Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stories, they are very funny and very good

Chapter thirteen

Grey morning crept over Osbaston Keep stained with smoke, the plume bent up the valley of the Adorn by the same wind that pushed thick clouds from the coast, drizzling rain on the assembled armies. The increasing light seemed to mock the wails of the women and children guarded in the midst of Elfwine’s troops.

Aragorn sat his battle-hardened destrier and tried to screen out the laments of the dispossessed.

Elfwine had allowed the rag-tag bunch of elderly men, unrepentant women and sulky children to leave the keep with all they could carry or drive before them. Then he ordered the village behind the walls burnt, along with the great hall.

Even in the steady drizzle, thatch and seasoned wood caught and burned with frightening alacrity; just as the wooden gates had burned last night, allowing Elfwine’s éoreds access to the poorly defended interior. It was a tribute to the discipline of the Rohirrim that casualties were minimal, despite some serious provocation by the enraged women who seemed astounded that Elfwine would dare to attack them.

Aragorn turned his horse, scanning the dripping foothills for movement, hoping to see his brothers or Legolas returning from their night’s scouting. Finally he was rewarded for his patience by the faint sound of challenge and counter-challenge ringing from the guards posted at the perimeter of the valley. Hope swelled; perhaps the return of his friends would allow the lifting of the feeling of doom that had been dogging him since early morning. The Elves would have the intelligence he needed to help him make a decision about how big a garrison would be left to prevent the Adorn valley from being re-occupied by the disgraced clan.

The King of Gondor and Arnor tried to disregard the baser desire that nagged at him to engage the phantom clansmen in battle, reminding himself firmly that they were not his problem, they were Elfwine’s. Despite his resolve he found the prolonged inaction wearing. Sighing, he turned his attention back to the party from the hills, following the buzz of reaction until it reached the edge of the circle of black clad guards. Aragorn nodded minutely to his captain and then watched as the party stepped through the gap that opened in the close-held ranks.

Legolas, Elladan and Elrohir stepped into the gap, the twins marching a bound prisoner between them. They were followed by the stout figure of Gimli, acting as rearguard, axe held ready, even in the presence of the King.

“Legolas, brothers, my lord Gimli,” Aragorn inclined his head then turned his gaze onto the miserable captive. “What news?”

***

 Less than four hours later Aragorn rounded the knees of the White mountains in the van of his cavalry, heading back as fast as was humanly possible in an attempt to defend Edoras.

Even as he rode, his heart was shadowed; he knew Arwen had somehow become involved in this conflict, and as the day advanced his feelings of dread increased.

“Aragorn! The horses! We must slacken the pace awhile,” Elladan, one of the few people who could have distracted the King of Gondor at this point, yelled at his brother.

For a moment it seemed that Aragorn would forge on, despite the damage to Rohan’s precious horses, betraying the unspoken trust put in the King to not take advantage of the alliance. Even Aragorn’s brother recoiled from the burning look the irate monarch shot his way.

Human rage met eternal elven calm and for the moment Aragorn’s fire was quenched. The King raised a mailed arm and slowed his mount.

“Walk then, for an hour only, then all who are with me, ride again!”

King Elfwine caught up, along with his own guard, and met the madness in Aragorn’s eye with his own desperation.

His family was in Edoras, as was the seat of his government. He knew Aragorn felt his wife was at risk, by whatever arcane method he had of knowing trouble, but Rohirrim tradition called Elfwine’s kingdom forfeit if he lost the Golden city. Aragorn looked at his strained face and then nodded again understanding the other man’s fears.

Both Kings dismounted and walked, silent, grim and purposeful, until they were met by a party of Silvan warriors, riding out of the misty rain to tell them of Thranduil’s confirmation of the tale told by Gimli’s captive. They told also, somewhat less eagerly, of Arwen’s ill-timed visit that had led to her capture during the occupation of Edoras. They told of Meduseld besieged and citizen battling citizen within and without the city walls.

Aragorn listened and grew cold, grim and even more determined. He stripped off most of his heavy armour until he stood before his company in a Ranger’s fighting strip and then eyed Elfwine and his guard of blond-maned Rohirrim.

“I ride now,” he declared in ringing tones, “and naught on this plain will stop me until I reach Edoras.” He drew Anduril and pointed in the direction he intended travelling. “I ride to rescue my Queen,” he pointed the sword at his soldiers. “Guard me,” he swung the sword to include his brothers and the King of Rohan. “Accompany me, if you will,” he slammed the sword back into its scabbard and mounted his now rested war horse, “but I wait for no man.”

He wheeled his mount in a great arc and then set off at a gallop to the east, Elfwine and the armed company at his heels, the Elves riding on the flank and the great army of Gondor and Rohan trailing behind like a cloak of fury over the rolling wet grassland.

***

Gimli straightened up after shifting the last damp rock to the top of a teetering pile poised over the widest of the winding game trails that crisscrossed the mountains at the head of Harrowdale. The dwarf peered along the scarp face that was grey and dark in the late afternoon light. Everywhere he could see evidence of busy groups of dwarves rigging ambushes and barricades along the mountain paths that allowed access to the interior of the White Mountain range and eventually to the Adorn valley and the home of the Withergield clan.

For nearly two days his people had been at this labour, their mission to prevent the cursed clansmen from retreating back into the hills and vanishing like so much mist again. The clan may have been able to disappear after every previous encounter, but this time the dwarves that called these mountains home held the high ground.

Legolas paused as the turn of the mountain path revealed Gimli and his completed rock pile. This mission he had accepted  reluctantly. Aragorn had been cold and furious once he had learned of the continued treachery of the hill clan. The Dwarf had met Legolas’ eye, the two communicating wordlessly that they would ride to support their old friend in his trouble, but the King had begged Gimli to secure these mountain passes, and Legolas, torn, had decided to go with Gimli rather than Aragorn. Elladan and Elrohir would of course ride with the King, but he could not bring himself to leave the dwarves with no elven help.

“How goes the work, friend Gimli?”

Gimli was startled by the sudden query from behind him but had trained himself over the years to never betray surprise by a physical jerk. Then Legolas would have won!

“We are as prepared as we will ever be, laddie.” Gimli turned to catch the suggestion of a smirk on his friend’s face; it was hard to fool an elf. “Have you caught any more creepers with your bow?”

Legolas shook his head, and then surveyed the ongoing work, much as Gimli had been doing a few moments before.

“Nay, it is early for cravens and deserters to be trickling from the fray. How fares Edoras, think you?”

Gimli followed Legolas’ line of sight with his own frowning regard, as if they could, by sheer will, pierce the bulk of Starkhorn in front of them to see Edoras on its knoll.

He looked back to see a look of thoughtful calculation on Legolas’ face.

“Now the traps are set, how many of your people do you think you will need to defend these hills Gimli?’

Gimli smiled grimly into his beard; sometimes his friend was as transparent as glass.

“We are over-manned, if defence is all of your concern.” He turned a shrewd glance on his friend. “Think you we could take a troop of the best and gain some exercise more suited to our weapons?”

“My bow arm itches, Gimli. It may be the end of its healing, or mayhap a desire for revenge. Think you Gliver could cope without you?”

Gimli grinned openly now. “It is how he copes best, no matter how he protests. Shall we?” He waved the elf forward with a mock bow, and the two warriors trotted off down the path to find Gimli’s second and arrange matters to their satisfaction.

By nightfall the valley of the Snowbourn echoed again with the steady mile-eating beat of dwarven feet, and the fleeting shadow of one elf.  Following the rushing river to battle.

***

Minuial paused, invisible in the watery night, as two groups of rain-drenched human raiders challenged each other in the lane below, then crossed paths splashing away from each other over puddle-seamed cobbles, the lights from their guttering torches casting even deeper shadows onto the roofs above. Getting back into the city was actually proving more of a challenge to complete undetected than getting out of the city had been the previous evening.

“I feel I have travelled this path before,” Minuial remarked softly, if facetiously, to her elven companions when the way below them was clear again.

Minuial lassoed one of the solid chimneys across from her, secured the rope on her side, and then ran lightly across to the slippery tiles of Gleowyn’s roof. Once in place she unlimbered her bow and covered first one then the other of her companions as they followed her across the gap. The rope followed obediently when she shook it.

Finally Minuial had managed to get back to Gleowyn’s home, although the buildings were looking rather more battered than when she had left, reluctantly, the night before. Circling the compound via the rooftops before approaching it directly, Minuial had seen both the front and back doors violently flung from their hinges, and signs of fire, doused by the rain, streaking soot up from one wall’s windows.

Minuial moved now with utmost caution and hoped that she would not find all of her friends butchered below.

The skylight remained securely boarded up so the three elves negotiated the pitched roof until they were just above the courtyard, then used the obliging elven rope to slither down into the smoke-scented courtyard. Minuial felt her heart sink; bodies lay like so many logs in the oily puddles, a group spread like a fan around the ruined door.

“Explosives,” Minuial muttered to Camthalion on her left. The other elf nodded, sniffing the air with a grimace. The sour smell of the black powder hung like a curse over the building.

The elves followed Minuial into the main section through yet another shattered doorway, the warden leading them on through smoke-damaged corridors towards the kitchen at the back.

A sepulchral groan rose from the dark threshold ahead and all three elves flattened themselves against the walls, instinctively damping their glow.

The groan sounded again, along with the sound of a breath indrawn in pain as the person attempted to move.

“Wait here,” Minuial commanded, then she slipped forward to investigate, knife in hand.

The kitchen was lit fitfully by the red remains of a fire smouldering in the large grate. More bodies littered the floor, but only one was moving, albeit fitfully, trying to gain his knees from a position adjacent to the solid legs of the huge kitchen table.

Minuial moved silently to the man’s side and halted all movement, including his breathing, by slipping her knife under his chin. Cold steel spoke a universal language. 

The fire glittered in the man’s rolling eye as he tried to identify his assailant. “Minuial?” he squeaked.

“Telfaren?” Minuial swiftly pulled the man into her arms and removed the knife. The man seemed to sag, losing consciousness again briefly.

“Silmarwen! Camthalion! Come, secure this room and let us have some light.” The others were swiftly at her side and rushed to do her bidding even as Telfaren came to again, his eyelids fluttering then opening in pained alarm. He reached a bloodied hand to grasp at Minuial’s sleeve.

“They have the Queen, and my wife and my son. It was that whore’s son, Frecern. “ He gasped for breath, eyes darting around the ruined room. “ We tried to stop them but they held my babe at knife point.” Telfaren strained in her grasp, peering into the shadows. “My babe, my wife, Minuial, tell me, are they here?”

Minuial glanced around at then up at the two other elves. They shook their heads.

“They are not here, man. Here there are only bodies, and the ruin of fire and crossbow. The Queen and your wife and son are not here.”

The man looked desperate and twisted in her grasp, as if to see for himself, jarring one of his many injuries and sending him back into the halls of unconsciousness once again. Minuial sighed over the weakness of humankind, but put him gently down, careful of the bloodied area on the side of his head.

“We will stay here until he is stable, then search for Arwen. Let us move him closer to the fire so we may dress the worst of his ills. If his wife lives, she would have him hale. Silmarwen first watch please, Camthalion some water?”

Camthalion slipped outside to the well through the broken back door, and when he returned he was supporting another survivor. Minuial recognised Arwen’s captain, Throndar, despite the blow that had mashed his nose across his face and the two crossbow bolts that protruded from a shoulder and his side. The old soldier looked battered but determined.

“You were right. It really is a stupid weapon, the crossbow,” he commented to Minuial. Plucking the bolt from his side.

Minuial could see that it had only pieced his armour. He looked at her expression and explained.

“It pinned me to the wooden surround of the well. Then this one went through my shoulder guard, it cut the skin below but did no real damage, but the force of the blow had rammed my face into the well housing and broke my nose. I got left for dead, because, you know, you don’t survive being shot by a crossbow. My nose hurt so much I didn’t argue, and I might have passed out for a little while.”

Minuial acknowledged his attempt at humour with a faint grin.

“The Queen is hostage?”

“To my shame, Warden. I promised Aragorn death before her life was in danger. I know not how I will face him in my failure.”

Minuial bent over Telfaren, sponging gently at his battered head, blood seeped queasily from the deep wound in his scalp. She glanced up at the old warrior again. “Could you hear where they were taking her?”

“Meduseld. It fell this afternoon to their demon fire. They claim some sort of right to its throne. They will take the Queen thence.”

“And his family?” Minuial looked at the man at her feet with some compassion.

“The Queen claimed Gleowyn was under her protection since her husband was slain at her feet. “ The warrior watched as Minuial ripped a serving cloth to act as a bandage. “ I am glad they were incompetent in his case also.”

“We will wish for much incompetence over the next few days I warrant, Captain. Until Aragorn and Elfwine’s armies arrive I suspect we will needs be in hiding. Even the elven King cannot storm Meduseld alone.  I think we will spy and provide some information to our lords.”

“Sounds like a plan.” The old warrior sat down rather heavily at the table, and leaned on his hands for a moment, more sorely affected by his wounds than he was prepared to admit. “Spying, aye. That might work.”

TBC

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Rose Sared