Title: The Web of Darkness
Author: Soledad
Author's notes: Egilstadir and his family used to be characters from my original fantasy epos and belonged to a race that was called the Moon-Elves. I have adopted them into "Astonishment in Mirkwood" as Nandor Elves, and they have been part of my Ardaverse ever since.
The trivia about Elven women being greatly weakened by giving birth is actually canon. So is the fact that those who devoted their lives to healing usually did not touch weapons anymore.
The ships mooring at Esgaroth are similar to the Viking cargo ships named knarr. They could handle ocean voyages every bit as well as the famous longships (or warships), the dakkar. Neither needed a harbour but could land on beeches or river banks anywhere.
PART 07
Princess Silivren had been right. This time, the Woodland Elves were going to war in earnest. A fleeting glance at the King's fortress, buzzing with activity like a beehive, was enough for the experienced eye to recognize the signs.
The Elvenking intended to confront the enemy in a place of his own choice, as far from his halls as possible. And yet, the underground city itself was being prepared for a siege – in case that they would be unable to prevent it. Drizzt could see the empty wine barrels being placed everywhere within the halls, now filled with water, for though the rooms themselves had been carved into stone, a fire still could have caused great damage, and the upper levels had no direct access to the watergate under the King's cellars and the Forest River that flowed below.
Empty chambers on each level were assigned as pantries, where dried and salted meat and fish, dried fruits, acorns and berries were hoarded in large earthenware pots to feed the defenders… for a considerable length of time, if necessary. 'Twas a fortunate thing that – properly wrapped in leaves – lembas could be stored for almost infinite time, and that if could nourish Elves longer than any other kind of food. Those were the emergency reserves, though, only to be touched when everything else was already gone.
The halls of the King were now housing ten times as many people as usually lived there. The small homesteads scattered all over the forest had been emptied. Children and those with no fighting skills (these were few: usually women who had recently given birth and were still weakened, or healers who had foresworn weapons of war) had been sent to the safety of the fortress. There they could still make themselves useful, by taking care of the food and water supplies or readying the herbs and potions and bandages that would undoubtedly be needed to treat the wounded.
Everyone else was making preparations for the battle itself. Wood-Elves were no great sword-fighters as a rule, but they were deadly with their long knives, and with their arrows they could hit the eye of a bird in the dark from a hundred paces. These and other weapons were now carefully examined and all possible flaws righted. The smiths worked furiously to fit as many of the simple leather hauberks with small metal plates as possible. Even so, this primitive armour would offer woefully little protection – but it was still better than nothing at all. What little resources the Elvenking had, he had spent it on weapons for his warriors. Weapons were more important than armour, and he had to set his priorities.
Alagos' people, the Elcheryn, did not even have that; just hard leather jerkins and shadowy grey and brown clothes. Elusive and secretive by nature, they based their tactic on stealth, moving around unseen on the treetops and killing the Orcs from behind, without mercy or regret.
"Yrch have no honour," summarized Alagos. "We are not obliged to give them an honourable fight."
Drizzt only shrugged. He could not care less whether the filthy Orcs were given a fair chance or not. They would not give the Elves a chance, either. They were foul, mindless beasts; they did not deserve anything better.
The only ones who went armoured were the mounted warriors from Dor-Lelmin: the cavalry of the Nandor tribe, Silinde's kinfolk. Although Drizzt, being new to Middle-earth, could not make this comparation, the Nandor warriors were the Elven equivalent of the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth, the elite of all Elven troops in these days. Standing in the Elvenking's magic gates on Silinde's side, Drizzt watched their approach in awe.
First came the warriors, arranged in pairs, riding slowly along the arched tunnel created by the huge beeches on both sides of the path, leading a long line of heavily loaded pack horses. The Lord of Dor-Lelmin had apparently moved everything he could to the safety of Thranduil's halls, not to least for the proper feeding of his own subjects.
The Nandor warriors were clearly divided into two groups. The majority of them looked a lot like Silinde herself: they were taller than the Silvan folk and more powerfully built, especially the archers among them, and seemed to be from the same stock as Brandor, the bowman, and his brothers. They were also ash-blond and blue-eyed.
The nobles, who – unlike the rest of their people – never married outside the tribe, still showed the very ancient Nandor features that could no-where else be found among the Fair Folk. They were tall and slender, looking deceivingly fragile, had high foreheads and cheekbones, finely-shaped features and long, elegant eyes that were wide and surprisingly dark, almost indigo blue. Their long hair, adorned only with delicate, think braids, flowed down their somewhat narrow backs like silk, and had a pale gold hue, just this side from silver, like the moonlight. Unlike the common folk that consisted mostly of bowmen, the nobles were armed with long swords and steel armour that was painted dark grey, so that its glint would not betray them to the enemy.
The horses they rode were magnificent; so very different from the smaller, hardier ones of the Silvan folk that changed the colour of their coats with the changing of seasons. These horses were big yet graceful beasts, clean-limbed, with coats like pure silver, dappled with white over all their bodies. Their long tails and silky manes were the same pale gold as the hair of their riders, and each of them bore a small white star in the middle of its forehead. They moved with easy grace, even the more common ones carrying the heavy sacks, as if they were dancing along the shadowy alley.
"They are the best-armed troops I have seen so far," judged Drizzt. "A shame that there are so few of them."
"They are the rest of a once numerous clan of nobles who could track their bloodline back to the First Age," replied Silinde. "They once belonged to the people of Lenwe, but most of them perished in the First Battle of Beleriand, buying the only true victory of Elves against the Great Enemy with their blood. The handful of families that had survived moved eastwards after the Fall of Doriath, and eventually settled in Dor-Lelmin, gathering the scattered Nandorim from Ossiriand around themselves."
"Do you hail from one of those families?" asked Drizzt. Silinde laughed.
"Nay, I am of common stock and happy enough that way," she replied. "Come now, I shall introduce you to Prince Egilstadir. You are supposed to ride with them to the defence of Dale and Esgaroth."
"I thought I was to ride to Dol Guldur with the King's forces," said Drizzt in surprise. Silinde shook her head.
"Not right away. There has been a slight change of plans. We shall try to hold the approach of the enemy far enough from our home, but the Men in Dale and Esgaroth will need help. Our scouts have sent word that a huge army of Easterlings is moving against them; those have mounted troops, while the Men along the Lake have not. After the first battle, our troops will unite in the appointed place and move on to Dol Guldur together."
"If there will be enough troops left," added Drizzt gloomily. Silinde shrugged.
"If we do not trust our strength, we can as well lay down our weapons and allow the enemy to massacre us," she said. Drizzt sighed.
"True enough," he admitted. "Those Easterlings… what kind of creatures are they?"
"Ordinary Men who chose to serve Sauron, for reasons of their own," replied Silinde. "They are cruel, barbaric, war-like, and capable of doing unspeakable things to their own kind."
"Most Men are," said Drizzt. "I would still prefer to fight against Orcs, though."
"So would I," answered Silinde, "but one rarely can choose one's enemies. Come now. You need to meet Prince Egilstadir."
Prince Egilstadir, although he shared the ageless, youthful fairness of his kind, was a mature Elf, who had fought through the War of the Elves and Sauron that continued throughout half the Second Age; and he had stood upon the battle plain of Dagorlad, leading the Nandor archers in the stead of his gravely wounded father in that final struggle. A thin scar across his left cheek – the reminder of a poisoned wound – proved that he had faced his enemies unwaveringly 'til the very end.
Despite his grim past as a seasoned warrior, he was a surprisingly easygoing and good-natured person, who took the appearance – and, indeed, the very existence – of Drizzt in a stride.
"It seems that the epithet 'Dark Elf' has just gained a whole new meaning," he murmured, with an amused glint in his dark eyes. "If only those haughty returnees from Valinor could learn what a Dark Elf truly is!"
"'Tis ironic that they called us Dark Elves, just because we never abandoned the place of our birth to the Enemy, so that we could see their precious Trees," Silinde agreed, her eyes glittering like blue ice. "Well, they might have thought that they were something better – and where are they now? Dead in Mandos' Halls, or back to Valinor, with their tails between their legs like kicked dogs. We, on the other hand, are still here."
Drizzt was surprised by the near-hostile tone of her words, but Egilstadir only shook his head in tolerant amusement.
"You have spent too much time in Avari company, Silinde," he said. "You already think like them."
"I happen to agree with them," replied Silinde primly, "and they are good company. Not great at ritual stuff, but best to have them watch your back."
"There is some truth in that," admitted Egilstadir; then he turned to the Drow and offered him the traditional warrior's greeting. "I welcome you to our troops, Drizzt Do'Urden from the House Do'Urden. 'Tis an honour that you chose to come with us. I regret that our armour is too big for you to wear; but I can see that the one you have acquired is every bit as good as our own. 'Tis Dwarven handiwork, is it not?"
Drizzt nodded. "I am less… paranoid towards Dwarves as Elves of this world seem to be," he answered simply.
Egilstadir laughed. "You will see that not all Elves consider Dwarves with the same deep suspicion as the uncle of my beloved wife does," he said. "In any case, I am glad that you are coming with us. You are a creature of the night, and your abilities will come handy when we face the enemy. For I wish not to lie to you: we are hopelessly outnumbered."
"My abilities, such as they were, were stripped off me after I had left the Underdark," said Drizzt. "Only my fighting skills remained, as they had come to me through long years of hard training, not through Drow magic. All I can offer you now are the skills of a fellow warrior."
"And those are mightily welcome," replied Egilstadir, "for a single blade can decide the fate of a whole battle sometimes. But are you truly certain that you have lost everything else? Magic, such as it is, comes not to us from outside; it lives deep within us and can be called upon in times of need. What were the things you could do once and now cannot?"
"I could call upon a glob of darkness and hide within it, bringing my enemy in disadvantage," answered Drizzt with a shrug. "Or float high in the air by sheer willpower. I could cast spells, fight off attacks against my mind… that sort of thing. But no longer."
"Are you sure about that?" asked Egilstadir.
"I have tried," said Drizzt, "and failed. It took some time, but slowly, one by one, all those things got lost. I have tried to get them back, but to no end."
"Or mayhap the need was not great enough," said Egilstadir simply. "We shall see, my friend, when it grows greater."
"When do we leave?" asked Drizzt.
"By sunset," replied the prince. "Meet me in my tent an hour before. I shall have a horse for you."
Late in that same afternoon, Drizzt spoke his farewells to the friends he had made among the Wood-Elves who were to go with different troops to different battlefields. He felt it particularly hard to part ways with Alagos, his very first friend it this world, and with Silinde who had become his closest friend here, but it had to be. They all had their own place in the upcoming great battle and had to go where they would be of the most use. Having done that, he went to the spacious lightning near the Elvenking's Halls, where the small green tents of the Nandor Elves had been erected.
Egilstadir was just about to lay on his armour when Drizzt entered – and armour picking the Drow's interest, as it was different from anything he had seen before. The Nandor Elves still wore the same battle gear as in the Second Age: a gear not only of utmost practicality but also of great beauty, decorated with the carved or inlaid images of leaves or gossamer and giving the bearer the air of a being not from this world.
Egilstadir stood in the middle of the tent, wearing dark green leggings and a long-sleeved, pale green shirt of soft wool. An attendant was helping him into a hauberk made of very fine yet strong links of mithril mail that was long enough to cover his slender torso to mid-thigh and was slit on both sides to the waist, so that he could ride in it undisturbed; the long sleeves ended at his deceivingly slim wrists. The prince's long, pale gold hair was tightly braided and twisted into a knot on top of his head, so that it would fit under the coif of his mail shirt.
The attendant now brought his cuirass. It was made up of six long, interlacing lames of pure mithril, joined with leather loops that were riveted above and below. The upper three lames were elongated so that they passed over his shoulders and protected the upper part of his chest, coming together to join the backplates by means of a rivet. The three lower ones the lower part of his chest and his belly. All six lames curved around his torso, to end in a vertical row under the backplates. Drizzt eyed the breastplate appreciatively, finding the construction truly ingenious. It seemed to him that each row of the lames was hemmed with another strip of grommeted metal, by the means of which all lames were laced together, using points, which allowed the top of the cuirass to lie tightly on the body yet still flexible, enabling the wearer to bend in every direction, leaving his neck free in a V-shaped opening. There the attendant placed a mithril collar, adorned with the emblem of Lord Aghavannagh's House.
The battle-skirt, also known as a fauld, was attached to the breastplate by means of leathers. It was made of seven long, overlapping lames that were looped together in similar fashion as the breastplate and curved around the hips to protect the lower torso and upper thighs. To further protect Egilstadir's arms, the attendant laid on bracers and pauldrons, the lames both of which were riveted together and strapped to the breastplate and to his mithril-strengthened gloves respectively, with leathers.
"What, no leg armour?" teased Drizzt.
Egilstadir laughed. "Even if made of mithril, it would only slow me down… and chafe on the flank of my horse. Nay, the helmet is more important."
Said helmet not only covered his head, it also protected his cheeks and his nose, while it was cut out widely around his eyes, as to not narrow down his field of vision. A wide, three-string leather belt, adorned with mithril buttons and holding his great scabbard, completed the sight of a warrior prince, seemingly stepping out of ancient tales. Only his shadow-grey cloak, made far south, in the Golden Wood, was the same as everyone else's of his troops.
They left Egilstadir's tent together, and two horses were led to them, both of the dappled silver-grey breed of the Nandor Elves. One of them very obviously belonged Egilstadir, while the other one was offered to Drizzt. He carefully reached out to stroke the long, delicate face of the horse – whatever the intention of the Nandor Elves had been, it was ultimately up to the horse to accept him – or to reject him.
For a moment, the horse – a young stallion, he realized, somewhat smaller and of lighter build than the others – flattened his ears and narrowed his eyes. Drizzt waited patiently. Finally, the horse calmed down, sniffed at his dark hand and bumped it with his soft nose.
Egilstadir grinned. "Good. He has accepted you. You can mount."
Drizzt saw in relief that the Nandor Elves, unlike their Silvan cousins, did believe in saddles and other horse gear – not that it would have been so surprising. They were Elven knights, after all, akin to heavy cavalry; they could not risk to be thrown from their mounts easily.
Another attendant came and handed Egilstadir his shield. It was lozenge-shaped, pointed on both ends and large enough to cover his entire torso, while the two cut-out sections on both sides of its navel allowed him to strike out with a sword or a spear. The upper part was decorated with carved-in Tengwar, and the edges were sharp – in dire need, it could also be used as a weapon. It was coloured green, and the navel bore the emblem of his House.
Drizzt, too, was offered a similar, though simpler shield, but he refused politely.
"I am not one to fight mounted," he said, "thus a shield this big would do me but little good."
"You fight on foot?" asked Egilstadir in surprise.
Drizzt nodded. "And with both hands, too. I only need the horse to get me to the battlefield. My scimitars can do twice as much damage when I mingle with the enemy."
"That makes good sense," agreed the prince. "Whatever suits you better. Now," he turned to his standard bearer, "are we ready?"
The Elf bowed. "Your knights are prepared to leave, my Prince."
"Let us not tarry any longer, then," ordered Egilstadir, and the Nandor Elves, accompanied by one lonely Drow, rode down along the Forest River towards the Long Lake.
After the destruction by the Dragon, the Men of Laketown had rebuilt their town, more fair and large, further north up the shore, where once the much more ancient town of Esgaroth had stood. What Drizzt could see in the reddish light of the sunset was a sizeable town, built on a large wooden platform, supported by great pillars sunk far into the bottom of the Long Lake. The platform paralleled the west shore of the lake, north of the Forest River. In the lee of the promontory lay a protected bay with a shelving shore, on which stood a few huts and small buildings, probably used for storage. One was a guardhouse at the end of a great wooden bridge that ran out to the town.
At the far end of the bridge were gates, and beyond those was the compact little town itself, with a great number of two-storied buildings, built with only narrow passages between them, using every square foot of space in the best possible way. More familiar with Mannish settlements than his elusive cousins of Middle-earth, Drizzt calculated, that – depending on the size of families and dwelling places – the town could have housed a thousand people… or more. It was fairly impressive, to tell the truth.
A wide quay was left on all sides of the platform, from which steps led down to the water – save the east side, which apparently served as a port. Small, wide-bellied, dragon-necked ships were moored on that side, their long oars pulled in and fixed in an almost vertical position, their small, square sails raffled tightly. They were clinker-built, meaning that each hull plank overlapped its neighbour and had only one mast. They were roughly fifty feet in length and sixteen feet wide – not the size of some great warships.
"An armada?" asked Drizzt, mildly amused.
"Nay," smiled Egilstadir, "a merchant fleet. "In the great days of old, the merchant houses of Esgaroth were wealthy and powerful, and there were much greater fleets of boats on the waters, and some were filled with gold and some with warriors in armour, and there were wars and deeds which are now only a legend. Yet even in these lesser days, you must not underestimate the Men of Esgaroth. Theirs is the oldest town in Rhovanion, even though it had to be rebuilt several times. And it has always been ruled by the heads of the great merchant houses – by their tradesmen who have journeyed as far to the South as Pelargir and Ethring for at least as long as a whole Age. No-one truly knows how old the town truly is, though, as no-one can remember a time when it would not be here."
"Not even you?" asked Drizzt.
"We have only dwelt here for the last two Ages," replied Egilstadir with a grin, "but yea, these people have been there at least that long."
The gates on the far end of the bridge opened now, and the Master of Esgaroth came out in his esteemed person to greet them – not a small gesture of respect, as he was himself a highly respected and powerful person among his own people. An elderly Man he was, clad in a long, fashionably cut gown of fine black wool, with snow white hair fawning out from under a richly embroidered black velvet cap and spread in thick waves over his slightly bent shoulders. He had a long, sharply featured, clean-shaven face and piercing, dark blue eyes. Something in his mannerism reminded Drizzt of the late Cassius, Spokesman of Byrn Sander and the Ruling Council of Ten Towns… it was not a pleasant memory. Nonetheless, he welcomed the Elves in a friendly enough manner.
"I offer you greetings and the hospitality of our town, good sirs," he said in his slightly trembling voice. "Never shall we forget the generous help of Elves with the saving of our people and with the rebuilding of our town after the Dragon's assault on Laketown. Please, enter and rest after your journey."
"We thank you, Master Ketill," replied Egilstadir, "but we have come to aid you in your fight against the Easterlings, and thus will remain on the lakeshore, for the time being."
The old Man nodded. "And we are mightily grateful for that, my lord Prince, for we can use any help that we are offered. Do you wish to meet our spymaster and the captain of our warriors?"
"The spymaster first, if you do not mind, good sir," answered Egilstadir. "Our own archers are on their way and will meet with your captain as soon as they arrive, but until then, we need to plan our move against our enemies."
"As you wish," bowed Master Ketill. "I shall send him to you, then… unless you want to come into the city, that is."
Egilstadir shook his head. "Not at the moment… afterwards, mayhap if we get the chance. I would hear news of the troop movements of the Easterlings first."
The Master of Esgaroth had no objections and retreated into his town to give the necessary orders.
The spymaster, when he came out a few minutes later to meet them, impressed Drizzt a great deal… but not necessarily in a good way. A handsome Man he was, this spymaster, and while Drizzt appreciated the comeliness of the shape, he remained watchful of the mind within. The Man was not so tall as the sailors manning the merchant ship seemed to be, but tall enough to carry his firm and graceful body well. He moved with a pleasing ease and power beside his squat and well-muscled fellow townsmen, mayhap due to some blood of the Men of Dale in his veins, who belonged to a different breed. His thick russet hair clustered in tight curls over his shapely head, and his dark, haughty eyes were set deep beneath thick brows, darker brown than his hair. His cheeks were shaven clean, but a narrow line of dark, curly beard neatly cropped and combed, seamed his strong jawline.
"Turcail my name is, my lord Prince," he said with an elegant bow; his voice, tough not particularly deep, every bit as rich as his clothing. "The Master says you wanted to speak with me?"
"Indeed," replied Egilstadir, "for we need to know where the troops of the Easterlings are right now and how they are organized. I assume you are the right person to answer my questions,"
"Most certainly, my lord Prince," said the spymaster. "I know them well enough, as I have blood among them: the son of my older sister Heledd, whom the men of Siltric jarl have taken during a raid. We never succeeded in rescuing her – or buying her free – but she always found a way to send us words of warning; and her son Ásgeirr kept doing the same after her untimely death."
"I find it surprising – and encouraging – that they still side with your people, and bravely enough to help you," said Egilstadir.
For his part, Drizzt found it suspicious and hard to believe but chose not to speak up just yet.
The spymaster shrugged. "The people of Rhûn are divided unto themselves," he said. "While their greatest jarl, Ragnar the Smith, who already sees himself as the King of Rhûn, is cautiously reluctant to aid the armies of the Black Land as far as he can afford it, many of the powerful jarls, who have set their eyes on his position, are all too eager to do some warring and pilfering of their own. Rhûn is a huge, untamed country; great parts of it are uninhibited. Ragnar the Smith cannot control what the jarls are doing, and they make their own alliances."
"I am told that Ragnar has forged a truce with the Riddermark a few years ago," said Egilstadir.
The spymaster nodded. "He has. But his might only extends over the warriors of his own household – although he has the largest one in the entire country – and cannot hinder the great jarls, who are still largely their own lords, to raid the other lands as they please… or to go to war on Dol Guldur's behalf."
"How many warriors might they have?" asked Egilstadir.
"Their numbers are high," answered the spymaster. "Every free-born man of the khimmer tribe is a warrior, born and trained to fight, even those who work as weaponsmiths or bronzesmiths between two raids. Their lands are wide but not very fertile, and what little their mordvin slaves can unlock from the ungrateful soil, is often taken by Orcs or wolves. That is why they always circle our borders – to get their hands on food, on cattle, on horses, on slaves… on anything they can get."
"Sauron is not a benevolent lord, not even towards his own allies," said Egilstadir in agreement. "How many troops should we count on, though? Can you give me any numbers at all?"
"The jarls whose lands lie northwest from the Sea of Rhûn have warriors in the thousands," replied the spymaster. "And as their raiding parties have not been challenged much lately, I assume they will be confident. They will send all the men they can spare, to conquer us in one, devastating attack. We shall be vastly outnumbered, I fear."
"We are used to it," said Egilstadir with a shrug. "However, it would be a great help if we could catch hem unaware, somewhere still on their way, instead of letting them get close to Esgaroth. Can you predict the path they would likely follow?"
"I can do better than that," answered the spymaster. "Your answer is coming up the River Running right now, my lord Prince."
Egilstadir and Drizzt followed the line of his outstretched hand and saw a ship coming up the river indeed: a vessel shaped for speed, perhaps eighteen paces long and no more than three or four wide. It was clinker-built, too, but shallow of draught, light of weight for its strength and speed, the two ends identical for instant manoeuvring. Nay, this ship was not meant for shipping bulky freight but for carrying messages in a great hurry, depending more on her rowers than on the sail hanging from the single mast that was lowered aft.
The captain of the little serpent-ship was a large, heavy-set, flaxen-haired young man, his huge arms bare and sun-burned from spending his entire life on the water, his eyes piercing blue in his smooth, tanned face. He stood in the front, ready to leave his ship at the first convenient time.
"That is Leifdall," said the spymaster, "our chief messenger. We have sent him out to look after the Easterling troops."
They watched at the barrel-chested, bare-armed steersman brought the sleek little craft close in beneath the grassy bank, to a spot were it was child's play to leap ashore over the low rim. There the young Leidfdall jumped onto the bank and waved his men to bring the vessel into the harbour.
"Greetings, Master Turcail," he called cheerfully, showing large white teeth. "I see the cavalry has arrived. When do we set to water again?"
"It depends on where the Easterlings chose to march, how many of them are there, and how well they are armed," replied the spymaster stiffly.
"They have come up along the River, as expected," said the young man with a shrug. "Have rested where the Redwater meets the River Running and are planning to rest again halfway to the Lake. They wish to come up against us under the mantle of the night, two days from now, and attack us in our sleep, as you have tried many times before – and failed. They just never learn, it seems."
"In that case," said Egilstadir, "We shall turn their own tactic against them. If we ride off within the hour, we could be at their camp tomorrow at nightfall."
Young Leifdall gave him a doubtful glance. "You could do that? Clad in armour as you are?"
"Our armour is light and our horses can bear the burden," said Egilstadir. "Neither do I doubt that our archers are light-footed enough to keep up with us. The question is: can we bring your warriors there in time?"
The spymaster furrowed his brow. "'Tis possible if we bring them down the River on ships," he said. "We need to ask Master Bowman Otir, though, whether they could be ready quickly enough."
A young lad was sent back to the town to call the captain of Esgaroth's foot soldiers, and soon thereafter a Man of fifty years or more came to join their council. Thick-set he was, barrel-chested, built like the bole of a tree and his skin burned reddish brown by the sun and the spray, like that of most people dwelling in Laketown. His straw-coloured hair framed his broad face in two braids, and his long moustaches hung lower than his square jaw. He was bare-armed to the shoulder but for the wristguards of every good archer protecting his forearms.
He listened to them with the quiet intensity of a man used to the burdens of command and to the responsibility for his men's lives. Drizzt liked him immediately. Both Otir and Leifdall reminded him of Wulfgar and his fellow barbarians, who had had their own strict codex of honour – although a very different one from that of other Men – and followed it relentlessly. Drizzt had the feeling that the soldiers of Esgaroth would do the same; he was not so certain about the merchants and their associates, though.
He shook off the feeling. Right now, he could not allow his personal disdain for spymaster Turcail and the likes of him to distract him from the task that had to be done. So he tried to listen to the discussion between Otir and Leifdall instead, for those two were the people who could tell him what he needed to know.
"Most of the khimmer warriors are foot soldiers," Leifdall was explaining to Egilstadir, "thus as hardy as they might be, that will slow down their progress a great deal. More so as they would not wish to arrive to the battle run down and exhausted. Only the sons of the jarls and their personal guards are mounted."
"What about their weapons?" asked Otir.
"Most of them are armed with broadswords, short spears and simple battle-axes, as always," replied Leifdall. "But those axes have only one blade, and they use them for chopping wood and butchering animals as well. Ours are Dwarf-made, and therefore much better."
"We need them to be better all right," growled Otir. "The Rhûnians have iron hauberks and helmets; only a very good blade can cut through those."
"But they have little else," said Leifdall. "Their arms and necks and faces are unprotected."
"What about archers?" asked Otir.
"They have few of those, too, for they know not the art of making bows and thus can only use those they steal from other people," answered Leifdall. "Their arrows, too, are heavy and clumsy, made entirely of iron, for they have more iron under those rocky hills of theirs than trees upon them; and their reach is short."
"But within that short reach, they can do much damage," said Otir worriedly. He then looked at Egilstadir. "The Elven archers will have to help us with this. Your longbows have a much longer reach, and your people have the sharpest eyes."
The Elf-Prince nodded. "We shall do our best, Master Otir. But we all need to leave here as soon as possible. So do tell me: how soon can that be?"
"We shall begin to board the small and fast ships within the hour," promised Otir. "If you provide the archers, we can leave our own behind to protect the town and bring more axe-fighters and sword-fighters instead. Those are the ones most needed against invaders from Rhûn, once the archers and the mounted warriors have been taken care of."
"That is good thinking on your part, Master Otir," said Egilstadir. "I shall send winged messengers to our archers and redirect them without the need to come here first. We will all meet shortly before the Goblin's Den, tomorrow evening, an hour before nightfall. Can you manage it?"
"We can," replied Otir. "Let us hope that the Goblin's Den is still abandoned, though, or else we will run into grave problems."
"The Orcs of the Misty Mountains are unlikely to have strayed this far to the East, now that they are needed in the war elsewhere," stated Egilstadir calmly. "But we will send forth scouts nonetheless. I wish no more to walk into a trap than you do, good sir."
"Then I am well content," said Otir and returned to the town to put together his own troops.
They only had a short hour to have them board the ships and set sail down the River, after all.
TBC
