rushed to reopen the gate. All those who still watched the counselor were seemingly waiting for him to return to the palace, but he did not.

Maegisil now thought of his wife, and all the wrong that he knew that he had done to her over the years came rushing into his mind… He had let go of his anger that day, and it was time for him to let go of others. It had been too long; he had kept his heart away from his true love for too long, though it only should have belonged to her. He would be there when Celebrimbor, but so would she. He had kept his own wife in the dark for so long. He finally saw it was time to change this, when it was too late. He was no better than the feeble Lord of Eregion…

[Mithalwen]

Losrian heard Maegisil's call - the sound but not the words; it was too distant for even Elvish ears that were not focused on listening. She looked down and from her vantage point she could see the courtyard gates unexpectedly open and people starting to mill through them. Eager to see what was happening she sprang from her niche and ran lightly along the city wall to the nearest steps. She passed Artamir who seemed deep in conversation with his friend but something about her manner must have alerted him.

"Losrian - why are you running - have you left that forge alight and unattended? " he teased.

The girl paused and fixed him with her bright, grey eyes and did not rise to the bait. "The palace gates are open.. something is happening, I want to find out." She waited no longer and continued but was aware of the two young soldiers following her. She looked for her brother in the crowd but the space before the palace seemed full of strangers, all grim faced and anxious. She was glad when she turned to find Artamir next to her, a familiar face in strange times.

She felt that the moment had finally come, the storm was about to break and there was nothing they could do but face it. Neither her brother, the new father, nor Artamir, barely of age would be spared from the ranks and for herself ... for all her hours of practice and arrowmaking she wondered how she would cope if she joined the ranks of the archers. Could she really take a life? Even an orcish one. But she knew the enemy would show no mercy and expect none. She glanced again at Artamir who was staring at the palace. She wondered if he already knew what was to pass - for Narisiel, his mother, would surely be within. She had spent so much time there latterly.

[Folwren]

Bror’s hammer strokes rang in the silence. He turned the heated metal with his tongs and struck again before pausing to consider the iron and thrust it back into the coals. His thoughts didn’t let him sleep and he worked in the late and dark hours of night. The hot coals from the day’s work were easily rebuilt into flames and his dark eyes stared with melancholy into the red embers.

Thoughts of war turned over and over inside his brain. Images of the heads on the pikes some little distance from the front gate came in and out of his vision. He had gone out with a small scouting party yesterday, and though it had only gone a few miles out and they were not gone long, it was far enough to see where the orcs had been fought, and where the Deepdigger sons had been killed. They had stopped there and the bodies were taken away and carried back by some of their group.

‘Take it out of the fire, or you’ll have lost all your work and a good piece of metal.’ The voice of his uncle interrupted Bror’s thoughts and before turning around to face the newcomer, Bror hurried to obey. The metal was red with the heat and sparks flew up and sizzled like firecrackers. He lay it on the anvil and then turned.

‘Uncle Orin,’ he said in the quiet hushed voice that came at night when all else slept. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Coming to see what kept you awake.’ Bror gave one nod and then turned back to the anvil and lifted his hammer. Orin was silent while the blows lasted and only walked forward again when the iron became too cold to work with and Bror buried it again in the coals. ‘It won’t do you any good to stay up all night working like this.’

‘I can’t sleep,’ Bror replied without turning his head. ‘I keep thinking about the Deepdiggers.’

‘War brings those images. They’re not easily forgotten.’

‘I’m not afraid, Uncle Orin,’ Bror said, his shoulder heaving with a great breath that he took. ‘I’m not afraid of the war, understand that. But while I think of Deepdiggers, I can’t keep out the thought of Riv bleeding on the battle field like he did a year a go when we brought those elves through. I don’t think I could see him, or Skald, die.’

‘Take the iron out of the fire, Bror,’ Orin instructed quietly. His nephew fumbled with his tongs to take his piece of metal out. He plunged it into the bucket of water waiting close by. Steam went up from it, and until it passed, they both were silent. ‘We are not going to be fighting in open battle, Bror. Your brothers aren’t going to be in too much danger of dying. We didn’t vote to go off and fight them. We’re just going to help the refugees through this mountain. That work has to be done with as little fighting as possible, or else it wouldn’t do any good, because all those women and children will be killed anyway.’

Bror made no answer. He knew just as well as his Uncle that when they went to help the elves, there wasn’t supposed to have been any fighting. But there had been, and Riv and himself had come very close to being killed, and some Dwarves weren’t as lucky as they. He could not be comforted with such words. In the pause that followed, Orin realized that he had not convinced his nephew.

‘Whatever the case, Bror,’ he said in a gently, ‘no one can foresee the future, and it won’t do anyone any good to stay up like this and fret your nights away. Go to on to bed.’ Bror heaved another heavy breath and nodded. Orin sent him a small smile and turned to go. Bror took his piece of work from the water and laid it on the anvil before putting his tools away and leaving the forge.

[Amanaduial the archer]

As the crowd pushed and milled in the courtyard, waiting for Celebrimbor to speak, and around the edges the soldiers stood guard, carefully and calmly placed by Commander Elgedon, the tension was rife among the citizens of Ost-in-Edhil. After years of silence, they had all but forgotten their mute lord, brooding unseen in his palace, but as rumours spilled out and seeped out...well, even an impenetrable city has broachable walls, for no citizen can stand firm in the face of every threat. And now...now they were to hear him speak, to hear for themselves the fear assuaged, the rumours dismissed; although worried, there was an air of optimism and cheerfulness which hung around the awaiting citizens, despite the hastily called meeting, despite the stern, grim-faced soldiers who stood around them, a ring of statues sprung from the stone paving of the courtyard.

In the midst of the crowd, yet at the same time slightly apart, elevating as she was by standing at the top of the few steps that led down into the courtyard, a female figure stood, as stiffly tense as the soldiers around her, waiting for Celebrimbor to make his announcement. Narisiel’s eyes were fixed on the top of the stairs upon which she knew the elven lord would soon appear – appear to make the speech to his people that was going to change everything, not only the city, but personally to each of the elves who waited now in anticipation in the crowded courtyard. Some more than others…Narisiel swallowed fiercely, her eyes quickly flitting over the soldiers around the perimeter of the crowd. Rimborien, Dagonithil, Taurquarien…the faces, impassive and unyielding as stone, were each familiar to her, friends and acquaintances of many years. Terithian, Mordenigor…and Sirithlonnior, her own, as stern faced as the others. What was he thinking, what was happening beneath that stone façade? Had he seen her? No; he made no move towards her, neither physically nor with his eyes, no smile or wink as he usually would exchange. Maybe he had simply not yet noticed her, maybe he assumed that she was still within the palace but…in his gaze, fixedly watching the top of the stairs above, in his gaze…was that a fierceness in his eyes that set him apart from his comrades? And why not… Narisiel swallowed once more, pressing down the butterflies in her stomach and, as the murmurs of the crowd rose further, she followed the gaze of her spouse up to the other man whose cares and mistakes had stolen away the past two centuries of her life…

As the murmurs and scattered applause died down to an expectant silence, Celebrimbor straightened himself and composed his words almost visibly – to Narisiel, at least – before he raised his hands, placed one hand carefully on the rail leading down, like an old man seeking something to keep his balance, and began to speak. Narisiel barely heard his words. For the first time in many years, many centuries, she was seeing the Lord of Ost-in-Edhil as she had first seen him: strong, in control, elevated above his people as he addressed them majestically. Was this the man she had stood and admired many years ago? Yes, most certainly, for still surrounding him was the air of charisma and power that took Narisiel back to her earliest days in Ost-in-Edhil, before the life she now had had been woven and spun into the intricate tapestry that it currently was, when the threads were barely coming together, when she had first seen Celebrimbor speak and his voice had begun to work the threads. But now there were other details included, previously unseen…Was that a greying streak in his light hair? Maybe it was a trick of the light; Celebrimbor was but yet young by elven reckoning. But when such a burden falls upon an elf, as upon a man, maybe mannish weaknesses may be seen in the former as well as the latter. And his eyes…they flitted somewhat more nervously over the crowd, or was that also merely a trick of Narisiel’s eyes, or her mind? His gaze, certainly, did not seem the firm, fixed, steely gaze of a man so in control that she remembered…. And as Narisiel watched Celebrimbor, a friend, a lord, a betrayal, the threads began to unwind themselves, the tapestry began to fall – or maybe the weaving had never been strong enough in the first place. Or maybe such strength as is in a broken trust can tear even the strongest of bindings…

The smith closed her eyes for an instant, wrapping her arms around herself for a moment as if the chill winds of the carrion-birds’ wings already swept across the plains of Eriador, and listened to the voice of the speaker above, so strong and yet betraying such doom now.

“…every one of our lives is threatened, and it is the right of the people to know this. And so I beg of you, all those who can fight: help me ensure that Ost-in-Edhil is not abandoned to her doom. But those of you who cannot or shall not, it is now that you must escape to the west. And it is for all of us to take some hope, knowing our strength, and remembering that we are not without allies.”

Doom. The doom of the Mirdain. Narisiel felt a lump well in her throat and took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes tight before she opened them, glittering with tears that she would not shed, although the lump in her throat and the pain in her heart tried to wring them out. Surrounded by people, the knowledge of the secrets that Celebrimbor still, even now hid from his people stung her, a wedge between herself and the rest of Ost-in-Edhil. Surrounded by people, Narisiel could not have felt more alone on the edge of Mount Doom itself.

Re-finding Sirithlonnior, Narisiel caught her husband’s eyes just for a moment, the flash of light from his helmet as he turned towards the courtyard entrance blinding her for a moment. But his gaze only remained for a second before Sirithlonnior, so deliberately it seemed to Narisiel, turned away from her, heading purposefully for the palace doors, marching up quickly past the two soldiers who stood guard there against the now restless mob, and out of sight. And as she looked up to the stairs to where Celebrimbor had stood, she was greeted also with an emptiness where he should have been.

Where are the explanations, Celebrimbor? Even we who know the truth of those forges do not understand – where are you now to lead us, O Lord of the Doom of the Mirdain? The lament flitted through Narisiel’s mind darkly, desperately. It must be just perfect to be able to disappear, to avoid all when the problems became to pressing.

It must be just perfect.
It must be just the solution.

It must be very lonely.

[Durelin]

He remembered the look on the messenger’s face. It had been pure terror, his face devoid of almost all its natural colour. Celebrimbor was still speaking at that point, and Maegisil had turned to the elf with anger when he felt a hand on his arm. The messenger was a guard, on duty at the city gates, and it looked like he had ran all the way to the city’s center, the palace. He breathlessly informed Maegisil of the reason for his urgency and fright, and the counselor then understood. Someone had arrived at the city gate: a man, a dark one…and the leader of the dread army that would bring Sauron’s wrath to Eregion.

Maegisil had left his wife frightened and worried for her husband's safety, and though he had wanted to stay with her and share in her tears, he knew he had a duty to his people, one that Lord Celebrimbor had up till this point neglected. He knew it was perhaps hypocritical to think this, as he had done very little for his people, and had not been strong enough to stand up to his lord and tell him what he was doing wrong. Perhaps he would have saved lives if he had done so. The thought of this frightened him to no end, and he quickly returned his mind to focus on the situation at hand.

This man who had arrived was truly an emissary from the Dark Lord. Only the Servant of Morgoth would have been able to enforce even the pretense of control over such a being. “I will pave over your city with the blood of your people…” Those heart-wrenching words still rung in his ears as he stood before Lord Celebrimbor once again. He felt as if he were a new person, seeing the lord sitting there, but knowing that Celebrimbor was not truly there anymore… He felt very alone, and prayed that Narisiel would arrive as he wished she would. He had sent a guard to find her on his way back to the palace with his new and unfortunate acquaintance, and though he did not expect her to come, he hoped that she would want to hold on to some scraps of loyalty to Celebrimbor in order to help Eregion. She had her family to take care of, though. It was not her job to baby-sit a lord as well.

“Milord, here are the emissaries sent by the Dark Lord to parley with you,” he muttered, now finding himself disgusted by formalities concerning the elf-lord.

Celebrimbor looked even more disheveled than how Maegisil had left him before. It seemed that speaking to his people, despite his past charisma and rhetoric, was now a tasking experience for him. The counselor did not feel any sympathy for his lord, though. He had run out of that feeling some time ago.

“Ah, then we shall hear what Mordor has to say.”

The elf-lord still sounded like one who has given up all hope, though now there was a new component to his attitude: the pretense of indifference. He was one who pretended he had accepted his defeat, denying the fact that he could not accept his defeat and ignoring emotions that were too strong and too deep for him to control. The dreadfully imposing presence in the room did not help Celebrimbor’s situation.

The man…no, the creature…looked down at the Lord of Eregion and skipped any formalities. It seemed that he would have spat on the elf if he did not have a certain amount of dignity that separated him from the majority of Sauron’s minions, the mindless orcs. It was obvious by his escort that he was at least smart enough to know that orcs were not the most trustworthy creatures, nor really worthy of anything. Maegisil held the man in almost as low regards, but he was not above speaking to him…not that he had much of a choice. This dark one was used to having his demands met, and Maegisil knew that he was not in the position to outright refuse them. He was now only afraid that Celebrimbor might go even farther than that. How ready was he to declare himself defeated?

[CaptainofDespair]

Angoroth could feel the arrogance of the Elves bearing down on him. It weighed heavy and hot upon his shoulders, like a far-flung molten boulder spat from the mouth of Mount Doom itself. He could not help but think a most pleasurable thought; forcing the Elves into submission, and dissolving their haughty ways, much as the sea washes away the sand. He stood before the Lord of the City, the once proud Celebrimbor, with Ulrung held slightly back and to the right. The other counselors and various representatives still surrounded their Lord, both protecting him physically, and symbolically. They stood with him, at least on the surface. That much Angoroth surmised from their forlorn eyes.

“And so it is complete, Celebrimbor,” mused the dark one. “Your father and grandfather fell to a similar fate. Now, it is time for you to fulfill the Oath, and take your place alongside them.” The elf-lord’s face shot up, as his eyes pierced into Angoroth’s, looking for some deeply embedded seed of knowledge, a tome that might reveal where this man had gotten such information. But, the dark one felt this, and countered. “Delve into your mind, O’ Pathetic Lord. Then, you will know who I am. I am no servant of a false Dark Lord in Mordor, but of the True Master, Melkor.” A shockwave of devastating awe spread through the assembled party. Could it be that another Maiar, much like Sauron, had survived the War of Wrath? It had to be so. There was no other explanation that seemed to fit.

Continuing, the Maiar stacked more upon his prior threats. “It is time for business, Celebrimbor. You have been silent, but now is your place. Hand over the Rings and you own person, and I will consider showing some form of mercy to your sniveling people. Do not, and you will all die, in a most cruel and bitter manner.” The elf-lord looked sullen, and did not speak immediately, but hesitated a moment or two. Finally, he spread his lips, and spoke. “I…I…cannot.” The answer did not amuse Angoroth. Beneath the barbute helm that covered his face, a restless anger boiled over into an ecstasy of hatred. Remaining calm and diplomatic, however, he reiterated his prior statement. Celebrimbor knew something, but would not answer in fullness. But, at this time, he seemed to reacquire some lost sense of his dignity. “I…will not relinquish what is the right of the Elves to keep!” In some twisted way, this showing of pride amused the Maiar. “You speak of rights, when you have none. You are but tenants upon this earth. You have no rights, and nor can you deny what is sought by those above your station.”

He was beginning to feel a bit of irritation. Dealings with the Elves were destined to be drawn out affairs, with their arrogant auras about them, and always ended in irritation. Thinking that their status with the Valar and Illuvatar gave them some sort of special say over all matters, they had sunken into an entrenched, defensive manner of arrogant rebuttal. Gathering himself once more, Angoroth spoke, “If that is your choice, then so be it. You have sealed the fates of every last denizen of this City. But, perhaps your faithful companions might turn your faulty thinking into a reasonable conclusion. Until that point, you may see this as the preface to a quick and bloody war.”

Motioning for a silent Ulrung to follow, they descended from the palace under heavy guard to the main gate. As they came upon it, Maegisil, who continued to follow the escort, silently motioned for them to depart from the city. But, as they prepared to exit, Angoroth had a stroke of cruel amusement. Leaning towards the counselor, he reached under his cloak into a pouch strapped to his belt, and extended his clenched fist. “I can see in your eyes, that you have a wife. You worry for her safety, and wish for her deep love. Give this ring to her, my own signet. I will undoubtedly reclaim it anyhow, so you might as well make peace with her, elf.” A dumbstruck Maegisil could only feel the ring being pressed into his open palm, and his fingers clasping around it, as he watched the dark ones pass through the gate.

Once out of sight of the city’s walls, their horses already tiring from the long day, Ulrung turned to Angoroth and spoke, with new sense of fear instilled in him. “Milord, what is to happen next? I would think it best not to allow them to recover from our visit.” The Servant of Morgoth, already weary from the chatter of Eregion, could only reply unenthusiastically. “We will…wait, Ulrung. Let the fear of my coming bring despair upon them. But, soon we will lay siege to them.” Ulrung nodded. His lord was a bit above his station, and he knew well of Angoroth’s penchant for slaying captains whom he did not like. “Also, Captain, recall all the orc war parties. It will soon be time to give them my orders.”

[piosenniel]

Under cover of darkness, Riv and his five companions crept as quickly as they could from hillock to hillock. Each had rubbed a thin layer of mud over the metal fittings of helm, shield, weapons, and mail so that no stray shaft of new moonlight betrayed them with its glintings. Not wanting to alert any enemy who might be listening in the darkness, they spoke no words to one another; only kept close enough that each might pass back the signals from the leader to the man following.

The West Gate was in sight when a sudden fall of pebbles and debris skittered down the mountain side. They crouched down quickly in the deep shadows of a rocky outcropping. Their dark eyes darted round them, looking for any signs of movement.

A breathless eternity passed, or so it seemed to Riv, before the signal was given to move on. And then the entryway was reached and passed, the Dwarf guards motioning them in quickly through the gate as others stood ready to defend against attack. The six Dwarves took no time to make themselves more presentable before they went to wake the King.

Alerted by his guards, he sat yawning in his chair as they entered his chambers. He’d had a skin of ale brought and cups and bade his serving man pour drinks all around. ‘Sit, sit,’ he urged the companions, pulling his robe closer about him in the chilly night air.

‘There’s been an embassy of some sort to the Elves,’ began the group’s leader. ‘We couldn’t get too close but we could see it wasn’t Sauron. Some big fellow, tall, was the leader. All dressed in black from head to toe, even his hair was dark as a starless night. Wore a great sword. And another man, shorter, rougher looking rode with him. It was just them and a few troops that came before the Elven gates.’

Riv spoke up, then saying, that even at a distance, there fell a dark pall of arrogant malice from the riders. ‘No, not both the riders,’ he reconsidered, ‘but the one dressed in black seemed like those old ones they tell about, in the old stories . . . the ones from the West who fought alongside the Dark One, Bauglir.’ Riv shook off a chill that had crept between his shoulders at the thought of such a one. ‘Large as he was, his body seemed barely able to contain the malevolence that issued from him. The Elves let the dark one and the other who followed him into the city. Then the two left unscathed, a short while later. We dared not follow them.’

It was late into the night, almost morning, in fact, before the King finished speaking with the six Dwarves. He had had his captains roused from their beds to hear the story repeated. Many questions were asked and re-asked. And accounts from other Dwarven parties who’d been out patrolling in other areas were considered in light of this most recent report.

Weary and still bearing the mud and dust with which he’d disguised himself, Riv made his way at last to the Stonecut hall. A kettle had been left on the hob, and he made himself a stout cup of tea. There would be little time for sleep this day, he thought to himself. War would soon be upon the Elves and the King would be wanting to lend what aid he might against the coming darkness.

[Folwren]

But those many questions were lost on Bror. Different sort of questions were spinning on Bror’s mind. More and more as the minutes went by in silence. Finally he opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. He lacked the ability to handle the emotion that Skald’s story gave him. His eyes were empty for a moment, trying to grasp in full what Skald had just imparted. Riv had asked him to do what? But he wasn’t going to die! He couldn’t! Riv had asked him to-

‘Look after Unna and Leifre and Ginna?’ Bror burst out, mid thought. ‘But Riv’s not going to die! Skald, he can’t die! He has - he has a wife, and...and two children!’ His voice was rising without his taking notice of it. He leaped up and backed away, as though he could run from the trouble he faced with. ‘And you can’t die either. I’m not the next Stonecut in line, I’m the last. The last, Skald. I can’t do that.’ He lifted his hands and dug them into his eyes, trying hard to calm himself. But his head had begun to hurt in the midst of Skald’s speaking, and now it pounded, and the blood churned in his ears.

The night of the conversation with Uncle Orin came back to mind, and from there it drifted to his short scouting excursion, and the horrible sight he had seen. Involuntary tears stung his eyes and he ground his teeth to keep them back. He heard Skald get up and come towards him a few paces. He began to speak but Bror stopped him.

‘No, Skald. Don’t explain.’ He was calm enough to talk sensibly now. ‘It just took me by surprise. I can’t...I don’t understand, though. Orin said that we won’t be fighting in open battle. He has hopes that we won’t, anyway. Is it...are we going to, then? Is it a certainty?’ He still held a small hope that what Orin had said may still be true, but the more he heard this evening, the more he came to think that avoiding fighting would be impossible.

He lifted his eyes to meet Skald’s and the look that he encountered was so full of uncertainty and fear and grief of what may be to come, that he was sorry he had asked any further into the issue. He walked backed towards the table, dropping his gaze, and waving his hand.

‘Never mind. It won’t do us any good speculating.’ He sat down heavily and laid his head on the table, a posture he hadn’t taken for years. ‘Where’s Riv?’

[Firefoot]

It hadn’t been more than a day or two before their company, along with all other raiding parties in the area, had been recalled back to the main force. Though Ulwakh and Grimkul had, to an extent, been able to blend into the monstrous camp, life was little improved. Ulwakh’s leg was bothering him immensely; it seemed to have become infected again. To distract himself, he was currently skewering a living mouse with his twisted daggers, taking a perverse pleasure in its pained squeaks. He knew it wouldn’t be long before it died; mice were not terribly hardy animals.

Grimkul had settled into a dark temper that refused to be lightened; Ulwakh knew it would only be a matter of time before he exploded in fury. He was stewing a little way away, becoming increasingly annoyed with Ulwakh’s fiddling with the small animal. Grimkul knew best of anyone that he was not suited for army life; he was sick and tired of it. He wanted to return to his dark mountain haunts, with no orders to obey but his own will, and perhaps occasionally Ulwakh’s word of advice. Yes, that was what he wanted, and why shouldn’t he have it?

Abruptly, he stood up. Ulwakh paid little attention until he spoke: “I’m leaving.” Ulwakh’s head jerked up in surprise; his knife slipped, cutting deep into the rodent. With a last cry of agony, the mouse slipped gratefully into death.

Ulwakh scowled, first at the mouse, then at Grimkul. “What do you mean, you’re leaving? You can’t just walk away from the camp!”

“Yes, I can, and I'm going to. Filthy pushdug commanders can try and stop me. Come if you want.” With that, he strode off into the camp. Ulwakh jumped up in alarm, wincing at the sudden movement of his leg. Surely this was a death trap! If he followed Grimkul and they were caught (as they almost certainly would be), they would be undoubtedly be punished, maybe to the point of death. But if he stayed and let Grimkul go alone, he knew he would be an easy target for the other Orcs in the camp. He glanced around uneasily before hurriedly limping after Grimkul. He wouldn’t go with, he decided, not unless everything seemed likely to succeed – but that meant he had to have an eye on Grimkul. He’d go to the edge of camp for now, no farther.

Grimkul didn’t give a care anymore what Ulwakh thought he ought to do. He couldn’t remember the last time Ulwakh had given him a really good reason to do something other than he just shouldn’t. The mountains were there, and he was going. Just someone try and stop him.

[Durelin]

Maegisil stood on his small balcony overlooking the streets of the city of Ost-in-edhil, playing with the ring in his hand. There was always something about rings. He stared out into the sky, which was growing a pale grey and pink with a mild sunset. The city had grown mostly quiet after all the chaos of the day. But it was a disconcerting feeling for it to be so quiet, particularly when you knew what horrors lay within a few miles of your own home. Soldiers were all that one could see moving, their mail softly shimmering red in the dying light. Maegisil turned around to peek through the door leading into his house to catch a glimpse of his wife within, busy with something. She was always keeping herself busy, and Maegisil did not blame her. Now that Celebrimbor had no more need for Maegisil's help, the counselor had too much time to think.

Turning back to look down at his hands, which still fiddled with the ring the dark creature had given him. He wondered what it must have been like, when Celebrimbor held one of his Rings in his hands, a beautiful piece of craftsmanship finally completed after years of work. Could he feel the magic in it? Did he also feel the treachery, even before he put it on? Was it a desire to have power that made him don his Three Rings, at least for a moment, until he realized fully the mistake he had made?

Suddenly Maegisil found himself slipping the ring onto his finger. He jumped when he felt its cold weight, but he felt nothing strange about the ring. It was simply a signet, as the creature had said. What else had he said? Maegisil wondered if the dark one had indeed suggested what the elf thought he had. Was there truly a way he could save Sairien? He could save himself, too. He did not want to die. He was a good soldier, and was the protector of his lord for hundreds of years. Now, he was the protector only of his wife, and of himself. Sairien wanted a child, and he had never been able to give her that. He felt that he had never been able to give her what she wanted, though he always desired to. It seemed they were running out of time. He needed more time; he was not ready to depart from Middle-earth yet, in any way.

~

Celebrimbor sat in his chair, staring sightlessly at an elaborate wall hanging. He had been there, slouched over and looking lost for hours. The arrival of an actual physical presence of Sauron through the emissary had been more than enough to destroy what was left of the lord's courage and faith. He thought about getting up and moving just far enough to make it into the next room and into his bed, but he was unable to make himself budge. It seemed he was lucky he could still exert enough effort to breath.

His thoughts were wild. One moment he was filled with guilt and grief, wanting to wail that it was all his fault, that it was he who brought doom to the Mírdain. The next moment, his mind darkened, and he was filled with anger, considering the possibilities, if only he had kept his Rings. He could have stood up to the might of Sauron, as the Rings of the Lord Celebrimbor were the most powerful - even Sauron knew that. They would be his, and he would be an everlasting presence of power and glory on Middle-earth, even when the population of his people dwindled and the race of Men grew. He could have been a King. Why should Gil-galad be the only King? He was certainly no King in Eregion. Lindon was far away to the West, and it was the East that both Elves and Men had to stand against.

I could have been responsible for the end of Sauron, not the end of my people. But I have no power now.

Several miles to the East of the great walls of Ost-in-edhil, the Dark Lord's army was fully assembled, and preparing their attack. It was too late even for surrender, now. Angoroth's cruel smile announced what all had been waiting for: Sauron's army would begin their siege before dawn.

I have no power now, if ever I had any...

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ulrung cursed the sorry fate that had led him into this miserable Orc camp. For the past day he had carefully followed the directive of his Master: to recall the Orc war parties in preparation for the fight that was soon to begin. Ulrung valued his skin too much to delegate the task to underlings. Underlings had a way of failing one at just the wrong moment. He had heard and seen what happened to officers who failed to live up to Angoroth's expectations. He had no intention of becoming one of those captains who lost the favor of the Master and ended up dead.

Despite Ulrung's initial resolve, he was sick of riding into Orc camps and negotiating with Orc officers. The overwhelming stench and disarray was almost more than any man could bear. He had faithfully carried Angoroth's message from camp to camp surrounded by a small but loyal bodyguard. At more than one point, he had spoken with Orcs who were so surly and defiant that he might have feared for his life, had it not been for the presence of his armed retinue. He was currently not in a very good mood, although he had been generally successfully in bludgeoning and bribing the Orc captains to comply with Angoroth's request.

"Cursed Orcs!" he muttered to himself. "So stupid that they do not even know who they are dealing with." Whoever or whatever Angoroth was, Ulrung was quite certain that his Master could take down a whole troop of Orcs by merely lifting a finger or two and giving them a frozen stare. Ulrung had just finished dealing with several of the Orc captains and was about to ride out of camp when he glimpsed two particularly stupid Orcs who were nervously walking up and down the far boundary of the camp and gazing outward with sheer desire in their eyes. It seemed quite clear to Ulrung that the two were about to desert, as soon as darkness and opportunity came their way.

Brandishing his sword over his head, he growled under his breath to the soldier riding at his side, "I've had it with these idiots. We need an example! Let's take these two back to their captain and threaten to execute them. Perhaps we'll do it and perhaps not, but at least we'll give them a scare."

In a loud voice he bellowed, "You two! Why are you skulking about on the edge of camp? Thinking of leaving us, huh? I can see your intentions in your eyes. Why aren't you back with the others making preparations for battle? Is this what your captain let's you do?"

Before the startled Orcs could even respond, Ulrung gave orders to his men who proceeded to herd the pair back to camp, tying a rope firmly about their waists. Coming to the very center where a giant fire burned, the Easterling captain snarled in a loud voice, "Where is the captain of these men? Answer now, or I swear I will roast every Orc officer in this camp over the firespit, and have them served to the soldiers for dinner!" Ulrung glanced around waiting for someone to answer.

[Arry]

‘Riv’s gone down below to see Unna and his children,’ answered Skald. He eyed his younger brother’s distraught posture. ‘He’s fine,’ he offered as some sort of assurance. ‘No injuries. Just covered in dirt and a few scratches from the odd twiggy bush they’d had to hide behind.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Like I said . . . it was more what he saw and . . . well . . . felt that’s put the wind up him.’

Skald rose from his chair to fetch his brother a mug of tea. ‘Drink this,’ he said, pushing the steaming cup toward Bror. ‘You were wrong,’ he said, watching as Bror raised his head from the table. ‘About being the last Stonecut,’ he went on. ‘Leifr holds that position now, Bror. You’re his “old” Uncle.’ A smile softened his face as a thought came to him. ‘That is . . . until some lass makes you her heart’s-choice . . . and you’ve a son to carry on.’ He chuckled at the look on Bror’s face. ‘Now there’s something to look forward to!’ He nodded his head vigorously ‘Yes! . . . indeed!’

The mood of the room lightened a bit as Skald spun out the little daydream much to his brother’s consternation. There were details of first meetings, and dances, and stolen kisses in a stony alcove . . .

‘Marrying someone off?’ asked Viss, standing in the doorway.

‘Just pulling Bror’s leg, a bit,’ returned Skald, grinning at his father. As Viss entered and went to fetch some tea and bread with cheese, Skald turned back to Bror, his face serious. He shook his head ‘no’, mouthed ‘Riv’ quickly and pointed his thumb at their father . . . hoping that his younger brother would understand he shouldn’t say anything of what they’d spoken of to Viss.

‘There’s another group of Elves coming through the mines,’ Viss said as he carried his plate and mug to the table. ‘Should be going out some time today toward the city.’ He sat down and took a large bite of his bread. ‘Oh,’ he went on, swallowing the bite down with a swig of tea. ‘One of the patrol groups who’d gone a little further west and south than our others have brought back news to the King that there is a great army of Elves several days south of the city. Said they’ve come from somewheres out in the northwest - by some sea, I think they mentioned. Anyway a fellow name of Elrond is leading them to aid the jewelsmiths.’

‘Going to have to be a mighty big army from what I’ve heard,’ snorted Skald, ‘if they’re going to make even a small dent in Sauron’s. Elves or no . . . the sheer size of the dark army is massive.’

‘Well, apparently this Lord Elrond, from what we could figure out, is expecting a number of warriors from The Golden Wood. And this is interesting,’ Viss went on, shaking his head in wonder. ‘It’s supposed to be led by old high and mighty himself.’

‘You don’t mean Celeborn, do you?’ Skald asked, his brow furrowed. ‘Surely he’s not coming through the mines, is he? He hates us Dwarves!’

‘Stinking of Elvish fear,’ chuckled Viss, nodding his head ‘yes’ to the question. ‘And probably thinking all the way that we’ll be waiting to do him in somehow and rob him to boot!’ Laughter rang against the stones as the Dwarves made merry at the Elven ruler’s expense. ‘Anyway, they should be coming through in a few days.’ He took another bite of bread. ‘We’ve been asked to take them to the Elrond fellow, by the way . . .’

[Firefoot]

Grimkul’s initial sulk at being captured had turned rapidly into a blazing glower at Kharn’s appearance. With every passing moment the long-kindled fire of his hatred burned closer and closer to out of control.

Presently, Kharn tugged at the rope around their waists. “Come on, deserting vermin. You've got a lot to explain, and let's make it nice and slow...” The single shred of sense that remained in Grimkul warned him not to attack with his back to the conversing officers. He followed Kharn grudgingly, hatefully, and Ulwakh sulked along beside him, bound so closely that there were but a couple scant inches between their shoulders.

All of Ulwakh’s being screamed at the unfairness of this all. He hadn’t even been planning on deserting! Or, rather, he wasn’t going to while there had been any chance of getting caught, which clearly there had been being that it was broad daylight and at least one captain was standing around! Simplified, he wasn’t supposed to have been caught at all. And the humiliation at being tugged around at the end of a rope! Just before raids, he had seen young lads treat their dogs so. Bitterly did he rue his dependence upon his fool of a companion. To make matters worse, he now realized he had left his pack back at camp. Some other Orc would have undoubtedly carried it off and looted it by the time they returned.

As they approached the tent, Kharn turned his head and sneered. “Quiet today, aren’t you? Not so fierce all tied up, are you? Into the tent, now.” Grimkul glowered; an angry red haze seemed to obscure his vision. Kharn wisely herded the pair inside ahead of himself.

The tent was a sparse, smelly thing, containing a worn pallet, two chairs, and a few odds and ends: a short length of rope, a pair of unneeded weapons, and some other unidentified objects. Kharn entered behind them and walked around to face them, a gleam of malice in his eye. He untucked a whip from his belt, swishing it around almost lazily; his other hand held a short dagger. “Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.” He walked around his captives, looking very much like a predator closing in for the kill. “Just to loosen your tongues…” He snapped the whip expertly to curl and sting about their legs, noting with especial interest Ulwakh’s tender calf. “Just what were you doing around the edges of camp, when clearly you should be here with your unit?” When neither answered immediately, he cracked the whip again.

Ulwakh made a split second decision, driven by the desire to survive. “It’s not how it looked – we weren’t trying to desert.” He felt the warning sting of the whip. “Grimkul here mostly just wondered if it could be done; he wasn’t actually going to do it – I already talked him out of it.”

“A likely cover-up,” spat Kharn, drawing back the whip with particular force.

“Wait! It’s true!” Ulwakh cried. “See, look – if I had really wanted to desert, wouldn’t I have brought my pack?”

Kharn scowled fiercely, but could not deny the truth of this statement. “Here’s for your insolence!” he snarled, and snapped the whip as hard as he could, drawing blood from both Orcs. “And why doesn’t the big one say anything? Not very bright, are you?” Grimkul had been building up and fueling his anger with every whip-crack, every condescending word. He couldn’t hold it in any longer; the last Orc who had questioned his intelligence had died within two heartbeats. Silently, for his fury transcended words, he swung about, balling his fist and drawing back for the punch in the same motion.

Things would have gone ill for Kharn had Grimkul not been roped so closely to Ulwakh, for Grimkul’s abrupt turn swung Ulwakh off his feet, knocking Grimkul off balance so that the heavy blow that would have bashed in Kharn’s skull instead glanced off, causing no more than a bruise and a headache. Kharn’s dagger-hand had jerked upwards in self-defense, scoring a deep cut in Grimkul’s inner forearm even as he collapsed in a heap on top of the falling Ulwakh.

Grimkul scrambled to get his feet beneath him, but before he could do so he felt a cold blade placed against his throat. “One false move and I’ll stick you with this,” hissed Kharn. “You could have had the easy way out, but I see that that just won’t work for you, will it? I’m going to have to tie your hands, now, I see. Now stand up nice and slow.” Chest heaving in fury, Grimkul did so, hauling Ulwakh’s aching body up with him. Ulwakh stood woozily, having felt every ounce of Grimkul’s sturdy frame come toppling down on him. He was short of breath and surprised not to feel any broken bones.

Through a series of commands which were obeyed by Grimkul only because of the cold blade pressed against his throat, Kharn managed to get Grimkul’s wrists tied. Only then did Kharn withdraw the dagger. He turned briefly to Ulwakh and sneered, “Too cowardly to desert, I bet. Now,” he turned his attention back to Grimkul, “were you or were you not trying to desert?”

“No,” growled Grimkul, “he already told you that.” Crack went the whip. Time upon time Kharn repeated the question, and each time Grimkul answered the same way, receiving a blow each time, to the legs, to the arms, anywhere there was exposed skin, both front and back. Grimkul didn’t care about the pain anymore; his fury drowned out all sensations other than its own. In fact, he took perverse pleasure in seeing Kharn’s mounting frustrations. Grimkul had long since lost count of his denials when he for once did not feel the biting sting of the whip, but the cut of a dagger – not deep, but cutting nevertheless. This time, he did howl both in pain and surprise. But no matter what, he wouldn’t give Kharn the satisfaction of knowing he had been about to desert. And then, when he did get away from this tent, he would – but first, Kharn was going to die.