Yrill rode ahead as they crossed the High King’s bridge yet again. Her heart was still beating unnaturally fast. She still felt like retching. They had the information they needed, but would she or Culufinnel have been capable of attaining it? The Captain of Celondim was a staunch soldier, but he had turned aside. She herself would only have acted so under dire need. And had it not been dire need? All she knew was she was thankful Estarfin had been with them. He had the information, but he had also paid the price with his own honour. The Rangers on the bridge watched the three Elves approach with darkly brooding expressions. They were suspicious. They knew something untoward had happened. Estarfin rode straight past, keeping his thoughts to himself, as the huntress turned aside a moment. Culufinnel was close behind her.
“Yes,” said the main guard. “This time, yes. Less than two hours ahead. But by the Valar, from the noise and commotion, what did you three do over there?”
~ ~ ~
They had agreed to speak in Sindarin, the language common to all. Culufinnel had no reason to be able to speak Quenya, but Yrill felt a touch lessened by her confession. Many of the older Noldor in Eregion had known Quenya, but the common tongue there had always been Sindarin, out of deference for those Sindar who had also made Ost-in-Edhil their home. Perhaps there was also some deference to King Thingol’s proclamation banning that tongue in Doriath? Perhaps….she knew a few words and phrases of course, words uttered at certain celebrations and ceremonies, but even though both her parents were First Age Noldor, they had not encouraged her use of their native tongue. When Estarfin had spoken to her, she had felt a sense of shame she could not reply. She felt that somehow she was not a true Nolde. He made no issue of her lack of knowledge, but smoothly continued in Sindarin. Culufinnel had merely shrugged when his suggestion to converse in Silvan was not taken up.
After a short rest, during which the storm passed overhead and drenched them, they took the small bridge back to the far side of the lake, then the High King’s Bridge, and followed a cracked and broken path along the lakeside. Some of the old city had fallen prey to the rising waters of the Lake over the centuries. Buildings and tombs lay submerged, keeping their secrets from all but the most foolhardy. Whereas most of the buildings above the waterline had long since been pillaged, those submarine lairs still held the promise of riches. And many Men had been attracted to that region. As the Elves rode closer they could see them from a distance, smell them, hear them. Brigands, extremely filthy Men. There were also a couple of dozen taller men in dark ceremonial robes. Priests of some sort?
“Do you notice anything, Yrill?” Estarfin asked in a level tone.
She had been looking, but near the water it was so muddy that it was difficult to make things out. “There have been five or six horses ridden up and down this stretch, then a few yards back, it looks like many more came out of the waters and rode on.” Yrill said. “Over twenty. They took no horses with them on that ship, but perhaps they had someone waiting with more? Four of the horses were carrying heavier loads.”
Estarfin and Culufinnel nodded at her words. Then Estarfin halted, and dismounted. He whispered a few words in Quenya to his mare, Norlome, before turning to the others.
“Beyond here they may see us, and probably hear us. We leave the horses. This is no battle-charge, but by the looks of things a tent to tent skirmish. Watch them all. Danel and Parnard could be in any part of the encampment.”
“Most of the Men look little different to those in the Breelands. Some capable, some not,” Culufinnel commented, dismounting and taking up sword and shield.
“We know not at all what those Priests can do. Sorcerers, by the look of them. At the least they may strike fear in the hearts of the others so that they fight with more fervor,” Yrill checked her long knives and took up her bow.
“As long as they do not make it rain again!” Estarfin was checking the balance of his deadly long spear.
And they moved out, spread slightly across the terrain, but not so far apart that they could not give aid to each other. Softly, softly they trod. The marble buildings rose higher, both those in the water and up the hill, but as they passed through a broken arch the main camp was set out before them.
“Around a hundred,” Yrill said below the hearing of any Man. She soundlessly drew an arrow from her quiver. “But this feels like a strange place. There is much darkness.”
“It is infested with the Latecomers,” Estarfin said. He took a firm grasp of his spear, then gestured they should move forward.
Culufinnel stood, sword drawn and shield raised, and looked around, sniffing the air. Though not as unwholesome as some places, it still reeked of decay.
“Do you think they may have the Lady and Parnard in one of the tents?” Yrill whispered.
“Maybe,” Culufinnel whispered back. Then all of a sudden the Captain moved into the shadows as much as he could. “One comes this way.”
Estarfin and Yrill did likewise on the other side of the arch, and as the Man drew near, Estarfin reached out an arm and hurriedly dragged him into the shadows too. The man had no time to call a warning.
The first tent, a large red and gold pavilion, lay to the left. There were only two men standing guard. It was time. No call or cry left any of the Elves' lips at that point. All were focused, concentrating on what must be done. The guards fell almost simultaneously as Yrill loosed two arrows in swift succession.
“Very neat work, Yrill. Come! We must search the tent,” Culufinnel said, as he dashed through its open flap and slashed at the men inside, killing them before they could draw weapon. Estarfin was close behind. “Danel?” He called twice. “Parnard?” Yrill was last to enter, she searched to no avail.
The three elves exited and looked deeper into the courtyard. Two large tents faced each other, a roaring fire lit between them. A dozen Men were outside, some on guard, some drying themselves from the earlier rain. Most were garbed in the black, priest-like robes, and all carried swords.
“We cannot go round them. There is no room to pass behind their tents,” Yrill whispered.
“Then let us go through them,” announced Estarfin.
The Men turned at the sound of his voice, their faces grim as each took hold of his weapon. Then Estarfin was upon them, his long wicked blade cutting them down like grass. He shouted at them in Quenya. Yrill recognised the word ‘die’. They seemed to be obliging. She fired four arrows into the small melee, bringing down four. Estarfin gave her a moment’s look of admiration and then encouragement.
Yes, though servants of Sauron, these were still Men, and Yrill rarely killed Men, but this group were as hateful as orcs to her.
They made a thorough check of the two tents. Yrill did not voice her suspicion that, if these Men had Danel and Parnard, they would be keeping them near the center of their camp. Through another arch they walked, and, as there had been no reaction to their encounter, they kept again to what shadows they could. The Men in the next part of the camp were yet unaware of the danger, and there was more room to maneuver in this second courtyard. The pavilion-like tents were spread further apart, and there were lit fires with several men loitering around each. Once in the open, all the Men would know they were there.
“Ready?” Yrill whispered, nocking her bow again.
Both nodded.
“Die, servants of Sauron,” she shouted as three more men fell in swift succession. Estarfin and Culufinnel rushed forward, Estarfin slaying those on the left, Culufinnel throwing his spear into those on the right. Yrill shot those on both sides. She was expecting some form of sorcery, some black cloud that blinded them, or a flurry of bats falling on them, but her arrows had killed those in the black robes that hung back at the the start of the onslaught. The three elves moved forward leaving the dead on the ground.
Culufinnel entered the tent on his side, and the clash of blades and shouting was heard, then silence. He soon emerged, shaking his head. “I do not see them here.”
Estarfin kicked out at a dagger-wielding priest with his steel-shod boot and the man fell, his face crushed into the back of his skull.
“Keep some alive to question?” Yrill called over the killing ground. “We shall not get any answers from the dead.
Estarfin looked back at her. “Keep searching,” he yelled over his shoulder.
Yrill ran speedily among the fallen, reclaiming arrows while she could, while the Men from the further courtyard now came running, two, three at a time at Estarfin and Culufinnel.
“Danel? Parnard?” Estarfin called again.
Finding a good spot to shoot her arrows from, the huntress was again in the fray. She fired six, eight arrows, each finding their mark. Each one she saw as an orc, one of those who ravaged her home. It made the slaughter easier for her. Once again she was standing on the rampart of her city, bringing down those who were hacking the legs from running children. She had no mercy left.
She plunged through the open flap of another large tent. Three men, three arrows. ‘Lady Danel? Lord Parnard?” She started echoing Estarfin's desperate calls. But there was no answer. Back out in the open, the ground was littered with the dead, all dead, not dying. Estarfin was thorough, and she could see that Captain Culufinnel was not taking any prisoners for questioning as he cut his way to the rear of the courtyard. She looked over to her right, where the lake was ebbing and flowing over the land and much of the nearby ground was mud. Her sharp eyes caught sight of several more sets of hoof prints. Had Danel and Parnard truly been brought further in? Or was it simply brigands reporting what they had found on patrols? She knew not.
“More tents are that way,” Estarfin said, pointing east past a group of several tall dark conifers. “They will be there,” he added, sounding convinced by his own utterance.
‘No, they will not,’ Yrill thought sadly. She had an increasing suspicion that they were not in that place at all. Yet she could see the conviction in Estarfin’s eyes, that he only had to press on a little further and he would have Danel back, have his dear friend Parnard back. ‘Valar have mercy on him. He is adrift without his dreams.’
She watched the old warrior run past the trees, spear in hand and heading for the uttermost tent Culufinnel had not yet reached. “Danel, Parnard?” he called out.
The only reply was a rush of warriors in front of a line of priests who looked as if they defended something of value.
“They may be unable to speak. They may be gagged,” Culufinnel said. It was true enough, but it did not ‘feel’ the case to Yrill. She felt the passing of time as slow, being wasted, but where were they to look without any knowledge of the captor’s plans?
Estarfin was shouting at the fighters as he slew them. “Where are they?” None could have voiced an answer even if they wanted to as the spear twisted and spun through them all.
Then of a sudden it was over. Almost.
There was no answer to his calls, no sign of the captives, so Estarfin took one of the very few men yet living, a man with a broken leg, and gutted him with his dagger. ‘Forgive me,’ he had uttered in Quenya. He had waited until the screams of agony had stopped, then hauled the man to his feet, pulling wide his arms so that his entrails had tumbled forth.
“What have you seen? Tell us all you know. You have my word I will end this swiftly and painlessly.”
Yrill struggled not to gag. The stench, the sight, the act of orc-like brutality. Captain Culufinnel had walked away the instant he realised what Estarfin was about to do. He had advised offering the Man his life in return for information but Yrill knew that Estarfin would not let a Man live. The Captain then moved to stand some distance away with his back turned to them. But she was a Nolde. She would stand at Estarfin’s side, though everything in her was revolted. She had watched orcs gut her people, and laughingly twist their knives in the bellies of dying folk. Estarfin did not laugh. Indeed, he was pale of face and grim of expression, but what he was doing was more akin to an Orc than any Elf. Oh, she had said to him before he began that she would extract information with satisfaction. She thought he may have misunderstood her. He had momentarily looked at her with distaste.
“I am a killer. I will do what is needful for our people,” she had said.
“As am I. but there is no need to be cruel. They are little more than animals. Remember that. When we hunt the deer we do so swiftly and with mercy. These Men know no better, are no better. We do this because we must. But to take satisfaction in it…?”
Gazing at him, at what he had done, Yrill could see he spoke true. She had only even seen him kill swiftly and cleanly. There was no pleasure at all in what he had done; was there almost shame? But as the man finally began to speak, Estarfin sighed and looked ‘satisfied’. Not joyful, not pleased, but satisfied that he had achieved what was needed. He kept his word, of course. The man died swiftly and without any further pain.
That was how she felt. A duty had been done.
They made their way back to the horses, killing several more men, mostly brigands this time, who emerged from the ruins. “There will be more, buried like ticks in this place.” Estarfin signaled that they ran to the horses. There were not enough brave enough ticks to follow.
~ ~ ~
They rode back to the High Kings Crossing, halting, once they were far enough away from the ruins of Annuminas to clean their weapons, and the blood and gore from themselves. But there was no time for resting. If what the Man had said was true, the party who took Danel and Parnard were only a couple of hours ahead, and heading for Fornost, and after that Angmar. And the kidnapping was on the order of some fearsome High Sorceress of the South.
