The Fellowship of the Fourth Age (Part 1): A New Beginning RPG

[Durelin]

Khamir

Khamir was a little surprised to hear the man known as Joshwan speak up, and he had to grit his teeth and let out a heavy sigh through them as he took in his observations. Of course they were true, and had dawned on the one-armed man as the other man began to talk, but…that couldn’t be the whole of it. There had to be a way, particularly with now over threescore of them hard at work. Vegetation was not abundant, to say the least, but, then, if they could collect enough, it might just do, as long as, as the elf noted, the slavers attacked at night.

“Pessimism or not, obviously traps and the like are necessary. And I expect they will attack in the night, as they did last time.”

Beloan nodded next to him. “They do not like learning new tricks, and will likely underestimate us.”

It was Khamir’s turn to nod before he could think of how strange the two’s exchange might look. They skirted around each other in a fashion that felt awkward, particularly since neither was used to necessarily being at odds with each other, but each feared they might be.

Suddenly, the strange, short, flame-haired man spoke up in his rumbling voice. Strange that he should look and sound so fierce, and carry such an imposing weapon, and yet if Khamir looked closely enough, he could see the crease marks around his eyes were from years and years of smiles and laughter. This detail struck him more greatly than any of the other oddities about the bearded man – most of the people here in Mordor were obviously worn a little differently from those of the Fellowship.

“I suppose there is a lack of much of anything green around here,” the axe-bearing man began, his voice the perfect example of ‘slow and steady,’ “but there is an awful lot of good, hard soil, and what rock there is, it is the strongest. Perhaps some tunneling is in order, if you lads think we have the time. I certainly know how to dig a good tunnel, but I know how to dig a bad tunnel, too: one that the wrong step could collapse in the blink of an eye. And when I mean collapse, I mean collapse – with the surface gone under, if you know what I mean.”

Khamir could not help but smile slightly at the short man, and he was even more bewildered by him. What sort of man was he? The way he talked about ‘knowing’ tunnels and about soil and rock sounded as if it was the most sensible thing in the world for everyone to accept him as the master of such knowledge, and Khamir certainly felt prepared to. He looked around to see if he could catch any reaction from some of the others, and noticed that the old man, one of the members of the Fellowship, was missing at the moment. Had he just wandered off? This was a strange bunch, and though Khamir’s faith in Gondor had certainly been nurtured, his interest in its peoples had escalated to a curiosity quite foreign his nature. He thought now that he might even travel there one day.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The meeting had been going on more than two hours when Aiwendil rushed into the circle and pulled Lindir to one side. The istar pointed to the sky and hastily explained where he had been and what would happen later that day.

Lindir stared out across the rock strewn plain, with its tumbled boulders and patches of dry grass. The day was hot and cloudless. Even this early in the morning, the sun beat down in an unrelenting fashion on the camp. The elf could see no physical signs of any storm. "Are you sure?" he prodded. "We can not base our strategy on the weather unless we are certain this will happen."

"I am convinced of it. The birds and beasts can detect a change in weather long before any man. But it is not just that. Rôg comes from a place to the south where sand storms are frequent. He is sure the wind is shifting. I tell you, Lindir, this is a piece of luck. We know what will happen, and the slavers do not. Plus, the winds are blowing out of the west. They will be at our backs, but the slavers must ride directly into the gusts. We could not have asked for a better situation."

"There is still one problem, that of timing." Lindir noted. "We do not know what time the attackers are coming. And exactly what time will these winds hit?"

"The falcon thought it would be at dark. Part of what you say is true. If the slavers wait to ride till late tonight, they will see the weather has changed and simply delay their attack. The worst that can happen is that both sides will billet down and not fight until tomorrow. But I don't think the slavers will do that. They are impatient. Their leader wants blood. They will ride out by early evening, perhaps even this afternoon. Already, Rôg has left camp to make preparations to greet them in an appropriate fashion, and I will join him shortly. If the men come early, he and I can delay them just long enough so they are caught up in the winds."

Lindir responded dryly, "I should ask you how you plan to do that, but I will not. I don't think our new friends would feel comfortable with the kind of answer I am likely to get. So if you are certain of this, go now and rejoin Rôg and do what must be done. I'll work with Dorran and the leaders of the settlers to craft a strategy based on what you have told me."

As Aiwendil stalked off towards the north, Lindir called out after him, "You had better be right about this, or we will pay dearly."

The istar turned around and gestured with his staff, "You have my word on it. And if I am right, I will insist that you prepare some of the finest delicacies from Rivendell once we reach our destination. The foothills should have game and other growing things in abundance, and I will greatly enjoy being waited on by such an old and honorable elf!" With that, the two parted company. Then Lindir returned to the circle, sat down, and prepared to speak.

**********
The planning meeting had nearly ended. The conversation had lulled, and Dorran was putting the finishing touches on a crude map drawn in the dirt that showed where the various traps should be constructed and where men and women should be stationed. Lindir bent down for a closer look and nodded to the men in appreciation, "Khamir, Beloan, and Dorran, well done. This should work. And we have one more piece of good fortune that may tilt the scales in our direction. Aiwendil and Rôg have told me that a wind storm will be blowing in at nightfall. Aiwendil and Rôg have also come up with a few tricks to delay the approach of the slavers if they should make it over before the winds hit. They've already gone out to start their preparations."

Lindir looked around the circle, expecting someone to object, but no one did. An old man sitting far back from the firepit sniffed the air and then nodded his head in confirmation that he too could sense the weather was changing. Apparently all of those gathered in the camp had lived through such storms, which were not uncommon in the region of Nurn and the plains spreading out to the north. The stripping away of so many trees and so much goodness from the soil, combined with a long spell of hot and dry weather, created the conditions that gave rise to the harsh walls of wind.

"We are lucky then," Lindir conceded. "The slavers will probably not have anyone who can read weather signs. So we will have one advantage, yet we must also be careful. Aiwendil tells me that Azhar and a few of her friends have gone to warn the others who plan to take shelter during the battle that they must secure their things within the circle of boulders at the rear of camp and stay hidden there in the worst of the weather. We must also be careful with the firebrands. The young men doing those should go further out on the plain to the east and strike before the worst of the weather hits, or we will end up with burning brands in our own faces. But one task will be easier. Once the winds come, the slavers will be hard pressed to see any of the ditches or tunnels, even if we hide them crudely. As far as the horses go, I agree. We must not waste too much effort on that. Yet there are a number of young healthy women reluctant to fight who might be stationed at the edge of camp, far from the actual swordplay. They might be able to run down an animal or two, and that could help you once you finally settle into your new lands and need a beast to station in front of a plough."

Lindir looked around the group but there were no further voices raised. "We are ready then. Each must go to their appointed task. We will meet back at the fire by mid-afternoon to set up the attack, and may fortune smile on our efforts."
With that, the circle dispersed, as men and women hurried to carry out the plans that had been made.

[Durelin]

Vrór

Vrór was pleased that his idea was received well by the others, and he was enthusiastic to start working on it immediately. He was surprised at how willing the slaves were to do such hard work, as they worked diligently and did not object to following his direction, for which he was very thankful. After his embarrassing slip with the woman, Shae, when he had used the word ‘slave’ to describe them aloud, he was very conscious of how he treated them, and for that he felt guilty, too. They had worked doing very strenuous labor under horrible conditions all, most, or at least for several years of their life, and it showed. He could not think of these people as lesser than any other people, but that he continually reminded himself of his embarrassment with Shae placed ideas otherwise back into his head, even if he did not agree with them.

He used what little wood he could find, mostly scraps from small, dead trees, and he tied thick, strong bunches of bramble together to replace sturdier wood, all to use for tunnel supports. The digging was slower than he would have liked, but they had to be careful. They had to dig at just the right angle… Vrór’s entire body was sticky from sweat, and not just from the heat: he did not have time for calculations, and he understood the dangers involved. If anyone above ground got within just a few feet of where the tunnel was in process, he would snap at them with a loud growl, and then would have to quickly apologize, and blame it on his nerves – which was the truth. At one point the boy they had rescued from the pit in the slavers camp, Kwell, approached the tunnel, but luckily for him someone else caught him before Vrór could shout him.

The one-armed man, Khamir, who apparently had been the one to ask for Elessar’s aid in the first place, came up to him at one point, and asked what he could do. The Dwarf was a little shocked, and could not answer him for a moment. He was not accustomed to this sort of dedication, particularly from a man who held some sort of leadership in this group. At least, Vrór assumed that because he had been the one to request assistance, he was the closest to a leader as there could be in this group. Khamir seemed embarrassed when the Dwarf did not answer right away, and before Vrór could say anything, the man said that he understood he might be of little help with only one arm.

“No, no, of course not,” the Dwarf assured him, his brain working quickly to think of something for the man to do. He decided that having him pass water to those already in the tunnel was the best thing, and he explained that it was because he already had enough people working in the tunnels. Khamir seemed to understand that was not the only reason behind his simple job. Still, he was diligent. He sat with Vrór at the opening of the tunnel, the Dwarf directing and the man there to run errands, largely fetching water as had been prescribed. Vrór made sure that the required supports got passed down through the tunnel, and Khamir volunteered to find more materials to act as support while the Dwarf helped place them properly. It was a slow process, and it only slowed further as they got further along. Everyone’s nerves were stretched practically to the limit, but even worse conditions were not foreign to the former slaves.

Having someone with him did little to calm Vrór’s nerves, though. His thoughts kept lingering on the idea of the tunnel collapsing on the workers, and he ran over and over in his head whether or not he had judged an angle properly, or if he had estimated the thickness of the ceiling as close as he should have. Were those really enough supports? Could those even be called supports? He was not sure – he knew a number of his kinsman that would be absolutely horrified by the job that was being done, but the idea wasn’t for it to be a good tunnel, and the best materials certainly were not available. No excuse could settle his mind or his stomach, though. He was able to push only one thought to the back of his mind: the worry of when and how exactly he was going to have to remove those makeshift supports. This tunnel could not fail in at least slowing down the slavers and throwing them into confusion, hopefully injuring or killing a few. But he would not risk taking those supports out ahead of time…and he would never ask anyone to remove them. It would have to be done himself, and Vrór knew when. He gripped the hammer that hung at his belt, and thought about his life, his work, with little regret.

[piosenniel]

‘What to do? What to do?’ He’d told Aiwendil he could come up with something to help against the slavers who would soon be on their way. The problem was he really hadn’t an idea of what that help might be.

Rôg hunkered down behind the little piling of rocks, his back squirming about to find some comfortable place to rest against. He reached out with his right hand and scooped up a handful of small pebbles. One by one he tossed them out onto the dirt a little ways away from him. One of them, by chance, hit a small, old, hallowed log half buried in the dry, brown grasses. A low, angry sound swelled from the opening of the log and several, large winged insects flew out, intent on finding the attacker.

Hornets!

Rôg sat stock still, eyes shut, breath held, as they buzzed near him. He let out a long breath as the sound of their angry drone drew away from him. A smile creased his face as he nodded thoughtfully.

Where there is one nest, there will be others. All I have to do is find them.

With a single, fluid movement, he stood up, shaking the dirt from his cloak. In a moment he was flying northward, in the direction Aiwendil had taken.

[Folwren]

Kwell withdrew from the notice of curious eyes as quickly as he could manage. He slipped away into some shadow still available in the night and curled himself up in a ball. For a few brief moments he lay considering. He felt more at ease here than in the pit. Safe, almost. At least, more safe than he had been with immediately danger lurking just over his head. Sleep caused his eyelids to become heavy. They slowly drooped, falling lower and lower. But why would he feel safer? His eyes opened again. He had no friends here. . .except Azhar, he conceded to himself. Azhar was a friend…

Kwell drifted off into sleep. He dreamed no dreams and slept like a log, completely oblivious to everything, until waking abruptly and entirely. His eyes popped open and he sat up sharply. Everything was bright with late morning daylight. Everyone around him was very busy, hurrying to and fro. What they were busy with, Kwell had no idea.

After a moment of blinking the sleep out of his eye he got up and walked towards the nearest person. It was a young man, carrying a large stone on his shoulder.

“What is going on?” Kwell asked, stopping him with a hand on his shirt.

“Preparations for the slavers’s attack! They let you sleep in, ‘cause you were so tired, but now you’re up, you’d better start lending a hand!” He passed on, leaving Kwell standing alone, almost no better off than before. He looked around and started towards a group of people, constantly traveling in and out of an area that seemed to go underground.

“Stop! Stop!” called a voice suddenly and urgently. Kwell looked up, startled to a standstill. Someone with a dirty face waved a hand frantically for him to stop. “Don’t take another step or you’ll be above the tunnel! Come over here. Walk way round in and arc, yes, that’s right. Come here.” Kwell came and stopped before the man. “You’re a little fellow. Now, we’re digging this tunnel, see?” he turned Kwell’s face towards the small opening in the ground. “We can use boys like you in there better than one of us older chaps. If you’ll take my place below, I’ll set to work on stuff up here.”

“I can do that. But what am I to do?”

“Take this,” he handed Kwell a short, broad, flattened stick, “and this,” and handed him someone’s shirt. Crawl down there and ask the little, bearded man where to start dig. Tell him you’ve taken Dwindle’s place.”

Kwell obeyed without another word. He got onto his knees and started into the dusty tunnel.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

When the meeting had finally come to an end, and everyone knew what was expected of them, Carl stood up rather stiffly, and stretched out his legs as he peered this way and that around the milling figures. He was searching for a sight of that dear girl and her elderly companion, but they had disappeared among the crowd, and he wondered if they had been sensible enough to go with those whose plan was to remain hidden from the slavers. The young and the old both needed to stay hale and hardy for the hard road north, that lay ahead. For even if they did manage to catch a few horses, that grim stranger named Khamir was right, chances were there would be few people found to ride them.

Oh, if only Gondor had seen fit to send them with a wagon, even one like that monstrous contraption he’d seen in the slavers’ camp, when he’d been off spying. It would sure have come in handy if there were to be wounded folk when this was all over. But there was no sense in regretting what they didn’t have. When you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere. You’ve no chance to fix it. And Carl didn’t fancy the slavers would let them borrow their cart either, no matter how nicely they asked.

The hobbit sighed, resigning himself to searching for the woman named Brenna after the he had put in a few hours of hard work. He’d need a bit of a rest then, and hopefully he’d hear it confirmed that she and the girl had tucked themselves away out of sight.

It was not long before Carl’s head was found bobbing just above the rim of a trench, as he worked along side the hard working group that gouged the ground just beyond Vrór’s tunnel. He had volunteered his only blanket, as well as himself, so that the loose dirt and rock could be hefted out, dragged away by a pair of wiry young men who were diligently avoiding the dwarf and his shouts. Off to one side a pair of women quickly sorted through the soil removing the rocks and putting them in piles.

Carl stopped his lively whistling, stooping down to crumble the dirt between his fingers. “The soil’s different here, then it was a day’s ride away,” he observed distractedly.

“Yes, and different still from Nurn,” the worn man next to him said, as he stopped to rest against the side of the trench. “I’ve heard rumor that it is not so bad further north now that The Mountain of Fire is silent.”

“I certainly hope the rumor is right. Still with a bit of care we’ll find something to grow there. Even this poor stuff here isn’t beyond all hope.”

The man gave the hobbit a half smile before returning to work, and Carl was left with the impression that the man must have thought him a bit simple. But with the crops Carl had seen in Gondor, they could actually make the soil better. And he had learned a long time ago that a bit of magic happens if you work with what you have, instead of against it. And so he smiled to himself as he began digging again. It seemed that maybe there were one or two things he might be able to contribute to these people after all.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur was able to ride his horse almost up to the camp. The slavers were so busy with their preparations in the western part of camp that they did not even notice the solitary figure who approached from the east. Ishkur sat waiting a very long time. The minutes and hours dragged on, but he refused to go back to the other orcs until he could bring them a piece of good news.

Although the sky had been comfortably cloudy and dark at dawn, the weather had changed by mid-morning. As Ishkur sat and waited, the sky shone clear and bright. The day was blazing hot, and the glare of the light was so intense that he found his eyes hurting. He let his horse graze nearby and found a group of boulders where he could squat on the ground and hide his head in the shadow. Every few minutes he ventured out from the rocks to see if the slavers had moved onto the plain. He watched as the men rounded up the last of the horses, strapped saddles onto the animals, and gathered up their weapons. He saw them stop to cook a light meal. That was the last thing he remembered before falling asleep.

An impatient whinny from across the camp awakened Ishkur with a start. He sprinted out into the clearing. From the look of the sun, it was well into the afternoon. Staring towards the far perimeter of the camp, he could see that the slavers had mounted their horses and were proceeding across the plain at a slow pace.

The camp was deserted. Ishkur could not see anyone; not even a sentry had been left behind. Filled with glee at this welcome sight, he charged forward on his horse, his weapon raised above his head. He made straight for the one thing he most desired. The slavers had left not one but two casks of ale. Beside the fire sat a large barrell so full of ale that it would have taken two orces to lift. Next to it was a smaller keg with a brew Ishkur did not recognize. The liquid smelled sweet and heady. He thought this was rather strange since the smell was almost like a patch of flowers growing on the hillside. Still, good brew was good brew. He wasn't going to be picky. Ishkur heaved up the small keg and strapped it on his horse's back. Then he returned to the place where the other orcs were still asleep. Galloping into camp, he roared, "They're gone! The slavers have left. I hope gone for good, but at least for today. The camp is ours whenever we want it. And look what I have brought back." He held the small cask aloft and grinned, and set it down before poking Grask and Gwerr in the ribs. then he explained, "We'll go back once the sun sets and it gets more comfortable, but why not start with a little nip here? It will get us in the right spirit." Ishkur uncorked the small barrell and filled his flagon as he cried out, "Gwerr, Makdush, Mazhg, Grask..... Everyone come here and have a taste."

[Folwren]

Athwen and Dorran saddled their horses together. They spoke very little; they had already said what needed to be said. They both noticed the steadily rising wind and the dust swirling in small circles. Athwen patted her horse’s neck when she finished tightening the girth and took his reins. She led him over to Dorran. He turned towards her as she came near.

“You will be careful?” he asked. Athwen nodded. “Where is your sash?” Athwen’s hand went to the white cloth about her neck, tucked into the collar of her shirt. “Is your horse settled in all this wind? It will only get harder and more fierce, Athwen. . .” She nodded again and a smile came to her face.

“He’ll be fine,” she said. “He has carried me a long way as it is and I don’t think he’ll fail me now.” Dorran nodded this time. “I’m going. I don’t want to be late to my post.” There was a short pause. “Goodbye,” she whispered.

He bent and kissed her gently one last time. “Goodbye,” he replied. “You’ll do well,” he added reassuringly.

Athwen mounted her horse without further ado and set him into a trot down the slight slope. She let him pace back and forth in the open land before the camp. The wind was slowly but steadily picking up strength and speed, and her gelding seemed to sense the pending danger. She felt his energy gather beneath her. His trot became quick and stiff, excited and contained with difficulty. She reined him in slowly and made him walk.

Finally, his body seemed to relax some, his attention settled and she sighed a sigh of relief. With a final glance towards the camp, she turned her horse away from it and headed towards the clump of bushes and shrubs that Lindir had pointed out to her. She dismounted there and found her best way into them with her horse. She cleared away some of the small plants so that her horse could stand fairly comfortably. She led him in and left him standing while she went back out to make certain that it would be difficult to see him behind the screen of leaves and branches.

Satisfied, she returned back to her horse and mounted him. Her heart pump nervously and a strange, tight feeling passed through her stomach. She drew a deep breath, clenched her jaw, and stared out through the leaves in to the open plain. Soon their enemies would come and she would burst through those scraggly branches and go flying out before them. . .in peril. Yes, there would be peril. Her throat tightened briefly with fear that she might never return, that she might not see Dorran again. But a moment later, resolve hardened itself within her, and new feeling pulsed through her veins. She sat up higher in her saddle and lifted her chin a little. She would ride to make her husband, and Rider of Rohan, proud.

[Regin Hardhammer]

"I wonder what's here? Makdush isn't the only one who deserves a prize." Ishkur grinned at Gwerr and started rummaging through the objects in Imak's tent. He was disappointed not to find weapons, but almost tripped over a small chest hidden underneath a pile of blankets. It was a sturdy wooden box with a metal chain attached to a stake in the ground. Ishkur jerked on the chain but the stake didn't move. He couldn't carry away the chest without spending a lot of time digging up the stake, and he didn't want to waste time doing that. The wooden box was locked tight. He couldn't see any key, since the slavers' chief probably carried it with him. Ishkur picked up the chest and violently shook it. The box did not open but inside he could detect a pleasant jingling noise.

For a moment Ishkur sat thinking. Then he ran out to the woodpile and found what he was looking for. He came back in the tent carrying an axe that the slavers used for chopping firewood. The orc brought down the axe and the top of the box splintered into pieces. A whole hoard of coins came tumbling out. Ishkur's eyes widened in glee. He had not seen this much gold and silver for a long time. It was obviously the wages the chief paid his men plus profits the slavers had collected from the last haul they'd dragged back to the plantation.

"Well, my friend! We may not agree on everything but we can surely agree on this. We'll be doing these slavers a favor if we empty out their chest. That way they won't have such a heavy burden to lug. You and I could use this. Land up north is free but horses and other things cost money and can be bought from some of the caravans that travel south to Nurn. Now all we have to do is figure out a way to bring these coins with us but keep them hidden. I wouldn't mind sharing a coin or two with a few of the girls, but I sure wouldn't want our friend Makdush to get any idea about this." Ishkur took several swigs of ale and asked. "Alright Gwerr, any ideas?"

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Carl was just empting the last load of dirt from the blanket, which had hauled in the past hour or so and with the help of Stumps, enough dirt to fill the large hole where the tunnel had collapsed, when word reached him. It was time for all to get in their positions. Sweating and red-faced, the farmer stood up, pausing to wipe his forehead. Fortunately, exertion had helped dissipate the embarrassment that had settled on him earlier, when stepping back to admire the trench, he had inadvertently tread on that delicate illusion of solid ground that Vrór had so cleverly engineered, disappearing from view rather rapidly, and painfully.

But by good fortune he was not seriously hurt, except that his pride had suffered a thorough bruising, and even then no one had made him feel the worse for his clumsiness, except for his own exacting conscience. The dwarf had even gone so far as to try to console him, calling it a proper, if unscheduled test that showed the tunnel would work as planned. For if the weight of a hobbit broke the earth, how much more so would that of a horse and rider. So Carl nodded thankfully at Vrór grateful for his perspective, and taking off his vest he set about fixing the problem.

But now when he finally was called to take up his bow and ready himself, the earth was marred with tell tale signs, and rough. And what is more, when he went to pull up his blanket, he found the bottom half deeply buried and much to his dismay quite immovable. The hobbit rapidly took the knife from his belt, and cut the blanket free, leaving a ragged end protruding above the ground.

After quickly tamping down the dry clods with his bare feet, and scooping up his vest and quiver, Carl led Stumps to where a young man stood waiting for him, while the other horsemen were gathering. Handing over the reigns, the hobbit committed the pony into the man’s care, bidding them both to take care of the other. Then turning his back to the faithful beast he went to station himself as planned.

[Undómë]

Zagra clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. ‘Good thing,’ she whispered to her sister, ‘that those men have all left! Those two are loud as piggies in the garbage heap.’

Mazhg gave a soft grunt of assent and plucked at her sister’s arm, indicating she should come along. Ishkur and Gwerr were busy with something in one of the slavers’ tents. The women had watched as he ran from the tent and returned just as quickly with an axe he’d found. They heard the sound of wood splintering beneath the ax-blade as they drew near the back of the tent. And now, pressing their ears against the cloth they could hear the clinkety-clink-clink of metal.

‘Treasure!’ Mazhg whispered, close in her sister’s ear. ‘Coins they call them. You know - those round, pretty metal things the men traded back and forth for things.’ She put her finger to her lips and listened even closer. ‘They’re going to take them,’ she went on. ‘ Oooh! And not tell Makdush.....’

‘He’s big and mean,’ Zagra whispered back. ‘Let’s get away, real quick! I don’t want that one to think we’re in on it.’ Her eyes were big with fear. ‘Squash us like a bug under his thumb if he thinks we did him wrong.’

Mazhg knew her sister would start whimpering if they stayed any longer. She took Zagra’s hand and pulled her to the safety of the slaver camp perimeter. They hid behind a tree, until Zagra felt safe.

‘You know, sister-mine,’ Mazhg spoke low, her mind turning over possibilities. ‘Let’s look quick-quick in some of the other tents along the outside, here. We can find something for us; some small things we can hide in our clothes. Makdush doesn’t need to know about that either and neither do the others. Just a few small things.....as no one’ll notice are even gone....’

Zagra held tight to her sister’s hand as the two slipped quickly through the shadows once again toward the tents.

[Regin Hardhammer]

It hadn't taken very long for the slavers to cross the remaining stretch of land and arrive at the outskirts of the camp. In the meantime, the winds had picked up and darkness was beginning to descend. As Imak pulled his horse to a halt, the sands and dirt were already swirling about in small eddies that made it difficult to see more than a few feet away.

"Captain, the weather has turned bad," one of the men bellowed above the howling winds. "Urlok was right. Maybe we should turn back?"

Imak stubbornly glared over at the offending voice and snapped, "Afraid of a little bad weather? We've come this far, and I swear I'll not turn back. And just to sweeten the pot, there's double pay for every man who follows me!"

The men answered with an approving roar. The wind died down for a minute, and the outlines of the slave camp stood no more than a hundred feet away. "Forward then," Imak cried out and began urging his horse to a gallop, with everyone following close behind.

[Durelin]

It was refreshing to find that his work might indeed serve its purpose, and Vrór’s joy was genuine when he shared it with Carl rather than growing angry at the Hobbit’s clumsiness. Even the small stature and light step of a Halfling brought down that section of the tunnel. But the Dwarf knew anything he built or designed like the back of his hand, and he did not recall having additional supports in that piece when the Hobbit stepped on it. It was nearly in the middle of the tunnel, with about two and a half meters on either side of it, and he had allowed it to serve as a test, though not in the way Carl had made it.

It had been a risk to remove the simple wood structuring that he knew might be the only thing really holding the walls and ceiling up in the tunnel, but he had to test some part of it, to know whether or not he had successfully designed an easily collapsible tunnel, or simply a collapsed tunnel. That section had held up even after the supports were removed, and Vrór was tempted to take away all of the supports. But he could not bear to see his work go to waste like that, lest other parts be considerably weaker than the one Carl had fallen into. And even more so, he could not bear to see the disappointment in the faces of those he worked with: Fellowship and slaves alike.

Never had the Dwarf had to do a project such as this. About the closest thing was his more recent work in Gondor, but that was focused on his expertise of masonry. Balancing stone in arches and walls was one thing – balancing keeping a tunnel a tunnel with making sure the soil above it gave way under a step was another matter entirely. His understanding of soil only went so far, and he was glad of Carl’s help in understanding it, but neither of them were familiar with the sort of ground in Mordor. It was in every way a foreign, wild, savage landscape. Its people, though, were in many ways quite the same as those in the West.

In the West, though, Vrór had not had to face death or destruction in a long time. He had grown quite used to peace, though the idea that Sauron’s shadow could no longer haunt any part of Middle-earth was still a little difficult to comprehend, particularly when he stood on dry earth in the middle of Mordor staring at the Ephel Dûath. His heart was filled with sorrow and pity for this land and its people, through the fear and dread and hatred he could not fully suppress after the darkness of the Eye, and he could not stand to think that he might fail them. Failure to help and protect these people was a failure in fully defeating Sauron and his legacy. This land, and its people, had suffered long enough.

He could imagine what it felt like to stand as one of the few who marched from Gondor with Elessar on that day Sauron was destroyed, not knowing if it would be they who were destroyed or the Dark Lord: he thought he might be feeling quite similar at that moment. Vrór pictured the slavers riding toward him, cruel gleaming gold, and but two-dozen were transformed into an army of thousands. A few of their mounts fell, and they with them, into the trench, and he waited for more to fall, but they kept coming. He could feel the ground shaking beneath his feet.

He just did not know for sure if it would work. The Dwarf had been afraid of any danger befalling those working on the excavation, and so he had not been reserved in giving the walls and ceiling of the tunnel as much support as possible. Surely the strength of horses hooves would force the ground out beneath them, and splinter even some of the thicker planks they salvaged. Surely...and yet he could not be sure. Vrór had always been extremely particular in his work. Nothing was to be declared finished or usable or even allowed to be touched by anyone other than those working on it until he had double-checked and triple-checked that there was no fault to it that might prove dangerous even after decades of hard use. And never had he not been present to see his creation used for the first time: whether it was a door being opened and shut, a millstone being ground, or an archway being walked under for the very first time. This tunnel had only to work once, but it had to, and that made it all the more important.

Vrór knew quite well that, had he told anyone his plan, they would have told him it was senseless. If any part of it would collapse easily under the foot of a Hobbit, with or without supports, it would not stand up to a horse bearing a full grown, armoured man. But with only fifteen feet of a chance for them to cross it at all, there was no way the Dwarf could simply wait and see.

Perhaps he was a little obsessive.

As the winds picked up, Vrór could not help but feel the slavers were nearing. He thought it foolish to think that he would base this assumption on an old man’s prediction and promise, but he shook with fear and anticipation down to his very bones as soon as the sand started whipping up into his face. Wrapping two kerchiefs around the upper and lower parts of his face to cover as much as possible, he left enough so that he could see, and make his way quickly and quietly towards the entrance to the tunnel – which was turned in the opposite direction from which the slavers would be approaching the camp – keeping so low that he practically crawled.

Once inside the tunnel, he cursed himself for not being better prepared, as he had not remembered any sort of light. The brightness of the sky had already decreased as the windstorm prepared itself to really blow, and it would only get worse. Carefully, painfully, he removed one of the first wooden slats that had been placed to keep the tunnel up, holding in his breath. Nothing. He pulled out another, and another, moving down the tunnel. He left a few he saw to be particularly well-placed in, saving them, possibly, for on his way back, for he knew he would hit a wall soon. Then he would have to make his way down the other side.

His lungs stressed and his heart almost sore from all its pounding, Vrór stole his way into the other side of the tunnel, and did as he had on the former. He worked his way down, forcing himself to move only as quickly as he could without becoming careless. All seemed quite well until he found that pulling at a plank, originally a part of a small cart, caused dust and dirt to fall from above him, and then all his fears came rushing back. Perhaps he could just leave it?

The Dwarf frantically tried to come to terms with one of his options, and after wasting several moments, he remembered what the howling outside the tunnel meant. He pressed his ear, frozen, and blocked out the strange whipping and whistling sounds the wind made blowing across the tunnel opening with his hand against his other ear. Vrór waited for a few seconds to hear or sense vibrations in the earth, a sign of the horses drawing near. He could not move until he was sure that he did or did not hear them, and that he practically mistook the pounding of his heart for the pounding of hooves did not help. When he thought he heard something beating at a very different pace from the thing in his chest, he spent a moment in disbelief before rushing into action.

The beating was growing louder in his ears, though he was now no longer sure what to attribute any sound to. Just a few more feet to the spot Carl had filled in, and then back, removing the final pieces as he went... Forced to feel his way now, it was slower work then did him well. He should have left the final board, the one that he had spent too long deliberating over already, and he had his mind made up to...until he passed it once again. Vrór found himself stopping before it and slowly inching it out. It was just a few more feet till he would be able to crawl out and run to safety, anyway. But inch-by-inch soon became centimeter by centimeter. The pounding grew louder. Finally, he gave up and wrenched it away before scuttling as fast as he could toward the entrance.

It worked! he thought as everything grew completely dark and he found himself unable to move. Perfectly...

[Folwren]

Lindir had been right. The visibility was bad, due to the wind. Gusts of strong wind grabbed up sheets of the powdery top dirt and pushed it on violently before it. The branches of the thicket around her swayed and bent in the wind. Momentarily, she doubted being able to see the group of slavers when they came. She felt a horrible feeling as she thought, what if she missed them? She licked her dry lips.

A strong burst of wind brought a new covering of dust that reached even Athwen, protected as she was. She bent her head and turned away from it. When she looked up again, her heart gave a great leap. There they were, as though they had sprung out of the earth. A few agonizing seconds past. The blood pumped in her ears, blocking all other sound. They were so near. . .so near. . .

“Gy’ap!” she cried hoarsely, and squeezed her heels sharply into her horse’s side. His head came up, his nostril’s quivered with indignation, and he bounded forward, through the last few bushes that hid them, and bounded out across the troubled earth. Faster, faster, his hooves pounded in the soft dirt. Athwen urged him on, into a faster trot, and then breaking into a canter. She sat erect and tall, rigid and proud. She let them see her. She let them look.

Straight before their path she cantered. Her horse took the ground with ease, his neck arched and his mane flying in the wind. He was fresh and not tired and his pure blood pumped with excitement through his veins.

Would they follow? Would they fall for this preciously lade bate? Athwen knew there was little space between her and the camp. They would have to turn. . .but would they follow her for such a long distance? She would taunt them, play with them. Gently, she tightened the reins and slowed her horse. He tossed his head, but his feet slowed. They drew nearer. Yes, they were following. How long, though? How long?

So close. Even in the wind and flying sand, she could see their weapons. She gave slack to the reins and he bounded forward. She gauged his speed until they had made the full loop. They were facing the camp straight on now. Ahead of them, she knew the traps lay, waiting for their prey. She could lead them straight to it. They were just behind her, the nearest of them on her horse’s very tail. She bent her body over his neck, her face in his flowing mane, her hands reached forward, giving him everything she could, and she dug her heels into his side.

The horse fairly flew. She heard his powerful breath, but she barely felt the impact of his hooves on the ground. Thus far, she had succeeded in her mission.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The wind thundered in Imak's ears as he savagely kicked his horse's flanks and urged his mount forward at breakneck speed. He had pulled out ahead of the others but then hauled back on the reins and slowed down to a lope to consider their situation. Even with the murky curtain of sand and dust, he had come close enough to glimpse a rough outline of the camp. Imak could make out a few huddled human forms just ahead, but he still could not tell if the defenders of the camp were limited to men. Young women fetched good prices on the market, and, despite his earlier show of wrath, he did not want to forego that source of profit.

Long years of leading this kind of attack made Imak suspect that several of the younger women and children might have been taken behind the lines and deposited in a safe niche. Quickly glancing over his shoulder, he bellowed at Urlok, "Take four more men and swing north. Approach the camp from the back. Look for a grotto where some of the slaves may be hiding. Get rid of the elders and the babes. Grab a few of the women. Then ride south and we'll meet up in the middle of camp. They have so few horses and weapons you should be able to push on without much trouble."

"Aye, Captain," the older man replied smartly, inviting a small contingent to ride north with him. As the band disappeared into the swirling sands, Imak pointed his own horse towards the south, thinking to approach the slaves from the underside of their camp. They would have the captives in a pincer and be able to fan out and surround them.

With that goal in mind, Imak motioned the men to follow and began cantering steadily south. But before he could advance more than a dozen paces, a lone rider came pounding into their field of vision: a young and healthy woman with golden hair streaming down about her shoulders. The slavers had been working on the plains almost six months and in that entire time had seen nothing as enticing as this. Even Imak turned around to stare and had to pull back hard on the reins to overcome his natural instincts to take off to the west and give chase. He yelled out to his men to hold steady. About half the group followed his command and continued in his track But the other half-- men who were young, impetuous and less experienced in battle--gave a mighty whoop. Spurred on by the heat of battle fury or perhaps not seeing or hearing their Captain clearly amidst the swirling sands, they impulsively jerked their horses around and raced towards the attractive figure. Imak cursed and cried out to the men to return, but his words were swallowed by the hard gusts that battered everything in their path.

[Firefoot]

Johari squatted down uneasily near some of the women she had overheard talking the previous night, waiting with them for the battle to start. She wished now that she had paid more attention to the battle plans; she was in the middle of it, whether she liked it or not, and had no idea what was going on or what she would be expected to do, or what these people she had finally settled in with were planning on doing. She should have asked Hadith while she was talking to him, but even the thought of asking him about anything left an unpleasant taste in her mouth.

Her talk with him had ended badly. After her outburst, he had stood there shocked for several moments trying to think of something to say when Johari had interrupted, fighting hard to keep her voice under control. "Right then. You had best be getting on with the rest of the group... the battle seems about to begin." Then she had turned on her heel and left, keeping her pace strictly measured. She wanted to break off and run as she might have as a child or young teen. She didn't know what kind of answer she had wanted or expected from Hadith, or even if she had wanted to hear one. It was as if some part of her wanted only to reject any offer of caring or friendliness as one of those things it was easier and better to live without. Wasn't that why she wanted to find Kalin? To feel as if she wasn't so alone in the world?

You are alone in the world, some voice told her.

Not while Kalin's still out there somewhere, she answered fiercely.

Why not let someone else in? Why not let Hadith in?

He's young - naive - confused - obnoxious sometimes... But they were feeble excuses, and if Johari would admit it to herself, she would realize that she wanted Hadith to come out of the battle all right.

Of course he would. By believing it, she could make it fact, a strategy that had worked well over the years. She had believed she would make it out of slavery, hadn't she? And that had happened. She would find Kalin, and Hadith would survive the battle. Simple as that.

Before she ever saw the horses, she heard the hoofbeats. They were coming. In the gusting wind and gathering darkness, she could not see. She only wished she knew what was going on. She wished she knew as much as Hadith sometimes seemed to think she did.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

They were on their knees waiting. The wind had steadily arisen and the gusts were ever more fiercer. There were five of them in the front row and six in the line behind them. The visibility was reducing from poor to non-existant. There was sand all over, the fine dust of Mordor filled the air around them and with violent breezes it filled their noses and ears. They were silent and they waited.

Joshwan was in the middle, his blade still sheathed as he had a spear in his right hand leaning to the ground tip down so that the line of it could not be seen. As the most experienced fighter around he would lead the way jumping over the tunnel and attempting to bring down one rider who would not have fallen into the trap. Erlech was farthest right. He also had a spear and would go round the tunnel from his side, trying the same as Joshwan. Hadith was at the left end of the row. Beloan was kneeling between him and Joshwan, looking stern and focused. Then there was this bearded and grim-looking former ex-slave Hadith didn’t know by name between Joshwan and Erlech. Hadith took a short glance around the front row. Only five men. Looking backwards he could see Khamir and Adnan behind him and then some others he didn’t recognise by name – albeit the last in the right end of the second row was Fewerth. So this is the best we can muster against a cavalry of experienced riders? Hadith thought to himself shaking his head slightly. He was afraid.

Hadith thought of Johari again, as he had so many times after she had left him with biting words. What have I done wrong to her? He thought for the hundreth time. Why is she like that? What has happened to her? Hadith just couldn’t understand. But the more he thought of her, the more he wished to understand her. There was something in her, some magic, something he could not form an idea in his feelings, let alone describe in words in his mind.

Suddenly he felt a strong urge to go and see that Johari had made it to the safety and was not wandering around alone as an easy pray to the slavers. He should go and see to her. But it was not his will-power that restrained him from springing up and making the dangerous and stupid thing he was wishing to do. His legs just refused to move. They felt like they were made of a mass of trembling jelly over which he had no control.

Hadith remembered Joshwan and Beloan encouraging the men just an half an hour ago. The mood had been different then, although also some grave words had been uttered. Hadith closed his eyes from yet another gust of wind and just dived to the past words.

“The sound of a charging cavalry disheartens even the experienced soldier. It will sound like a thunder of Darkness itself is coming to get you, rushing over you with a force you can not withhold. That is what you’re going to hear. I’ve stood against a cavalry onslaught twice and at the first time I wetted my pants from the sheer horror of it. But I’m alive as you can see!” That had been Joshwan.

“We will be afraid brothers. We will be. But just because of that no one should be ashamed of it! It’s all about overcoming the fear. Show them our hearts are ringing! Show them that our hearts are a mighty-thumping! Show them our hearts are made of iron! We will fight for our freedom!” That had been Beloan in turn.

Hadith remembered the upbeat feeling there had been just a while ago. Beloan had asked him to join the first row, to join him, by his side. Overrun by the enthusiasm of that moment Hadith had agreed. It had been an honour to be called to the first row. He remembered Adnan’s face as he had walked to the first line beside Beloan. Somehow he had felt sorry for the guy.

Now he was getting second thoughts and was more than happy on behalf of Adnan who got to be on the second row. What am I doing here? I’m just a boy! I’ve thrown a knife at a human being once, instinctively. I’ve killed a few deer... I’m no soldier. I’m no warrior. What will I do when the thunder of the onslaught will come? My legs don’t obey me even now.

Hadith didn’t hear or see them coming as the gust of wind deafened his ears and brought the visibility next to nothing. But he felt them. At first it was just a slight trembling of the ground under him, but it grew stronger by the second and in no time the earth had started to shake violently. Then he heard them despite the ever harder blowing wind. Joshwan had been right. Hadith felt his blood rushing away from his limbs and started to tremble himself. His teeth were chattering and he felt dizzy. If his legs seemed not ready to follow his orders a moment ago, now he didn’t even feel their presence any more.

As Beloan’s hand fell on his shoulder he wetted himself from sheer panic that had totally immobilised him. He felt that he had no control over his body. The approaching sound of the hooves filled his consciousness and made even his mind to go on slow motion. Hadith was shaking all over, uncontrollably.

“Courage, Hadith, Courage” Beloan said to him in a low voice, leaning carefully towards him and taking a firmer grip on his shoulder. Even Beloan felt tense and a bit shaky. “For freedom, Hadith. If we don’t fight, who will?”

As Beloan withdrew his hand there was a new and even fiercer gust of wind that filled Hadith’s ears and nose with dust and for a moment the thunder of the oncoming cavalry went off. Then, just without warning the wind ceased for a second. He saw something. There was a lonely rider coming towards them. Just then the rumble of the chasers filled his ears again and he felt the earth pounded under the heavy horses. The sound now even beat the howling of the wind.

This is it then... Courage Hadith, courage.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The journey back to camp had not been easy. With the winds gusting hard from behind, the old man had found it took all his strength and will just to place one weary foot in front of the other and somehow keep moving in a straight line. If it hadn't been for Rôg and his uncanny sense of direction even in the middle of the blowing sand and dirt, Aiwendil would likely have veered off on the wrong path and totally missed the encampment. As it was, their return trek had been frustratingly slow. They had staggered into camp just a few moments before the main body of the attackers came riding into view.

At least he and Rôg had managed to stall the slavers long enough to allow Lindir and the others to complete their preparations for the camp. Nor was it a bad thing to have the slavers caught up in the storm, scarcely able to see more than a few feet in front of them. Aiwendil had spoken briefly with the elf, first telling him what had happened out on the plain. Then he had offered to mount up and go with the group of riders who would be the first to face the attacking slavers. Lindir had responded with a slow shake of his head, "You would be a welcome addition to the riders, of course. If you feel that is where you belong, I will not stop you. Still, something else has been bothering me. Aiwendil, we have unprotected women and children, to say nothing of the elders, hiding in the rocks just west of camp. It is not much cover at all, but we could find nothing better. If the slavers attack head on and we manage to stop them, then all should be well. But how do we know they will all ride into camp on exactly the path we want? Or, worse yet, what if we are not able to halt them? I can not leave those people without the slightest shred of protection. Aiwendil, could you and possibly Rôg go out and join them? If there is an attack from the rear, do what you can to protect those folk."

Aiwendil quickly countered, "I will do as you say. But what can two do against a band of roving warriors?"

"To be truthful, I am not sure. I only know that two are better than none. There are others hiding in the rocks who might be able to help in a pinch. That young man Kwell who was rescued from the pit, the one to whom I gave the dagger, put him in charge of the other boys in case there is fighting. Have them all collect some rocks. Perhaps some of the boys have slings. Anything is better than nothing. And if the battle does come to you, you must call out to me. If I still have breath in my body, I will hearken to your cry and immediately send more fighters down to help you."

"I will do this then. Whether or not Rôg will agree, I do not know. But I will ask him as you suggest." With that, Aiwendil unstrapped his sword from the back of his horse and gave the animal to Lindir, suggesting that it be given to one of the others to ride.

[Brinniel]

As time passed, the storm only grew stronger. The wind howled with a fury and dust blew into Shae's face, causing her eyes to tear. She sat impatiently on top of the horse she had won- a horse she had named Furie- waiting, waiting for what seemed like hours.

As soon as it was announced that a cavalry would be formed, Shae volunteered to be part of it. After only one night on horseback, she had already grown accustomed to riding, and could not bear to part from this particular mare. If Shae had not been enslaved, she would have been an expert rider by now. Her great-grandfather had been a Rider of Rohan, and though they were Gondorians by two generations, her father often took pride in his grandfather's heritage. They owned many horses, and Shae had been taught to ride before she even learned to walk. Her father told her she had natural talent and a special bond with the creatures, and it proved so. By the age of five, she could ride just as well as Joren, who was eleven at the time. But after twenty years, Shae had lost much of what she learned- she could not claim to be anymore than a novice rider. Yet, over the course of one night, memories of the lessons her father gave came flooding back into the woman's memories, and she felt an attachment to Furie that she could not explain. While she was no where close to being an expert rider, Shae no longer felt uncomfortable in her saddle. On top of this horse was where she belonged, and sitting there gave her a thrill she had not experienced in years.

The dust storm only continued to grow in strength, blinding the woman's already poor vision. She began to ponder whether it was even possible to fight in such conditions. Relying on her ears, Shae listened closely, past the wailing wind. And then, the sound she had been searching for: hoofbeats. Clutching her long knife in her right hand and the reins in the other, she eyed the men next to her, who sat on their horses just as anxiously. She gave them a slight nod, listening as the hoofbeats grew louder. It would not be much longer. Her wait would soon be over.

[Folwren]

The camp was drawing nearer. Athwen slowed her horse a trifle again, to make sure that the men following her were not discouraged. She looked over her shoulder. Less than half of the whole group followed her. But, still. . .there might be ten men in pursuit. She looked back ahead. There was a place to cross safely, she knew. But this wind and this sand made it almost impossible to see. Would her trusty horse see the trench to jump it? She knew how he moved and how he sensed his footing. He could feel her excitement, her urgency, and she had not the slightest doubt that he would jump – if he saw the trench in time.

Nearer and nearer they came. Athwen gathered herself up for the leap. She tightened the reins, gathered his head, and lifted herself above the saddle. The trench had to be only a few strides ahead and in a moment he would be preparing for the jump. Now was the time! Now!

The horse didn’t jump. A breathless, gasping whiny of protest burst from his mouth. His feet came to a skidding stop, the open trench just before him. A scream mounted in Athwen’s chest, but her throat contracted in panic and it could not escape. Her forward momentum did not stop and she shot forward, over the horse’s head. She felt herself falling and there was nothing to hold onto, nothing to cling to, except the reins in her hands. Her fingers grasped them convulsively and wouldn’t let go. She landed in the trench, her feet beneath her, her side against the dirt wall, and one arm stretched above her head as her hand clutched the reins.

An instant later, nine horses plunged passed her, their riders unable to stop them. They leaped the trench, and she cowered beneath them as their legs and bellies rushed above her. She didn’t see what happened to them, whether the tunnel collapsed, or what happened to the horses that fell in it. She was gasping and panting for breath, trembling with the aftermath that such a burst of pure terror causes.

The trench in which she knelt blocked most of the wind. The air was still around her and she could catch her breath. She let her hand slide down the reins without letting go, and for a moment she just lay there with the side of her face against the cool dirt.

Suddenly, she felt a touch on her shoulder. She jerked violently, her heart leaping again to her throat. She twisted away and this time the scream escaped her open mouth. Her movement was too late. The man had her arm in an iron grip and he dragged her up from the trench, back into the wind. She tried to struggle, but he had some sort of armor on and it hurt her hands to strike. In her attempt to get free, she let go of the reins and her horse turned and trotted away from the struggle.

“Come on, come on, come on,” the man muttered as he tried to keep his hands on his squirming captive. “Don’t cause such trouble, my sweet.” Athwen trembled from head to foot with contemptive horror. Tears of rage and terror filled her eyes and coursed down her face. She didn’t care if it hurt, she fought and struck out all the harder. She had to get loose, she had to! She would rather be killed than be taken at this point. Her hands were cut – she could see blood on them though she felt nothing – and still she fought, although he dragged her farther on, towards his horse, where he wanted her.

[Folwren]

Where Kwell sat at this point, sheltered as he was with the rocks and bushes and other plants, he could see hear the wind and see the great clouds of dust roll over the hidden shelter for the children and women. Not much wind reached them, though it wailed in a melancholy, ghostly way through the rocks.

He sat apart from the other children, who huddled close to the women and the elderly men who could not go out at fight. His habitual scowl decorated his face as he drew in the dirt with a small stick with one hand, while his other clenched and unclenched around the hilt of the dagger that Lindir the elf had given him the previous night.

Until now, no one had heard any sound coming from the encampment below them. The wind howled over their heads and would have swept any noise away. But suddenly, the wind died momentarily, and Kwell heard shouts.

All of the childrens’ heads raised, and some of the older people who still had somewhat sharp hearing looked up, too. The attack had begun. In a moment, the wind picked up again and they could hear nothing.

Kwell bounded to his feet and crawled towards an opening. He heard a step behind him and he turned sharply to see Azhar.

“What are you doing here?” he asked harshly.

“What are you going to do?” she asked instead. She guessed almost instantly. “Don’t go down, Kwell, you’ll get killed! Stay here like you were told.”

“I’m not given orders any more!” he said brusquely. “You stay here. You’re sick. And you’re a girl, besides, so you can’t come anyway.”

“I don’t want to. But you need to stay here. The order was to keep you safe. You’re just a boy, after all!”

Kwell gave her a poisoned look that told her to hold her tongue. “I can fight,” he said. “I have a dagger. And the elf told me I wasn’t a child any more. Besides, that. . .that dwarf – no, hobbit-” he still had difficulty keeping the two races separate in his mind “-that hobbit is no larger than me and he’s fighting. Let me go!” He pushed her hand away and before she could speak again, he scrambled through the rock and dropped onto the ground. Instantly, he was enveloped in the fierce wind and the blowing sand and dirt. He scrambled as quickly as he could down the shallow incline towards the camp and where he knew that shortly, if not already, men were fighting for lives and freedom.

[piosenniel]

Rôg reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out a bright yellow scarf. It was one his sister had made for him, knowing his love for those bright little birds of their homeland. With a few quick wraps he’d secured it across his mouth and nose. And pulling up his generous hood he brought it forward far enough to deflect at least part of the swirling sands.

The hornets had gone back to their nest, safe from the wind’s stinging debris. Were the situation that his friends and new acquaintances not been so dire, Rôg too would have gone to ground to wait for the sandstorm’s passing. Instead, he lowered his head and trudged with a quick determined step toward where the others were waiting.

Lindil he could see was arranging his meager troops to meet the slavers’ onset. Eyes narrowed, Rôg looked about for Aiwendil. He was not among the fighters. Rôg cast about, looking this way and that as his steps carried him away from the ragtag warriors.

Ah! There was the old man – a covey of women and children taken under his wing. He and they were preparing in their own way to defend themselves if the slavers broke through the fellowship’s armed ranks. Rôg slipped in among them, gathering a few of the younger children in, pushing them in amidst the safety of the larger group.

The others were bringing out their little slings and sharpened planting sticks in preparation for their defense. Rôg’s hand patted along his belt looking for his knife. A smallish weapon, but at least it would be something. Pat as he might, he felt nothing. You bubble-headed fool! he growled at himself. And look, you haven’t even your walking stick to knock the foe about.

He rubbed at the gold stud in his left ear. Some sand perhaps had irritated it he thought at first. His scalp prickled as he touched the flat little oval, whether in anticipation of the coming battle or in dread, he could not tell.

‘Well, if I must,’ he whispered as if to the keening wind, ‘I will. I’ll try to be discreet. Though really I’d rather not at all, if you don’t mind.’ He pulled his hood a little further forward, readying himself for whatever might happen in the attack and the defense.

For just one moment, in a brief lull in the sand and wind’s duet, he thought he heard the rasping voice of the old woman from the eastern mountains. ‘Step up, little one!’ And then only her amused laughter fading on the wind as it rose it force again.

[Tevildo]

For a moment Azhar stood frozen on top of the hill, unable to move or speak. She could not believe Kwell was deserting her and disobeying Lindir's instructions. When the elf had led them into the grove, he had been very clear about what they should do. He had told them to stay and that the older children should try and help protect the little ones.

As Kwell scrambled away without a backwards glance, Azhar darted a few steps forward and cried out in parting, "Kwell, you louse. I'm no child. I'm as old as you. You're just doing this to show off and prove something to yourself. A real soldier wouldn't disobey his captain's instructions, and he wouldn't desert his post, just because he doesn't like the job he's been given."

Azhar stomped back up the hill in a grim mood. Despite her brave words, she felt lonely and deserted. Maybe Kwell was right. They had stuck her here because she was too sick and young to fight. Basically, she was useless. At least Lindir had given Kwell a weapon. She didn't even have that. What if an attack on their position came? How would she protect herself or the younger children if she had nothing more useful than her bare hands with which to fight? Forgetting her fever and the persistent ache in her head, Azhar stood up and slowly began to gather rocks, still feeling utterly useless.

[Nogrod]

"Chaar-rge!"

Hadith had seen the horse stop just before the tunnel. Then there was a gust of wind again and he could only see a vague form of someone flying over the horse and then disappearing from sight. Then the enemy was there, just a good thirty yards ahead of them. The first horses fell into the tunnel they had digged and their riders were thrown from their saddles.

"Grraaaah!"

It was Joshwan. He was already a couple of yards ahead of the others, building up rage within him with his bellowing. Hadith remembered what he had said before they had taken their positions. "Enrage yourselves if you can, you'll feel more powerful... and might forget the fear". Joshwan had smiled wryly after that, Hadith remembered his expression.

From the corner of his eye Hadith thought he recognised the form of Erlech running forwards on his right too. They were all jumping forwards. He had to force his legs to move. They were not willing to obey. Then he shouted with all that his lungs could afford.

"Iaaaiiiyy!"

He was so late to get up that Khamir almost run on him from behind. "Run Hadith, run!" he yelled at Hadith. And he ran. He ran against the wind that seemed to do everything to prevent him from advancing. But now he had to run. They were all running towards the enemy. And now they all yelled as loud as they could to keep the fear aside.

Hadith saw Joshwan jumping over the tunnel, landing his spear down to the tunnel as he went over it, kind of using it as a pole. But there was something wrong. He used it tip down. Hadith did see that. What? He got the answer immmediately. There was a harsh wail of a man that came to his ears from the tunnel, aided by the wind. Hadith saw how Joshwan had to twist the spear a couple of times to and fro before he got it released. Then he disappeared into the swirling dust.

"Watch out Hadith!" Beloan cried and passed him in great haste. Hadith only saw something like a shadow passing him and the swing of the naked blade. Only then he realised that there was a slaver on the ground just a yard or two to his left, trying to rise up and grasping for his blade. Beloan's shape came between him and the slaver. The sound of a blade cutting flesh from that distance made Hadith feel sick. He was sure he would throw up at any second. There was no yell from the slaver, just a dim rattle of death that he barely heard. Somehow it made it feel even more terrifying.

There were sounds of swords clinging to each other on his right. Hadith saw the bearded slave fighting with a slaver who had been dropped from his saddle over the tunnel. Fewerth was joining in to help him. Khamir ran past him and went forwards to jump the ditch. "Hadith! Check the tunnel!" Beloan called him against the wind and also went over, disappearing from his sight as well.

So, I’m no soldier... they all go and they all fight and I’m just slowing down, unable to do anything. Hadith turned to see was there anyone behind him just to see that all the others had slowed down too, looking just as unsure and frightened as he was. Now Hadith! Show yourself to be worthy of the trust Beloan and Khamir have laid on you!

“Freeedoom!”

Hadith turned to a slight angle towards the tunnel to gain an extra yard’s speed and ran for it. He swang his blade in the air and heard the others, at least some of them, following him. “Check the tunnels!” He shouted.

In front of him there was just dust and the frightening sounds of the battle. And into that horrifying unknown of the fight he jumped.

His jump carried him over the trench. After regaining his balance he managed to get a glimpse of a woman being forcefully dragged away by a man to his right. Athwen!, he knew her name. Hadith gathered all his courage and run towards them yelling as he went: “Leave her!”

As the slaver turned to see Hadith running towards them with a blade he hit Athwen forcefully to her face with the back of his hand. She fell to the ground. Hadith saw all this and also how the slaver turned towards him, a long sword in his hand ready to swing. “Come on you little one! Daddy won’t do you more harm than any loving dad would!” the Slaver grinned with the words as Hadith made the distance between them.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

The sand crackled between his teeth as Carl clenched them, tensely shifting his jaw from side to side as he waited. Lowering his bow, he caught the green kerchief covering his nose and mouth and pulled it down, spitting into the sand at his side to gauge the wind. All of those who clutched bows were now poised, alert and frozen as they waited for the attackers to come into view. And with this changing wind they had to be doubly sure of their mark, there were too few arrows to waste, and as Lindir had told them, both Athwen and Dorran might be among those to reach the trench.

All thought of showering rocks upon the enemy as they climbed out of the tunnel, had quickly been put aside. And Lindir had impressed upon them all the importance of not only indentifying just who they were targeting, but also those surrounding them. It made a good deal of sense with this wind whipping about. Shooting long distance was simply too dangerous. But still having to wait while two-dozen armed horsemen came barreling toward them was not easy. Carl could only shoot so fast, and once his arrows were done, he might be done for as well. With no time to even find a hole to hide in.

The hobbit raised his bow again as he faintly heard the rumble of approaching horses in the wind. Aye, he couldn’t think like that. He had to keep an eye out and a few spare arrows for Hamin, the fellow who he had struggled with in the pit. In truth, he was quite anxious that he find the slaver before Hamin could discover where Kwell and Azhar were hidden. He held himself quite responsible for Hamin’s ill temper toward the two children, and even if that where not the case, just knowing what sort he was, made the hobbit that much more eager to confound the slaver's revenge.

Through squinted eyes and stinging wind, Carl looked over at Lindir. The elf was stationed with the other half of the bowmen to the right of Beloan’s men. Lindir’s body turned, as he looked down the length of an arrow, piercing the veil of dust with his keen eyes, searching for the riders in the storm. “There are too few of them here,” he shouted over the roaring wind. “Only a portion has taken our bait.” And Carl watched as Lindir’s group stood down, the elf running easily behind the lines to were the hobbit and a scant handful of other bowmen were positioned to the left of Beloan’s men.

“Carl,” he said in the hearing of all, as he drew up. “As an archer of the Shire I trust you to direct the bowmen around you, while I gather the rear guard quickly. Once the group of riders that is descending on us has gotten past the trench, and its numbers have been sufficiently depleted, let Beloan’s men finish dealing with them. You and your fellows are to fall back, for I believe you will be sorely needed elsewhere in the camp.”

Carl nodded his understanding, as Lindir glanced quickly across the murky plain before departing. The hobbit looked up just in time to see the first wave of horses that jumped the trench, coming into view. Just as their hooves found the earth, it gave way beneath them, and the riders were hurled, slamming against the exposed side of the collapsing tunnel. Carl winced as he saw the first horse somersault into the deep gouge, that was rapidly lengthening. But giving a loud shout he and his men loosed their arrows on the slavers that had fallen in the left side of the tunnel, and were struggling to climb out of the pit. They looked fierce, with eyes smoldering and sand clinging to great scratches and welts, and the hobbit wondered what else had befallen them on their way. Two of his group ran closer to the edge, shooting the at the rider’s below them.

Looking along the length of the tunnel, Carl saw some of Beloan’s group rush forward to jump into it, and fight the young slavers there. None of those he saw resembled Hamin’s bulk and he could recognize neither Athwen nor Dorran in the brown haze that enveloped everyone. But worrying that Hamin might enter the camp elsewhere or that Athwen had ridden off to the side at the last moment, perhaps still under pursuit, Carl shouted loudly over the din. Garnering no response from his archers, he put his fingers to his mouth emitting an ear-piercing whistle at which the archers fell back, and the small group quickly disappeared into the camp.

[Nogrod]

Gwerr (and Ishkur)

Gwerr had been not been too succesful with his findings. The only thing he considered worth plundering was the slaver leader’s bear pelt he found from the bed. It could keep him warm, come winter and the cold days. But he recognised the jingling noise of the coins immediately as Ishkur shook the chest ha had found. Gwerr turned to look at him and grinned approvingly. Then he went on with his search with increased fervour as in the end there seemed to be something worth finding around.

The next thing he came aware of outside his own search was the voice of an axe hitting something solid and the following sound of splintering wood. He turned to see Ishkur exalted with the treasure that now had spread over the floormat.

"Well, my friend! We may not agree on everything but we can surely agree on this. We'll be doing these slavers a favor if we empty out their chest........ Now all we have to do is figure out a way to bring these coins with us but keep them hidden. I wouldn't mind sharing a coin or two with a few of the girls, but I sure wouldn't want our friend Makdush to get any idea about this." Ishkur took several swigs of ale and asked. "Alright Gwerr, any ideas?"

“Oh you moron you! That chest might have done just fine but you had to go and break it, now did you?” Gwerr grinned to Ishkur, but couldn’t hide his satiscfaction with the find. “Don’t tell me you hadn’t the faintest what that chest held in it – and you were just forced to break it to find it out?”, he queried Ishkur, flashing now a cunning but open smile.

“C’mon Gwerr, don’t start again!” Ishkur bursted back to him. “How would you have carried this chest unnoticed by the Uruks? Now tell me!”, he complained and took to his flagon. Gwerr came over to sit by Ishkur and opened his own skin, taking a considerable draught from it. After he had wiped his chin and cheast from all the dripping ale he finally turned to meet his mate. He smiled now.

“I just couldn’t resist it you old bore”. With that he tugged Ishkur between the ribs companionly but hard enough as the orcs had a habit of doing when they were pleased. “Ahh, that’s a pile of valuable things down there comrade” Gwerr said with a half-voice, nodding to the carpet where the coins were among the splintered chest. “ But yes, how to carry them unnoticed... hmmm.” Gwerr straightened his back and started looking around the tent to find something that could give him an idea. Suddenly he fixed his eyes towards the corner of the tent.

“What is it now, Gwerr. Wha'ss up? There is something?” Ishkur asked his mate. Gwerr didn’t answer but rose up hastily and ran for the corner of the tent where there was a rack of slaver captain’s clothes hanging. “This man must love scarfs... and that suits us just fine, pluming on one’s looks really bites one back I say... Ohh, the vain git has made us a favour now.” Gwerr talked as he ripped several scarfs off the rack and returned to Ishkur and the treasure.

“Okay, you master of the maggots. Look and listen. This is what we do.” With that Gwerr kneeled down to reach the stack of coins. He spreaded one of the scarfs open beside the pile and then took two plenty handfuls of the coins, laying them carefully into a heap into the middle of the scarf. After that he collected the four corners of the scarf into his left hand and lifted the bunch in the air. He made a few swings with it over his head like he was using a sling.

“You see this now, light-brained friend of mine?” Gwerr smiled openly, which was rare among the orcs. Then he stopped the scarf-bag in mid air, gave it a twist with his fingers to sned it rolling around, and as it had strained enough, he stopped it and made a tight knot just above the point where the coins were.

“So you see, no jingling any more” Gwerr said and dropped the pouch from the level of his chest. It gave a dull thump and just a faint tinkle as it landed to the carpet.

“Now this kind of bags we can hide in many places. Wrap them in your spare clothes or stuck them into your spare boots – if you have ones. Wrap them into a gold-embroided negligee there and stuck it to your horses saddlebag. Anyone seeing it will think you were going to sell that cloth with a fair price somewhere... or thought you were getting soft! Both ways are fine, aren’t they?” Now Gwerr was laughing, laughing openly. It was not totally evil laughter but something nearing joy. His eyes smiled to Ishkur as he rose up and received a sudden punch to the chest from his mate. Gwerr rolled back to the ground but his laughter only grew louder.

“You know my friend... we’re not only free, we’re rich too!”

[Folwren]

Kwell dropped low to the ground, the wind whistling about him until he could hardly hear or see. His teeth clenched close together and his dry lips pursed to keep the sand and flying dirt out. He ran forward towards the front lines, knowing that eventually he would stumble into someone or some sort of excitement.

He did stumble into what he was expecting, before he expected it. He saw a group of people approaching him as quickly as they could in the wind. His feet stopped abruptly and he looked hard to see if he could make out who it was who approached him. Were they enemies, or friends? Then from his right he heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats. He straightened up abruptly, his eyes staring hard and his mouth opening. He had thought they were supposed to come from straight on. . .come in straight into the camp to fall into the tunnel and trench that they had spent so much time digging. Had they not? Had they simply ridden around it? How had they known that it was there in order that they might avoid it?

The thoughts spun through his head like a grass fire. They were gone in an instant, for he suddenly realized that he stood right in the awy of danger. The pounding drew nearer, the great, dark shapes came closer and he could make out each of the riders. In another moment, he saw their faces.

He had forgotten the first group of men he had seen. They were running forward now, towards the riders, and closer to him. Kwell found himself rooted to the ground, unable to move. He watched in alarm as the riders came rushing forward, and those on foot came running on. And then a horse missed his stride, stumbled, and fell. The rider summersaulted over his horse's head and went skittering across the rocky earth. Kwell gasped and drew back, for the man stopped his tumble very near him. As the boy withdrew, his hand brushed against the hard handle of the dagger at his side. His hand paused for a moment and then his fingers grasped the handle. He stopped to consider a moment and then he drew it in one, sharp movement. His jaw clenched and his face twisted into some horrible, dark expression and he leaped forward with a cry.

When he first plunged the dagger into the man's body, he had not thought of it as actually killing a man. He had not considered him as a person. The face was turned away from him, he could not see his eyes, nor read his expression. But Kwell knew nothing of killing, nor how to use a weapon. The blow that he gave had every advantage of surprise, and the man was still dazed from his fall. The stroke proved useless, however, for he struck at his side and the blade turned on a rib and ran virtually harmlessly down his side.

The man jerked violently and shouted out in pain. He twisted about and Kwell leaped back in alarm. The slaver slowly sat up on his knees and for a moment Kwell looked directly into his face. He recognized the man as one of the guards who had watched over his prison in the pit the previous day and nights.

"Why you little beast! I knew when I first set eyes on you that I should have wrung your little, theiving neck!"

Kwell looked shocked and startled. Evidently the man recognized him, too. In the blink of an eye the slaver had large, curved blade drawn in his hand. Kwell blinked and looked down at the knife in his hand. With hardly an additional thought, he turned and fled, running as hard as he could with the wind towards the group that he had seen advancing earlier. He hoped against hope that there, with others to help him, he might have a slight chance of surviving. And if not. . .well, perhaps he would die helping someone else, instead of being uselessly slaughtered by himself.

[Durelin]

Khamir

It was like no rush Khamir had ever felt, as the trembling in his limbs matched the rumbling of hooves. He caught only glimpses of the riders before they were completely swallowed by the dust, squinting through a small gap in the cloth that protected his face. Blind, the fighters charged in, though he had to scream at Hadith to get the man’s legs working. He was not angry at the boy, nor did he think less of him. But he had to get him moving somehow. Hadith simply obeyed it like a command, and Khamir was grateful. Adnan remained at his right, and would guard the man’s armless side, if all went well. And the one-armed man would not let Adnan out of his sight, if not for that reason.

There were screams, human and not: for moments those were their only targets. But soon some came into view, in and around the collapsed tunnel were men and beasts sprawled out, still or struggling, trying to reorient themselves or simply try to stay alive. Khamir broke off to one side with the rest of those in the rear, to meet what lay in wait in the cloud of dirt. The sand stung his skin, little pinpricks of fire all over his body. He could almost feel it lashing against the arm that was not there, like an itch that would not go away. It had been years since he felt something like that...it renewed his anger. His long hunting knife was drawn, and his smaller throwing knives were at the ready.

Suddenly, as they reached the trenches, Adnan disappeared from his side. Khamir whipped around. The boy had been grabbed by the leg and pulled down. The slaver had let go of him in order to get up, but in a heartbeat Khamir was on him. He tackled the man, regardless of the pain it caused his mostly unprotected body on the armour, and struggled with him, using his legs to try and pin him just long enough... There was a flash of silver that came dangerously close to Khamir’s stomach, but it dropped with a clank as Adnan suddenly drove his knife into the Easterling’s arm that held it. With an angry growl, the slaver allowed his head to fall back as he tried to heave Khamir off, and the Southron saw his opening, sliding his blade across the man’s unprotected neck. Immediately rising to leave the body, Khamir found Adnan already on his feet again, staring down at the dead Easterling. The one-armed man thought he saw a smile in the younger man’s eyes, but he would not believe much of anything he saw in this wind.

But even in the low visibility, what he could see of the slavers and the trenches made him feel uneasy. They did not all fall to the trap. But there was no one on horseback in his line of sight. The count had been at least two-dozen. Where were they? A sudden, dreadful thought fell over him. These slavers, though proud, were not stupid. They had proved cunning enough the first night they attacked, whether or not the slaves had been an easy target. Their leader had to know that though they were technically outnumbered, they actually out-manned the slaves. And, if he had expected any sort of defense, he had to know they did not have enough to spread their forces. But he did...

“Fall back with me!” he called to those on this end of the trench and tunnel, but only three out of the six in the rear came to him, everyone’s eyes darting from left to right and back, watching each other’s backs. Khamir’s eyes darted around, but the thought of his own life or the lives of any present was quite out of his head. Now where had that boy gotten to? Something turned sour in his stomach, and his voice had lost its feeling of command. “Where is Adnan? Has anybody seen Adnan?”

“I think Tareef is gone, as well,” someone said, but Khamir did not really hear.

“I fear we have hardly won the battle. I think something is amiss, and I fear for the lives of the women and children.”

“You mean…” one of the men, Nasim, asked in a rush of air, “from behind?” Khamir nodded. “Come on!” Nasim shouted, and took off toward where he knew those who could not fight lay unprotected. The others followed him. Khamir’s heart was split in two. He trusted the other men, but he knew every man they could spare should return to the women and children. But he also did not know where Adnan was. After a moment of hesitation, he wound his way toward the tunnel, checking the ground and checking the bodies. His hopes were raised each time he saw one that was not Adnan.

Finally he found the boy, kneeling at the edge of the collapsed tunnel, near its end. He was digging. Immediately Khamir rushed towards him to grab him. The man was prepared to berate him when he noticed several gashes, one on his cheek, one on his chest, another on his wrist… When Adnan stopped digging for a moment to look at the older man, Khamir caught a glimpse of the boy’s hands, and he saw that blood mixed with the dirt on the left one. Two of his fingers were missing. The body of an Easterling behind the boy was explanation enough. Khamir could only stare, and he tore his eyes away from the boy only to find them glued to the dead body. Its throat, arms, hands, and face were all bloodied almost beyond recognition. The Southron man knew it had not been the struggle that had caused that.

Turning back to Adnan, his face grave, he found the young man digging again, and with another blink he was cognizant enough to see that he was digging up a body. A glimpse of red hair, and Khamir’s hands plunged into the dirt, as well. Vrór! What had he done? When the Dwarf was at least partially uncovered, Khamir and Adnan each grabbed one of his arms and pulled with all their might. Slowly he loosened from the earth, and from there they took their time dragging him out further.

Vrór was obviously unconscious, and once they had him almost completely out of the trench, Khamir began to fear the worst. He made sure the cloth covered the Dwarf’s face well, and tied it around his head to protect a wound to his head from even more sand and dust. Then, tearing off pieces from the ragged shirt that protected his torso from the elements, he proceeded to quickly wrap Adnan’s hand, and then roughly cover the worst of his other cuts. It was obvious the boy was in real pain, though he did not show it: he did not argue in the least as Khamir took care of him.

[Folwren]

Athwen regained her senses and her dignity quickly as Rôg struggled to say a few kindly words. He gently disentangled his sleeve from her clutching hand and she stepped back, suddenly self-conscious. “The wounded.....I don’t know what to say about that. Except that I know you will do the best you can until the circumstances change.”

“Yes,” she gasped quietly, taking the scarf he so kindly offered. “Yes, of course I will. Thank you.”

Aiwendil must have heard the exchange of words, and tears, for he suddenly appeared at her side. His touch and old, kind voice brought new courage to her as he led her quickly away. “If you have time before the wounded are brought in, you might talk with the mothers and have a look at a few of their children. From what I have seen some have suffered greatly at Nurn and could use the gentle hand of a healer. That may help them as much as potions or herbs.” She was introduced to one of these mothers and before she could turn back to Aiwendil to explain that there already was a man who there who needed her help with a wound, he had left. She turned back to the woman.

“Gwyn?” she said, repeating the name that Aiwendil had told her. The woman nodded. “I have a wounded man with me…I think his name is Hadith. Can you show me where the buckets of water have been kept? I have a horse with Hadith on him, can we get the horse there?”

“Yes, I think we can. Go and get him. I’ll wait for you.”

Athwen hurried away to fetch the horse and lead him back. As she went, she folded Rôg’s scarf into a triangle and tied it around her nose and mouth. When her hands were empty again, she had reached the horse, and she reached up to take the reins near the bit. He tossed his head a little at first but, after a reluctant first step, he followed her meekly as she led him towards Gwyn.

“Wait a moment,” Athwen said as she reached her. “I need to get my pack. Hold him.” She handed the horse to Gwyn and then ran lightly away to where she had stored away her things earlier. She came back with the pack of healing herbs and other necessary things.

Gwyn waited for her and when Athwen reached her, she silently handed back the reins and turned to show the way. The women, with their little children pressed close about their skirts, made as much way as possible as Athwen and the horse passed through them. At the very back of the gathering of women and children they came to the rocks that formed the shelter. Gwyn led Athwen directly to a large stone that was slightly hollowed out towards the bottom, forming a slightly convex shape beneath which the air was still. Four buckets of water sat there. Clothes covered them to keep out any stray sand or dirt that might happen to reach them.

Athwen’s eyes lighted up a little when she saw such a place, blocked from the wind and calm on account of it. She brought the horse forward as far as he would come and then she ran about to his side. “Here, Gwyn, help me lift him down, please.”

Gwyn came about and together, the two women pulled Hadith down from his place and to the best of their ability, slowed his downward movement to set him gently on the ground beneath the curved rock. A quite groan forced its way through Hadith’s mouth, proving that he wasn’t quite senseless. An exclamation of surprise broke from Gwyn’s lips when she saw the blood that soaked Hadith’s whole left side and the wound in his arm. She shivered and shrank back.

Athwen, without looking up from her patient, laid her hand gently on Gwyn’s arm. “Easy, Gwyn. Unless you think you can stay and help me, take the horse back out from here.” She paused for a moment. Her mind was not only thinking about what to do with the horse, but also trying to make up its mind if she should be happy about Hadith being almost half conscious or unhappy. If he were still partially awake, that meant that he hadn’t lost as much blood as it had first appeared. On the other hand, if he were out cold, he wouldn’t make anything difficult by struggling against the pain. She blinked and made up her mind about the horse.

“Ask Rôg where you can put him…or, no, Rôg is busy.” She looked up at the horse and then at Gwyn. “Take him out from among you. I don’t know how steady he will be with the winds and when the fighting comes. Tie him someplace to a bush.”

“I will,” Gwyn said, hurriedly getting to her feet and backing away towards the horse. She stopped as she bumped lightly into his shoulder. “Will he – will he be alright?”

“I don’t know,” Athwen said honestly, looking up to meet Gwyn’s eyes. She nodded towards the horse. “Take him along now, before he does something.” Gwyn nodded, her eyes very large and round in her face, and she turned swiftly and taking the reins, led the horse quickly away and through the women and children again.

Athwen sighed and turned back towards Hadith. She wasted no time at all to roll her sleeves up to her elbows and carefully pull one of the buckets of water towards herself. Then she gently set to work clearing away the torn and ragged cloth of his shirt from the bloody mess of his shoulder. A sort of shudder passed through Hadith’s body as she worked and whenever her hand touched the bleeding limb. She pursed her lips at the mangled and savagely wounded arm. As she finished pulling the last, rough bit of material from the wound, she shook her head in wonder.

“My dear fellow,” she muttered between her teeth, “you were one lucky man today.” She reached out for her pack and set to work staunching the blood and examining what sort of damage was actually done.

The sword of the slaver had cut just beneath the collar bone. It sliced deep within the flesh there, cut beneath the bone of the shoulder and Athwen, as she sponged away the blood, could see the white bone of his arm. She knew she did not have long to work before fighting in the grove would break her short time of piece, or before more wounded people were brought in. She grasped for her pack again and drew out a long, sharp needle and thread.

The work was quick and precise. Hadith tried to move and he often uttered a weak moan. Athwen kept on, knowing she could do nothing for the pain at present. She had the wound stitched and bandaged quickly, though, and when it was over, he could rest much more comfortably.

When she had finished, she quietly rearranged her bag and moved it back towards the water. She replaced the bucket and then walked back out towards the open and the wind.

----------------------------------

Tevildo's post

Tom had fallen asleep in Rôg's arms, his head nestled securely within the shapechanger's cloak. The girl trotted alongside her rescuer as the little party of three hurried back towards the grove where the women and children were waiting. Azhar's heart pulsed with a strange excitement. So much had happened since the morning that she barely knew how to make sense of it all. Even now, she was having trouble getting her bearings. In all the tumult and shock, she'd forgotten about the war, her fear of losing Tom, her inability to hold her shape, and even her repulsion at seeing the slavers' bodies lying dead and mangled on the ground. Her head was filled with jumbled images of great bears and flashing dragons, creatures of incredible might who could lash out and in a single instant command the attention of all around them.

The girl's entire life had been mired in fear. She had feared the whips of the orc overlords and the sneering grins of the Easterlings. For the first time since leaving the plantation, Azhar sensed the enticing possibility of leaving that experience behind her. If she could learn to control these abilities, if she could take on the bear form whenever it suited her, then she would be as strong as any Orc chieftain....even stronger. Part of her wished that she had come into her powers many years ago. She imagined swooping down on a band of slaveholders and taking them out with a single blow. The other part wanted to change into bear form and clamber up onto a pile of rocks so everyone could see and admire her mighty muscles and claws.

A brief smile slipped over Azhar's face. Kwell had said that women couldn't fight. She would have loved to see his face when she casually changed her form and slipped up behind him with a loud and menacing growl.

Azhar glanced nervously over at Rôg and wondered. The man was enormously kind; he seemed so mild mannered and unassuming. He meekly acceded to the requests of Lindir and even the elderly Aiwendil, yet he was clearly a better fighter than either of them! If Azhar had been Rôg, she would have slipped into dragon form and glided out over the open plain in full daylight, attacking and decimating the band of slavers before they ever even reached the camp. Why, she wondered, didn't he do that? Then they wouldn't have had to go through this terrible battle. At the very least, she would have made sure that all her companions knew and understood exactly who she was. But it seemed as if Rôg was very quiet about these things, keeping everything to himself.

Azhar would have loved to ply Rôg with a whole string of questions. At the same time, she wondered whether she would have the chance to see the dragon again should the slavers attack their little grove. Unfortunately, this did not seem to be the right time or place to be asking Rôg such hard questions. And she had better keep her own mind on what was going on around her or she would end up dead before she ever had the time to learn how to hold and manage her other shape.

With a sigh, Azhar said her hasty goodbyes to Rôg, thanking him for all his help and promising to look out after the children. She and Tom went back to where the women were waiting, only this time two of the mothers whisked the little boy and his sisters away and reassured her that they could manage to care for the three children. Too nervous to stay hidden in one place, Azhar wandered back to where the older children were waiting. She looked around for Kwell but he still was not back. Then she stared out and saw where Athwen was caring for the sick and wounded. The woman seemed to be having quite a time of it. Darting from boulder to boulder, she came up to the healer and asked, "Do you need any help?"

[Durelin]

It was a struggle for them to try and move the Dwarf, Khamir with only one hand and Adnan with only one that was very usable. They more often all but dragged him than carried him, and though they winced each time the dropped him down to the ground, they knew that it was no good to leave him on the battlefield, even for the time being. They did not fully understand what kind of injuries he might have, and so they were rushing him toward someone that hopefully would. From time to time Khamir would have Adnan stop and they'd check Vrór’s pulse and listen to his breathing for a moment, and after each time the number of minutes between each check would grow smaller.

Khamir thought his breathing was shallow, and that worried him deeply. His heart felt torn to pieces, as he looked from the Dwarf to the boy and then thought of Shae and Hadith and... He had never cared for so many people in his life, and never so deeply even for any one. It made him feel so helpless, so without control. He did not even know where Shae was. He had not seen her for hours. He had not seen Hadith since the beginning of the battle. Adnan had disappeared on him in a matter of moments, and when he found the young man again, he was covered in blood and missing his two middle fingers. And now Vrór, who he had barely known of for more than a day, lay unconscious before him.

“Khamir?” the voice sounded rougher than he remembered it, but it still certainly belonged to Adnan. It was the first time the boy had spoken in some time, and it startled the one-armed man so that he almost dropped the hold his left hand had on Dwarf’s wrists. His shoulder ached, and the slight disruption was enough to cause the arms to slowly slide out of his grip, no matter how he tried to hold them up.

“Drop him!” he said in a strained voice. Adnan obeyed, and they rest Vrór on the ground together. Sliding the chainmail from his left shoulder with a groan, Khamir asked, “What is it, Adnan?” a little more sharply than he meant to. The boy did not seem affected, though. It was strange. Likely he would have at least faltered at such a tone just a day earlier, perhaps even simply an hour ago.

“What are we doing? If we’re worried about the slavers getting to the women and children, what is the point of bringing the Dwarf to where they are?”

Khamir knew he had a good point, but he felt anger rise in him, and the ache of his body clouded his mind. His senses were not around to protect him from himself, and he snapped at the boy. “Do you value his life so little? Do you not have any idea what he has done for us?”

Adnan snapped back at him immediately. He had changed. “No, I don’t have any idea. And you think you do? He just showed up last night!”

“I do know that he had much more to sacrifice than any of us have ever had,” the older man spat, and both of them grew silent.

Khamir growled from frustration directed at practically everything around him. “What are we doing?” is a better question to ask now, he thought bitterly. But he did not know the answer, regardless of when or how it was asked. He did not know what to do. He had always been the one with ideas, people had looked to him to follow him…and he had hated that they did. When he lost that, he hated that it was gone.

Now he was completely lost.

“We just have to get there. For Vrór, and for the others. They’ll need all the help they can get.”

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Nasim was cradling a younger man named Zaki in his arms when Khamir and Adnan found him. Gamal, a man who appeared older than Khamir stood beside him. Blood covered his shirt, but he appeared fine. Nasim had received a gash on his leg, but he paid it no mind as he looked down into the lifeless face of Zaki. His tears mingled with the blood on the dead man’s forehead. They had found freedom together, but they had not seen a new beginning together.

They pulled Nasim away from his friend, and the going was easier with the help of two more men to carry Vrór. No one spoke as they moved, but each of their minds were filled with the same fears. As they carried the Dwarf as a precious cargo toward the rocks, they carried a comrade, not a stranger from a strange land, and repeatedly glanced at his still form with bated breath.

[Firefoot]

Whether she liked it or not, whether she wanted to be there or not, a battle was going on and she was in the middle of it. Johari wished she knew what was happening. Were they winning? Had their plans worked? The sounds of fighting seemed to call to her: the ringing of swords and knives, impassioned shouts, cries of pain.

The question kept coming back to her: why had she decided to sit around uselessly as one of those who could not or had no means to fight? She had been given a knife, after all, and she felt guilty every time she recalled this. It was true she had not wanted to get involved, but it was too late for that. Somehow she had become intrinsically caught up in the affairs of all these people about whom she did not really care. She did not want to fight for them… but as it was, she was letting people fight for her. That rankled.

The battle must be practically over, though! What good in joining now? Perhaps there would be something.

Feeling disoriented and rather absurd (what was she doing, anyway?) she began walking off towards the fighting, or where she thought there was fighting. It was so hard to see in this cursed sandstorm!

She nearly passed right by him. Indeed, for a few moments she thought he was dead from the blood on his clothes and her breath caught in her throat. But her better sense took over and she noticed the bandaging that covered his shoulder; he had been injured, not killed, and already tended. And he had just been left lying here against the rocks; plenty of women and children were around, but no one was paying any attention to him anymore.

“Hadith?”

Did his head turn slightly towards her? Was that quiet moan in response or just from pain? Forgetting her recent resolve to join the battle after all, Johari knelt down beside him. What had happened to him? And would he be all right? Seeing him so helpless like this seemed to evoke another memory just at the edge of consciousness, but she didn’t know which, and she was pretty sure she didn’t want to remember. The thought was quickly driven from her mind.

“You had better not die, Hadith,” she told him, though he didn’t look that near death. She didn’t even know if he could hear her. "You'd better not." I won't let you.

[Durelin]

Khamir noticed Adnan’s steps were becoming heavier and clumsier by the minute, and redoubled his efforts to try and lighten the boy’s load even more. With the four of them to carry the Dwarf, it was not difficult going, but the young man was in horrible shape. Adnan refused to speak a word about his pains, and Khamir respected his wish to push on with them and to try to hide them. He breathed a sigh of relief when they neared where those who could not fight were hidden among the rocks. As they came, women smiled at them, children gazed at them with wonder in their eyes, and the old men nodded approvingly to them. Everyone gave a concerned look to Vrór and then to Adnan.

Nasim and Khamir’s eyes were searching for Athwen, with hopes that she was not too busy with other wounded. They had no idea what sort of devestation had befallen their own ranks, and they were afraid to find out. And they both were uncertain regarding Vrór’s fate. The Dwarf had not moved – not even twitched an eye – and his breathing came and went in the same, slow, shallow rhythm.

When they found the woman, they called out to her almost simultaneously.

“Mistress Athwen,” Khamir called her as she caught sight of them and began to approach them; he remembered such titles from his brief education as a young man destined to follow in his father’s footsteps in a very successful trade. They kept moving, as well. They all silently agreed not to stop carrying Vrór until he could be placed safely before her. The woman was already giving orders, though, and soon at least a couple blankets were thrown down on which the Dwarf’s body could be rested.

“The tunnel collapsed on him,” Khamir said, “I do not know what is wrong, but he has not moved at all. He is breathing, but not so well…”

Athwen nodded curtly, her focus all on the Dwarf, her face furrowed with worry. Khamir glanced at Adnan, who still managed to stand on his own two feet, though he seemed to sway a little. Vrór first, he thought, though he must sit down. He placed the fifteen-year-old down on the ground where he could lean against a rock, and was surprised at how easy it was to put the boy down, regardless of how bad he had thought his condition was.

Khamir joined the other worried faces all around him, standing near Athwen as she tilted the Dwarf’s head back slightly. He had a feeling she was as unsure as he was what to do for Vrór, though she likely had a better understanding as to why things were so uncertain for him.

~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~

Perhaps Imak and his men had underestimated the slaves – and they certainly had not expected to find strange people from the West among them – but the Easterlings were soldiers of a sort, if not the same as those found in Gondor or Rohan. They were in particular accustomed to trapping men like rats and burning them out of their holes, and though most did not put up such a fight, they hardly felt set back. The slaves had focused their attention on one avenue of attack, and though they had successfully led practically half the force into their traps, they had allowed their victory to rest on such an uncertainty.

With both their men and their tricks focused in one direction, the slaves’ rear was left wide open, and Imak knew there were a number of women, children, and elders that would not be able to fight. And where would they find them? Behind their brave defenders, hiding away, just waiting for Imak and his men to pry them out from under their rock. The Easterlings nearly felt prepared to slaughter them all rather than bother with rounding them up alive. They were furious due to their losses, though more for the loss of pride than the loss of lives.

The slaves, mostly women, children, the old, and the wounded, lay in hiding among the rocks, some shaking with fear with the new knowledge that the slavers might indeed be on their way toward them, which had trickled through them all quickly from what one heard for the old man. Some felt themselves begin to grow resigned to the idea of slavery again, but most would cling to their so far short-lived freedom till the end. Aiwendil seemed of little help when they looked at him, but he inspired strength in them, simply from his goodness and his strength of mind and character. He bustled about, and his busyness was somehow reassuring.

They tried to console themselves and each other, saying that the fighters would stop them. Word had reached them that the traps had worked since wounded had begun to arrive, and they felt more secure in the idea that most of the enemy had already been taken out. They knew it likely was not true, and with every wounded person brought in they felt their hopes die a little, but they kept themselves from panic only through lying to themselves, and watching Aiwendil and his friend, a Southern man – which had surprised the slaves – on the move while they sat in dread.

Few warriors arrived other than some wounded, and some of the women and old men began looking for what they could use to defend themselves and their children.

Then they came, with the crashing of hooves seemingly from nowhere transforming into fear on horseback, shining golden like the sun. Most found themselves unable to move, others were prepared to stand their ground, and a few scattered, running for their lives and forgetting about their freedom.

Khamir leapt immediately into action. He had not sat down for more than a second since he and the others had brought Vrór to Athwen, and adrenaline still coursed through him, leftover from earlier battle. He glanced at Adnan, and, not to his surprise, saw the boy trying to get up. “You should not!” the one-armed man said roughly to him, but turned away from him almost immediately. It was the boy’s decision to make, and he was not the only one Khamir had to protect.

[Firefoot]

It did not take long for Grask to grow bored at the bottom of the pit. He scratched idly in the dirt with his fingernails, but other than that there was little else to do than think. For the first time since they had broken away from the large camp, he wondered where they were going and what they would do there – what he would do there. He was, of course, the youngest of the group, and that made him something of an outcast without companionship or use to the rest of the group. It was rather lonely, really. So why was he here?

The questions disturbed him, and though he tried not to think about them, they kept coming back bearing no new answers.

As it started to grow darker outside, the wind howled less and the sand seemed to be settling. Grask slung his pack back over his shoulder and happily began to climb out of the pit, using the rope that the Men had left, but even with that, the climb up was considerably more difficult than it had been to go down and he wished he had thought of it before deciding to wait the storm out down there.

With a grunt and a last surge of effort, Grask hauled himself over the edge of the pit. A glance around showed a few other Orcs milling about the camp, but closest to him was Ishkur. Grask felt blessed enough by the Orc leaders' earlier good will; no use pushing his luck, and he began to walk in the opposite direction until Ishkur's call stopped him short: "Wait, Grask."

What did he want now? Grask knew he hadn't done anything wrong... they hadn't decided he had taken too much ale earlier? Ishkur didn't sound angry though - the opposite, even. So Grask turned around and stepped forward to meet Ishkur who had walked after him. Grask's curious gaze was drawn first to Ishkur's face, then to his hand inside his pocket, then back to his face. He had never been sought out like this before and wondered what to expect.

[Durelin]

Khamir

Once he, Nasim, and Gamal had finished off their second Easterling, Khamir found his mind torn, and for a moment he faltered. The others were prepared immediately to go help Beloan, but though Beloan was Khamir’s friend, the one-armed man found himself more concerned with another. He had not seen Shae since well before the battle, and he could not stand the pain and the fear of more pain any longer.

“Go help Beloan, I must help someone else,” he said quickly, and took off away from the grove and back toward the trench and tunnel, the first place. That woman always did some of the craziest things, as if she had something to prove, and yet she had always come back alive...so far. He wished she would stop risking her life, at least as he saw it, needlessly. There were plenty of able-bodied men, and getting herself killed wouldn’t accomplish anything. She had nothing to prove, she did not have to remind everyone of her bravery...

Maybe it was the Gondorian in her: the self-righteousness that required she prove to others over and over that she had a courageous heart. And apparently that made her feel like sacrificing her life, dying in battle, defending a cause, was worth it, regardless of whether or not her death could be avoided. He would not have this…he could not…he would…

He heard a woman’s enraged scream and the crash of metal just before he saw Shae surrounded by two slavers. She was alive and kicking. All of Khamir’s worries and fears suddenly turned into guilt as he realized that there had been nor reason for him to assume the worst, and certainly not belittle her abilities as a warrior. He still wanted to be furious at her for the heroics that likely got her into this mess, but he found it difficult.

Before Shae had even seen him coming, he launched his still bloodied throwing knife to land firmly one of the rider’s thighs. The horse was startled, and Khamir leapt forward to slice small but stinging cuts across both the horse’s thighs on the side facing him. The horse, frightened and in pain, did its best to drop its rider, who was too busy trying to get the knife out of his leg to hold on very well. He dropped to the ground.

Shae had pulled the other slaver down, and was wrestling with him on the ground. Khamir began feeling a need for urgency again, which grew with every second. His concerns elsewhere, his instincts did not fail him, and he thrust his hunting knife into the Easterling’s exposed throat before the man could recover from his fall. Then the one-armed man whirled around and leapt forward to help Shae; it appeared to him that she couldn’t tear away from the slaver’s grip…the man would run her through in a moment if Khamir didn’t…

But the Southron stopped in his tracks. The slaver was not moving.

The woman yanked her shirtsleeve from where it had been caught in the golden armour, tearing a small piece of it in the process. She looked a bit flustered, and she was wounded, but she stood steadily. She gave Khamir an incredulous look, as the man could only stare in wonder at her for a moment.

“You’ve wounded your leg,” she remarked, bringing his thoughts back to earth. She did not appear concerned, except for something in her eyes. The Southron looked down to see a gash across his right lower leg, and could not remember if he already had that wound before he had come to find Shae or not.

He frowned as his eyes scoured her body. “And you have two wounds.”

Shae laughed, though weakly, and shook her head. They were both trying to catch their breath. She did not bother telling him he had two cuts on his cheek. Suddenly she began walking away from him. Khamir stood for a moment in confusion, and then ran several paces to catch up with her and grab her by the arm. She looked up at him with frustration, and pulled away. He tried to settle himself, but found his mind wondering how much pain she was in, if she had been afraid she might die… Then he followed her stare down to a body just a few paces ahead of her.

Reagonn…

“He…” Khamir breathed. Images of Adnan and Vrór flashed through his head, and of Hadith who he still had not seen, and looked at Shae, remembering what it felt like to think her dead…and then he stared at Reagonn’s still body, and froze the picture in his mind. So many he…loved. He felt tears come to his eyes, and one fell as he turned his blurry eyes to see Syth, another comrade, fallen. It seemed Shae wanted to cry, but she was too exhausted. Khamir was so exhausted that he could not stop himself.

You child of Mordor…

How could there be so much love in this place?

It had been easier when he was alone, when his number one and only care was himself, his survival. Or it would have been easier, if he had not hated it.

And that was what Shae was prepared to die for, wasn’t it? Protecting, defending what and who she loved. She would die before she was alone. He would have been alone before he died, and died alone…

Khamir stared at Shae as his eyes cleared, but looked away as soon as their gazes met. No, he did not want to be alone.

[Tevildo]

Azhar had picked her way through the crowded grove searching for Rowenna. She had scurried from one small group to the next asking the women and children if they had seen the midwife. No one had been able to answer her. Every step brought her nearer the ring of stones that marked the entry to the small haven where the women and children had retreated. So far, none of the slavers had been able to force their way into that inner ring. Through the dust and haze, Azhar could make out the faces of several of the men who fought no more than fifteen feet in front of her; Rôg and Aiwendil, Carl and Dirand, Nasim, Gamal, and so many others were still locked in battle with about half a dozen slavers. For an instant, Azhar stood still and simply stared out, wondering how and when the bloodshed was going to end and whether the protective ring would continue to hold.

An insistent cry rose from just behind her: not a sound of battle but more like a woman caught in the throes of a tearing pain. Scrambling over to the source of that sound, Azhar ducked down and crawled through the opening of a thick hedge, an entrance almost hidden from outside view. She was surprised to find the midwife Rowenna. On the ground beside her lay another woman who was in the middle of giving birth. The woman's eyes were wild with pain, her hair matted, and her skin rimmed with sweat. The birthing was not going well, but what else could one expect in the middle of this nightmare?

Scarcely more than a girl, Azhar stumbled out of the enclosure, unable to deal with the full meaning of that scene. But before she could turn back to speak with Rowenna, there was a terrible roar and a shaking of the earth. A number of slavers still mounted on horses had broken through the border of stones and were advancing at a gallop, racing straight across the inner encampment where all the women and children lay hidden. As that realization sunk in, Azhar felt her blood run cold.

The freed slaves and members of the fellowship who were still fighting came running towards the rocks, but their feet could not match the swiftness of the horses. A single horseman halted and, glimpsing Azhar, swung his mount about and headed for the hedge. The young girl tried to spring out of the way but was tossed to the side by the impact of the horse as it raced by her; Rowenna and the woman giving birth were not so lucky. An instant later, both women lay silent amid the ruined hedge, their bodies woven in a tangled heap as blood soaked into the ground.

Azhar cried out in horror. Even her life on the plantation had not prepared her for this. She caught a quick glimpse of Aiwendil and Rôg who were running side-by-side, part of the crowd of fighters all surging forward in a vain attempt to reach the horsemen and stop them. Her eyes rivetted on the tall southerner. Words of anger and frustration poured from her mouth, "Rôg! Why don't you do something? They are too fast. Someone must stop them, or all the women and children will die."

What happened next was not what Azhar had expected. One minute Aiwendil was standing next to Rôg, and the next minute he was gone. In his place was a
shaggy wild boar , weighing at least two hundred and fifty pounds and sporting two pairs of curving tusks, one on top of the other. The boar swung his tail, pawed viciously at the soil, ground together his tusks and gave a loud snort, taking aim at the horseman who was running just ahead.

[Folwren]

Athwen worked as quickly as she possibly could under the circumstances. Azhar helped where she could, and even with the girl knowing nothing, she was still able to save Athwen a great deal of time and energy. But it wasn’t enough time nor enough energy. She felt her strength lagging and there were still so many to tend to. It was then that she asked Azhar to go fetch help. She must have help or men would die.

Azhar hurried away in obedience of Athwen’s request. Athwen heaved a sigh and brushed a stray strand of hair from her eyes. Her fingers left a streak of blood on her forehead over her right eye. She turned to the next patient.

Patient? Athwen grimaced to herself as she set to work on the wounded man. This was like no set of patients she had ever known. Never had there been one after another of cases wherein the patient was half dead. Of course, not all of these men were half dead – there were some cases of broken bones, slashed arms, or knocked heads – but there was a great deal of blood. Even Athwen, with her hardened nerves to such things, had found herself a few times that day shuddering at the sight of some twisted mess of blood, bone, and ligament.

Sometimes she could not save the victim, and she knew it. These were the most difficult to tend to. She hated to leave them in their misery, but what else could she do? To ease their pain would mean spending precious material on a hopeless cause. She didn’t know what to do with them and she longed to ask Dorran what a surgeon on the field of battle would do.

After a time, Athwen began to think that Azhar and the midwife were long in coming. She finished binding a wound and stood up to look out towards the fighting. What happened out there, she wondered? Where were all of her friends? She hoped that they were safe, and at the same time, she hoped that they were killing the slavers.

“Interesting, Athwen,” she told herself, turning with a sigh towards her work. “You, who are here to save lives, hoping that others are destroyed.” It never struck her that she should think it strange that she, being so exhausted and working, should still have time to consider her own thinking.

[Folwren]

Kwell felt drained of all strength by the time the last living slaver took to his heels. The world was dim, but not as dark as it had been when night first fell. The clouds that had covered the stars were slowly being torn apart and were sliding quietly away in tatters and shreds. The wind below had dropped and the sand and dirt stayed in its rightful place - on the ground. Kwell drew a deep breath - the first in seemed since that morning - and slumped down on a rock.

He was not allowed to sit thus for long. Someone passing soon urged him to his feet and he was given a bucket to go fetch water for the healer. He was kept busy for a while, with other random and small tasks. Soon, the only duties left to be done were gathering the dead, helping with the wounded, or searching and bringing back whatever wood or brush they could find. Kwell set out with some others and began to search for dead bracken, bushes, or trees.

During this simple bit of work, though his hands were busy with the wood, his mind was free to roam. The territory it walked over was not kind to him. His thoughts were darkened with guilt and self-loathing. He could not help but think that at least some of the deaths among the women and children might have been prevented if he had been there.

He came back to the place of the battle and as he laid his load of fuel, he looked at the dead that had already been gathered near. Lindir was there now, setting the limp body of a child down. Kwell looked at the little boy’s face and then slowly lifted his eyes to the elf’s. Lindir was not looking at him. Kwell thought he might not even be aware of his presence. The two of them were fairly alone - the others worked at a small distance. Kwell wanted to speak to him. He had to approach him, he had to apologize, and above all, he must know what Lindir thought now. Kwell was more ashamed now than he ever had been before. Ashamed and not a little apprehensive of what the elf might do when addressed. But Kwell must speak, he must.

He slowly came about the pile of wood. His feet moved slowly and uncertainly, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. Lindir did not turn or make a movement or sign of being aware of him until Kwell was just a few feet away. Then he turned his head and looked down at the boy.

Kwell stopped his feet abruptly, shut his half open lips and looked back at the elf’s eyes. “Sir,” he finally managed to bring himself to say. “I am. . .I am sorry for leaving the glade. You told me to stay and. . .” he looked down towards the ground as he felt his heart sinking. “I didn’t stay. I went down to try to meet the battle down at the camp.” He was too miserable to try to say anything else and he shut his mouth and waited with his head bowed.

[Folwren]

Athwen and Dorran were still speaking quietly together when Athwen heard a call from one of her patients. “Athwen! Mistress Athwen! Somebody! It’s Vrór!”

“Vror,” Athwen whispered, looking up. She glanced down at Dorran. “I’ll be back when I can. I’ve been hoping he’d wake up.” Dorran nodded and Athwen quickly got up and moved towards the dwarf and Adnan, who sat near him. The young man looked up at her as she came, looking anxious and excited.

“I heard him groaning or something and he moved,” Adnan said.

Athwen gave him a smile and met his eyes briefly before kneeling beside Vrór. “Vrór?” The dwarf was silent, but there was a pinched and contained look on his face. He just might be half conscience... “Vrór?” she said again.

[Folwren]

Vrór’s head moved slightly and Athwen saw his eyelids flutter. His lips opened, and weakly, a sound came out. “Ah-wen.” She smiled a little and pressed her hand against his hot forehead.

“He is awake!” Adnan cried from behind her. The smile slowly left her face, though. Now that he was awake, the dwarf was clearly in pain. His whole body seemed rigid and his face didn’t relax, nor did the tightness in his jaw. He strained to open his eyes - Athwen saw the grey of his irises - but then shut them again quickly.

“Did it work?” he asked suddenly. Athwen’s hands paused in the air. Her eyebrows drew slightly together. Then they relaxed and her lips twitched a little at the corners.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, it worked perfectly, Vrór,” with the utmost gentleness. Perhaps it hadn’t stopped all of the slavers, but it had done its job as best it could. “You did a good job. What were you doing under there? Never mind,” she added quickly. “Vrór, are you in pain? What can I do to help?”

[Brinniel]

Shae managed to hold back the two slavers so far, but she knew it would not last for long. She was relieved when help finally came, and was especially pleased when it had come from Khamir of all people. She had not seen him since before the battle and had wondered of his whereabouts. The one-armed man had endured much and she was confident he would survive tonight...but then again, she had thought the same for Reagonn.

As Khamir took one slaver by surprise, Shae was able to throw the other off his horse. He lunged at her, but she was ready. Before he even reached the woman, he ran into her sword. The opponent collapsed on top of her, and momentarily Shae was trapped underneath the heavy man. She tore herself free and stood up, her eyes meeting Khamir's.

Was that a look of concern?

Shae observed the man standing across from her, noticing he was just as much of a mess as she was. Khamir still stared at her, almost in wonder. "You've wounded your leg," she remarked casually. His eyes shifted down to discover his new injury.

Shae eyed the man curiously. He had come to her aid alone. Even more, he had come to her away from the camp where the battle was still going. Had he actually come specifically to find her? That thought seemed impossible. Since Joren's death, it mattered to no one whether Shae lived or died. For years, she had accepted that fact. Yet, Khamir's expression just now read otherwise.

"And you have two wounds." The man's words interrupted her thoughts and the woman was brought back to attention. Staring down at her very swollen wrist, she gave a slight laugh at his obvious statement. The laugh was cut short by a sharp pain against her ribs. Shae held her breath, waiting for the pain to subside. She turned away from Khamir quickly, not wanting him to see she was hurting. He grabbed her arm gently, but she pulled away, more afraid than anything.

"He..." the man whispered suddenly, and Shae knew whom he was talking about. She also stared at the bloodied corpse of Reagonn in the distance, still feeling bitter about his death. The two stood for a moment in silence. Then she turned around, surprised to find Khamir's cheeks stained with tears.
"He was a good man," the woman consoled. "He...saved my life...as you just did." She smiled at Khamir in gratitude. The man looked back at her, this time his expression undecipherable. Khamir had always been rather mysterious to her. After eight years, she still knew very little about him and his past. It was something few ex-slaves spoke of- their lives before escape. Shae had always believed that the man's rough life had left him cold and distant...and yet...in these last few days, he had somehow changed... And now, more than ever, the woman couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking about.

The sharp pain on her left side returned, and Shae doubled over dropping to her knees. With the combination of the dried blood, the sweat, and her tired limbs, she had never felt so heavy, and she allowed her body to sink into itself.
Immediately, Khamir was at her side. "Are you all right?" he asked, his tone sincere.
Blinking back tears, the woman replied, "I'm fine," her voice gutteral, but determined.
The pain soon eased, replaced by a dull ache, and Shae struggled to stand. Her good hand was met by Khamir's, and he helped pull her to her feet. The two stared at one another, their faces inches apart. Shae closed her eyes, exhausted. Feeling Khamir's breath against her forehead, short and hot, she realized he was just as tired.

"You're not fine," the man finally said. "You should go see Athwen. She'll take care of you."
"Athwen? She's okay?" The healer had volunteered for a dangerous task, to lure the slavers in, and Shae was pleased to hear she had made it out alive. "Well...I'm sure she has plenty of patients right now who are in much worse condition. ...Don't look at me like that, Khamir. I refuse to rest until this is over."
Khamir frowned. "You just don't know when to give it up, do you? Even when it's for your own good."
"Look who's talking." The man couldn't help but laugh at her comment.

Shae shifted her eyes towards the camp, where shouting still clearly rang into the air. She wondered what other lives had been lost tonight. What had happened to the halfling Carl? And the elf Lindir? She thought about the woman she had given the knife to during a night that seemed ages ago. Had she needed to use it yet? What had become of their companion Beloan? And what of the two children that had only been rescued the previous night? There were so many Shae wondered about, yet she realized there was no time for concern. There was still a bloody battle going and certainly nothing would be accomplished by simply standing around.

Finding what remained of her strength, Shae turned back to Khamir and said to him, "C'mon....let's go find the rest of those scum."