(continued from this...)
“Cousin, wake up!” said Parnard. “I think I did it!”
Danel awakened from her slumber on the grass and sat up. The Wood-elf was leaning over her, green eyes bright with excitement.
“I might have talked that brother of mine into building a guard-tower for us!” He pointed over at the weathered lighthouse on the little island in the mouth of the River Lhûn, a relic of a time when the town had been fortified and better armed against freebooters of the sea. “A beautiful tower, just like that one, only not as tall, but almost, with a bell at the top to sound the alarm!”
The sun was setting behind a wall of cloud and suffused a pinkish red glow on the white marble façade. Danel looked for a moment longer at the worn and broken tower, its upper story littered with the nests of many sea birds, then nodded approval. A guard tower even half the height of the abandoned lighthouse would serve them very well.
“Culufinnel says the town needs all timber for boats and fortifications; none can be spared; and we also must furnish stone.”
“We can manage that.” Danel rose to her feet, brushing her red hair back with a long sweep of her arm. “Was your brother approachable, then?”
Parnard shrugged. “Approachable enough. It would have been unseemly to mention that mean trick he played upon me, and risk raising his ire: I was careful to mind my manners.”
“That was wise of you. One day I would like to address that ‘trick’ with him, in person, but today is not a day for recriminations. Estarfin and I will speak to him about it later.”
This news secretly delighted Parnard, and while he wished this meeting would transpire sooner than later, he thought that the Noldor should wait to converse with his brother until their bell tower was fully completed. Having too much reverence for the lady's wisdom to question when this meeting would happen, he lowered his gaze to the ground, and informed Danel that his brother knew of his failed betrothal to the maiden Brasseniel, daughter of the Captain of the King's Guard of Mirkwood. “And do you know what Culufinnel said to me? He said he was not surprised in the least to hear how the Captain treated me.”
“Then your brother must know what her father is like,” said Danel.
“Indeed, he does! He served under Brethenel’s regiment for a time during that battle - hmm...I cannot recall its name -”
“The Great Battle, fought at the very foot of Mount Doom after the seven-year siege of the Dark Fortress?”
“That must be the one!* And Culufinnel also told me that Captain Brethenel is stern, but fair, known for his equanimity in judgment, and he is considered to be the very model of Captainhood, a Captain amongst Captains, as it were.”
Danel sighed. “It matters not. We shall have our guard tower.”
“And Estarfin will be pleased that I managed it so cleverly.”
“I shall tell him what you did, rest assured.”
A pained expression flitted across Parnard’s good-natured face. “What is a little belly-crawling and embarrassment, after all?” he said.
Danel smiled at the Wood-elf. “I shall tell Estarfin we have our guard tower because of your shrewdness and astute diplomacy.”
“That seems fair.” Parnard turned away from the sight of the little island and its lighthouse, the wind rustling at his back, tousling his silvery black hair over his face and flapping the folds of his white and gold cloak. “The fisher-folk say we will have bad weather tomorrow. Now that our business here is finished, what shall we do?”
Danel looked at the darkening sky. “Enjoying wine on a cool evening is a fine pleasure, but what do you think, Cousin? If we ride now we may overtake the patrol before Duillond: I am not over-keen on waiting till the morning to depart, and if it is to storm we must not delay.”
“Yes! Let us leave at once and tell Estarfin the good news.”
*****
There was no moon, and only a few of the brightest stars were visible behind scudding clouds. They did not make haste, despite their earlier concerns of not having an escort. The road home was uninteresting; the elves had traversed it many times buying and selling goods in town, and as they rode together, they talked. Conversation never flagged between the loquacious Wood-elf and the older Nolde, and prevented anything from becoming dull or monotonous. “When I start my jewel-craft again,” said Danel to Parnard, “I shall begin instructing Marawendi. We will need to return to the beach and find more sea shells.”
“And pearls, too. Underneath their beards the dwarf-ladies hide strings of pearls that grow longer with each passing year, for the Naugrim rejoice to adorn their ladies with such finery that only they can look upon, or so I have heard it said.”
Danel gave him a quick, keen look. “You know, Parnard, I had not thought of selling any jewelry to our Dwarf-masons. I will speak with them when we return. Three are females.”
“Are they really? Three traveling dwarf-lady-masons! Is that usual?”
“No. The females rarely travel out from their Halls. They are few in number, and so are coveted as the most precious of treasures.”
“Then these are strange Dwarves?”
“Say rather that they are ‘unusual.’ It seems Sna, being the eldest, is the one in charge who gives the orders. Their brother, Throthi, is a most accomplished stonemason, despite being the youngest, and Pritta is their cousin. And there is Gna, Sna’s sister. I cannot tell them apart,” she confessed. “I think the females are smaller in build, but I am not certain,” said Danel with a slight shrug of her shoulders.
“I cannot tell them apart, either. I suppose the Dwarves must know themselves, else there would be much confusion - ” Parnard started up in his saddle, looking towards the shadows of the ruins at the edge of the woods. “Did you hear that?”
From his perch on a ridge above the road, Daviion saw the elves pause and look in the direction of the trees. “Wolfrun, bring ‘er ‘ere,” he hissed. A man scrambled up the steep hill, dragging a squirming hobbit behind him. Daviion tore the gag from her mouth and swung the hobbit maid high overhead.
“O help me! Help!” she shrieked.
“Parnard - it is Henepa!” cried Danel.
“Cousin –?” began Parnard, his face expressing first disbelief, then bewilderment, then finally recognition as he saw the pie-faced halfling innkeeper from Tighfield struggling in the man's grip. “Oh! You, there! What do you mean by hoisting up that halfling, sky-high?”
“Come an’ get 'er, Elf!” Daviion called out. The words were hardly out of his mouth when Parnard slid off his horse and moved to crouch mere inches away, sword drawn, ready to strike.
“Release her, or perish,” he warned.
The elf was faster than he had anticipated, but Daviion played it cool, and said, “Put down your sword, High Lord, or we pull this little one apart like a bit o’ taffy.” Daviion raised his lantern, opening its cover to expose the light. Almost immediately the signal was answered in a similar manner. Shadowy figures crept out of the woods and from behind hedges, so many that it seemed that the fields on both sides of the road were covered with creeping armed men. “Ambush! Flee, flee Danel! Ride back to Duillond!” Parnard cried out.
Danel dismounted from her steed and drew out Sarphir with a rasp of steel. “There is no time! They will kill her,” she said, and leapt forward, slashing wildly at the advancing throng, driving them back. “Leave the hobbit and run, or we will hack you limb from limb!” she yelled.
Wolfrun thrust Henepa in front of him as a shield. “Put down your weapons!” he ordered.
Danel whirled around, flicking Sarphir across the face of one of the men, then lashed out again and slashed the blade across his throat. The arcing spray of blood splattering on his shining armour stirred a sudden wrath in Parnard. He lunged forward in a silver flash, driving Steel-Thorn deeply, ripping through Wolfrun’s leather armour and flesh as easily as a letter opener tears through paper. Wolfrun swore and clutched at his leg, blood springing from between his fingers, and limped away a short distance to hurtle the hobbit down on the rocky ground.
Then a large, hulking man on horseback with a bandaged hand called out to them: “Put down your swords, now! Or we will cut off the hobbit’s hands and leave her bleeding.”
“But that will kill her!”
“They intend to kill her anyway,” Danel said. “Parnard, they know who we are - ”
“Surrender, witches! Or it will be the end of your little friends here. Lay down your arms!” said Daviion, and giving Henepa a vicious kick, barked out, “Now!”
“'Witches' -?” said Parnard, and drawing himself up to his full height looked scornfully upon the men. “Why do you threaten us? Are you the selfsame rogues that terrorized the village folk and attacked our home?”
“We are Men, an’ this is our land. You’re trespassin’,” said Daviion.
“No, villain! This is the land of the Elves. Long ago did our people dwell here: we are reclaiming our ancestral hunting grounds.”
“Fine words, pretty boy! That’s all you got, though, an’ they do you no good. Throw down your swords! An’ if you try any o’ those elf curses, we cut his hands off, too!” Daviion pointed towards their horses.
“Gaisarix!” cried Danel, recognizing the gagged and bound wide-eyed hobbit slung across a saddle.
“Not him again,” groaned Parnard in Sindarin. “Did I not warn this foolish halfling what would happen if he -”
“None o’ that witch-talk!” said the man with the bandaged hand.
Danel glared at him. “You are Jexson, I presume? I see that Aearlinn left her mark upon you. What is it you want: to kill Elves?” She gripped Sarphir tighter.
“As a matter of fact, we do, one in particular, Estarfin, but you two will do nicely: as bait! Bind and gag ‘em, lads.”
The men were uneasy to come close to the two elves at first, almost bashful, but unwilling to disobey orders after weeks of careful watching and waiting, and not seeing Estarfin, the deadly “Black Demon-Elf” in their company, moved quickly to surround them.
“If you continue with this wickedness your fate is sealed; there will be no escaping the wrath of the Noldor who will dog your footsteps until every last one of you die horrible deaths!” The men crept closer. “This is your last chance to live,” warned Parnard, his voice heavy with ominous portent. The men glanced at each other for a moment, then roared with laughter.
“He speaks truth,” Danel called out. “You say you want Estarfin? By your actions he will be your doom: you know not what you have started here.”
Henepa was trembling, curled up in a tight little ball on the ground, and seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness. “What can we do, but surrender?” Danel said to Parnard. “They will kill the poor halflings, and we are greatly outnumbered, without any recourse.” She closed her eyes tightly, then turned to their horses and cried out in Sindarin, “Fly, fly away home, so that the others know!” The elf-horses immediately turned tail and dashed off. They had ten miles before them to the homestead Numenstaya, and both horses knew the road well, even if they did not have the light of the moon.
“Damn beasts!” Daviion cried. His bow twanged; Pelorian stumbled, a grey feathered shaft sticking out of her shoulder, but the sturdy old mare did not fall.
“Ha! Your doom is nigh, scoundrels.The wrath of the Noldor will follow you to the ends of the earth!” said Parnard.
“Shut up, filth!” yelled Wolfrun as he furiously tied a piece of torn cloth around his leg to stem the bleeding.
“You do not command the High Lord Parnard! Release these people at once!” Instead the men crowded around them. “Do not touch her!” he yelled as Danel was grabbed by the throat and Sarphir wrested from her hand. The men stripped her of her dagger, her bag of gems and coin, and seeing the bright silver betrothal ring glinting on her hand, tore it from her finger.
“Do not resist, Parnard! It is better to save the hobbits,” she said. Parnard kicked out his foot, smashing it into one of his attacker’s faces, flattening his nose with a crunch and making him howl in pain. Several attempts were made to wrench Steel-Thorn from him; they managed to prise apart his fingers after grabbing his arms and one of his thrashing legs to hold him still. This elf sword, which unsurprisingly was much coveted by the brigands, was snatched up by Daviion for himself. More men piled on the scrimmage, wrestling the Wood-elf down, and bound his wrists tight. As they hauled him to his feet, he threw himself hard against his assailants, bowling them over, and, evading their grasp by ducking down and twisting between them, kicked Wolfrun smartly on his injured leg as he ran off.
“Quick! Grab it!” The men threw themselves on the end of the rope that was rapidly disappearing through the tall grass, and strained against it so that it pulled taut with a snap; Parnard turned a somersault in the air as he was yanked backwards and hit the ground hard. Jexsom tied the rope to the pommel of his saddle, and not waiting for the elf to regain either breath or his footing, urged his horse to a gallop, and dragged him away.
*: The War of the Last Alliance (to be more exact, the Battle of Dagorlad)
(artwork courtesy of Estarfin)
