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

[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.

[Folwren]

Only a few minutes after Athwen had finished bandaged Hadith, she was called back to her duty. She spotted Khamir and his two companions drawing near, carrying between all three of them the figure of the Dwarf. Athwen’s eyes widened with a sudden feeling of fear and she started forward even before the one armed man called out to her.

She ran quickly before them and prepared a place for the Vrór to be laid. As the three of them set him down, Khamir explained, to the best of this ability, what was wrong. “The tunnel collapsed on him. I do not know what is wrong, but he has not moved at all. He is breathing but not so well...”

Athwen’s mind was already racing. She could only spare Khamir a nod and that was even given without looking up at him. Then her attention fell only to the dwarf. The dear old fellow, usually so vibrant and full of life, usually merry. She couldn’t help but remember their journey together even as she searched for some way to help him.

She didn’t know how to tend someone buried alive. She knew only a little of saving someone half drowned. Remembering that knowledge, she tipped his head back a little. His mouth opened slightly. Her fingers sought for a pulse in his neck, pressing against the vein by his throat. She felt the blood pass slowly once, and again, and consistently, though slowly, his heart still beat. With a slight sigh of relief, she dropped his hand and tended to the gash in his head. In a few minutes, she had done what she could.

“He still breaths and lives,” she said, looking up. “I do not know what else to do for him!” It was both an apology and despair mixed with hope. “I will try to help him more later,” she added, looking back down. “There are others that are in more danger and who I will be able to help.” For in the few breif minutes that she had spent checking Vrór, others had been helped back to her.

Her eyes went first to Adnan who had sat silently a little to her right. He had been one of those who carried Vrór in. She gave him as encouraging a smile as she could muster. “You aren’t in any condition to have carried in Vrór,” she said as she moved over towards him. He made no reply, but moved his eyes towards her. Athwen lifted her hand and turned his face slightly to look at the bloody cheek, and then her eyes dropped towards his chest where blood had seeped through his shirt.

“Let me get water. Can you take off your shirt?” She half turned to get a bucket, but stopped abruptly as Adnan silently lifted his hands to try to undo the buttons. “Good heavens, boy!” she exclaimed as here eyes spotted the mangled hand. “Stop it!” She reached out and gently took the clumsily bandaged hand. Adnan did not struggle as Athwen undid the bandage from his fingers and his wrist. “Sit still,” Athwen commanded when she had seen the damage. “Don’t do anything.”

She turned away and went to move some water and her pack to Adnan. Her hand reached out to take the pack when someone came and stopped by her side.

“Can I help?”

Athwen looked up. It was Azhar, standing with her hands clasped behind her back and her large eyes looking solemnly into Athwen’s face. Athwen smiled a little and as she straightened up, put her hand on the girl’s arm.

“Maybe. We’ll find out and see. How are you doing yourself? Do you still feel badly?” She looked at Azhar’s face and touched her forehead. The flush of fever had gone from her cheeks, her eyes were clear, and no heat came from her face to Athwen’s hands.

“I am well,” Azhar said. “I would like to help you.”

“Very well, then. Come with me.”

She turned and led the way back to Adnan, but before she could say anything at all to either of them, cries broke out, and the sound of pounding hooves faintly reached their ears. Khamir started up to his feet and even Adnan struggled to rise.

“You should not,” Khamir said to him, turning only long enough to say that. Then he went out, leaving Adnan with Athwen and Azhar, as well as all the others who had been brought in. Adnan continued to rise, but Athwen grabbed his unharmed wrist and tugged at him.

“No! What do you think you can do out there, except finish getting yourself killed? Sit down and let me fix you up. Please!”

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Before Carl had gone more than a dozen paces, Kwell called out to him. And turning around the hobbit saw that the boy’s outstretched hands held Hamin’s sword by the hilt. “Take it,” Kwell shouted, his voice muted by the wind. “It’s too awkward for me, but someone else will trade you for it.” Carl knew that the thing would be cumbersome to carry, but responding to the young man’s attempt to better equip him, he jogged back. Taking the weapon with thanks, he paused a moment, suddenly thinking himself cruel to send him off alone. But it was a short lived notion, for in a flash he had dismissed the thought as sentimental. No, Kwell would be better off without him. If the lad wanted company, let him station himself with Lindir or one of the bigger folk who had a chance at defending him.

Parting ways, Carl retraced his steps hunting for arrows. The precious few he found he picked up, trying not to think of their uselessness in the gale. Working his way toward the earthworks, he hoped to find them more readily. But rather than coming across a bountiful crop of arrows, the hobbit found a riderless horse near the collapsed tunnel’s edge, and cautiously crept toward the beast. By all it trappings, it was a slaver’s mount, with quite outlandish gear. And Carl thought that if by chance he could manage to win the horse’s confidence, it would serve to provide a bit of cover for him out on the plain.

Carl looked about him, for a sign of the horse’s master. And the wind, which had been growing more erratic, lulled a moment. In a glance Carl saw that the horse was alone on the littered field, quite the picture of patient misery. Speaking soothingly and confidently to the creature, who tossed his head at the approaching hobbit, Carl pulled off his handkerchief, and wiping the dust from the horse’s face, took the reins loosely, quickly discovering that the horse was surprisingly good tempered. It did not take much coaxing for him to be led along the rim of tunnel.

As the wind shifted Carl saw the crumbled heaps of fallen men before him. Noting that they were slavers, he gave them wide berth and had almost passed them by, when a flash of light lit their clothing bright orange, and a pained wailing carried by the wind soon followed. A chill ran down Carl’s spine, and the horse suddenly reared up. And as the hobbit struggled to calm the animal, whose body and sharp hooves rose over him, he spied an archer half hidden behind one of the corpses, taking aim at him from the other side. “Whoa, Whoa there Dirand!” He shouted at the top of his voice. “Take care, over there! It’s just Carl you’re looking to drop!”

Grim and graying, the fellow slowly stood up muttering. “Whoa yourself! What were you thinking? You ought not hide behind the enemy’s horse if you’re not one of them!” He stalked over, quickly catching the horse’s bridle.

"Well, at least your hearing is sound!" Carl returned. "But what was that flash? Did you see it?"

"Aye, a burst of fire, from over that way," Durand said, nodding toward the back of the camp.

“It weren’t no firecracker, I’ll be bound. Must mean trouble,” Carl said.

Just then yet another archer appeared climbing over the rim of the collapsed tunnel, for he also had emptied his quiver and had sought to replenish his stock from the spend arrows lying around the trench and tunnel. After the two men exchanged a few words in a foreign tongue, the old man seemed reluctant to look back at the hobbit. And Carl was suddenly filled with foreboding as he saw the other archer weighing something in his mind. A hand came to rest on the hobbit’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I’ve bad news for you,” the younger of the two told him softly, so that the hobbit could barely hear him. “We saw your friend with the orange bearded one, carried off by Khamir and Adnan a little while ago. He was in poor shape by the look of things.”

“Not dead though, I’ll wager,” Dirand quickly added, seeing Carl’s stunned expression. “I don’t think they’d bother to move him if he were.”

But the hobbit’s mind had gone numb as the news sank in. “Where did go with him?” he asked. But before he had his answer the three heard the thunder of hooves break out at the back of the camp.

“I think they were taking him toward the shelter over there,” Dirand said frowning, for all three realized that this lay nearby the location now under attack. And the younger of the two archers, not hesitating, immediately sprinted off toward the fray leaving the two others by the side of the tunnel.

Carl handed the old man Hamin’s sword, which until now had been trailing in the dust behind him. Turning his attention back to the horse, he rapidly shortened the stirrup beside him. “What do you want me to do with this?” the man said.

“Use it well,” Carl said. “We are going to ride this horse and fight like we never fought before. Have you ever used a sword?”

“Wait… no! And I volunteered for archery not horses. I don’t know anything about horses… or swords!”

“Don’t worry about the horse,” Carl said moving to the other stirrup. “I’ll do the steering; you just swing that sword with all your strength.”

“But it’s a slaver’s horse!”

“It’s not his fault, you know. And that’s a slaver’s sword as well.”

“You missed my point…”

But Carl had already scrabbled up onto the horse’s back. “Are you coming or not?” he asked as the horse shuffled sideways under him.


“Aye, I’ll come, I’ll come,” the old man said, “Though I think it foolhardy.”

As soon as Dirand, had found his way onto the horse, it lurched forward, and the grizzled man grabbed Carl to keep from falling off. Together they rode into the wind.

[Brinniel]

Shae kept at a steady pace, her teeth gritted against the pain. Would she make it in time? One could only hope. But then, how much damage could she really do? She was only one woman—an injured one at that. Where was everyone else from the tunnel? Didn’t they realize the slavers’ plans as well? Such thoughts rattled through her brain until they were interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats following her own.
Slavers.
Coming from behind, they clearly had the advantage. Shae was not prepared to fight this way and if she were to save herself, she would have to avoid it. Kicking hard, she picked up her pace hoping they would not catch up to her. And then, against the whistling wind came a voice clearly calling her name. Shae slowed, feeling rather confused. Then the shout came again.
“Shae! Wait up!” Slowing to a near stop, she turned her head, surprised to find Reagonn and another ex-slave named Syth on top of their horses. Other than a few cuts and bruises, both remained unscathed. “What are you doing?” the former asked. “This isn’t a race you know.”
“Sorry… I thought you were slavers,” she muttered apologetically. “…Were you following me?”
Reagonn hesitated, then nodded. “What happened back at the tunnel was complete chaos. Everything fell apart so quickly. Among the mess I saw you take off suddenly. You seemed to know where you were going, so Syth and I followed.”
“You were worried for me,” the woman stated plainly.
The man gave a slight smile and shrugged. “You should know it’s never smart to go off on your own like that. Especially in the middle of a battle. We fight together.”
Shae rolled her eyes. “I don’t understand why you men worry so much about me. You all treat me like I’m helpless, or something. You know, the last time I wandered off, I brought back the Fellowship. I’m completely capable of….” She trailed off, thinking for a moment before changing the subject. “Wait a minute…where’s the rest of the cavalry? What ever happened to Ayce and Darren? …Korden?”
There was a pause. “They fell behind.” The response came from Syth, who spoke with a quiet and solemn tone. The look on his face reflected the devastation the ex-slaves had already experienced in tonight’s battle. He continued, “Then we just took off…after you. We left them all behind.” The young man stared accusingly at the woman.
“Only because we had to,” was Shae’s reply. “We’ve wasted enough time…we ought to keep moving.”
“And where are we going, Shae?” Reagonn asked.
Shae could feel frustration taking over. There was no time to explain, and yet she had to. “Do you not understand?” she retorted. “We only fought half the slavers at the tunnel. Where do you think the rest are headed? Our women and children are in danger. I abandoned the tunnel to help them!”
“Of course,” Reagonn nodded, his eyebrow creased with understanding. “If help is what they need, then I am ready. How about you, Syth?”
The other ex-slave nodded as well.
“Alright then.” The woman took hold of her reins and repositioned herself on the saddle, slightly too quickly. A sharp pain hit her left side again, and she folded over despite all attempts to hide the pain.
A concerned Reagonn approached Shae on his horse until they were only a few feet away from each other. In the darkness, his grey eyes wandered from the blood on her forehead to the swollen wrist. “You’re hurt,” he stated simply.
“Well yes, that’s what happens when one fights in a battle.”
“You’re in no condition to fight.”
His comment angered Shae. Who was he to tell her what to do? “Of course I am,” she replied. “Surely you don’t think I’d let a few minor injuries stop me.”
The man would not let off so easily. “Minor injuries you may think, but keep fighting with a wrist like that, and you’ll do permanent damage.”
Shae smiled and held up her injured arm in front of Reagonn’s face. “Are you telling me you know how to fix broken bones now? If so, feel free to set it…”
Reagonn shook his head, slightly smiling. “Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll leave you alone. We’ll just make sure to have Athwen look at it once the battle is over.”
“If she’s still alive, that is.” Both frowned at the thought, but they knew it was possible—no one had seen the healer since she misled the slavers into the trench.
The sound of a loud tear startled the two. Looking up, Shae found Syth, holding out a strip of cloth. “Take it,” he mumbled to her. “It will at least stabilize your wrist for now.”
Surprised at his kindness, the woman thanked him and wrapped the cloth tightly around the swollen limb. When she was done, all three ex-slaves looked at each other. Nodding in unison, they continued on together.

***

Though the storm was clearly not over, the wind began to slow, if only slightly. Squinting into the distance, Shae could see the outline of where the women and children were hiding. They were close. But as they continued on, she heard the sounds of shouting and her heart sank. She had hoped to outrun the slavers, but already a battle had begun. With a yelp, the woman raced on even faster, with her companions following close behind. What she was not prepared for, was what happened next.

There was a flash of something whizzing by, then a loud gasp. Shae snapped her head around to find a spear skewered into Syth’s chest. The man stared at her for a split second, then dropped from his horse, and the animal continued to race into the distance. The remaining two ex-slaves instantly halted and dismounted. It was Reagonn who made it to Syth first.
After checking the pulse, he glanced up. “He’s dead,” Reagonn said, his voice hollow.
Shae nodded, but she was paying little attention. The owner of the spear was approaching quickly. He came at such ferocity, the ex-slaves’ horses began to spook and back away. The slaver shielded himself well, and from the angle they were standing, the woman knew there was no way to hit him with a weapon of their own. Unsheathing a throwing dagger, Shae waited until he was only feet away. With a flick of the wrist, the dagger left her hand and slid into the stallion’s throat. The horse died instantly, tumbling to the ground, taking the slaver with him. There was silence.

The wind began pick up again and much visibility was lost.
“You think he’s dead?” Reagonn asked.
Shae didn’t respond as the two glanced from the heap of the horse back to each other. A movement caught the corner of her eye and she shook her head. Reagonn turned around and approached the dead animal cautiously. “Watch out,” she warned him. Reacting to her sudden comment, Reagonn turned his head at the woman, a mistake that would cost him.

Instantly, the slaver was up. His body was slightly bloody and bruised from the hard fall, but otherwise it seemed little harm was done. Reagonn had no time to react, and in a flash of steel, the heavy blade entered his stomach. Shae yelled in horror as she watched the man she had known for years crumble to the ground. The slaver turned around and rose up his bloody blade as he gave the woman a hideous smile. He strutted toward her, sword still in hand ready to finish the job. Shae released her own newly prized sword from its sheath and used it just in time to block the attack. The two clashed swords and the woman found herself in a better situation this time using a stronger weapon. She used her swift speed to an advantage and this time it was she who knocked the weapon from her opponent’s hand. The slaver stared at his bloody hand in horror—two fingers were gone. Shae looked back at him in surprise, almost laughing at how easy it was to fight this supposed highly skilled man. Then her old injuries took hold and she doubled over as the pain once again hit her entire left side.

Shae’s opponent saw her vulnerable state and immediately charged at her. Before she knew what was happening, Shae was on the ground, her sword gone from her hand. The slaver pressed his bloody hand into her throat, and the woman gasped for air. She kicked and clawed at him, but the man on top of her was too large and too heavy. He raised his uninjured fist and plummeted it into her left cheek. She struggled, but he continued to hit her again and again. Shae was ready to give up, when suddenly the slaver froze in his movements. She glanced up, only to see the end of a blade protruding from his chest. Behind him kneeled Reagonn, growling with both anger and pain, as he grasped tightly onto the bloody hilt. The slaver took several short gasps, then collapsed right next to the woman.

Shae stood up slowly, still shaking from her attack.
I’m a complete mess.
She couldn’t help but think this as she wiped her nose and spit the blood from her mouth. Her face felt sticky from both her blood as well as the enemy’s. A soft groan brought her attention back to Reagonn. He sat clutching his stomach, grimacing from the pain. Immediately, she was at his side.
“Let me see,” she instructed. Reagonn stared back, reluctant to remove his hands. “Please Reagonn,” the woman pleaded. “I only want to help you.”
The man lifted his hands and Shae’s heart grew heavy at watch she saw. The slaver’s sword had thrusted deep into Reagonn’s stomach, obviously penetrating several organs.
“You can’t help me,” he whispered, and Shae knew he spoke the truth. It was impossible for anyone to survive such damage. Yet, the woman found herself unable to face the facts, and instead chose denial.
“Of course I can,” she spoke confidently. “We just need to stop the bleeding.” Shae took off one of his two layers of shirts and tied it around his stomach. “I will take you to where the women and children are—surely the slavers haven’t completely breeched the camp yet. You’ll be taken care of there. There’s no need to worry. You’ll be fine—I’m sure of it.” She stood up and looked about. Her stomach lurched as she was unable to find what she was searching for. “Where are the horses,” she asked, frantic.
“They... probably frightened off…during the fight,” Reagonn spoke softly.
Shae cursed in frustration. “Very well then, I’ll just have to take you there myself.” She grabbed at Reagonn in an attempt to pick him up. But the man was heavier than she, and with only one usable arm, carrying him was impossible. Yet, she could not let herself give up, so she tried again.
“Shae…Shae!” Reagonn struggled to call her name as blood spewed from his mouth. “Shae, please stop already.” She finally listened, and let go of the man. “You cannot save me…You know that.”
“No!” the woman yelled through both tears and anger. “Don’t you say that!” A hand reached up to Shae’s, and Reagonn pulled her down near him.
“It’s okay,” he whispered to her. “I’m ready to go.” Shae’s hot tears splashed onto his cheek. Reagonn coughed. “There’s still a battle out there,” he continued. “They still need you. Don’t….don’t waste all you energy on me.” He gave a small smile. “All these years, I killed in the name of my friend Bornir, seeking vengeance for his death. But no matter how many men I killed…it was never enough…” Reagonn coughed again and gasped several times for air. Then his eyes fixed and he went still.

Shae closed Reagonn’s eyes and whispered a short prayer for safe passage. Standing up, she found her sword buried in sand and re-sheathed it. Staring at her companions’ corpses, she struggled to hold back more tears. Once again, the woman was alone. There was nothing more she could do except continue to her destination where the battle carried on. And hearing the cries in the distance, she knew it was time to go.

With the horses missing, Shae had no choice to walk. Despite her exhaustion, she managed to keep a fairly quick pace, her bare feet trudging through the sand. Not once did she take her eyes off her destination. Sounds became clearer and shapes took form. The battle was ongoing and all those involved fought intensely. Still too far away to identify enemy from friend, Shae continued her steps to bring whatever aid was needed. Suddenly, a sound coming from behind caused her to freeze in her tracks. She whipped around only to find two slavers on horseback coming her way. Glancing around, Shae began to panic. She may be close, but she had not quite reached the women and children’s camp. The only ex-slaves in sight were occupied with their own battles. There was no one to help her.

Shae could feel the sense of dread creep through her insides. Without a horse, she could not turn and run. And her duels with one slaver had been difficult enough—battling two of them at once would be impossible to survive. Injured and alone, she was already dead. Where was help when she needed it? The slaver continued towards her, weapons in hand, and still no sign of help came. Shae had no choice—she would have to face this battle alone. Giving a deep sigh, the woman unsheathed her weapon, praying that her luck would soon change.

[Child of the 7th Age]

For the past hour, Lindir and the young archers had played a game of tag with the three men heading south on horseback. What had seemed like an easy shot just a short while before was actually proving extremely difficult. Lindir would dart out from behind a boulder and try to slip up close enough to let his arrow fly straight and true. Although the winds had subsided to a bearable roar, they were still blowing stiffly. The Elf still could not shoot with any accuracy. Gretl and Wulf were having similar bad luck. Whatever element of surprise they'd had in the beginning was now completely lost. If the ground had been flat and open, the horsemen would have likely run them down, but the great clumps of scattered boulders offered them a handy refuge that the riders could not easily penetrate.

From the plains to the north and east, an urgent note from a rams horn swelled to a crescendo and then fell silent. The slavers stopped for an instant. glanced at each other, and immediately took off in the direction from which they had heard the horn. At the same instant, words of warning came tumbling into Lindir's head. Turning to his companions, he hastily explained, "Imak gathers his men for one final attack. They go to the grove where the women and children wait. Already, they being their attack." Gesturing with his arm to the others, the three took off at breakneck speed sprinting over the plain in the same direction as the slavers, hoping that they could get there before it was too late.

[Folwren]

Kwell watched Carl go until with wind whipped sand hid him from sight. Then he sighed and bent his head towards the wind and headed back the way he had come. He could hear nothing besides the rush of wind, but in his inner ear, he heard Carl’s voice. ‘They might be needing a stout hearted lad such as you, just now. . .You go take care of Azhar for me. I’ve a good hunch you might be better at it than me.’

Then came Azhar’s voice, shouting at him. He had ignored her. ‘Kwell, you louse. I am no child!...A real soldier wouldn’t disobey his captain’s instructions, and he wouldn’t desert his post!’ Would desert his post! Kwell urged his feet onward. Lindir had told him to stay back, but Kwell had thought that he had been told to stay behind so as to keep him out of danger. Could it really have been so that he could fight, when the time came?

He felt something sink in side of him. What if they were attacked? What if people were killed? What if he could have been there to help them? What if . . . what if . . .

But even as his feet hurried onward, his mind began to race to defend himself. They hadn’t told him that there might be danger. Lindir had not said that the women and children might be attacked. They had hidden them so that they would be safe. It was not his fault if they were found and some of them killed.

The excuses ran on in his head, but he could not dismiss the guilty feeling that lay in his stomach like a large stone. He knew he should not have left. He knew he had disobeyed and had done so intentionally.

Something interrupted his thoughts. He looked up and squinted into the wind. He’d gone too far to the right. His shoulders drooped farther, his feet worked faster, and he started again towards the left.

“I have to make it back,” he panted in the wind. “I’ve got to help. I must, I must, I must do something or I’ll never be able to face Lindir or any one else again. No one must die. No one!”

[Undómë]

Zagra & Mazhg


‘Look here,’ Mazhg whispered, lifting up the wadded woolen cloak which served it seemed as the absent slaver’s pillow. ‘Wonder who he killed to get this.’ She picked up the long sharp knife and drew it from its leather scabbard. ‘I doubt he had enough gold to have it made for himself,’ she went on, looking about at the poorer furnishings in the small tent.

Zagra took the weapon gingerly from her sister and inspected it in a hesitant manner. And more quickly slid it back into its case. ‘Here,’ she said with a shiver. ‘You take it.’ She watched as Mazhg tied the scabbard about her waist.

‘You know, Ungolt will like this I think,’ Mazhg said, patting the smooth, dark leather that hung down to her mid thigh. ‘She can use it with her sword,’ Mazhg went on, starting to look through the slaver’s leather sack tucked in at the foot of his rude bed. ‘I’ve seen the men back at the plantation...practice fighting.’ She snorted, remembering the all too bloody matches fueled by brave words and much strong drink. ‘Practice! Huhhhh!! Remember how many dead fellows they dragged off from the practice rings? Those men – they don’t care who they kill, long as there’s someone to mangle and bleed.’

‘Must be big farms where they breed all those ugly monsters,’ Zagra said, stifling a giggle. She shuddered at the thought. And in a brief moment of empathy, she felt some sort of sympathy go out to those women who must have served such beasts and borne their offspring. ‘Poor mamas!’ she spoke, almost to herself.

Mazhg looked fondly at her sister, the dim light inside the tent hiding her quick show affection. Such a tender heart! She shook her head. Sweet little fool...heart of my own heart... ‘Come Zagra,’ she called, taking her sister’s hand. ‘I don’t think we’ll find much more here. Let’s see what treasures another tent might hold.’

Like quick little shadows, the sisters moved quiet and low along the outskirts of the camp.....