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 Sixteen.

Anor rose above the plains of Rohan, her nearly horizontal rays polishing each leaf of Starkhorn’s forest to gold. Birds exulted at her return, filling the air with sweet chatter, abetted in their joy by the song of a wood-elf, welcoming the day.

Legolas finished his praise, and then shared the breath of the forest and meadow for a while, content to wait for his short companion to catch up with him, in his own time.

“Can you see aught?” Gimli finally huffed his way to Legolas’ side, and then peered earnestly into the new morning.

Legolas slanted his companion a tolerant half-smile. Gimli’s path up to Legolas’ perch could clearly be seen as a dark furrow in the dew-whitened grass, pointing like a finger at the temporary camp the other dwarves had set up at the base of the hill. The elf shaded his eyes against Anor’s glare and scanned the exposed plains below them for a moment or two.

“I can see the golden hall of Meduseld.”

“Well, even I can see that, Elf. Edoras is hard to miss on its great hill,” Gimli grumped.

Legolas narrowed his eyes, ignoring the interruption with the ease of long practice. “ I see many people fleeing the city, they pour out like dry sand through open fingers. But look!”  The elf gazed innocently at his friend. “ A ring of elves and men make an arc at a space from the gates, they are detaining the refugees - see?” The elf raised an enquiring eyebrow to Gimli, who glowered at him and then glared into the impenetrable, to him, brilliance.

“Nay, I see not -as you well know.” He screwed up his eyes, and then turned blinking to look at his tall nemesis, haloed now with ghostly after images of the sun. “ Can you work out what is happening?”

Legolas shaded his eyes again, “I can see fighting on the upper slopes of the city. The soldiers wear the livery of Gondor and Rohan, and a few, more barbarously clad, are resisting.” He turned back to his friend, blinking himself, then gazed for a thoughtful space at the great arc of soldiers corralling the fleeing citizens.

“The banners of Imladris and Lasgalen fly there, Gimli, along with the White Tree of Gondor and the Running Horse of Rohan. Methinks our answers lay yonder.” He stood thinking, a long finger curled on his top lip, a slight furrow to his brow, and then something else caught his attention. He placed a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder and turned him westward, so that he could see the great north road leading from the Fords of Isen. He pointed, “Can you see the movement on that road?”

Gimli looked obediently, and was rewarded by seeing the sun-flash on metal, repeated over an arc of the plain. He nodded to the elf.

Legolas continued when he was sure Gimli could see what he meant. “I can see the baggage train of Aragorn’s army now catching up with its van. Many more men ride with it, making haste but not driven.”  He looked seriously into his friend’s face. “If we don’t hurry, Gimli, all the fighting will be over before we can take part!”

Gimli barked out a short laugh, “The Valar forbid, Legolas! Then let us hurry, lad,” and with no more ado he plunged down the slope towards his warriors. A third of the way to his goal Legolas overtook him and sped on ahead; not even leaving a trace in the dew-jewelled grass, Gimli noticed, sourly.

Minuial dropped the last man she had managed to capture and question. His limp form hit the floor with a substantial bump. Minuial quickly re-checked his pulse, and then sighed in relief. He was still breathing, it would be poor form to reward his enforced cooperation with a curtailing of his ephemeral life.

The nursery. Where in this Valar-deserted, mess of a building, would she find the nursery?  She crept further along the endless corridor that she had found by chance behind a double door. Ahead, trying unsuccessfully to hide in the shadow thrown by a wall junction, Minuial could see a trembling form curled up with her arms over her head. A female.  Minuial suddenly felt a surge of hope. Clearly this was one of Meduseld’s servants. She would know where the nursery was!

Minuial swooped silently down on the trembling servant and spoke softly in her ear. “Come mortal, would’st thou help me to find the Queen of Gondor?”

A terrified, wide, brown eye peeked out from her sheltering arms at the glowing apparition that had materialised beside her, and gave out a high pitched scream that would have put a Wraith to shame. Startled, and pained, Minuial clapped an ungentle hand over the young woman’s mouth and quickly scanned the corridor for signs that the woman had brought unwelcome attention to her search.

“Hist, do you want the hill-men here to question you? Tell me, chit, knowest thou the location of the nursery?”

The girl simply looked at the elf, paralysed by awe and fear. A large tear sprang from one of the doe-like eyes, swiftly followed by others. Minuial let her shoulders sag, depressed by the futility of her quest, and loosed yet another sigh. She removed her hand from the girl’s mouth and leaned alongside her, against the wall.

“Oh for the Valar’s sake, child. I mean you no harm. It is just that I must free the Queen of Gondor, she is being held in the nursery. I know not where that place would be.”

Just then Minuial, and the maid, heard the first sounds of a baby crying. Soft at first, but becoming louder and more furious as its needs were not met on an instant. Minuial knew that cry, it was Brytta, Gleowyn’s baby. Surely the babe would not be far from the mother? Minuial thought quickly.  Gleowyn was sensible at least, if luck had not placed her in the same prison as Arwen, she would at least be able to pry the information Minuial needed from this hopeless human.

Minuial clamped an unrelenting hand over the girl’s upper arm and dragged her down the corridor to the noisy door. A large bar had been fitted, crudely, to brackets either side of the architrave. Minuial ignored the futile battering her other arm was taking from the servant girl as she tried to escape her. The elf lifted the bar one-handed, and then swung the door out, and open. Dawn light flushed the room inside with welcome brightness, and Minuial stepped forward with a pleased smile as she recognised Gleowyn sitting on the bed opposite, under the window. The baby’s cries were deafening and a quiver of alarm pricked her warrior instincts, even as night fell, for her. Arwen, in hiding behind the door jamb, swung the heavy tin jug down onto her head, the blow fuelled by fury and adrenalin, pulling the stroke only at the last moment as she realised she was attacking friend, not foe. It mattered not to Minuial, she fell like a cut tree and measured her extensive length into the room. The serving girl let loose one more of her impressive, blood curdling, screams, before fainting away in a dishevelled heap in the doorway.

ooo

Frecern slipped, like a slinking dog, from shadow to shadow along the long corridor that crossed the back of the great hall. He held his sword low, but ready, and listened for any sign of activity ahead of him. So far all he could hear was the uproar that continued in the great hall following the slaying of Wulfgarn.

“Fools!” he muttered grimly, under his breath. “They have not the wit to see we are defeated. I will not fall with them. No, the stinking horse-dung will not drag this one down.”  He scuttled to a cross-corridor and hesitated at the double doors that sealed off the nursery wing. Should he fetch his hostages?  A piercing scream stood the back-hairs up on his neck and stopped his hand on the door-handle. Whatever was happening down there, it sounded dangerous. In an instant he thought better of his half-formed plan to utilise one or more of the women as a shield. In the ominous silence that followed the scream he distinctly heard a scuffed footfall some way down the dim corridor, behind him.

What!  Pursuit?

“May the darkness shrivel my luck. I thought I had slipped away clean from the wretched leeches,” he muttered.

Frecern crouched slightly and attempted to peer back up the corridor -there -a gleam of dusty sunlight on a blade. Someone was stalking him. Frecern wasted no more time. Springing up, he turned and ran, as fast as he could, down the passage away from the double-doors and towards the sideway at the end that led to the outside and the stable yard. Panting, he clattered down the first of a long wooden flight of stairs, and then paused on the landing to listen. Heavy footsteps could be heard, echoing, down the passage behind him. Frecern stilled his frantic breathing and glanced around. A guttering torch gave out a feeble glow to light the stairwell. Long, dusty, horse-banners hung limply on the walls. His pursuit was getting nearer and Frecern ripped the nearest tapestry off the wall, piled it onto the landing and threw the burning brand into the middle of it. The ancient fabric caught light with a hungry crackle, choking black smoke rose into the air, and Frecern leapt down the final flight of stairs and gained the door to the yard. With a calculation that almost appalled himself, he left the door open behind him, the better to fan the flames.

Bardor ran, panting, and rued his life of ease that had so stolen his wind. The rat was getting away, and that was a woman’s scream, curse the wretched weasel. He clattered to a halt at the top of the stairs, and then reeled back choking as a cloud of black smoke funnelled out of the stairwell to meet him. Was there no end to that madman’s evil; he had fired the palace!

Bardor turned and ran, gasping, back down the endless passage towards the great hall. Another scream rent the air and the Master-Smith stopped at the double door. Tendrils of smoke crept along the ceiling above. He needed to get out of this firetrap, but he could not leave that woman in distress if there was a chance to save her. The Master-Smith boldly opened the double doors and then quickly shut them behind him. They were solid wood; they would hold the fire, for a space.

Ahead the corridor was half-blocked by an opened door. Bardor could hear a baby screaming and under its relentless siren, the urgent sounds of women’s voices. With some caution he walked down to the room and peered round the door to see what was happening. He was greeted by a sword to his throat, wielded by the hand of the Queen of Gondor. The Queen did not look amused; in fact, back-lit by the morning sun she looked positively alien.

“My Lady!” squeaked the Smith.

“Father!” cried Gleowyn.

The serving maid, at their feet, blinked her eyes and woke, her eyes widening at the sight above her. With barely a pause she took a lung-full of air, only to let it all out with a rush as she found herself pinned by the glare of the regal elf standing over her.

“Don’t you dare!” snapped the Queen, two inches beyond the end of her patience.

Arwen swung Minuial’s sword down, away from Bardor’s throat, and nodded to the Master-Smith. “Sir, we are in need of your assistance. Think you that you could carry this elf?”

Arwen indicated the prostrate, but still breathing, Minuial with her blade, and then she stooped and urged the servant to her feet, patting the girl absently on the shoulder with her free hand.

“As you command, my Lady.” Bardor took a step into the room, and then looked over to his daughter, who was walking the howling Brytta up and down, trying to calm him, whilst keeping an iron grip on the short blade in her left hand.

“Are you well, Gleowyn?” 

“Father - much the better for the sight of your face.” Gleowyn sent him a smile of heartfelt gratitude, then jiggled Brytta again, trying to calm him.

Arwen turned to the trembling maid. “Your name child?” 

“Morshy, milady, but the housekeeper always calls me Mouse, ma’am.” The young woman bobbed a slight curtsey, Arwen smiled at the flustered girl.

“Are you good with children, Morshy?”

The girl brightened, “Ai, yes milady – I’m a nursery maid, with the royal bairns.” Her great liquid eyes filled. “Do you think they’ve  harmed them, the little ones I mean. I haven’t seem ‘em for days and I’m that worried!” Morshy sniffed and then wiped her face quickly on her sleeve, pulled herself back in control. “Sorry ma’am, don’t know as  how you could know how they fare. But aye, I’m good with the babes.”

Arwen smiled at her again, bolstering the maid’s shaky bravery, and then the Queen turned to Gleowyn, who was hugging her father whilst still trying to quiet the cranky Brytta.

“Gleowyn, would you let Morshy carry Brytta? I shall need you as rear-guard.”

Morshy stepped forward shyly, but reached out her arms for the baby almost involuntarily. The baby took a long look at Morshy’s pleasant face, and then reached happily for a brown curl, cooing as if he had never been upset. All the other adults in the room rolled their eyes at each other. Morshy glanced up alerted by the sudden silence and grinned a little at Gleowyn’s rueful expression.

“N’er mind, mistress. Me mam always reckons they only do it to annoy!”

Arwen handed her sword to Gleowyn and then faced Bardor again. “Master-Smith if you could lift Minuial.”

The Smith paused. “The elf is Minuial?” He stooped and rolled the warrior more onto her side so he could see her face. “Ah, Lady I would not of thought to see you brought so low!” The Smith gathered her into his arms and then stood rather suddenly, as if he had been bracing himself for a much bigger weight. “Oof, my lady, she weighs next to naught!’ he exclaimed in surprise.

Arwen picked up Bardor’s sword and hefted it, experimentally. “Ah well, Smith, elves are full of surprises. Do you know Lasgalan’s brave march warden, then?”

Bardor shared a speaking glance with the Queen. “ Aye, I met her, along with your Captain of guard, Throndar, as we attempted to plan your rescue, my lady.”

Arwen sighted him along the length of his own blade, despite the sword’s weight the blade stayed steady. “Is Throndar waiting for us then, outside?”

Bardor felt his face crease with grief and he bowed his head in sorrow. “My Lady, he fell. “ The Smith shook his head, then met the Queen’s gaze. “But he took the traitor Wulfgarn with him. He lays yonder,” Bardor waved, “in the great hall.”

Arwen raised a dismayed hand to her lips, then sternly repressed her feelings for a later time.

“I am grieved, Bardor. He was a true man. Come,” She tilted her head up and sniffed the air. “ We must hurry. I smell fire. It is not safe here.”

The little party stepped into the hallway, all senses alert. The left end of the hall was starting to fog up with smoke, so with a glance at the Master-Smith, Arwen set off resolutely, to the right.

They hurried as much as they dared , but the smoke was thickening, white puffs blowing through cracks in the ceiling to set all the party coughing.

“My lady! My lady!” Morshy ventured in a voice made hoarse by coughing.

“What Morshy?” Arwen blinked, eyes watering now from the creeping pall.

“The next door,” Arwen looked and saw an anonymous panel with a discreet handle inset. It looked like a store cupboard and she would have passed it without a glance.

“Yes, that one milady. It is a service way, it leads down to the servants kitchen and thence to the kitchen yard.” The party gathered around Morshy looking doubtfully at the narrow door. Morshy shifted Brytta to her shoulder so she could gesture. “It is a stairway, cut through the stone of the hill for the most part. Would it not keep us safe?”

Arwen kissed the earnest young girl on the forehead and went to seize the handle.

“Check if it is hot first!” Bardor yelled, inhaling a puff of smoke that made him choke so hard  he wondered if he would ever get his breath again.

Arwen laid a sensitive palm on the wood, then with no more ado, wrenched the door open and shepherded her spluttering charges into the clear air and welcome cool dark of the stairway. As she closed the door behind her, the Queen could see the first tongues of flame breaking through the roof of the hallway they had traversed just moments before. With a swift prayer to the Valar, she shut the solid wood on the conflagration and secured the latch behind her. She could hear Brytta’s fretful coughs, and the sniffs and footsteps of the others descending into the dark, escaping, she most fervently hoped, to freedom.

TBC

Please review, I will hoard it and admire it and even reply.

Rose Sared

Going for the evil cliffie author medal (snerk)