Perilous Journeys. The Shadow over Rhudaur Part III

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, at nightfall of November 5, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Gimilbeth peered into the gathering darkness ahead and surveyed the high rocky cliffs on the right, dripping wet now. This morning's fog gave way to small, incessant rain, cold and penetrating, a sort of rain that soaked everything to the core. She felt cold, wet and miserable and therefore her ire was steadily rising.

"How far are we from the Last Bridge, Gwindor?"

"I am not sure, your Highness, two-three leagues at least, I guess." Gwindor answered morosely - he was still sulking after Gimilbeth's affront in the morning.

Gimilbeth turned and tried to distinguish the forms of two wagons on the road behind them. She knew that the last wagon harbored her maid Nimraen, her two pages and her clothes, while the foremost one, driven by Callon, carried Hurgon and the two unwelcome Elves. She waited till the wagons finally came into view - and the Dwarves on their stupid ponies were riding right behind. Twenty Dunedain guards formed the rearguard. And all this procession advanced at a snail's pace! Curse the Dwarves! - she had never supposed how really slow a laden pony would be...

"I hoped to reach Iant Methed before dark" Gimilbeth complained bitterly. "They are slowing us down!"

Gwindor said nothing, but "I told you!" was written plainly upon his face. Gimilbeth's temper finally burst out.

"It is all your fault, anyway!" she hissed vehemently. Gwindor's eyes widened in surprise, but Gimilbeth wouldn't be deterred. "You made me angry this morning with your childish attempts to start a fight with those Dwarves. If not for you, I would have never invited them to join us in the first place!"

Gwindor swallowed and lowered his eyes. "As you say, My Lady." he replied calmly. He had learned by long experience that there was no contradicting Gimilbeth when her temper ran high. When angry, she was very unfair and oftentimes cruel. Those nearby only had to keep low profile and try to get out of the way.

"Leave ten men to guard the wagons and round up the others!" Gimilbeth ordered. "We shall gallop ahead with thirty men, and let the Dwarves and the wagons plod after us as best they can."

Gwindor shrugged his shoulders, but obeyed. He stopped the column and a scout was sent to give new orders to the rearguard. Gimilbeth waited, impatiently turning the ivory handle of her whip round and round in her gloved hands.

At this moment an arrow whizzed past Gimilbet's head, followed by a rain of others. The darkness to the right exploded with hundreds of hellish shrieks. Dark, twisted shapes poured from the cliffs down onto the road, shouting war-cries and slashing at the neighing horses and dismayed riders.

Someone screamed: "Orcs! We have run into an ambush!"

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, at nightfall of November 5, 1347
Written by Angmar
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High up on the cliffs above the Great Road, Captain Ashuk's company of orcs lay in wait in the darkness and cold rain for Princess Gimilbeth's cavalcade to pass by below them. Captain Ashuk congratulated himself on how brilliantly he had planned the ambush. If everything went according to his expectations, Princess Gimilbeth would be in their hands very shortly. His last minute orders were passed down the line of waiting orcs, who received them with joyful expressions of maliciousness upon their faces.

The bowmen were ordered to aim primarily for the horses and kill or wound as many as possible. In the shock and confusion of plunging, screaming horses, the riders would be at the orcs' mercy. Unhorsed, it would be a simpler task to kill the riders. Then after the archers had done their damage, the lads were to rush down the hill. The orders were to kill everyone, save the Princess Gimilbeth and a few prisoners who would be taken for questioning. Any other women whom they might find were to be killed outright, for there was no time to waste in wild orgies. These latter orders had caused some muttering among the lads, but they all knew better than to argue with the captain. Captain Ashuk was known to have a fierce temper and would brook no insubordination.

"Now! They are right below us!" Ashuk whispered to the corporal beside him. Ashuk brought his right hand up and then slashed it down towards the ground in a cutting motion. At his signal, the archers unleashed a volley of poison-tipped arrows. They listened gleefully as the screams of the wounded horses and men below them gave proof that many of arrows had found their mark.

"You fool!" Ashuk growled as he moved forward and knocked a startled archer to the ground. "You almost hit the Princess!" There was no time to punish the careless archer in the way that he should be, though, and so Ashuk let him off with a kick in his groin.

"Attack! Attack, you maggots!" Ashuk bellowed as he drew his scimitar and charged down the hill. His men bellowed out their fierce war cries, feeling the heady rush of battle fury sweeping through their bodies as they smelled the scent of human and horse.

In the aftermath of the blistering rain of arrows, wild pandemonium had broken out through the cavalcade. Wounded men and horses screamed and moaned. Downed horses thrashed and men maddened by their pain tried to pull arrows out of their bodies. Nimraen screamed a long, loud, piercing shriek as she saw one of her wagon's horses go down with an arrow in its spine. She screamed hysterically as she heard the dull thud as another arrow embeded itself in the thigh of the driver.

Mixing in with mad confusion were the orcs' war cries. Both the soldiers and the civilians felt chills go down their spines as they heard the dreadful sounds of, "Diis! Azuluk, agh dik shatraug!" and listened in disbelief to the guttural chants and cries of the orcs.

"Az!" Ashuk screamed as he swung his scimitar and loped off the head of his first victim.

*** TRANSLATIONS

"Diis! Azuluk, agh dik shatraug!" - "Attack! Kill them all, but capture the witch!"

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, at nightfall of November 5, 1347
Written by Serenoli
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Hurgon was taking a break from painting. Dangling his legs from the back of his wagon, he was talking with the two elves he had on board. They had both admired his painting volubly, which was a feather in his hat, for everyone knew elves knew more about art and music than most people. He was still putting on a bit of an invalid act, prompting Callon to look at him guiltily every now and then, and which meant he could take as many breaks as he could without feeling guilty himself.

A shout rent the air. "Orcs! Orcs! We're being ambushed!"

The elves sprang up, their hands jumping to their weapons. Sadly, they were in a pretty small wagon, and both of them fell back again after hitting the roof, hands clutching painful foreheads.

Hurgon reassured them, "Relax! There are no orcs. Its just that deaf driver of the cart behind us, he fancies he sees orcs at every turn."

His scornful laugh was cut short as a big and rather ugly face poked up out from behind the wagon. Two arrows flew behind him, one striking the horse, and the other hitting the 'deaf' driver. He fainted dead away at the sight of the blood running over his leg, and Hurgon was still considering whether he ought to follow that course of action himself, when a third arrow whizzed past his ear and hit the orc plumb in the middle of his forehead. The orc fell with a resounding thump, and Alagos, who had somehow managed to manipulate his bow and arrow in the wagon, pushed past him, followed by Tyaron. The wagon had stopped moving... turning back, Hurgon saw Callon had jumped off, and appeared to be fumbling at his belt.

Like a mother that tries to save her child from a fire, Hurgon decided at once that he needed to preserve his painting. He lunged for it, and rolled it up, and clutching it in one hand, and after discarding his knife (it was caked with paint) he picked up the heaviest paintbrush he had, and crouched as inconspiciously as he could. Unfortunately, someone skewered an orc right into the wagon, and the spear that came through narrowly maissed Hurgon. Screaming, he jumped out of the wagon.

Pandemonium reigned. Or was it chaos?

A huge orc came lumbering towards him. Hurgon screamed again and jumped... to his knees, and crawled under the wagon. The orc bent down, laughing as he tried to hit the painter - unfortunately for the orc, someone saw his huge bottom sticking out, and just could not resist sticking his sword into it.

Watching his own back so he could avoid a similar fate, Hurgon crawled out of the wagon, and saw the two horses that pulled the wagon. Inspiration struck. He picked up a scimitar lying on the ground, and slashed away the ropes holding the horses, and after a bit of pulling and pushing, he managed to get on top of one of them. Kicking his heels into it, clutching his painting to his chest, and waving his scimitar in the air, he set off in the safest direction he could think of - straight into the trees to the south of the road.

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, at nightfall of November 5, 1347
Written by Rian
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Tyaron listened to the painter talking, torn between amazement and amusement. In all his long years on Arda, he had never met anyone quite like Hurgon. The man had talent - that was undeniable. But for the elves, and for most men that Tyaron had met, talent seemed to go hand-in-hand with intellect. But in this case, the intellect seemed to be noticeable lacking. Or maybe it was just unrecognizeable ...

Alagos was enjoying himself immensely, and kept the painter going with well-timed remarks such as, "You don't say! Tell me more!", and similar comments in that vein. Tyaron started to lose interest, but kept up the appearance of listening while surreptitiously turning his senses to the scene that he could see outside of the wagon, framed by the canvas tent surrounding them. Suddenly the expression in his bright eyes changed ever so slightly; if Alagos had been watching him, instead of the painter, he would have stopped talking and gone on the alert.

Suddenly, a shout rent the air. "Orcs! Orcs! We're being ambushed!" Both Tyaron and Alagos jumped up, but unfortunately they were a little too tall for the wagon and sat down again, rubbing their bumped heads as they reached for their weapons, despite Hurgon's assurance that it was nothing. Tyaron had definitely sensed something amiss, and Alagos had seen Tyaron's expression, and from long experience with his friend, knew that something was up, and they weren't about to be caught empty-handed.

Tyaron senses had not led him amiss - two arrows flew by and found their targets, and man and horse screamed in agony. Then an ugly face peered into the wagon, and got an arrow in the forehead for its trouble. "The art museum is closed!" laughed Alagos grimly as he checked the situation outside, then leapt out of the wagon, another arrow already nocked to the bowstring. "Good shot!" Tyaron yelled as he followed behind his friend, drawn sword in hand. "Stay in here," he added to Hurgon, before disappearing around the corner of the wagon.

Tyaron saw that Callon was at the horses' heads, trying to get them under control. "Get over here!" he shouted to Callon. "You're going to get shot!" But Callon stayed with his beloved horses, trying against all odds to calm them down and even suceeding a little bit. Tyaron and Alagos had gone to the front end of the wagon, and visually and physically sheltered from the orcs coming down the hill by the canvas and the wood frame of the wagon, were working in tandem - Tyaron dealing with the orcs that had worked their way in close, giving Alagos room to shoot those that were coming up from farther away.

But all too soon, Alagos had to abandon his bow and take up his sword, for there were too many for Tyaron to hold off single-handedly anymore.

"Do you remember how to use your sword?" yelled Tyaron, jibing his friend as he slashed one orc in the thigh and then took out the orc next to him with a gash to the jugular as he continued the sword's upward arc.

"Pointed end out, right?" answered Alagos as he skewered one orc, then slashed another almost in half as he pulled the sword out of the first with a sideways motion.

"Only on Mondays," countered Tyaron, taking on three orcs at once and killing two of them, causing the third to flee and the rest to move back and regroup.

Suddenly Alagos, who was closest to Callon and had been keeping half an eye on him, heard the young man cry out and turned in time to see Callon grab his arm, and then pull an evil-looking, black-and-red fletched arrow out of his sleeve, where it had caught in the fabric. Alagos dashed out and grabbed Callon, pulling him back to the elves' position. He ripped Callon's shirt sleeve open at the torn spot with one hand and drew in his breath sharply. What he saw made him drop his sword and draw his dagger, crying out to Tyaron, "Cover me! Callon's poisoned!"

"I have been covering you, you poor excuse for a swordsman!" Tyaron yelled back, covering up his concern with more battleground dark humor, and moving to a more defensive position where he could cover the two men better. "Hurry, hurry!" he added urgently. But Alagos didn't need the admonition; he had seen the grim result of even a scratch like this one too many times.

Alagos had seen that Callon's forearm had a slight arrow scratch in it, enough to make the blood come, but that was not what concerned him; what concerned him was the unmistakeable (to the nose of an elf) odor of orc-poison, confirmed by the sight of a gooey black substance smeared on the shirt and around the wound. Speed was all that mattered now; if he moved too slowly, Callon would surely die. The poison was of the worst type - it spread quickly, but once spread, it brought on a slow, painful death. He only had a minute to get it out of Callon's body before it spread beyond recall.

"Hold still!" he said in a commanding voice, throwing Callon's arm against the wagon frame and pinning it down hard with his body as he took his dagger and, in one quick motion, made a deep, U-shaped cut under the arrow scratch, taking out the poison and the surrounding flesh. Callon yelled out in pain, but had the sense to not fight Alagos; the word "poisoned", along with the serious expression on Alagos' usually smiling face, had impressed on him the direness of his situation. Callon fought the urge to grab at his injured arm, and instead, moved his free hand the other direction and grabbed tight to the wooden frame of the wagon as Alagos flicked the poisoned flesh off of his blade with a snap of his wrist and bent over Callon's arm again, checking for more poison.

"Alagos! Watch out!" yelled Tyaron as a group of orcs made a rush for him and one got past, heading straight for Alagos' exposed back. In one swift motion, Alagos whirled around and threw his dagger at the orc. Callon's eyes widened in amazement as the orc went down with a dagger through his eye. "Got him!" shouted Alagos, letting Tyaron know he could turn his attention back to the orcs in front of him. "I don't like to be bothered when I'm working," he added to Callon with a quick wink as he looked for and found Callon's dagger, and then used it to cut some strips from his cloak. Putting Callon's dagger between his teeth to keep it handy for emergencies, Alagos quickly bound up the wound, which was bleeding profusely.

"Another one!" shouted Tyaron as Alagos was wrapping the wound. With an exclamation of irritation, Alagos held the bandage down with one hand and grabbed and threw the dagger with the other, again bringing down an orc, this time with a dagger through the side of the nose.

"Remind me to balance your dagger when this is over," grunted Alagos as he finished tying off the bandage. Callon nodded this thanks, his breath coming in ragged gasps from the pain, and then his eyes suddenly widening as he saw a fresh wave of orcs coming at them. Tyaron called out to them over his shoulder with a note of desperation in his voice, "If you're done with your primping, ladies, I could use some help!"

"Stay here, or you'll bleed too much," ordered Alagos as he picked up his sword and pushed Callon back against the wagon.

"Not on your life!" yelled Callon, pushing back, and Alagos smiled at him as they rushed together to Tyaron's side, Callon still gasping in pain. Alagos paused for an instant to retrieve both daggers, handing Callon's to him as he said, "Here, have it back - he's done with it now!" Callon took it, disgusted by the foul black blood all over the blade, but wise enough to not let that stop him taking it back. Following Alagos' lead, he quickly wiped the blade and re-sheathed it.

"Stay at Tyaron's side," shouted Alagos above the din as they joined the battle. "He's the better swordsman - but don't tell him I said that!"

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, at nightfall of November 5, 1347
Written by Valandil
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Watching from the rear, Merendil’s nephew Maredur could just make out in the moonlight the whole line of the train before him. The moment the shouts of the orcs rang out, and their arrows began to come down, the Dwarves dismounted from their ponies, each swiftly grabbing hold of a battle-axe, or some few a great sword, rubbing their thumb along the edge and smiling grimly at one another as they awaited the onrush. Except that one only stayed mounted – not their leader, but the others seemed anxious to protect him.

Then, to his wondering eyes, he saw that Gimilbeth’s page, Edelbar, had bravely jumped from the second wagon and was pulling on the left-hand horse to draw the second wagon right up behind the first. This was hard work because the other horse had taken a shaft and was in a panic.

“Dwarves!” he called out to them, and they turned to hear. “We must fight together or be swept away. Will you stand between the wagons and the attack?” The Dwarves nodded grimly, with one directing the mounted Dwarf to the opposite side of the wagons.

The arrows had done little among those in the rear of the convoy. The few that had found their marks were mostly handled by the chainmail of the Dwarves and Dunedain. Only a couple horses went down, but their riders pulled themselves free. One man had fallen, an unlucky arrow through his eye.

“Quickly, behind the wagons!” he called to his men, and they all followed him there. He had thought to order the group there and come dashing out to left or right to scatter the attack. But even as he rode forward, he saw the orcs fall upon the vanguard, and the havoc they wreaked with their halberds there. He also saw with what violence they fell upon the front of the train. “Gimilbeth!” he thought.

But before they could get to her, they first had to turn back the tide that was now upon them. “Men! Dismount! Archers, form up behind the wagons and fire at will! The rest of you, split up to cover each flank!” The ten archers assigned to the convoy’s guards were all in the rear. If they could get good cover, their steel shafts and bows would tell quite the tale on the assaulting foes. Two of his men helped Edelbar bring the second wagon up against the other – and one of them gave Edelbar a short sword. The wounded driver and the maid were hauled out, both directed to crouch down beside a wagon wheel. Maredur grimaced at the thought, but at least the man's convulsions would be out of sight from the rest of his men, and the maid may be able to give him some slight comfort in his passing.

The Dwarves were just now reaching their post between the wagons and the hills. Only the swiftest orcs had come among the wagons before them, and they paid for it now. Having dispatched their first foes, the Dwarves turned toward to await the following onrush of Orcs.

At first the orcs hit them hard and pressed them back, but the axes of the Dwarves were fiercely wielded, and quickly took their toll. An orc cried out, "Dwarves?? We didn't expect Dwarves!" before a loud "THUNK" ended his complaints.

Those from the first wagon had joined right in. Tyaron came out hewing deftly about with his sword. One of the orcs shouted, "Elves as well as Dwarves? Who planned this anyway?" followed by a "THWACK!" Callon got in some good blows, and Alagos had taken up his own bow at first, until the press of orcs forced him to switch to a sword himself. Maredur saw no sign of the painter, but had plenty else to think about.

The first rush of the orcs was finally turned back by the grim axes of the Dwarves and the deadly arrows of the Dunedain. The Dwarves were now hot for battle with the spilling of orc blood. Little harm had been done among them yet. All now saw how heavily beset were their companions in front, and how poorly they fared. They ordered up together and advanced toward the flanks of those attackers. The Dunedain archers fired on any orcs that stood far enough apart from the shrinking knot of Dunedain defenders around Gimilbeth – or any more orcs that dared come down the hill, though now their arrows were almost spent, and some had already drawn their swords. The Dunedain swordsmen advanced with the Dwarves, or covered their flanks.