Chapter 40

All Plans Go Awry

June 24

Somewhere in the gorges, Southern Gondor

Legolas cursed once, succinctly, in dwarvish. He could feel Lieutenant Anto's start of surprise at the sound. They had come to a halt in a damp thicket of marsh grasses and sickly looking trees, marking the beginning of the bog that began just beyond their feet. It had been shown on the map and they had come prepared to cross it, but on the other side, dimly seen through the tenacious mist, clusters of Southrons were sitting about in groups, as if at different campfires. According to Mavranor's plans, they were supposed to be a quarter mile further off. There was no way Legolas could guide his men across the bog unseen, and no way for them to cross at all once under fire. They were effectively halted. Unless…

"Hold here." Anto's confused expression said clearly that the lieutenant hadn't seen the Southrons. "The encampment is just on the other side of the bog; they're too close for the entire company to get across unseen. So I'll cross alone. When the Southrons leave, you must organize the remainder, oversee the crossing, and continue as planned. Understood?"

Anto's eyes widened, but he nodded without any hesitation at all. Could it be the young lieutenant thought that elves typically did the fighting of thirty men? Had he the time he could have told Anto no, such behavior was too suicidal for the average immortal — but prolonged friendship with a certain human could drive any elf over the brink. So much for insanity.

His leather armor was light, but not light enough. He left it with Anto and slipped between the weeds. Along this stretch the ravine walls had curved up above them to block out much of the sunlight, explaining the coolness and the humidity in the air, though they were long past morning. The dimness was a shield as Legolas crossed the open stretches of thick mud and tufted marsh grasses. His feet were light, but the danger of sinking was still immanent. He did not take the time to build a firm path, as the men behind him would have to do.

Once, in his haste to step aside when a water snake suddenly rippled up beside him, he put his foot down in a treacherous spot and sank to his thigh before he pulled himself back out again. Mud, he thought. It is as well Strider isn't here to see this…

Sharp eyes looked for another good place to step and he spared a fresh thought for Frodo and Sam and their crossing of the Dead Marshes. The tale was suddenly much more vivid to him. At least there were no enchanted corpses in these waters, he mused.

The stench of stagnant water eventually began to mingle with the smells of sweat and sour wine. Pushing a strand of damp hair from his face, Legolas crouched and took a more careful look at the encampment. It stretched from one side of the ravine to the other, with no way to circumnavigate it. Lips pressed in a grim line, Legolas left the cover of the weeds and set out towards the edge of the encampment, inching along as close to the ground as possible.

The mud on his clothing paid off in some unexpected ways as he made the dangerous journey through the Southron camp. At the earliest opportunity he picked up a cloak which was hanging over a fire to dry and slipped into it. All that could be seen of him once the hood was drawn up were his earth-browned hands and the green-slimed leather of his boots. Nothing out of the ordinary with the rest of the men.

He was only a few yards from the other side of the camp when a hand slammed down on his shoulder. His instinct was to slip from beneath it with his usual elven agility, but in the split second before he could move, he stopped himself. A memory came of Aragorn, teasing him from the other side of a fire, "Legolas, I'm afraid you're just too agile, too clean, too polite, and too subtle to imitate a man! Horrible, isn't it?"

Perhaps having Aragorn along would have been helpful after all…

Swinging out in a gesture that was too wide to be a good hit, Legolas shoved the hand from his shoulder and took a few steps back, trying to make his tread seem heavy. The Southron behind him grunted a sort of chuckle, asking a question in haradic that Legolas couldn't understand. Trying to imagine he'd been smoking a pipe since he was a youngling, the elf pitched his voice as low as possible and grunted in response, humping his shoulders up in a half shrug. The Southron frowned a little and turned to ask something of one of the other men around the fire. It was too great a risk that they would make a comment that he would be expected to understand. Taking advantage of the Southron's turned back, Legolas slipped away on silent feet.

Too soon the silence of the camp broke. From somewhere came a scream of pain, then, the echoes like thunder, Bartho's battle cry and the crashing of an avalanche. The Southron's started at the rumbling sound, looking around them anxiously, and Legolas risked a sudden run for it, hurdling over a fallen tree and landing neatly on his feet on the other side.

I imagine Aragorn will be quite busy enough where he is.

Knowing his plan was precarious with the soldiers now on the alert, the elf sprinted through the undergrowth, his eyes picking out the landmarks that Mavranor's plans had described. Sliding to a stop beside a innocuous looking mound of pebbles, his slipped a hand under a hidden woven mat and lifted. Beneath a dark hole opened up, seemingly bottomless. It had a bottom. Legolas knew this quite well. And he also knew what was lurking there.

Now came the complicated part of his scheme, the elf mused dryly. How was he to hold the attention of an entire camp of Southrons? He'd been called many things in his life — silent, cool, dangerous, invisible, even prissy— but never distracting. That was what Gimli was for! And, of course, Aragorn.

No, my friend, here is where you're needed most. Then he sighed at his fluctuation. This is ridiculous.

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Another scream quickly followed the first and Aragorn bit down a curse, his mind working furiously. If only he could climb up onto the net above his head and see how far it was to the edge, or at least discover from what direction they were being fired upon. Legolas, I could use your help. But that thought was fruitless.

"They've found us! Move!" he cried, a third and fourth scream tearing the air as the hiss of arrows striking through the net continued. Stealth at an end, he increased his speed, crawling along with his knees and elbows. He was aware of Duurben picking up the pace behind him, breathing raggedly at the increased exertion. He should not have brought the old guardsman into this, no matter how strong Duurben had appeared.

Dimly ahead he saw light glimmering between the grasses at the net's edge. With a last lunge forward he slid out and cast a swift look around. He had come out into a shallow hollow, its sides shielding him a little from view. A short glance showed him none of the rest of his men had emerged yet, but the net was now rippling as they hurried in response to his orders.

Duurben began to emerge, beginning breathlessly, "My lor—?" SNAP! Aragorn whirled as his friend's voice was cut off in a strangle gasp. A noose-like wire, just to the right of where Aragorn had come out, had been tripped, snapping around the guardsman's neck in an instant.

"Duurben!" Aragorn slid back, anxiously looking for a way to help as Duurben choked, scrabbling with his fingers at the rusted dark strand cutting a red line into his throat. Following the wire with his eyes, the king saw where it threaded back through the net, its anchor point far out of reach. He tried to grab at the wire to loosen it, but it pulled from his hand with steadily throttling tension.

Duurben's guttural cries were waning, his face tingeing blue. With a last desperate tug, Aragorn released the wire and snatched his knife from his belt. It's just as well Legolas isn't here to see this. "Hold still," he said, and drew the knife back to slash once at the side of Duurben's neck. The guardsman winced, the elven knife shore through the metal, the wire snapped and recoiled with the force of released tension and Aragorn caught the man as he fell forward. Duurben was coughing harshly and shaking.

For an anxious moment Aragorn examined the spot where his knife had inevitably cut the guardsman; blood coated his fingers. He let out a silent sigh of relief that he had not come too close to the throat or an artery. "Are you all right?"

"Yes — yes, go on," Duurben rasped, fighting for air. "I'll — join you when I—I'm less of a —h-hindrance." With soft sigh he slumped to the side and Aragorn tested his pulse in alarm, but the heart was beating strong. Another cry of pain came from somewhere beneath the net; he was sorely needed. Laying the guardsman in the shelter of the hollow and hastily binding a cloth around his bleeding neck, Aragorn slid over the edge and into the open in time to meet the first of his emerging men.

The archers firing on them were standing on ledges nested into the canyon walls above their heads, leaving no need for any Southrons down on the ground. A few of the Gondorians were cut down just as they emerged from the nets and their companions had to pull them out of the way so the men behind them would not be trapped. Four more wire nooses were discovered, though no men were caught in them. Unbinding his bow from his back, Aragorn shot three arrows in succession. One bounced free, but two struck their marks, and the Southron archers fell onto the treacherous net below. Legolas would be quite useful right now… Using his arrows until he had only two left, Aragorn began the move forward as the last of his men emerged.

They managed to travel a quarter mile beyond the nets, still under fire from above. At every turn another man fell. Where were Faramir's troops? They were supposed to be up on the ridge, on the watch for such an attack. Aragorn's leg stung from where an arrow had sliced it in passing. His feet slipped a little as he spun in the thick loam, eyes searching between the leaves of the trees. The Southrons would have to move forward as well and their footing was less sure on the canyon walls. A respite was needed and in amongst the trees the Gondorians were afforded a small sense of shelter. For a moment Aragorn leaned forward, his dirt and blood covered hands clutching his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

Over the sounds of his own battle he heard the growling shriek of an animal. Perhaps Legolas is busy enough where he is.

Suddenly, he remembered Duurben. Straightening he looked about, hoping to see the guardsman nearby, yet knowing it wasn't likely. He was safe enough where he was, Aragorn reminded himself. But Duurben had a bad track record of staying reliably unconscious where he was put.

A tremor rocked the earth, like a small and distant earthquake, and another followed quickly. Another, then another, until the individual vibrations blended into a steady roar of thunderous approach. A trumpet! A harsh command, yelled in Haradic! The trees would be no cover from what was coming, and there was no place to run.

No, my friend, this is where you are needed most. As the mûmak came thundering through the gorge, its massive sides brushing loose shale from the walls in crashing sheets, Aragorn sighed. This is ridiculous.

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Before they had gone a yard in their charge, Bartho and his men dropped suddenly to the ground. Pressed side by side, they braced their hands and knees against the ground and drew their cloaks aside from the shields strapped onto their backs. Bartho himself, along with the rest of the front rank, removed a second shield from their arm and drove it into the ground in front of them to protect their arms and faces as the first rattle of gravel from the avalanche began to ricochet towards them.

It seemed an eternity, even to Bartho, who was almost a boulder himself, until the pummeling rain of stone ended. They had stopped short of the main rock fall, but even the smaller stones struck with bruising force. More than once came a grunt of pain from amongst the men, and a few times stones slammed between the shields drawing an outcry from the victim. It went unheard amidst the maelstrom of smashing and rattling granite as the walls fell apart for more than a mile ahead of them. With thunderous roaring the larger stones scored the ravine walls and impacted the ground so hard they sank almost half their diameter into the ground. The cacophonous symphony of smashing stone against iron shields echoed loud enough to deafen a less hardy troop.

Bartho made no sound at all until at last the maelstrom ended. Stiffly, his entire back one massive bruise and his face scratched and scored by flying stone chips, he rose to a standing position. The air was almost too thick with dust to breath and he coughed raggedly, rooting in his pouch for the treasured blue scarf. She would want me to use it, he thought briefly, and he tied it over his mouth and nose. The close weave of the cloth caught the dust, but the silk was fine enough to breath through easily.

Behind him the rest of the men followed his example, standing and binding strips of unused bandage over their noses and mouths.

Where before their advance had been marked by a fierce battle cry, this time the word was spoken only just loud enough for all of them to hear. "Forward," Bartho ordered.

When they reached the rocky mass that now covered the ravine floor, the began their march straight over it. They could hear indistinct shouts from the Southrons up above them on the ridges. Mixed amid the rubble were tangled the bodies of a great many of the Haradrim ambush that had started the avalanche — vivid proof of Legolas' prediction regarding Mavranor's skill with earth moving. The remainder of the Southrons could not seem find them through the fog of stone dust. A few arrows came, but bounced off the shields on the mens' backs.

By the time the dust cleared, there was no trace amongst the stones of the Gondorian army. It was only when the Haradrim traveled several miles further on that they discovered Bartho and his men, and it was not Bartho who was taken by surprise.

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Distractions, distractions… how does one create a distraction? Legolas thought furiously, his mind spinning as he tried find a solution. It was doubly hard to concentrate, now that the sounds of two different battles were beginning to filter down to the beasts in the pits around him. They yowled fiercely, as if to warn off an approaching predator, and as their noise increased, it became steadily more distracting.

Belatedly, Legolas saw what was right in front of him. Taking the edge of the woven mat covering, the elf threw it aside and resisted the urge to stagger back in surprise as the lurking animal below leapt at him in an attempt to catch one of his feet in its teeth. It was a male, and a large one. Shipped directly from the fighting arenas of Harad, it was a taerg. Its tawny body was scored with scars, and these were not just whip welts, but claw marks from other beasts it had fought. Considering it was still alive, Legolas guessed the animals responsible for those marks had been slain, not to mention more than a few of the beast's handlers. In its narrowed yellow eyes he saw a hatred beyond its current confinement, beyond its previous capture. Elves have a way with most beasts, but this one was beyond reaching by any fair words. It stared and hissed at the Southron cloak the elf was wearing and on a whim Legolas removed it and dropped it into the pit. With a snarl the beast leapt upon it and shredded it, fibers of cloth rising like dust motes as teeth and claws worked in vicious harmony. Oddly, after it had vented it wrath upon the cloak, it seemed to take little notice of Legolas.

"How much you hate them," he murmured, feeling a sympathy with the animal's feelings towards its captors. An idea shaped itself in his mind, one he would ordinarily dismissed as too risky, but under the current desperate circumstances, he knew it could be his only chance.

Withdrawing a length of rope, he looped it and lowered it into the pit, gently guiding the loop over the taerg's long, switching tail. For a moment the beast, still intent upon the shreds of Southron cloak, did not seem to notice. When Legolas drew up sharply and tightened the loop, the taerg rounded and leapt at him again, its long fangs snapping closed with the sound of a steel trap. Doubling his speed, Legolas grabbed hold of the end of a dried tree branch and tied the other end of the rope around it. His flint struck, igniting the dried leaves still clinging to the branch. The flame spread to the smaller twigs and burned still more brightly.

Taking the end of the woven mat, Legolas tipped it into the pit so that it formed a ramp, and the moment he felt the mesh touch the pit floor, he turned and sprang away like a deer. The taerg turned with a snarl of surprise and anticipation and in two leaps it had clawed its way up the ramp and out of the hole. The first thing that met its squinting eyes was the sight of the elf plunging away through the undergrowth. The immediate second thing was the feel of heat behind it — a fire, far too close by, and its mind was made up as to the direction of its charge.

Legolas heard the yowling battle yell of the creature as it chased him, a yowl that had overtones of pain and fear as the beast realized that the burning branch was always right on its heels. Going faster than he could ever remember running, Legolas dashed straight into the Southron camp, leaping over crates, firepits, and sitting Haradrim as adrenaline coursed through his lithe body. The taerg was always behind him, unable to be distracted for the moment by its hatred for the Southrons around it as it tried to flee the pursuing menace of the flames.

The branch dragged over the tents as the taerg knocked them flat; it snickered through the dried grass and whipped against the cloaks and loose clothing of the Southrons as the animal passed. Shouts of dismay arose, first over the terrifying appearance of the taerg, and then they increased as the entire camp began to blaze.

Knowing that at any moment the rope tying the branch to the taerg would burn through and cease to impede the animal's pursuit, Legolas took advantage of the chaos and thickening smoke and vanished from view. He slipped along in the direction of the swamp, and when he had got clear of the main camp, he paused to survey his work. It was, perhaps, a little too much, he mused. But certainly the Southrons would never notice Lieutenant Anto bringing the other Gondorians across the swamp.

He waited for what seemed a long while before his sharp ears picked out the faint splashing of footsteps over the crackling of the flames. A few minutes later, the first straggling line of figures materialized out of the mist, pausing at intervals to lay down the mats of rushes that were protecting them from sinking. It was a tedious enough process, but to his credit, Anto had moved them along very quickly.

Soon the Lieutenant was crouching beside Legolas in the reeds, and his young eyes were wide as he took in the rampant chaos and the many Southrons already fleeing for their lives.

"What..?" Anto whispered.

"A distraction," Legolas explained mildly.

"Oh," the lieutenant murmured in awe. "What is your plan from here, sir?"

"Wait until all the men are safely across and then we'll hold here until the flames die down and we can confront any survivors who seem inclined to fight. We'll drive them back into the pits beyond the camp. I don't want you doing anything about the taerg that I loosed, though; I'd best see to him myself."

"The… taerg…?" Anto queried, haltingly, his eyes going even wider.

"Yes," Legolas nodded, and sighed as he realized with a sinking feeling that he had just sealed into permanence every one of Anto's overblown ideas concerning the skills of elves.