Tadui Dagor: Maeth dan Yrch [Second Battle: Fight against
the Orcs]
Legolas paused in his game of chase long enough to snatch up an arrow
as it sung through the air past his body, a necessary skill he had
learned through long, unpleasant practice. With care he clutched
it and darted up higher into the leaves, reverting to his natural
stealth and agility so that he was four trees to the left of the
current target of the Orcs' barrage of missiles. The Tawarwaith
smirked; it was so easy to throw them off. The ferine fighter
examined the arrow's metal tip cautiously, seeking any indications of
poison residue on the point.
He had begun to worry about this after reflecting on his last encounter
with Darkness on the day of the Heaving Earth. Those arrows had
been subtly tainted, enough to kill him or, at least, to render him
weak and vulnerable. Three tours of Ithil through the blackened
night had been required to shake the ill-effects of the small wound he
had received that day. With two earth-bound companions to
consider, that was not the sort of injury the archer could afford to
endure.
No toxins appeared to be coating the weapon and Legolas sneered as he
ran his thumb against the metal barb. A small scarlet welt raised
and opened, and he quickly licked away the welling fluid. He
scorned the use of iron for arrows, though he would use that if need
demanded it. Obsidian was far more durable and could be worked to
an edge so sharp that it would slice a single elven hair into three
transparent slivers. Attached to a straight shaft of ash or
cedar, launched from his well-crafted bow, such a lethal vertex would
puncture flesh and bone, leather and chain-mail, with equal ease.
Relieved that he would not need to worry about the lingering death of
polluted blood, the Wood Elf moved quickly through the upper branches
until he was beyond the circle of frustrated Orcs. The thought
occurred to him that the Masters of Dol Guldur had changed their
orders; he was to be brought down by any means possible, preferably
dead.
The Chief does not want me to get back home; if he cannot
have me in his dungeons he would have me perish. Poison is too
slow for his purpose now!
Legolas did not take time to reflect on the situation, however, for it
made no change in his plans. It was not information that he felt
needed to be shared with his comrades, waiting in the pitfall zone
ahead. He looked down at the milling, quarrelling Orcs, who had
ceased loosing their arrows and were re-examining the last available
traces of blood upon the ground. The Tawarwaith chuckled and made
a loud rustling as he descended low enough to poke his head into view
and smile at his assailants. A low whistle gave them his position
and the wild elf sped away again, leading the angered beasts closer to
the hidden traps and his companions' eager swords.
The bark of the bole was sleek and smooth, mottled charcoal and pale
grey in colour so that in the subdued, filtered gleam that passed for
sunlight under the canopy it appeared as unpolished or tarnished
silver. The tree's body was broad and unmarred, no claw or hoof
had scratched its wooden hide, nor falling branch or stray cast stone
found a way to breach its pristine perfection. The great tree
dominated the region, soaring high above the forest floor, surely the
eldest denizen of this locality and among the oldest amid the plant
life inhabiting the Greenwood.
It held its thick, robust limbs up and out nearly parallel to the
ground, yet far from the reach of even the nimblest elf to grasp and
swing from the earth to the heights. So vast was the spread of its
leafy shade that no brush or bramble crowded up around the trunk,
allowing anyone located near its tethered base a clear view throughout
the vicinity. The girth of the majestic birch was more than ample
to conceal one lone human from seeking eyes, easily two Men might hide
behind its magnificent expanse, and here Aragorn waited with fidgety
impatience for Orcs to slay.
Sword drawn and held tight within his two-fisted grip, the Man admired
the ancient wood around him and gazed dizzyingly into the towering
crown of the old ones clustered together in this place. He had not
really noticed before how certain areas of the weald held such groups
of these long-lived trees while other zones seemed crowded with more
youthful, slender trunked individuals. There was a flet spanning
the lowest limbs of his tree. Simply constructed and easily
visible, the small platform was clearly not an outpost.
One of
the scaffolds Legolas built for shooting Orcs. he realized as he
scanned the neighboring trees and spotted more of the sturdy perches
scattered about.
Aragorn shifted from foot to foot, relieving the tension in his calves,
shrugged and rotated his shoulders, and turned his head side to side,
cracking the joints of his spine and neck. He did not tolerate
waiting very well, especially in the steamy heat of the late summer's
day, and sighed in frustration. But he was a disciplined soldier
and knew how to use his time, noting all the possible routes the enemy
might employ when entering the scene, listening carefully to the sounds
of the forest for changes in the normal pattern of the diurnal chatter.
With an abruptness that startled him, all the background noise of the
woods ceased and it was thus the silence that alerted him of impending
battle. Aragorn strained his ears to try and pick up any faint
indication of the enemies' direction, and finding nothing threw himself
down to the ground to press his head against the leafy bosom of the
earth. He smiled and rose, rewarded for his effort by the
knowledge that the horde was approaching with rapid strides from the
east and south of his position, the bearing upon which Legolas had
disappeared hours ago.
He need not have gone to such lengths, however, for shortly thereafter
he could clearly hear the terrible beasts tearing their way with avid
hostility through the trees. Their cries, grunts, and strange
guttural speech, accompanied by the distinct sound of blade against
wood and the cracking of branches still green with sap, became an
eerily echoing cacophony that grew in volume and pitch as the pack
neared. Before they burst into view, Aragorn noted the
unmistakable twang of an elf-made bow and the disturbing sound of a
fair voice ridiculing and taunting the vile creatures.
When the troop made its entrance, Aragorn braced for assault but held
his position, as he had no desire to become the first victim of the
traps. The elf flew through the trees ahead of them, just out of
reach yet not so high that he was beyond the range of their weapons or
their sight. The mortal had never seen one of the fair folk make
so much clatter and clamour in motion as Legolas produced. It was an
uncomfortable observation, for he had always been taught that the Wood
Elves were fighters of stealth and subterfuge rather than strategy and
shrewd cunning.
The wild warrior leaped upon the very flet above the mortal's head,
smiled down at him for a second, and with blinding rapidity fired off
three darts before tearing away again. The cries of death and
outrage that followed left no doubt in the Man's mind that the
misshapen arrows had burrowed deeply into Orcish flesh.
Then the huge herd was trampling in a thunder of crushing feet past
him, never even catching the scent of the Man as he crouched behind the
tree, ready to stand and fight. His vision followed their
progress among the trees and noticed with alarm that the elf was now on
the ground, just meters from the advancing throng, calmly firing arrow
after arrow into the advancing host.
The Orcs were torn between answering with their bows or rushing forward
with swords to carve him up, and seemed nearly evenly divided over the
dilemma. Those that stopped and armed their bows created barriers
the others had to get around, and some of their fellows were too
impatient to pause in their charge and would hack at these archers even
as they tried to target the Wood Elf. Legolas laughed in delight at
these antics, a cold sound that chilled Aragorn's soul a bit.
"That is well, do my work for me! Come on, maggot fodder, I will
use your rotting bodies to feed my trees! This day is the last
you will look upon the fairness of my woods, and for the rest of your
damned existence may your black spirits roil in the torment of the Void
with your faithless master!"
This taunt from the Wood Elf enraged them and any pretense of order
vanished at once. The creatures disregarded whatever knowledge of
the traps they might possess and rushed headlong for the fallen
prince. Legolas just smiled and continued to shoot them down.
Three traps were sprung at once in a sundering shuddering of branches
and forlorn shrieks as the demons were pierced through, falling to
their dooms. Panic ensued.
Legolas ceased firing to return to the branches above, climbing the
trunk behind him with easy grace. He stood upon a flet and
watched with satisfaction as the Orcs scattered and ran off, only to
find the deadly holes opened beneath them no matter where they turned,
for their adversary had learned their pattern of behavior well.
As for the few that managed to evade the traps, those the forest
champion felled before they left the scene, and as he had predicted
every one of the monsters died within minutes.
Silence returned and with it the stinking reek of draining blood from
opened bodies. Aragorn emerged from his hidden vantage point and
surveyed the carnage. He undertook a quick count as he walked carefully
among the carcasses and the pits, mindful of any not yet
deployed. There were forty-two Orcs dead amid the trees, and he
had not even had to raise his blade once. The Man had never felt
so utterly inconsequential in all his days, and gazed up at the quiet
archer above.
Legolas sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the wooden
platform, swinging them lightly, and lifted his hand in
acknowledgement. Before the mortal could speak, the elf rose and
moved into the branches, joining the Man on the ground as the wizard
emerged from cover as well.
"I told you it would work. However, this was not really a
battle. There will be harder fighting with a real troop of them;
too many for traps to do more than offer minor help." he said softly.
Mithrandir did not reply, only watched the outcast warrior
cautiously. Legolas seemed curiously detached from the
events. The Istar did not like the means his friend had chosen to
draw the foul demons in, yet knew not what to say, fearing Legolas
would hear only criticism and disapproval on a more personal
level. He moved to touch the Tawarwaith hoping thus to convey his
worry for the elf's safety; but, the archer quickly shied away.
Legolas gave him a furtive glance as he did so and then inspected the
corpses upon the ground, calmly taking two nearly full quivers of
arrows and slinging them over his shoulder. He continued to steal
arrows from any corpse so armed that he could reach, packing the
missiles into his own and the Orcish quivers. Examining and
discarding several war bows, he finally found one that met his approval
and slipped that over his head as well. He began dragging the
remains into the empty traps and Aragorn moved to help him.
"I admit I am surprised this ploy succeeded. I was certain they
would know of the pitfalls and find a way to circumvent them," he said
and then pointed to the clotting slash across the wild elf's arm.
"Allow me to treat that for you."
"Nay!" Legolas forced a laugh as he flexed his arm. "It is
very shallow and will close quickly."
"Do you not fear poison?" Aragorn frowned thinking the elf
distrusted his talents as a healer after the effects of the sleeping
draught. "Even a slight wound from an Orcish weapon may be
deadly!"
"Ah! I see; no, there is no need to worry about poison,
Aragorn. I already tested their arrows for such vile deceits;
there was none. In any case, this cut is not from any foul devise
of those demons."
Aragorn stared in consternation a moment and turned to Gandalf to
confirm what he believed he had been told. As the Istar nodded,
the Man hissed out a strong expletive and looked at the elf in
disbelief. "You cut your own flesh to lure them," he said,
outraged that anyone would have to do such a thing, much less an
immortal.
"Yes, they cannot resist," Legolas simply shrugged. "Here, these
may be needed in the fight that awaits us." He handed over the
plundered bow and a full quiver of arrows to the Man.
"I am not nearly as adept with such a weapon as I am with my sword,
Legolas," Aragorn said in confusion as he accepted the offering and
tested its draw. He raised his brows appreciatively; it was not
the sort of quality one expected an Orc's weapon to possess. A
second later realization dawned; the bow was of elven make, stolen from
an archer killed in the constant conflict that defined the Wood Elves'
existence.
"Earlier you remarked upon the lack of arrows to fight from the trees;
now you have that option. You can shoot from horseback?"
"Aye, if need be. You speak as though you expect us to be in
flight!"
"We are in flight, Aragorn!"
With that assertion Legolas resumed toting the carcasses into the traps
and nodded gratefully when the Man rejoined the task. All the
offal was quickly deposited below the forest floor, and the human wiped
his brow as the elf searched a last time for anything serviceable to
their cause. He scavenged two daggers and slipped them into his
quiver with a wicked leer; killing the creatures with weapons of their
own making always seemed so appropriate.
They had not time to fire the pits, which bothered Legolas. He
knew it could not be helped and sighed dejectedly. The brief
encounter had only darkened his mood for while he had now proved
himself a capable warrior the tension between the travelers
remained. He stole a fleeting look in Mithrandir's direction,
finding the Istar's eyes regarding him with an expression of remorse
that made Legolas' heart contract. Absentmindedly he massaged the
ache, simultaneously longing for the wizard's comfort and dreading to
resume the connection, reluctant to again feel the doubts Mithrandir
could not repress; however valiantly he tried to conceal them.
Noisy movement amid the trees beyond the traps alerted Gandalf and
Aragorn, both immediately drew swords and assumed a defensive
stance. Legolas just waited calmly as the two horses emerged from
the foliage beyond the pits and daintily picked their way with careful
distaste around the malodorous graves of the gross abominations of
Eru's design.
Legolas spoke softly to them in Sindarin words only they could hear and
gently soothed the nervous gelding. The frightened palomino was
not a war-horse, and the terror of the journey across the Shadowed
terrain had become a visible lather of sweat upon its whithers and
flanks, darkening the honey-coloured coat to a rich, shiny
bronze. The horse snorted loudly through its velvet-skinned
muzzle and rubbed its weary head against Legolas' shoulder. The
Wood Elf instinctively leaned against the broad equine forehead, both
receiving and lending comfort.
"It is no good waiting; that only allows more time for the Orcs to get
closer," he finally said and looked to his friends.
"Nay, this will not do!" Mithrandir at last found his tongue.
"Legolas, I must speak!" The Istar drew himself up as the archer
faced him warily. "Well done, my friend, well done!" the wizard
said from amid a face all crinkled up with lines of warm regard.
"Accept my apology for doubting your oath to me. I plead ignorance and
the influence from the creeping defilement of the Shadow upon these
lands. We must be able to depend upon one another, and I do not wish to
add to your burdens by allowing this distrust and dread to fester!"
"That is right," added Aragorn. "I also stand humbled. I
have disbelieved you and disregarded your greater experience in this
sort of fighting. These tactics bear no resemblance to riding
within a company of well-armed elves or men, for which I am amply
trained!"
Legolas' brows rose in surprise as he gazed from one to the other, for
it was not what he had expected to hear. He did not draw back
when Mithrandir came forward and gripped his shoulder firmly, staring
hard into his eyes. The Maia was asking for the connection to be
restored, and Legolas relented only to find himself swept into
Mithrandir's embrace, his spirit awash in an outpouring of fond
goodwill and his face crushed against the shaggy beard as the wily
wizard chuckled joyfully.
"Here now, let him loose, Gandalf! I will not let that gash go
untreated, no matter what you say, Legolas," Aragorn said and pried the
two apart, beaming happily to find the tensions between them reduced
and the unseemly events of the night if not forgotten then at least
pushed aside. He lifted the wild elf's arm and, holding on,
guided him over to the charger's side.
The Man quickly located what he needed in his pack and cleaned the cut,
dressing it with more of the healing ointment that had proved so
effective against the scrapes and slices from the spider battle.
He glanced briefly at the bound ankle but thought better of bringing it
up, considering any reference to their previous misunderstanding
unwise. Besides, Legolas was clearly not hindered in his
movements any longer.
"Thank you, that does feel much better now," Legolas said and flashed
his brilliant smile upon them both. "Yet, this delay will be
costly if we prolong it further!"
"Very well, Legolas. Will you ride or take to the trees?" asked
Mithrandir as he approached and mounted his steed.
"I will ride for now, we require some semblance of speed to get
ahead. There is a very large group moving in from the fringe of
the Greenwood, dwellers of the caves in the Misty Mountains, they
are. They seek to cut us off before we reach the river, planning
to keep us occupied while the company from the mountains
advances. That will be quite a large force, and I would rather
not have to face them thus combined."
"Indeed!" Aragorn concurred as he pulled himself up onto his charger's
back. "Lead the way, Tawarwaith!"
In silence the group rode forward again, if such an irregular course
could so be called. The remainder of the day dwindled away with
no further encounter with any enemy yet neither Legolas nor the horses
relaxed. The palomino paced along in stiff-legged dread, trusting
himself to the care of the elf who had protected him thus far, when all
instincts would have the animal bolt for the wide meadows reaching down
to the Anduin beyond the eaves of the darkening forest.
The golden gelding moved with its head high on an elegantly
arched neck, nostrils flared, huffing noisily with every step as its
hooves pounded out a relentless, mile-eating percussion against the
leafy mould. With ears cocked, one trained back to catch the soft
speech of the Elda and the other scanning side to side; he searched for
any signals of danger. He was in the lead once more and summoned
the confidence to maintain it from the unspoken reassurances of his
immortal passenger.
The wild elf serenely sat astride its withers, in front of the wizard
again. Legolas occasionally whispered praise to the compact
equine, impressed with the strong heart and brave spirit of the smaller
horse. He wondered briefly why the Noldor of Imladris had chosen
to castrate the valiant steed, for such a determined and loyal bearing
would do well to be encouraged in the bloodlines rather than
diminished. The woodland warrior was momentarily overcome by
sadness at the thought of this creature dying and leaving no progeny
behind, but he quickly stifled such emotions for the gelding sensed his
sorrow and faltered in its step.
"What is our friend called?" Legolas suddenly asked the wizard, the
first words he had spoken to Mithrandir since the skirmish.
Mithrandir opened his mouth to speak and hesitated. The horse was
named Pôdvallen [Goldfoot] but he did not wish to say this word;
it would only make Legolas think of Malthen [Golden].
"You have noticed I have not used his name, I see," the wizard stalled,
but his statement was true. Gandalf waited until the archer
affirmed this, looking over his shoulder expectantly. "The stable
master calls him Pen'irith [Shuddering One], but that is hardly fair!"
he continued, and this also was no lie. "He has proven to be
quite reliable, and what creature would not be skittish confronted with
the overwhelming dread of Mirkwood?" Gandalf smiled inside and
out, pleased to have kept the real name secret and thus spared his
friend an unpleasant reflection.
"I agree," said Legolas, "and never could I call him that. He
shall be Hûnchim [Steadfast Heart] as long as I have a mind with
which to think of him." He patted the gelding's neck and smiled
as the horse tossed its head proudly. The archer leaned sideways
and gazed back amiably at the mortal. "And your steed? How
is he called, Aragorn?"
"Maranwë [Destiny]," the Man grinned as the charger twitched back
an ear at the sound of its name. "I have noticed the terrain has
altered; we must be near the borders now for I have seen many signs of
elven work among these trees."
"Aye, we will be upon the Road soon. We will not cross it yet,
and this day is too far spent to make much further progress.
There is an outpost a league ahead where we will stay the night," the
elf replied with more of the ease he had formerly managed, but the
silence returned as they continued their trek.
It was not his guilty shame and hurting heart that made the wild elf go
quiet now, however. He had thought much on their reactions to him
and decided that it was no more than he should have expected. He
reproached himself for his self-pity; he should not have allowed his
personal faults to sully the vow he had made to them. The pair's
kindness and aid to him during the night of grieving incurred a debt
that transcended the reduced esteem they now held for him, for which he
had only his base desires to blame. Their apologies and
spontaneous assertions of faith, despite all they now knew of his
character, were beyond any good graces the archer had hoped to recoup.
His current reticence thus had more to do with their situation.
He was becoming increasingly aware of the alarm throughout the trees
due to the very large band of Orcs marching their way from the western
most eaves of the forest. The travelers were now engaged in a
desperate race to prevent the creatures from gaining enough ground to
intercept them before they reached the Forest Road, though the Man and
the Maia did not realize the nearness of the pursuit. Legolas
kept this news to himself and pressed Hûnchim for a longer stride.
Night had drawn down darkness upon the forest over two hours hence
before the Tawarwaith finally halted the gelding and stood upon his
back to climb into the trees. Mithrandir watched as he scampered
up until the leaves and the gloom obscured him from view. The
wizard frowned, but before he could speak the Man verbalized his
concerns for him.
"Legolas, we cannot see where you are going nor climb unaided through
this pitch! Come back down!" Neither reply nor motion
greeted his demand and the mortal muttered something rather unpleasant
regarding impolite behavior as he guided Maranwë next to the
palomino. He was about to leap down and attempt to scale the tree
when a muffled whoosh sounded and he felt rather than saw something
drop down from the branches and hang swaying in the momentum of its
fall. His first thought was of spiders and his sword rang loudly
as he drew it forth, but muted elven laughter halted his arm from
further exercise.
"Do not cut through the ladder, Aragorn, or you will find it much more
difficult to ascend to the talan!" Legolas cheerily warned as he landed
softly on the ground next to the charger's nose. He reached up
and grasped the end of a sturdy rope ladder and held it taut, inviting
them to climb up.
Somewhat sheepishly, the Man sheathed his broadsword as he turned
toward the wizard with a look of longsuffering resignation over the
capricious ways of elven folk, realizing belatedly that Gandalf could
see no more clearly in the dark than he, and would thus fail to
appreciate the expression.
"You might have warned me!" Aragorn grumbled to Legolas, shouldering
his pack, the bow, and the quiver. He grabbed the silky twine the
elf held down and easily pulled himself up through the inky air to the
platform, passing within a small trapdoor in the floorboards.
Once there, he hesitantly felt about, toes edging forward and hands
before him, and discovered that Legolas had already set out the mats
and blankets. In the dim drear, the Man could scarcely see and
his eye was drawn to a faint gleam of wan moonlight on glass. A
bottle and some cups waited on the closed lid of the wooden chest and
as he reached for it, he heard Gandalf hauling his weight up through
the floor. Aragorn leaned down to give him a hand but the gnarled
staff appeared first and nearly caught the mortal a sharp rap upon the
forehead. Aragorn dodged the blow and grasped the rod firmly,
pulling the wizard up with it. Both waited by the opening,
expecting the elf to appear next, but minutes passed and no golden head
popped through the square of empty air.
"Pull up the ladder and shut that now," the Wood Elf's voice from
behind and above them made both startle slightly and Mithrandir made an
exasperated 'tisk' to accompany the scowl neither of his companions
could see. He obeyed the elf, however, and then turned toward the
direction from which the words had sounded, but still their friend did
not join them. "You will be safe here; I will wake you before
dawn," he said, and already they could tell he was no longer in the
tree with them from the distant quality of the speech.
"Where are you going?" called Aragorn, concerned.
"Hunting," the answer came back through the cloying night.
The two travelers shared a simple meal of dried fruits, lembas, and
wine; for the bottle was a fine vintage, no doubt left by Thranduil's
guard to enjoy upon their return. Aragorn scowled as he set aside
his empty cup; it felt wrong to enjoy such luxury when Legolas was
abroad among the dangers of the Darkness, and he said so. Gandalf
agreed, but there was no way for them to follow and assist their
comrade.
In silence they waited for the elf to return, smoking pensively after
the humble repast. Soon their weariness got the better of them
and they stretched out to sleep. Secure though they were upon the
heights of the outpost talan, the Man and the wizard slept
lightly. At one point, both woke at once, staring at each other
in alarm, uncertain what had prompted their alertness. Nothing
unusual seemed to disrupt the peaceful night, and yet the uneasy
feeling would not desist, and the pair only dozed fitfully thereafter.
A soft thump and a subtle clattering roused Aragorn some time
later. He bolted up, staring through the darkness at the shadowy
figure kneeling on the wooden floor, and exhaled a relieved breath as
he recognized the lithe form of the Wood Elf.
It was not yet dawn, Legolas having returned as promised, and the Man
yawned as he stretched, trying to figure out what the fallen warrior
was doing. Nearby, Gandalf stirred as well. Gradually the
mortal's eyes adjusted and he could observe more easily. Legolas
was busy removing arrows from an Orcish quiver, filling his own with
the black-fletched darts as he breathed heavily, trying to catch his
breath. Aragorn's healing senses came alert; it took a great deal
of activity to make one of the fair folk short of wind.
"Legolas?" he whispered and saw the archer's shadowed head tilt in his
direction.
"Quickly, gather your things up! We must make haste, for the Orcs
have not slept all night and are upon us!" the agitated reply softly
reached his ears. "Use the ladder, hurry! The horses are
below!" With these words he leaped over the side of the platform
and made not even a rustle of leaves in his descent to the floor.
Legolas was already mounted and impatiently waiting when the Maia and
the Man joined him.
As soon as they were up, Legolas spoke softly to Hûnchim and the
gelding leaped froward through the trees at a run. Maranwë
sped after him, covetous of the lead, smelling the odor of battle on
the elf and in the air. An hour's hard riding brought them into
less densely treed forest and then suddenly they broke onto the broad,
hard-packed dwarven road that transected the woods and formed the
southern bounds of Thranduil's Realm. Legolas urged the palomino
again, and the gallant little horse charged forward at a desperate
gallop down the clear pathway.
Precariously perched on the gelding's rump, Gandalf clutched tightly to
the wild elf's waist, leaning close to the warrior's shoulder as both
bent low over Hûnchim's neck. The Maia heard a whistling
whine sweep past his head and flinched from the unmistakable wind of an
arrow's flight. Legolas cursed and shifted more upright, reaching
for his bow and elbowing the Istar's chest as he snatched out an arrow
and sent it flying. He fired thereafter in a continuously fluid
motion, aiming into the trees lining the elven side of the
roadway. Behind them, Gandalf could hear Aragorn releasing darts
as well, and all around the sounds of barbaric grunts, shouts of
enraged anguish, and groans of rapid death filled the ebbing night.
Abruptly, the sortie was over and the wild elf spoke once more to
Hûnchim, sending the brave steed barreling into the brush and
boles of Thranduil's borderlands. Maranwë made a great deal
more disturbance, crashing his greater bulk through the undergrowth for
there was no pathway here. Legolas let the golden gelding slow to
a trot again, but did not allow a halt even though the horses were
weary and alarmed. A soothing caress of the palomino's neck
calmed the frightened beast somewhat, and this in turn eased the
charger's senses.
"Are you whole?" Legolas worriedly asked and glanced back through the
filtered dawn's light first at Mithrandir and then beyond him to
Aragorn.
"Aye, no injuries," said the Man grimly as the wizard concurred.
"Are you well? What is happening, Legolas? Is this the
troop from the Misty Mountains?" He saw the Tawarwaith's head dart to
the side and caught a flash of those brilliant blue eyes, alight with
irritated exasperation, before the elf turned back to the terrain ahead
of them.
"I am well enough!"
Healers! "Yes, these are the very beasts
dogging us that I have feared would overtake our progress. All
night I worked to reduce their number, yet more continue to join their
ranks! I am not sure if they are all from beyond the Anduin or a
mix of local and foreign vermin."
"He is injured, Aragorn, and even now bleeds. I am not certain
where the wound is, but Hûnchim is quite disturbed by the smell
of the flow!" Gandalf interjected and lowered his brows in
defensive menace when Legolas turned betrayed eyes upon his.
"I am well enough!" Legolas repeated angrily. "You promised not
to cast doubts on my ability, then trust that I know when I need to
stop!"
"Nay, you will halt when we are safe, not when you require care!"
countered Mithrandir.
"And how will you fight weakened by blood loss?" demanded Aragorn,
trying to find a way to get Maranwë alongside the gelding, though
the closeness of the trees did not allow it.
"There is no choice in this! One fights or dies, those are the
only options available, and so I will fight. I am not so weakened
that it will hamper our retreat, I assure you! Last night I bound
up the injury; it will be fine until later. I will stop when we
reach the river!"
"That is another thing, Legolas," the Man continued. "Why are we
running for the river at all? Then we will be forced to halt and
face whatever numbers converge upon us! Are you looking for the
King's troops to be stationed there?" The mortal simply could not
abide being ignorant of the plans for their struggle and had difficulty
relinquishing control of such a dire situation, unable to get beyond
the sense of the numbers approaching them. Knowing Legolas was injured
certainly did nothing to inspire confidence in successfully beating
such odds.
Legolas sighed quietly.
How does he think I have endured this long
with as little skill as he credits to me? He thought of
explaining to Aragorn that they yet had a small advantage granted by
the forest itself, for the Orcs could not advance in a coherent force
but had to run amid the boles and find their quarry piecemeal, a few at
a time.
He felt he should not have to explain that his senses alerted him to
the enemy's presence early enough to forestall any surprise attacks.
Raised by elves, trained by elves, and having fought with elves,
Aragorn should know these things even better than Mithrandir. If
the three kept moving, they could hope to avoid being overwhelmed and
boxed in, or separated from each other and individually
surrounded. Instead of speaking any of these reproaches, Legolas
merely answered the Man's question, for he heard the advance of seven
of the beasts just to the right and ahead of them.
"At the river there are boats. The King's guard I have already
seen, though I do not think they are aware of us yet; they are chasing
the Orcs that are chasing us. They will force the Orcs to slow
down, and that should be enough to aid us." As he spoke he stood
upon the horse and pulled up into the trees, and the next instant he
disappeared from sight. Minutes later the sound of his bow and
the successful conclusion of the arrows' flights was confirmed by the
surprised cries of the Orcs, which died never having set eyes upon
their prey. Legolas returned to his friends and reseated himself
on Hûnchim's shoulders.
Aragorn caught another fleeting glance from the feral fighter's eyes
and grinned back, for there had been something in that look that
conveyed a stronger reprimand than any words might express. The
Man was reminded of Elrohir, who often sent such reproving glares at
Elladan for continuously cautioning and advising the younger twin
during battle, as though Elrohir had not noted exactly the same signs
at precisely the same moment. The Man wasted no more thought on
such reflections, however, for Legolas suddenly switched directions and
picked up the pace of the palomino. In a few heartbeats they were
set upon by a large number of Orcs, and Aragorn was certain Legolas had
deliberately turned them into this throng.
Again the archer leaped to the trees and proceeded to inflict a rain of
death into the foul army. He was not indiscriminate in his
selection of targets, however, and sent every Orc bearing a bow to its
death first. And that is when the creatures attempted to be
clever and earned for themselves a most gruesome death.
The Orcs decided to concentrate on the little gelding, for the animal
was clearly not trained for combat and knew no techniques for warding
off danger and protecting its rider. Hûnchim wheeled and
reared, darted and whirled this way and that, yet each movement seemed
to bring him into closer proximity to the beasts.
Mithrandir brandished his broadsword and his staff and was able to keep
them back for a time, but more of the demons turned to engage him and
he could not guard every point at once. Aragorn was occupied with
four combatants himself and could not break away in time to
assist. Legolas was firing furiously from the trees but his
supply of arrows was nearly spent and still the beasts converged upon
the wizard.
At last the elf shot his last arrow and even as the Orc fell another
beast instantly replaced it, and this one managed to reach the
terrified gelding. Hûnchim's high-pitched whinny of pain
and fear sliced through the half-lit morning as easily as the Orc's
blade slipped between his ribs and into his lungs. The poor horse
instinctively leaped away and was met by the blade of another
Orc. The sword bit deeply into his shoulder and the horse
staggered and collapsed with a heaving groan, pinning the Istar's leg
beneath his bulk.
The enraged shout that preceded the Tawarwaith's descent from the trees
was deafening and held all the promise of annihilation he intended for
his adversaries, and for the briefest of instants they paused. It
was hopeless, really, and they knew it. Every one of them would
die, and not with a clean and simple arrow shot through the head.
The wild elf landed next to his fallen friends and wasted no time
fulfilling this promise, and set upon the first Orc with dagger
in hand. Ducking beneath its sweeping scimitar, he stabbed through its
neck and snatched the long bade from its clutch as he shoved the bloody
monster away. A quick leap to the side and a sharp upsweep of his
arm brought the blade of the Orc's weapon cleanly through its gaping
throat. Legolas turned from its body with its head in the other
hand and this he swung by its greasy matted hair, using it to parry the
sword of his next victim as his dagger darted into the breach created
and sliced a gaping gash through the demon's abdomen.
Legolas took the sword from its twitching hand and used it to gut an
Orc attempting to attack him from behind and snaked his dagger through
the wrist of another advancing on the left. The elf took a small
cut across his hip as that blade's edge thus dropped still clutched in
the severed claws, but he barely felt it as he glared into the yellow
eyes of the loathsome beast and then let the dagger put those out as
well. He kicked the mutilated Orc into the path of another
attempting to reach him, and both went down. Legolas quickly
approached them and knelt.
The unharmed monster raged and snarled, trying to get from under his
blinded comrade whose lifeblood was rapidly draining through the
dismembered wrist. Legolas planted one hand firmly on the sword
arm of the pinned one, rolled the disabled Orc away, and plunged his
dagger viciously into his captive's chest, snapping ribs and sinews as
he hacked his way to the creature's blackened, shriveled heart.
This he yanked free and rose with it from the steaming carcass.
Just as he lobbed it into the face of another opponent and followed
that with one of the plundered Orcish daggers, he heard the arrival of
reinforcements nearing their position.
This cleared his fury enough to see to Mithrandir, pushing and lifting
the expired palomino off the wizard even as arrows began to pierce the
animal's body and embed in the bark and ground around them.
Aragorn shouted to them, encouraging his friends as he maneuvered
Maranwë closer. The war-horse proved his value and courage,
flailing with hooves and teeth, leaping and kicking with unerring aim
to catch ringing blows upon Orcish skulls that cracked under the impact
of such force. The brave steed incurred a number of small wounds
but let not the flow of his blood deter him from the fight. All
the while the Man's sword bit into the necks and arms of the dastardly
foes, and often the charger had to jump to clear his footing in the
accumulating debris of bodies upon the earth.
Once his comrade was up and hacking his way through the oncoming Orcs
to reach Aragorn, Legolas raced amid the hail of arrows straight into
the soldiers, sword in one hand and dagger in the other. He
reached his goal, an Orcish archer still fumbling to fit an arrow to
shoot him down, and slit its throat as he buried the sword into the
next nearest's stomach, leaving it there and taking up his bow as the
Orc went down. He bent to take the creature's quiver and when he
straightened was astonished to feel himself thrown back upon the
ground. A sharp searing flare of pain erupted in his side and the
feral fighter shouted in anger, for he knew he had taken an arrow.
Aragorn, with the wizard now perched behind him on the stallion, saw
this and turned to give his comrade aid. Even as he battled to
reach the elf, he watched as Legolas got to his knees and put the bow
to use, clearing away the other archers first and then targeting the
warriors converging upon the irresistible sight of one of the fair
folk, wounded and bleeding and earth bound. The human did not
need to instruct Maranwë to create a barrier between the downed
warrior and the enemy and soon the horse was pivoting and kicking with
powerful grace, lashing out at any Orc that tried to reach Legolas.
"Legolas!" shouted Mithrandir. "Get into the trees!" He was
exasperated to see the Tawarwaith thrusting his dagger blade into the
ground as though to clean it before continuing the fight.
"A moment, if you do not mind!" shouted back the elf, and as the wizard
watched Legolas took a breath and held it, then carefully placed the
point of his knife against the arrow's shaft and slid it down into the
wound slowly. A minute later he gave a quick twist of his wrist
and a rapid yank and drew back both the dagger and the arrow from his
flesh. With a stifled gasp he swallowed back a cry of pain and
hastily snapped off the point of the missile, tossing it into his
quiver as he pressed hard over the gush of blood that poured from the
aggravated injury. There was no time to waste, however, and with
a quick swipe of his red-wetted hand against his leggings he rose and
bolted for the nearest tree, making its cover in a flash of swaying
golden tresses and a grunt of discomfort as his battered body protested
the exertion.
Once Legolas was in the branches, the Orcs were doomed. With
efficient accuracy he used their comrade's arrows to deliver them
death, calling for his friends to turn west and work back towards the
rising of the land. A rapid swish of a black flowing mane and
dappled-grey haunches caught the feral Tawarwaith's eye and he
rejoiced; the King's troops had caught up and were harrying the Orcs
from the rear, preventing more of the demons reaching them from the
south and east. Soon their arrows were singing through the
morning, seeking silence in the hearts of the enemy.
And it was well for the three travelers that this assistance was at
hand, for they were beset from the north with equal force as they
strove to reach the shores of the Forest River. Already Legolas
could hear the gurgling voice of the water surging through its
channel. But they were yet too far for the Man's hearing to
detect this sound when the noise of Black Speech and trampling feet,
ringing steel and whistling arrows was so close at hand and demanded
all his attention. In no time they were surrounded again,
battling courageously as they fell back, Legolas shooting from the
trees while Gandalf and the human struggled to stave off the onslaught
from the charger's back.
Carrying two full-grown males was a great burden to Maranwë, and
his speed and agility suffered under the stress. In addition, the
proximity of one to the other hampered the movements of the fighters as
they attempted to defend themselves against the enemy. Legolas
saw this and became alarmed when the Man's sword arm took a glancing
blow that drew out a bitter curse and a crimson stream from the
Man. At almost the same instant Mithrandir hollered in agony as a
sword found a way to his knee and left a gaping rend in his flesh that
bared the bone, white amid the ruby flux. They were tiring,
horse, mortal, and Maia, and that would seal their doom.
Legolas leaped down from the trees into the mass, for he was out of
arrows again and still the beasts continued to advance. All of
the caves of the highlands must have emptied to do battle with the
Tawarwaith. He killed two Orcs quickly, one an archer, and
snatched up its quiver as he threw one of the fiendish dirks he had
scavenged from his earlier victory into the back of a huge beast
charging towards Maranwë.
"Here, hideous and misshapen slaves of Melkor! Why do you waste
your time with those two?" He fired off an arrow that embedded
into an arm raised to strike the wizard. "I am the one you were
ordered to kill! Look at you, worthless as shite, useless as
vomit!" Two more arrows felled the first beast to turn toward
him. "So close you are, your farts foul the airs and the stench
from your lungs makes me want to heave, yet still you cannot catch one
lone and wounded elf!" he shouted at them and by this time nearly every
Orc in the vicinity responded to the challenge.
Legolas laughed, making the sound as light and lyrical as his fair
voice could do, knowing his careless seeming demeanor would only enrage
them even more. As the Orcs came for him, he rapidly shot them
down, moving toward a likely oak as he did so. The creatures knew
he was taking to the branches and tried desperately to prevent it, but
his aim was fast and sure and none closed the gap in time to halt his
ascent.
Once there, he stayed low and moved slowly, taunting them boldly to
follow if they dared. Of course they could not resist, and if
they hesitated he came out of the trees again and stood still a minute
or two to present them with an easy target. In this way, Legolas
was able to divert the majority of the Orcs from Mithrandir and
Aragorn, and the numbers remaining to fight them were not more than the
two could handle.
As he fought further and further from his friends, Legolas sent
Mithrandir urgent orders to run for the river, and the wizard did not
disregard these instructions. A few words to Aragorn made him
understand the plan, and though they were now divided the three
travelers made their way in accord toward the rocky banks that Legolas
had given knowledge of to his friend. When at last the shore was
reached, the Orcs became wild with fury and redoubled their efforts,
seeing their prey on the brink of escape.
Had the King's troops not been dogging them so thoroughly, the beasts
might at least have claimed the lives of the wizard or the Man, and
perhaps the Wood Elf as well. As it was, Gandalf jumped down and
hobbled for the spot where the canoe was beached upon the shingled
shore. Aragorn leaped from his loyal steed's back and smacked the
charger's rear, intending to send him to safety. But Maranwë
would not desert them and made his body a bullwark. Legolas
defended them from the trees as the boat slid into the stream.
The fighters splashed through the icy water and scrambled into the
craft as Legolas dropped to the ground and retreated to the bank,
firing as he proceeded, amid the cries of his friends and the outraged
clamour of the disappointed Orcs still trying to get past his lethal
skill.
With a final shot, the wild elf slipped his bow over his shoulders and
ran through the shallows, aware that the valiant war-horse had again
positioned himself between the retreating elf and the barrage of
death. He dived into the liquid, slipping under the surface
until he reached the canoe. Arrows and blades, from daggers to
swords, hurtled towards the little kayak as the Orcs made their last
attempts to kill, but only Maranwë did they take and none struck
the weary travelers.
Legolas shot to the surface and Aragorn leaned over, hauling him in
while Mithrandir held the boat steady, using his staff to anchor
them. In dismay the three looked upon their four-legged comrade,
stretched upon the bank as the grotesque horde plunged swords and fired
arrows into the dying horse, spending their futile rage.
Finally they were away; the boat was caught by the current and whisked
downstream, and the last the trio saw of the Orcs, the Greenwood's
warriors had broken through the trees and were almost casually moving
among the beasts, slaughtering them all.
The Forest River sequestered its true nature while rolling sedately
past Othronnen Thranduil, as though in submission to the ruler that
lodged there. Closer to the Central Mountains, it roared with its
most powerful voice and writhed in vehement turbulence in futile
defiance of its subjugation further down stream.
The river twisted through the narrow gorge cut solely of its own
design, smoothed and shaped as slick as glass with the flailing tongue
of its forceful liquid body. Foam and spray it cast up into the
air around it from bank to bank, waves standing and flowing back up
stream over the boulders and outcropping stones in its bed. With
relish it delved potholes and loop ways using small stones and cobbles
against the massive rocks, so that if ever it were laid bare the stony
bottom would have the appearance of a gargantuan ants' nest
exposed.
Here was no need for the Enchantment that marked its lower courses, for
it had anger and wrath aplenty to claim the breath and life of any that
wandered within its domain. Here was a stream not eager to submit
to the counsel of Ulmo, or perhaps that was exactly what it did.
Perhaps Ulmo, in his wisdom, left this river to its own mind, flowing
dangerously wild from the modest peaks in the Greenwood's heart as a
first defense for the Wood Elves' kingdom, preventing easy access from
the southern and eastern borders.
In the small canoe, the three travelers rode the untamed courses with
growing trepidation, Gandalf in the prow and Aragorn behind him with
the prone elf in between. Aragorn was hindered in the use of his
paddle, for his arm was still bleeding, weakened from the attack.
Gandalf looked ready to pass out as he knelt upon his mangled knee and
strained to help the Man with the other paddle. Legolas' wounds
had opened again. The wild elf lay, soaked, gasping and
shuddering, upon the floor of the boat, fighting to remain alert.
Now in the full, clear morning's light of the open sky over the river,
the seriousness of the injuries could be seen. It was apparent
that the feral elf had used the binding from his ankle to bandage up a
deep puncture in his thigh, and the blood oozing from this was quickly
mixing with the puddle of water shed from him in the bottom of the
canoe. Aragorn could not tell whether both injuries were from
arrows or not, nor could he halt his paddling to try and stop the
bleeding. He silently sent a prayer to Varda to preserve them all
and focused his attention on the grueling task of steering the kayak.
The speed of their progress increased as the river turned towards the
dropping chasm. A standing wave tugged at the sleek, smooth skin of
their elven made boat and its pointed prow dipped precariously down
into a hole, spilling a massive wave of water up over the craft and
dowsing Legolas as his head plunged briefly below the river's churning
surface. The boat popped back up; leaping into the air at a
strange angle as the natural buoyancy of the wood, its elongate shape,
and the weight of the passengers prevented it from capsizing.
Legolas coughed and sputtered as he tried to draw breath but his noise
could scarcely be heard against the crashing and grinding of the
churning stream. The archer attempted to sit up; rocking the
little boat precariously as the rapids spun it round.
"Legolas!" Aragorn yelled over the deafening thunder of the river's
wrath, and the wild elf looked up at his friend. "Be still, stay
down!" The Tawarwaith gave a quick nod and hunkered low again.
Gandalf had not time to try to call out a warning as the rapids played
with the kayak as though it was less significant than the smallest
pebble dragged within its raging power. Desperately the Maia
attempted to paddle away from the obstructions barring the way, yet his
efforts were virtually ineffectual.
The river cast the canoe up over a sharp toothed exposure of granite,
scraping loudly against the hull and slicing a long gouge in the
thinned bark, but the wood held. The torrent was relentless,
grasping the boat and spinning it through the surging flow like a leaf
through a drifting brook, sending the freezing water up from the rear
as this time the back end tipped under. Aragorn was nearly thrown
into the freezing fluid and Legolas gasped as the foaming whitewater
coursed across his injuries, his cry echoed by Mithrandir's shout of
anguish. The deafening crescendo of the raging river swallowed their
raw-throated groans.
Aragorn could do nothing beyond fighting to keep from being washed into
the crashing turmoil, and a glance at the wizard confirmed he was
little better. The Istar was struggling to stay upright,
dangerously leaning against the hull as he worked to compose himself
and master the tearing agony shooting through his knee. Another
jolt against a stone caused the Man to yell out, and his weakened arm
could no longer fight the pull of the water. The paddle was torn
from his hands and in dismay he watched as it preceded them downstream
in the hurrying tumult of the cataract.
With a shuddering thud the canoe again struck the rocks that were
attempting to shatter the craft. Gandalf fell forward at the
impact with a muffled shout and his paddle joined its twin in the
stream. Legolas was now motionless in unconscious oblivion,
face down in the red-tinged water. The situation was desperate;
if they lost the boat it meant their deaths.
Aragorn grabbed up the Istar's staff and shoved it against the boulders
with all his remaining strength. With a loud report the stone bit
another chunk of wood from the hull and spat the boat over the barrier
as the current tugged it greedily out into the stream. Within
minutes the flow calmed and the travelers sighed away their fears in
exhausted relief. Aragorn turned the elf over and was relieved to
find him still breathing; he pulled Legolas' head upon his knee to keep
him above the flooded bottom.
Drenched and shivering against the cold of the water, the exertions of
battling both Orcs and the river, and the pain of their injuries, the
two travelers slumped against each other and drifted between
consciousness and oblivion as the sedate stream eased them along
towards the stronghold.
Tbc
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