Every track they took was suspiciously familiar. It was fortunate that Turumor seemed to know his way around the Scuttledells, because were it not for a few landmarks, Annúngil would have believed them to be wandering in circles. Even Celeblhair seemed relatively at ease threading the deceiving pathways, or perhaps she just did a better job at pretending than he did: Annúngil’s right hand was seldom far from the hilt of his sword.
He believed they had been wandering for a few hours now, though he could be mistaken. Time seemed like an elusive concept in the Scuttledells. The webs, twisted trees, and the creeping silence broken every so often by a weak breeze that blew against the branches and bushes - all of it made the the place feel like an abandoned house. Everything seems still, untouched for many years, but the structure and the windows creak menacingly under the weakest of breezes.
Perhaps it had been an intriguing place to explore before the creatures that hid there arrived, mused Annúngil. The scent of decay that assailed his nostrils did not incite his curiosity in heading deeper into the Scuttledells any more than necessary, for death lurked every corner of Taur-e-Ndaedelos.
It spared no one, not even the orcs.
The group was reminded of that when the first corpse came into view. They climbed up the hill, arriving in a clearing, and found it was not the only one. The whole area was littered with fallen orcs and spiders. Glorhir’s fractured account had been enough for Turumor to guide them to the right place.
Celeblhair took the lead, securing the area. Annúngil and Raolor, meanwhile, wandered among the orcs, taking a closer look at the enemy they were inevitably bound to come to blows with. Relatively tall among the orc-kind and well armored, assessed Raolor, this was a trained unit: the numerous spiders that now lay dead in the clearing were a testament of that. Try as they may, however, they found no trace of any of the elven prisoners, neither dead nor alive. It restored some measure of hope to them, that perhaps Gladiel and the other prisoners still lived.
Resigned to the fact there were no further clues to be found there, they readied to leave, following the tracks of the orc party.
It was no wonder the elves managed to make their way so far nearly unchallenged, he thought. The spiders were frightened, even though it had been a costly victory for the orcs. Annúngil doubted that the orcs, delayed and with thinned numbers, would be inclined to agree with him. They had no reservations about suffering losses. If it got them closer to achieving their goal, then the death of their companions would be a price worth paying. They feared their leaders far more than the spawn of Ungoliant.
Annúngil did not share the feeling.
He felt less tense now that they were leaving the Scuttledells. Gathburz seemed less frightening. Orcs, wargs, he could deal with, the spiders… there was something in them, something ancient. Perhaps the memory of a night of darkness that consumed everything. It had been one of the first times he had truly known fear.
Taur-e-Ndaedelos: Meaning Forest of the Great Fear.
