Baudh ar Awarth [Judgement and Abandonment]

With a resounding crack the blow rang through the quiet aftermath of battle’s carnage, echoing in accusing reverberation against the surrounding sombre stones of the mountain. The warrior toppled down at the impact upon his jaw, realising in the blinding flash that accompanied the jolt of pain that the bone was broken. Before he could recover a rough hand gripped his arm tightly and yanked him up, unmindful of the battle-torn flesh and muscle below the crushing palm.

"You had the shot, why did you not take it?" The voice was barely intelligible in its wrath and the hand shook him brutally in concert with the last three harshly uttered words. The speaker waited for no response but again struck out, this time burying a leather gloved fist into the other’s middle. The young elf's legs, barely under him from the first assault, gave way and he crumpled down, bent double and breathless while still the unrelenting hand grasped his injured arm.

"Worthless! Incompetent!" The voice seethed with disgusted disapprobation and the gloved hand flung the arm away. The warrior gasped in a breath and struggled up to his knees just in time to hear the enraged cry preceding the booted foot that caught him in the chest and tossed him back upon the ground. He desperately tried to scramble back from his antagonist as the unmistakable sound of a blade leaving its sheath met his ears.

"You are not fit to bear arms with us!" The furious words accompanied the whistle of steel through air.

The blade sliced across his chest and down leaving a scarlet gash diagonally from shoulder to hip and forcing a hoarse cry from the unfortunate elf. He was aware of hands snatching away the quiver from his back, the straps having been cut through by the assault. Another hand tore the bow still tightly gripped in his fist and again a boot found its way into his soft side.

With a groan he instinctively rolled and curled up to protect his abused and unprotected torso, unable to stop his body from trembling. He was aware of the others moving away then and more than one uttered a spiteful curse and spat upon him as they stepped over or around him.

He just lay there, ashamed and horrified, wishing the blade wound was mortal or that the battle still raged so that an arrow or sword might find him. It was over and won, however, and somehow he had been twisted inside out from skilled sniper to hapless kinslayer. The shot he missed had cost the immediate deaths of three in his own company and one from among their human allies.

In despairing self-recrimination he replayed the events over and over through his brain, unable to make the outcome change. He had been ordered into position among the jutting teeth of stone overhanging the canyon wall. From this vantage he had had free reign to choose his targets at will as the unwholesome goblins and wargs poured into the valley.

He knew exactly the number he slew by how often his quiver was refilled by the corpsman that was his constant shadow in battle and in life. Three times the swift pressure and soft scrape of new arrows had met his senses, and at least half of the last bundle was spent before the disastrous error. A quiver held seventy-five arrows, and three and a half times that number had found their targets with deadly precision from his hands and bow. How, then, had the most important target gotten past him?

It was the huge goblin king, Blog, terror of dwarves, men, and elves alike, who came within his sites. The creature’s bodyguards deflected the barrage of swords, axes, knives, and arrows flung at them from the combined forces of the allies, and soldiers fell back before them. This encouraged the evil horde and they fought with rabid vigour, pressing the fighters further back into the blind canyon, smelling a massacre in the mingled blood of the three races.

A rapid series of whistled signals relayed the elf captain’s plan to create a diversion to draw off the bodyguards and allow his prized sniper a clear shot. Five of the company leaped into action, joined by twice that number each from among the men and dwarves, and together they concentrated their attack upon the gruesome beasts, harrying them with small wounds and mocking taunts. The sniper shifted his position slightly, edging closer to the jagged rim, intent upon the battle, watching for the moment to fire.

The archer's bow was tautly drawn as he followed the movements of the goblin king lumbering along behind its guards, hacking stray warriors that crossed within its range with an almost casual style. He waited. The small knot of warriors at the feet of the beasts was taking a terrible beating. For every stab and slash that made it into the flesh of the disgusting creatures, it seemed that one of them fell. All the dwarves were down, and still the archer's opportunity didn't come; the monsters continued to shield their king against the onslaught.

The sniper felt a sharp surge of rage when one of his company staggered back with a cry and tripped, falling to be crushed under the weight of a goblin guard's feet. He wanted to destroy the bodyguards and get his people out of danger. He tried to stifle the powerful emotion, knowing he must not allow himself be distracted.

There have been numerous chances to slay the goblin guards, he thought. If he could take them down then he would have easy access to Blog without putting anymore of his people into the teeth of death. His captain's orders were clear, however; should he even consider disobeying them? His mark was Blog and if he was deterred from killing him due to focusing on other targets, what then? His company was counting on his skill and readiness.

This is very different from hunting yrch in the Greenwood, he thought grimly and shifted his position a bit as the figures on the field below progressed. There had not been war in his time and battle such as this was unknown to him before this day.

The goblin King was getting closer now. He waited.

Another slight shift took the elven sniper to the precipice. He wanted to make sure his movements would not be hindered. He wanted to ensure an unobstructed view of the goblin king. Or maybe he was nervous. So many were dying; should he have disregarded the orders and tried for the guards? His captain could not see the battlefield as he could; perhaps he was expected to take the initiative based on this advantage. He was aware of small stones and gravel escaping from their rest and plummeting to the battleground below.

Behind him his corpsman hissed something, alarmed, but he failed to catch it for suddenly the movements on the canyon floor realigned. The desperate tactic worked at last; the goblin guards were distracted for an instant and brought their shields and attention to the irritating cluster of fighters darting around their feet. The elf tensed and leaned out to take his shot, but something hurtled through the air into his line of sight.

One of the eagle lords that were joined in the battle? No, it was a stone falling from above, a veritable rain of boulders was pouring down and one struck his arm as he snapped his fingers, releasing the pent up energy of the bowstring. His balance faltered, his aim went wide, and the arrow only grazed the enraged creature.

It bellowed and swung its battle-axe into the knot of distracters and instantly decapitated two of the elven warriors. Another fell to her knees, run through with the filthy blade wielded by one of the bodyguards, and did not rise. The humans scrambled to find cover and regroup. One of them was caught by his leg and flung down against the stony ground, his skull shattered and his blood painting a growing red smear upon the rocks.

The archer had watched all this transpire in mere seconds from his rocky ledge above while still firing arrow after arrow upon the goblin king and its minions. He had needed to step back as a squall of arrows and more stones was concentrated on his position. With a sickening twist of his gut the sniper realised he had exposed his location to the enemy, some of which had swarmed over the ridge from higher up.

That was what his corpsman's warning had been: "Beware! You are seen!" Yet he had not been aware, had not seen the danger from above, had not heard the sound of the stones streaming through the air towards him. What had dulled his acute elven senses to such a degree? Why had he moved so far towards the edge? A slight shift forward, an unheeded warning, and four lives lost.

He continued to shoot, controlling the wave of nausea that threatened his skill and ignoring the burning pain in the torn shoulder and arm. The shafts, fletched in the green and gold of his company, studded the creature’s armour but failed to penetrate the bony plates. The bodyguards once again used their shields to protect any weaknesses the armour might reveal to the sniper's keen elven eyes. His moment had passed.

At last, a huge bear crashed into the ranks of goblins and grasped the horrid king in its jaws, shaking and tearing it apart. The remaining elves, dwarves, men and eagles rallied to finish off the rest, routing them from the gory fields.

The price for the victory was dear. Of his own company of thirty-six archers only nine still stood and five more lay wounded. The six other companies of elven warriors probably fared no better. Of men and dwarves, who could even count the numbers of their losses, so littered was the battle plain with their dead?

He heard them then, his comrades, gathering their dead from among the bloodied remains in the canyon below, and their mournful song of passing wrenched his soul. A grief and guilt-ridden wail rose in the archer's chest but he desperately choked it back; only a ragged moan escaped him. He had spent the last 120 or so years training and fighting with these elves. He knew them, their families, their histories; they were his comrades and friends. He knew he could not face their loved ones and kinfolk knowing his carelessness was the cause of this horrendous destruction.

The sniper thought of his own family and the shame and stain he placed upon them now. How will they be able to face this? His father would not forgive him his loss of concentration and his inability to control an up-welling of anger and nerves. Such weakness! he berated himself mentally. His family would surely wish that he had never existed, and he knew they would never be able speak his name or talk of him again. His heart broke at the sorrow his mother would feel at his disgrace.

He knew of but one way to compensate for such loss and one punishment terrible enough to atone for his misdeeds. With bitter determination the fallen archer reached for his dagger, drawing it up from his boot and fisting it tightly. The next instant he plunged it into his chest, thrusting up between the ribs and through the lung towards his heart. He gasped at the pain and frantically drew breath, his body giving an involuntary spasm as though to pull away. On the edge of consciousness, he heard a shout and felt hands grasping for his wrist to stop the blade from reaching its goal, and then gratefully slipped from awareness.

"You should not have interfered. His way would have been more merciful." The elven corpsman that filled the young sniper’s quiver quietly chastised the frantic human. The man glanced up in astonished disbelief as he tore cloth from the bloodied tunic and shoved it against the dagger wound. The corpsman turned to go, but the man reached out and tugged at his sleeve, leaving a ruddy stain behind.

"Wait. You can not just leave him. Take him back to be treated among your wounded."

The elf stared impassively at the wretched wreck on the ground before him. The sniper's lanky arms and legs were splayed out at ungainly angles, his head turned to the side as parted lips oozed blood and half-closed lids shielded glazed unseeing blue eyes. Long thick tresses of pale yellow lay upon his shoulder in disarray, the frayed ends dyed crimson. The man had pulled open the ripped tunic and the diagonal gash gaped against the pale flesh.

The corpsman watched the young elf’s chest rise and fall with each strained and shallow breath. The man pulled a strip of cloth around him to tie down the makeshift bandage and the wounded elf moaned as the knot pulled tight to staunch the flow of blood. The corpsman shook his head.

"I will not take him. Treat him among your wounded, if you will, or leave him. One of your own is dead because of him, and more of ours. He gives himself an easy death, and I am enough his friend not to take it from him. The families of his victims, and many others of our people, would not be so kind." With that the elf turned and walked away and the man just stared after him, not certain what to do.

continued

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.