Chapter Twelve – Through the Wetwang – Part Two –

   Daevan set the pace and chose a path only the most experienced could see. They laboured their way through the mud and deep water. Islets were rare, and though Daevan looked out for those ways, which seemed drier than the surrounding marshes, they walked with water up to their knees. It was an exhausting march, and they both had to halt close to midday, too weary to go any further.

   “You were in luck Dinúvren was with us that day,” Daevan said quietly as they both gazed back the way they had come. The mist had risen, but the air was still cool, and a gust blew in their backs. “Gaellyn alone would not have lifted a finger to save you. He even wanted to turn back – he had done so before -, but Dinúvren hurried to you at once.”

   “I understand.”

   “You'd have died without him. We both pulled you out, and he made you spit out all that foul water.” He shook his head. “Dinúvren was in a way… desperate to save you. He almost sat on you and pressed your ribs so hard that I thought they'd crack. I know he lost a friend out there, and I think no one ever forgets something like that. Still… he would not have succeeded if you hadn't been strong like a mule.” Strider lifted his brows. “That's what he said… should be a compliment, I suppose.” He smirked. “But anyway… Why did you almost drown? Did you know nothing about those marshes?”

   Strider exhaled, and with an unhappy grimace answered:

   “I do know about the treacherous marshes, yet I was caught unawares.”

   Daevan realised the man's turmoil and went on:

   “Y'know, Nilana took you in gladly, but…” He faced southward again, and they slowly continued their march. “You brought some gossip to our village. A stranger from the Dead Marshes! What will he be? A friend or a foe?” He turned his head, but Strider wore an imperturbable expression. “Nilana defended you all the time as if she knew just by… whatever she saw in you, but she was convinced you could only be a good man.” Still Strider remained silent, and Daevan nodded to himself. “Nilana watched over you like a mother hen.”

   “As I learned, she lost her husband some time ago.”

   “Aye. He was saved from the marshes, but… he died nevertheless.” Daevan shrugged as if to shake off the bitter memory. “But Nilana has always been a kind woman. She looked after any children, whose parents had died during the winter or who did not return from a hunt. I was such a child. She has always cared, and Dinúvren knew you'd be in good hands. And she was right to do so. You generously repaid us with your help. Even though Gaellyn spoke against you all the time.”

   Strider's lips twitched.

   “Should I have judged you all by one man?”

   Daevan held him in his stare.

   “Nay, I think you'd have run back even if we all had been like Gaellyn.” Abruptly he shook his head and grinned. “Dinúvren told the story of your rescue the whole night! Everybody knew of you before you even opened your eyes!” When a shriek resounded they abruptly halted and turned, but there was only a flock of birds circling the northern rim of the fen. “He hoped, too, that you'd be a respectable man and not some rogue, who had stolen what he carried.” Daevan's eyebrows twitched. “Though I must ask: why do you carry a second sword? And one that's broken. It's only shards. What to do with it?”

   Strider took a deep breath, and to the young man he looked older than he was.

   “It is a blade of ancient times, and it once belonged to one of my forefathers.”

   “But you cannot use it.”

   In answer to the young man's puzzlement the wanderer pursed his lips and looked at him solemnly.

   “There will be a time when this sword will be reforged. But it is not yet.” He quickened his steps, and Daevan knew he would get no more answers.

-o-o-o-o-

   For three days they plodded through the sluggish fen. Daevan thought that nature itself was conspiring to keep them from the great river, yet that was where he longed to be. He had not been to the River Anduin for half a year. Daevan imagined the beauty of the wide, wild stream in spring, when the waters from the mountains churned beyond the Rauros Falls and augmented the current. And he looked forward to meeting old friends, and – he did not deny that – some girls he had seen at the harvest feast. It had been a merry week, which he had thought about for a long time. Now he hoped there would be an exchange of tidings from the east. And when they would part the fishermen would provide them with fish and bread, and they would not need to think about drinking water for a long time.

   Though the clouds still hung grey and heavy Daevan's mood lightened. He lifted his gaze eagerly to descry the huts from afar. With the Nindalf at its back the village had grown mainly on a spit of land that stretched into the stream. It was an ideal place to harvest whatever nature gave in plenty. The fishermen were used to good catches, and led a simple, sometimes rough, but also pleasant life. He assumed the village to have grown since his last visit because the water way was the easiest way to transport goods. With the land getting more dangerous by the week the River Anduin was the only safe way remaining. Nilana had been happier here than she was at home, and for some time Daevan had thought that she might move. But she had remained with her friends and her brother, who would not have left the settlement amid the marshes for all the treasures of the Dwarves. Still Daevan thought that here would be life and laughter, much more than at home.

   Presently only a flock of crows circled the riverbank. The birds rose and swooped down again with swift flapping wings, croaking ever and anon their tuneless melody. More were flying in from the west, descending on whatever prey the first ones had found. Daevan squinted, assuming the crows circled the fen, but after a march of another half hour he could see the roofs of huts close to the river. And he saw the birds gathering above them. He turned to Strider only to see his own worry reflected on the older man's features.

   “They must have found something,” Daevan uttered worriedly and quickened his steps. “Something's wrong.”

   “Careful, my young friend. We do not know what…”

   “It’s not that far anymore!” He did not even turn to see Strider shake his head. Driven by urgency and foreboding he hurried on, splashing through the water on both sides in an attempt to run through the mud.

   The crows did not heed the travellers. Under the grey sky and cool drizzle they flew into the village while others left to return with empty beaks. But Strider observed more than the birds, and it deepened his worry.

   The roofs of the wooden huts were darkened by fire. Some had collapsed and only remnants of posts and broken walls remained. When the rain ceased the wind brought the stench of burnt wood, foliage, and cloth. No voices of men or sounds of livestock were to be heard.

   Daevan shook his head in disbelief.

   “No, it cannot be,” he muttered. “It cannot be!” With his trousers and cloak dripping wet he marched up to the first row of huts. Some doors were ajar, ropes and nets lay on the ground amid axes, knives, and buckets. “Hello? Is anybody there?” he shouted anxiously. No one answered. The crows croaked loudly, and where Daevan stood they quickly flew into the air. Behind them they could hear the sound of the Anduin. Daevan ran.

   “Wait!” Strider shouted and hurried after him. “Daevan, no!”

   Daevan reached the first hut, glanced into the single room: it was empty. A small shelf had been overturned, and plates and tankards lay scattered on the ground. He hurried on, calling for his friends, ignoring Strider's warning behind him. The next hut was burnt down to the ground, and the dark wooden spikes that remained looked like hands raised in despair. Daevan gasped as he looked into the other small buildings on the path, driven against hope to find someone alive. All of the huts were empty, some ruined, some broken with axes, and pottery and plates lay in a heap. And between the buildings men and women had been felled as they tried to escape to the river. Among them – killed by short knives used for skinning fish - lay some dead Orcs. The birds feasted upon them, and now that Daevan drew closer they flew up with a shrill cry.

   “No…” For a long time Daevan stood, unable to understand the slaughter. Unable to realise what kind of viciousness had raged here. There had been so much laughter before… He fell on his knees. Tears trickled down his cheeks as he shook his head. “Velon, Arini, Elvori…” He closed his eyes and his chin dropped to his chest. “They're dead… They're all dead.”

   “Not all of them,” Strider observed drawing closer. He held his sword ready, and his keen eyes swept the surroundings. “The boats are gone. Some might have fled the attack.”

   Daevan swallowed, unwilling to face the destruction again. Finally he looked up to the wanderer. He felt numb, robbed of all his dreams.

   “We would have ended up like them, wouldn't we?”

   Strider did not heed him, but remained vigilant amid the ruins while the crows returned with increasing boldness. A growl was heard, and the wanderer stood rigid at the sound.

   “Get up!” he ordered without turning. Daevan frowned and looked down the path. A man had fallen beside a woman, and his hand was outstretched towards her even in death. Only a few feet away an Orc lay on his back with a knife driven through his throat. His notched scimitar had murdered another man only three feet away. “I said get up!” Slowly Daevan got to his feet and wiped away the tears.

   “Where are the others?” he mumbled and looked to the river. At the bollards only one boat was still fastened, but it was half filled with water. On the river bank two more fishermen had been killed. Now the crows were attacking them, tearing at their clothing and skin. “Where have they gone?”

   “Let us assume they escaped.” Strider moved forward carefully. The growling resounded, louder now, mixed with the piercing sound of breaking bones. He renewed his grip on the hilt.

   “Not all.” Daevan exhaled and walked a few steps. He found a track leading westward from the place of destruction. Many feet had trod the wet ground – soft shoes and big boots – and the footprints indicated that they had been led in a row. “The Orcs took them.” He turned. What he saw froze his blood.

   A giant wolf appeared on the path. From its muscular legs to its broad shoulders it stood six feet high and thirteen feet at length, but more impressive than its size was the long muzzle with huge fangs, dripping saliva. The beast had bent its bear-like head and pierced Strider with its small dark eyes. Parts of its short, grey fur and paws were covered with dried blood. The growling grew louder in the monster's throat as it bared its teeth and moved forward in a threatening manner.

   Strider held his sword ready, facing the creature, but Daevan stood rooted to the ground. He simply could not move though he saw the grave danger ahead. He gaped at the wolf, and his hand went to the hilt of Ranaél. Yet his heart beat so fast, and fear gripped him so tightly that his fingers never clasped it.

   The warg snorted, sniffed the air, and then, without further warning, leapt forward. Its mighty claws churned up the hard ground, and its stench of blood reached Daevan. It bore the reek of death. The fisherman shuddered miserably.

   Strider gripped the hilt with both hands and swung the blade against the mighty neck. The warg evaded by a hair's breadth, landed on its forelegs, and swivelled around on its hindquarters with lightning speed. It snapped at the sword. Strider retreated and swung the blade again.

   “Draw your sword!” he cried with the next strike.

   Daevan hardly breathed and was far away from defending himself. The warg turned its mighty head into his direction. Daevan trembled, and Strider jumped into the warg's way.

   “Leave him alone!”

   With all power he could muster Strider inflicted a cut upon the beast's snout. It howled with pain, shook his head and shed blood in a spray. Infuriated it reared and attacked again, bending down its neck while the flews were drawn up menacingly. Its' eyes rolled madly, and the fang was open wide. The predator rammed itself against the traveller, trying to bite its opponent's head. Used to hitting its enemy in a fluent motion and deaf to the threat the sword posed it ran into the upraised blade. Strider could not stand his ground when four-hundred pounds connected with his sword, and was driven backwards, the air driven from his lungs. He stumbled over a bucket and fell flat on his back, hitting his head. He lost the grip on the hilt and the beast thudded on the ground beside him. With a faint growl the warg spent its last foul breath.

   Daevan drew his sword.

   “Strider!”

   The warg lay on its side, and the silver and black hilt – the whole length of the blade was embedded in fur and flesh – shone in the pale afternoon light. Daevan could not see Strider and shouted again. On shaky legs he hurried past the beast's hindquarters. They still twitched, and the fisherman almost jumped aside with a cry. Then he saw Strider lying on the ground beside the warg's ugly head. Blood spilled out of its wounds and saturated the sand.

   “Strider!” Daevan cast his sword aside and fell on his knees beside the wanderer, immediately grabbing his shoulder. “Strider, are you all right?” The wanderer moaned and slowly raised his head. “Are you unhurt? Your face…”

   “It's not my blood.”

   Daevan supported Strider to sit up, and the wanderer carefully touched the back of his head.

   “Thank the Valar!”

   Strider wiped his face, grimacing when his hand was covered in blood.

   “Why did you not draw your sword?” he then asked looking up into the frightened face of the young man. “It almost came after you.”

   Daevan bit his lower lip, uncertain what to say. His eyes rested on the warg. Even dead it was an impressive monster and he shuddered at the mere thought it could have turned direction to assault him.

   “I could not… I don't know. I could not move. I… Thank you,” he stuttered, lowering his gaze.

   Strider nodded, wrinkling his nose. He accepted Daevan's hand to help him stand before he pulled out his sword.

   “Morgoth's creatures have frightened people more experienced than you are,” he said quietly and wiped the blade clean before he sheathed it again. He turned to Daevan and looked at him with his intense grey eyes. “But you should never be frightened by outward appearances. You already fought Orcs though you had not seen them before. You would have bested that beast too.”

   “I don't think so.” Daevan shuddered visibly and, stepping backwards, shook his head. “Look at this… monster. It's thrice the size of a man! And those fangs! It would have ripped me in pieces in the blink of an eye!”

   Strider sighed. Compared to wargs the Orcs were skilled and vicious, and though they lacked strategy their attack on the settlement had been worse than that of the beast.

   He raised his gaze to the destruction around them.

   “Let us hope this was the only one left. But it explains how the Orcs got here.”

   “I found tracks near the river. They went westwards. Looks as if some of those beasts were among them.”

   “Let us see what we can find.” He strode through the village. Daevan, who had taken up his sword again, was close behind him. The sight of more corpses took his breath away.

   “Should we not follow my kinsmen? Can't we do anything for them?”

   Strider inhaled deeply, and then turned to Daevan, candour in his eyes.

   “They are gone for at least two days. Even if we picked up their trail there would be no way to save them. There are too many Orcs with them.” Daevan swallowed and slowly shook his head. “I know how you feel, but I am afraid we can do nothing for them.” He went on, reaching the riverside when the light was already growing dim. He wished to leave the village since there was the possibility of more beasts roaming site of such carnage. Yet there would be no shelter upstream, and they needed a dry place to stay at least for one night.

   The rain had washed away some of the tracks, but the deep imprints left by the wargs had remained. Strider eased himself down on one knee to examine the ground.

   “They came on wargs first,” he said quietly. “They scared the villagers and forced them back to the huts. Some fought and were killed at once, the others were driven together.”

   “And led away,” Daevan closed in a shuddered whisper. “They did not even know what hit them.” He swallowed dryly, and when he looked back he recalled the defence of his own village. “We would have faced the same fate if it hadn't been for you.”

   Strider gazed upstream where one boat remained.

   “We have to cross the river.”

   Lifting his brows Daevan followed Strider's gaze.

   “Then we should better do it here rather than closer to the falls.” He smirked. The width of the river and its strong current – fed by the rain and melting snow from the mountains – would take time and skill to reach the other shore. “Swimming is not recommended.”

   “Is there another boat? I only saw one, and it is damaged.”

   “That should not hinder us.” He turned to Strider and smiled sadly. “At least you have got a fisherman with you who knows of some things even though it's not about wolves.”

-o-o-o-