The roar of orcs filled the air. Cirvalad could smell their blood as arrows pierced the first few – but the cries of pain and panic that came from his good companions mingled with the brutish sounds of orcish fury and demise.
He stepped from cover mace and knife lashing out with practiced ease – but these were not goblins nor the slighter uruk scouts as one may find this close top the road in these dark days. They were bigger, stronger, older and more savage than the breed that so often slunk from the misty mountains or ruined holds of lost Arnor. These, Cirvalad realised in a moment of dread clarity, were Angmarrian orcs – or kin to them. Monsters that had walked once beneath the witch-king’s banner, and that was bad. The ambush held little surprise for them, the shock factor that would disorient goblins and lesser orcs of the mountains and even the wicked breeds from the dark land itself would do nothing here.
Worse still they were outnumbered.
Cirvalad’s eyes widened at the small horde that lurked behind the ruins. Vratni was getting the trapped woman free and moving her away, but Tivlyn and Meltharion were hard pressed already. Boots and Wittkun alike were finding themselves the unwanted targets of more of the creatures pouring out of the ruin and the new arrivals elf arrows were finite.
They had managed to happen into a warband. No wonder the local defenders had had great woes with dealing with them. This was something the companions had not been ready to deal with.
“How had we missed the signs” Cirvalad thought to himself as his arm jarred while he desperately fended off a creature that seemed to swell as the violence clashed around them. “A warband should have been easy to see, to know it was here…” and as he thought it the answer came to him. The webs, the shadows, they had seeded the path of the companions and had seen an easy quick kill to its enemies and hiding a small warband would be well within its’ abilities. He should have known from the night before as he sang sweet songs on the hill to keep it from their camp.
They had made a mistake, a simple misjudgement, and it would kill them.
His knife flashed out as he gritted his teeth. He could fight this and kill plenty of these orcs, but doing so would mean losing some if not all these hearty folk who had rallied so readily against the shadow. He could move wider and faster, outpace and out match even these orcs, but the cost would be measured in blood. But to stand ground here and grind steel on steel as they swarmed – that was death too.
A whisper clawed at his mind. Not an intrusive or subversive voice from anything outside of his thoughts, but one deep within them. His hands danced steel as mace and knife flashed and countered and cut and countered, doing little more than stretching the moment into an age of the world.
Fingolfin standing upon a shore, watching the east for ships that would never come from his kin.
Kinslaying and the laughter of Melkor who is Morgoth.
A hammer striking metal in the smith’s cadence.
Metal folding, burning, gleaming and keeping its radiance ‘ere the forging of the world.
Dragon fire, blazing lashes, and the screaming of a city.
Cirvalad mouthed a word.
“Ahtacana”
He felt heat at his hip and the fury of the assault seemed to slow, doubt flickered in the gleaming wicked red eyes of the orcs that pressed him. The mace slipped from his fingers as he said the word again.
“Ahtacana” the word alone was a song sung into existence. It held Meaning and it was bound in the art of steel craft.
The world fell away and all around him was light and laughter and song. Cirvalad laughed with it, and it was a dread thing. Terrible was his aspect as his hand moved towards the hilt of the fine sword that hung low in its scabbard. He sang the name, and the ruins trembled as fingers closed around the soft leather grip.
The orcs knew panic now, and fear as a silver ribbon of flame seemed to come alive in the hands of the noldorin. Marks upon orcflesh burned like they had been branded as he stepped towards them, and the sunlight was now bright upon his shoulders and his joyful smile held nothing but the doom of all wicked things – and much was wicked in his sight.
Then it was over.
Orcs were dying or running, friendly steel bit at unfriendly flesh and the song of stone and grass and all living things washed over him and he saw not the companions but white shores – and then for a time he knew nothing more.
