“They still have prisoners in the mines. The Rift of Nûrz Ghâshu.”
It was then that Dolthafaer started to believe that he would meet his end in Angmar.
The search for Themodir and the remnant of Carn Lómin so far had not been an easy one. The trail had led them through the Hill Man village of Aughaire, the poisoned valley of Malenhad, the shadows of Imlad Balchorth, and the rocky plains of Himbar and Nan Gurth. They cut their way through a nest of drakes, slaughtered camp after camp of the orcs they pursued, and picked off straggling wargs. They took injuries and ran short on food and water time and time again. But still they had pressed on. Not one of them had turned back.
“After this point,” continued Belethoriel. “You are free to go.”
Perhaps it would have been wise to do so. The trail for Themodir had long gone cold, and now they chased rumor and hearsay across the ashen wastes of Angmar, searching for ghosts among the dead. He had heard whispers of this Rift before – a pit of fire and shadow and fear, guarded and warded and watched, impenetrable as it was indescribable.
But the thought of turning back and returning to his lord empty-handed – of abandoning his companions now, at the end of it all– struck a harsh chord in Dolthafaer, distracting him from the dread that had seized his heart, and he faced down his grim commander with a spark of fury in his eyes.
“Do not insult me, Belethoriel. Twice now you have asked me if I would break my oath, and twice now I refuse. I have chosen to follow you. Do not question it again.”
And so he sealed his fate.
He slept uneasily that night in the echoing cave in which the Dunedain of Himbar had made their camp, but by the time they set out the next morning, he had pushed most of his fear and doubt to the back of his mind. An elf by the name of Cúrandir guided them through Nan Gurth to the Gate of Gath Uior, and after that, there was no more time to second-guess his decision.
The gates were guarded by monstrous creatures that Dolthafaer had never seen before and could not properly name. Afterwards, he could remember little of the actual fight; the shouts and cries of his companions, the ring of metal, the sound of his bowstring thrumming in his ear as arrow after arrow hit their marks. Somehow, they passed through the gates, and rested for a while on an ashen ridge.
While they were nursing their bruises and catching their breath, they found they had been followed – by Nannorviel, a warrior maid they had met in Meluinen, the wife of the elf for which they now searched.
The fighting only got worst past the Gate. Outposts and camps were scattered within, occupied by man and orc and troll, and each skirmish they could not avoid felt as though it might be their last. They took injuries, and still they pressed onward, following Belethoriel on his fool’s errand to find a needle in a haystack – a single prisoner in this broken waste. Dolthafaer felt nothing but hard resolve when he knocked his last arrow, and simply drew his sword instead, throwing himself bodily into the fray. Nellindiel twisted her ankle. Ancalassë took such a blow to the arm that the loss of blood nearly dropped him on the spot. They were running out of time. They were running out of strength. Soon—
And then, suddenly, it was over.
There was one camp near the mouth of the mine. Unable to pass it unseen, they threw themselves at it with the last ragged scraps of their strength, Ancalassë dripping blood as he roared and charged ahead. Dolthafaer charged as well, gripping the hilt of his sword with bloody fingers, prepared to engage the first man that caught his eye – but before he could reach him, his target slumped to the ground. Behind him stood an elf dressed in rags, a shovel in his hands and a look of maddened triumph in his eye.
Themodir.
And, behind him, Belorion.
The search was over.
They had found their men.
