Barad Lomin
by halavana
Chapter 13: Rearwards
Upon his return from delivering the message to the rulers of Arthedain
and Cardolan, Brogan asked Keren Woodman to marry him and she
accepted. Old Woodman was so pleased with this future son-in-law
that he informed all his friends and relations as soon as a date was
set for the following spring. The day seemed far to Brogan, but
he wished to contact his friends and relatives too, so the date
stood. Laughter returned to the Woodman house with Argus who
visited openly for the first time in three years after being estranged
from his father over some matter neither remembered. He regaled
them with tales of knighthood gone awry, most often at Brogan’s expense.
On the day of the strange ringing of the bells, they
were going about their daily lives and did not see Morfindel ride by,
for the elf lord wished to be unseen, though they heard the quick beats
of the horse’s hooves and wondered who could be in such a hurry on such
a fine evening. Later they heard tales of the events of the day
from a ferry man returning to his duty, and wondered who it might
be. Several dark haired elves had Keren seen during her stay, but
the description sounded like Morfindel, who she thought surely would
not leave his realm and his lady for any reason. But who could
say? Elves were a mystery to all mortals, even one such as Keren
who had lived with them.
As they sat at supper, very late, a knock came at
the front door. Morwen opened it and finding the old minstrel,
Mr. Ereg, squealed with happiness and ushered him inside.
Keren looked at him pointedly. “Holly Starfoot, let’s have none of your disguises here.”
“Oh, very well,” replied the elf, and cast off his old man’s guise.
Keren noticed the elf was troubled and invited him
to join them for supper but Starfoot refused, saying “I have need of
haste. My lord Morfindel has sent himself upon an errand which he
should have given to another. I like not to think of my lord
facing goblins alone, for more than flash of elven light will he
require this time. Might you knights join me as his rearguard?”
Both men stood at once.
“When and where?” said Argus.
In a flurry, the men and elf gathered weapons
and sped out the door to the stable where Brogan and Argus kept their
swift horses. Keren and her father stood out of the way and
looked on until the three riders galloped away.
“Father,” said Keren. “I think perhaps I
should follow. They’ll find more of a fight than they expect and
a chase at the end, if I know Millerson. He’s crafty as a goblin
and with their evil influence, I like not to see my brother and
fiancé go so unprepared. The rearguard may need a
rearguard.”
“Do what you think best, daughter. We’ve
provision enough. Take a pack animal and your own horse.”
Together, the family jumped into preparations, packing food, water,
medicines and light tents. Again dressed in her brother’s
clothing, she took her father’s hunting bow and her knife hidden in a
boot shaft. After bidding them all good bye, she pulled her hat
down over her eyes, mounted her horse and, leading the pack horse, set
out for the ravine between Millbank and Fieldbrook.
Starfoot arrived first at the ravine, for his elven horse, Nimthalion,
was swifter than those the men rode. The moon had just risen when
he came upon Weithlo waiting outside an entrance to the goblins’
tunnels, but not patiently. The horse milled about, watchful and
nervous, for he smelled goblin everywhere. Weithlo whinnied
softly at Starfoot as he approached.
“My lord Morfindel is the better sword fighter,”
said the elven minstrel to the horse. “He might make better use
of this than I, if you will permit a trade.”
Weithlo allowed the exchange just as a goblin
bellowed from inside the tunnel. In the distance a murmur of
gruff voices and the tramp of heavily booted feet warned of the
goblins’ return. Starfoot searched for a place of concealment,
but vegetation was sparse. He settled for a shallow cave across
the way which did not smell of goblins. He covered himself with
his cloak and the color blended with the soil so well that one would
have thought him part of the cave. He hoped Brogan and Argus
would arrive soon.
Five goblin archers stomped along the trail at the
bottom of the ravine, laughing about the sport they had enjoyed that
night. Weithlo uttered a warning call. Quickly, Morfindel
came out, noticed his sword where his bow and quiver had been with a
puzzled look, but seeing the blue glow of the weapon, he took it from
its sheath and sent the horse away.
As soon as the goblin archers saw the elf, they
growled and cursed as they restrung their bows. They’d thought to
spend the rest of the night sporting and telling tales of their
conquests of the evening. Many arrows they let fly and some
struck a lethal mark, but could not penetrate the mithril shirt and
bounced off, leaving bruises and abrasions, but no open wounds.
Morfindel had to duck and dodge, striking arrows out of the air with
his sword when they came too close. Slowly he approached them,
hoping to move close enough to strike, speaking enchantments to make
goblin arrows swerve from their mark.
“Younger generation of know nothings!” shouted
Tormog from behind the archers. “You can’t slay an elf lord
wearing mithril like you would an old man with gout! Aim for his
head and legs! Head and legs, you fools! And that’ll teach
you to neglect wearing your armor! Where are the
guards? The rest of you, circle around up top and come in
from behind!”
Suddenly arrows began to fly from above and from a
shallow cave across the way. Three archers fell at once and three
more goblins dropped quickly after. Tormog growled with
rage. He wore full armor and had no fear of arrows as he drew
near to this elf who was ruining years of careful preparations.
“Never send an underling to do a captains job,” he muttered, looking
keenly at the elf. Suddenly he froze. “Wait a minute.
I know you.”
“As do I know you,” replied Morfindel.
“A few skirmishes we’ve had already, but I thought
you’d either fled west with your female, or walled yourself in some
petty realm. It’s been a while.”
“It has been a while.”
“I see you’ve brought friends.”
“They came of their own volition.”
“Best kind of friends to have. You still bear your sister’s likeness.”
“Unfortunately, you do not.”
“Well uncle, have at it then,” growled the ogre,
then shouted behind him, “be off with you, Millerson! Take your
guards and fly. We’ll not win this night. Now be gone!”
Starfoot and the two knights were in a quandary
trying to hit Tormog, for the goblin and Morfindel battled so fiercely
the knights saw them only as a blur moving from moonlight to shadow,
the elven sword and dagger flashing blue and the goblin’s red.
Even Starfoot, whose vision was better than a cat’s in the dark, could
not aim true. The elf lord and goblin captain fought as though in
a dance with a well known partner, each matching the other’s moves,
neither gaining nor losing.
“If we survive this,” said Brogan, “Do
you think Morfindel would consent to be King Malvegil’s sword master?”
The elven lord heard the comment and called to them
sternly, “After Millerson! Stay not for me! Elendal, follow
Millerson!”
“Millerson, right,” said Argus as he and Brogan
raced along the top of the ravine, aiming at the fleeing goblins and
striking them down. Three were as heavily armored as Tormog and
turned to shoot back as they fled. Forcing Millerson ahead, they
came to a crook in the ravine where they kept their wargs and
Millerson’s horse. Man and goblins mounted and rode away,
scrambling up the ravine and taking flight at a gallop, the wargs
nipping at the horse’s heels to make it run faster, as if Millerson’s
spurs were not enough.
Once the odds were more even, Starfoot did as he was
commanded, calling their horses and giving chase, leaving Morfindel to
his own fight. The elf and the goblin fought up and down the
ravine, until at last the goblin grew fatigued.
Tormog swore at Morfindel and backed away. “I always
hated that cursed sword you carry. What do you call that thing?”
he said.
“Elennaro.”
“Humph. Starfire. Figures. You’ve
aged well, uncle,” said Tormog. “Hardly changed from the last
time we met, though you might be a bit fairer. You’ve faded some,
haven’t you. Last time you were trying to rescue, or should I say
kidnap, my mother. Wasn’t long before we drove your father from
Thargelion, was it. You always fled from us before. Made me
think of you as a coward. Why aren’t you running now?”
“No loved ones must I rescue here,” said Morfindel, pressing his attack as the goblin gave ground.
“Loved ones,” sneered the goblin. Suddenly
Tormog lunged but the elf side stepped and the goblin only snared
Morfindel’s hood. The elf deftly shed it, dodged another thrust,
parried and countered. Finally, the spot in the goblin’s armor
Morfindel had been focusing upon, trying to pierce it, gave way.
With a shout, the elf lunged and the sword struck home, to the
hilt. Mortally wounded, Tormog fell, but instead of cursing, he
laughed, “And I thought love made the strong weak.”
“Such has never been my experience,” replied the elf, stepping back.
“How you must hate me and all my kind.”
“Hate? Perhaps. In your case I am more saddened by thoughts of who you might have been.”
“What’s this? Pity for a dying goblin?” Tormog
laughed weakly. “Were the roles reversed, I would have no pity
for you.”
“Likely as not,” said the elf.
“Well, before you pity me too much I will give you
this. Just wait 'til your friends run into our troll blockade,”
said the goblin, and died.
“Ai Eru, Iluvatar,” whispered the elven lord.
He called Weithlo and leaping onto the horse’s back, he urged him
forward as fast as the horse could gallop. They sped over the
moon lit ground, in pursuit of Millerson as well as bearing a warning
to their companions.
Brogan and Argus raced onward, heedless of direction in pursuit of
Millerson. Into the east they rode, with Starfoot restraining
Nimthalion to keep behind them, for they being mortal men, the elf
feared mishap at the pace they traveled. Making good speed, the
knights and elf were within about one hundred feet of Millerson and his
guards when, almost as if a new hill were forming before their eyes,
the ground lifted itself and stood before them, in the shape of a huge
man, perhaps fifteen feet tall and ten wide. The knights’ horses
shied away, terrified, dropping their riders behind and taking
flight. Nimthalion, being an elven horse, shied also but did not
run away.
“Well, what have we here,” said a deep rumbling
voice. “An elf and two knights on a lovely moonlit night.
Where might yer be going in such a hurry? And be warned, if yer
can’t tell me the password, yer gonna be my dinner. The big boss
says so, though he ain’t so big as me in size, yer know.”
“We don’t have a password, but you’ll have to work for your supper,” said Brogan, brandishing his sword.
“Eh? The little knight wants to play, does
he?” The troll let Brogan come closer, then flicked him in the
face with a finger. Brogan’s eyes crossed and he fell backward,
senseless. Starfoot and Argus took up their bow and arrows and
shot at the troll, but his hide was so tough, the darts ricocheted
wildly in unpredictable directions. “Now, yer know yer just
makin’ me mad, don’t yer?” said the troll as he swung a huge fist.
“So sorry,” panted Argus, leaping away. “We were only trying to kill you.”
The troll guffawed, slapping his knee. “Yer funny. Maybe I’d oughter keep yer alive for a while.”
“Suits me,” said the knight. “You realize I’ll just try to kill you again tomorrow night.”
“’Course I do. But what about this elf
here. The one with the arrows that sting worse than yours.
Yer know yer doin’ no good with them.”
“I’ve learned never to speak for elves, friend
troll,” said Argus and let loose another arrow, which merely bounced
off the troll’s chest, its point broken.
About this time, Morfindel arrived. Weithlo
slid to a stop perhaps fifty feet from the troll, lowered his head and
sent the elf lord flying over. Morfindel landed on his feet just
over a yard from the troll’s huge trunk of a leg and began
hacking at it with his sword. Elennaro had been tempered such
that it cut through troll hide like an ax through very hard wood.
“Yeeowrch!” shouted the troll. “Who’s
this? Got a bite, have yer? None of that now.” He
swung his arm around and the elf lord dodged and struck, circling the
troll until the giant became dizzy trying to keep tabs on his
attacker. “Yer worse than a stinging wasp. Hold still so I
can...” The troll swung again and missed, in return being struck
another jab. He waited a moment, then seeing his chance
backhanded the elf across the chest.
Morfindel saw it coming but had only time enough to
take a deep breath and leap backward with the impact. He was
struck a crushing blow, landing on his back, struggling to breathe.
The troll stooped down, ignoring the pesky arrows
from Starfoot and Argus. “Yer a brave one, with a sharp
sword. Must have been made for the likes of me.” The elf
tried to scramble backward but the troll grabbed him by the hair and
pulled him upright, his face mere inches away. Morfindel gasped,
perhaps from fear for even elven lords do not meddle with trolls when
they can avoid them, but mainly from lack of air, for if not worse than
goblin breath, troll breath is certainly no better and can asphyxiate
the hardiest of souls.
“Not so fast,” rumbled the troll. “Yer in luck
I never cared for the taste of elf, but yer know yer can’t beat me.”
“Never my intention,” gasped the elf.
“Eh? Whassat? Never intended to beat
me? Well I like that. But what was yer tryin’ to do?”
“Distract you.”
“What?” The troll leaned closer. “Maybe
I’m not hearin’ yer so good. Distract me? From what?”
“Good morning,” whispered the elf.
At first puzzlement, then fear shown in the troll’s
eyes. He loosened his grip on Morfindel’s hair and turned to look
at the eastern horizon and returned his gaze to the elf, flat on the
ground before him. Then the troll laughed and crouched low over
the elf, as though speaking confidentially to a friend. “Distract
me yer did. I knew that Witch King would never deliver on his
pro...” At that moment, the first rays of dawn flashed from the
east, turning the troll into stone.
No one moved for a long time. Several meadow
birds took up a song. A pair of foxes came out of a clump of
brush, saw the troll and four two-leg-walkers and ducked back to
cover. The night was over and the elves and knights watched the
day break, too tired to speak. Suddenly they heard laughter, high
and clear in the morning air.
“Good morning! So, where’s Millerson?” The
voice was familiar, yet strangely out of place. Keren noticed
them looking blankly at her so she removed her hat.
“I thought you were told to stay...” began Argus.
“You were in such a rush to be gone, you took no
time for instructions. And father has grown to regard me more
highly of late than he once did, lets me do almost anything I
want. And I wanted to follow you, if just to pick up what was
left after the goblins ate you. But we’d best see to our fallen
before we continue this argument.”
Starfoot laughed as one will when a hopeless battle
turns to unexpected victory and jumped to his feet. He went to
where Morfindel lay and pulled him from beneath the overhanging stone
troll, then knelt beside his elven lord. His mirth faded as he
said “My lord, why did you not send another on this errand? Any
of us would have gone.”
Morfindel breathed deeply several times, setting his
battered ribcage back in order, then said “How could I send another on
a mission so disagreeable, with an outcome so uncertain? And how
is it that one who calls himself a mere minstrel should demand
explanations from one he insists upon calling his lord?”
Starfoot sputtered and stammered until he noticed
the mirth in his lord’s eyes and laughed also. “You need to rest
and heal. Do not move and I shall keep you company.” With
that, Starfoot stretched out on his back on the ground and began
pointing out shapes in the clouds and singing songs of nonsense.
Keren and Argus found Brogan still unconscious where
he had fallen. As they approached, his eyes fluttered and he sat
up. “Where is that useless piece of work?” he said, coming to his
senses at last.
“Good thing you were knocked in the head,” said Argus. “Otherwise you might have been truly hurt.”
“Where are the horses?” demanded Brogan, ignoring
his friend and cradling his face in his hands, “And what are you
doing here, Keren? I thought you were told...”
Argus laughed. Keren looked at Brogan with loving disdain.
“If you want a women to stay at home awaiting news
and then bewailing your pitiful death, perhaps you’d best find
another. I was told nothing. And it’s a good thing
too. Of all the goblins you men and elves dispatched, three you
missed, other than the ones that fled with Millerson. Had I not
come along with my father’s bow and shot them as they crept up on you,
you’d have arrows in your backs right now, and my lord Morfindel would
still be in a bitter fight.”
“For which we thank you with deepest gratitude,”
called Starfoot, who heard her voice and sat up to observe the goings
on. Morfindel raised a hand in blessing and tried not to laugh,
for still his chest ached from being knocked about by the troll.
“You are most welcome. May I never have to be
your rearguard again,” she said, bowing to the elves. “And
as for the horses, that great gray thing with the black mane and tail
which my elven lord rides gathered them together and they are now
awaiting us at my camp. Breakfast will be served at your leisure,
though I advise we not tarry overlong. Dunlendings have been seen
in the area of late, though we’re but a third of the way to Tharbad.”
“What?! So far?” exclaimed Brogan, gently
fingering the bridge of his nose and wincing. He pulled himself
to his feet, than sat down again. “Keren, might you bring
breakfast to us here?”
In answer Keren gave a shrill whistle. Again Brogan winced and covered his ears. Argus laughed.
“Did you teach her to do that?” asked Brogan. “I could have done without it.”
“I taught my sister many things, which I now do not regret,” answered the brother.
A short distance away, a horse whinnied and they
heard the rumble of hooves against solid ground. Presently their
beasts appeared around the curve of a hill, bucking, kicking and
plunging, reveling in the cool morning air, racing ahead of Weithlo who
guided them from behind. The great horse brought his herd to the
base of the hill and stopped them there. Keren ran down to her
pack horse, led it to where her charges waited and commenced unpacking
and building a fire in the shadow of the stone troll.
*******
Hithmir knew the way to the Woodman farm so Lurisa rode without guiding
her horse, lost in her own thoughts. Over the long years she and
Morfindel had separated but rarely and growing disquiet troubled her in
his absence. She had been weaving with her ladies in waiting,
singing but not merrily for she missed her lord, when something, she
knew not what, struck her over the heart. Now elves are not prone
to the ailments of mortal man so she at once perceived that something
had happened to her beloved, for in ages past when he fell injured in
battle she had been so forewarned. Her ladies gathered round her,
for she appeared close to swooning, but she waved them away and went to
find Neldoras. She would go to find Morfindel, regardless of the
captain’s counsel, yet she would have his advice.
For his part, Neldoras was displeased when Lurisa
told him what she intended. Morfindel had commanded him to stay
in Dor Luin with Glorfindel, and Neldoras would obey, but he insisted
that Lurisa take an escort.
“Of course,” replied the lady. “One of my sons
shall bring with him two or three friends. And I shall take one
or two of my maids. Fear not that I shall set out alone, for I
would not do that for which I shall chide my beloved.”
And so Jack Frost, who was Morfindel and Lurisa’s
youngest son and disappointed that his father left him behind, called
Sam and one named Gil to accompany him. Thistledown would not
permit that her mother and brother visit Keren without her, so she and
her friend Safronela joined the party as the maids in waiting.
Preparations were quickly made and the six elves set
out. The journey was uneventful. They crossed the river at
twilight at the eastern most crossing when the ferrymen had gone
home. Skirting the towns and farms, the elves rode toward the
ravine, Jack leading the way. The place was deserted, except for
the remains of goblins. Jack, Sam and Gil would not permit the
elf women to explore far, but when Lurisa spied her husband’s cowl on
the ground near a large goblin, she insisted upon retrieving
it. Looking closely, she saw that it was pierced through, but
only a little stained. Searching more, she noted traces of goblin
poison, but not enough to harm one such as Morfindel, so she was
relieved that he remained unhurt, at least when he departed from the
goblin stronghold.
Sam and Gil searched the ground and discovered many hoof prints leading to the east.
“They look to be riding swiftly, perhaps two days
ago,” ventured Gil, who spent much of his time tracking deer.
“Then we had best wait rather than follow,” said
Lurisa and spoke to Hithmir, instructing her to go to the Woodman farm,
perchance to find Keren and wait with her. This was the road they
traveled now, approaching the gate as Old Woodman opened the door to
sit in his chair and watch the stars and wait. He saw the elves
and called a greeting.
“Well met, friends. How may I be of service on this evening?”
“Only to grant that we wait with you and Keren,” responded Lurisa
“You’re welcome to wait with me, but Keren has followed her brother and betrothed.
The other elves murmured in surprise, disappointment
and concern, but Lurisa only laughed. “Glad I am Keren has
followed them. Males of all races need a woman to look after
them.”
Woodman wore a bemused expression, saying, “Perhaps
you’re right.” Then he added, “Again, welcome. Rest
your horses, if elven horses need rest. Water and fodder are in
the barn. We’ve chairs a plenty, though none softly
cushioned. Come rest from your journey, for you’ve traveled far,
I suspect.”
“That we have and will accept your offer gladly,”
said Lurisa and dismounted. She looked closely at Keren’s father
and noted how he resembled her own daughter’s husband. Perhaps,
she mused to herself, over the many generations the bloodline had come
full circle. Woodman called to a grandson who brought more
chairs, though the boy stared in wonder at the visitors. The
farmer merely chuckled and gently chided the boy for his slowness,
urging him to make haste. The elves were content to sit upon
uncushioned chairs and listen to an old knight turned farmer tell the
story of his life and that of his family. Much they already knew
but they gained much of a knight’s perspective. When Woodman grew
tired of his own voice, he asked the elves for a tale or song, as they
wished. They told tales of the building of Barad Lomin and the
Last Alliance. Presently, all tales were told. Woodman fell
asleep in his chair and Morwen came out to cover him with a
blanket. The elves bade her goodnight and after the lights were
extinguished, they sat as statues, singing softly and watching the
stars.
*******
Many miles to the east, beyond Tharbad, Millerson changed horses and
his goblins were replaced by men of an origin unknown to him.
They set off at a slower pace and when Millerson protested, the leader
of this new guard held up until Millerson rode even with him.
“Your pursuers have halted,” said the captain.
“There’s not so much need of haste. You’ve ridden long and
hard. Best gather your strength before you meet the master.”
“So I’m to finally meet this master I’ve heard so much talk about?”
“Yes, but most don’t look forward to the encounter.”
“Why not?”
“He’s not lenient with failure, and most brought before him have failed in some way.”
“Have they now. Well, let’s get on. I’ve
had enough dread in these past few days to last me a very long
lifetime. I’d rather have done with it,” said Millerson and
spurred his horse into a gallop.
“It’s your neck,” said the captain, and ordered his men to pick up the pace.
