"How many weeks?"
"Two, my lord. The Longbeards were quite certain. Skorgrím merely needs to gather his allies in the west, and he will be ready."
Talagan paced up and down his study. Lathron hung back by the door. Never had he seen his master so agitated.
"Why does Skorgrím feel the need to attack our sacred halls?" Talagan growled. "He has strength enough to satisfy himself, surely? What could our books and lore hold that could interest him?"
"They say he is quite mad," replied the messenger, an Elf from the town of Duillond to the south. "He wishes to stamp out all Elves in the Ered Luin - he sees us as invaders, unfit to live in these lands." Suddenly, his voice dropped to a whisper. "It is said he seeks the relics of the Bloodhand."
At these words Talagan froze. His face became as pale as ice, and his lips thinned to little more than a flat line. "How do you know of this?" he whispered, and his voice was terrible. "Speak quickly, and I may yet allow you to leave this place."
Lathron was shocked, and the messenger cowered slightly where he stood. "I was told to bring these tidings by Lord Dorongúr Whitethorn," he stammered. "I know not what they mean."
"Talagan turned to face the wall, clasping his hands to the sides of his head. "You may go," he commanded, and the messenger fled. Silently, Lathron made to leave as well, but...
"No, you stay here."
"For several long minutes Lathron waited on his master in silence. Finally Talagan asked him, "Did the Dourhands mention aught of this plan when they attacked your village?"
Lathron shuddered, loath to recall the memories of that terrible night. "They mentioned that Skorgrím planned to overthrow the Longbeards, and that he sought eternal life."
Talagan nodded. "You said as much upon your arrival. I must admit, at the time I though little of it - I had never heard of this Skorgrím, and the Dourhands were a minor family of Dwarves, long without any influence or power among their people. Now, however..." He began to pace again. "How could Skorgrím know of the relics, when he has never visited this refuge, and is estranged from the rest of his kin? They are never spoken of; it is a vow many took long ago. Even a spy could not discover them. And even if he obtained them, how could he hope to use them? Unless... But no. Surely such a thing is impossible."
"Please could you tell me what is going on!" implored Lathron.
Talagan sensed the frustration in his voice and sighed. "Very well, but first, you must understand that until now I was sworn to secrecy in this matter. I am charged to guard this knowledge with my life - that is the true reason I was placed here as Chief Loremaster. Until that messenger told me otherwise, I believed there were only seven others living in the world, apart from myself, who knew of the existence of the relics, and of them, only one dwelt in the Ered Luin - Dorongúr Whitethorn, the master of Duillond. You must not speak of this to any other without my permission. Promise me this now."
"I promise," replied Lathron solemnly"
"Good. Now, in this library are hidden many things are best kept out of common knowledge. I will not speak of all of them, but the matter at hand concerns the relics of Ivar the Bloodhand. Do you know who the Gaunt Lords were?"
Lathron shook his head.
"I should hope not. Now, however, it is time you knew. They were necromancers, in service to the Witch King of Angmar, and through him, the Enemy, back when Angmar and the Black Land first rose to power. There were many, and they were powerful, raising armies of wights to do their bidding, but five of them were stronger and more terrible than the others. One of these was Ivar the Bloodhand, Minion of War, and he led the armies of the Witch King against the realm of Arnor. When the Witch King was defeated, he was destroyed and buried deep within the High Fells of Rhudaur, along with his masters the Ringwraiths, but his right hand, wearing his ring, was kept by the men of Arnor, lest he reawaken and try to regain his full strength. They gave them to us for safekeeping, and we hid them here, far away from the rest of the world and the last place any would look. It is not known what power the relics might bestow upon one, but Skorgrím seems to believe they will grant him eternal life. That any person should seek to use such evil relics for such a purpose is unthinkable, but for one as violent as Skorgrím? The thought is terrifying."
"What is to be done?" asked Lathron.
"I have sent for reinforcements. Dorongúr and the Elves of Duillond and Celondim are coming to our aid, and word has been sent to Elrond of Rivendell. The Dwarves," he spat, "do not wish to risk open war against their own kind. They'll get it soon enough, whether they wish it or no, if Skorgrím has his way."
The next three weeks were spent in a frenzy of preparation. Messengers were sent back and forth between Edhelion and Duillond several times a week. In addition to Lathron's hunting lessons, Talagan began to teach him the rudiments of swordsmanship. "These should be about your size," he said during their first lesson, handing Lathron a matched pair of slim, bronze blades. They were simple in shape, but of good quality. Lathron took to them at once, practicing several hours a day in the courtyard against various Elves in the refuge.
After one week, a clear horn ringing from the valley heralded the arrival of the reinforcements from the south. There was much joy at the sound, but when the arriving Elves crested the ridge, those in the refuge were dismayed - barely a hundred had arrived, and of these, few appeared to be fully trained soldiers. Clearly, the havens to the south were worried about their own safety.
At the head of the column rode a tall, brown haired Elf astride a grey horse. He was younger than Talagan, but carried an unmistakeable air of authority. When he had dismounted, Talagan strode over to him and they embraced warmly.
"Dorongúr, it has been too long!" Talagan exclaimed. "Would that the circumstances were more favourable. Forgive me, but I must confess we had hoped for more reinforcements."
Dorongúr looked at him gravely. "Messages arrived from the Dourhands at the same time yours did: threats, warning us that if we did not leave, the havens would be sacked. I dared not risk the lives of my people, or abandon our sacred harbours, so alas, I can only spare what you see before you." He caught sight of Lathron and raised his eyebrows. "What is this? You have a child in your midst. Surely he is not safe here, with an attack imminent?"
"Lathron's home village of Oromarde was sacked by the Dourhands," Talagan explained. "He is my ward for the time being. I have been teaching him to defend himself and he is proving more than capable."
"Nevertheless, I hope you will keep him out of harm's way," warned Dorongúr. "It would not do to endanger innocent lives."
"I can fight!" protested Lathron, showing the hilts of his swords to Dorongúr.
The older Elf chuckled. "No doubt, but the Dourhands are vicious and strong. It would be a great comfort to everyone if you remained inside during the battle."
Lathron's face reddened. He would have retaliated, but Talagan gave a warning shake of his head and he retreated, abashed.
"Come, Dorongúr," Talagan said, "we have much to talk about." The two strode off into the refuge, leaving Lathron alone outside. He stared angrily after them, before going off to practice his swordplay again.
After the second week, Lathron's swordsmanship had improved drastically. He could now hold his own against most of the older Elves, although they seemed to think his enthusiasm amusing; no-one truly expected him to fight in the oncoming battle. Lathron was determined to prove them wrong.
Dorongúr and Talagan spent most of their time shut in Talagan's study, formulating plans and discussing the Dourhands' sudden rise to power, so Lathron wandered among the gardens, talking to the new arrivals from Celondim and Duillond. From them, he discovered much about the rest of the Ered Luin - he had only ever lived high in the snowy peaks, but the soldiers told him of woods of aspen and cherry - pink in the spring, emerald in the summer and golden in the autumn. He heard tales of the rosy spires of Duillond, perched high above the mouth of the river Lhûn as it swept past towards Mithlond - the legendary Grey Havens. Some of the Elves had even travelled further across Middle Earth, and enraptured him with tales of the verdant, cosy Shire, the rolling hills of the Lone Lands and North Downs, and the soaring pinnacles of the Misty Mountains far away. Their stories filled Lathron with a hunger for exploration and he vowed that soon, he would visit all these places and more.
It was on the fifth day of the second week that his chance finally arrived, although he did not know it at the time.
A lone horse was seen galloping at breakneck speed through the Vale of Thrain. Not long after, they heard its hooves clattering up the winding road. It crested the ridge, and they saw it was ridden by a tall, dark-haired Elf man in silver travelling robes. He skidded to a halt in front of the doors, where a large crowd had assembled. Talagan stepped forward and bowed. "My Lord Elrond, I am glad that you have come in these troubled times."
"You will not be glad hereafter," warned Elrond, dismounting. His horse's flanks were lathered and heaving with exertion. "The enemy is nearly at your gates. They entered the Vale this morning, and will be here by tomorrow morning at the latest." He strode into the refuge, wiping sweat from his brow. "Can we talk over a meal? I have ridden almost non-stop from Imladris."
A hasty meal was prepared for Elrond, Dorongúr and Talagan. Lathron laid bread on the table, then made to leave, but Elrond called him back. "No, stay, child. Pour yourself a drink. Talagan has told me much about you, but I would hear your story for myself."
Lathron seated himself and began telling his tale, as he had once before to Talagan, except this time he included his stay in Edhelion and his lessons in becoming a hunter. Dorongúr expressed surprise at several times during the story, but Elrond was more reserved, though occasionally he would lift an eyebrow. When Lathron had finished, he said, "That is quite a tale. You should be proud; there are not many Elves, or even members of other races, who could have survived and accomplished what you have at your age. I too, witnessed the rising of the Gil-Agarwen, and I fear its meaning is all too clear; the enemy is stirring. This rogue Dwarf-chieftain Skorgrím is but a smattering of droplets before the storm. If he intends to awaken the power of the Bloodhand, as I fear..."
"But surely such a thing is impossible!" Dorongúr interrupted. "Only a powerful necromancer could hope to glean power from such relics, and Skorgrím, as you say, is a minor chieftain of a minor family. How could such a Dwarf - especially a Dwarf - possess such magics?"
"I do not know," replied Talagan. "Of us here, I am the one who knows the relics best, and I have never been able to determine how one might activate them. One can only assume that Skorgrím has come into possession of other artefacts which provide him with a means to draw power from the relics. Of course, there is the other possibility," here he looked darkly at Elrond, "that he might have gleaned information directly from..."
"Pray, do not speak of such things here," interrupted Dorongúr. Talagan gave him a stern look, but fell silent. Dorongúr looked down at the table, abashed, and Lathron looked quizzically at Talagan, trying to guess what he had been about to say. Information from... what? Or whom?
"Theories aside, what is our battle strategy?" asked Elrond, providing a welcome relief to the silence.
"My soldiers will guard the main gates," Dorongúr replied. "It would also be wise to position a second force at the north entrance, in case the Dwarves circle behind us. I shall position archers on the roofs to fire over the walls and down into the courtyard. If necessary, we can retreat to the inner keep and hold out there until further reinforcements arrive, but I do not expect it to come to that."
"What of my loremasters?" Talagan asked. "They will be of some use if the library itself is breached, and in tending to the wounded. I propose setting up a temporary infirmary inside the inner courtyard. I shall remain in the Central Library to guard the relics should all else fail."
"An excellent idea," Elrond agreed. Then he turned to Lathron. "And what do you plan to do?"
Lathron was taken aback. "I shall... aid Master Talagan in his defence of the library?"
"That is good," Elrond nodded. He finished his wine and rose. "Come, let us rest. Tomorrow shall be a long day."
That night, Lathron could not sleep. His mind was filled once again with the faces of Dwarves, of Fírndall's final words. He imagined what Skorgrím would look like. In his mind's eye, he pictured a bulky, hook-nosed Dwarf with wild black hair and eyes, clad in gold. He rose and headed for the courtyard, intending to practice his swordplay, but as he walked past Talagan's chambers, he heard voices coming from inside. Cautiously, he pressed his ear to the door.
"...Sure what you're getting at here," Dorongúr was saying irritatedly. "He's just a boy in troubling circumstances. He's emotionally traumatised - he never takes off that mask... scarf... thing of his, and he's constantly sparring. It's as if he feels obliged to kill Fírndall or Skorgrím personally, but if he does try, they'll butcher him. I really don't see what's so special about him. He's a danger to himself, and others."
"You don't know him as I do, Dorongûr," Talagan replied. "The boy shoots a bow like he was born with one in his hand. He's devastatingly intelligent, and a quick learner. Do you realise that before last week he'd never held a sword? Now look at him! He can hold his own against many of the adult Elves in the refuge - Elves tens, if not hundreds of years his seniors."
"This may be true," came Elrond's voice, "but there is more that I have seen, that you have not. It is no mere chance that he witnessed the rising of the Gil-Agarwen. Only two others besides ourselves and Lathron saw the event, and understood its full meaning - Mithrandir and Galadriel. He is among great company indeed if the Valar saw fit to bestow that information upon him. I sense that in the years to come, his fate will be more closely linked to that of Middle Earth than any of us can guess."
Lathron had heard enough. He crept back to his room, heart swelling with pride at Talagan's description of him. Elrond's words, also, echoed in his mind. 'Among great company indeed... fate closely linked to that of Middle Earth'. Sleep came easily this time, and he drifted off with a smile on his face.
Hello again. Sorry if this was a bit boring, but it was necessary, character developing, expositional and hopefully you now have a few burning questions. The next chapter is an exciting one. Promise. Unfortunately, you'll have to wait for it, 'cause I'm going on holiday for a couple of weeks. I'm such a Troll *ba-dum tish*. Gettit? LotR? Trolls? Oh, never mind... I'll try and get many writings done while I'm away, bear with.
It's nice to see some of you sticking with it, it's great motivation for me, thanks. Please review and constructively criticize, unless you think it's already the best story there can be (I know, I am pretty great ;) )
See ya soon, with more hunter-y action.
Lathrond Aleniel, Elf Hunter, Firefoot Server.
Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarities to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental.
