They continued following the vale east until they came to a place of steep ascent into the bordering hills, marked by some old stone fortifications and a ruin of a gate. This must have once been an oft-used path, for the remains of flagstones could be seen under blades of sharp grass. The remnants themselves held something of Anorian design, being no work of servants of the Witch King. The sky above had cleared of cloud of any sort, though the air was understandably chill as a result. The stars overhead shone clear but faint with no hint of ‘other’ darkness or red coloured rents.
Estarfin allowed himself a moment to pause, to consider the path ahead. They rode into undeniable danger and were closing in, he believed, on the captors and their prisoners. Those captors would not easily hand over who they had. So be it! They would die, and Danel and Parnard would be reunited with him, Culufinnel and Yrill. He spoke a hushed petition to Tintallë, that she would lend her aid. “Lady of the Stars, I beseech you to look kindly upon us. Grant us skill and wisdom to bring this hunt to a swift end. Return her to me unharmed, and Parnard also. You have hearkened to me before. I ask you to do so again.” He bowed his head.
There were slow, lumbering sounds from the grove on the left, as if something large and heavy was headed their way. He frowned, expecting trouble, and held up a hand for the other two to halt.
Culufinnel came racing up the hill, drawing Cloud-born to a halt next to Norlomë. Yrill nocked an arrow.
“What is it?” said the captain.
“I saw and heard movement. I thought it was a large Drake,” Estarfin replied, sitting up in the saddle and straining his senses to identify the cause.
“Another?” As Culufinnel drew his sword, both he and the Huntress scanned the land before them.
After a few moments more, Estarfin relaxed slightly. “Perhaps not.”
Yrill urged her horse forward slowly, trusting the creature's senses as much as her own. The mare was not fearful. “Could it have been a Man?” she whispered?
Estarfin shook his head. “Too large…ah.”
They all breathed a sigh of relief as a huge auroch walked slowly out of the grove, and moved past them to head downhill to graze on the plains.
“Better to be safe,” she said to Estarfin. “But we draw near lands where Hillmen camp and hunt. They may have scouts out. There are usually quite a few of them nearer the gate, but they are poorly armed and armoured.”
Estarfin scowled darkly, which was no surprise to Yrill or Culufinnel. “Do they guard the pass into Angmar? Will they try to hold it against us?” he asked her.
“Yes and yes,” she gave her answer. “Servants of Angmar, they do what they can. As I said, they are a poorly armed defense, yet they are stout of heart. They will fight bravely. But the group we follow, they are fewer in number than when we first entered Nan Amlug.”
Both Estarfin and Culufinnel turned to look at her. “I cannot say what has happened,” she said. “There are fewer riders, fewer horses. No more than twelve. Two still carry noticeably heavier loads. It is possible some are scouting, but I have not seen a place where they may have split up, save some disturbance back near Othrikar. There was also blood on the grass in places.”
Culufinnel was listening closely. “There were around twenty at Othrikar, and now you say there are only twelve?”
“The two horsemen bearing two riders each are still there. As for the others, the Men seemed to be arguing at Othrikar. Perhaps it got out of hand?”
“Perhaps.” The Captain did not look convinced.
“Does it matter? What concern are Men to us?” stated Estarfin, ending further speculation as to what could have happened among the men. As long as the captives were safe, who cared?
“We should ride on, but without the shade of the trees, the full moon’s light may give us away.” Yrill urged them onwards.
“It is almost as clear as day,” added the Captain, looking up at stars that were paled by the brightness of the moon.
“We shall not have dark skies until we reach Angmar. The Hillmen here are said to be exceptionally good hunters. They need to be alert, given where they dwell.” Yrill knew the next few miles could be some of the most threatening. Although they were all capable of being almost unseen and unheard, there would be increasing numbers of Men before the three Elves reached the dark land.
Estarfin looked keenly at what passed for a trail. “And we shall have to travel slowly. It will be too easy for our horses to misstep here.”
And slowly they did advance, further up the hill until the light of campfires to their left turned them to hide as much in the shadows of the few trees as possible. The land ahead looked barren, covered as it was with short remnants of brown grass. There were more Arnorian ruins and three rough-looking tents, but worst of all, flaming dark fire against the bright sky, there was a high jagged edifice far beyond the tents, dwarfing them in comparison to the size of insects.
“We are to pass through that,” Yrill pulled her horse, Talligan, to a halt. In truth the top of the gate could be seen on a clear day from parts of the North Downs, so high was it. But seeing it close up was always a very different experience.
Both neri looked up at the gate's pointed spires, at its carvings depicting two Sorcerous Guardians. The whole structure was designed to instill fear. The aura that emanated from it could freeze the blood. The Hillmen moved freely about and seemed used to it. No doubt they believed the idols protected their way of life.The elves had no intention of permitting it to dim their light.
“Who built that gate?” asked Culufinnel.
“Most likely slaves from one of the other Hill People Clans, though the Witch-king has had various servants at times.” Yrill wrinkled her nose at the acrid breeze, and set her mind on memories of Danel and Parnard.
“He is no King, but a servant himself,” Estarfin uttered scornfully, gazing far ahead.
“Beyond the gate lies a maze of canyons,” the Huntress said. “There are Men on the far side also, and plenty of worse things, too. It is easy to get lost. Follow me closely once we enter.”
“Parnard never mentioned that evil gate or a maze,” muttered Culufinnel, and again wondered to himself why his brother had journeyed to Angmar, alone.
“There is another way, to the west through small, more ‘friendly’ villages, but all of Angmar is dangerous. We will not find allies easily,” said Yrill.
Estarfin frowned, gripping his spear, and looked with steely focus upon the distant figures scuttling to and fro between the primitive tents and the path.
Pointing to rotted bodies in gibbets lining the lower track, Yrill whispered, “You see what they do with prisoners.”
Culufinnel made a low growling sound in his throat at the sight, then swiftly rode out from the shadows, his long gold-red hair glowing under the moonlight. The Hillmen hearing his bold approach whirled to face him, and readied their bows. Halting Cloud-born, he dismounted, raising his hand in a conciliatory gesture that they hold their arrows. He wished to talk to them.
“He will bring them all down upon us!” Yrill said to Estarfin. “They will not honour his peaceful request.”
Estarfin dismounted and, without pause, charged at the nearest group of Men, whirling his spear back and forth like a scythe cutting grass.
“Stop!” Culufinnel said, as he dodged an arrow. “What is he doing!”
“Killing those who would prevent our progress,” Yrill called back, sending her arrows through the chests of several Hillmen archers.
And so it began. The noise of fighting and dying brought Men from further down the valley, quite a few more, all on foot. They were not cowards, but to charge a spear-wielding steel-plated First Age Noldo with crude bows and short swords and axes, wearing only poorly-made leather armour was not the wisest choice. Their archers shot arrows that were easily deflected by the elves. Their archers did not have the range to shoot Yrill, but the Huntress did not share that problem. It was merely a matter of turning her horse to where she could make her clearest shot. The Noldorin longbow she bore was far superior in range and strength to anything the tribesmen carried. Any men running towards her were slain before they reached her.
The two neri were in hand-to-hand combat, spear and sword cutting down all standing in their way, and those that rushed up to help their comrades were swept aside or crushed with the Captain’s broad shield, while Estarfin swung his spear back and forth, sending heads and limbs flying.
A voice called out. Someone tall and swarthy of skin hoisted his sword aloft, and seemed to be sounding a challenge. Yrill saw him first, but he was still out of her bow range. Then Estarfin noticed the warrior, in a group much nearer the gate, even as he kicked burning embers into a nearby tent and began cutting his way through the Hillmen horde to reach him.
Seeing that the men were trying to separate the elves by leading them away from one another, Culufinnel quickly mounted his horse and charged into those who were trying to encircle Estarfin. Those that were not run down scattered, while Estarfin plunged his spear into the chest of their warrior leader.
Yrill was out of arrows. Riding closer, she drew her long knives out, then dismounted, making her way forward, pulling arrows from bodies as she went, and replacing them in her quiver. She saw Estarfin look swiftly around to see where his companions were, gave him a swift nod, then fell into a familiar fighting pattern of her own, almost a dance, as the Noldo pushed forward again.
The Elves were closing on the huddle of Men by the large tent nearest the Gate. Most were Hill men, but as the three drew closer they could see five of the Breelanders, noticeable from their attire and style of swords. A single Man stepped out confidently from the group, not the swarthy one, but a strongly-built man with thick spiky hair and a ruddy face. He made straight for Culufinnel as the Captain fought one of the better equipped ‘Chieftains’, a taller man wielding a pike.
Estarfin shouted a warning to the Captain of Celondim, and Culufinnel sidestepped the man’s lunge just in time.
And time seemed to falter from that moment. For Yrill, what must have been at least five minutes, passed like a few seconds. Mostly she was thinking ‘Estarfin will kill them all now.’
“Halt,” said the Man, with a jeering tone. Culufinnel buried his sword in the throat of the Hillman, then stared at the newcomer in disbelief.
“It is one of the brigands,” Yrill called out. She whirled round, neatly cutting down another Hillman with her knives.
It was just the three of them left there, with bodies piled around their feet. Those Hillman that still lived had backed away, so that it was just them near the tent with the laughing brigand.
“Why do you stop?” Estarfin said to Culufinnel in Sindarin.
“Because he is not a Hillman,” the Captain answered, also in Sindarin. He switched to the Common Speech. “Who are you?” he asked the man. “Where are our friends?”
Estarfin shouted in Sindarin, “He will die all the same!” The men surely could understand his intent, if not his words.
Yrill watched the man carefully. He had the bravado to face the three of them, and that did not bode well, she considered. What plan was he following? What trap was he trying to set?
“I will have you know that I am one of those holding your folk captives,” said the man, and laid a hand casually upon his sword hilt.
Culufinnel hid his surprise. He knew that sword well: it was his brother's Steel-Thorn, forged by Estarfin for Parnard. Estarfin narrowed his eyes, also in recognition of the weapon, and the old Noldo began to move behind the brigand to cut off any retreat.
“Do not think I am alone!” the brigand said to the elves. “At this very moment twenty men have arrows pointed at you.”
“Not likely, I think. More like twelve,” countered Culufinnel.
There was movement among the confined huddle, almost as if they were daring each other to rush forwards. Then one of the darker-skinned men was pushing through them to make his way over to Culufinnel.
He shouted back in an elegant but harsh sounding language that none of the Elves recognised. One word, ‘Pharazagar’, sounded like it could be a name. In truth, it mattered not to the Elves who the Man was or where he was from.
“Stand down, Burrwood,” he said to the jeering, ruddy-faced man in an oddly accented form of the common tongue.
Burrwood looked back at him with contempt. “You do not command me. I have the sword.”
The second man lay his hand on the sword at his side. “As have I. Do not threaten me, boy. I know how to use it.”
Yrill watched Estarfin’s expression.
“Why should you not kill us now? I know that is what you want to do, Elf-Demon.” the swarthy skinned Man addressed Estarfin almost solely from that point on. “I bring a message. At least permit me to deliver it.” There was no hint of mockery in that address. He raised a hand in a gesture that was part warning. “I am Balkumagan of Umbar. I am in command here.”
Culufinnel glanced over to see that the Noldor’s spear grip had tightened. “I am Captain Culufinnel of Celondim,” he said. Neither Man nor Elf looked much impressed at the introduction to one another.
“I said I will give you a message: I will have you know that they are both safe and unharmed, and shall remain so - unless any of you injure them by accident.”
“Who sends this message?” demanded Culufinnel.
Yrill watched Estarfin’s face and his attempt to contain the rage building in him. ‘Something must happen swiftly, or he will get all of us slain,’ she thought.
“The Lady is not pleased that I cut her hair,” continued Balkumagan, not answering his question. His eyes were fixed on Estarfin. “Do not think to cross me or my brother. We are not like this rabble.”
Culufinnel sized him up. No doubt he was an experienced soldier, better equipped than the Hillmen, but neither stood a chance against the War-Spear and its wielder, Estarfin, or Yrill of Eregion, or himself, as they had amply evidenced.
Estarfin called to Norlome. The horse trotted towards him, and he mounted up, spear leveled towards Balkumagan’s face. He said not a word, but the flame in his eyes told all.
“This is your kinfolk?” said Culufinnel, casting a disdainful look at Burrwood of Bree-Land.
Balkumagan spat on the ground, and turned briefly to the Captain. “I have no argument with any of you. But I am tasked to bring your friends to my captain, Naraal. I must obey.”
Burrwood glared at Balkumagan. “We are not beneath you, Southerner. We are of the blood of old Arnor and this is our land. We can deal with the Elf scum.”
Ignoring the outburst, Balkumagan looked slyly back at Estarfin. “Slay my brother or me, and you slay your Lady's protector. None of this rabble will lay a hand on her or the Lord while we live. That I can promise.”
The look Estarfin returned could have withered Balkumagan in flame. He readied his shield and spear.
Then Burrwood slapped the Southerner on the face with a hefty blow, all his strength behind it. Steel-Thorn and the Umbari’s sword were drawn simultaneously, each pointing at the other man’s throat.
Three strokes, and it was over before it really started. Burrwood lay dead at Balkumagan’s feet. The latter had hardly moved at all. Just a few flicks of his blade was all that was needed. He looked calm, as if he had stepped on a cockroach. There was a murmuring of confusion from the Men by the tent.
Estarfin took the moment to look to the group for sign of Danel or Parnard, but to his disappointment, neither were visible.
“Return our people at once,” commanded Culufinnel. “They are nearby; where have you hidden them? Release them or die.”
Not to be outdone by the Captain of Celondim, Estarfin said in a cold voice “Return her, now, and your end will be swift.”
The attack from Burrwood, though a slight inconvenience, had not distracted Balkumagan from his plan. He made a high pitched whistle, and those at the tent ran back towards the rocks at the base of the cliff. Without hesitation Estarfin rode after them, as Culufinnel mounted Cloud-born and joined him, while Yrill was left alone, her two arrows still trained on the Southerner.
In an almost carefree manner, the Umbari stooped to sweep up Steel-Thorn from the dead hand of Burrwood. “He did not respect this blade, and so it failed him.” Dark brown eyes turned to Yrill. “Shoot me then, She-Elf. My life is service to my Captain and my King. If you kill me I will die doing their will. It is all the same to me. But if the others get through to the Ram Dúath, only my brother Pharazagar shall keep your friends safe. These other men seek sport and reward, not honour.”
Yrill knew she could end the man’s life on the spot, but there was something about him, something different that moved her to believe him. He was an enemy, without doubt, yet he did not approve of what he was doing. She drew back the bowstring.
He stood still, making no attempt to flee. “She wants your Demon-Elf too, you know. This is to lure him there. I know not why, but she always has her reasons. They will not kill him,” he said.
Yrill thought swiftly. “Nay, for he will slay all of them."
“If he has time.”
“Where do they run?”
“Ah, kill me and you will never find out. Stand here, and you will never find out.” He smiled disarmingly.
There was a sudden and loud rumbling from the direction the others had headed in. A rumble of earth and rock. A landslide! Yrill was off, calling her mare and heading towards the cliff face at the edge of the vale.
Balkumagan watched her go. He was truly saddened about what he had to do, but it could not change his orders.
She caught up with her companions among a cloud of dust and rubble. The horses were left several yards back, as it was too dangerous for them to tread. There were rocks from barely an inch wide, to ones over twelve feet across. Many were jagged, many were cracked, and looked as if they could collapse underfoot at any weight. And ahead was a seemingly featureless sheer escarpment.
Estarfin was scrambling carefully among the boulders, calling, though receiving no reply. He moved the rocks cautiously, looking for a way through, but each rock he lifted caused instability and threatened to collapse the whole pile.
“Search!” Estarfin yelled to her.
“What happened here?” Yrill pointed at the hovering dust and rock fragments.
“We followed them up, but could not ride on this rubble. The men seemed to disappear as the mountain fell around us,” said Culufinnel as he searched for something, a hidden door, she thought.
“Did you see Danel or Parnard?” she asked them.
“Where…is..she!” Estarfin shouted, and hurling away a small boulder in anger, ran his hands across his face and through his dusty hair.
“We must keep looking! They can’t have disappeared into thin air,” urged Culufinnel. He continued digging with his sword and prying at cracks, trying to leverage the stones aside.
“Why didn’t you kill them?” Estarfin barked at Yrill. “”You could have shot all those by the tent!”
She was asking herself the same question. There was only one reason, and she wasn't sure it was sufficient.
“Because I could not see Danel or Parnard, Lord. I could not know if they were on the ground with knives to their throats, or ready to be used as shields,” she said.
“Arrows are swifter than swords or knives,” he replied in Quenya, though Yrill, not well-tutored in the ancient language, only understood ‘arrows’ and felt his fury, though it was not really aimed at her.
Estarfin continued moving the boulders, one at a time, as if he were prepared to dig to the depths.
“You two ran up here! No horses? And they simply disappeared?” Yrill was increasingly angry at failing the others, but she could not make sense of what Estarfin nor Culufinnel was trying to do. “That cannot be, unless there was some sort of enchantment…”
“You heard the rockfall, did you not?” said Culufinnel to Yrill.
“Yes, but what set it off?”
“They did, most likely.” the Captain replied. “They must have run into a cave and triggered something to cause the landslide.”
Estarfin took up one of the larger rocks and slammed it several times into an obstructing boulder with anger.
Culufinnel announced, “We must go round. We cannot dig through this. Whatever passage they used, it must lead to Angmar.”
Estarfin paused, looking at Yrill. “You know the way through this maze? Can we follow a path close to this cliff?”
Yrill nodded. “Yes, Lord Estarfin. There are likely more Hillmen there, and possibly orcs, but it should be faster than digging our way there.”
He sighed deeply. “Where are they?” he said, looking at the remaining rock-pile.
