The Debtor
The campaign continued, with each side sending out scouts and war parties, and the men of Dunlas sought ever to thwart the progress of Gwestanion's men through the forest, but though they gave no ground, neither did they gain it. All the art of their scouts and trackers, as well as the strength of their fighters, was required to stay abreast of their enemy's maneuvers. Amrundil led in all the affrays, but they saw no trace of Gwestanion in the clashes. "Ever will his like send others into battle to safeguard his own power over them," muttered Bralfin. All about them the woods rose ominous, the trees glaring down, forbidding and ill-tempered watchmen, and sometimes a foul-smelling steam would seep between the close-set trees, turning the bark slick and the men's thoughts brooding and dark.
Now it was the eighth day of fighting when the scout Narthang sped into the camp with news of a large force traveling west, headed by Gwestanion himself. "It has come at last," said Amrundil, "the hour when we must turn away the evil which threatens our land once for all. Make you ready, all, for our meeting." Though men and supplies seemed in plenty, still Amrundil preferred to station small parties to the flanks by stealth and arrow, "For," he said, "the gnat may cause the bear to stumble. We must preserve all the men we can for the future of the land." Yet the great battle came on them at last, and was the more chaotic and risky for being fought among the trees. Many a warrior found his sword driven into the heart of a tree instead of a foe, or lost his balance among the twisted roots underfoot. The battle had been waged an hour or less, and the men of Dunlas fighting well, when Gwestanion appeared with his main guard, two thousand strong. Most terrible he appeared, tall and dread, arrayed in the armor of the line of Firathar, and his helm shone out gold from the rare sunrays beneath the treetops. Mighty was his arm, and he felled men like wildflowers beneath the scythe, hewing his westward path.
Catching sight of him, Amrundil cried, "Stay, Gwestanion! Your war is against me, and you shall slay no more before you have met my sword!" And his ferocity increased by urgency, he dispatched with great speed all who stood between he and his foe. So in the midst of the great Woodland Battle these two felt at last the bite of the other's sword. And the sword of Gwestanion was Drauganc the sword of Firathar, a mighty blade in the hands of the traitor, while the sword of Amrundil was Luinlach, of steel so pure it flashed blue in battle. Yet this noble blade could not of its own merit stay the wrath of Gwestanion, blind to all but his bloodlust, and Amrundil began to give ground before the onslaught of his opponent. Then an ill fate guided his foot amiss; a rock gave way down a slope and Amrundil fell to his knees, his ankle twisted badly, still withstanding the attacks thundering upon his sword, but unable to render the same; nor was it within the power of any man near to come to his aid, for they were scattered among the trees, overwhelmed by the fighting force of Calmarun. The left arm of Amrundil was dealt a grievous blow, and his right tired so that he could scarcely turn away the blade of the usurper. And Gwestanion raised his arm to deliver a shattering blow, but suddenly he cried out in pain and wheeled; and lo! Gwenniol sprang away, having pierced Gwestanion's shoulder between the links of his mail.
Seeing his attacker, Gwestanion gave a harsh laugh and said, "What, ha, little flea! Thinkest thou that thou mayst inflict a bite and escape without satisfying me?"
And Gwenniol cried in his high clear voice, "Nay, the only satisfaction shall be mine when thou liest dead at my feet!" Enraged, Gwestanion fell upon the lad, but found him too nimble to harm, and so they fought in a strange dance while Amrundil looked on, dazed and bleeding, thinking the duel like one between a bull and a fox. But the false King was possessed of the strength of the hooded boy many times over, and when their swords met that of the Elf-child fell to the ground. Then the eyes of Gwestanion blazed in triumph from beneath his golden helm, for he was certain of manifold victory: child, lord, and crown in succession; and he plunged the point of his sword deep into the boy's chest. Amrundil, watching, gave a strangled cry of grief, but no sound issued from the mouth of Gwenniol; yet in one swift movement Gwenniol seized the very blade of Drauganc and wrenched it out of the hands of its bearer and also from the folds of his tunic, for Gwestanion was caught unawares in his moment of glee, and in a last courageous effort with both hands drove the blade down into the unarmored place beneath the shoulder into the heart of Gwestanion. Then both fell to the ground, and their dark blood was mingled upon the flagstones of the forest.
Seeing their king vanquished, the host of Calmarun was dismayed and began to withdraw, while the men of Dunlas fought the more fiercely; but Amrundil crawled to Gwenniol's side, thrust aside the corpse cast upon him, and gathered him up in his arms.
"Gwenniol, Gwenniol!" he cried, taking in his hands those of the child, which flowed freely with blood where the mighty blade of Drauganc had bit into the fingers. "You who call yourself Debtor have left me irreversibly in yours!"
The reply came slowly and brokenly, a jagged whisper like a winter wind through the thin veil. "No, my Lord," said Gwenniol, "I have at last paid my debt to you." Faltering hands grasped for the sword, and Amrundil closed the boy's fingers around them. "I know your lineage, and you shall now know mine. The man I have slain here is my brother. In days long past our forefather took this sword from your mother's line by the wicked spilling of blood, and a curse has justly lain upon all our household. Today this sword has drunk of both our blood, the last of that cursed line, and I now render it to you, the rightful king of Calmarun."
"But who are you and whence came you?" cried Amrundil, all the more mystified. "For I reckoned you one of the noble Mirkwood Elves, yet you claim kinship with this wretched man."
From beneath the veil was visible the faintest of smiles. "Amanlindë you once named me, and this day the name holds true, for I have indeed purged my song of evil." And Amrundil was bidden to unclasp the hood, and he lifted it, amazed and overcome with sorrow, and saw that beneath the grey cloak was the face of Nestaloth. "Forgive me," she whispered, and spoke no more, and though he called her name many times he could not recall her spirit from its final flight; and so he cradled her to his chest and wept long and bitterly.
Victorious home came the host of Amrundil, and most highly praised was the son of Harthing, whom Balan named his heir and who claimed also the kingship east of Mirkwood, and long did the forest road serve as the binding cord between those two happy lands under rule of the flourishing and joyous line of Amrundil. But Amrundil himself rode not the path to his home that day, nor was there joy in his heart; he led his horse by the bridle and laid upon its back the body of Nestaloth Amanlindë, and when he came by his crowns to all his subjects East and West he gave account of her deeds. For her they gave a burial as for a beloved princess, and out of love for her memory Gorling made of her history both a lay and a lament, the substance of which is set herein as a lasting tribute to her name.
