Perilous Journeys. The Shadow over Rhudaur Part III

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, 1347, after dark
Written by Valandil
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Just as the contingent of Dwarves and Rhudaurian regulars drew almost near enough to engage the knot of foes at the front, the Orcs looked high above them and behind them in fear. Turning, Maredur saw a blazing light flying straight upward into the night sky - like a flaming arrow that left a trail. The Orcs murmured in doubt and began to lose heart; their defense seemed to waver.

Meanwhile, the allies were now near enough to see – that just beyond the line of Orcs standing in their path, more Orcs beyond were rushing about, stabbing, slashing or impaling all the fallen… finishing them off! Then... the rearguard fell upon the Orcs before them in a mad attempt to rescue their fellows.

With a valiant effort, they managed to win that part of the field, as Orcs were hewn by Dwarven axe and Mannish sword. But it was costly ground… and it took time. The Orcs had now withdrawn before them, and continued withdrawing still. One of them called out, loud enough for Maredur to hear, “No good tryin’ to kill ‘em all now – there’s too many left. ‘Sides, we got what we come for!”

Maredur called for torches now, and gave orders for a few men to search for survivors – and to find the Princess Gimilbeth, wherever she might lay amid the carnage. There was confusion among his men at first, finding torches, getting them lit, going through those on the ground before them – all the while seeing the mutilated remains of friends and comrades-in-arms. When a torch at last came forward, the first thing that came into view was the bloody face and fixed stare of Captain Gwindor - and it was only on closer inspection in the dark that they saw that his head lay there by itself.

There was more commotion off to the rear now. Apparently a band of 20 or more Orcs had been separated from the rest, and now tried to join in with the main body. But while the Dwarves advanced before the still somewhat steady retreat of the Orcs, Maredur led the Dunedain, aided by the two Elves, to stand and hold off the smaller group – and then closed with them. The main body of Orcs seemed half inclined to come to the aid of their stranded mates, but some confusion arose in their ranks at about this time – from about the place where the Orc who seemed in charge was. Then, the main group of Orcs melted more quickly into the hills, abandoning the rest to their fate.

The Dunedain pressed into them, while the Elves stepped out to cut off the escape of any to either side. Soon, the grim work was drawing to a close. But just at the last, Maredur lost his footing and fell over a body lying on the ground. The Orc before him pressed the advantage and got off a wicked slash and a broad sneer, before Tyaron relieved from the creature's shoulders the burden of its helm-rest. And then all was still.

Maredur’s sword-arm was badly wounded, but as he winced in pain, he noticed movement in the body beneath him. He rolled off it in wariness, then pulled the head up by its hair with his good hand. “Argh! The fool painter!” he spat, then slammed the head back down to where it had been. A couple of his men helped him back onto his feet and back toward the search among the fallen, while Hurgon lay still in his place, whimpering and moaning.

Reaching the scene of the slaughter, Maredur could see that there were no more living Orcs in sight. The Dwarves had already caught the few that had still been milling about, trying to strip the dead. In fact, that had started when the lone Dwarf still mounted lept down from his pony, took up an axe and sliced through the helm of an Orc intent on the booty of a fellow Dwarf. That had drawn the other Dwarves over, for by that time, the retreating Orcs could be seen no more, and the Dwarves dared not follow them into the woods. They should have saved a few for interrogation, thought Maredur – but he and his men hadn’t done that either.

A man came forward with a report on the search, and Maredur braced himself. It might now fall to him to tell the King of his daughter’s death… to bring her body back to him.

“Sergeant Maredur… all the men in the van-guard were slain. The only one still living is Lammir, page to the princess, but he has taken a poisoned arrow, and has but a short time left.”

“The Princess Gimilbeth, then?”

The man was silent for a moment, looking into Maredur’s eyes, “You had best hear it from the lad, sir.”

He was led to where Lammir lay, squirming and twitching on the ground in the convulsions of the orc-poison. He reached down and cradled the lad’s head in his good hand and asked him, “Young man… what happened here in the front? What is become of Lady Gimilbeth?”

Lammir coughed violently and choked between gagging sounds as he tried to speak. But at last he forced out the word, “Taken!”

Maredur’s face turned still more grim. As hard as would be her death, this was worse. There was no telling what the Orcs would do to her… may have done already!

“What… Did the Orcs do her any harm? Here in your sight?”

Lammir put forth his effort again, “One… with cut face… kissed her!”

Then Lammir’s eyes opened wide and he began breathing rapidly, violently, gasping for air. At last his breathing slowed, and then finally, stopped altogether. Maredur slowly laid his head back down on the ground and then closed the lad’s eyes. He looked at peace now, and Maredur thought that he would be proud to have a son like him one day, any man would – so fair, and so brave… but living still.

He took a step back and sat down upon the ground, while one of the Elves took to bandaging up his right arm. Probably 50 or 60 Orcs had made their retreat, at least. No good trying to follow them now. They had been gone a half hour or more, the moon wouldn’t last more than a few hour more, and his forces were depleated, weary, and mostly unsuited for following a band of Orcs up a trail. They needed Eryndil for a task like this! Of the 40 Dunedain in the convoy, only 13 still lived, 3 with serious wounds and 3 with lesser – including himself. Of 20 Dwarves, 8 had fallen, and 4 more were wounded. They still had 2 Elves and one wagon driver – and a painter! Maredur wasn’t sure yet about the other page and the maid… but they had one less princess than they’d started out with.


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In the hills North of the Great Road, night of November 5, 1347.
Written by Gordis and Angmar
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Gimilbeth winced and cried out as a clawed hand painfully pinched her backside. The small, long-armed orc who was carrying her uphill was panting heavily, his red tongue lolling, saliva dripping from his open mouth. Once he reached the crest, the orc wavered, stumbled and dropped his burden on the rocky ground. Gilmilbeth screamed again - a high-pitched wordless wail.

"Lugurz, now is your turn to carry the blasted witch," the orc said, trying to catch his breath. "By Melkor's holy guts, she is as heavy as a sack of stones!"

"Aye, corporal Tarb." Another orc approached, seeming not at all happy to take over.

Tarb produced a dirty piece of cloth from his pocket. "Gag her first, lest she wakes the dead with her wailing"

Lugurz grabbed Gimilbeth by the hair and with assurance born of much practice started to push the filthy rag into her mouth. Here Gimilbeth's stomach finally revolted and she started to vomit.

"Stop, you, stupid snaga!" cried the corporal. "We shall have to wait till she is done, or she will choke to death on the gag."

At this moment the horns on the road blared the signal of retreat. The ten orcs around Gimilbeth exchanged worried glances. The time was running short.

"Well, no time for the gag now. Put her on your shoulder and let us run!" Tarb ordered.

Lugurz complied. Gimilbeth was taller than him by far, so she found herself with her stomach on the orc's shoulder, her legs hanging in front of him and her upper body draped along the orc's back, head down. Blood was pounding in her ears, her bounded wrists were paining her immensely and she was still vomiting - right on the backs of the orc's legs. The company departed at a run, following an almost imperceptible trail.

Hanging there on the orc's shoulder, Gimilbeth suddenly realized that she was afraid no longer. She was disgusted and in pain, but her anger was steadily mounting until it finally drove away all other emotions. Red spots danced before her eyes - she was literally seeing red and shaking from anger, not fear. She was not worried about her safety anymore - she only wished to make the orcs pay for her humiliation. She thought of her little spell-book, now left behind in the wagon - in its hiding place in a secret compartment of one of her trunks. Words of ancient spells were milling in her brain: the knife spell she had used on Broggha, various others that she had learned by heart. "By Melkor! I am a Witch, she thought - let the Holy Darkness help me, if Men would not!"

Gimilbeth concentrated, ignoring her pain, the orcs and her impending peril. She started whispering in ancient Adunaic - making a spell of her own - a spell of death, torture and destruction. Her rage and her strong will fiercely bent on a single goal, she drew mental images on the red background of her closed eyelids - vicious and heady images of the orcs falling under a shower of arrows, of them drowning in boiling water, of them skewered and gutted alive, their severed heads staked on pikes atop a fortress wall.

"O Melkor the Potent," she prayed, "O Annatar, the Giver of Gifts, help me in my plight! Crash my foes like worms under your mighty feet and let the Holy Darkness devour them!'

The orc who was carrying Gimilbeth stumbled and slowed. His pointy ears twitched back trying to catch the words. Few even among the Dunedain knew the ancient Adunaic, but still there were some words it shared with Westron, so what he heard left the orc deeply alarmed.

"Corporal!' the orc whined. "The Shatraug is cursing us!"

"Let the snagalob who thinks she can curse us rant until her dying day!" snarled Corporal Tharb. "She can't do nothing! Lugurz, you are just grumbling because you have to carry her!"

Convinced that Princess Gimilbeth had singled him out for some evil spell, Lugurz slowed to a walk. Frightened though he was of her words in Adunaic, he was even more terrified of Tharb's anger. He had to have some plausable excuse for being unable to carry her, or the corporal would be very angry.

"Sir, my back is aching something fierce! She's done something to it! She's put a hex on me!" Lugurz panted.

"Private, what nonsense! If you don't do your duty, I'll take the flail to you myself! She's just a sharp-tongued harridan! Now quit that sniveling, and carry this vile-mouthed shrew!"

"But, sir, she's so heavy, she's going to break me back! Hauling her around like this will only slow us all down!" Lugurz protested.

"I have an idea," piped up one of the other orcs. The goblin's minuscule size made him one of the weakest orcs in the troop, but he made up for it by his cleverness. Always eager to gain favor with his superiors, he had come up with an idea to handle the problem of transporting the princess.

"What is it?" growled Tharb. "Make this fast! We don't have any time to waste!"

"Sir, let's cut a pole from a stout sapling. Then we can tie the witch hand and foot to it. Two of us will take one end of the pole and two of us will take the other end. We'll carry her like a deer shot in the forest!"

"Four of you to carry one female? You lazy maggots! Two I can see, but four is ridiculous!" Tharb's face had darkened in anger. "All right, private, since it's your idea, you find a sapling stout enough to hold this fat cow's weight! Take another man with you to help you carry it back!"

"Sir," Private Lugurz simpered, "can I put her down now while we wait?"

"Aye, you weakling!" Tharb bellowed. "While we're waiting, gag the wench again so we won't have to listen to her ramblings!"

"Thank you, sir. Carrying her another furlong would be the death of me!" Lugurz dropped Gimilbeth like a heavy sack of rocks. Her eyes flashing with anger, Gimilbeth lay sprawled upon the ground, quietly intoning the words she had learned from her spellbook.

"I'll gag her all right, sir, Lugurz exclaimed gleefully as he ripped off the remains of Gimilbeth's skirt. Gimilbeth opened her mouth to curse him in Adunaic, but the orc leered at her and stuffed a wad of cloth into her mouth. He tied it behind her head with another strip. "That'll keep her quiet!"

"And if it doesn't," Corporal Tharb drew out a wicked dagger, "we'll cut her tongue out and gag her with that!" Quickly he bent over Gimilbeth, pressed the dagger to her neck, and watched gleefully as a thin trail of blood followed behind the blade. Gimilbeth's eyes met him with a look of pure fury. The orc laughed menacingly as he licked the blood off her neck. "Now I don't want any more tricks out of you, Princess! Keep your trap shut and we'll get along quite well!"

"Look here, men!" Corporal Tharb boasted as he held up the blood-stained knife for them to see. "It's just like I said! She can't do anything to us"

Soon the small orc and his helper had returned with a long poplar sapling. Gimilbeth soon found herself trussed up like a slab of meat to the pole. Then the orcs were off, the princess swaying wildly back and forth with the orcs' heavy running feet.

Traveling on a pole like a trussed dead deer was hardly better than hanging head down on an orc's shoulder. At first Gimilbeth felt some relief, but then the agony in her wrists, knees and ankles made her reconsider. Worst of all was her neck - her head lolled left and right at the rhythm of the orc's pace and her vertebrae seemed like they could snap any time. She pressed her chin to her breast to ease the tension, but it soon became evident to her that the moment she lost consciousness would be her last.

The orcs paid no heed to her plight - perhaps their undeveloped brains were unable to grasp the problem, or they simply didn't care if she were dead or alive. Instead, they bickered among themselves - arguing over the turns to carry her. After some time there were already two orcs at each end of her pole - and still they complained about the heaviness of their burden. The smallish orc - the one who had proposed this mode of transportation – jeered slapping Gimilbeth's thigh "Let us cut away all the extra meat and the witch will be much lighter!" The gang responded by raucous laughter.

“Keep your filthy paws off her!” snarled the corporal. “She ain’t for the likes of us! Run ahead, worm, make yourself useful – if you are not strong enough to carry her with the other lads, at least make sure the way is clear.” The smallish orc obeyed.

Gimilbeth couldn't mutter spells anymore but she continued her mind spell-work, imagining thousands of ways for the brutes to die. She found herself quite inventive - the images that flew before her eyes were unparalleled in their viciousness.

Minutes dragged by - long as hours, punctuated only by the trump of orcs feet, their heavy breathing and occasional growls and snarls. Soon the track started descending in a steep rocky ravine. At the bottom there was a small open space - a little mossy mire surrounded by thick old firs. The track ran straight through it and up to climb another ridge. The company slowed and stopped.

"Corporal", pleaded Lugush, "'tis high time for a break! Let us wait for the others to catch up with us!"

"Our shoulders are sore!" joined another. "And we crave a swig of draught to keep us going!"

"Shut up, maggots!" Tharb roared, brandishing his whip. "You gonna carry the witch to the very pits of Hell without whining, if I say so!" His ugly face contorted in worry, he looked back. “The order was to run ahead. We shall wait for the rest in the old camp.”

At this moment a white-fletched arrow buried itself in his stomach. Tharb looked down in disbelief only to get two more - one through his thigh and another in his chest. The arrows were obviously let loose from a very close range – right from the surrounding fir-trees - and Tharb's leather jerkin was no impediment to them. Soundlessly the orc crashed down. The others dropped Gimilbeth's pole and tried to run for their lives, only to fall under more arrows.

Gimilbeth felt the tension in her bound limbs ease as her pole fell to the ground. Half-consciously she pressed her burning face into the soft moss - divinely wet and clean. Tall fluffy heads of cotton-grass were swaying in the moonlight above her. For a moment she just lay there, oblivious of the battle around her, just glad of the respite. Soon she became aware of the Men around her, talking quietly in Westron. One of them squatted nearby - he was eyeing her warily.

"Now - let us look what the orcs were hauling..." the man muttered to himself. He got hold of Gimilbeth's shoulder and lifted her into a sitting position. Squinting in the pale moonlight, he peered at her in utter astonishment. "P-princess..." he stuttered. Gimilbeth replied by an angry glare and motioned with her bound hands for the man to pull out her gag. The other seemingly didn’t understand what she wanted - he half-rose to his feet and called rather stridently "Captain Barund, please, come here!"

Gimilbeth’s rage resurfaced. She hooked the thumbs of her bound hands through the strip which held her gag in place and pulled it over her head. Finally it came loose making a total mess of her hair. She spat the gag out and started cursing and raving at the bewildered man, who, unprepared for this verbal assault, lost his footing on the damp moss, fell back and just sat there blinking at the angry princess.

“My Lady, please, calm down” said another man, with an air of authority about him. “My name is Barund from Brochenridge and I am in charge of these men. Are you injured?”

“Injured?” she spat. “You have the gall to ask me if I am injured? Cut the ropes, spawns of wargs, NOW!”

Using his long sword smeared in black blood, Barund cut the leather ropes that held Gimilbeth’s wrists and ankles together. Then he drove his blade into the ground and started unfastening the clasp of his cloak.

Gimilbeth was up in a blink. Without a word, she grasped the sword and staggered away to where the orc corporal’s body lay. Tharb was yet alive and his yellow bloodshot eyes met Gimilbeth’s steadily.

“Your debt will be paid in full,” Gimilbeth hissed, bringing the blade down on the orc’s neck. It was a messy work. She missed twice, first hitting the shoulder, then the cheek, but with a third stroke the ugly orc’s head was finally free of the body. Surprising even herself, she gripped the tuft of oily hair and raised the head in the air with a savage cry of triumph.

The assembled men stood around watching her silently - in awe or in disgust? Gimilbeth couldn’t care less. Her rage assuaged, she dropped the head and wearily walked back to Barund. The leader of the Brockenridge men took off his cloak and offered it to Gimilbeth.

“I think you will need this, Lady” he rasped looking her straight in the face.

Gimilbeth looked down. Her sumptuous skirts were gone and apart from the now tattered bodice the only thing she had on were the fluffy cream colored knickers elegantly trimmed with lace.