Anc-en-Gurth

italics indicate thoughts
(elvish translations in parentheses)
This chapter un-Beta'd

Anc-en-Gurth (The Teeth of Death)

* Introduction - Unexpected Aid *

Legolas stared down at the bloody refuse of Rochendil in the clearing, the dead traitor's face contorted in the expression of agony wrought by the violence that had destroyed him, mouth wide in mid-scream, teeth bared, lips curled back, eyes bugged and bloodshot. A ring of burned out torches surrounded the scene, the staves which they topped scorched, extinguished at least six hours ago. It was an evaluation he would not register until much later. Thoughts would not come; words refused to form; breath lapsed into shocked suspension. He had never in all his days of fighting the Shadow observed anything so gruesome. The horrors he'd seen at the Battle of Erebor could not match the repulsive evidence here. Dismembered and half-eaten, the corpse verily carpeted the bare space, all the snow melted, the ground warmed by the sun and damp with the warrior's life-blood.

The stench was sickeningly sweet and rancid. Legolas was reminded of the woodsmen's village he'd come across once, all the inhabitants held captive so to provide a gluttonous feast for the Orcs: mounds of mismatched legs and arms, a pile of maggot-riddled heads, blood everywhere. At least then there had been someone left alive to save. Looking upon the ruin, it seemed impossible that this smear of offal could be all that was left of Rochendil. But for the untouched facial features, Legolas would never have known the lump of raw, red flesh to be the horse-master. Often he had longed to repay his tormentor for the debasing things he'd done in that musty storeroom, but never envisioned such a fate for the cruel renegade.

"Valar! Not this! I never wanted this!" he cried, turning his face away, angry and disgusted. It did not help; his eyes alit upon a tree festooned with ragged strips of skin. He groaned and shook his head. "Whatever he did to me or to Lindalcon's father, this is not meet. His Judgement should have come from his own kind or from Eru Iluvatar. Orcs are not the doom-sayers of elf-kind."

It was the perverse obscenity of the situation that most struck him, once the shock wore off. How had life in Greenwood come to encompass such a death as this? He shivered, thinking on the profound depths of hatred and evil in which Sauron and his minions swam. To revile another species so vehemently, to be consumed by nothing but the desire to maim and kill, these were sensations he could not comprehend. Even for Orcs he could not summon such complete abhorrence, such total antipathy. Aye, he had built traps and had killed scores of the demons, but never like this. Torture was not in him.

A sudden realisation shot through him, the insight so startling he caught his breath. Rochendil had enjoyed giving pain and humiliation; his lust for it had grown with every passing year. The distance between him and the very creatures who had done this was not so great as Legolas had been inclined to imagine. At once he denied the thought.

Even he would never do such as this. No Elf could.

He was unwilling to think more deeply on the horse-master's deteriorating character. There was enough to worry over right in front of him and the implications could not be ignored. This was the fate in store for him should the Wraiths capture him at last. This may have been the end Lindalcon endured. The images assailed him in vivid detail that made him suddenly sick and he doubled over, vomiting bile and acids. Hoarse and callous laughter sounded from somewhere nearby. Legolas assumed a defensive crouch in an instant, bow armed and drawn on the spot where the laughter arose.

All was silent. No hail of arrows or charging foes attacked. He scanned the still trees, the ring of tall trunks dark and diseased, the bark emitting malice and menace and hunger. A chill ran through him; they were consuming the dead Elf's spent blood and would have more. Never had he so longed to run from trees in all his life. He could detect nothing other than their ravenous desire to watch him die, to feed on what would be left of him. He quelled the instinct to bolt, experience warning there must be an Orc sentry, left to document his reaction to the atrocity in the clearing. Hurriedly he moved behind the threatening trunks for cover, not daring to climb to the heights here, where all the trees were poisoned against him.

Now, speak again, Orc, and I will send you to a quick death, though such you do not deserve.

As if in answer, a sharp crack resounded through the frigid air above and a heavy limb came crashing down beside him, missing his head only because he threw himself out away from the boll. A black arrow sailed for him and again he was spared by quick reflexes and a shift back behind the tree. Legolas lifted his eyes into the trembling limbs; he could not hide behind these trunks forever. Sooner or later he must make a decision, take action of some sort. If Lindalcon had been killed, in this or any other manner, he had to know it; he must have proof. If the youth still lived, then he wanted proof of that, too. He gathered his courage and inhaled a deep breath. Carefully he checked the overhanging branches, armed his bow, and held it drawn taut, aimed at the locus of the laughter.

"Tell your masters I am here," he called out. "I would know the fate of the young one. I've a bargain for your masters; send them forth from your putrid lair that they might hear it. Tell them the Tawarwaith has come in trade for Lindalcon, the young one at large here in these woods. I know he is prisoner here. Send your masters forth to me."

More laughter greeted his demands, still only the single voice, its owner well hidden among the trees. He sighed, frustrated, for how to alter circumstances and regain the advantage eluded him. If the Wraiths had Lindalcon deep beneath the Central Mountains, their was little chance of getting him out alive, or of getting out alive himself. A fleeting flutter of light flickered near his face and he turned to see, but even as he did the gruff Orcish voice called out. A single word echoed across the subverted glade, clear and distinct, and brought his heart to a standstill:

"Hecilo."


* Four Days Prior *

Knobbed and bony fingers clothed in paper thin ivory skin drew the fox fur pelisse close about her narrow shoulders as sombre brown eyes peered out into the stillness of the desolate forest. Poised on the walk of the high stockade, the Elder stood straight and tall, neither stooped nor hunched by her advanced years. Cannily she scanned the emptiness of the restive lands, wondering what trial she must prepare her folk to weather now. It was a bad omen, this early and unexpected cold, these heavy snows. Usually the coming of winter was a mixed blessing, good for her small colony but terrible for their allies to the north.

The Orcs tended to leave the humans alone and concentrated on Thranduil's realm during Rhîw. Many were the dark lines of foul demons that marched through the woods from the Tower, bent on war and the capture of fresh stock for the breeding pits. She shuddered in dread sympathy; always females were taken, only females. Yet now she was more worried about matters closer to home and the fate of her little village seemed ominous.

Folk had gone missing lately and no remains were found. That was not the norm. Orcs preyed on them constantly, but as a food source not for slaves or breeding. There were always remains, horrible though they were to find. At least they had always been able to account for every soul lost. Lately, though, some hunters had simply vanished. It was right after that perilous troop of Elves from the Golden Wood came galloping down the valley. The Galadhrim easily turned aside the Orcs who intercepted them and the next day they'd gone on, never setting foot in the village.

The Elder frowned and tightened her grip on the cloak, fingering the rich, ruddy fur. That was rude of the mighty Lord Celeborn; too much like Thranduil his kinsman. She leaned over the spikes and spat; so much she thought of these Sindarin princes. Legolas always showed her respect and his help in training the menfolk was invaluable. They were not just better archers now but skilled bowyers and keen on maintaining the traps. Where they had been weighed down with fear and despair, he had seen their tenacity and the strength of their doughty hearts, and then he'd simply treated them like the hardy race they were, assumed they would join his campaign against their mutual enemy, thanked her humbly for their allegiance.

A smile transformed her wrinkled brown face; he was the best of his people. It was Legolas who'd urged her to construct the barrier higher and keep guards on watch there night and day. Their atheling never failed to respond when they called for his aid, and in kind she had never turned him away when he dragged his weary body to her village seeking shelter and rest. Because he was here, so the Brown Wizard lingered and spread the grace of the Valar among them. Aye, they were blessed to have the Tawarwaith here in the southern reaches of the Great Wood.

He had gone back to his people, though, and deeply she felt his absence. They all did. There was a tension in the air, a strained mood among the people, and with the unexpected arrival of the Galadhrim worry for what might be happening in the underground stronghold. The Wraiths had come out of the Tower after that skirmish with Celeborn's warriors, seeking, seeking but for what she could not guess; Legolas had already gone and the vile things must have known it. Never had they bothered with the humans much before, yet now their terrifying presence had been felt just beyond the stockade. So close! They'd been seen, the Lesser Evils stalking through the trees on their vitiated steeds. And now Judoc, Gwenneg, and Yann were missing.

She knew why, deep in her heart of hearts, and therein her soul wept bitter tears so her people would not see them and lose hope. They knew it, too, but none could speak the words. The Wraiths had wanted information; why Legolas was visited by High Elves from across Hithaeglir; why Lord Celeborn rode forth with his troops to his kinsman in the north; why two men from the village had gone with them. They wanted to know why Radagast had gone to the Wood Elves' city, too, with the Noldorin Lord in tow.

In truth, these were all strange happenings in the desolate woods where none of the First-born had come to pay a call on their sylvan kin since the end of the last Age, long centuries before the woodsmen arrived. The Elder was not surprised the Wraiths' interest was roused. Likewise she didn't doubt they'd got the intelligence they'd sought or who had given it to them. It was obvious her three hunters had told all; it could not be helped. Even Elves could not withstand the tortures of Dol Guldur.

Please, Yavanna, it could not be helped. We would not bring him hurt or harm, this you know beyond all other truths in our hearts. Protect him now, for we cannot.

The people were frightened and rightly so. All activities were carried out in subdued solemnity. A heavy, portentous silence suffocated them and even the babes only whimpered, too scared to mewl or cry. The folk longed for their atheling to return and looked to her for guidance, reassurance. She had none to give. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. It was a bad omen, this early and unexpected cold, these heavy snows, that numberless throng of Orcs marching north through the empty, restive land.

"Eldest Elder, have you reached a decision?"

The voice spoke in quiet respect behind her and she turned, finding there the heads of the Nine Clans of her people. The women stood in solemn silence, watching her closely, mouths set in iron grimness, eyes bright with fiery determination. Really,seeing them, there was but one answer she could give. She sighed in resignation; too long had they pretended this was not their war. She met each matriarch's gaze and nodded.

"Send forth the men; have them journey as Tirno ever entreated: to the Central Mountains. We will join our atheling in this conflict and mayhap our arms will make possible the victory he, and we, so long desired."

There was no cheering approval, only the soft swish of gowns as the women turned and filed back down to the Counsel House where the men awaited them. Well they knew it: few of their hunters would return to them, but even better they understood their good-hearted husbands. Better to die trying to free them of the blight of the Wraiths than to endure another season as the prey of the Orcs. Better to die valiantly beside Tirno than to be eaten alive by the vile servants of Shadow. The women repeated their leader's orders and in answer a sombre song arose in the chill of the dawn: a hymn of war to the Valar Oromë and Tulkus. The woodsmen gathered their bows and left to join their atheling in battle. TBC