“Quick, Miss Lithea! They may be in there.”
Culufinnel whirled around and saw a brown-haired halfling in a snug green coat standing by his elbow. As he was about to open his mouth and say something, another halfling, wearing a long dress and broad-brimmed hat trimmed with gaudy feathers, spoke up. “He's not impressed, Tolbold dear.”
“Who are you people? I am Captain Culufinnel of Celondim.”
“‘Scuse us, Captain Elf, we’re from Tighfield. Oh! Hullo,” the first hobbit said to Estarfin with a cheery wave. “Remember me, Lord? Tolbold of Tighfeld? An’ this here is Miss Lithea.”
Estarfin nodded at the hobbits but looked uncertain.
“We come ter rescue our friends. We be followin’ rumours an' tracks - an’, oh! There is Henepa, sittin’ over yonder! Hurrah! We found her!” Tolbold cried.
“You did not find her. We found her, injured, sitting by the road, and brought her here with us, beyond my better judgment,” Culufinnel told him, and bracing his shield turned to Estarfin. “We must break down this door!”
“Then what are ye waitin’ fer! Do ye want me ter charge in th’ front?” Lithea squealed, poking a small dagger around in the air.
Culufinnel paused, incredulous. He wanted nothing of the sort.
“Perhaps there is a back door,” suggested Estarfin.
“Go around and look,” the captain told Lithea, “with him,” he said, giving a curt nod over to Tolbold, “and keep out of sight.” He nodded to Estarfin, and as they fixed their shields in preparation for the charge, Yrill stepped back from the tall oaken door, aiming her bow at the snarling wolf’s head device graven in its center, and waited. A thundering crash was heard and a cloud of fetid steam blasted through the broken doorway into their faces.
“Ewww! Somepin’ stinks horrid!” cried Lithea, squeezing past the elves.
Why did she not heed my command to stay outside! thought Culufinnel, but there was no time to do anything about it now. He wrapped his cloak over his mouth and nose, and stumbling forward into the gritty smoke, crashed against a potted palm and hit the edge of a table. Metal clinked and rattled.
“Here be some swords an’ things!” said Lithea, feeling around on the tabletop as the three elves called out for their friends. “Th’ smoke is comin’ from down there!” Dropping to her hands and knees, she crawled towards its source. “Some stairs here,” she said, too late, as Culufinnel tripped over her and tumbled down them.
He lay on the floor, half-dazed, the blood pounding in his ears. Once more did he recall the words of one of the King’s Councillors of the Greenwood: ‘Wisdom is chasing your brother, but he is too fast.’ Perhaps if he had lectured Parnard on the importance of staying at home with Mother, rather than taking up arms - but he never listened to him anyway.
When Parnard came to the Golodhrim of Imladris, he was a complete stranger, lured, no doubt, by ancient tales of their power and grandeur, and now, due to his constant abode with them, he fancied himself as one of their court, now styling himself as the ‘High Lord’. Exactly what was that title supposed to mean? It had brought him nothing but neck-deep trouble. To think that Parnard allowed himself to fall into the hands of Men, a second time! An overpowering, almost violent sense of irritation seized at him. Yet still he was ready to save his brother. With a muttered oath Culufinnel raked a hand over his hair and shook his head to clear it. Something, some unseen malevolence was waiting, lurking in the darkness, threatening their will; as soon as he crossed the threshold of the house he sensed its presence - it was a trap!
Culufinnel scrambled to his feet and backed away, breathing shallowly, until he felt the firmness of a stone wall behind him. He sunk his fingertips in its crevices, glad to feel something solid in the swirling shadows. “Speak up, or be cut down,” he said, and dreaded the reply.
The house was crammed full of curios and cinnabar-lacquered furniture, brought at great expense from lands far south to please its avaricious and mercurial owner; the fire had been kindled in the basement and was fed by all the combustibles. The flames streamed up the walls, catching the rafter and boards alight, and the blaze burst through the roof. High above in a garret room beakers and bottles full of deadly poison, the special study of the Sorceress, hissed and boiled in the heat. Soon a toxic mist would descend upon them through the clouds of smoke and lurid light.
“Oh me oh my!” wailed Lithea, for she, too, sensed the evil aura emanating from the abhorrent reliquary in the corner. “Captain,” she called out, trying to keep her voice steady, “th’ beams be creakin’ like th' wind in th’ treetops - somepin’ is ‘bout ter give - an’ what is that poppin’ sound? Fire-werks?”
Culufinnel stood mute against the wall as if turned to stone. Then he made a loud cry, and rushing forward, kicked out his boot and sent the unholy object flying into the flames.
“Where are they!” Estarfin shouted, tramping down the stairs. “Do you see anyone?”
“Help! Help us, for pity’s sake,” said a feeble voice.
“It's Guy!” said Lithea, crawling over to him. “Oh! Poor Guy! What have they done t’ye?”
Estarfin followed her through the smoke as best as he could, barely avoiding a burning beam that crashed down, missing him by a hair's breadth.
“Estarfin? Is that you? No, no, get out,” murmured Danel.
“We must leave!” said Estarfin, gagging between coughs.
“My legs are too weak. I cannot stand,” she told him through lips white as milk, and shivered despite the heat of the rising flames.
Culufinnel appeared through the haze. “Parnard!” he yelled, until his head reeled as the choking fumes threatened to overcome them. Grabbing Gaisarix up, he stuffed him under one arm and covered him as well as he could with his cloak, then croaked out to Lithea, tears watering from his smoke-filled eyes, “I cannot see. Take my hand, and lead us out.”
“What about me? Put me down an’ I’ll find them stairs! I an’t useless, you know,” a disgruntled Gaisarix mumbled into Culufinnel’s armpit.
“Th’ smoke rises this way!” said Lithea, feeling her way to the staircase.
Estarfin lifted Danel up, and carrying her to the stairs, placed a cautious foot on the first step. It creaked ominously. “Go before me; the stairs may be giving way,” he told them. Lithea went first, followed by Culufinnel, who ascended each stair slowly as his legs grew weaker and more sluggish, the weight of the hobbit he carried shifting his balance, making each step a precarious teeter as the burning stairs buckled and lurched.
“Hurry!” urged Lithea, as he staggered past the landing. “Not that way! This way is th' door!” cried Lithea, pushing him in the right direction, and before she fled the flames, silent-footed Yrill snatched the swords from the table.
“Oh, dear! Is everyone alright?” said Tolbold, as the elves and hobbits raced out of the burning building pursued, it seemed, by a large cloud of black smoke, and collapsed on the ground coughing. Concerned at the sickly greenish hue of their faces and reddened, tear-streaming eyes, as if they had just smoked some rubbish pipe-weed, he ran among them, thumping their backs and offering water.
Culufinnel wiped his cloak across his face, looking up in time to see the high steeple on the decrepit old house cave in with a crash, sending sparks soaring high into the night air.
“Here, Lady, sit up now and have a drop,” said Lithea to Danel, and held a leather flask of brandy to her lips.
Estarfin rinsed his mouth with water and spat out a mouthful of blackness. Despite the circumstances, he smiled as Danel slipped her hand in his. “Be still, gather your strength,” he whispered to her in Quenya. “Captain? Any sign of your brother?”
“No...no sign,” replied Culufinnel.
“What!” cried Tolbold. “No sign of High Lord Parnard? We lost him?”
“There was no time to look. The house was full of poisonous reek.” He watched the fire burn for a few moments more, then taking up his spear, rushed off.
“Wait! Come back, Master Elf!” said Gaisarix. But he was already far away, being speedy of foot, and heeded him not. They could hear him shouting, calling his brother's name over and over into the darkness. Eventually he returned to them, weary, his soot-streaked face grim.
“High Lord Parnard an’t here,” Gaisarix told him. “He be taken south with the others.”
“How do you know that?”
“I heard ‘em talk.”
The Captain motioned for the hobbit to continue.
“Lady Danel, shall I tell ‘em?”
“Tell us what?” said Estarfin.
“They have taken your brother -”
“Yes, yes - we know that! Where have they taken him?” Culufinnel snapped. His patience was nearly gone.
“It is a long tale that must be made short if we are to find him,” she replied, sensing his mood. “The woman who abided here, Zairaphel she calls herself, is a sorceress of Sauron. She took Parnard with her when she left this place yesterday.”
Culufinnel frowned. “For what purpose?”
“Alas! I know not, but she drained my blood until I was near death - I think she is one of those Men who craves life undying. I heard her say that she was to return to her home in Umbar. With her is her sorceress companion, her dwarf servant, and two guardsmen.”
“Is Umbar nearby?” asked Estarfin.
Danel smiled. “It is far south, meldanya, across the waters, south of Gondor. Pelargir is where we must go. I can ride.”
“You must rest, but we must also ride hard on their trail. Norlomë will carry us both swiftly, but carrying two she will falter in time.” Estarfin seemed torn.
Henepa and Lithea sat beside Yrill to marvel at the pile of weapons that she took from the house. “Them’s what I found!” Lithea said in excitement.
Recognizing Danel's sword, Estarfin placed Sarphir upon Danel’s chest. “My thanks,” she said, wrapping her fingers around the scabbard. “We discovered something about these weapons that you forged - but it can wait until there is time for the telling. That other sword you hold, Lithea, belongs to Lord Parnard. He will want it back, when we find him.”
“There is no doubt of that,” Culufinnel said, unsheathing Steel-Thorn to admire the fine work of the blade. “It is a sword meant for a king - or a High Lord.”
Danel laughed. But Culufinnel only looked slightly less frowning as he spoke; he laughed only rarely and was too often melancholic, typical of many elves of the day, and this sadness made him serious and far too sober-minded to allow for much frivolity.
“For a worthy friend,” said Estarfin.
“We will find him,” she vowed, feeling a little stronger. The color was returning to her pale cheeks. “I have much love for my cousin, you know.”
“Ahem!” said Tolbold. “If ye elves don't mind, can we leave this ghastly place, an' ride ter th’ border together? Then we'll make our own way home ter Tighfield.”
