Duzir

The force of the impact knocked him off his feet, throwing him hard against the wall. For a long time, Khardun just lay there, his heart pounding against his ribs. Slowly he slid his hands under him, wincing as his skinned palms scraped against grit, and pushed himself up. A fine grey dust of pulverized rock hung in the freezing air and in his beard. He rubbed his eyes. 

Yaelithe in Linhir was possibly her only hope. But it was a distance away, and Khahaynd was injured in body and even more so in spirit. She was not sure she would make it. She had fled the Elves, not because of their weapons, but because of their love. Strange, unknown, unwanted emotions had been evoked in her. She had no time for them.

The storm of the previous night had been fierce, almost as if foreshadowing a mighty clash of arms. Rain had struck the roofs of the fortress and the surrounding ground like the arrows of an attacking army; trees as strong as any senchenal were battered, their limbs ripped from them, some even fell under the continued assault. In my room in the tower I had felt like hiding away under the bed, I had wanted to hide, but it just would not do.

Khahaynd thought about Zairaphel and her frequent mentioning of handsome men; clearly that was her weakness on full display, and she wondered briefly if her brother Naraal was handsome enough to hold the Sorceress's favor, so that she could gain something by it. “You have a traitor to Prince Imrahil?” she said to her, raising her glass of wine in silent congratulation. “That is most unusual and useful.”

It had been a long ride more than a difficult one. The path from Bree to Angmar was not well-worn, neither were there welcoming places to stay, not even for one such as her. Khahaynd had known that when she set out she would be on her own until she reached Lady Zairaphel’s house. But difficult? Nay, there were Men around Trestlebridge, but not the sort she would waste any time on. They were not interesting nor threatening enough for her.

“Sire, your armour is excellent, but may I suggest something?” said Naraal as he stood before the decrepit old house with the wolf’s head device carved upon its ancient oaken door.

Naraal could not help but wonder what he had gotten himself into. Angmar had never featured highly on his ‘places to visit’ list, yet here he was, sitting in the shade of a rock, in bleak inhospitable lands, keeping an eye on a bunch of Angmarrim who were about to sacrifice someone they had captured on a wayside altar.