Cúrandir flexed a wrist idly, staring out over the black void that yawned beneath him. Five or six other elves were gathered around on the ashen-grey bluff behind him, all talking in hushed voices. He glanced at the other archer standing guard for the company - Dolthafaer, he had said his name was. Cúrandir had to admit that the other ellon had a way with the bow that spoke of centuries more experience than even he possessed. At least it had seemed so as they had fought their way through the gates of Gath Uior and into the hidden fastness of Nûrz Ghâshu, in the northernmost wastes of Angmar.
It began early that morning, in Gath Forthnίr, when Cúrandir had ridden back to the hidden stronghold of the Dúnedain from patrolling the road northwest to Carn Dûm. There was a party of Eldar inside Gath Forthnίr, clad in well-wrought armour and bearing weapons of cunning make. He questioned them of their errand in Angmar, thinking it rather strange that a company of his own people should venture so far north. Their gruff quartermaster, Ancalasse, was far more interested in insulting the cave in which they were staying than answering his question, or so it seemed. Finally, their leader spoke up and said that he was Belethoriel, former leader of the Northern Company.
Cúrandir was intrigued. So this was the Belethoriel had allegedly been imprisoned by the Iron Crown, and whose company was either dead or scattered around Angmar? He spoke of finding his comrades in Angmar once more, or at least discovering their fates - a rather hopeless task, but his resolve impressed Cúrandir. The rest of the party spoke of going to certain death with a certain carelessness that belied strength of will. They sought passage eastwards, towards the wasteland known as the Rift of Nûrz Ghâshu.
It had been long since Cúrandir had seen a band of his own people face death so unflinchingly. Still bristling at the derogatory comments Ancalasse had thrown at him and the other ‘cave-dwelling’ Dúnedain, he suddenly felt wearied of hiding ineffectually in the fastness of Gath Forthnίr. Better to make a final strike against the Enemy and die trying, he thought, than to remain hidden in the shadows. So he offered to guide the company eastwards, if they would have him, and perhaps delay their inevitable deaths a bit further.
After gathering supplies and stabling the horses, they set out on foot, Cúrandir leading them eastwards across the wastes of Nan Gurth. Ever and anon they stopped to slay the wargs and fell beasts which prowled the paths. Cúrandir could not help but admire the prowess of these Eldar - he had not seen such well-balanced swordsmanship and martial fervour since the Battle of Fornost. Many beasts fell, slain by the cold iron of the swordsmen; the others, pierced by swift arrows flown from his and Dolthafaer’s bows. They came to an encampment of yrch, descending upon them in surprise, and with a fury that left no survivors.
Wiping blood from his daggers Aeglas and Limlas, Cúrandir led the party onwards along a narrow ridge and to the gates of Gath Uior. The massive black gates, flanked by two blood-red braziers, were guarded by several teryg and giants. The monstrous creatures lumbered back and forth along the main road, wielding great twisted maces of gnarled wood studded with iron. They halted behind a small outcropping hiding them from view of the guards, but well within sight of the gate. All the company seemed visibly unnerved, and Dolthafaer cast a blank look at the blood-red flames flaring before the gates.
“They will not rescue themselves as we stay here,” Ancalasse finally said, taking up his war-hammer. “Let us meet our fate!”
“It would have been welcome to see some stars before we walked in here,” Dolthafaer mused.
Celephindir said nothing, but readied his swords. Laurelindo stood at the rear of the group, looking rather ill at ease and holding his large, ornate shield firmly. Belethoriel regarded the gate, face impassive.
After a hushed conference, Dolthafaer and Cúrandir took up positions to the rear, aiming for the closest of the guards. At a nod from Dolthafaer, the rest of the warriors rushed forward with a great cry, swords flashing. There was no time to think, and Cúrandir relied on his reflexes as he nocked and let fly arrow after arrow, aiming for weak spots in the great creature’s armor. The troll was slow and clumsy, swinging aimlessly at the warriors who darted nimbly around its feet, parrying and thrusting skilfully. The next few minutes were a blur of twanging bowstrings and clashing metal as the rest of the company drew the troll away from the gate and towards the narrow path where the archers were hidden. Finally the creature fell with an earth-rending groan, and the eyes of the company met briefly before they readied their weapons for another assault.
It was long before Cúrandir had time to speak, for there were more of the foul creatures before the gate, and the elves did not rest until all of them were felled. Finally the road before the gates was deathly silent, and the reek of blood lay heavy on the great carcasses strewn upon the ground. Celephindir raised up his sword and gave a cheer of triumph, and Cúrandir smiled grimly. Though they were few, let not any foe underestimate the valour of these Eldar.
Dolthafaer sprang through the gate, and the rest of the company followed. Ancalasse, his great war-hammer dripping with the blood of the slain creatures, looked around uneasily.
“What is behind these gates, that they protect them so firmly?” He peered into the distance.
Belethoriel shrugged. “Mines, as far as we know.”
Thankfully the road eastward was devoid of foes, for all were weary from their clash with the guards at the gate. No one seemed to be gravely wounded, but Cúrandir clutched his left wrist tighter as blood began to seep out from under his vambrace. A errant swing of a troll’s mace had slashed through the tough leather and reached the skin beneath. He grimaced and pressed his lips together. It was no serious wound; once stanched and bound tightly it would heal in time.
They came in time to a rocky bluff, covered with ashen-grey sand. Belethoriel called a halt for the night, and Cúrandir volunteered himself for the first watch. Ancalasse joined him for a moment, peering intently into the inky darkness to the east.
“My eyes cannot pierce the dark,” he murmured.
“Nor any mortal eyes, I would imagine,” Cúrandir responded.
“I was expecting armies here…” Ancalasse continued.
Cúrandir snorted derisively, but said nothing. If they had met a well-organized force of foes beyond the gate, their death would have been certain. As the rest of the company prepared to make camp, Dolthafaer sat quietly to a corner, sharpening his sword, but with one eye trained eastward. Cúrandir stood on the edge of the bluff, gazing to the east at the encroaching darkness. There was no telling what the next day would bring, but he would be ready to face it.
teryg - Sindarin pl. of torog, “troll’
yrch - Sindarin pl. of orch “Orc”
