Chapter 5.  A Last Stand? 

“Easy, Maentêw. The land complains; that is all…” 

“No wonder…The weight of Morgoth’s malice must be unbearable,” Maentêw grunted, accepting Gildor’s hand and pulling himself up with a wince. Now that he was rested, his cuts and bruises were making themselves known with a vengeance.  

“Come, do you want some food? The girl caught some trout and Gil-galad made friends with her irritable companions while we slept…” 

Maentêw cast a quick look around. Their fire roared merrily, and he could see the fish speared in a long stick, roasting slowly. The two young wood elves seemed deep in animated conversation with an apparently much recovered Gil-galad. He raised a puzzled brow. 

“Had you slept a couple of hours longer, you would have found that he had sworn them into his service,” Gildor shrugged dryly.  

“Children do get on easily, just remember how quickly he won over Elwing’s wilful children, after Círdan failed miserably,” Maentêw retorted amusedly stretching his aching muscles. “Where is the girl?” he asked bluntly as he approached the younger elves. 

“Keeping watch; since you slept all along your turn…” Oropher’s son snapped back, though not unkindly.  

“Maentêw! I think I have a good idea of where we are…” 

“Lost somewhere in north-eastern Ossiriand, I suspect,” he quipped, squatting by his wounded captain and feeling his clammy brow.  “Is that a map?” he asked, pointing at a number of sticks, pebbles and leaves arranged in a certain pattern beside Gil-galad. 

“This is the river Legolin, quite south from where I expected to be…” Gil-galad began in a voice that sounded weak and hoarse. “Thranduil and his friends were also deviated from their course by the trees… while they headed towards…Taenben’s camp. Some of my…of Finarfin’s warriors got to their settlement, told them to leave, and then they saw…”  

“Surely you can defer to someone else for the details?” Maentêw interrupted the captain’s laboured account. “Preferably someone who did not have his chest cut open by a warg nor bled himself out across the forest?”  

Gil-galad smiled tiredly. “Master Thranduil, would you please brief my warriors?” he asked politely. Much to Maentêw’s surprise, and no doubt encouraged by the respectful treatment, Oropher’s son obeyed willingly.  

“…The trees led us to a clearing where a… massacre had taken place,” the boy ended in a voice that did no tremble, despite the horror that showed clearly on his youthful face. “There were orc bodies, hacked and partly burnt, and limbs scattered everywhere… A large clearing was burnt, and many trees as well. We… we panicked,” he admitted in a low voice, “and ran away, led by the trees… until we met you.”

“Did you get to see the orcs?” Gildor asked.  

“We heard them,” Brethil chimed in. “But the trees drove them from us. They sounded terrified…” 

“Something very strange is going on,” Gildor mused. “It is as if the trees were ordering us around…” 

“And we should not disobey,” Gil-galad sentenced. “We need to find help…Let me speak!” he cut Maentêw’s protest in the most commanding tone he could manage. “Taenben’s camp is not far north… you could get there in a couple of days, Maentêw, and get a searching party to look for the rest of our patrol.” 

“I will go with you,” Thranduil added. “My father needs to know what is going on. He left before those Calaquendi arrived and frightened our people into leaving Beleriand… Other messengers were sent to your city in Sirion…but surely they will hear the same tale there…” 

“It is not a tale, Thranduil,” Maentêw sighed patiently, exchanging a quick glance with his companions. “The Army of the West has come to overthrow Angband. We saw their host marching north. The oldest among us still remember the tales of destruction from the last time the Valar marched against the Enemy…It will be safer beyond the mountains.” 

“And why aren’t you fighting alongside that mighty host?” 

Gil-galad stemmed Maentêw’s retort. “Orcs and wargs are fleeing the battle by thousands…falling upon settlements of elves and edain who… know not what is going on,” the captain explained with a grimace. “We are protecting them, and instructing them to leave… Beleriand…. while there is still time…” 

“Yet you never got to our camp!” 

“Thranduil….” Brethil warned. “You should start as soon as possible, and waste no time in pointless bickering…”  

Maentêw fought to hide an amused smile at that, suddenly reminded of Bronadir, Oropher’s pompous lieutenant, who always managed to curb the captain’s flaring temper. Apparently, Thranduil had found himself a similar restraining influence in Fêrtond’s son.  “Brethil is right, I believe,” he sighed, though he liked not the idea of leaving Gil-galad behind. He looked around with apprehension. “Will you be safe?”

“These children are amazing with a bow,” Gildor explained reassuringly. “And I can still wield my sword…”

“Do not fret, Maentêw, we will take good care of him,” Brethil added. He sounded so solemn that laughter died in Maentêw’s lips. He bowed briefly and nodded instead.  

They packed lightly, the remnant pieces of willow grouse and a few salmon cakes wrapped in large leaves that the young elves had carried with them. “There,” Cûiell said in her endearingly cheeky manner, giving Maentêw a handful of nuts. “See to it that he oils his bow regularly… or the orcs will hear you from a day’s march!”    

“See to it that she does not wander away while she is on watch, Gildor,” Thranduil retorted, though there was something deeper than friendly bickering in his voice, Maentêw noticed shrewdly as he knelt down by Gil-galad and felt his brow again.  

“We will be back soon…and I will learn about the rest of our patrol,” he promised, answering the worried, urgent look in the captain’s fevered eyes and scowling briefly at the stench that wafted from his bandaged chest. 

“Taenben must be leading his people to the… Iant Raph…Keep away from the forest, and find our people,” Gil-galad whispered with effort. Maentêw nodded and pressed the younger elf’s bloodied hand.  

“Worry not and try to regain your strength. The trees will keep you,” he said, sending a mental prayer to the forest. “I am ready!” he called back to Thranduil, who waited by the fire with his friends. He stood up and nodded to Gildor. “Good luck,” he whispered, clasping his friend’s arm as he passed. 

“I will try to move him to a safer place across the river,” Gildor whispered back. “Look for us there…” 

With a last, uneasy look at the vulnerable camp, Maentêw nodded at Thranduil and followed him into the night.                                                                             

                                                                               ~*~*~*~*

On the second dawn of their hurried march they reached the last stretch of a narrow path that bordered a profound gorge. The river Legolin ran deep there, and the only crossing east or west was a slender rope bridge that swayed madly over the chasm before them. 

“The Iant Raph! In time!” 

They had marched as fast as they could, slowed down by the Noldo’s wounded companions and several children of very short age. Oropher and Bronadir had noticed the scouts being sent north, up the hills that loomed to their left, and the worried glances exchanged between Lalf and his warriors.  

“One by one, quick!” A stern-looking wood elf who had lost an ear in some unfortunate encounter hurried the children as they ran nimbly across the unstable bridge. When Oropher and Bronadir reached the other side, Lalf was giving orders to a group of youths, pointing east towards the long slopes of the Ered Luin. 

“…While we stop them here,” the Hîrdawar’s son was saying in a calm voice. “The trees will protect you. Go now, to our camp beyond the mpountains. May Tauron watch over you.”  Obediently, the youngsters took charge of their herd –and the wounded- and continued their way west in ordered lines, while the few warriors left took up positions high and around the bridge and readied themselves for the wait. 

“Will they be safe?” Oropher murmured a couple of hours later, still watching the rows of children thoughtfully and thinking of his own family. Bronadir released a deep, determined sigh.  

“We will see to it. This does not seem a bad place for a last stand, does it?” he said softly. Oropher nodded and clasped his friend’s arm tightly. They had not expected this when they started north in search of news, but none of them would flee before those heinous creatures.  

“Too good for those orcs and wargs,” Gelmir chimed in, smiling grimly as he took position beside them. “What is the battle order, Glîrdan?” 

“Simple,” the youngster chuckled. “We cut the bridge down when they reach it and shoot those who try to escape…” 

“We might cast a few of them into the chasm,” Oropher objected, “but the rest will just turn round and go back or west, or flee north...”  

“The Huyrn will not allow that, they are close behind them…and the Erchamion is north,” Glîrdan retorted with a wide grin, testing his bow and counting his arrows. Oropher frowned. 

“Huirn? That doomed chieftain of Men who brought ruin to Doriath?” he demanded heatedly. “But he is a traitor, a creature of Morgoth bent to his will!” 

“Húrin Thalion?” Gelmir chimed in, his interest caught by Oropher’s words. “Is it true, then?” he asked softly, grief plain in his voice. “Has he been released at last? 

“Released? He was sent to Doriath with a curse!” Oropher spat. “Protected by the dark arts of the enemy he entered the ruins of Nargothrond and brought back a treasure cursed by the Worm and by the doom of the Noldor, that damned necklace of Felagund’s, which caused Thingol’s death…” 

“Thingol was strangled by the Nauglamír? It must have been heavy indeed,” the Noldo mused mockingly. “Although I heard say he had been killed by dwarves to whom he refused to pay the appointed fee…” 

Bronadir stepped in before Oropher lost control. “Our king was treacherously murdered and robbed by those greedy creatures,” he warned sternly. “You’d do well not to speak so boldly about what you ignore, Noldo!” 

“Then be careful not to besmirch a mighty warrior with your ignorant blathering, Sinda!” Gelmir retorted angrily. “I will never believe that Húrin surrendered to Morgoth... His valiant stand in the Fern of Serech allowed Gondolin to survive long enough for a new star of hope to arise from its ashes,” he claimed, raising respectful eyes to the new star, which shone even brighter those days.  

“Hope? What hope has any light in the sky brought to us since our fathers awoke in Cuiviénen under the stars?” 

Gelmir sighed in exasperation and changed position behind the boulder that hid them, flashing a pleading glance at Bronadir. “That is no common light,” he explained patiently, “but a Silmaril, carried by Eärendil the blessed, son of Idril of the House of Finwë… 

“But the Silmaril was Elwing’s!”  

“It was Fëanor’s on the first place…” 

“He was welcome to pick it up from its keeping place! It was brought to Thingol by Lúthien…” 

“By Beren, Oropher; and at the price of Lord Finrod’s life…” 

That gave Oropher pause. Not even he would ignore Felagund’s noble deed. He nodded briefly, but then dug his heels. “Yet it was passed rightfully to Dior, Thingol’s heir, and from him to Elwing his daughter when…” He still choked on the words. 

“The Valar granted it to Eärendil, though, to guide him through the darkest skies and light the hope of Elves and Men even when we would despair…” the Noldo explained softly. 

“The Valar?” 

“The Powers from beyond the Waters, the Lords of… 

“I know, I know! Our queen was one of their kin!” 

“Not that it served you in the end…” Gelmir muttered. Oropher glared, but did not argue openly. He found another source for contention instead.  

“What right did they have over the Silmaril, anyway?”  He complained gruffly.  

“You now sound like the Erchamion,” Glîrdan chuckled from behind them. “Always obsessed about those jewels...”  

Oropher turned on him so quickly that for once the confident youth seemed intimidated. “What know you of Beren?” he grunted. 

“Beren? I fought with him in the Rath Lóriel… and saw the Onodrim and the Huyrn flatten the Naugrim while we nailed them with our arrows! Today will be no different, Captain Oropher, you will see!”  

“But the Erchamion is dead! It is said that he and Lúthien passed beyond the circles of the world! And I have never seen trees marching to war, nor heard about those…Hû yrn? you speak of!” 

Gelmir made the gesture that meant to leave it alone and shrugged. “Then keep your eyes open, Oropher. Look! Erlhewig is giving the signal!” 

Distracted by their argument, they had not noticed the growing roar. Oropher saw them then, and was left speechless. A growling and stomping mass of orcs and wargs had reached the top of the hill at the other side and swarmed down in frenzy, fleeing towards the fragile bridge. Behind them a tall, dark-green wall advanced slowly, inexorably, encircling them and pushing them towards the abyss.   

“The Erchamion, the Erchamion!” someone cried amidst the din. 

Moved by curiosity, Oropher soon discovered long lines of spears and naked swords crowning the hill to the northeastern flank, a few long bows among them. “Noldor,” he muttered to Bronadir, seeing the sun glistening on their mails. “They are like magpies, love shiny things...” But his eyes were drawn back to the magnificent sight of the advancing forest, tall trees flattening orcs and wargs as they marched, and pushing the others to the abyss.  

“Between hammer and anvil,” Bronadir murmured with dark glee. Oropher smiled too, relieved that they were not dying today, after all. Out of habit, he scanned the battlefield quickly: the Erchamion and his warriors to the east and the trees to the north, Erlhewig and Lalf by the rope bridge with their axes ready, and to the west…He shook Bronadir’s arm and pointed at two dots scrambling up the path they had followed earlier. “What is that?” 

“Glîrdan, are there any scouts still missing?” Bronadir called out. The youth followed their gazes and frowned.  

“Not that I know…but perhaps...” 

“No.” Something twisted inside Oropher. He stood up and watched intently, an unexpected dread almost choking him. 

“They will be caught by the avalanche,” Gelmir murmured worriedly, coming to stand beside him. The two lonely travellers advanced cautiously, but the elevation of the terrain hindered their view of what was about to fall upon them when they got closer to the bridge.   

A gust of wind blew back the travellers’ hoods as they started to run and a ray of sun glistened on a golden head. Three voices shouted almost as one. 

“Elves! We must help them!”  

“That’s my son! Don’t cut that bridge down!”   

“You stay put!”   

Freezing Glîrdan in place with an intimidating glare, Bronadir shouldered his bow and started downhill after Oropher and Gelmir.

TBC

A/N

Iant Raph: Rope bridge

Huyrn is the plural of hû orn, “dog tree”. Oropher is mistaking it for Húrin’s name.

Erchamion means one-handed. It was Beren’s nickname after the wolf from Angband bit his hand off. 

Erlhewig means one-eared.