Ossiriand, Last Days of the War of Wrath.   

Chapter 1. Flight into the Forest.  

Death rode along, Maentêw knew, spurring their frightened horses almost beyond endurance.  

He barely remembered how it had begun. He had been picking up deadwood in the silent forest while the watch was set. The trees had been unnaturally quiet since they first entered that northern stretch of Ossiriand; to the point that one of his travel companions had joked that the forest seemed dead. And still he could feel the tension brewing all around them, and a feeling of dread and malignity such as none he had ever felt before.  

Suddenly, and as they were about to have dinner, a dull rumour had arisen from unmoving branches. Next thing Maentêw knew a vicious band of Orcs and wargs that were surely fleeing the ruin in the North had fallen upon their small group.  

He did not know what had happened to the rest of their patrol, or the unfortunate guards. The Orcs seemed to be mad with fear, and swarmed everywhere in wild disarray. Sorely outnumbered, the elves could barely defend themselves. He remembered hearing the clear voice of their chieftain not far from where he stood, above the clash of iron and feral grunts. “Flee! To the woods!”  

The arrow had grazed his temple then, as he turned to check the captain’s position, and an iron-gloved fist had hit him on his chest, and sent him staggering against a tree. Unbalanced, and winded by the blow, he had fallen to the ground, awkwardly raising his arm in an instinctive attempt at deflecting the deathly thrust that –thankfully- had never come down. He remembered looking up in confusion to see the attacking orc falling to his knees, his head rolling to the ground.  

“Come, Maentêw, to the forest!” the captain had urged him, stepping over the beheaded corpse and extending a hand to help him to his feet, his bloodied sword lowered for a brief moment. The warg had caught him then, jumping on his chest from behind the tree and bringing him down with its weight. The captain had knocked himself senseless with the fall and the heinous creature was already aiming for his throat by the time Maentêw had managed to kill it.   

“Up here! Carry him along!” As if sent by the Lord of the Forest himself, a couple of tall horses had appeared out of nothing amidst the carnage right in time, led by the lieutenant. Looking around, Maentêw noticed that they were momentarily at the edge of a battle that was rapidly dwindling out –those of his fellow warriors who had not fallen under the wild blows of the apparently maddened host were already making their way into the safety of the woods. He did not lose time asking questions. After helping the lieutenant get hold of their injured captain he jumped on the other horse and hurried after them into the forest, followed by a cloud of black-feathered arrows. 

They had ridden hard that night. 

Every time they tried to stop and take some rest the trees would close in and roar menacingly. They could not change course either. A path would open before their mounts briefly, only to disappear right after their passage. Once or twice they tried to retrace their steps back to the place of the ambush, only to be met by an impenetrable, living, wrathful wall.  

As the first rays of Anar fought to pierce the dense, green vault, Maentêw risked a brief stop.  

“How is he?” he asked in concern, dismounting swiftly and walking to the other horse. The lieutenant held the unconscious, blood-soaked form of their captain before him. As soon as Maentêw grabbed the limp weight the other elf let go and almost fell to the ground, pale as the full moon.  

“I am fine, just a scratch… take care of him,” he gasped. 

Grimacing as he uncovered the ragged, open wounds on the captain’s chest, Maentêw looked around in despair. They had left their packs behind and they only carried the emergency medicine pouches on their belts. He cleansed the cuts and crusts of dried blood as best as he could with abundant water from his waterskin and then cursed when the longest slash started bleeding again. The creature’s claws had cut through boiled leather viciously, and the gashes were deep.  

“At least there will be no poison left in the wounds…” His companion seemed recovered and now hovered around Maentêw worriedly.  

“Give me your medicine pouch and sit down, Gildor, you look dead on your feet…I do not want to have to carry you as well…” 

They staunched the bleeding with what yarrow leave and beard-moss they had available and then stitched the torn, deep, long gash inflicted by the sharp warg-claw that ran from below the ribs up to left shoulder and neck. Fortunately, the wounded elf remained unconscious during the procedures. When they were done, both Maentêw and Gildor were shivering with exhaustion.  

“Do not expect him to compliment you for your needle work, Maentêw…”  

Maentêw did not answer. He was busy chewing their supplies of dried willow bark into a paste that would, hopefully, prevent the wounds from festering. He spread it over the deep cut and dressed it all with a pad of birch bast -then fixed it place with makeshift bandages shredded out of their shirts.  

“You could do with some of my stitches in that nasty wound as well,” he told his companion. “Let me give you a hand…” He took care of the arrow wound in Gildor’s upper arm and then allowed him to have a look at the scratch on his own temple, which suddenly throbbed and burned most uncomfortably. 

“What, now?”  

Maentêw sighed and looked around. The sun was high in the sky. They were lost amidst a dense forest; tired, wounded and with no food or water. He got up tiredly.  

“I think I can hear a stream when the wind blows that way,” he informed cautiously, pointing towards their right. “We can fill our waterskins there.”  

“And I could set up some traps. We could do with some food,” Gildor nodded. As in answer, the forest roared wildly and the closest branches shook menacingly towards them. “I will not touch your trees!” he shouted then angrily towards the tall, imposing trees, his patience snapping at last. Maentêw lifted a hand and listened intently.

“Calm down, Gildor, they are not against us…” 

“You are the Wood Elf,” the Noldo grunted with a shrug, still staring suspiciously at the trees.  

“Sinda,” Maentêw corrected distractedly, wondering at the strange mood of the forest. The air was thick and charged with wrath and violence, but not towards them, as far as he could tell. But some of the most threatening voices he could not understand, nor had ever heard before. “We must continue,” he decided. “They are warning us…”  

“Orcs?” The Noldo had taken three steps back and now stood protectively by their captain, Maentêw noticed with faint amusement. 

“Perhaps, but not too close, I would say. But I feel that we should be moving.”  

“But he needs to rest!”  

Looking at the tired, worried face of his companion, Maentêw bit back a sharp rejoinder. “We have no food, no shelter, no medicine…and no idea of where we are or how far we strayed from our company, Gildor,” he explained mildly, then grimaced slightly remembering the murderous band of orcs they had left behind. “His only hope is that we keep moving…”  

“His only hope is that his doom surely lies well beyond these forsaken woods,” the Noldo retorted gruffly, squatting by the wounded elf and lifting him with some effort. “You hear me, child?” he groaned, shifting as much weight as he could off his wounded arm. “You were not born as a light of hope for your people only to find death before your first yen…don’t you dare!”  

They rode on slowly for the rest of the day, following the path set by the trees, which now, Maentêw noticed, veered steadily eastwards. As the sun touched the dense canopy in her slow descent they reached a clearing bathed by a singing creek. Taking it as a signal, they dismounted and decided to rest for a while. 

“He has been drifting in and out of consciousness,” Gildor commented as he tried to force some water into their wounded companion. “And I fear he is running a fever.”  

They exchanged a worried look and finally Maentêw sighed. “I will try to find something to eat. We will rest and then ride on. The trees seem to know where they are leading us.” 

After some foraging, Maentêw returned with handfuls of pignuts and berries stacked in his folded cloak and some threads of green willow bark coiled around his belt. They ate in silence and drank from the small creek. If they lifted their heads they could distinguish the reddish glow of the fires tingeing the crown of the forest towards the north. They wondered briefly how the war was going, and what might have been of the rest of their small patrol, and tried to convince each other that those of their fellow warriors who had managed to flee the orcs would be safe. Having recovered part of their strength and feeling somewhat restored by their meagre fare, they went to check on their captain.  

The wounded elf was conscious, grey eyes fogged with pain and fever and strands of dark hair plastered to his clammy face. He kept a stoic silence while Maentêw dabbed a paste of green willow bark on his wounds and tried to distract himself from the stinging pain looking up to the branches that stretched above them and whispered soothingly in sympathy and concern. 

“We do not want these cuts to fester and rot,” Maentêw explained, wincing guiltily at the scowls of pain that the captain could not conceal. “I know it hurts,” he added softly, seeing that his patient tried to speak. “It will be over in a moment…”  

“…Food,” the lying elf finally managed in a hoarse voice, breathing heavily and casting urgent looks at his companions.  

“We have a few berries left, but I can gather more,” Gildor offered, peeking from behind Maentêw’s shoulder. “That is surely a good sign, Maentêw?” he asked hopefully.  

The wounded elf rolled his eyes in exasperation.  

“Food!” he insisted in a stronger voice, at the same time trying to lift his left arm in a brusque movement. Almost immediately he let escape a pitiful yelp and closed his eyes tightly, gasping raggedly at the sharp pain that his hasty movement had no doubt caused in his injured chest.  

“Easy, child, or you will rip my stitches open,” Maentêw soothed him. Then, as understanding dawned on him, he lifted his head and followed the younger elf’s gaze, and let escape a loud laugh. “Look, Gildor, the Wood Elves have left a present for us!” 

Above them, dangling temptingly from a tall branch, almost invisible in the gathering shadows, there was a pack of woven bark. It was the custom of the roaming hosts of Laiquendi to hang provisions from the trees as they marched, so that they had supplies left for an eventual return trip.  

“These are not old, most probably from a scout,” Maentêw said excitedly as he opened the contents of the parcel that Gildor had hurried to bring down; three pieces of dried meat and a salmon cake that he split in three parts. Soon they were munching with grateful delight. “The trees are leading us towards a band of Laiquendi,” he told his companion in deep relief. “Let us keep going!”  

They started on again as the shadows spread slowly before them. As the full moon climbed the sky a few hours later, and while they followed the bubbling creek as it pleased the trees, they found two more parcels, one containing a leather bound flask filled with a heart warming cordial that they shared with their wounded captain, and the other a pouch of dried herbs for the fever which they had no way of boiling.  

The second dawn since the attack found them in a sun-dappled glade padded with soft grass and surrounded by birches, alders and willow trees that looked on a pool formed by the creek as it met a wider, deeper stream that came from the Ered Luin.  

“Do you think that we will find a cooking skin dangling from a tree if we go ahead?” Gildor asked worriedly as he descended from a tall birch with another bundle. Their captain now burnt in fever. Despite their careful ministrations, his wounds looked red and swollen and the long one on his chest was festering rapidly.  

“I think we better ask them to lend us one,” Maentêw murmured, standing up slowly and casting a wary look at a thicket of tall alders before them. His sharp ears had caught the faintest creak of a yew bow being nocked. “We need your help!” he shouted then in the language of the Laiquendi. “Show yourselves!”  

TBC

A/N Maentêw is an OC from other tales. He features in “They did not Take Root in That Land” as a former friend of Oropher’s.

Oropher comes up in chapter 4.

I set up a limit of 2500 words per chapter in this story, for no particular reason except that I usually tend to write very long chapters and I wanted to know if I was capable of this.