More than a fortnight after Council...
Some hours after Darkness and Fear...
The inside was bright, illuminated by well-placed lanterns, and it was still, save for a corner of the tent flapping idly. There was never much wind under the dense woods, but something continued to move it…Out. In. Out. In…The same way images flicked through his mind.
The ambush of orcs.
Clattering of swords.
A flash of metal in the air.
Then Merenell falling…
“Tûrdirith…”
Gladhalion looked up. A healer stood between the tent flaps, which had hung closed to him a moment before. Or perhaps it was more than a moment, judging by the expectant face of the healer.
“Forgive my…” The ellon cast a quick glance around the partitioned area of the tent in which the Tûrdirith stood alone. “…interruption. Officer Braiglach has regained his sense and asks for you.”
Gladhalion nodded and followed the dark-haired elf through the flaps, further into the tent. He saw the officer immediately on a bed in a corner of the room and went to him.
“Tûrdirith,” the officer began at once.
“How are your injuries?”
The officer was pale yet, with the slight dampness of sweat upon his brow. He closed his mouth, opened it, struggled for words, and closed it again.
“The healers say you narrowly escaped a grievous wound to your leg. You shall regain use of it, and, once you do, you should make your way back to the Halls to rejoin your soldiers in well-earned rest. Your relief is not far off.”
Instead of looking reassured at the prospect, the officer appeared more distraught. “Tûrdirith, please, your daughter…did we…were we able to…?” He stopped, unable to continue, as if it pained him to speak. “Forgive us our negligence,” he gasped out on the exhale of his breath.
As soon as Gladhalion had yelled out his daughter’s name on an instinct of emotion, Officer Braiglach roared and pushed off his enemy, dashing toward the defenceless elleth, now sprawled unconscious on the ground. It was a brave act, but one made in desperation. The result was a reckless maneuver. The officer was immediately assaulted midway and cut down in his tracks. The soldiers had not anticipated being outnumbered and they certainly had not counted on their officer breaking the defensive formation. It left them vulnerable and beset on all sides by a handful of orcs each.
Fortunately, the orcs seemed more interested in carrying the officer away than killing him after delivering a hard blow to his head with the hilt of a sword. This bought Gladhalion and the soldiers some time to cut their way towards him, but not without sustaining injuries themselves. By that time, Merenell’s body had disappeared in the direction from which the orcs had first attacked. Officer Braiglach lay bleeding upon the ground, one soldier limped with a deep gash in his thigh, and the other fought with his blade arm tucked limply at his side. Only one other soldier stood as before, if only a bit more fatigued. To give chase to Merenell’s captors simply meant death or the same fate to these soldiers. Neither could he pursue and defeat the rest of the orcs alone nor could he return victoriously with his daughter. He had one option and so the Tûrdirith stood his ground, standing guard over his wounded soldiers as the assault group retreated.
Gladhalion raised a hand to stop the officer when words failed and his throat tightened at the memory. Only a moment was needed to compose himself. “No. Thank you though, for your courage. There was nothing that could be done. There were simply too many. It seems that the larger party of orcs that attacked from the east was a diversion. None of the others that had left as reinforcements were injured.” In hindsight, this had become clear to the Tûrdirith. But was Merenell their true target? Or had it been him? Did they even have targets or did they take whoever they could? Councillor Camaen’s panicked words about prisoners rang dully in his ears.
Officer Braiglach stared emptily, his face growing paler and his mouth growing dry. “I…” He blinked.
Gladhalion knew him well – an officer unused to hearing of failures. After all, how could one so young have been charged with the protection of the Tûrdirith and his daughter otherwise? He lay a steady hand on the officer’s arm. “Rest. She will be returned.” Gladhalion nodded once and turned to go.
“Tûrdirith! Please…my second in command, my unit…they will do whatever it takes in my stead,” Braiglach called out, pain marring his features.
Gladhalion nodded again. “It will be as you say. Now rest, Braiglach, for you are now under the authority of the healers.” At this, he glanced at the one who stood nearby, ready to redress the bandages.
The moment the Tûrdirith exited the healer’s tent, Braiglach’s second stepped up to intercept him as though he had heard his officer’s call. Whatever he had planned to say was silenced with one look at the Tûrdirith’s expression and he wisely fell in line behind instead. Together they crossed the forest floor to a larger tent. Gladhalion stopped at the entrance. “Return with your stealthiest and swiftest scout.” Then, he pushed past the flaps, leaving the second officer outside.
Heavy measured steps padded the length of the tent in a brief moment. He was already at his desk, pulling out parchment and ink. The moment Merenell’s face was lost to him beyond the dense shade of the tress, Gladhalion was already calculating, planning, even as he held his sword. Dol Guldur. He had been in contact with their informants in the south. All captive elves. All of their paths led to the fortress. The orcs would need to be intercepted. They had a head start but they had the burden of an elf to carry and they were moving as a group. They stood little chance outpacing a scout of theirs. A message to the southern defences. The news would carry. They would have to stand ready to intercept at any point.
Gladhalion set the quill down and passed a hand over his face, sighing a defeated breath. Then, as if by an unknown call, his eyes were pulled from the letter before him to the tent flaps. Embers arose in his eyes then as he turned, took a step, hand on his sword hilt. He could go now. No one would dare oppose him. He would be faster than the orcs. He could track as he used to do. What number of orcs could stand between father and daughter? Thirst and hunger would not hinder him. Was he not a warrior of old, born before the making of Dol Guldur itself? What could it hold from him? The flames grew taller, darkening the grey of his eyes.
“Tûrdirith, may we enter?” came a voice from outside the tent.
The warrior’s grip around the sword hilt loosened immediately at the call and the Tûrdirith stood in front of his desk as he was before. “Enter,” the resolute voice commanded.
Officer Braiglach’s second stepped in, closely followed by an elleth in darkened leather. “Celebreniss will see to it that your orders are carried out.” The scout stood still, expectantly waiting.
Gladhalion returned the gaze, softening his features a moment and letting his decorated shoulders fall. “This is no order. A mere favour. You are free to take it upon yourself or leave it.”
The scout nodded once, no action wasted.
“Good. I have a letter for you. Are you familiar with all our defences to the south?” Gladhalion looked up only long enough to see the scout assent and then returned his attention to the quill in his hand, which he had grabbed from his desk again and was now trailing ink across a piece of parchment. “I wish you to take this down with all haste to a friend of mine at Ost Galadh. Keep your eyes open for traveling orcs, particularly as they might have hostages. Such should be communicated to the elves at any of our camps through which you pass.”
The quill scratched across the letter even after he had finished speaking, and the other two watched on silently.
It is time for us to move.
Gladhalion had little authority to command any soldiers away from their posts to engage in the pursuit of a band of orcs for the retrieval of his daughter. But over the countless centuries spent in the Greenwood, he had made many friends whom he might yet call upon.
