Leonalta (Radiant Shadow)

Part Two: Carn Dûm
"This is a dark day, fit for naught but lamentations and blood-letting. But there is nothing left to kill and we lack even the dread evidence of his death to ease the heart so sorely tried already. I will say this: it would be better to slit my own throat and perish here than be the one to carry this news home." Thus spoke Celonlir (Riversong) standing on the ravaged land skirting Carn Dûm amid the carnage of battle and the stench of riven flesh.

His herth (troop of warriors) gazed upon the reeking mass of cooling carcasses, blades and bows and knives still clutched within their rigid fists, chests heaving to secure enough air, hearts racing in that mad mix of fear and thrill and awakening sorrow every war incites. Not one among them could yet summon words to counter their captain's dire statement, so great was the shock over the outcome of the skirmish.

Some collapsed where they stood, joining the wreckage on the ground, injuries ignored in the frenzied fight to survive getting the better of them at last. The hale among them hastened to lend aid. Of the thirty-six silvan warriors under Celonlir's command, three were wounded and two slain while one was captive, taken hostage to secure their foe's safe retreat.

Otherwise, they would not remain lingering in dazed and impotent outrage on the barren plain. Otherwise, they would have given chase and run the last of the vermin down. Such had been their intent when unexpected enemy reinforcements had intercepted the elves, blocking their advance and allowing the routed cowards to make good their escape, taking the prisoner with them.

The enemies' losses were greater but this gave the elves no semblance of satisfaction. Indeed, the mingled refuse from the mangled bodies of both Orcs and men was a chilling sight, for those two races had not fought united against the woodland folk since the Last Alliance. They were poorly attired with little armour and iron blades that had seen better treatment as ore crushed beneath the grinding weight of the stone that spawned it. The Orcs were typically malformed and grotesque. The humans were lean and beastly with ragged unkempt hair and a look about them suggesting not all their heritage was adan.

The implications made the First Born shudder in horrified sympathy, though they had just engaged in mortal combat with the freakish humans, for to see any of Iluvatar's Children so desecrated and perverted was an affront to the soul. It was this virtue of compassion that had destroyed two innocents and cost the youngest member of their herth, lost not to death and the peace of Mandos but to anguished imprisonment and the slow ruin wrought by torture.

The Wood Elves moved amongst the offal, dispatching what Orcs still breathed but seeking for any among the ferin (humans) yet alive. Everyone understood the urgent need to learn the strength of the army awaiting them in the mountain fortress of Angmar's black-hearted witch-king. The Wraith Lord had departed to the foul confines of Mordor's desolation centuries past, but there remained in the stronghold untold numbers of his confederates, sufficient to be a scourge upon the land and a chronic plague upon the honest folk trying to rejuvenate the forsaken northlands into a decent, wholesome country.

"Hîr Celonlir, you cannot mean to give him up to these fiends," the voice speaking was tight with constrained anger and the promise of rebellion against such a notion. "Let me and one of your archers scout ahead and see what defences the enemy employs."

Celonlir scowled over the charge of abandonment as his grip upon his knife tightened. "I am not your Lord nor would I ever leave one of my own in the hands of Orcs and mis-bred men." His tone was harsher than he had intended and he regretted the intemperate rebuke instantly, watching as the soldier stiffened and his face coloured.

It was difficult under these conditions for Celonlir to recall that this one was young for he was a man rather than elf-kind; thus his years accounted to greater maturity than they would for one of the First Born. It was difficult to accept that this soldier carried that age-old prejudice against silvan ways and that this was a fault of his poor upbringing rather than a sign of low character. It was difficult but Celonlir knew that somehow he must show courtesy and refrain from making enemies when allies were so desperately needed. The captain sighed and rubbed his jaw with the back of his gory hand for a blow had landed there and he was feeling it now.

"I thank you for your offer; please forgive my rude rejoinder for I know you intended no affront. I am Celonlir, son of Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. The hostage taken is my younger brother and I…I cannot…I will not go home without him. I would ask for you and one of your lieutenants to seek aid. It will take greater numbers than those assembled here to destroy Carn Dûm."

"Nay, it was I who spoke out of turn," the man was stunned to learn he addressed an elven prince. His next thought was to marvel at the restraint this warrior showed in light of the personal torment the events must induce. Only it bothered him, that reserve, for every minute of hesitation left the prisoner in escalating danger. It did not help that he felt in part responsible for the circumstances they now faced. "I am Aragorn, a Ranger among the remnant of the dúnedain. Surely there is a chance your brother might be spared if we act quickly," the man ventured.

"Spared? You are mad if you believe that." Another elf advanced in rapid strides toward the mortal and in spite of himself Aragorn fell back a pace under the threat of menace the warrior projected. The silvan halted a hand's breadth from the man's face and glared coldly. "They know we will retrieve our kinsman even if you do not. They know we will slay every last one of them. They will take their revenge in advance and it will be a mercy should they kill Legolas."

Aragorn was not alone among the elves but had at his back twenty seasoned Rangers. They reacted to the tension by drawing closer together and facing the elves in fighting stance, for though they had joined the battle to reinforce the First Born, they would not allow their captain to be harmed. Twenty men, even of the race of Númenór, were never a match for thirty elven warriors, however, and all of them knew it.

"Sîdh," Celonlir said quietly and reached for Aragorn, drawing him away from the irate elf. "We will not do evil's work for it has a surfeit of servants so employed."

"As you command, Celonlir." The silvan flashed a last blistering warning at the man through amber eyes and stalked away. He signalled one of his comrades and the pair set off in the direction of the enemy castle, quickly diminishing from human sight under the speed generated by the smooth elegance of their long, loping gait.

"Will you go and gather what soldiers may heed your voice?" Celonlir asked the man again. He knew well who Aragorn was for word of the Dúnadan had filtered through the thick cover of Greenwood's canopy. "These are not our lands and we have no kin here, yet I am thinking you do. You brought these men into a skirmish that was not your own for our sake, and I am hoping you will not turn your back on us at this stage."

"Your trust is not misplaced. I owe a debt to the elf taken captive, but even were that not true I would do all in my power to see him freed," answered Aragorn, standing as tall as he could and bowing to the Wood Elf. In his heart, though, he was worried, for he did not like to leave his men at large among the volatile silvan elves. At the same time, he believed himself the most certain to locate and enlist the sort of forces the assault would require. He looked upon the hardened eyes of his Rangers, each one's iron expression stating more clearly than words their support of his actions, whatever objective he might choose.

Among these rugged fellows casualties were light with but one killed and three wounded, for they had come upon the battle at its ending. Though intending to join forces with the Wood Elves, the humans' sudden foray into the melee had been misinterpreted. For a short interval the silvans had thought themselves beset on two fronts, and in the confusion the enemy was abetted. Some of the silvans turned from the fleeing Orcs to counter the charging Rangers. It was just then that attention faltered and the lost warrior had been put in a vulnerable position.

Aragorn had found himself fronting a matched set of golden-haired, blue-eyed Wood Elves and was nearly skewered by the long slender hunting knife with which the taller one attacked. The other intervened and halted what surely would have been a fatal blow, taking a shallow slice across the forearm for his trouble. 'Tirio na megil tîn.' ( Look at his sword) the elf had said and for a second his vision had locked upon Aragorn's, transmitting encouragement and gratitude, before wheeling about back into the sea of abhorrent Orcs and evil hybrid men. Almost at once he was separated from his brother and the man.

'Mellyn, hyn na mellyn!" (Friends, they are friends!) Celonlir had cried out loudly to halt his herth's error, for of course he was the tall flaxen-maned elf confronting Aragorn. It was in that instant of re-orientation that an opening was made and the captive taken. An arrow had pierced Legolas' thigh and once he was down two Orcs and a man pounced.

Aragorn and Celonlir had fought side by side after that, carving a path through the vile slaves of darkness, confident they would reach the beset elf in time, for they could see that Legolas was still armed and fighting valiantly. He dispatched two of his captors but the moment he arose another arrow caught the same leg and a vicious blow from a spiked club landed solidly just above his knee; down he went again. Even then the impromptu allies did not despair and continued working toward Legolas' position. It was the arrival of the Black Riders, fully armoured and armed, that had sealed the wounded elf's fate.

This host of mounted warriors swept over the plains and divided the warring troops on the ground. It was they that claimed the two immortal lives, beheading the silvans in this initial charge. These were not wraiths but men sworn to their service and proud of the fact. Their horses were as black as pitch, their garments, boots, gloves, leggings and all were darker than tar. Their hauberks and the metal of their swords were so coloured, too. Even the skin of their faces was smudged with charcoal and their lips smeared with kohl. On a moonless night such would slip unnoticed across the landscape to do their evil deeds.

As the combined Rangers and Wood Elves regrouped to battle this new threat, five of the Riders went for the fallen elf. He could not fight against so many and the last the allies saw of him he was between two of the steeds, struggling to free himself from the grasp of the horses' masters. They galloped away, dragging him thus, one wrist lashed to the pommel of each saddle. The remaining Riders not fallen in the field covered this retreat, abandoning the Orcs and men on foot to slaughter by the enraged First Born.

"Let us set this filth afire," one of the Wood Elves proposed, wrenching Aragorn from his rambling thoughts, "and carry our dead to clean ground for interment."

"Aye. Two shall go and escort the bodies to their final rest. Let the masters of Carn Dûm see the beacon fire of their doom this night. May Manwë's breath send the stink and ash into their stronghold to choke them in their sleep." Celonlir announced and murmured agreement arose among his herth.

There was no need for him to assign the task; the elves attended these duties in complete harmony. A pair called to the trio of black horses whose Riders had been felled by arrow or sword. The chargers had bolted from the scene of destruction but were not out of earshot. It did not take much coaxing for the mistreated animals to appreciate their change in fortune and hasten back, eager to be relieved of the burdensome armoured tack, willing to bear the lifeless bodies of the fallen elves.

"Aragorn," one of the Rangers spoke, approaching his captain purposefully. "Our encampment in the North Downs might be a fitting place of rest. We will need to send Dacre to be buried there and mayhap the Wood Elves would not mind to let their kin take final reverie in the same barrow."

"Well spoken, Halbarad," Aragorn smiled grimly. "What say you, Celonlir? It is a fair land and well guarded, even in these dismal times. None would dare desecrate your kinsmen's' remains."

"Are there any trees in this place you speak of?" One of the elves came forward and addressed Halbarad directly. "I would lay my son down beneath living roots if it is possible."

The simple statement shook the man badly and for a long moment he stared into the infinite sorrow in the pale green eyes of the ever-youthful warrior. He swallowed and nodded. "The hills are treed in oak, chestnut, and pine for the most part. The barrows are cut into the hillside with the entrance in a sheltered cove. There is a little creek there."

"That is fitting," said the grieving father and the others of his people managed to convey their approval without words. Soon two Rangers and two elves had secured the deceased on the horses and the small entourage headed west in the gathering dusk.

Aragorn met Celonlir's gaze amid the softly sung silvan lament rising on the air and realised he had no more fears for his men's safety in the company of Greenwood's protectors. The message was plain for elf and man alike: if the dead would repose together as brothers, the living could do not less than forge a bond born of righteous purpose. Aragorn turned his back on the blazing pyre and mounted the remaining war horse, heading southward toward Rivendell with as much speed as the animal could muster.

Continued