Henepa looked apologetically at the elves. They were not unmoved by her predicament, her ragged and filthy clothes and her pain shadowed eyes, but they had their own quest, their own folk to rescue urgently.
The Captain nodded at the water skin. “Keep it,” he said to her.
Estarfin shook his head, then halted, and reaching into his saddle bag took out an apple and piece of cheese. He had to keep some food for when he found Danel and Parnard.
Yrill also took out an apple, not saying that it was her last. “And if you will, perhaps we can step away for a moment and I shall take a look at your leg?”
Henepa clapped her hands. “A feast,” she announced, appreciating what was offered her with more dignity than likelihood of being full. She let go of Estarfin and hobbled towards Yrill, still holding the cheese.
Yrill slid off her mare’s back, took up a small bottle and some long bandages from her bags and motioned to a corner in the cliff where they were shielded from view.
“Take a sip of this,” Yrill unstopped the small bottle and placed two drops of the honeyed liquid in Henepa’s mouth. Then she put the bottle away. She bade the Halfling lass lift her skirts a little so she could feel the leg and the joint. “It is not broken, but the joint is quite swollen,” the Huntress said. “Lie on the ground for a moment, and think merry thoughts. I must put the bone back where it belongs. Normally it would only hurt for a few moments, but it is swollen.”
Henepa gulped, took a large bite from the cheese and nodded. The honeyed drink was already warming and soothing her chilled frame.
“Oww! Curse them Sackville Baggins!” she shouted for a reason unknown to the Elves, then she sat up slowly.
“Ouch and ouch, but I can move it more.”
Yrill then gave her a piece of broken off wafer, Lembas in fact, though the Hobbit had never tried it before.“This will fill you up. Now no running and jumping. It should feel much better in a day or two.” Yrill wrapped the bandage round the top of Henepa’s leg and then her hip and waist, offering support for the abused limb. She helped Henepa back on her feet.
The lass smiled a little, though was a touch discomforted by the form of her help. “Thank yer kindly,” she managed. Then she looked back at Estarfin and Culufinnel. “That High Lord, he still be a powerful Elf even if he didn’t kill those Men. He had ‘em all running around fer hours, and more than once. He be a right handful. His fame will grow. But If it not be fer Magan and Pharazagar we all be dead, I think.”
“Magan? Pharazagar?” Culufinnel, who had been listening closely, said as he walked back to Cloud-born. “The Southerners, I take it?”
“Yes, the Southerners. Though they be only two, they be the leaders all along.” Henepa took a few more sips from the Captain’s water skin.
Culufinnel harumped, and looked to Estarfin.
“Gondor?” asked the Noldo, thinking the names strange.
Henepa shook her head. “I don’t think so. I never heard that language them spoke before, not that I heard many languages. But them look after the High Lord an’ the Lady. From the other Men an’ from the wild things, I mean.”
Culufinnel mounted up on Cloud-born, saying, “My spear is still sharp. Now we know who we seek, and that they are not far ahead. Which direction did they go?”
“North-west, along the road,” Henepa replied, only then looking a little worried. Was she to be left behind again?
“Further into this land of the dead then, though we know not what lies beyond.“ Yrill also returned to her horse, and swung up into the saddle. “There have been a few tracks. I hope we can pick up more. Have you any idea what sort of place we are looking for?”
Henepa looked down and bit at her lip. “Them said ‘The Lady’s House’, but who knows where or what that could be? An’ another thing, them still have me friend, Guy, yer know. He be of little use ter them soon.” She moved the skirts of her dirty dress to make some padding for her sore leg, and braced herself for what she knew was coming.
“You must return to your Tavern in Tighfield, Mistress Henepa.” Estarfin too swung up onto his large horse.
Culufinnel regarded her for a moment. “We cannot take you with us. We go to fight.”
She wiped the tear from her cheek. “I cannot get home by meself. I have no pony, an’ I don’t know the way.”
“Go with her, Yrill,” the Captain ordered, as a Captain would.
Yrill had just opened her mouth to question the wisdom in that command, when Estarfin spoke up. “No. Yrill needs to lead us,” He looked at Henepa with some doubt. “Can you ride?”
“I can sit on a horse and not fall off. An’ I can keep quiet when wanted, an’ please, I want ter help Guy.”
“We do not want to take you into a fight, Henepa. Perhaps remain here, on the ledge, until we return?” Yrill could fully understand the hobbit’s reluctance to be abandoned, but they had no horse to spare, and no time.
Culufinnel shook his head. “She cannot come any further. We cannot watch over her in a fight.”
Henepa looked back at him with sad eyes. “I be just a nuisance, I know. But if there be a fight, I can hide? Hobbits are good at hiding.”
“We leave her here to die then?” Estarfin spoke in Sindarin rather than the common tongue. “As you say, we cannot spare a horse, we cannot turn back, or spare Yrill. She could ride on Norlomë, though?”
Culufinnel looked darkly at the hobbit and replied, “If that is what she chooses, so be it.”
Looking from Estarfin to Culufinnel, Henepa could not understand a word, but she understood the tone of their voices. “I be no bother, Lord Estarfin, an I be on me way as soon as possible.”
The Noldo nodded, and leaned down, stretching out a hand to lift her into the saddle before him. “We keep her close at all times, but she is not to get in our way,” he added. Then he spoke to Henepa. “Do not fear. Norlomë will not let you fall.”
“Ohh, good horse, nice horse.” Henepa patted the mare's neck and Norlomë tossed her head a little in acknowledgement. “Oh, an’ now I remember,” she said, tapping her head with a finger. “Them Southerners were saying the High Lord is fer the Lady Zairadel herself. Them seemed ter find that odd. An’ her House is behind a rock or something. Yer have ter ‘go through a rock? An’ that Naraal…he be another who was with us fer a short time. Him says the Lady Danel is his. She belongs ter him. Then she hit him!”
“Enough talk! We ride on.” Estarfin said bluntly, as he struggled with the simple task of shortening the stirrups..
Yrill looked over at the old Noldo, she knew what that expression and the twitching hands meant from other neri she had known. He would kill Naraal as soon as he got his hands on him. “Danel belongs to none save herself. And to whom she had given her heart,” she added softly.
They rode on. The barrow-hounds kept some distance, but the numbers of crumbling graves and mausoleums increased. There were pools of rancid water, most with large numbers of flies about them. And then there were the actual dead. Small sounds and movements to start with, they could see body parts crawling as best they could towards them. Then some of the graves broke open, and skeletal ‘warriors’ broke out.
Yrill had never felt much satisfaction from slaying the dead. It was unfortunately one of those things that sometimes had to be done. But understanding that all she could do was sever the spirit from whatever piece of mortal remains it was inhabiting, and that the spirit itself would but flee until it could find and bind with something else, was disappointing to say the least. Of course the spirits they faced were using the dead's remains, and sometimes very withered and rotted corpses of the buried Rhudaur folk. It was said by the Wise that spirits of Men also heeded the call of Mandos to his Halls, though where they went after that was unknown. She had sometimes wondered if particularly evil Men resisted Mandos’ call. Perhaps some of them remained, still under the thrall of Sauron, still bound to their rotting husks?
But no matter. The fight was on. Neither Estarfin nor the Captain held back. Severed arms and legs and heads hurtled through the air as the neri’s spears swept through them like scythes through desiccated weeds, like grim reapers of body parts. The dead reached out desperate fleshless hands with claw-like finger bones, wanting to strangle life from the three Elves and the Hobbit. Their malice was no less palpable than the stench of corruption, although most had rotted to bone. The horses did their part, rearing and stamping what they could underfoot. Yrill’s arrows were a little less effective. A shot lodged in a skull could shatter it, a well-aimed one in the rib cage could shatter the whole body to writhing pieces, but not every shot was as effective, not like a war spear. She drew out her knives as she slid from Tallegan’s back.
Estarfin held Henepa behind his shield, wielding his great spear with his usual aplomb. “These are not the shades of Men,” he said, confirming Yrill’s thoughts, “Though some are clothed in Men’s decaying flesh. It is a powerful sorcery.”
“Is this Zairaphel’s handiwork?” Yrill called out as she drove her long knives into two of the undead. It felt strange that no blood gushed over her.
“Who can say? We know not enough about her,” shouted Culufinnel over the din. Unlike Men, the Dead never retreat nor surrender. How tiresome these loathsome creatures are! he thought. Their numbers may be greater, but we shall prevail! Irked by the delay he drew out his sword and smote at them until a great cloud of dust rose up, obscuring the three Elves so that only their bright eyes could be seen in the dim half-light.
Then there were less enemies to fight. Culufinnel stared at the darkened hills. “Where do they retreat? Back to their graves?” he said with surprise.
“Maybe,” replied Estarfin as he watched the distant shambling figures with disgust and loathing. Then he looked down at the Halfling who huddled behind his shield.
“I be fine, Lord,” Henepa replied, though her face was pale. “A bit of an adventure, that.” She reached out a hand and patted Norlomë again. “Good horse.”
Yrill was looking at the dry rocky ground. “It is hard to make out anything with all those bones dragging themselves around, but there, ahead and to the right, hoof prints. That can only be the kidnappers and our friends.”
The Neri looked in the direction she indicated, and all urged their horses on. But it was only one set of marks. After that the ground was again disturbed and showed nothing. They continued in the same direction, noticing the pathway grew narrower and the tombs closer, though they were not attacked.
“I cannot tell if they went ahead, or took a winding turn through the graves.” Ahead were wooden steps and a turning that descended behind a pile of rocks. “I cannot say with any certainty which way they continued.” Yrill said, sighing with frustration.
Estarfin looked unsure. “Which is most likely? I see no horses, so the wooden stairs are not the way.”
The Captain turned Cloud-born as a small pack of Wargs rushed out from a place of concealment. He cut down two with his spear as Estarfin dealt with the rest. Yrill’s bow sang out twice as the horses trampled the injured attackers into the dust.
“Where did they come from?” she asked, directing her mare forward to a decline and a large upright rock with a ravine to one side.
“Did they go through the stone?” Henepa piped up. She tugged a little at Estarfin’s cloak. “See! There be footprints as well as hoof prints on the ground.”
The elves looked down. The Hobbit was right. It appeared as if a small party had entered whatever lay beyond, not that long ago.
Estarfin pushed his way to the front. “Behind the rock is a gap in the rider’s width of size. Is there a stone door beyond it? We must move this boulder.”
Culufinnel dismounted and moved beside Estarfin to help push the rock away, while Yrill helped Henepa down from Norlomë. She placed a dagger in the lass’s hand. “Just in case,” she whispered. “Stay close to me. I fight mostly from a distance.”
Henepa gulped but nodded. Her heart was stout even though the rest of her trembled. “Them have Guy,” she said again, and grasped the dagger tightly.
“There, I see light inside,” Yrill whispered.
The stone door swung inward, showing a large cavern lit by several torches. The rocky ceiling was high, the path strewn with stones and thick dust. It led downwards.
Estarfin put a finger to his lips. The cavern would likely echo any noise they made. Whoever was in there was unlikely to be a friend. He beckoned the others forward, pointing then to the uneven floor. ‘Care with the horses’. They understood.
They followed the uneven slope down, and they could just make out the sound of mining further below. Several orc voices could be heard.
“She want them fer mining?” Henepa said, speaking her thoughts.
Yrill swiftly put a hand over Henepa’s mouth. The Hobbit nodded her apologies. She spoke again in a soft whisper. “I would have thought Orcs make better miners. Or Dwarves.”
“More likely they want them to craft beautiful things? They want Danel to craft rings for them, perhaps?” Estarfin added. “I wondered from early on if that was what this Zairaphel required.”
Culufinnel looked unsure. In Danel’s case, perhaps. But in his brothers? He was certain that these Men did not seek the services of an elven tailor.
The second level of the cave split into two tunnels. There were enough torches attached to the sides of the cave to give reasonable illumination. Yrill pointed at a set of footprints going one way, and hoof prints and another set of footprints going another. Before the group started another whispered conference about which route to take, Captain Culufinnel decided for them, and chose the second tunnel.
A short distance along that tunnel they surprised a group of orcs. It was not the easiest place to fight. The closeness of the tunnel walls meant the Elves spearplay was limited in movement, though they were only facing five orcs at a time.
As usual, Yrill kept to the back, bidding Henepa stand behind her. Culufinnel and Estarfin rushed forward, as did the horses. There were shouts heard, mixed in with orc curses and neighing. Although the two neri were deadly with their spears, the horses proved deadlier, and killed most of the orcs with their hooves and by trampling them into the dust.
Henepa stood watching, her mouth wide open in astonishment. “Elven horses, trained ter fight!” she muttered. “Oh my!” Norlomë nudged her with her nose, as if to say ‘I won’t let them get you either.’
Then they crouched in the shadows, listening for any reinforcements. Their arrival did not take long, and this time they had pick axes and knives, and a few had bows.
Yrill stepped back as three arrows lodged in her leather pauldrons. Swiftly she pushed Henepa back, as Estarfin and the Captain moved forward, behind Estarfin’s broad shield. “Goblins as well,” Yrill sighed, recalling earlier adventures of her own in the Hithaeglir.
The struggle did not last long. Squashed goblins and orcs were strewn across the rocky floor, several with missing heads and limbs. Estarfin bent over, seemingly wounded by a heavy blow to the ribs, and was a little winded.
“I am alright!” he gasped out, holding up a gauntleted hand as Yrill moved towards him.
“Nothing broken?” she questioned.
“Bruised ribs, I have had them before.”
The Huntress went to her mare, who had the cloth covering the remains of an orc arm dangling from her teeth. “Drop that now,” Yrill instructed, and took out her small bottle of miruvor. Unstopping it, she offered it to Estarfin.
He shook his head.
“We need you as hale as possible, Lord. The pain may slow us down: that cannot be permitted.”
The old Noldo eyed the younger one for a moment, then nodded at the wisdom in her words.
“Just a drop,” he said, and took a tiny sip.
They moved forward. There was no longer the sound of mining.
And they wandered in the tunnels of the cave for quite some time.
“They are not here,” Culufinnel finally admitted, inwardly cursing his decision. “The tracks belonged to miner reinforcements, no more than that.”
“Since when have Goblins and orcs ridden horses? Why did they have them?” Yrill questioned.
Culufinnel shook his head, and squaring his jaw, replied, “We must go back.”
Suddenly Estarfin lashed out, kicking a rock down the tunnel in frustration.
“Where are they?” His nightmare of failure, of losing what he had so recently found, was returning.
Then a deep and strongly accented voice boomed out of the darkness of a lesser lit area:
“Who disturbs the work of Azrazôr, King of the South?”
“Not that way, I suggest,” Yrill had pushed Henepa up onto her own mare, and looked down the nearest side tunnel. “He has a host of Angmarrim with him from what I can make out.” Indeed, the tall, dark-haired Southerner had what looked like a band of thirty Hill-men, and a dozen orcs blocking the path.
“We are the servants of the King! You cannot defy us,” they shouted.
The Huntress flashed a glance at Estarfin and Culufinnel, knowing they could and would defy him, if it were needful. But they knew already they would not find those they searched for. Nor was that place the ‘House of Zairaphel.’
“There is fresher air blowing through this tunnel. Come away!” she called in Sindarin. “Neither of you are any use dead or badly injured. Come away! We must save Danel and Parnard.” She saw Estarfin frown and heard the Captain sigh, but to her relief, they followed her.
They hurried along the trail, sensing air that could only come from the door they had left partly open. They moved up the slope towards the top level, but before they entered the large cavern, Estarfin nodded at the walls. Culufinnel nodded back. With the Horses passed, they both hammered the larger looser rocks with their sturdy shields, and pulled and heaved until parts of the walls collapsed. It was not a total blockade, but it would slow the followers to one or two at a time.
Then they were outside again, behind the standing rock that hid the door. They pulled the door back in place, mounted up, and were away.
The sky was black, with the distant pinpoint stars. They had no idea how long they had been in the Caverns.
Estarfin rode at a trot, his head hung low, his long black hair spilling forward over his chest. Neither of the others had seen him quite so forlorn.
“We cannot be far behind. We will find them,” said Culufinnel, looking more determined than ever.
Estarfin made a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I have failed her. I have failed them both. I should have given instant pursuit.”
“Lord Estarfin, did the Lady ever give up searching for you?” Yrill protested, holding Henepa close. “She told me often in Eregion that she would never give up, believing that by some chance you still lived. She never sailed, nor did she ever give her heart to another over the thousands of years. Do you give up on her?”
Estarfin turned to glare at her, his eyes flashing their old fire. “I do not give up.”
Yrill nodded, it was the answer she expected from him. Then something caught her eye. “Is that a fire inside the cliffs?” There was a slight, flickering orange flame that glowed above and from cracks in the nearby dark cliff face. It looked strange, for surely the rocks would not be burning so. The closer they rode, the more they were assaulted by an acrid smell of burning timber. “Up there, along that slope, and there! Those look like two giant doors.” She pointed up at a low ridge approached by a slope, and what looked like two large doors carved onto the cliff face. There were symbols she did not recognise etched upon them.Then they faded, and were gone.
“They were there, doors in the rock, in front of a fire,” Yrill tried to explain.
Estarfin urged Norlomë forward at a gallop, the others following close behind, and reached the place Yrill indicated. The stone was solid; there was no sign of the giant doors Yrill espied. The rock was smooth to the touch of their hands, if slightly warm.
“No!” the angry Noldo shouted.
“There must be a way through,” said Culufinnel. He rode back and forth looking for any sign of an opening.
Then Henepa spoke. “This Zaramel, she be a Sorceress? An’ them folk, them can play tricks with yer mind?” She looked up at Yrill. The Huntress nodded in realization, then urged her mare to ride straight towards the wall of stone - and she found herself in a gloomy forest. The others followed.
They were at the edge of what seemed to be a large number of tall, dark conifers. Their upper branches swayed slightly, obscuring the stars. The atmosphere around them felt suddenly heavy, as if a great storm approached. But there was no sight nor sound of nocturnal creatures. It was silent apart from the crackling of burning wood.
Moving forward, they turned a corner to see the house itself, a plain wooden construction of two storys. The flames were well set, and seemed to advance from the lower level. They all dismounted, bidding the horses stay back. Then they saw a stable. A small, empty shed-like building. A solitary Man, who had been watching the fire with his sword in hand, turned, and shouted a challenge in an unknown tongue. Estarfin gutted him, then beheaded two other scimitar armed Southrons who came to see what was happening. Culufinnel and Yrill, following close behind, were quick to move away from his swinging spear and give him room to maneuver. Acrid smoke made them cough and splutter, and through smoke-stung eyes, they saw a heavy door, still untouched by flame.
Seeing Estarfin about to run into the conflagration, the shocked Captain called out, “Hold! They may not be inside - it could be a trap! Keep low and cover your mouths with your cloaks, if possible. Henepa! Remain here and hide yourself: do not follow.” He prepared himself for smashing the thick wooden door by tightening his shield and bringing it closer to his shoulder. “Now!” he said.
Estarfin was already there.
