“Annunghil, Ráolor, come with me!”
Sergeant Daegond rushed onwards.
The two Noldor followed at once, their warhammers ready.
Smelling a foul scent, Ráolor looked up.
At some places, the sky was visible.
But the stars were veiled, and a relentless wind was howling outside.
“There are more of them, Sergeant!”
Annunghil pulled his hammer out of the worm's shattered skull.
Daegond snarled.
The whole cave was full of these damned beasts!
The three hammer warriors rushed deeper into the lair, slaying the crawling foes wherever finding them.
“Be gone, filth!”
Ráolor leapt forward, smashing a worm's tail off.
Annunghil delivered the finishing stroke to the beast.
Ráolor whirled around and hit another worm's head with his warhammer.
The skull cracked with an ugly sound, brain and blood splashing out.
“Corpses!”
Daegond stopped.
Dead bodies. Of wanderers less fortunate maybe, looking for shelter from the cruel winds of the Hithaeglir...
some of them half-eaten, some of them untouched.
“Ráolor, hurry back. Report to Lord Tindir!”
The Noldo nodded.
A worm leapt forward, biting him in the ribs.
But the hammer hauberk withstood the attack. Many of the sharp teeth broke off.
The Fëanorian raised his weapon high in the air.
He loved to fight with heavy armor, and he used to let enemies come close – a good method to prevent them from running away.
The hammer crushed down at the toothless worm, dividing it in two.
“Haryuvalvë túrë!” (Quenya for “We will have victory”)
The caves echoed the battle-cry.
He smote the ruins of the worm against the wall with a kick.
“What is it?”
Lord Tindir looked at him.
Ráolor was breathing heavily.
The elf company stared at him, troubled.
The large warhammer of the soldier, all over drained in lizard brain and blood was reason enough to be alert.
“Worms, my Lord. They are everywhere. We found corpses as well.
I was sent by Sergeant Daegond.”
Tindir did not wait long.
“We cannot linger here. Press on!”
The elves of Vanimar and Warband of Imladris rushed into the cave, healers and scouts in the middle, warriors of the hammer defending the flanks.
“Hîr nin, this one is alive!”
While some gathered around the heavily wounded man, Sergeant Daegond and Annunghil came back.
The hammerites had found a chest.
Daegond opened it. He laughed. Silver and copper coins, and on top of it...
Slime, blood and intestines.
Themodir 's eyes widened. Suddenly, he ran to a corner, throwing up.
“Is he allright?” Ráolor furrowed his eyebrows.
“He will be again,” answered Annunghil.
Themodir came back after a while, his face pale.
“Sergeant....We cannot carry a chest that heavy all the way to the valley.”
“You will carry it, Themodir.”
The Sergeant smirked with relish.
“But it is way too heavy!”
Meanwhile it was decided to carry the wounded man back to the camp of Hrimbarg.
Daegond kicked the chest, it fell over, slime and intestines covering the ground.
“Themodir, I have a better idea. You will carry this man instead!”
The wind howled.
Snow covered their faces. Still, they marched onwards. Hrimbarg was not far anymore.
Themodir grasped for air.
He fell to the ground, unable to carry the wounded man any further.
“What do my eyes see! Up on your feet!” barked Daegond.
The elf obeyed. Once more, he stood up, lifting up his burden.
Ráolor pulled the hood deep into his face, turning away.
It was a mortal man, weak, wretched, worthless. He twisted his mouth.
This man was slowing them. The Noldo frowned.
He would had chopped this mortal's head off to release him from his misery.
He turned around, looking at Themodir.
The hammerite's strength was fading. Ráolor had never before seen him like this.
Maybe it was an old vision, haunting his mind.
Maybe he had seen something terrible from his past...
maybe the Fëa suffered, causing weakness to enter the Hröa, the body...
Once again, Themodir collapsed.
“Sergeant, let me carry him!”
Ráolor looked at Daegond.
The last time he had helped a mortal like this had been in front of the black gate of Mordor, when the armies of Sauron charged at the Last Alliance.
But Themodir was at the edge of failure. Personal things did not matter anymore.
Daegond did not answer, ignoring Ráolor's offer.
Norliriel examined the wounded man once more. Suddenly she looked up.
“He is...dead.”
Her voice was almost a whisper. Her eyes were filled with darkness.
Annunghil sighed.
Tancamir nocked another arrow.
“We cannot linger here. It is not safe. We must go on!”
Ráolor looked at the Arrow. He nodded at Tancamir.
“Sergeant, he speaks the truth.”
Daegond looked at the dead man, swearing.
“Allright, everybody continue! Press on to Hrimbarg!”
He frowned at Norliriel.
“That fellow will stay here.”
The healer nodded slowly, speaking with a low voice:
“The snow shall cover him...we will return later to burry him.”
Ráolor sighed. How could she be so compassionate about a worthless mortal?
The wolves would tear the body apart anyway.
Too often he had seen himself forced to leave the fallen behind.
It was a cruel thing to do, he knew.
But in times of war sometimes there was no time and place for honor and reverence.
He stepped to Themodir, helping him up.
The wind howled.
After many hours, the company reached Hrimbarg.
*
“Are you two related?”
“Of course we are related. She is my sister-at-arms after all!”
Ráolor put his hand gently on Yrill 's shoulder.
She had returned from scouting, and he was glad to see her again.
Norliriel and Eliriael smiled, seeing the two like this.
After arriving back to the camp of Vindurhal, Tancamir had brewed a stew.
Less grease, and more healthy ingredients.
Annunghil and Ráolor had appointed Tancamir to master cook of the company.
The remarkable soup of Sergeant Daegond still would never be erased from their memory...for various reasons.
But at the moment, the dangerous Sergeant was asleep, and everybody was careful not to wake him up.
His enormous snoring was menacing enough.
However, standing next to the crackling fire, the long and exhausting march through the icy mountains seemed far away and vague in their memory.
“How many worms did you slay, brother?”
Yrill smiled at him.
“Not enough. That scum will continue to thrive happily in these mountains.”
Ráolor grumbled.
“I found three Goblins in the snow. They were dead ere they saw me coming.”
Yrill's voice was cool and frosty.
She pulled an arrow out of her quiver and examined the feathers.
He glanced at her with a grin. He knew about her swiftness.
She could slice the throats of ten warriors with her daggers, within the blink of an eye.
Her arrows never missed their targets.
She was a fierce fighter after all, and he was proud of her.
Her enemies were all dead before they knew it, whereas his foes would watch first.
He wanted them all to watch, wanted them to feel what it meant to battle a Noldo.
He would not outsmart them, not evade their attacks.
He was not very fast, but he had always enjoyed to apply brute strength.
He would slam his foes with his armored body, and crush them afterwards with his hammer.
The sound of splintering bones was like music to his ears, and tendons torn apart were a delight to his eyes.
*
Lord Veryacano listened at the report, slowly eating Tancamir's stew from a bowl.
It was late, but no stars could be seen in the sky.
The hammer Lord nodded in the end.
“Allow me to ask you something, my Lord.”
“What is it, Ráolor?”
“Our scouts reported a massive gathering of Goblins under the mountains, so far so good.”
The sculptor put the head of his warhammer on the ground, leaning against the long shaft, before continuing:
“What are we waiting for? We should strike them at once.
Strike them, while all of 'em are gathered.
Do not get me wrong, Lord. It is not my task to worry about decisions.
I shall follow the Lords of Vanimar everywhere.
But my hammer is thirsty – thirsty for Goblin blood!”
Ráolor glanced at Veryacano, with a grim smile.
The hammer Lord did not answer, not surprised about these words.
For sure many hammer warriors felt the same way about the Goblins – and perhaps even the hammer Lord himself.
“But if the Goblins have captured the ones we seek, it would be foolish to attack them now,” said Norliriel.
Ráolor looked at the flames of the crackling campfire.
She was right of course... Winning a battle for loosing a war? Never.
Ráolor subdued his temper.
“We will attack them.”
The hammer Lord's voice was firm and straightforward.
“But first we have to find the lost elves.”
The sculptor nodded respectfully. Thinking of the attack, a dark and grim joy crept into his heart.
But he would have to wait.
He only hoped there was enough of them – enough for him and his fellow hammer warriors and Yrill to slaughter.
*
Later, with most of the elves sleeping, Ráolor and Norliriel were talking with low voices.
Nobody knew what they discussed, but after those words exchanged the Fëanorian's eyes would change each time he saw the healer of Gondolin –
and they would be full of compassion for her, a compassion that is seen only seldom in the eyes of those who are meant to kill under command.
