Anc-en-Gurth

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

Anc-en-Gurth (The Teeth of Death)

* Part One - Lindalcon Renders Judgement *

While the Tawarwaith paused in the highest reaches of the canopy to sing his dirge for Malthen, a pair of Elves made halting headway through the upper reaches of the frost-bound woods. Ranging to the south and east of the Mirkwood Mountains by not so very many leagues, the two encroached obliquely upon the scene of the corpsman's destruction. Too far to hear Legolas' song of sorrow, too remote from the mountains yet to discern the rounded peaks of the low, eroded hills, they were merely grateful not to have encountered any Orcs thus far. They passed within a league of Maltahondo's frozen tumulus with never a notion of anything amiss below the lumpy drifts of clean, white snow. Legolas had already left there.

Progress was difficult enough in the unexpectedly frigid climate and the early fall of thick snow. The weather slowed the travellers and forced caution into every step, yet urgent were those steps for the freezing air bit their skin and had them shivering under their woollen capes. They dared not stop and light a fire, though it was tempting indeed when an abandoned guard post was passed earlier before dark. Since the Galadhrim's battle near the Gladden Fields, they had been making their way northward without encumbrance, but now their advance slowed considerably. It would be good to get free of the woods to trot along the course beside the River Running. They came to a point where the path amid the trees converged with two others at unfamiliar angles and they stared, non-plussed, for this was territory they should know.

"We have not come up the right way," groaned one weary ellon. "We must get off this track or we'll be in the thick of the Orcs' outpost soon enough. Lucky we slipped past that great host heading for Thranduil's lands; best not tempt Vairë."

"Nay, this is the one," argued Rochendil. "We will hit the Forest Road soon, a league perhaps, and that we may follow straight out of Greenwood to the River Running and thence to Erebor."

"I tell you, this used to be my patrol," his comrade stressed. "The path is corrupt; we've gone too far to the north. We're too near the Central Mountains."

"Impossible; we'd have seen the Road first."

"We've crossed it."

"No, we've not even seen it."

"Wrong. Recall where we went to ground through that great swath of felled trees? There it was beneath them. Anyway, the Road is not so easy to find in this region, for few use it now where it winds near the Central Mountains. We are in Orc country," the warrior lamented, shuddering as much from terror as the biting cold. "They have worked to obscure the Road so to fool the hapless traveller, such as we have become."

Rochendil said nothing, staring out over the frozen byway in consternation and confusion. He had not been regularly assigned to this particular region and he knew it less well than the area skirting Anduin. Even within Talagan's elite troop he had never paid much attention to the specific routes of choice, trusting to his captain to choose best. He'd never been given cause to worry about the Elf-made trails. Now his resolve wavered; were they indeed bound for the Central Mountains? He raised his head and peered through the network of limbs tangled above, seeking for a guiding star to point the way, but he was not skilled in celestial navigation and could not be sure of his reckoning. He was correct, as it turned out, and the Road was still before them to the north, but this fact proved no comfort to him once it was realised.

"Rhach en Námo an le, Rochendil," (The Curse of Námo on you) hissed the second warrior darkly. "I've followed you to my death and I hold you to account for it."

"Hold yourself to account for it," sneered Rochendil, "for you chose to follow. You would be in the dungeons of the King now had you stayed with Lord Celeborn's folk. Is that better than the chance of escape?"

"Aye, 'tis better than this, for there will be no escape from our doom," he glowered. "Now do I wish I had never heard that wretched Hecilo's mournful cries from behind the storeroom door. A bitter fate he had, but mine is no less grim. If we're fortunate we'll be killed, if not, then it's in the torture chambers of Dol Guldur that we'll languish ere we perish."

"Daro!" barked Rochendil. "Will you slay yourself, then? While we live and have wits, we may yet devise a means to survive."

They fell silent then and crouched low against the bark of the tree supporting them, for away in the night they heard a stealthy shuffling along the limbs approaching their position. So great was their fear by now that at first their hearts grew cold in dread, thinking it was spiders come to bind them up, but it was winter and the arachnids were in hibernation. Soon enough, they relaxed for keen sight showed them their antagonist was a lone Elf making slow progress along another branch-way. It intersected theirs a little ahead and the two renegades moved forward to meet this unknown person.

Rochendil whistled out a greeting, including his old troop and rank within it, but not his name. The Elf stopped and a pale, featureless face turned toward him, only dark spots of eyes and a round black 'O' of a mouth discernible from this distance. Then the Elf hastened, a cry of relief arising as he moved, and in minutes they were near enough for identities to be clear. Now they all halted, all mouths agape, all eyes wide in astonishment, for Rochendil recognised the son of Valtamar and never could Lindalcon forget the face of his father's murderer.

"Noss-Dagnir!" (Kin-Slayer!) shouted Lindalcon. His features contorted in rage and he drew an arrow from his quiver, nocking it with trembling hands upon the bowstring. "Vile betrayer! You will answer now for your fell deeds, Ailinyero! Surrender your weapons and come back to the stronghold or choose death here!"

Silence held for a few seconds, tense and brittle, then shattered in the mocking and raucous laughter of the Horse-master.

"Ai! It is the child of Meril, her gateway to glory and Valtamar's anchor to Arda, both!" he cried, struggling to rein in his mirth. "You call me murderer whilst aiming at my heart? What kind of meeting is this between allies against the Darkness? Open your eyes, henellon; we are not Orcs."

"Well do I know it," said Lindalcon. "I know what you are and who you are. All that you have done is open to me; your conspiracy of cruelty and avarice. I know you are Meril's accomplice."

"Your Naneth? You accuse her? What madness has claimed you, Lindalcon?" asked the second renegade, for he knew nothing of the hidden history behind Legolas' fall from grace.

"No madness save that induced by the unbearable weight of truth," answered the distraught youth. "I am here to take Rochendil back to Greenwood to face his crimes before the Council. For you, I have no cause to apprehend you, yet if you are this ellon's friend then maybe you must come along, too. No doubt you had a hand in the Tawarwaith's tortures."

"Oh, this is too much," spat Rochendil. "I am no conspirator, Lindalcon, but your adar's comrade in arms and friend in life. I lost my beloved on that dreadful day; have you forgotten that? Regain you reason and lower that bow."

"I will not and you are doubly guilty, then, for the death of your hervess. Have you no conscience? How can you walk about, so like an Elf in face and form, while inside your soul has shrunk away to blackness? You are an Orc, Rochendil, and so I will give you an orcish name in Black-speech to christen you. Bagronk (Cesspool) shall you be called henceforth."

Rochendil gave an indignant grunt while his companion sputtered out a laugh, but both were silenced when an arrow embedded in the trunk between their heads.

"Here now!" shouted the renegade warrior, pointing in anger and reaching for his bow. "You mustn't engage me in combat, pen neth, for you'll be lost and I've never drawn elvish blood. Calm yourself and be at peace; I meant no disrespect nor have I any gripe with you."

"Daro!" shouted Lindalcon, reaching for another arrow, but he was not as quick as the older warrior and found himself facing the sharp obsidian barb of an ash-wood shaft. Shaking, he nocked his bolt anyway and swallowed; it could not end here like this. He must force Rochendil back and convince this ellon to aid him. "I mean you no disrespect, either," he said urgently, "but I am called to avenge Adaren and secure for him the Way Straight so that he may journey on to Mandos now. Too long he has languished here adrift amid the trees, haunting my dreams and begging my aid. Assist me to bring his murderer to justice and any complicity of which you are guilty will be forgotten."

"Far," (Enough) growled Rochendil. "Pierce his shoulder and disarm him that we may go on. The longer we remain here the more likely will our capture be. I, for one, have no wish to learn if the rumours of Dol Guldur are true."

His companion hesitated, seeing the light of truth in Lindalcon's harried eyes. He had no desire to live among the Men of Dale, as Rochendil's plan decreed, and if he could regain his place among his people by turning traitor to the horse-master, then it was not an idea he found repugnant. He sent a narrow, sidelong look Rochendil's way and suddenly shifted his aim, the weapon verily inches from the kin-slayer's heart. He ignored his comrade's shocked exclamation and addressed Lindalcon.

"Nasan. Im Fael'ur. (So be it. I am Fair-heart) Do you know how to defeat this crooked pathway, pen neth?" he asked hopefully.

"Crooked?" queried Lindalcon, and both their hearts sank. "I did not know."

"Aye, we're headed for the Central Mountains," cackled Rochendil. "So mayhap we should just slay one another now and deny the Wraiths the pleasure."

"Na dîn!" (Be Quiet!) hissed Fael'ur.

"Nay, someone must speak with sense," countered Rochendil. "I will forget your desertion if you join with me anew. And you, Lindalcon, will have need of allies when we face our foes. Combined we may yet escape, riven in dissension we must all three perish. What then of your father's feä?"

"Na dîn, Bagronk," groaned Lindalcon. "I am not so easily duped. You would hand us to the Wraiths to spare yourself."

"Nay, he has a valid point," warned Fael'ur. "If it comes to battle, three armed may have a chance, but as it stands we'll both be watching him instead of our foes."

"That is the truth," intoned Lindalcon, nodding. "You see? He cannot be trusted not to betray us and already you know it. We must bind and gag him or he will be the death of us both."

"I will not abide it!" shouted Rochendil and the other two shushed him harshly.

"You'll bring them onto us," admonished Fael'ur.

"What difference is that to me?" scoffed Rochendil. "You mean to abet this child in his madness and see me imprisoned in Thranduil's dungeons. How is that better than death in the field?"

"Bind him," said Lindalcon, "while I hold him under threat."

"You would never shoot another Elf," argued Rochendil.

"Orc," hissed Lindalcon and his bow creaked as he drew it its full extent.

"Enough, now, pen neth; I'll bind his hands," Fael'ur assured and put away his weapon to do so.

No sooner was the bow unstrung than Rochendil kicked out and caught him hard on the ankle. With a low cry the warrior staggered back and had to shift onto a different limb to keep from falling. Lindalcon fired, startled, again hitting the wood instead of the horse-master. A horrible cracking ensued as the branch gave way under Fael'ur and though he tried to leap to another tree, it was too far and he could not quite make the distance. He plummeted to the earth far below and landed with a terribly heavy thud. He lay motionless and mute upon the snow.

"See what you caused?" growled Rochendil. "He is probably dead."

"Me?" Lindalcon was incensed. "You are at fault and if he dies then you've another soul for which to account. Get down and see how badly he's injured; I am sure he cannot have died." The young ellon aimed his bow with care at the Horse-master's right thigh. From below, a faint moan arose and they could see Fael'ur stirring as consciousness returned.

"I will not go down," said Rochendil. "Shoot if you will."

"That is not what I want," said Lindalcon. His arm ached under the strain of holding the bow at maximum draw and he was forced to relax it a bit. "I want you to come back to the stronghold, alive and well, to admit your crimes before everyone. I want to see you cast out and disgraced just as Legolas was."

"In life, we are seldom granted our heart's desire," mused Rochendil.

Before Lindalcon could decide what to do, a new sound became manifest in the sharp, still air; a noise no Elf of Greenwood could ever mistake, filled as it was with foul obscenities and curses overprinting the snow-muffled, careless tread of coarse, steel-shod feet abusing the earth. A band of Orcs was making swift progress through the woods, honed in on their location with an uncanny accuracy none of the warriors had time to analyse. Lindalcon and Rochendil looked down upon their fallen comrade.

The stunned archer groaned again and shook his head, rolling sideways to make gathering his legs beneath him easier. No sooner had he moved than he exhaled a sharp cry of agony and fell back. The sound raised a pleased shout of glee from the approaching Orcs. The speed of their advance increased and they gave forth with vile threats and promises of torture to their helpless foe. Yet, Fael'ur was not alone and Lindalcon readied himself, shifting to a more suitable branch, and as the Orcs poured beneath his tree he fired upon them. Not so swift or skilled as more experienced warriors, he was nonetheless close enough to kill one and wound another before the Orcs dove for cover.

"Fael'ur!" Breathless, the youth scrambled higher and darted into a neighbouring tree, calling down to the fallen warrior as he repositioned. "Can you shoot? Can you, Fael'ur, answer!"

"Aye," huffed the penitent renegade, seeing how he could gain the grace needed to walk the Straight Way as Valtamar's equal, already propped awkwardly on his side, bow armed. "Go, Lindalcon; there is no escape for me here and you cannot kill them all. Hear them? Already they call for their vile Masters. The Wraiths will come."

Indeed, the Orcs were engaged in a curious stamping and groaning, the noise painful to hear, ringing through the still air in a constant, dull drone. The ground reverberated with it, thrumming like a huge drum. It was the vile fiends' equivalent of battle-talk and the Elves believed the Wraiths could pick up the vibrations through the earth itself, no matter how distant they might be. As it happened, they were not so far at all, being engaged in the battle for the Central Mountains.

"Between us we can pick off these foul demons before they arrive," urged Lindalcon, unable to consider leaving this warrior to die so horrible a death. "We'll get back up in the canopy and seek Legolas. He will know what to do."

"Nay, there isn't time; reinforcements will come. We cannot kill them all."

"Then, Rochendil and I will come down. Together we can get you back to the heights. Do not despair!"

"I am not going down," said Rochendil. "He is right; we must go now if we are to have any hope of fleeing the Wraiths. Come, Lindalcon."

"So I would expect you to counsel!" shouted Lindalcon, momentarily aiming his bow at the horse-master again.

A black bolt flashed close by his arm and he jerked aside, turning to fire on his assailant. He had not marked his target well and the shot went wild. The Orcs laughed and a volley of arrows sailed toward him. Desperate, he managed to evade them by again shifting trees, but now he was farther from Fael'ur and the warrior was under attack. Before Lindalcon could improve his position, Fael'ur was pierced in the side by one of the black arrows. He cried in rage and armed his bow without seeming to feel the wound, felling two Orcs as they broke cover, sabres drawn and mouths grinning, racing for their prey.

"Fael'ur!" shouted Lindalcon, frantic and frightened. He could not just stand by and watch this happen. In seconds he was on the ground, running to put himself between the fallen Elf and the charging Orcs. With a calm and steady hand he fired four times in swift succession and caught again two. They crumbled to their demise as their fellows ducked for cover.

"Foolish child!" hissed Rochendil from the branches. "Like your father, you surrender your life for nothing!" He began slipping away from the conflict, cautious to keep the thick tangle of the branches between him and the Orcs as he moved higher. A few arrows came his way but none could reach that far.

"Pen Gostadron!" (Coward!) yelled Lindalcon, heart racing as he tried to reason out what to do.

"Ai, maethor thalion, Ai, nîth alvaen," (Oh, dauntless warrior, Oh, foolish youth) mourned Fael'ur. "You should not have come down. My death is foretold and now so is yours. Get back up, if you can, and free me from carrying the stain of your blood into Mandos."

"Nay, I can die but once, as you, and neither of us shall die alone," answered Lindalcon, his voice breaking as the words made real what he had done. His arms shook as he aimed again and fired at a leering face peaking out from the bolls. A raucous laugh mocked his miss-timed shot and a cruel voice taunted him.

"Edhel dithen gwanna and a naegbant." (Little Elf die slow and painful) The rest hooted and crowed their laughter to see their quarry shudder and cringe.

Lindalcon edged closer to Fael'ur dragging the corpse of one of the Orcs with him. He crouched behind it to shield himself somewhat. He glanced at his comrade and was dismayed to see how dark was his cloak, saturated with blood. Their eyes met and the truth shared between them was inescapable.

The former renegade smiled and held forth his arm. "We will guide your Adar home together."

Lindalcon gripped him firmly but could not trust his voice, fearing tears should he speak at all, and then they readied their bows.

Strangely, the Orcs did not charge. A lot of cursing and muttering in Black-speech ensued and a few poorly pronounced threats in Sindarin were issued, but the beasts held their place. The two warriors shared confused expressions, silently more concerned about this unexpected turn than they would have been over a direct assault. A brief glimmer of determined hope sprang up in their hearts. They were of one mind: they must get to the trees if they could or at least to better cover if not. Lindalcon hastily tore at Fael'ur's clothes to bind the wound, breaking off the protruding end of the bolt. He unstrung his bow and stowed it, encircling his comrade round the chest so to heave him upright.

Their activity spurred a flurry of arrows from the Orcs and a lone soldier charged out of his protected spot, bellowing at them. Fael'ur, still holding tight to his bow, managed to fell him with barely a metre to spare between them and death. The effort exhausted him, though, and he fell back gasping and clutched at his side.

"Arm yourself," he ordered and no more could he say. Already he felt it, poison spreading through his veins, seeking his heart. He would not have an easy death no matter whether they could get into the trees or not. He groaned, gnashing his teeth in fury for Lindalcon's death would be in vain. "Curse Rochendil, or Bagronk as you rightly named him," he hissed.

It was at this time that a new sensation reached them and raised all the fine hairs along their spines. A pair of spirits entirely evil and emanating hatred made swiftly toward them: the Wraiths. The impression of rank malevolence increased even as the sound of stealthy and subtle steps rippled through the trees: elvish feet rapidly tripping along the branches. Rochendil had obviously experienced the same creeping horror and his cowardly heart made him turn tail, Orcs being less terrible to face than Nazgûl. Soon enough they saw him, eyes wide and wild, the smell of his fear strong and acrid. The Orcs below hooted and scoffed when they spotted him and loosed a thick volley that fell uselessly into the snow banked about the trunks of the trees.

"Rochendil," wheezed Fael'ur. "Come down and retrieve him."

"Nay!" argued Lindalcon. "Come help me get him up, horse-master."

"Oh, I am no longer Bagronk the kin-slayer?" snapped the agitated ellon. "He cannot be saved; the arrows are poison-tipped. Yes, Fael'ur?"

"Aye," sighed the warrior, smiling apologetically to Lindalcon. "I would rather a quick death than this, but mayhap I have earned some pain at that. It will not go on long past the dawn and that is far less time than twelve years."

"Nae!" Lindalcon cried in misery. He had seen the effects of orcish poisons.

"Go up now while Rochendil covers for you," urged Fael'ur, grimacing as the first of the strong jarring contractions shot through his body. He gave a garbled cry when his legs convulsed, a low moan as he fell limp, sweating and salivating so that a foam began to form at his lips when he breathed. All the while the Orcs were laughing and jeering, describing the vicious punishment their Masters would enact upon the Elves.

Lindalcon could not tear his eyes from the grisly sight of Fael'ur's agony. He reached for the ellon's hand and gripped it, shocked by the crushing strength of it as the next fit came upon him. Not until the Wraiths' voices sounded through the trees could he be distracted. The screeching howl made him cringe low and in spite of himself he whimpered faintly, hiding his eyes against Fael'ur's chest. A palsied hand stroked his hair.

"G…Go, child," croaked Fael'ur. No more could he speak as the rigours of the poison shot through him and set his body to quaking violently.

"Lindalcon, come up," called Rochendil desperately and fired in the direction of the waiting Orcs.

Surprised to find the horse-master still there, Lindalcon gaped at him dumbly, unable to make his legs work as the Nazgûl drew ever closer. Seeing this, Rochendil blasphemed and hurriedly climbed down, trembling in his bones, heart in his throat, fury in his heart. This action roused the Orcs and they bellowed out warnings to their Masters and commenced firing, moving now to surround their quarry before they could climb back amid the branches. Rochendil was motivated by a level of terror even Orcs did not comprehend and verily dragged Lindalcon with him, snatching him round the waist and hoisting him up in the air, cursing the youth the while to come to his senses and act.

Lindalcon did, dodging arrows and ascending with a speed that amazed him, unexpectedly comforted by Rochendil's close presence behind him. Miraculously, or by design, neither was hit and they made it beyond the Orcs' range safely. There they paused to catch their wind and stared at one another.

"So, comrades now?" smiled Rochendil, the expression crafty and sly rather than gracious, or so it seemed to Lindalcon's rattled nerves.

"For now," he agreed, scowling. "Is there nothing we can do for him?" Below, Fael'ur lay twitching in the ruddy snow.

"Aye, we could kill him before the Wraiths come, but I'll not do it," answered Rochendil coldly.

Lindalcon stared at him in horror, but then did a thing he could not explain to himself, arming his bow and leaning out over the branches. "Fael'ur," he called and the warrior looked up to see the arrow aimed for him. He managed to give a jerky nod and then struggled to still his convulsions so that Lindalcon would not miss. "Namarië, mellon, you will be free to go with my Adar," he said quietly and loosed his bolt.

Fael'ur felt a bright, hot jolt through his chest and a rush of peace flooded his mind; he smiled as his heart stilled forever, sightless eyes locked in a last look of gratitude upon the means of his salvation. Even as his life-blood ebbed away, his spirit arose from its expiring husk and beheld there in the trees Valtamar waiting for him. Their communion was swift and Fael'ur made haste to obey the dead warrior's demands.

"Valar! That was coolly done, kin-slayer," remarked Rochendil, unable to completely squelch his unbidden admiration for the merciful act which he had not been moved to attempt.

"Be silent, Bagronk," seethed Lindalcon, tears smarting his eyes as he turned away from the scene below. The Orcs were raging about the loss of their conquest and charged from their hiding place, sabres drawn, and poured forth their wrath upon the Elf's body.

"Now is the time to flee," urged Rochendil and tugged at Lindalcon's sleeve.

"Nasan," Lindalcon choked out. He knew he should try to kill some of the Orcs below while they were distracted but could not make himself look upon what was happening to Fael'ur's remains. "Which way to get out of this mess?"

"Back south. We are completely blocked ahead. Not only the Wraiths but a full-out war is raging near the Mountains; I heard faintly some of Talagan's battle-speak. Quickly now, for the Wraiths will not let us go so easily if they see us." He was already hastening through the branches as he spoke and did not pause to see if Lindalcon followed.

Despite their lead, the furious screech of the Wraiths' followed close behind. The Elves went faster and moved higher into the thinnest, brittlest twigs beneath the frozen, denuded canopy, running the track wherever it bent southward. By and by, a noise of marching Orcs came to them from ahead and they stopped in consternation. Soon they could see the roiling mass of black blobs as a troop of soldiers tramped toward them. Lindalcon gave a sharp gasp and Rochendil turned to see why. His young nemesis was peering to the west and in that direction now came another patrol of Orcs. Quickly the fiends reached their vicinity and there was no doubt they knew where the Elves were perched.

"Vile Nazgûl!" fumed Rochendil. "They are guiding the Orcs right to us. Your precious Tawarwaith hasn't managed to rid the woods of our chief enemies and now we are trapped."

"He has done more than you," accused Lindalcon, calmer now and puzzled by that. Strange, with the anticipation of disaster dispersed by its realisation, he no longer felt afraid. Perhaps that was the gift of experience and he was certainly a novice no longer. He had killed five times this night, one of the deaths his own kind. A shudder ran down his spine and he forced his thoughts back to the situation at hand. Rochendil was no strategist; his plans took them deeper into trouble. "What does it matter if they know we're up here? None of those beasts can see us clearly enough to hit us even if their bows had draw sufficient to shoot so far. We must go back toward the battle."

"You are mad," said Rochendil. "The Central Mountains are a raging turmoil of strife and war. In it we will perish."

"In it are Talagan and his troops; you heard battle-speak, did you not? We will have aid that way. To the south are only more Orcs and then the Tower. We cannot go that way and the Wraiths draw ever nearer."

While they argued, another cry of dread filled the air, this time filled with triumph and amusement, and Rochendil cringed low and whined like a whipped cur. "How do we get around them, then? Nothing stops them and we are in sight of them now," he wailed.

It was true; Lindalcon looked down into the blank blackness of a faceless hood turned up upon him. His skin writhed in revulsion and he shut his eyes. Then a strong sense of urgency passed through him in the wake of the tremors and he rallied. His heart filled with hatred for the creatures threatening him and he wanted nothing more than to have his chance at shooting off one of those rings as Legolas had once tried. Buoyed up on this tide of unexpected and indignant fury, Lindalcon straightened up but did not arm his bow. He needed space; he needed time.

"Come," he exhorted Rochendil and took him by the arm. "We must try to get past them. They'll not reach us here if only our courage holds. Come on! Back along the trail!"

He set out, pulling Rochendil with him. Every step they were dogged by the silent spectres below and accompanied by brazen taunts from the Orcs who now completely encircled them from a distance of several metres out. Soon Lindalcon saw why. The corrupt path had worked its evil magic again and now the Elves found themselves looking out into a vast field of felled trees partially covered in snow, the result of the ground-shaking event. The empty space was bright with reflected light, the clearing wide; a void in a place where there should not be one, a pocket of camouflaged death in the midst of the Great Wood. Beyond the devastation stood the dark ranks of the hibernating trees. Betwixt them and that enticingly dense cover, in the centre of this scene of destruction, stood a lone beech.

Dismayed, Lindalcon and Rochendil worked along the edge of the gap, seeking a point where it was bridged, and ere they had gone far the horse-master was nearly thrown to his death as a limb cracked and gave way beneath him. The same befell Lindalcon and the pair quickly retreated from the dangerous tree. Unsure which tree to try next, their deliberations were interrupted by a thunderous commotion resounding from the way behind them. The rhythmic thwock of many axes biting into frozen wood preceded the deafening creaking and crashing noise that could only be caused by the downfall of mighty oaks.

Hastily they climbed higher and doubled back to see and found the Orcs bringing down the very trees through which they'd just made safe passage. The Elves shared expressions of dread and doom; the trunks had to have been mostly cut through already in order for the Orcs to fell the hardwoods so quickly. Never had either of them heard of such a thing and Lindalcon could not help thinking it was a ploy invented to spite the Tawarwaith and his fields of spear-lined pits: a trap designed specifically to catch Wood Elves.

"The other way," said Lindalcon and turned again to follow the border of the desolate clearing.

It was hopeless. Each tree into which they moved attempted to drop them into the very laps of the Wraiths. The Orcs chortled and chuckled with malicious glee. With the path behind them cut, the Elves were now truly isolated on an island of frozen limbs, any of which might give way beneath them. The only option left was to cross that open reach where every tree but one had been cast down.

"We'll have to jump," said Lindalcon, eyeing that lone beech, their stepping stone across the void.

"The distance is too great," whispered Rochendil. He cowered next to the trunk and hid his face.

Lindalcon spared him a look of intense disgust and made ready. Even as he gathered himself for the leap, a strong warning clanged through his heart, but there was no other means to get on. He sprang, sailing through the crisp, clear air as a hail of arrows whooshed beneath his tightly tucked feet. He made it, grasping the fragile frozen limb avidly, arms and legs wrapped around it tight. Heart racing, he inhaled and let loose a great, triumphant yell, smiling as he stood upright and turned to see Rochendil preparing to jump. The Orcs were strangely silent; the Nazgûl motionless.

The horse-master threw himself through the air with a terrified and incoherent shout. He reached for the nearest branch and just grabbed it, pulling himself onto a level lower than Lindalcon's but still too high for the Orcs to make their volley pay. Rochendil, adrenalin pounding through his veins and panting for breath, grinned down at his foes and laughed. Just as he was conjuring a deriding remark, an ominous groaning and grating noise began. The tree in which they were housed shook and started to list into the moonlit clearing. It was undoubtedly one of the poisoned beeches and was obeying the orders of its gruesome Master, destroying itself in order to deliver the Elves into the hands of the Nazgûl. Of course, it had been chopped mostly through to make certain its obedience.

Lindalcon shouted in outrage and fear, trying to orient himself to make the leap into the waiting trees still divided from them by the ring of cool, white moonlight on the northward side of the renegade tree. Yet he had no time to do so, requiring all his agility to remain on the upward side of the falling trunk as it plummeted down, shutting his eyes as he braced for the impact. The tearing of the wood was horrible to hear, filling the air with the death throes of the beech, a grinding, cracking violent anthem of confusion, hatred, and remorse. A branch whipped across his cheek and cut him. Frigid bark ripped at the skin of his hands and tore the cloth of his leggings at the knees as he scrambled amid the toppling limbs. The earth rumbled as the rotten tree met the ground and quivered to stillness. Lindalcon opened his eyes to see a swarm of hooting, howling Orcs pouring through the clearing toward them. He reached for his bow and realised Rochendil was already firing.

TBC