Estarfin turned and began to carefully scramble down the rocks. His hair and armour were covered in a fine dust, his expression set and determined.
“We find them,” he said, as if it were an irrefutable outcome.
Yrill nodded her affirmation, for the alternative was unthinkable. “To the horses, then. They await us below.”
Culufinnel followed them down the mountainside. Now set on a plan, all three were swift and focused. All of the Breelanders had seemingly disappeared from their sight, but some of the braver, or more foolish, Hillmen approached again, spears held high. None were a match for Estarfin’s war-spear, though. The sound of splintering wood echoed in the narrow pass, as the old Noldo thrust his spear into the chest of the nearest man so hard that it came out the other side, and instantly killed the next Man who was rushing up behind him. Those that did not immediately run were swept aside by the Captain’s shield and killed before they could draw breath and beg for mercy. Although Yrill nocked an arrow, the encounter was over almost before it began, and she did not need to fire a single shot.
So they reached their horses without any more interference and headed towards the great gate. It struck them all at the same time, an intense, overwhelming sensation of something trapped and screaming in silence for years without end. Yrill blinked hard as she tried to push the image from her mind. Then she realized that several men were nearby, but none showed any interest in the Elves’ arrival. Their eyes seemed clouded and they walked as if in a trance. The cavern was dark, save for a sickly green light ahead, and to the right lay several stone structures– altars?
Captain Culufinnel squared his jaw. Not an elf of deep thought, and taciturn at all times, his face had three expressions: calmness, determination, and extreme determination. At the moment he wore an expression as if he had determined to drive his head through the wall of the cave and was about to do it, and said something to himself about having a "long talk” with Parnard when they found him. Then they saw the large and hideously twisted statue. Formed out of black rock, akin to the ‘Guardians’ of the gate, it looked as if it had been poured, in molten form, over some desperately screaming lesser spirit, to hold its agony forever in that pose as a warning to others. Culufinnel cast a baleful eye at it and set his teeth together.
“We are Eldar. We are Noldor,” Estarfin said loudly. “We fear you not.”
Yrill nodded, and pressed on past the stone figure.
Culufinnel wrinkled his nose and hesitated. “Sulphur, that is all I smell,” he said, clearing his throat. “And I, too, fear nothing.”
Some of the Men were carrying what looked like pieces of a hacked-up auroch and throwing them on the fires in front of the altars. The Elves did not stop to investigate further. Twenty yards ahead, the uneven path took a branch to the left, and peering along it they could see a few tall fir trees rising up under the glittering stars.
“She watches over us,” said Estarfin. He did not hesitate, but took the illuminated passage. And onwards they all rode, listening to the sound of their horses’ hooves and the far-away growls of a goblin.
“I cannot see any signs of other horses or footprints,” Yrill reported, her eyes straining to make out any indication of recently disturbed rock or dust in the sparse torchlight.
“Then we have not yet found their ‘exit’,” Estarfin replied, patting Norlomë reassuringly. “It still lies ahead.”
“This is Angmar?” asked Culufinnel, taking hold of his water skin and sipping a few drops to clear dust from his throat.
“Probably,” the Huntress answered. “We are far enough into the Ram Dúath now.”
“But starlight is still visible through the crevices.”
Yrill pointed ahead. Just beyond the next turning was the border of Angmar.
Of a sudden the hitherto calm horses began to twitch their ears and snort. “Spiders!” the Captain said, recognizing the unmistakable hissing, and drew his sword.
“Trample them underhoof,” Estarfin took hold of his spear. “They shall not delay us.”
And they rode on, the earlier sense of dread vapourising as the small amount of light grew.
The expanse of sky grew broader. It was still a pale grey hue, but it made searching for signs of passage easier. Then Yrill halted. “Hold a moment. There are hoof marks ahead.” She sat up in her saddle and looked keenly at the rock wall to their left. “Here!” she cried, and dismounting from her horse hurried over to the spot to point at a crack in the rockface. It would have gone unnoticed, except for the scratch marks in a pattern that was obviously deliberate. She put her shoulder against the spot and pushed against it. Estarfin also dismounted and assisted her, and the stone swung slowly inward on hidden hinges.
A stench assaulted their noses, a smell similar to that of a seagulls’ colony on a cliff face suggested a roosting place for many birds, though the light was very dim save from a couple of vaults high in the roof. Both Elves covered their mouths and noses with their hands, their horses backed away. The floor was covered in muck and bore the sign of many horses’ passage. It was all they needed to know. They did not bother to push the door closed; the far side to the vale was blocked anyway, and they were heading forward, Estarfin leading the way.
The trail left by the kidnappers continued ahead. Though some areas of the floor were dry rock that bore no imprint, everything was covered in a gritty dust that made their prey easy to track. The goblin mutterings became clearer, and to their surprise they heard words uttered in their own tongue, orders and complaints. Then a man’s voice rose above the din, speaking a guttural-sounding language.
The Elves halted once they reached a blind corner where the road twisted out of sight behind a large boulder. A wide open space lay before them and several tall weapons of war, towers and catapults, were stuck in the mud. Estarfin hefted his spear and disappeared around the corner. A few gurgles were heard, then he returned with black blood dripping from his spear before the Captain and Huntress had caught up.
*A couple of Goblins,” he said, and spat in the mud, “as well as a single servant of Angmar, in some sort of ceremonial armour. Take a look.”
His companions turned the corner, and just as Estarfin said, two small goblins lay dead next to a crude wooden siege machine, while an ashen faced Man, robed all in black, lay on his back, lifeless eyes staring at the sky. “A servant of Angmar?” he asked them, holding the corpse up by the collar, then letting the body fall to the ground as they confirmed his observation.
There was more sound from further ahead, two goblins ran towards them then halted before two arrows brought them down.
“More goblins, and more siege machines,” said Culufinnel.
“What are they planning?” asked Estarfin, finally remounting Norlomë.
“An invasion, by the looks of it. Crude devices, but just as deadly as better-wrought ones: we must destroy them.”
“An invasion? Where?” Yrill could not think of any place, other than perhaps the Dwarf stronghold, that was near. “The more we slay the better, but we must not lose focus, or let our friends be taken too far ahead.”
Estarfin nodded firmly. “We find Danel and Parnard, no turning aside. We slay any who stand in our way.”
Culufinnel, snatching at the nearest wall torch, rode swiftly forward and threw the torch under one of the machines. There were a few angry screams from the goblins, who ran around ineffectually shouting orders at each other, before smoke hid them from sight.
Estarfin scowled. “We take the side turning. Horses passed that way.” He rode on ahead.
That way led them to four more siege machines, this time guarded by orcs, larger and stronger than the goblins, but not more skilled. The horses ran down the nearest, then Yrill's arrows flew at those hanging back when Estarfin and Culufinnel wheeled their mounts around. It was over in moments and the remaining war machines were soon set ablaze.
The elves continued down the dusty track and soon came across the first of the houses. A wooden building in an old Arnorian style, it was somewhat reminiscent of Bree, Yrill thought to herself. Not that Bree was a place she frequented, but on two occasions great need drove her to pay a visit to the town. Both were nigh thirty years earlier.
The first had been one of her most embarrassing endeavours, trailing three relics traders, who had happened to acquire something once belonging to her brother. She had tracked them back from Tharbad, though they had travelled off road, and quite erratically, until they reached Bree. The matter had ended well enough, for she had paid them well. But after that, the thought of Bree left something a touch bitter in her mind at her inability to catch up with them before they reached the town. The second was returning a Secondborn child to her Grandparents, who ran a Boarding house in Bree. The child, ‘Daisy’ had been her name, was less than seven years old. Her parents had been travelling to Ost Guruth it seemed, not the wisest place to travel to without accompaniment. They had been attacked by orcs nigh Weathertop, and Yrill had found the child cuddling her dead mother. That was different. She had taken the child where she wanted to go, and that back to Bree. The Grandparents had been taken aback by the news, she had seen their sorrow. But they had been kind to the child, and welcoming to her. Daisy had asked Yrill if she would visit her one day. She never had, she thought with a pang of guilt. What had been but a short time ago for her was possibly all of the child’s life.
A bridge of wood and stone was overhead of the trio, signs of tents and a camp on top of one of the cliffs, yet aside from a soft whistling of the wind, all was quiet.
Riding up to the door of the house, Estarfin kicked the door open. “Danel, Parnard?’ he called. His voice echoed through the empty building.
“The horses went on from here,” Yrill pointed at the dry soil to hoofprints beyond a clearing in the rocks, and headed toward them.
The other two followed her, passing an odorous pool of stagnant water. Yrill shook her water skin. It was still over half full. The fir trees’ boughs were bushy with sharp needles, a promise of life in what was mostly a dead land. How they survived was beyond her ken. It was almost like seeing friends unexpectedly. But there was something ominous about them as they swayed in the wind. They almost were whispering, ‘Turn back, turn back, or you shall see sights you would rather avoid’.
Bobbing her head she blessed them in thought, thanked them for their warning, but rode on anyway.
They came to a crossroads. Further along all paths they could see more twisted statues and feel the faint assault on their senses of a doom beyond imagination.
“They turned right,” Estarfin pointed to the trail.
“Then that is where we go,” said the Captain.
The assault of the darkness was not as bad that time. All knew what to expect. All were prepared.
“I do not understand why that vileness does not affect our horses?” asked Yrill. “They are usually keen on sensing atmospheres. Perhaps they are not fully felt by the horses because their malice is for higher minds.”
Estarfin frowned. “Men? There are few of our folk near here.”
“It is said that the Men of Arnor were a nobler breed than many. The statues are old. Perhaps these were to ward those Men away.”
“They were still just Men,” Estarfin countered, all but dismissing the idea of any Men having higher minds.
They turned uphill, into what appeared to be a small deserted village.
Only it wasn’t deserted.
The sickness of that place did not strike them at first, though this time the horses were restless. There was a mumble of voices coming from somewhere downhill, though no men or orcs were to be seen. There were the usual timber houses with plaster façades long crumbled from them. No windows were open, but there were a few lit lamps on some of the sills of otherwise dark rooms, suggesting recent habitation, though the sky was a lightened grey that ‘said’ daytime. And there was a huge pool in the center of the village square, full of a bubbling sickly green liquid. It smelt strangely metallic.
“Keep back,” Yrill warned, though the others needed no warning. “I found last I was here that some of these places brew vats of poison. Do not let any of it touch you or the horses.”
She dismounted, had a swift word with her horse Tallagor, then with her bow ready began walking around the village square. “Lady Danel? Lord Parnard?”
“No sign of any brigands or Umbari,” Culufinnel said, leaning forward to see the hoofprints had disappeared as a smooth expanse of rock lay before them. “There are several houses here. They could be hiding?”
“If so, not for long,” said Estarfin as he dismounted. He whispered a few words in Quenya to Norlomë and headed for the nearest house, kicking the door open and disappearing inside.
There was a squeal.
He returned with goblin blood on his spear.
That was enough. Yrill started at one corner of the square, Captain Culifinnel dismounted and started on the solitary street that stretched downhill. Doors to houses and outhouses were open, or kicked open, as the three elves made a thorough search. Culufinnel pounded first on some of the doors, a gesture of civility in an uncivil land, but the result was the same. They discovered six more goblins and four large orcs. None said anything about the captives. All were rewarded with death.
They regrouped in the square.
They must be nearby,” said an exasperated Estarfin as he broke the last Goblin’s spine over his knee and tossed the body aside. “They did not have that much of a lead on us.”
The Captain spun in a circle with his silver shield and sword ready to rebuff any attack. “Just a few houses and a vat of poison? Where is the rest of the enemy hiding?”
Estarfin looked unimpressed. “Any number would surely stand together and try to bring us down. Cowards, all of them!” With that declaration, he climbed onto a nearby wagon as if to wait for a response to his challenge. Giving one last scan about him of the silent village, Estarfin called out, “Parnard….Danel…?”
There was no response.
“I have searched all the rooms, Lord Estarfin. They are not here,” said Yrill.
He shrugged and. hopping off the wagon, carelessly threw the torch through an open door into a pile of dry timbers and old cloth, before walking away.
