Fall of the North RPG

[piosenniel]

Prologue

Malbeth the Seer was always restless, but he was far more restless today than he usually was.

His cold, grayed eyes looked across a burnished court floor to the feet of a middle-aged man, clad in the finest garments of Arthedain, who paced anxiously across the length of his hall, the great colonnade that marked the apex of the city of Fornost Erain. Upon the head of the man, capped with a smooth mat of brownish hair, streaked with the white that came from rulership’s stresses, was a silvery fillet bound across his brow with a single glimmering jewel, silver-white, set into it at the front. This was the Elendilmir, the Star of Elendil. The man’s hands wrung in front of him, showing signs of impatience and worry not befitting a King, and his brow was furrowed in worry, bereft of its former nobility. Those clasped hands held a gilt silver rod, a scepter inlaid with many dull jewels, the Sceptre of Annúminas, a signet of the Lords of Andúnië. On the thinning finger of his right hand, which encircled the scepter, was a sturdy ring, a pair of metal serpents encircling the digit to form it and meeting to entwine around an emerald-green stone set into the loop of their tales; the Ring of Barahir, the mightiest heirloom of the House of Elendil. This, as Malbeth knew well, was Araphant, the King of Arthedain, last of the Line of Isildur.

Or, he had been that last, until a few minutes ago.

Malbeth saw many things, most of which he saw through his eyes, but some, he saw with another sense, and this day he had seen something else. He was not a gifted man, nor was he a mighty prophet, magical in any way, but he could foretell some things, and, in the realm of Arthedain, his reputation had grown, at least enough to grant him a clerical following, no clandestine orders or mystical disciples though. He was renowned for his supposed abilities, and was called “Malbeth the Seer” throughout the land. In a troubled time, a time wrought with military and economic turmoil, people could believe in anything. He was not a falsifier, nor was he a liar and a charlatan. His real predictions were very rare, but there accuracy was held of highest importance. The King and court were not as easily swayed to opinions as were the common-folk of Arthedain, and regarded Malbeth merely as a soothsayer, with some knowledge they did not possess, but not a wealth of it. The seer’s wan face reflected little feeling about the matter.

The clipping of feet on marble began to fill Malbeth’s ears, like a chorus of raindrops loudly pelting a traveled road. Noisily, a squawking gaggle of handmaidens paraded down the hall, created a great din to replace the absolute silence. The chief handmaiden, a midwife, perhaps, did not hesitate to pay her respects to the King as she approached, and rushed, flustered, towards him. She bore a carefully tended bundle in her arms, cradled with great tenderness and maternal love. With a face reddened by toil and ecstatic eyes, she neared the King, who looked up on her, his face brightening. With a smile that could have brightened a dark room, the midwife pressed the bundle, swathed in silken blankets, into the unready arms of King Araphant. “Your majesty,” she uttered quickly, “it is a boy! You have a son, King Araphant!”

With a clumsy gesture and a tarrying moment, the king handed his scepter beneath the bundle, indicating that the midwife should take it. The maid took the rod with hesitation, and held it aloft with bright reverence, backing away as the King fumbled with the child nestled in his arms. He looked down, his anxious features relaxing and becoming gentle and benevolent as he examined the silent babe, who seemed comatose in his arms. He toyed with it as if it were a parcel, rocking it from side to side, and then turned to Malbeth. The seer did not react in any visible form to the look of respite on the face of the king.

“So, seer, shall this one be a good king?” He said, smiling warmly, but Malbeth did not even shake his head as he morosely replied. “I do not know.” The Seer replied, “I have not seen as much.”

“Will his reign be profitable, then?” questioned the King, patient, “Will he be loved?”

“I do not know, milord.” Malbeth replied again, his voice a somber monotone.

At this, the King became more impatient. His smile twisting into an annoyed frown, he shoved the sleeping boy in his arms into the unsuspecting grasp of the midwife and wrenched the Sceptre of Annúminas from her grip forcefully. “What do you know, then?” he said, louder and with more anger rampant in his voice, the tenderness of his care for the young son he’d held replaced by need for satiation by the soothsayer, who, as far as he could detect, was playing a trickster’s game with him. “I was told you wished to take counsel with me about my child.” He continued, brandishing the silver rod clutched in his hand, “What have you to say? What do you know?”

“His name, milord.”

Malbeth’s words were calm and collected, so much that, at first, Araphant’s face flushed with outrage and confusion, but it was confusion that won out. Araphant looked across the courtroom at the seer, his face the picture of a perplexed monarch. After a moment of mental deliberation, he spoke. “You know…his name?” Malbeth nodded, with such great solemnity that one who looked upon him might think he was a man in mourning. His pale face remained deathly white, but his eyes twinkled deftly, giving off a quick flash and an eerie glint that attracted the attention, and piqued the curiosity of the king. But, the strange nature of Malbeth made Araphant darkly nervous, and, to alleviate the air that had settled, he nearly laughed aloud, but stifled the sound and decided, against his better judgement, to entertain this mad theory of the soothsayer’s. “Very well.” He said, gesturing to Malbeth to continue, “What shall I call him?”

The seer of Arthedain took nearly a minute before he spoke, digesting each word that was about to come. He knew that the King might find them preposterous and possibly treasonous as well, but he had come to say them all the same, and would not leave this counsel until his message had been delivered. Araphant peered at him, filled with new misgivings, and the numerous handmaidens behind him whispered secretly to each other, gossiping of Malbeth’s ill-portents. He ignored the wayward maids and their talk, concentrating on his prediction, and then the seer reared back, filling himself with a breath of air, and spoke to the King.

“Arvedui you shall call him, for he will be the last in Arthedain. Though a choice will come to the Dúnedain, and if they take the one that seems less hopeful, then your son will change his name and become king of a great realm. If not, then much sorrow and many lives of men shall pass, until the Dúnedain arise and are united again.”

Some time passed after these words were uttered. Araphant did not speak again, considering the foresight of Malbeth judiciously. The darkness in those words struck a pang of fear into his heart, and daunted him. Malbeth might be casting clever wiles at him, to fright him from the throne, but the prophet’s words were natural in their course, like a flowing stream, and were not disrupted be either thought or wheedling foolishness. So, Araphant said to the seer, “Your foresight is too foreboding for my taste, Malbeth, but your counsel is wise. The child shall be called Arvedui, whether or not he is the last king. Now, if you have no more to tell, farewell.” He waved Malbeth away.

“It is a pleasure to serve, milord.” said Malbeth the Seer. This tryst was finished. Without a moment of waiting or a bow of reverence to the king, who stood at hand, Malbeth trod past Araphant and his chatting train, away from the child whose name his prediction had devised. His occupation bore an unhappy promise, in truth, one that gave him no solace, but it was his to perform, as oft as foresight came to him, and now Araphant knew of it, even if he could not fathom what Malbeth had meant about his heir’s fate.

His prophecy spoke of a choice.

In the year 1975 of the Third Age, that choice would be made in the barren, icy wasteland of Forochel, and the Line of Isildur and the Kings of Arnor would end…

Here follows the tale of Arvedui’s choice, the forgotten adventure of his people, and the Fall of the North.

--- Kransha

[piosenniel]

Kransha’s post

The battle had raged for days. Cities such as Fornost did not fall easily…but they fell all the same.

Hírvegil eyes saw a sight which he had never seen before, nor had most of the people in the city he now had a hand in protecting. Over the course of centuries, hundreds of years, thousands of sunrises and sunsets, foul orcs, the black spawn of darkness, had thrived and proliferated throughout Arnor. Never before, though, had such a terrible number been gathered, swarming beneath such a terrible banner and at the back of such a terrible lord. The forces of Angmar, orcs of Carn Dûm, like insects upon their prey, overwhelmed the gentle field that stretched, helpless and once serene, in front of the high-walled city of Fornost. The plains of Arthedain that sprawled lazily beneath Hírvegil were coated with their first layer of wintry snow, crystalline white that would, under normal conditions, have implanted a sense of tranquility in the man. But, today, the snows were marred with black and fiery red, embodied in the torches and flame-tipped torches that lined the orcish ranks as they crashed, wave after wave, into the weakening walls of Arthedain’s last stronghold.

Fornost was a great city, as some thought, though it did not compare to the grandest heights of old Númenór. It had not been built to fend off attacks by such numbers, though, and it was amazing that it had stood firm as long as it did. It was built of stone and marble, once sunny white and shining with the light of new civilization and prosperity. Now, it had been dulled in its color, and the carven features and profuse contours of the high walls, towers, and gates had been weakened by time, withered by the elements, and damaged further by conflict. Just within this mighty wall were the lowest levels of structures in the city, the training fields for the Arnorian military, and the diminutive homes, cluttered about over the brick foundations, densely packed together. Inscribed within that outer wall were two more walls, one around the housing and municipality of Fornost. This wall was narrower, but still bore a parapet from which archers and watchmen could overlook the field and structures before and below. Within this wall were the estates of the wealthier, more prosperous folk of Fornost. The higher-handed houses bore vaulted, extravagant roofs of more and less conservative architecture. Those were the dwellings that were home to the people of Fornost, the elite. The last wall looped gracefully around the central structures of the city, the inner sanctum: which contained the palace of the King and the quarters of his closest officials, counselors, and vassals. Here, the most grandiose of the abodes was, high towers that jutted into the cloudy sky, silvery pinnacles that rose above the many-halled court and the lavish mansions that sprung from it. This was the capital of Arnor, not necessarily at its best, but still a city to rival many others, a city that had been built to stand forever.

In Hírvegil’s eyes, it would last no longer than another few hours.

The outermost wall, the thickest, was now thin and vulnerable, with countless cracks and splinters running through the stones and still smoldering scorch marks from the heavy weaponry of the enemy burnt into the topmost parapets. The towers at the main gate had crumbled into so many mounds of dust and useless rubble. Many portions of the wall, and the buildings immediately behind, were reduced to refuse and ashen wreckage. The second wall was almost breached already, now that the orc hordes had surged past the ruin of the main wall and into the city. It was not as doughty as the one before, certainly, but it was now the last meager stretch of stone erected between the hordes of Angmar and the city itself. From the parapet of that wall, archers poured down arrows, stones, and any debris they could hurl upon the orcs as great waves of fire from below kept down the heads of the defenders. The frontal guard of Arvedui, the King of Arthedain, covered the top of the second wall, and filled the streets, crowding around the area behind the gates that led into the secondary sanctum and Fornost itself. On the other side of the wall, tremendous siege implements, gargantuan, cumbrous things, damask and dark, dragged from the shadows of Carn Dûm. Monstrous ballistas, ragged with spikes of steel and iron, shot forth great bolts, as long as a man, tipped and rimmed with tongues of flame that struck the walls and burst in a cloud of dense smog and glittering sparks. Primitive mangonel catapults, too heavy to be hefted past the first wall, lobbed great boulders; set alit with oil and fire, which crashed through all that stood between them and the city within. Rank after rank, wave after wave of orcs, armed with clubs and maces and mattocks of all sorts, bashed through the doors of every house and threw themselves against the main gates, attempting to bring them down despite the defensive implements employed against them. From above, the embattled second wall was slowly losing all those upon it, most to the wanton destruction wrought by the siege weapons. The line of defense for the city was wearing thin.

Hírvegil himself watched all this from the inner sanctum. He was a Captain of Arvedui’s rearguard, which would not see battle face-to-face until the last wall was breached. He was not thankful, though, for this reprieve, which many would’ve welcomed. At the behest of his King, who dwelled now in his halls, taking counsel with his seconds, he was not to journey past the reaches of the inner wall with his men. Before him, the people of Fornost were being overwhelmed by the orcs of the Witch-King. The ragged tatters of Dúnedain regiments had been all but crushed by the relentless assaults of the orcs, and now the darkling beasts were free to prey ruthlessly upon the hapless civilians of the city, who now ran rampant, with no place to turn, in the streets and alleys. Many attempted to reach the gates, but they had been barred against the orcs, and naught could be done. All that Hírvegil could do from his perch was hope that the aim of his chief marksmen on the battlements would find the throats of orcs, rather than those of the people being slain amongst them.

His lieutenant, Belegorn, stood nearby, peering over the wall’s turreted heights. The man’s eyes looked with a concern and whole sternness at the city below, with familiar yearning in those orbs as well. He turned as the clanking sound of Hírvegil’s overly cumbersome armor attracted his attention. When his face turned to Hírvegil, the Captain of the Rearguard saw more than simple worry in his lieutenant’s eyes, but no fear. He spoke, his voice heavy and serious, made hasty by all the surrounding events. “They will have the gates down within the hour, Hírvegil.” He said, brandishing the blade he held in his hand, clutched firmly beneath very white knuckles, “Our arrows cannot hold them off.” He was not a man who could become concerned at the drop of a hat, though this was no trivial matter. Belegorn was swayed by the struggle, and probably wished to join the fray in the city, rather than stand idly by.

“Not at this range, at least.” Hírvegil muttered in reply.

“We cannot get closer to them.” Belegorn retorted swiftly, “The only way to fight them directly is if they breach they gates, or we go beyond the gates.” Hírvegil turned; the dying ember of indifferent confusion tempered with biased rage against the goings-on, and began to walk down the length of the wall again, with Belegorn, sword swinging wildly as he hurried beside, close behind his commander. “Then we should go beyond the gates.” Hírvegil proclaimed, with a harsh tone in his voice, and some of the archers on the walls were nearly distracted by the darkness in him as he spoke, “The walls are nearly down as it is. If we stay here, besieged on crumbling walls, we have no more power than a game stag in the woods. Those who are trapped outside the inner gate need aid, and we can give it.” The wall was rocked just then by another great crash from beneath them, and crackling splinters ran across the cobblestones under their booted feet, but they ignored the damage.

“The King must order it first.” Belegorn said, obviously unsatisfied. He was no stickler for inaction, but the letter of the law was a law he abided by, and Hírvegil respected this. But, he was not in the mood to entertain matters of law. Arvedui’s codes were far more strict and binding than those of his father, Araphant, a fact which Hirvegil disliked. These matters should not clutter the battlefield, not in the way they did. Rounding on his lieutenant as they reached the fringe of the archers’ ranks, he spoke angrily. “The King has lost his senses if he does not see what we must do.”

“Be careful of what you say, Hírvegil, son of Sildathar.” intoned a sickly, creeping voice from behind the two. Belegorn spun first, more readily, as if he hearkened now to the baying call of a foul beast that had surmounted the battlements, but Hírvegil needed no foresight to know who had spoken. He turned slowly, anticipating the cold glare that met him.

Behind, perched and hunched over conspiratorially, stood Mellonar, one of Arvedui’s chief counselors, a great minister of Arthedain. The man was frail in form and figure, with features chiseled in a royal fashion, but so sharp as to be immediately unattractive. The neck of the wretched figure was permanently craned, and the arrogant head, beardless and pallid, hung downward beneath a heap of fur-lined mantles and robes. Mellonar was, to put it lightly, a detestable person, and his visage was no better. The counselor bore power over much of the happenings in Fornost, and was administrator of Arvedui’s many wardens and captains, who, in truth, did little more than communicate the Kings orders to his military commanders and then point out their failings. Among the soldiers of Arthedain, Mellonar was considered a very vulture in his countenance, and no man argued with the opinion, for even Mellonar himself acknowledged it with his bearing. Hírvegil, though, had known the King’s minister since his early days a warden of Arthedain’s borders, and had reason to bear him more malice, but he did not. In times of war, there was no use in wasting hatred on allies.

“Take command.” Hírvegil said sternly to his lieutenant. Belegorn nodded with quick astuteness and hurried off to the line of discharging archers at the battlement edge. After a circumspect moment of silence, Hírvegil cried after him, saying, “Focus fire upon those that man the rams below. That will hold them at bay.” With this he turned again to the counselor beside him, who had sidled silently closer to him. He looked, with an icy, glazed-over stare at the man, who stood comparatively shorter than himself, and extended, first, a question. “Why have you come, Mellonar?” he said, not deigning to smile in his reviling, for the battle’s hardships were still foremost in his mind, “I know your heart bears no love of battle.”

“I have not come to watch your folly on the field, Captain. I come with news from Arvedui’s Court.”

“Tell me, then, how long shall Arvedui take counsel with bombasts while his people die in the streets?”

“Do not question your king, Captain Hírvegil.” Mellonar snapped, his irksome voice forced to swell to accommodate the din of the battle that churned noisily in the distance, “His majesty has adjourned the conclave in his chambers.” Hírvegil peered at him angrily, the loosened grip he had on his sword tightening as he continually glanced to the side, his fire-filled eyes straying to the clustered city and the great torrents of smoke and fire that rose from every broken structure. He turned to Mellonar again, stepping forward in a most intimidating manner, and shook his sword angrily, the delicate edge of the Númenórean blade glinting in the noonday sun and reflecting broad rays of light onto Hírvegil’s armored breastplate. “What, then, would he have us do?” he said with dark, fury-wrought tone, half under his breath, “Wait for the doom of Angmar to tear down our walls as we stand upon them and bear us all to ruin and death?”

Mellonar did not hesitate to take several minute paces back, out of the range of Hírvegil’s quivering blade. As he moved, it seemed as if the counselor glided across the ruptured cobblestones, his robe flowing gently beneath him, as if he were some carrion-fowl creeping away from its scavenged meal. “Rally your men, Captain,” he commanded, mustering a semblance of dignity, “if you have loyalty enough to do so, and gather what folk you can from the city. The army of Fornost is sundered, and we can no longer defend the city. In his wisdom, the King has concluded that we must make for the North Downs, where forts still lie in the hills, and seek refuge their until we have organized, and may flee west. The ‘doom of Angmar’ will beset us further if we do not make haste.” He snickered silently, but did not smile. Even he knew the dire straits that had befallen Arthedain, and it was still his city, even if he could not appreciate the sacrifices being made so that he would survive. He scowled and slowly turned; arching his half hunched shoulders behind him and wincing each time a deafening crash erupted from the battle behind.

“Begone from here!” Hírvegil cried after him in disgust, “We will flee in due time. Let me salvage my troops.” Mellonar turned back, jumping again as a thunderous jolt rattled through the ground beneath him. “Do what you wish, but do not tarry. The king commands that you find those of most importance still in the city. Of utmost importance are the Elves of Lindon and of Rivendell, who still dwell in the inner sanctum. They must live past this day, if an alliance is to be sought with their kindred.” He pointed his bony fingering, which was, as much as he tried to conceal it, obviously trembling with unadulterated fear. “Be swift, Hírvegil.” He whispered to the stray wind, and turned again, hurrying back towards the King’s Halls.

“And you may be swift in your flight, as well, lest your cowardice sprouts wings and carries you from here.” Hírvegil’s voice rang coldly. He watched, satisfied, to some degree, as Mellonar winced again. Before the nobleman had reached his beloved, protective halls, Hírvegil had already turned and was moving concordantly towards the wall, where his men where still, pouring every arrow they had into the disorderly ranks of beasts that were crowding forward, gaining little ground, but still gaining, through the city below. Moving as swiftly as he could, he reached the line of men, all leaning precariously over the rail of the battlements. Belegorn was still easily directing the troops to fire, though their aim had not been granted any more precision. Belegorn turned as Hírvegil approached. “What says the king?” he said hastily, obviously just as eager as Hírvegil to hasten to the outer city’s aid.

“The King says that we must tend to politics again,” snapped Hírvegil, seeming rueful and spiteful, “but we will do what is needed.” He neared Belegorn, but the other troops nearby heard his words as they gained volume and commanding quality, that quality held by a Captain only, and they knew that whatever Hírvegil was going to say, they would do best to heed his words with great speed. “Command the entire rearguard to enter the city by any means they can find,” he said, directing the sentence at Belegorn, “including the main gate. Do not fight the foes in Fornost, if possible, and tell them to search the ruins for survivors. When all have been brought together, we shall rally at the gates. The city is to be evacuated.” This last phrase sent a minor shocking jolt into the faces nearby. Even though this action had been expected during the battle, no one was really ready for the crippling blow of hearing it said aloud. The city was alight with fire, which loomed and speared up into the highest reaches of the smog-filled sky, so that the pallid faces of frightened men were illuminated, painted blood red by the tongues of flame. Nevertheless, they turned willingly, as Belegorn and Hírvegil rushed through the thickly packed ranks to the front and, issuing orders left and right, lead the rearguard into the city of Fornost, now in ruins.

They moved down quickly, in droves, nearly. There were several angular staircases that led down from the battlements. Like its technical sister city in the south, Minas Tirith, Fornost was built, in a sense, on levels, so that going from one sanctum to the next would predispose descending. Each sanctum and protective wall rose above the one that surrounded it, so that the city seemed to be a very grand hill, which terminated in a very geometric stump where the King’s Halls and Towers coalesced. It was not hard, therefore, to get down into the lower levels of the defensive bulwarks and onto the other platforms and levels, but besieging foes might have a harder time reaching the heights of the inner sanctum even if they did break through. Unfortunately, there were so many vile beasts in the dark host that even a splinter in the cracking walls would’ve accommodated a great wealth of them. Already they rose and fell upon the city like black oceanic tides, crashing down on rocks, which were worn away by their constant lapping at the city’s foundations. The Dunedain rearguard, and scattered remnants of the army, surged through the gates and at the orcish hordes.

“Into the city!” cried Hírvegil as loudly as his failing voice could afford him, above the mighty thunder and fire, the crashing of steel on steel and stone on earth, “Seek out the Elf-kind and those who have escaped the orcs. Make haste!”

[piosenniel]

CaptainofDespair's post

Standing on the last remaining battlements of the city, was the Lord Mitharan. Alone he was, save for his bodyguard who stood at a distance. He slowly surveyed the carnage of his once mighty home of Fornost. Below, the bodies of the dead Dunedain soldiers and civilians were strewn amongst the carcasses of the orcs. Black blood mixed with the red-stained innards of the slain people of Fornost. The stench that arose from the streets and alleys was horrendous, and few could withstand the reek for more then a few moments. But the orcs, the orcs relished the smell, and it gave them new life. They only lived for the destruction of men and elves, and it was their greatest love to see the bodies of these hated enemies being ripped apart and eaten, some of them still alive. This sight disgusted the Dunedain Lord, and he turned from the death and destruction, and strode off the battlements, towards the last of the Great Halls, to hold a council with his remaining lords.

The streets were eerily quiet, as he walked the lonely path to the Hall. His mind drowned out the horrific sounds of the screaming, and torturous deaths of the civilian populace, as the Orcs ran rampant through the broken streets, killing and plundering as they went. Rather, he focused on his task at hand. He was forced to take a few back alleys at one point, as the barricades that had been laid up, were still in position, ready to be defended to the last. He was careful to avoid these checkpoints, for they only slowed him down, and he was hurriedly moving about. Yet at last, with a bit of effort, he found himself upon the steps of the Great Hall. Pushing aside the great wooden doors, he entered the slightly damaged building, which had been hit with siege projectiles in the latter parts of the Witch-King’s siege. One section of the wall was even being supported by the wooden struts of nearby houses, which had been destroyed or severely damaged by those same projectiles.

Upon entering, he stopped in mid-stride, and gazed at the lords who were now arrayed in the hall, and we already discussing what would be done. The King though, was absent, apparently handling other, more important business, with his chief counselors. Quietly, Mitharan slid himself into a chair, to listen to the rest of the debate. For a few moments, all was silent, as the speaker, having been interrupted, attempted to regain his thoughts. But at last, he composed himself, and began to speak.

“We are now at a crossroads. We have only two remaining options. Surrender has been ruled out, as neither side would accept it, and it would only be disastrous for our people. Thus, we must either fight to the death, or flee into the wilds, and hope to evade this enemy for as long as we must.” The Counselor paused, and scanned the faces of those surrounding the great, round table they were situated around. “Now, we must make a decision that will affect us for generations to come, or will end our people. But final word will come from the King, to where we flee, or where we die.”

Many of the other lords sat still, almost like they were frozen. Not a single one of them rose to answer the call of the speaker. Instead, they sat, and pondered their fate, and the fate of the Dunedain. But, Mitharan, in his unconventional ways, rose at long last, and addressed his peers.

“Our doom is inescapable! We are a dwindling people, losing number every day. We will not, nor can we, recover from what has occurred. If we flee, we will only be hunted, like rabbits fleeing the dog. The Witch-King will not stop until we are all dead. Our families, our people, will live in fear daily. Why not end that, and put up one last, glorious defense. One worthy of the name Dunedain!” He paused, and as if to ensure his meaning got across to the elder lords of this Council, he spoke again. "We must fight to the death!"

Murmurs could now be heard amongst the wizened men. Mitharan still stood, as though he was ready to march out, and confront the Witch-King himself. Finally, at the behest of another, he sat, and awaited the replies. But only dissension could be heard rising up. Some agreed with the young lord, and wanted to face the enemy head on, but the eldest of them, wanted to hide in the wilds, and hope to find a safe haven. Eventually, most agreed with this idea, and the Council began discussing what option they had, should they manage to escape the ruin of Fornost. Some suggest Imladris, others, Ered Luin, and a few suggested Lindon, where Cirdan dwelt. But a final agreement could not be made, other than that those who could flee, should go where they are able.

Mitharan stood from the table, upon the conclusion of the debate, and fled the confines of the hall, for the rancid smell of the dying city. Walking out, he heard the sounds of the dying rising up over the last section of defendable walls, and ran towards it. His only thought was to die protecting those who needed him, the civilians. Quickly he went, until at last he can to the final barricade before one who enter the overrun sections of the city. With his bodyguard in tow, he entered. His first sight, was that of some hapless civilian who had been caught in the fighting. Her eyes stared up at him, unblinking. His heart sank, and put his fingers over her eyes, and pulled the lids such, to give peace to the soul. Wandering a bit further into the city, he found more of the same, only in droves they had died, cut down before their time, by a merciless enemy. His bodyguard meanwhile, was becoming all the more worried. They feared the orc numbers, and knew if they were sighted, only the good graces of the Valar would be able to save them. But they didn’t express this fear openly, but Mitharan saw it in their eyes, and he wept to himself, for what had happened.

With the gates breached, nothing would stop the hordes from coming. Eventually, the inner defenses would fall, and Fornost would be made into a haven of vile creatures and great evil. The guards at the gate had fallen quickly, and only a swift counter-attack by the remnants of the outer defenses, saved the city from falling in one fell swoop. But those men gave their lives, willingly. But at long last, Mitharan could stand the smell of the Angmarim-guided death, and fled back to the inner sanctum of the city. As he crossed the final barriers, in silence, he caught sight of the Captain, Hírvegil. He seemed rather grim, more so than most men in his situation. But the Lord heeded him not, for now at least, and fled up the final stair cases into the inner sanctum of the city, to await what the final order would be from the King.

[piosenniel]

Garen LiLorian's post

". . . we are to escort you to the north gate of the sanctum. We shall escape that way and remove ourselves to the North Downs. Please, gather your possessions quickly and come with us.” Angóre stood in the doorway of the hall, listening to the Dúnedain knight delivering his missive in clipped tones. The Man finished, and the emissary removed herself hastily to the depths of the chamber. Angóre did not stir. All that he owned he carried already. “Tell me then, friend. Is there no hope for the city?” His tone was measured and calm. The captain’s voice was weary as he replied, “The first gate is down, the hordes of Angmar are against the second wall and our resistance is scattered.” His eyes flashed. “And of such companies that remain whole, many of us are sent on political errands, collecting emissaries and diplomats instead of helping our brethren on the walls. Begging your pardon, master Elf.” He finished in a sarcastic tone of voice. Angóre looked out again at the walls, beyond which the sounds of battle carried clearly. “I do not think that you shall be deprived of the chance to win glory here, friend. Though in truth, I agree with you heartily. I had rather be upon the walls when they are taken then guarding those who do not seem to need it. However, we both have our duty, do we not?”

A tremendous crash forestalled any reply. “They are at the gate!” The captain stared wildly in the direction of the second gate of Fornost, as if his eyes could perceive the struggle taking place there. A fell light awoke in his eyes, and he was transformed. “No longer can I stand watch while Fornost falls! Master Elf, I lead my men to where they are needed. Make haste for the courts of the king, and the north-gate!” And, so saying, the captain gathered his force and sprinted for the gate. Angóre stood fast as they went, though his eyes followed them until they disappeared around the bend. “Happy are they who choose death over duty,” he said as the last of the men vanished, and he stood there a while longer, vying with himself, until at last he turned back into the hall.

The great hall lay bare, all the servants who could bear arms had joined in the defense of the city, and those who couldn’t had gone anyway, and done what they could. Another crash came from the direction of the gate. Angmar was knocking. Angóre could hear the distant sound of the brave men of the vanguard readying themselves, and another crash. Then the air was filled with the sounds of battle. The emissary appeared before him, clad in traveling clothes. “They have breached the second gate. Quickly, now, we must reach the third level of the city before we are overrun.” His voice betrayed no emotion; he might as well have been discussiong the weather. And, before she could respond, he had turned and was out the door.

The hall given to the elves was still a goodly distance from the gate, and the sounds of battle still echoed from that direction. The rearguard of the Dúnedain was holding, for the moment, but however valiant the Men were the massive horde of Angmar must overcome, at the last. For the moment, however, this meant the streets were empty, and Angóre lead his charge through the streets at a quick pace, making for the entrance to the uppermost city.

[piosenniel]

Lalwendë's post:

She heard her husband before she saw him. She heard his anguished cry echoing through the great hall from where he slumped in the doorway. At first she was irritated for she had been hurriedly stowing away some of their most precious belongings, hiding items in nooks within the cellar and packing others into what bags she could find. The work was hard but some sense of foreboding told her that it was necessary. This siege had been going on for too long and she felt that it was about to break. As her husband had left the house on the previous evening he had told her not to be so foolish, wasn’t he, after all, one of those very men who had been sworn to the defence of this city? He had shaken his head in frustration as she slipped into one of her bitter moods; his gentle assurances only ever seemed to make her more resolute, even angry at times. Fretting, she had woken in the early hours and set to work sorting through the tapestries, the silver and the scrolls of parchment.

Picking up the child, who was at her side as always, she hefted him onto her hip and hurried out of the cellar. The child did not stir; he was not yet a year old and still small for his age, and a more placid babe in arms she could not have hoped to have borne. He was wrapped in a layer of soft blankets and a fur, to protect him from the chill, damp air. Frowning at what troubles her husband may have brought to the door, she entered the great hall and cast her eyes about for him. He was lying in a broken heap, in the shadows by the door. He had fallen down where he stood, clearly besieged by some great hurt and her angry frown disappeared.

“What has happened?” she cried out, rushing to his side, clutching the child even more tightly. She crouched down beside the sturdy, tall man she had been married to these past twenty years, and pushed aside his cloak, which lay across his chest, concealing something.
An arrow head was buried there; the shaft, filthy and broken, poked out from between his ribs. Black and clotted blood stained his leather jerkin. She got up hurriedly, thinking to fetch a bowl of water with which to bathe him, but her husband caught her hand before she could get away.

“No, my girl,” her husband said with broken breaths. “It is too late for that. Already I feel the foul poison...ah…I feel it taking me. Too late. Better to stay with me now.”

“Where is your mail shirt?” said Renedwen, feeling confused, for as befitted his station as a Lieutenant, he normally wore more protection than the usual boiled leather jerkin. She tried to remember if he had left the house wearing it last night, but he had indeed done so, as always. He had seemed to live in the mail shirt these past few weeks of the siege. It had given her a feeling of comfort, even complacency, that he was protected by such a valuable and rare thing.

Her husband blinked his eyes slowly and sadly, and then looked at her with a look of contrition, for he felt sure that as usual, Renedwen would soon start to scold him harshly, as was her way. “I gave it to one of my men. I…was leaving my post to come to see you, to warn you. And I could not leave my second in command man there while I walked hither to my girl, protected from danger though I was in none.” She still did not understand how the arrow had then got into his chest, if it was safe enough to come here dressed so lightly. He continued “As I came by the gates, I saw the orcs, and they saw me and did this. Listen to me; this is the end of it all here. They cannot be held back much longer”

As he stopped talking, the sounds of desperate shouting, screaming and the crashing of metal upon stone and wood drifted up towards their home. No birds sang that noon, they had long since flown away, and no children were heard laughing and singing. For weeks the youth of the city had been like this, subdued and hungry, yet at least their voices were normally heard on the street. Today there was nothing but the panicked cries of the men.

Renedwen suddenly felt a fire in her stomach. She had never been demonstrative to her husband, had never really shown him how much she loved him, yet now here he lay, his head in her lap, and his life was running away from him as fast as his blood poured into his punctured lungs. She wanted to shout and stamp and rail against the whole world that this had come to pass, but she felt that ever gentle hand on her own, staying her temper.

“This no time to vent your anger. It is our last time together. My girl, you were right, “ he said, his eyes dimming. “The hour is upon us. We have failed our wives and sons, and failed our fathers, failed your father. You must take our son now and go to find your father, for he is old and will need help to escape this place. Our city is now become a tomb, and those who do not leave will perish. You should see the enemy. The hatred…” he gave off talking for a moment, not wanting to relate to her the evil in the faces of the enemy. “When I leave you, which will be soon, for I feel the world ebbing away, you will take my sword and you will go. I shall have no memorial. I do not want one. This is the only thing I have ever asked of you.”

Tears welled up in her brilliant blue eyes, as blue as the sapphire he had given her almost a year ago, and the sight of them made her husband gasp. She never cried in front of him, a marbled queen was what he called her, a name he thought was beautiful, and she would smirk with a hint of scorn whenever he said it.

“I shall hold the thought of your eyes in my heart and leave here bravely, on this stone threshold of our own small palace,” he smiled as he thought of how proud she was of their home with its arching windows and marble floors, the rooms stuffed with all the finery that his money could buy for her; it made her happy, he knew, to be surrounded by elegant, delicate things. And then the tears welled up his won eyes and a look of concern crossed his face.

“You know you must not stay here, not even to take up our possessions. None of that matters now, only that you and our boy get out of here,” He touched his son’s head tenderly; he had his father’s grey eyes, and he loved the boy. He knew that his wife’s heart burned for her love of the child, the only seeming living person who she felt this for, and that if he impressed on her how he would be vulnerable, then she would not tarry there.
“While my eyes have the light in them, let me see you both. Let me fill my sights with this, so that my last thought is not of orcish hordes and dying men but of my girl and my son.”

***

She pulled the finest of all their tapestries over the body of her husband, and laid a pillow beneath his head. Before she covered his face, she kissed him tenderly, and one hot tear fell from her nose onto his closed eyes. If such tears had held the power to revive then he would have awoken with a start, as they were infused with her sorrow; but this was no story, it was all too real.

Taking up her husband’s knife, she cut two locks of his dark hair and stowed them carefully in a little bag at her waist; she would later bind them into bracelets of remembrance for herself and their son. Finally covering his face with the tapestry she took up what little she had the heart to take, a bag of grain, blankets for the child and her husband’s sword and knife. Blind with tears, she left their home, locking the door behind her. Dimly she heard the now frantic cries of the men defending the city, and only vaguely did she notice the other people running to mobilise for evacuation, children grasped firmly by the hand, shouting in panic.

Pushing through the growing crowd, she found her way to her father’s house. The doors were closed and there seemed to be no sign of life within. Running to the lofty arched doorway, she pushed on the latch and went inside. The great hall was in darkness and it took her some time to adjust to this. It was not unusual, as the Captain often closed his doors and windows to the world; it usually signified he had a bad feeling about something, that he felt threatened.

“I knew you would come here,” the deep, elderly voice echoed from the back of the hall. “At the end of it all, I knew my daughter would come here.”

The Captain, tall but now thin and weakened by advanced age, sat imposingly on the settle, facing the door. His noble face was resolute and grim with foreboding. He could not see the face of who had entered, as the light coming from the opened door temporarily blinded his eyes, but he well knew the shape and movements of his own daughter. He wore his mail shirt, and his weapons were held ready at his side. Renedwen’s mother, old and frail, lay on the seat beside him, her head in his lap and her eyes dull. His hand lay on her head, smoothing her white hair. Nothing had been made ready for evacuation.

Renedwen ran towards her parents, all her tears spent, and her face reddened with the grief she was enduring. She sat down on the other side of her father, who briefly turned towards her and touched the head of the child with tenderness.

“You are going to ask me to leave,” he said. “But I shall not. I may be too aged to join the ranks out there, but I will not give up our home so lightly. Not if it is the last thing I do.”

“The last that we shall do…” her mother said sadly, but with a hint of determination. She too reached out to the child, and she smiled. Pulling herself up, she motioned for Renedwen to pass him to her, and she took him in her arms gently.

“Can you not hear the screams? It is time we left here. You know this,” said Renedwen, fear in her eyes. “He is gone. He is dead. I am alone but for who I have here. You must come with me now, it was his dying wish”.

Her father shook his head. “You are your father’s child. You knew it would come to this all along. You know I felt the same. Even now, your brothers are out there fighting, but they will never see an end to it. Not for them the quiet years of retirement that I have enjoyed. And who knows even now they may be walking in a greener place with your husband. But I am now content. My daughter is come at least.”

Again Renedwen pleaded with him, but he shook his head. He smiled at last, something which she had rarely seen from her solemn father. “You are yet young, and you have the hope of the child. I will not go. But you should.”

Renedwen looked to her mother, but she too shook her head. She was as resolute as her father, and would stay with him whatever he wanted. “I know not what will become of any of us, but you should take this little one and keep him safe.” she said.

The cries outside grew louder and seemed close to the house. Her father, with a grim look on his face, stood up, and gripped the hilt of his sword, ready for whatever may come. He looked at his daughter seriously, and bade her to stand up. Taking her into his arms, he held her tight for a moment, and she thought she felt a tear land on her face, but as they drew back, she could not be sure if he had finally given in to some hidden feeling and allowed himself to weep. His face was as serious as ever.

Motioning to her mother, he finally took his wife, daughter and grandchild in his arms. “We will not forget each other, and one day, on a green field, we shall all meet again. The days will be happier. The time of this city is over, and you know I cannot abandon it. But you must go. Go and seek what life you can beyond these walls.”

He had drawn closer to the door as he had taken them in his arms, and now he walked towards it with them. As he opened it, once again the afternoon light flooded in, bathing their faces in a warm glow. Renedwen turned once more to her parents, filled with dark panic that her child was in grave danger, yet needing this last moment before she turned and left them to their fate.

[piosenniel]

Arry's post

‘They come against us like the dark waves in winter against the cliffs and crags of Tol Fuin. Do they not, brother?’ Gaeredhel’s words came out in a quick, clipped fashion as he drew back his great bow and fired into the clamorous mass of Orcs that threw itself against the gates of the second level.

‘Yes, and if you recall it well, the waves that crash high against the shores of that drowned land oft overwhelm the smaller isle of Himring.’ Rôsgollo hunkered down, his back against the wall of the parapet, as he worked a piece of wax up and down his bowstring. In a moment, he was back on his feet, bow drawn, and aiming for the neck of one of the greater Orcs. He scarcely noted the grimacing creature as it crumpled to the ground. Already there were two or three more scrambling to take its place.

A voice to Gaeredhel’s right rose above the din of battle. ‘Don’t know ‘bout those waves you speak of. More like mindless flies to a pile of sheep dung, to my mind at least.’ ‘Aye,’ came the voice of another, ‘haven’t seen anything bigger than The Pool myself. But I was thinking they was just like them crows and ravens out there on the edges of the field . . .all noise and sharp beaks and beating of wings on a fallen rotting corpse.’

Despite the grimness of their situation, Gaeredhel laughed at the words of the two periain who stood near him, their own small bows delivering death to the dark foe. He glanced down at the Halfling bowmen as they stood on two bales of hay to make their shots over the parapet. ‘And I am thinking,’ the Elf said, ‘that the Periannath do not care overmuch for the buildings of men. Pile of sheep dung? A rotting corpse?’

‘Unnatural, I says,’ commented another Halfling sent with arrows to replenish his companions’ quivers. ‘Building up houses and towns so far above the ground. Just asking to be knocked down.’ He walked the line of bowmen from the Shire, handing out his supply of repaired arrows. ‘Not like the Shire, mind you,’ he said looping back to where the Elves stood. ‘Lovely smials there, dug deep in the good earth. And what buildings there be are low-like, if you catch my meaning. Not all stuck up like some great whacking challenge to other bully-boys.’

The Elves and Halfings fell back from the wall, another line of bowmen, Dunedain, flowed in about them, allowing little pause in the routine of battle. Rôsgollo crouched down, as did his brother, and took the offered skin of water from one of the Halflings. ‘So how is it then,’ he said, passing round some waybread from his own pouch, ‘that bowmen from the Shire have come to defend this city of Men?’

One of the Halflings stood up from his group. He looked much like his fellows, brown haired, sharp brown eyes, a good natured face beneath the strain that war imposes. Save for the small white feather stuck firmly in the band of his small slouch hat, he was nearly indistinguishable from the others of his company. ‘Wilibold Brownlock, master Elves,’ he said nodding at the brothers. He’d taken off his hat by this time and turned the brim of it in his hands, more as a matter of hesitancy than nervousness. ‘Captain, I am of this rag-tag group. Pardon our plain talk to you if it offended. It was just the yammering of one soldier to another in the press of battle.’

Rôsgollo dismissed the apology with a small wave of his hand. ‘No offense taken.’ He looked about the city, his eyes straying up to the top level from which rose the King’s towers. To be honest, I cannot say the structure is much to my liking either.’ He settled down on his haunches, gesturing that the Halfing do so, too. ‘But my question still stands, Captain Brownlock. How came you here? You and your band of keen-eyed archers?’

‘Well, I’ll let old Rory speak to that,’ returned the Captain, motioning for one of the older looking Halfings to come forth. ‘He’s our record keeper, so to speak. Knows the whys and wherefores of goings on in the Shire. Keeps a journal, like his old gaffer and those before him. Writes down important dates and the stories that go with them.’

Rory fished through the large pouch slung from a strap round his shoulder and pulled out a battered, brown leather covered journal. ‘Now this is just my family’s field notes here,’ he said thumbing through the first section of the well worn book. There were pages and pages of faded, crabbed handwriting, down which he moved his ink-stained forefinger. ‘It was old Argeleb . . .number two, I believe if I read these scratchings right, that granted Marcho and Blanco, then of Bree-land, the right to cross the Brandywine River and take the land from the river to the Far Downs into their keeping. Anyways he was the king up here in Fornost back then and we were . . . are his subjects. And I must say his hand and the hands of the others after him always rested lightly on the Shire. Didn’t ask much of us really. It was a bigger kingdom then, you know, before it fell apart. Arthedain, they called it’ He turned a few more pages. ‘Now this king, Arvedui, he’s the king of one of the last good parts of the old north kingdom. It’s to him we still swear loyalty. And when he sent the call out to our Chieftains for aid a month or so ago, we came.’ He looked about at the small band of his battle-worn companions. ‘Not many of us left now.’ He closed the journal carefully, tying it securely with a piece of sturdy twine. ‘But they’re all recorded here . . . those what’s fallen . . . and their deeds. Cold comfort for their families . . . though, mayhap they will take some comfort that the king remained protected while still they drew their bows and breath.’ There was little comment as Rory finished speaking; only the thoughtful silence of warriors to whom the same fate still may await.

Too soon, the brief respite ended as the group rose to take their places back at the wall. The groaning and cracking of the great doors that still held against the foe had intensified, as had the increasingly triumphant bellows of the Orc host. One of the Halflings nearer the gate came running to where the Elven brothers stood bow to bow with Wilibold and a few of his men. ‘Cap’n! Cap’n!’ he cried, panting for breath as he came to a halt. ‘The King’s men have come down from the top level. All the Elves and survivors of the city are to retreat there . . . the Orcs will soon take this second ring . . . the King means to retreat to a safer place, or so the news flies along the lines.’

‘We must hasten, then,’ Rôsgollo urged his brother. Our charge must be found and taken up as the King requested. ‘Look round the west way, brother,’ Gaeredhel called as he started off to the east. ‘I’ll meet you at the western entrance to the King’s level.’ Rôsgollo hurried off, his eyes searching out the counselor. His brother paused for a moment, returning to where the Halflings held their line against the parapet. ‘Will you not be calling your men in?’ he asked the Captain. ‘Gathering them up for retreat? Shall we meet you up there?’ he finished, nodding his head up toward the towers.

‘We are swift of foot, good Elf,’ Wilibold assured him. ‘Let us hold out here a little longer until others have been brought to safety. We can make it before the gates are shut against the foe.’

Gaeredhel gave the Halfling a small bow then turning quickly began his search for the counselor. ‘To me, bowmen of the Shire!’ he heard the Captain call out, rallying his companions to take up places closer to the groaning gates. ‘Places lads! For the King and the Shire!’

[Saurreg]

Belegorn

The huge leather clad uruk crashed heavily onto its knees and a soft wet gurgling sound emitted from its throat. With a yell, Belegorn drove his sword swiftly through its broad back, penetrated the flimsy armor and did not stop until he felt the distinctive crack of a shattered vertebrate giving way. The acting commander of the rearguard then drew his blade back up and kicked the hulking carcass of his fallen foe aside. Wiping the stinging hot sweat from around his eyes with the back of his hand, Belegorn looked around and cursed.

In the excitement of the charge, the first line of the rearguard – the newest and most inexperienced men of the regiment was doomed. Led by an enthusiastic lieutenant of old aristocracy but modest ability, the line overextended and gaps formed between bands of fighting men. The enterprising uruks exploited the points of weakness by spearheading through the widening gaps in hefty numbers, encircling the men of the first line and crashing heavily into the second line – the tougher third year veterans. The young soldiers of the first line fought desperately like lions, but with their cohesion broken, most senior sergeants and the line lieutenant killed, they panicked and dissolved into a rout.

The men of the second line were equally ill prepared for the ferocity of the huge orcs and confusion then became chaotic and was further augmented by the arrival of the remnants of the first line, who rush terror-stricken in all directions to escape. It was almost too much for the men of the second line to take and they started giving way…

Belegorn turned towards the regimental archers at the rear and barked a curt set of orders. Fearing that the second line was about to follow suite first and rout, he and the flag bearer darted towards it and found that a crisis was in the making, for the men of the second line were so closely huddled together that their shields overlapped and each man was unable even to unsheathe his sword to fight. Individuals in the rear were already slinking away while many of the senior sergeants were also incapacitated. The uruks were decimating the men in the front – easily overpowering the defenseless men with their great strength.

Swearing vehemently, Belegorn grabbed the shield of one of the guardsmen in the rear and shoved his way to the front, urging the men to spread out and give themselves room to fight. He bellowed out the names the sergeants of the line and of the men he recognized to advance and reform the line.

“Nicanor! Iarminuial! Esgalelin! Reform the line! Attack!”

As Belegorn reached the front, an uruk attempted to smite him with his black blood-dripping scimitar. Belegorn raised his shield and absorbed the blow before thrusting his own blade into the groin of the enemy. He stole a quick glance to his rear and saw that the flag bearer was still with him and sigh a relief.

It was up to the archers now, and they did not fail him.

A skillfully discharged volley of arrows arced across the second line and as ordered by Belegorn, the archers let them down amidst the mass of uruks. With their second echelon cut down by the merciless missiles, the uruks at the front lost their momentum and stopped. Belegorn dashed towards the closest uruk and let his trusty blade find the orc’s head with a loud roar. The sharp Dúnedain sword met its mark and cleaved the uruk’s head in half.

Turning towards the men to his rear, Belegorn harangued them, nodding towards the stunned host of orcs,

“You miserable wretches! Aren’t you ashamed to let your lieutenant be beaten by mere animals?”

An emboldened orc charged towards Belegorn and attempted to kill him with a thrust of his scimitar. Belegorn skillfully parried the blow and delivered a lateral backhand swipe with his sword arm and took of the miserable creature’s head. Black steaming ichor gushed forth from the severed neck.

“While? What are you waiting for?”

Several of the senior sergeants had responded to Belegorn and came up to him. Belegorn then turned towards the orcs and charged, yelling with all his breath. The movement forward was a catalyst for the necessary courage and momentum of the rearguard. With a roar the men of the second line swept past Belegorn and the flag bearer and charged towards the enemy. With concentrated local superiority, the rearguard slaughtered the uruks.

Belegorn waited for the second line to scatter the uruks before signaling to the flag bearer to wave the pennon and the trumpeters to sound the halt and withdraw – he had no intention to lead the regiment into mass suicide. The first lieutenant then turned towards the third line – the supreme elite of the regiment, and signaled to them to part ranks and allow the second line to withdraw unmolested. It was his intent to withdraw the entire regiment by this leap-frog maneuver.

For now, the reputation of the rearguard as the best of Arthedain was safe. But just barely.

[alaklondewen]

The fruit of the enemy had taken Fornost. The streets lay in ruin, and the stench of the death and despair that surrounded the Counselor and his guard sought to overwhelm and overcome them. Ereglin covered his mouth and nose with his left hand and tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword with the other as they passed yet another scene where a small battle had occurred. Three young Dunedain lay where they fell, crumpled on the street. The Elf noticed the absence of their swords and wondered at the irony of others being slain by their comrades weapons.

“We must be careful, sir.” Gaeredhel called over a crash coming from their right. “The enemy holds no order.” His words were short and clipped by the steps he took. “They seem to be charged by the chaos that surrounds them.”

Ereglin nodded gravely just as shadow covered the city. The terrifying screech that followed cut into the Elf’s heart with a blade of darkness, and Ereglin stumbled momentarily...the Witch King had arrived. Darkness covered his eyes like a thick tapestry. Frantically, the Elf grabbed at his face and wiped his eyes, but he still could not see. A growing pressure gnawed on the edge of his mind, and he called out with as much force as he could muster, “A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!” Immediately, the darkness fell away from his mind like shards of glass, and Ereglin breathed deeply as though he had held his breath for several minutes.

“Lord Ereglin!” The guard’s voice broke brought him back into the dire scene. “We must move with all haste, sir...we are nearly to the Inner Sanctum!”

“Yes, with haste!” Ereglin followed Gaeredhel as they began to race toward the gates of the third level.

A crowd bustled around the entrance trying to file through. Many of the women were crying, as were their children, but as the Elf looked over their faces as they approached, he noticed one woman with a face as cold as stone. She carried with her a babe, hugged closely to her side, and Ereglin wondered how this woman, who’s sapphire eyes blazed, would fare. The Men parted enough to allow the Elves through, and they hastened to the King’s Hall.

One of the King’s guards met them at the base of the structure. “Lord Ereglin.” The guard quickly bowed and nodded to Gaeredhel. “Minister Mellonar is awaiting your arrival. All Elves are to assemble within the Hall.”

“Thank you,” Ereglin nodded to the guard, and he and Gaeredhel ran under the eaves of the great hall. At that moment, cries rose from the people within the third level and great crash was heard above them.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The three horses galloped at full pelt through the streets of the upper level, even the two great war horses terrified by the sounds around them. North's nostrils were flared and red and his breathing harsh and shallow as he belted along the cobbled streets and up the shallow, twisting, wide twisting stairway to the Inner Sanctum, Faerim bent low over his neck, his fingers entwined desperately in both rein and mane, his brother's fingers digging deep into his sides. The boy was entirely focused on riding straight ahead, keeping an eye on his mother but otherwise taking in nothing but the paved path that lay between his family and the Inner Sanctum.

Suddenly, a terrible, fierce screeching noise came from above him, the sound of the very fabric of reality being torn apart. It was too much for North: the inexperienced black stallion whinnied and reared up suddenly in terror, snapping the twine that tied his bridle to that of Carthor's horse and nearly throwing both boys off his back. Faerim grabbed at his brother's wrists with one hand, trying to stop him from sliding off as he desperately tried to stay on the back of his horse. But then he saw the sight that made his blood run cold.

Faerim, although young, was not cowardly: he came from a line of fine Arthadain soldiers and his every cell had yearned to serve his city and his country in the army since he couldn't remember. He was brave, morally and physically; but nothing in the world could ever have prepared him for the sight of the creature that lay in front of him. He yelled in shock and horror, his eyes opening wide as North reared once more. Faerim barely tried to calm his horse: his eyes were fixed on the fearsome, inhuman figure that, as he watched, took out three soldiers with one swing of that massive icy sword. The beast didn't look at him, but it was if he could feel every moment of joy he had ever experienced being tainted and sapped away as he looked upon the one that was called the Captain of Despair.

And for once, just for once, Faerim envied his brother for his lack of sight.

A scream pierced the air, a sudden, sharp, human sound that shook Faerim from his reverie, seeming to stand out even against all the chaos around them. Startled once more, the youth's head whipped around and there, amid the rubble of destroyed houses beneath their perch on the stairs, was a woman of about the same age as his mother, clutching a young boy's hand desperately. Faerim stared at the woman: how was she still alive there, with the orcs running wild? One thing was for sure: she wasn't going to last much longer like that. Faerim wasn't sure what about this woman had called to him so particularly, amid the devastation and death of the city; but as she struggled forward, she looked up, and her fierce, bright blue eyes bore straight into his, before she fell forward, tripping and falling to her knees, a curtain of black hair falling over her pale, terrified face. That was it. Brander's arms were wrapped tightly around Faerim's slim, muscular waist in a death grip, holding grimly on, and Faerim could feel his younger brother's head digging into his back, feeling the vibration that his spine as his brother whimpered softly. North had stopped rearing but was dancing backwards fearfully, tossing his head and foaming at the mouth as he whinnied, terrified at the ghastly spectre. Faerim laid a hand reassuringly on his blind brother's hand, then turned to his mother, whose mare was reacting similarly to North, although Lissi tried to calm her, using all of her substantial skill as a horsewoman to stay seated.

"Mother!" Lissi looked up fearfully, expecting something to have happened to ehr son, and Faerim steered North over to her side, yelling over the chaos of the witchking's descent. "Mother, I must...there is a woman, and a child, they have been left there. I must...I..." he trailed off, not knowing what to say, not knowing why he felt such a strong bond of duty towards this woman. Lissi paused, then nodded. "Go, go! But Brander..." Faerim nodded. "Aye, he-" Brander spoke quietly, the vibrations of his voice being felt more than heard by Faerim. "I will go, Mother and I must get to the Inner Sanctum."

His brother's calm sensibility made Faerim feel weak with love towards him. "I love you, brother," he said softly, squeezing Brander's hand tightly for a brief instant. Brander was quickly moved over and seated behind Lissi on her mare, but Faerim couldn't immediately move. Lissi drew the blade that her son had given her and gave him a look of fierce, strong emotion that Faerim couldn't quite understand, tendrils of black hair whipping around her face, her grey eyes bright, looking like the warrior queens of legend. The youth lent over and kissed her roughly on her forehead then, with a last look, he reared once more, turned, and sped away from them as they rode up the stairs towards the Inner Sanctum, as he galloped in the direction they had come from. Looking around, his blonde hair blowing into his light eyes as he narrowed them against the wind and dust of destruction. He was surprised to find that Carthor's warhorse had stayed close, as if taking comfort from the presence of North, but he didn't immediately pay attention to the creature, focusing intently on the woman and her child. He rode towards her, crouched low over North's back as the last remaining survivors fled past his horse's sides. Stopping beside the woman, he offered her his hand.

"Lady, please!" he yelled over the tumultous noise around them. Glancing sharply up at the dark, ragged silhouette like the image of death that seemed to hover on his horse in front of the rearguard, he was once again sharply reminded of how little time they had. The orcs were so close he could almost smell them: in less than a minute, he estimated, both he and this woman would be dead meat.

The woman, unbelievably, hesitated, and Faerim took a second to realise why, then it hit him: he hadn't thought ahead - how was the woman going to fit on, with her child? It would certainly slow them down, even if it was possible. Then a revelation came to him, a revelation of hope that relied on one thing. He looked at the woman hopefully. "Can you ride?" he asked bluntly.

The woman nodded, her face brightening. Faerim grinned in relief, despite the situation and turned to Carthor's warhorse, who was still close. Dismounting, he helped the woman and her child up as fast as he could, then leapt deftly back onto North's back. Grabbing the reins of the other horse, Faerim spurred North on impatiently - as the tide of orcs broke on the rubble behind them. Faerim, his knuckles white on the reins, spurred North on as hard as possible, praying that he, as well as the woman and her child, could get to the Inner Sanctum in time...

[Nuranar]

Morn was, on ordinary occasions, the most placid mare Lissie had ever met. Unfortunately, this was no ordinary occasion. There was no need to urge her
to a gallop as they fled from the house; indeed, the frightened mare did her best to pass North. But Lissi just let Morn run herself out. She had other things to think about. Her eyes kept her sons always in view and glanced from crevice to shadow, looking for danger before it found them. Even as Morn leapt debris and rounded corners at breakneck speed, Lissi rode with superb balance, only her left hand on the reins. The hilt of Faerim's sword, tied above the sack on the right of her sidesaddle, was within hand's reach.

Despite her vigilance, Lissi knew nothing of the Witch-King's coming until his cry split the air, echoed appallingly by a horse's terrified scream. For an instant Lissi knew blind panic, as her body felt the chill of horror and the world around her darkened. Morn swerved violently and reared, and Lissi's muscles tightened instinctively. Her reason returned as she fought the plunging mare to a trembling halt. She couldn't afford to look up, but even in the midst of the struggle she was thinking. They were ahead of me, and so was He... He's closer to them... He's between us and the Sanctum!

"Mother!" Lissi's head snapped around at the urgency in Faerim's cry, but she gasped in relief as Faerim and Brander rode to her side, uninjured. "Mother, I must...there is a woman, and a child, they have been left there. I must...I..." he pleaded, eyes strangely compelling. Lissi hesitated for but a moment. If he feels it's his duty, I cannot stand in the way. She nodded quickly.

"Go, go!" Wait!... "But Brander-" Faerim started to say something, when Brander himself spoke. "I will go, Mother and I must get to the Inner Sanctum."

Good boy! Lissi thought. Quickly they shifted Brander over to sit behind her; instantly he wrapped both arms around her waist. "No, I'm not big enough to hold you on!" Lissi said urgently, guiding his right hand to a grip on the saddle. If he's only holding me and he starts to fall, he'll drag me with him. She glanced up the street. Orcs were fighting with the men of the rearguard, driving them slowly back. I'll need every bit of balance I've got as it is, if we're to get through - she shook off the thought - WHEN we get through! We'll be waiting for Faerim when he comes. Lissi drew Faerim's sword with an instinctive flourish and turned Morn's head. Faerim was still beside her, and she glowed with pride as she saw him. Abruptly he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, then turned and galloped back. Lissi's eyes filled with tears as she cried out to Morn and kicked her into a canter.

Swiftly they fled through the chaos of soldiers, fighting and fleeing. Somehow they passed the shadowy horror unharmed, although Morn tried to swerve and Lissi felt Brander trembling. One orc, hearing her approach, turned to brandish an oversized battle-ax; Lissi shouted to her horse and ran the orc down, swinging the sword at another nearby. The very desperation of her onslaught was an advantage, as some of the enemy gave way and others were outdistanced. Morn developed an unexpected ferocity, now that the Witch-King was out of sight, striking down orcs in their path.

Lissi raised her eyes for an instant and sighted the gate to the Inner Sanctum. "We're almost there!" she cried to Brander. Abruptly they burst into their own rearguard, and Lissi had to rein in her mount to let the soldiers make a path. They rode up through the gate, into the chaos of companies and officers, dead and wounded. At any other time Lissi would have been fully aware of her appearance; as the only women in sight, on horseback, a boy behind her, and a blood-spattered sword in her hand, she made quite a picture. But to all this she was oblivious. Even as Morn shoved on through the press, she was looking back. Please, Eru, let him live!

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen’s world was falling apart around her and yet the child still slept, wrapped in his blankets and strapped firmly to her chest. He was his father’s son, she thought to herself as the threat of tears began to prick her eyes once more. He was all that was left now. It was her and the child, alone, in this chaos and the heaving mass of struggling, frightened people. She clutched him even tighter as she tried to squeeze towards the gate, and struggled to keep her feet on the ground, lest she go under and be trampled.

As she turned her head about to get a breath of air she saw a garden she had once envied, and fell back from the struggle. It had been a beautiful place, shaded by drooping trees and filled with scented plants, and she had often gazed on it in silent envy. Now it was littered with tumbled masonry. The shrubs were crushed by many feet and the trees had been hacked at. A statue of a woman which once stood in the centre of the garden now lay on its side, its cold stony face gazing sadly on the equally stony face of Renedwen.

She faltered, thinking of her elderly parents not far away. Should she have gone back to them and insisted they join the escape? Or should she have joined them in their defence of their home? She could feel the warmth of her child’s gentle breath through her gown, and she looked from him to the struggling crowd at the gate. Surely the sensible thing to do would be to give him to another woman, bid her to take him to safety? It would not be so bad. After all, he had no father now, no home, and precious little hope of growing up in the luxury she had planned for him. Now she was no better than any other widow who struggled to get through the gate and to safety; all notions of wealth and status meant nothing now.

Renedwen had almost decided that the child would fare as well away from her when he stirred within his swaddle of blankets and opened his eyes for a moment. She suddenly found herself looking into the eyes of her husband and her heart seemed to turn within her. Wracked with grief and love she turned back to face the gate.

The cold screeching which issued from somewhere above filled her with a sudden need to be out of there, to take her child and get to safety and cold determination surged through her bones as she set herself amongst the crowd. Her deep blue eyes were intense as she tried to work out how best she could get through this gate as quickly as possible, and as she looked over the crowd, planning her escape, she noticed a tall elf with dark grey eyes watching her. He was a King’s Councillor, reduced to trying to escape as much as she was, and she watched him as he made his way skilfully through the crowd.

She was not watching what was coming from behind her, and no sooner than she heard the cries, the creature was upon her and she seemed to fall into a stairwell for protection. Then the walls started to come down and all she could do was cower with her arms covering the boy’s head. She did not even have time to cry out, and time seemed to halt as she stumbled forwards, only knowing that she had to move, had to get away, had to be elsewhere.

Renedwen looked into the eyes of a young soldier who was watching her, horrified, and then she fell. She did not put out her hand to stay her fall, as she could not bear to let go of her son, and winded, she lay in the rubble, shaking her head in despair. All the thoughts of who she missed, her husband and family who had suddenly been taken from her, whirled about her and she felt as though to give in was the only thing she wanted. She thought of meeting them on that green field and what bliss it would surely be. A hand touched her arm and she thought she might already be dead and that it might be the welcoming hand of her husband, but as she opened her eyes again, she saw the young soldier, somehow bright on his horse against the backdrop of smoke and dust.

She barely noticed as he urged her onto a horse with the child. She thought she must be smiling, but she was numb with the horror of realising she was alive after all. She automatically hooked her fingers through the halter and urged the horse on with a squeeze of her knees, but it did not seem as though it was herself who was doing anything. She felt that somehow she had left her real self elsewhere, that she ought to have been out on that green field, not here, urging a horse on in blind terror.

[Arry]

Rôsgollo

The Hall was in sight. What should have been an easy passage became a rat’s maze of dodges and twisting turns as he maneuvered his way at a run through an increasing mass of bodies. They were frightened . . . panicked . . . and it was this sense of chaos and despair that pulled at him. Help me! . . . the words beat against him, repeated over and over in little images he pushed away. His duty was to his Lord; the keeping of his Lord’s safety, his pledge.

Still he helped as he could. A hand here to one fallen in the melée and a spurring thought . . .Run, man! Seek safety. The King will lead you out soon. Another hand to a woman on her rearing horse, a child in a sling at her front and one several years older clinging desperately to her from behind . . . Shhh . . . shhh, brave one! he coaxed the frightened animal. Take your charges to safety. He ran on, speeding his way to his brother’s side without pause, save for one from which he could not turn aside.

A young woman had fallen, the victim of some foul Orc missile. She lay on her side, crumpled on the smooth paved way, a tangle of bloodied clothes and pale limbs. Her sightless eyes stared up at him as he passed; the horror now fled from them in the peace of death. Her long dark hair was snarled from her panicked flight, strands of it splotched here and there with her blood. Save for the color of her hair, she was nothing like his wife, lost long ago to this same foe. And yet he gasped at the sight of her, recalling the image of his wife and child dead in that battle. The fleeing hordes swirled about them as he paused to look down at her.

He wrenched his thoughts from her, shoving his fresh-turned grief down deep. A little movement beneath her cloak stopped him as he turned to go. There were soft words, in a tremulous little voice. ‘Mami! Gilly safe now?’ Rôsgollo crouched down, turning back the section of the cloak that covered the woman’s chest and hips. There, tucked into the hollow formed by her belly and hips was a little one, not more than three years old. He lay sucking his thumb, his grey eyes blinking in the sudden light, a frightened look on his pale face. She had tucked him there before she died, telling him to be keep quiet – they would be safe soon.

‘Come, little one . . . Gilly, is it?’ Rôsgollo murmured soothingly as he took off his leather gloves and tucked them in his belt. His hands reached for the child, who protested and pushed closer to his mother. ‘Mami!’ The plaintive cry tore at the Elf’s heart. ‘Gilly is safe now,’ he said in a gentle voice as he picked the child up and cradled him in his arms. A fat tear rolled down the little boy’s cheek. ‘Mami?’ Rôsgollo tucked his cloak about the child. ‘Yes, Mami is safe now, too.’ He leaned forward a little and closed the eyes of the woman. His voice kept up a soothing patter as he stood and began to hurry to the Hall once again.

You will not claim this one, foul Shadowspawn! he vowed as he entered under the eaves of the King’s Hall.

His brother and Lord Ereglin were soon found. ‘We are waiting on Lord Mellonar for his instruction,’ said Gaeredhel eyeing the child his brother held in his arms. ‘Best we do not wait long, my Lord,’ Rôsgollo said, shifting the boy in his arms. The last spire on this Hall has fallen to the enemy’s missiles; it will not be long before the Hall itself is in ruin. If Mellonar does not come soon, we need to get to the North Gate.’ Gaeredhel leaned in close to his brother’s ear. ‘And what about the little one. Should he not be with his kind?’

‘His mother is dead,’ Rôsgollo answered. ‘None stopped to see to her. For now, I am his “kind”.’ He looked down at the boy’s face then back at Gaeredhel and Lord Ereglin. ‘I will not abandon him,’ he said evenly.

There was a stir as Mellonar approached the gathered Elves. The focus shifted to the minister as he began to speak . . .

[Amanaduial the archer]

The woman didn't seem in any fit state to control the horse herself: she seemed to be in a state of shock, numb, frozen up, with just the strength to cling onto the reins of Carthor's horse - steering was out of the question. Faerim was therefore left with the non-too easy job of steering both horses, and as he didn't have a piece of rope or the time to tie the horses together, this meant holding the larger horse's reins with his free hand. If this wasn't enough, the orcs were catching up now; Faerim risked a glance over his shoulder and saw in horror that they were but a few seconds behind, despite the speed with which he was travelling. If either horse slowed down, they would be on them in a trice.

Swearing repeatedly under his breath, Faerim turned around again and realised a decision was going to have to be made. Shaking the woman on the shoulder, rough in his desperation, he called to her. "Hey...hey!" he called, and she turned her head to look at him, fear showing in her bright, tear-stained eyes. Faerim didn't have time for compassion though, not at the minute. He flapped the reins at the woman. "Reins - take them!" he snapped, curt from tension, still riding at full pelt, only watching the woman with one eye. By the expertise with which she had mounted, Faerim guessed this woman could ride: he hoped so, certainly, for both their sakes. Thankfully, she took the reins and took control numbly. Faerim flashed her a grateful grin and nodded upwards to the top of the stairway where he had previously come from. "Take your child up there, as fast as you can - go, go!" There was barely any point in speaking in full sentences: she probably only heard a few of the words as the wind gained confidence and blew his words away over the ruined city.

Talking of gaining confidence... Faerim glanced back at the half a dozen orcs as the woman sped past him on his father's horse. They were keeping pace worryingly well, seemingly tireless, howling and whooping as they followed the boy, like a monstrous fox hunt. Faerim swallowed his fear down hard, knowing what he had to do: it was the hardest thing he had learned when training for the army, a skill that would be invaluable in battle but which, unfortunately, he wasn't sure he had really 'perfected' yet. Shooting from a horse whilst riding. And that would mean letting go of North's reins...

Doing so in an instance, Faerim tightened his grip on North's sides with his knees, taking a precious second to balance himself, his arms out at his sides to improve it, but only for an instant. Still gripping tightly, Faerim slid the bow off his back and whipped out three arrows from the quiver at the side of the saddle where he had fixed it. Fixing the first deftly in the bow, Faerim performed the trickiest part of the manoevure: checking the way was clear ahead of him and that North was headed straight, he turned, sighted briefly, and let rip with the three arrows in quick sucession, aiming for the nearest orcs in a volley, meaning he would hit at least one of them with the three arrows. But his impeccable aim didn't fail him: he took out two of the orcs, and a third fell behind, an arrow embedded in his knee. Not that Faerim had taken any notice: he had turned to face the horse's head as soon as the third arrow was loosed, grabbing hold of the front of the saddle, gulping deep breaths of acrid air. But there were still several behind him. Dreading performing the risky manoevure once again, Faerim took another three arrows, let go of North's saddle, and fired again: once, twice, three times the arrows found their marks in the orcs, Faerim's silhouette like some legendary centaur as he fought back. Most of the small pack had fallen now, and the remaining pair were falling behind him. Relieved, the youth slung his bow carelessly over one shoulder and took hold of his reins again as he shook his blonde hair out of his eyes. The half-crazed horse kept galloping, but on top of him, his rider was almost shaking.

They mounted the stairs and Faerim urged North on a little harder as he gritted his teeth and rose in the saddle, but with some difficulty this time: he was beginning to tire. Halfway up the steps, a shadow seemed to come over the youth, and he looked up at the top of the steps...where he saw that spectral figure again, rearing up, his sword pointed forward towards the Inner Sanctum, silently commanding his nightmare troops. Faerim let rip with another volley of curses under his breath, and drew his sword from the saddle sheath just in case, holding the reins with one hand. North didn't need to be urged on further: he was almost blind in panic. Above them on the steps, Faerim saw the woman and Carthor's horse falter as she saw the witch king turning towards her...

"Ride!" Faerim yelled the single word like a catapult shot, and the woman's head turned towards him, her gaze ripped from the witch-king's. He was almost directly behind her, and, in desperation, he slapped the warhorse's rear with the flat of his hand. The horse was jerked into action, as if it to had been captivated by the witch king. They were so close to the Inner Sanctum, but Faerim made the woman ride ahead of him so she got in there first, as he rode behind her, just in case any more of the orcs came - or even... He turned, pausing his frantic horse as he stood at the gates of the Inner Sanctum, and looked up at the terrible, mysterious figure. It looked towards him and the youth looked back with burning eyes, pointing his sword defiantly at the creature who had made his city fall. North reared once more, terrified, and Faerim let his arm fall, turned, and rode through the gates. They shut behind him with a ominous clang, and Faerim suddenly felt faint with weariness - and the realisation that, at least for a time, he was safe.

[Arry]

‘Pressing matters!’ snorted Gaeredhel. ‘What could be more pressing than getting the people to safety?’ He eyed the stooped figure of Mellonar as it whisked from the Hall. ‘I have heard from some of the King’s guard that beneath those voluminous robes of his, he has all sorts of secret pockets. I would just bet he has gone to fill them with packets of sneaking little notes he made on everyone who could be of use to him at sometime.’ He eyed his brother, who’d pulled down one of the soft hanging curtains that hid an alcove, and was busy tying it about him and looped over one shoulder as a sling for the child. ‘Here, let me give you a hand with that,’ he said, hacking off the excess and getting it tied securely. For a second, a small smile swept his lips in an upward arc as his finger caressed the little one’s cheek.

Rôsgollo fitted Gilley into the sling, adjusting it so that he would have good use of his arms for weapons as the need arose. He nodded at his brother that they were ready. Gaeredhel took his place before Lord Ereglin as his brother fell in behind. ‘Lead on, then, brother,’ Rôsgollo called out. ‘And be swift.’

At a run, the three Elves moved down the hallway and toward the passageway leading to the North Gate. As they sped down the steps from the hallway, Gaeredhel made one last comment. ‘And what sort of a joke was that last parting remark of the minister – “Go, and may your journey be safe.” By the One! The Witch-king and his minions are upon us in full force. Surely he must know they will harry us like hounds on the scent of a fox.’

The passageway was very wide and long. Refugees from the city were packed in tightly, the overwhelming stench of their fear palpable in the tight place. They were quiet, at least . . . parents shushing their children, many stifling their grief with choked off sobs for themselves and for their loved ones who had not made it through. They eyed the approaching Elves, sizing them up with sly glances . . . would they elbow their way through to the front without regard, these tall, cool Elves, one could almost hear them thinking.

Lord Ereglin stood between his two guards, their broad shoulders and stony looks keeping the press of the crowd at bay. ‘What business calls the King,’ Gaeredhel wondered, ‘to keep his people waiting so?’ Gilly whimpered briefly and was silenced as Rôsgollo gave him a sip of water from his flagon and a small bit of waybread to chew on . . .

[Nuranar]

Lissi had rarely wished to be taller than she was, but this was one of those times. If she could only see! Faerim was tall, and his fair hair should have stood out. Then why couldn't she find him? What if he- No! she told herself sternly, frowning and pressing her lips together, even as her eyes never ceased searching. You're going to look until there's no other- There!

"Faerim!" Catching up her skirt she broke into a run, slipping nimbly through the crowd, and caught her son in her arms. Thank you, thank you!

Abruptly he stepped back, hands on her shoulders and concern all over his face. "Mother - Brander - where is he? Are you both safe? They are going to evacuate us from the city, to the Northern Downs. The elves are here, they - is Brander alright?"

Lissi smiled up at her son. "Brander is quite safe, we are both safe, even Morn. I left him further back in the Sanctum. As I was searching for you I heard people talking about an escape. Come with me, we must rejoin him." Faerim's mouth opened as she turned, but before he made a sound Lissi stopped. "Wait! The woman, and her child - are they...?"

Faerim nodded reassuringly, gestured to the silent figure beyond him. "This is Renedwen, mother."

Lissi's quick grey eyes took in the stranger, noticed her tired regal bearing, her fine clothing, and the child in her arms; the lines of misery that marred her beautiful face and the bewildered agony of grief looking out of her blue eyes. She was not young, but she seemed so forlorn and vulnerable that Lissi's heart was wrung. Impulsively she embraced her. "Come with us, dear," she said softly. "You will be safe with us."

Renedwen's mouth twisted suddenly, as if with some poignant emotion. "Thank you," she said, in a low voice. Lissi squeezed her hand, and turned to Carthor's horse to give Renedwen a moment of privacy.

"Come on, Faerim," she said a moment later, "Brander is this way." As the three made their slow struggle through the crowd, leading the horses, Lissi gradually worked her way to Faerim's side. "Son," she breathed softly, in a very controlled voice, "have you heard anything of your father?" Her eyes shone very bright, all the anxiety and emotion of the day only there finding expression.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

The snow fell heavier. The emissaries from Rivendell looked around. Most of the refugees were ill-clad—in the haste of their departure they had left their winter clothing behind. Families huddled, shivering together as they strove to keep warm.

Bethiril felt for them. She also felt the message of Erenor, flashing through her mind every now and then. Her respect for her fellow emissary increased a little, coming up with such a bold (and desperate) move as a protest. However, any action they would take at this time would divert the focus of the king from the more pressing task of evacuating the city. Despite their perception of the king, she knew that what he was doing right now was what he thought was best for his people.

But the road really is folly. She sighed, channelling her anger at the feeling of helplessness that this situation had put her in. She had been there before, but nonetheless it irks her that such situations had to exist.

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen knew full well how to ride a horse but she found herself unable to move. She held the reins in her cold, shaking hands while the young man urged both horses onwards. She couldn’t do more than hold the reins and hope that her son was unharmed. She looked down at him silently, hoping to hear him gurgle or make a babbling noise and couldn’t think of anything except his vulnerability. Her rescuer urged hoer on again and finally she kicked her heels and the horse moved off up the steps.

She halted at the top of the steps, transfixed by the sight of the creature that headed towards her. The air was cold and her heart seemed almost to freeze. She felt the horse falter and her blood ran cold. It was as though a nightmare had come to life. One of the night terrors which took her a dark place where she was frozen and unable to escape from what assailed her until her eyes opened and she woke, clammy and breathing hard. She could not wake this time. The dream was real.

Then she felt something strike the horse and it bolted forwards and she frantically grasped for the reins, only catching hold of them as the horse sped her through the gate. He did not stop until they were well inside the sanctum and he could go no further owing to the crowd of frightened people clustered within. She took a breath as she realised what had happened and slid down from the horse, her legs shaking and her eyes wide. Huddled by the horse’s steaming flanks, she carefully looked inside the bundle of blankets still strapped as firmly as could be to her chest. She saw the face of her son, his eyes closed and his cheeks slightly reddened, but as healthy and placid as ever and her racing heart eased.

“My lady”, she recognised the voice but it was different somehow. Turning around, she saw the face of the young man who had rescued her and gave him a brilliant smile. He was much younger than she had first thought, barely more than a boy, and he stumbled over his words. Still, he did his best to retain his dignity and she found herself glad to receive his best attempt at courtesy. Faerim. She had not heard the name, though she knew her husband would have done; he always took pains to be kind to the younger soldiers. She felt a strange sensation of pride and grief welling up inside her when an ecstatic voice cried out and Faerim turned to greet a woman who was obviously his mother.

Renedwen clutched her son tightly as she watched them embrace. She thought of how she had almost given her son up to someone else, how she had almost run back to her father’s house. She knew it would have been wrong, and she knew she would have known it was wrong the instant she did it. Nobody and nothing was going to take this child from her now. His eyes were open and she saw he was waking, finally unsettled by the noise around them. Those clear grey eyes looked right into hers and she looked into them sadly, thinking of her husband, alive only a few hours ago, and now waking in that green field alone. Maybe he would not be alone for long. There would be her mother and father with him. And her brothers. She was the one alone.

She was shaken from her thoughts by Faerim’s mother who gazed on her thoughtfully, with a look of heartfelt warmth, and then threw her arms about her. Taken aback for a moment, Renedwen almost shrank from the embrace, but she finally sank into it, and put an arm about the other woman in a gesture of gratitude and comfort. Renedwen couldn’t thank this woman enough and did not know how to put her feelings into words. Her son had rescued a stranger, had put his life at risk for her. She was not a wealthy woman, Renedwen could tell she had put her life early into raising a family, yet here she was, welcoming her and offering help. Would this have happened before these troubles? Renedwen did not know, but she knew she wouldn’t have considered such a thing. She was, she had been, the wife of a wealthy man, and they lived in a fine house, and she had fine gowns and fine ideas. All that would have set her apart just a day ago, but now in the ruins of the city she saw that they were all the same people.

Renedwen followed Faerim and his mother, unable to do anything else. Once, she would have led, but now she could do nothing else but follow meekly. She was chilled to her heart and still unable to say much, her sharp tongue finally stilled, and her brilliant blue eyes dim and dull with grief and shock. All the nightmares and portents of doom had finally come to pass and there would be no waking up in a warm bed this time.

[Kransha]

Hírvegil wished now, as he hurried through the inner sanctum, that he could be with his troops on the field of battle, but King’s orders could not be ignored. Now that the Elves’ were found, Hírvegil had to be sure that the word sent to him was not false, and make final arrangements for departure. Belegorn was a stern and proud Dúnedain commander, one who would not let him down. He had been given command of the Rearguard before, and proved extremely resourceful when such occurrences occurred. If anyone could successfully move the rearguard through two sanctums and cover the retreat of another small army of non-combatants, it was Belegorn, and this confidence boost brought up a surge of optimistic energy in Hírvegil, although it was replaced by grimness again a moment later when the sound of harsh orcish drumbeats and the steady rhythm of crashing projectiles filled his ears.

The Captain ran into the complex of hallways, chambers, vaults, corridors, and colonnades, but the area had nearly entirely emptied, and the plain bareness of the halls was eerie and dark, combined with the terrific sonic explosion that pressed inward from outside with each passing second. Sunlight in the halls had been stifled by smog from the field and the shadow of Angmar itself. Torches were going out as blustery winds blew in and particles of crumbled marble and stone from above fell from the cracks in the domes and roofs of the citadel, clattering onto the floor below where piles of worn dust accumulated into small piles and lumps that soon covered the area. Soon, Hírvegil was distractedly glancing through each doorway into every chamber to find someone who could relay information to him, until he reached a shady hallway, decked with weakened columns on both sides, and rushed down its length. This area was a clump of storerooms and economic chambers used primarily for fiscal ceremonies. There was a small auction house contained entirely in one room, and a larger bank in another, the bank whose vaults held nobility's earnings, rather than those of the common populaces. Some large rooms branched off into smaller rooms, all circular and barely large enough to hold a congregation of five. Hirvegil, huffing and puffing wearily as he went, darted into every alcove and through every arched doorway long enough to scan every room in succession.

At last he caught a glimpse of a veiled, hunched figure standing in one of the chambers, its narrow shadow cast ominously across the shimmering floor. Hírvegil recognized the figure, even with its back turned, as it bent over several marble tables erected in a claustrophobic storeroom. “Mellonar.” He said, and the figure spun about on his flailing robe tassels, obviously flustered. “Captain,” remarked the nervous Minister, hastily diverting his attention to Hírvegil, “you are not with your troops. You-”

Hirvegil quickly cut him off. He could easily have questioned the counselor’s own integrity, rummaging through items in a darkened storeroom when he should be consulting with the Elven Emissaries or reassuring the Dunedain, but this was certainly not the time to entertain personal squabbles such as that. “There is no time for banter now, Minister.” He said, not even moving towards the minister, “Are all the Elves in the passage?” Mellonar nodded, quavering with fear, confusion, or nervousness, as he often did. “I saw two Emissaries there myself, but one journeyed there, I assume, without my knowing.” He paused, looking off and stumbling over the fine Elven name that had escaped his memory before saying, with some confidence, “The Lady Bethiril, it was she.” He took a moment to visibly ponder, and another to jump, jolted by a burst of sound that shattered the stilness of his rummaging session. Behind him and above, a glass window shattered into crystalline shards, with trickled onto the floor nearby, and he backed off subserviently.

“You are sure she is there now.” Hírvegil’s voice held no urgency, but the matter spoken of was urgent. It was definitely in his as well as Mellonar’s best interests to see that all Elves escaped safely from the city. Again Mellonar nodded, his balding head bobbing swiftly up and down as he began to move across the small, closet-like room towards the Captain of the Rearguard. “I heard the guards declaiming to someone as I left the two that had come. I do not doubt that it was her.” He continued moving, but Hírvegil, his armor jingling and clanking gently as he swung around, waved him off and spoke, “Good. Are the civilians prepared for departure?” He spoke even more quietly now, with the stern seriousness stereotypical of a military commander, and of one of the Dúnedain. His proud gaze was lessened, though, by the alarmed state of emergency, the fires of anarchy that raged about him. He bore on his face a mixture of an icy glare and a heated, passionate look of need - need to make safe his city.

“Yes,” replied Mellonar, “they are prepared.” Hírvegil nodded grimly. “All is as it should be. I shall initiate the final stage of the evacuation.” With that, he dashed off down the darkened colonnade. Mellonar, shaking his cold head as the Captain made his way to the North Gate Passage, turned and returned to his daunting work – filling his robe’s orifices with various trinkets that would not be missed by the evacuating ministers, but might fetch a pretty penny if the Dúnedain ever reached mercantile civilization. He had already stuffed copper and silver coins into his robe's pockets to the brim, and clinking currency spilled out as he moved, littering the floor, once he had finished. A few medallions and semi-precious metals had found there way inside as well; anything worth something. He admitted to himself as he heard Hirvegil's footsteps' fade into a nerve-racking nothingness of sound that he was a cad to do what he was doing, but the reward was enough to keep him from caring. Once he had sufficiently exercised his sudden spurt of kleptomania, he to hurried out of the storeroom and towards the North Gate Passage.

[Arry]

The Elves had pushed their horses as much as they dared in an effort to catch up to the Orc troops. They were resting now, in a small clearing near the tracks they had been following. It afforded them some measure of cover against the chill air and left an easy view of the route the Orcs had taken with their captives. It was not only the horses who were relieved at the rest, but Faerim also who welcomed a chance to replenish his energy.

Rôsgollo threw him a spare blanket from one of the extra horses they’d brought as the young man sat on the ground, his back resting against a log. Faerim had offered to make a small fire to drive off the chill, but Gaeredhel had spoken up, saying there would be no fires until the captives were freed and all were in a safer place. ‘Orcs have eyes and noses. We cannot afford to have them know our little group is following.’

It was only a brief rest before they pushed on again. The track led them southwest from the Dunedain encampment. The Orcs had traveled quickly despite the burden of their captives and had made no effort to conceal the direction they had taken. A while later, the Elves and Faerim came to a rocky area where it appeared the Orcs had made a brief camp. Angóre and Gaeredhel scouted about the perimeter while Faerim and Rôsgollo attended to the horses and kept watch.

‘Did you find where they have gone?’ asked Rôsgollo as his brother came running back.

‘They have split up, it seems,’ Gaeredhel replied. ‘Some heading southeast, another group of equal size it appears, heads west. I followed for a length down the southwest track. Again, they make no effort to conceal themselves from any who might be on their trail. I could not tell if they bore the captives with them or no. Angóre has gone scouting down the west way. Let us wait here until he brings back his report. Then we can decide which route to follow.’ He looked hopefully at his brother.

‘Nay, there is no answer. Something clouds Lord Ereglin’s mind.’ Rôsgollo shook his head. ‘I can only hope he will break free of it at least for a brief moment and give us word of himself and the others.’

The trio hid the horses in a small clearing among the boulders, then hunkered down themselves to keep watch for Angóre . . .

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre moved slowly along the western troupe's trail. This splitting of the Orcish strength worried him. When they had first come to the place where the party had split it had made him glad: the obvious explanation was that the foul folk had quarreled, whether over the captives or the direction was, of course, unknown. But Orcish quarrels tended to leave corpses in their wake, and no sign of conflict could be seen. Already Angóre was starting to have a healthy respect for the unknown captain of these Orcs, and this further solidified his feeling. It was a rare captain who could split his troop, sending some off in a clearly diversionary tactic. Especially when prisoners and spoil lay with one group.

He had been working his way along for perhaps a quarter of an hour when he came to a small stream. He frowned. This did not look good. The Orcs had entered the stream and moved along it, in which direction Angóre could not tell from where he stood. The little stream had started to freeze in the chill of the night before, and for a moment Angóre hoped he might be able to tell their direction from the broken ice reaching out from both banks, but the Orcs had stuck to the center of the stream and if they had broken off ice, Angóre couldn't tell the difference.

Gaeredhel had only just finished giving his report when the trio heard the slow clop of Angóre's horse. They looked up at him expectantly as he entered the clearing, but he shook his head in negation. "I cannot tell," he said simply. "Any luck from you?"

Gaeredhel shook his head as well. Angóre sighed. "There is a frozen stream not far from here. The Orcs I was following entered it, in which direction I cannot say. But they cannot have stayed in the water for long; the cold would sap the strength from their legs. But it is worrying nonetheless; it is the first thought they have taken to throwing off pursuit. I fear it will only become more difficult to track them from here on."

Faerim spoke slowly. "If one of the troops is taking care to conceal themselves, and the other isn't, I'd guess that the first troop is the important one and the second is the decoy." He looked up at Angóre, who nodded in agreement. "That would also be my guess. But the orcish captain has proved so cunning thus far I would not put it past him to take advantage of this. I do not know if we can afford to leave one column alone entirely."

"How far ahead would you say they are?" Rôsgollo asked. "Not far," Gaeredhel spoke up, "I would say not more than a few hours." Angóre nodded in agreement with Gaeredhel's assessment. "Then," Rôsgollo continued, "we might follow both trains and when we've found which contains Lord Ereglin, send word to the others."

"I'm not sure I like that idea," Faerim said. "It'd be at least another whole day while the other two caught up, even if we could get a message to them immediately. Throw in the Orcs' movements and we could be separated by half of Arnor right when we need to act."

Angóre nodded again. "I agree with the boy. We must choose one, and pray that it is the right one. I would choose the westward trail, but it is a baseless guess and I do not lead this company. What do you think?"

[Novnarwen]

He was back at the Inner Sanctum. He was sitting on his mother's mare, helpless and afraid. By hearing the voices filled with horror and despair, he felt little and unimportant where he sat, weak even. He wondered how it would be if could see. What would he see? Would it be different from what he was seeing inside his head? Would it be worse or better? The feeling of anxiety rose inside of him as time went by. He was shaking wildly where he sat, waiting for something to happen, or someone to come. Who? What? Surprised by being alone, he knew what it was that worried him. Desperately, he called out for his brother and his mother. “Lissi, Faerim?” His voice echoed, and yet it sounded faint and distant. His breath went hurriedly, and sped up as time went by. No one answered. Again he called, but there was only silence. Silence. There was nothing, not a single sound. Why? How come time seemed suddenly to stand still? Stricken by this, he tried listening attentively to anything that was going on. rRegardless of how much he tried however, how much effort he put into calming himself and listen to his surroundings, there was nothing.

His mother’s mare grew uneasy, sensing the same oddness of the situation as himself. He held the reins of the horse firmly, deciding never to let go. With the absence of his family, mother and brother, the horse was all he had. When a few minutes had passed, the urge, or need, to understand what was going on took command over him. Being afraid of the danger with revealing ones location to a possible enemy, he nevertheless decided that it was the only thing he could do. With a shaking voice, first silently, then aloud, he called out. “Hello!?!”

Brander woke up. He opened his eyes, expected to see as if his whole life had been nothing but a dream. Black, black as always. “Faerim, are you here?” He rolled onto his back, feeling a silent breeze touching his skin, softly, and as he heard the sound of fabric waving in the wind, he knew that what he first had feared was definitely untrue.

Calling for Faerim again, but hearing no reply, he realised that it was probably passed mid-day, and he didn't blame his brother for having gone out while he was asleep.

[Arry]

‘I have found Orcs to be clever, to a point,’ said Rôsgollo. ‘Cunning, in fact. But in a straight forward way. Nothing so refined and intricate as thinking they can make us believe that the group who is taking care to conceal its tracks is the one with the hostages when it is not. My thought would be that we try to overtake those Orcs heading west.’

Gaeredhel nodded his head at his brother’s words. ‘What bothers me also is that they have split their strength. They cannot know how many Elves and Dunedain will come after them. It concerns me that the group with the captives has plans of meeting up with a larger force. If we are to free the hostages, then it should be done before the Orc troops increase in number.’

‘The stream presents another problem, as Angóre has said,’ continued Rôsgollo. ‘He could not tell whether they went north or south along its course.’

‘But if the water is frigid, then they will have to come out of it at some point not far from where they entered as Angore said.’ Gaeredhel crouched down and with the point of his knife drew two parallel lines in the dirt to represent the stream. ‘Were I the Orc leader,’ he said, ‘I would have my troop travel as far as they could in the cold water. And ahead of my column I would send out scouts to see what problems lie ahead. They would not keep to the watery track but range out along the embankment and the areas to each side of it. Surely, if we travel just a small way up or down the stream we should be able to pick up these lone Orc tracks, coming and going.’

‘We can split up then, when we reach the frozen stream. Do you not think so, Angóre?’ Rôsgollo asked. ‘Since we are on horse, the time spent to find the scout tracks should be short. Two of us can go north and two to the south. Gaeredhel and I will split up, and keep in touch with one another as we travel along. When one of us has found the column’s direction the he will give notice, and the other and his companion can hasten back.’

‘Why can’t you ask the other Elves where they’ve gone, then?’ Faerim voiced the obvious question. He’d listened closely to the discussion and had wondered previously at the Elves ability to speak with each other without words.

‘A fair question,’ Rôsgollo answered. ‘And normally it would not be a problem to do so with Lord Ereglin. But something clouds his mind, keeps his thoughts hazy, and him hard to reach. I can sense that he is not far away, but I cannot rouse him to aid us in our search. At some point I am hoping he will break through whatever dams his thoughts, but until then we will just have to proceed as we are doing now.’

‘We should make haste, brother,’ Gaeredhel urged, making his way back to where his horse was tethered.

They mounted their horses and made their way as quickly and quietly as they could to where the westward tracks of the Orc group met the stream. Angóre and Gaeredhel, it was agreed, would head north, up the stream, while Faerim and Rôsgollo searched to the south