Perilous Journeys. The Shadow over Rhudaur Part III

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On the scene of the ambush on the Great Road, night of November 5, 1347
Written by Valandil
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It was an hour or two after midnight when Merendil came suddenly upon the scene of the ambush. Two campfires burned brightly about a furlong up ahead – still distant enough that he retained his night vision though, for he could see the contorted figure of a slain Orc, lying just beside him on the road. Sweeping his eyes about, he saw a scene of discord... and death. He gulped. Had he come too late? Were those Orc-fires up ahead? Well… not likely, for even after a victory, they’d likely not have the boldness to camp right on the road. The thought gave him hope, but he retained his caution.

“Men,” he half-whispered behind him, “Pass it down, to arms – and ride!”

They rode forth, spears at the ready, and in moments had drawn near enough to make out more clearly the forms around the fires. From one fire, two figures already stood and now approached him. Their faces were in shadow for their forms were backlit by the fire beyond. But they were clearly men, not Orcs.

“Gwindor?” asked Merendil, as he drew up his horse before them.

“Dead,” came the reply. “I am your nephew Maredur.”

“And I, Dimloss of Brochenridge, captain of the thirty men sent before you.”

“Tell me then,” said Merendil, “What has happened here?”

Then Maredur told his uncle Merendil of the ambush of the Orcs upon the party, how the rear had been beset and defended itself, aided by twenty Dwarves and two Elves who had joined the company (which spurred further questions from Merendil, answered in their turn). Then, seeing the front engulfed by Orcs, they had turned and driven them off.

“And the Princess Gimilbeth? Was she at the front or at the rear?” asked Merendil with dread, knowing full well where she preferred to ride.

“She was in front sir. For long we sought her among the slain, but after much searching, found that she had been… taken captive by the Orcs.”

Merendil sat upright in his horse and drew in his breath in horror. “How many men did you send after her?”

“Sir,” began Maredur, “we had only a handful of men left, some wounded, like myself – and three or fourscore Orcs escaped. But also, it was nearly half an hour afterwards ere we knew that she lived still, and was taken.”

“Dimloss!” said Merendil, turning to the other, “You are still here. Why did you not pursue?”

“Well sir,” replied Dimloss, shifting from one foot to the other, “We arrived maybe an hour or two after the battle, and it was some time before we had everything all sorted out. And then… we thought it best to wait for your orders, knowing you were so close behind. Besides…” and his voice trailed low, “Orcs are known for killing their prisoners when rescue parties arrive.”

Merendil fumed and stared hard at Dimloss. Was it cowardice or incompetence? He wasn’t sure, but he sure wished he had a man like Taurenol with him.

“Alright then, these are your orders. Round up your men, and quickly. Join them to mine. We go in pursuit of the Lady Gimilbeth immediately. Maredur…” he turned back to face him, “Show us which way the Orcs fled.”

As Maredur led them to the place, Merendil looked about him. The waxing moon was shining bright, but low enough in the west that it wouldn’t do any good for much longer. It was likely a doomed pursuit, but he must press it on. They wouldn’t likely catch up to the Orcs, or be able to follow their trail for long with what moon was left. And if they DID come upon them, it’d likely be in an ambush that could cost him and his men their lives. Still – an attempt must be made.

Maredur had taken them around the greatest heap of dead bodies, and Merendil saw for himself hints of the carnage and slaughter that had been. When Maredur pointed up into the hills to where the Orcs had gone, Merendil gave the order to dismount. Two Elves came forth to join him and offer to act as trackers and guides (which was a greatly appreciated offer – and brightened Merendil’s hopes for their success), but the Dwarves stayed at their own fire, tending their wounded and lamenting their dead.

But as they made ready to depart and take up the trail, they heard a rustling sound off into the woods. Merendil’s men drew back and were silent. The sounds grew, and voices could be heard now as well – not Orc voices at all, but the words were mostly indistinct until they heard;

“And Princess, as I have promised you, my men will FORGET - all that they have seen in regards to your per…”

And just then, from the woods emerged a sight that made Merendil’s heart leap for the sheer relief it brought. For here came Barund with his men, right down the Orc trail. And in their midst, seated high on a sort of stretcher carried by four men, her head stooped low and arms before her to ward off stray branches, sat the Lady Gimilbeth, alive… and to all appearances, quite well.

“It will be the LEAST they can do, Captain, after the unpleasant ride they have given me. But as I’ve said three times before, I desire quiet. Or if you must speak, direct it to your own me…”

At that point, the Lady Gimilbeth’s voice trailed off as she became aware of all those before her, as Barund had just before. But then, after a pause, she smiled and spoke to her new onlookers.

“Greetings Captain Merendil! How charming to see you once more. These boys of yours have taken me on a moonlit stroll through yon forest, but…” and looking down at her litter and bearers, “were thoughtful enough to spare my frail limbs the delight of an actual walk.” And then she rolled back her head and laughed, a laugh of relief that nearly drew her to tears. Barund signaled his men to lower her, and he himself took her hand and bowing low, helped her off the contrivance.

“Lady Gimilbeth, it gives me great joy to see you safe,” said Merendil with a bow. “We have just come on the scene and made ready to give chase, for our hearts dreaded the thought of you in captivity to the Orcs.”

Then turning to Barund, Merendil asked for his report.

Barund told how, on parting the day before, he and his men had only made about three leagues up into the rugged terrain, then camped for what he had in mind for the next day. This morning they had risen early and made ten more leagues by sundown, the Orc trail clear before them. Instead of setting up camp, they had made a short rest until the moon was high enough to give them good light among the trees, but a storm had arisen, so they went forth cautiously, to keep on the trail as well as they might. They had a bit of confusion on the way where the Orcs had appeared to split up two or three ways, but followed on the way clearly taken by the main body. At last, the rain had wiped aside most signs of the trail, but they made their best guesses about how the Orcs would go and kept close watch for more signs.

It was then, an hour or two ago, that they heard an Orc voice singing a strange-sounding song as they drew near a marshy clearing ahead and below them. They waited and watched as a single Orc ran over a path, straight toward them. Then into the forest he came, right up unto the trail before them, and nearly impaled himself on Barund’s spear – though Barund made sure to finish what he had started. Then Barund signaled for his men to ready their bows and spread themselves out along each side of the woods’ edge.

Before long, there came a small band of Orcs, carrying the Princess Gimilbeth in a most undignified manner. They all fell to the arrows of the Dunedain. Inquiring of the Princess, Barund found that more Orcs were likely to follow, so they dragged the bodies into the mire at each side. They had barely finished this task when they heard shouts of a larger Orc party coming near, and drew back to the cover of the woods once more.

Once this body of Orcs came into the clearing they slowed. Their leader seemed suspicious. Then, one of them spotted Orc blood upon the ground, and another found a dropped knife. When at last one found a pole, with which our Princess had been… conveyed, the leader Orc flew into a fury. He rallied his lads, they all drew their weapons and gave chase.

Several Orcs fell before a wave of arrows once more, but they soon engaged Barund’s men along a wide front, for the Orc leader had sought to out-flank them, though not knowing their size by the forest’s concealment. Barund’s men met them along the entire width of their assault, and with superior strength and the higher ground, took a heavy toll. At the last, their leader flew into a great rage and rallied the last of the Orcs for a concentrated attack up into the trail. There, Barund had met their leader in single combat and slain him.

After that, the few remaining Orcs had tried to scatter, though many of them were brought down by Barund’s men. But Barund had called off the chase into the forest, where he felt the Orcs might have the advantage. So they had recovered the one pole, found a second to make a bier for Her Highness – and then traveled on the last league and half to where they now stood.

Well-satisfied with the report, Merendil gave orders for all to camp for what remained of the night. In morning’s light they could sort out the bodies before proceeding to the Last Bridge. But Dimloss’ men must stand guard in three turns, for the men under Merendil and Barund were overcome with weariness.


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Near the scene of the ambush on the Great Road, November 5, 1347, after midnight
Written by Angmar
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"Get a move on, you sluggards! You've rested long enough!" Corporal Boshok growled out the command. There was the usual grumbling among the four scouts, but this time, Private Saakaf was not one of the complainers. It was not that he was eager to fight; no, far from it, for whenever he could, he would stay back while others rushed ahead. He was planning to live a good, long time. If some of the men talked behind his back and said that he was a coward, it never bothered him. He would do just enough to keep his superiors satisfied, but no more. No, he was not one of the brave ones who looked forward to the next confrontation. Let someone else get killed; he intended to remain cautious and alive.

The orcs were soon at a brisk trot, hurrying along to the scene of the ambush. Corporal Boshok was a brave one, determined that his men would arrive in time and give what aid they could to their comrades. "He wants to impress Captain Ashuk because he's working for another promotion," Private Saakaf commented to himself as he loped along at the rear of the party.

Long before they reached the road, the orcs could smell the blood and death. As he flicked his ears forward, listening, Saakaf's sensitive nostrils twitched at the scent. He had a bad feeling about this. Corporal Boshok must have had the same sensations, because he motioned with his hand for the men to keep low to the ground and advance with caution. Far up ahead of them, they could see campfires and the silhouettes of men.

"Saakaf," the corporal whispered, "see what is going on up there. We will wait here for you."

"Yes, sir," Saakaf whispered as he crouched down and crawled forward until he was close enough to see and hear. His heart beat faster when he saw Princess Gimilbeth near one of the campfires. He thought she looked pale, but none too worse for wear. As he looked at the group, he could not take his eyes off her. He licked his lips as he felt a deep stirring for her and cursed his luck that he had not been born a man. He tried to look away, but it was though she had him bewitched. He wondered if she was aware that he was staring at her. She had been talking to one of the Dunedain but suddenly she turned her head and stared straight to the place where he was hiding. He wondered if she saw him and would give him away. At that moment, the officer beside her said something that Saakaf could not hear and she turned her attention to reply to him. Saakaf relaxed; he had not been detected. He had seen all he needed to see and needed to get back to the others before he was discovered.

"All right, Saakaf," the corporal hissed when he had returned to the group, "what's the report?"

"Corporal Boshok, sir, it is my unpleasant duty to tell you that from what I can see, all our men are dead, and the Princess has been rescued." Saakaf bowed his head.

"Damn!" Corporal Boshok exclaimed, his face convulsed in a grimmace of disappointment as he clenched his fist. "All this and we have gained nothing! His Majesty will not be pleased! Not one bit! There's nothing to do for it but save ourselves and get out of here!" The corporal gave the order to retreat, and soon the orcs were silently creeping away from the scene.

Saakaf was glad that it would be Boshok giving the report of the disaster to Alassar, the king's chief advisor, and not him. It was always dangerous to be the bearer of bad news to these high officials. "Well," he thought with glee, "Corporal Boshok always liked to make an impression. I'm sure he will this time, but not the kind he wanted. Maybe he will be tortured. I would like to see that!"

After the orcs had moved back a safe distance from the gathering of soldiers, they fell into an easy lope. In the distance, Saakaf saw something on the ground. The others moved on ahead of him, and when he reached the spot, he bent down and picked the object up. Instantly he knew what it was! The soiled and tattered skirt of Princess Gimilbeth's gown! Breathing hard, he caressed the ornate material. Making sure that no one had noticed him, he brought the cloth up to his lips and kissed it. Then, looking around furtively, he wadded up the material and stuck it in the pouch at his belt. "What Corporal Boshok doesn't know won't hurt him," Saakaf chuckled softly to himself. No one was getting this treasure away from him!

"Maybe someday, I'll see her again and can present it to her in person!" The thought pleased him. He increased his speed, soon catching up with the others before the corporal ever even knew he had tarried behind.

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At the site of the ambush, evening November 5 - morning November 6, 1347
Written by Serenoli
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Evening, November 5 and Morning November 6

It was a sick sight that had met his eyes when he screwed up enough courage to re-emerge from the trees where he had hid himself. The battle had been an ugly one - and Hurgon, who, shut up in the Palace all his adult life, and having led a pretty comfortable life before that, had never seen a dead man - walked around aimlessly for a long time, shell-shocked. He was hardly aware of what was going on, but finding the familiar faces of the two elves - who appeared to be tending to the wounded - he sat down near them. He was still clutching Tarniel's painting to his chest, and soon afterward, exhausted by all that had happened and all that he had seen, he fell into an uneasy sleep right there on the ground. Luckily, one of the elves had the good sense to cover him up with a blanket - else he might have frozen right where he slept.

The next morning was worse. He woke up feeling guilty - he should have been less cowardly, that was his reproach to himself. So when they started sorting out the corpses, he volunteered to help, even though he would much rather not touch the dead bodies. A vague, undefined sort of thought passed his head, that maybe he would have done better to have run away with Nauremir while he had the chance. Or even better, if he had painted Tarniel properly at the very start, as opposed to giving her purple hair, he at least would have been safe back home in Cameth Brin now.

But nightmarish at it were, that hour passed too, and after washing himself thoroughly, and partaking of the slight breakfast that was available, he had just enough time to scavenge the wagons for his paint supplies. Most of them were spoilt or destroyed - but he thought he had enough with which to finish off the painting. He gathered them all, and one of the ponies that had lost its master was commisioned for his use. And so they started off for Iantbarad - a small fort at the Last Bridge, and Hurgon was not the only one of the party to look nervously around them at the slightest sound.