Title: The Web of Darkness
Author: Soledad
Author's notes:
The Professor had used Norse languages to base that of the Lake-men on, so I gave Esgaroth a bit of a Viking touch. Since Dale is considered as a very different place (inhabited by very different people) I gave them Welsh names, complete with the Welsh version of 'son of' or 'daughter of'. It doesn't mean that they actually are Welsh, of course.
PART 11
Drizzt had travelled on ships before, during the adventurous years spent among the Men of Faerûn, yet the sleek little drakkar of the Lakemen were a wonder to him. He had been invited to sail with the Grey Gull, young Leifdall's own vessel (or, more likely, that of his father, even though he was the one currently commanding it), and was now investigating every little detail of it, amazed by the excellent craftsmanship with which it had been wrought.
Standing amidships in the well between the benches of the oarsmen, he could look forward along the lithe, long craft that had been shaped for speed, before all else. As he had estimated at first sight, it was about eighteen paces long and mayhap four paces wide. He counted ten strakes a side, six feet deep amidships. The single mast was lowered aft, and as the wind did not blow in their backs, the square sail was rolled up tightly, so that it would offer no resistance. Drizzt noted the clinched rivets that held the strakes together… this ship was made by a master, without any doubt. He hoped he would get the chance to visit the shipwrights of Esgaroth and watch them work – assumed, of course, that they survived the upcoming battle.
The boatmen paid him no attention at all. Each of them knew his duty and went after his business, ignoring the men-at-arms aboard, strangers and their own alike. Not one oarsman checked in the steady heave and stretch of his stroke, or turned to glance to note the movement at his bare shoulder, as the Dark Elf walked forward, up to the nose of the ship, where Leifdall was standing, watching the still surface of the Long Lake before them.
The Lake itself filled Drizzt's heart with awe, even though he had seen huge bodies of water in his life. Maer Dualdon, Lac Dinneshere and Redwater, the great lakes of Icewind Dale, had not been exactly small, either. But the Long Lake reminded him of the sea itself, on a windstill day. It was so wide that the opposite shores looked small and far-away, and so long that its northern end, which pointed towards the mountain realm of Erebor, could barely be seen, even for his keen Elven eyes.
"Once upon a time, this had been a great, deep, rocky valley, or so the old legends say," said Leifdall quietly. "But then the River Running, which the Elves call the Celebrant, changed its route and came down into the valley, in the place where Dale stands now. And with the Forest River that comes from Mirkwood, together they filled the valley with deep waters. Sometimes I wonder what might have been there in the valley before that."
"But does the water have an outlet somewhere?" asked Drizzt.
Leifdall nodded. "At the southern end you saw with your own eyes on our way back how the waters pour out again, over high waterfalls and run away to the unknown lands of Rhûn. You should take a closer look, once the war is over. 'Tis a truly endearing sight."
"I can still hear the roar of the falls, distinctly and far-away, like music," said Drizzt.
Leifdall nodded. "I have been to many lands, as far down to the South as the great coastal cities of Pelargir and Umbar," he answered, "and seen many wonders of Middle-earth. Yet for me, this is still the most beautiful little corner of Arda. I would not wish to live anywhere else but here. And that is why we are going to defend it against anyone or anything that might try to take it from us."
"I assume the Men of Dale share your feelings," said Drizzt.
"They do," Leifdall replied with a grave nod.
"Tell me more about Dale," asked Drizzt.
Leifdall shrugged. "There is not much to tell. The town is as old as ours; no-one can remember a time in which it would not have been there, save from the years of the Dragon's reign. The Men of Dale have always had good relations to the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, and before that, with those from the Grey Mountains, selling them foodstuffs and cloth in exchange for ironworks and jewellery. They are not as good at trading and sailing as we are, but their craftsmen and warriors are better."
"Is it true that King Brand has descended from Bard the Bowman who had slain the Dragon with a single arrow?" asked Drizzt.
"He has," said Leifdall. "But that was not just any arrow. The Black Arrow had been handed down from father to son for countless generations, ever since the destruction of the old town and the death of his last King, Girion, who was their forefather. It was always meant to be a tool of revenge on the Worm."
"Still, it must have required a keen eye and a steady hand to find a vulnerable place on the Dragon's natural armour," said Drizzt, who had his own experiences with the malevolent kin of dragons.
"He had some help in that, 'tis said," replied Leifdall, "but he was an unusual Man in any case. He could predict floods and poisoned fish, and he understood the language of birds… of thrushes, at the very least. King Brand, his grandson, is a wise and good ruler, but he cannot compare himself with his ancestor. No other Man of Dale can."
"They are a different race of Men than your people, are they not?" asked Drizzt.
"They are said to be an offshot of the people of Eriador, where once the North-kingdom of the Dúnedain lay," answered Leifdall with a shrug. "If that is true, they must have sundered from the main stock a very long time ago, for they are much shorter, and they have dark eyes. Mayhap they mingled with the Mordvin people of Rhûn, far back in the distant past; I cannot tell. But they are the best craftsmen and warriors of the North – perchance due to all that Dwarven influence."
"I am told that the Dwarves helped them to build their town anew," said Drizzt.
Leifdall smiled. "Oh yea, that they did. Fortunately, the memories of the Wood-Elves are long and detailed. They could tell what the old town looked like – although the people of Dale did not want an exact copy of that which once was. Prince Legolas, the Elvenking's son, says that Dale is much more beautiful now than it used to be, and if anyone, he ought to know. He was present when the Dragon came, after all."
"He was?" said Drizzt in surprise. "That is strange. Where I come from, Wood-Elves do not like to be in stone cities."
"Neither do those from Mirkwood," Leifdall said, laughing, "but Prince Legolas is an adventurous soul. He has friends among the Beornings, too, and not many people can say that about themselves."
"Why not?" asked Drizzt. "Are they so unpleasant?"
"Before all else, they are a rustic, solitary people," explained Leifdall, "who avoid even each other most of the time. They are also skin-changers by their very nature. They can take on the form of very great bears, and in that shape they are not only incredibly strong but also moody and dangerous. Even the Elves go out of their way by chance meetings. Radagast, the Brow Wizard gets along with them well enough, but as he shares their love for the trees and wild beasts instead of people, 'tis not surprising."
"I met the wizard in King Thranduil's court," said Drizzt. "He is a wise one."
Leifdall gave him a look full of doubt. "If you say so," he said. "For my part, I find it strange when someone prefers trees to people, but you Elves mayhap see things differently. Now, if you look to the northwest, you can see the town of Dale in its full glory."
Drizzt followed the young Man's outstretched arm and looked in the direction with great interest. When he had visited Erebor with Silinde, it had been too dark to get a good glimpse of the already sleeping town. Now he could see that it was, indeed, a place of great beauty.
It was larger than Esgaroth, but not by much, and as it did not seem to have multi-storeyed houses, perchance its inhabitants were not much higher in numbers than the Lakemen. It was protected by a stone wall that ran in a semi-circle around it, stretching from one side of the southern outthrust of the Lonely Mountain to the other. Behind the wall, terraces and towers were climbing up the slopes of the mountain, using the natural protection given by the rock. A huge gate, made of massive oak and strengthened by iron bars, was the only visible way in, although Drizzt did not doubt that the town had a watergate somewhere, too, so that the people could escape with boats to the Lake, when there was no other rescue in sight.
Leifdall called something in the peculiar tongue of the Lakemen, and the drakkars made an elegant turn, one after another, to moor on the shore of the Lake, near the gate of Dale. The guardsmen of the Gate came forth from their stocky, square stone watchtower to greet them, led by a sturdy young man, dark-haired and dark-eyed, grim-faced and observant. All guardsmen wore dark green gambesons and breeches, and over those knee-long mail shirts in Dwarves fashion with simple helmets, adorned with the heraldic emblem of Dale: a shield divided in three diagonal fields, two of them dark green, with a sea lion in silver each, while the middle one white, with two black crowns, symbolizing the two kingdoms of Dale, the old one destroyed by the Dragon and the renewed one that was flourishing again. The same emblem was on the front of their mail shirts, made of silver and green enamel. They were armed with strong spears and round shields, also Dwarven-made, and had broadswords hanging from their sword-belts.
"Welcome and have our thanks for hurrying to our aid," said the young Man leading them. "I am Cuhelyn ap Dafydd, the Captain of the Gate Guard. King Brand is waiting for you on the Marketplace to exchange tidings and discuss battle strategies. If it would please you to follow me, my men would help yours to load off whatever you may need from your ships."
Without waiting for an answer, he turned those very black, intense eyes of his to his men who showed great eagerness to obey at once. Then he turned on his heel to lead the visitors in. Only then did Drizzt realize that his left forearm ended but a few inches above where once his wrist must have been. A fine leather covering was pulled over the stump like a glove, secured by a thin silver bracelet. It seemed that life in the North of Middle-earth was not as safe as it might appear at first sight.
The young captain led them to the Marketplace, which was a paved square, surrounded by small, two-storey houses – by the look of them they belonged to various craftsmen, who lived on the second storey and had their workshops on the ground floor. Each house was painted a different colour, and they had wide shop windows on the front that, however, were shut right now, as the town was already preparing to face the enemy.
There was a Man-made (or, more likely Dwarf-made) pond in the middle of the square, with the stone figures of the mythical sea-lions –half-lion, half sea-serpent – rising from the water. The figures were spitting water in masterful arches, the rays of spray crossing each other gracefully and glittering in all colours of the rainbow when the sunlight fell upon them. The narrow lanes leading away from the Marketplace were paved with many-coloured stones, too, and the roofs of the houses were tiled with merry, colourful patterns as well. If anything, the Men of Dale seemed a merry people who liked pretty things.
On the northern side of the pond a tall belfry stood, and under its tiled roof were hung seven rows of bronze and silver bells, each row containing bigger ones than the one above it. As Drizzt, Leifdall, Otir and Tuilindo, Master Bowman of the Nandor Elves entered the Marketplace, a Man rose from a stone seat and played a short, merry tune on the bells, using stiff wires to manipulate the respective rows, to greet them. Then he sat down again.
"This is where the King welcomes his visitors or talks to his people," explained Leifdall, who had been going in and out Dale all his life, to the Drow. "The bells also serve to signal the passing of the hours. Being the Bell-Guard is a respected position that needs great skill and much attention."
The ground floor of the belfry had been built to house a middle-sized room with only three walls, as it stood open to the pond. Within, heavy oak seats stood for the King and his Queen, and wooden benches for any possible visitors that might request an audience. Apparently, courtly life was a fairly public event in Dale, which Drizzt find unusual, but again, different countries had different customs.
King Brand was a burly, muscular man of perhaps sixty summers or even less, for his shoulder-length hair was barely salted with grey. He had sharply cut features and a very erect presence, his eyes dark and observant behind a commanding brow. A proud, ambitious man he seemed to be, and one quite certain of himself and his powers – and rightly so, if one saw the thriving of the town over which he ruled.
His Queen, clad in gold-embroidered dark green velvet like himself, had the same dark colouring, but seemed at least ten years younger, if not more, her braided and coiled hair, half-hidden under an elaborate hennin, not yet touched by age. She had great beauty for a daughter of Men, even though she could not compare herself with the ladies of the Elvenking's court. Still, she radiated a strength that was rarely seen, even among ladies of royal birth.
Two young men flanked the royal seats: tall fellows for their people, in the elusive age between twenty and thirty, wearing gemstones about their sturdy throats and shiny hauberks of Dwarven made over their fine leather tunics. The younger one had the same dark colouring as the royal couple, but his brother – their likeness made it clear that they were brothers – was bright of countenance and fair of colouring, his eyes greyish-blue and his hair a light reddish brown. Mayhap he was born to the King from an earlier marriage – or out of wedlock. Drizzt made a mental note to ask the two Lakemen later.
To honour his allies, King Brand rose from his seat and inclined his head in greeting. He wore no crown or any other such royal symbol, just a silver collar studded with emeralds around his strong neck.
"Welcome to Dale, Master Otir, Master Elf, kinsman," he said to the Lakemen and Tuilindo; then, turning to Drizzt, he added. "And I welcome you, too, stranger, who have come to our aid in the hours of great need. I am Brand ap Bain, King of this town. My Queen, the Lady Regath. My sons: Meilyr, the captain of my personal guard," with that, he nodded towards the older of the two, "and Bard, he who will follow me on the throne one day."
"May that day not come for many years yet," added Prince Bard with a smile. "I am certainly not ready to take over the sceptre, and shall not be for quite a time."
"We cannot choose our time to go on the Great Journey," his father said soberly, "so let us not speak of such things before we go to battle. Allow me to introduce the others first. My daughter, Branwen, and her newly-wed husband, Lord Geraint, one of the knights of my court. Lord Anarawd, the chief of my knights and his lady wife, Gwenliant. Master Dafydd, my weapons master. Master Aeddan, my steward. Lady Marared, the Queen's chatelaine and wife to one of our lesser lords who holds a manor of his own, not far from the town. Master Ieuan, the captain of our archers. And, finally, Master Fychan, our spymaster."
Princess Branwen had a definite likeness to Leifdall's wife, Ortrun, only in a more refined way; she was, indeed, quite beautiful, and seemed to have a fiery temper. The two knights were clad in shining armour and wore the coat-of-arms of their town on their breasts, rather than any family emblems. The others wore gold-embroidered bliauts of dark greens and browns and seemed to prefer velvet, the women – with the exception of the Queen – wearing a simple white veil, fastened with a golden or silver circlet rather than a hennin.
For such a small town inhabited by barely more than three thousand people, it was a very refined court, decided Drizzt. And King Brand seemed to know very well what was going on within – and without – his small realm. He called forth his spymaster, a balding, middle-aged man who turned out to be also the town's head scribe and the author of a much-respected history of Dale, and asked him if they had word about the progress of the Easterlings.
Master Fychan glanced at Prince Meilyr, the one with the reddish brown hair before answering.
"Prince Meilyr has received word from our scouts, with the help of the thrushes," he said. "It seems the Easterlings will reach our town at sunrise – if they march through the night, that is."
"They will," said the King grimly. "They must know by now that the Dwarves of the Iron Hills are hot on their heels. They might be barbarians, but they are no fools."
"When will the Dwarves arrive?" asked Master Otir.
"No sooner than in two days' time, mayhap even later," answered King Brand. "They are fast, but the way from the Iron Hills is a long one. We will be besieged well before their arrival. We must hold the town 'til the Dwarves come to our aid – outside the walls we have no chance to withstand such a huge army."
"Do we now aught about their numbers?" asked Otir.
The spymaster nodded. "Siltric Silkbeard must have emptied all his caves, for if our scouts are not mistaken, the Easterlings will outnumber us five to one, at least. And, unlike our own people, those are all battle-hardened warriors with nothing to lose."
"Also, they seem to march with an uncommon speed," added Prince Meilyr. "As if some secret power would drive them forth, strengthening them on their unwelcoming paths."
Drizzt made a quick calculation in his head. Dale couldn't have more battle-ready Men than a thousand and five hundred; and the Lakemen had sent no more soldiers than two hundred, aside from the Elven archers. If the Easterlings outnumbered them five to one, that meant almost ten thousand warriors from Rhûn. Even with the help of Dwarves, it would be a very hard and bloody battle. They needed an excellent battle plan to survive.
He glanced at the two Lakemen and saw that they had similar thoughts crossing their minds. Only the Elf Tuilindo seemed untouched by concern.
"Do you want us within the walls as well?" asked Leifdall the King.
Brand ap Bain nodded. "There is no other way," he said. "King Dáin promised us help from Erebor, too – they will come down from the Mountain and attack the enemy from behind. But we must hold the town at any cost. If Dale falls, Laketown will follow. A victorious Easterling army would shake down the smaller settlements like walnuts, and with the Wood-Elves fighting Orcs in Southern Mirkwood, Erebor would not be able to prevail alone, either."
"Very well," said Master Otir. "We shall bring in our swordsmen and spearmen and axe-men. The archers, however, shall remain on the ships to thin out the rearguard of the enemy. Beyond that, we can only hope."
"Hope and fight," answered Prince Meilyr. "We have lost our town to the Dragon once, but we shall not lose it to mere Men. Never again."
In the remaining hours 'til nightfall, preparations for the upcoming siege were sped up. As he was showed around in town, Drizzt realized that the Men of Dale had learned from the bitter fate of their old realm and became more conscious about safety. When rebuilding their town, they had chosen to hide the greater part of it under the earth, carving large mansions into the very rock, with the help of Dwarves, leaving only the upper store above the surface. Waterways connected the underground mansions, on which one could travel by boat, and there were narrow paths cut into the sheer rock walls, on which one could walk. Those escape routes led up to the Mountain and down to the Lake, respectively, and their cleverly-built gates could only be opened into one direction – unless one came with a huge battle-ram, for which the narrow space would not suffice anyway.
And yet, in spite of being an underground fortress, the part of the town that lay below the surface did not lack beauty, with its cavernous rock chambers, held by enormous stone pillars, carved into the shape of tall, dark trees by skilled Dwarven hands. There were small waterfalls where small springs broke through the rock, and the mansions had open terraces that looked at the waterways or the falls, and there were glittering veins of copper and silver in the walls, giving them a lovely pattern. The whole place had a decidedly Dwarven touch to it, but the Men who lived there did not seem to mind, even though they dwelt in the upper levels in peacetime, above the surface, where they could enjoy the sunshine and the beauty of the Long Lake below their town.
At times of great peril, however, like the current ones, the underground part of the town would make it possible for the people to hold out long against a much stronger, more numerous enemy. And, by the look of things, that was exactly what they intended to do.
Master Aeddan, the King's steward, was a short, wiry, elderly man, but one who seemed never to tire. He walked all over the town, carrying a bound staple of parchment under his arm and a pen behind his ear, examining storehouses and making notices about food resources, wine resources, weapons, barrels of oil and tar, and everything else that they might need or use during the siege.
"It looks promising, Sire," he reported to the King. "We have eight thousand lambs, four hundred oxen, cows and calves that we can slaughter if needs must be, eleven thousand five hundred bushels of wheat, rye and flour altogether, and fifteen hundred bushels of barley and oats. Neither Man nor beast must suffer from the lack of food for a while."
The King nodded in approval. "That enables us to feed our Dwarven allies, too. Very good, Master Aeddan. I did not know that we had such resources in town."
The steward tilted his grey head to the side, bird-like. "We have known for years that this day would come, Sire. We have made precautions."
"And wisely done," said the King. "How much wine is there?"
"Two thousand casks," replied Master Aeddan. "And six hundred barrels of beer, too, although I fear the Dwarves will find it cannot be compared with their ale. While 'tis true that most of it was meant to be shipped to the merchants of Esgaroth, I find it comforting to know that we have enough, in case the Easterlings bottle us up here for a while."
"Are there any pigs?" the King asked.
The steward studied his books again. "One hundred and fifty-two living," he answered. "There are two hundred sides of bacon, too."
"That should be enough," said the King.
Master Aeddan nodded. "Master Dafydd has requested for oil and pitch barrels to be distributed to the strategic places on the outer wall," he then added.
"Do what he asks," said the King. "Master Dafydd had learned from the best among the Northmen. He knows what he is doing."
"I hope he does," replied the old man. "I would hate to see those unhewn barbarians pillage our town, and unlike them, we have not fought any great battles lately."
"Worry not, Master Aeddan," said Anarawd ap Cynan, who, aside from being the chief of the King's knights, was also the father of Prince Bard's bride, Melangell. "They shall not enter Dale – not ere each and every one of us is dead."
"Your dead bodies would offer us little protection, Lord Anarawd," said Fychan ap Huw dryly.
The chief of the knights gave him a broad grin. "We shall try to stay alive, then, Master Fychan, so that we can protect you better," he said.
Listening to their conversation unobtrusively, Drizzt wondered just how many of them would manage that.
In the next morn, the sun did not shine. The sky was covered in dark clouds. The peak of the Lonely Mountain was wrapped in grey mist, and there was a heaviness in the air that bore down on people's hearts most unpleasantly. Even Master Otir seemed to have lost some of his good humour, and looked out into the eastern vastness morosely.
"Does the weather not bother you?" he asked Drizzt who was standing upon the wall next to him.
The Drow shook his head. "Nay," he replied. "In truth, I prefer weather like this. Too bright sunshine still tends to blend me in the most impassable moments. I am a creature of the Underdark, after all."
"Well, I am not," growled the Lakeman. "Nor am I a rat to get holed up in a trap like this."
"You could have gone out to the ships with Leifdall," Reminded him Drizzt.
'Twas the Lakeman now who shook his head. "They need people within the walls," he said. "Leifdall had to leave, to protect the ships, for they are his responsibility. Me, though… I shall be of better use within. I only wish the Easterlings would finally come. This waiting will turn me mad yet."
"Oh, they will come, worry not, Lakeman," said a green-clad Man who had the heavy-set shoulder of an archer with a grim smile. They had met him in the King's court upon their arrival."They will come sooner than we would wish."
Drizzt gave him a thorough look. The man carried a longbow similar to those used by the Wood-Elves, and a full quiver. Catching the Drow's measuring look, he bowed with some flourish.
"Ieuan ap Ifor, captain of the town's archers, at your service," he said in Dwarf-fashion. Apparently, living next to Dwarves for so long had rubbed off to the Men of Dale.
"Drizzt Do'Urden, at yours," replied the Drow with a bow of his own. "You are certain, then, that they will come at sunrise?"
"We shall know for sure when the advance-guard comes within sight, but yea, I am fairly certain, replied Ieuan ap Ifor. "I only hope we shall be finished with preparations in time."
For there was still a great deal of work going on within the walls. Carpenters were hammering flat the ends of three-foot stakes. Beside each of them, a young lad bored a hole in the flattened end and formed a cross out of it. A group of even younger boys bound oily tow dripped in pitch to the crosses. Drizzt assumed these devices would be set on fire and thrown onto the enemy. There was already a large heap of them there.
"A shame for the good firewood, it is," commented Ieuan ap Ifor sadly. "We could have had better use for it in winter."
On the left side of the Gate, where two low lines of houses divided by a square formed the barracks of the Gate Guard, there was a squeal of grinding and the banging of fitters. There the blacksmiths were working, under the watchful eye of Master Blacksmith Collen ap Collfrewr. Their job was to repair the weapons of those who brought them along – now and later, during the siege, as well.
Behind the barracks Padrig Flesher and his helpers were herding the cattle into their underground stalls. There the butcher would slaughter them beside the wall, so that the blood could be gathered in stone vessels. Apparently, the Men of Dale knew several recipes that required animal blood as ingredients, although it seemed unlikely that any such sausages would be made during an all-out battle.
When Master Otir mentioned this, Ieuan ap Ifor shrugged.
"We can pour it over the Easterlings' heads instead," he said. Master Otir seemed a bit sickened by the idea, but wisely chose not to comment on it.
They were about to turn into the Marketplace when the watchman on the Gate Tower gave a long, fierce blast on his horn. Ieuan ap Ifor squinted up at him angrily.
"What is it?" he demanded. "Here we are, can you not see?"
The watchman leaned out of the window. "The messengers are coming back, Captain Ieuan!" he said excitedly.
For days by then, a long line of guards had been set up, stretching as far as the few trained warhorses of Dale allowed, and kept watch day and night for the arrival of the Easterlings. While the thrushes kept bringing word to the King about the enemy's approach, 'twas important that experienced Men's eyes also watched their progress and judged speed and track of them all the time.
Ieuan ap Ifor sent young errand boys to call the King, Weapons Master Dafydd and Tudur ap Bledri, the captain of the spearmen, to the Gate. They came running at once, followed by the princes Meilyr and Brand as well as the knights of the court. Soon, they were all standing upon the wall above the Gate and, shading their eyes, looked at the road which led from the distant plains along the eastern shore of the Long Lake straight to their town.
Along the road a sole rider was approaching at a sift gallop, carrying with him the dust that his horse kicked up. He wore the green and brown garb of the town archers but was bare-headed, as if he had lost the leather cap that usually belonged to the garb.
"Is that your brother?" asked the King from Ieuan ap Ifor.
The captain of the archers nodded. "Aye, Sire, that is Ithel… and in an awful hurry he is, it seems."
As Ithel ap Ifor – the bow-maker of the town as Drizzt would learn later – arrived beneath the town wall, his face was seen to be covered in blood, and his horse had a lump on its flank the size of a pumpkin.
"He has been in a fight," muttered the King.
"He seems to have done well enough," replied Ieuan ap Ifor with brotherly pride.
Another three guards kicked up the dust in Ithel ap Ifor's wake. There should have been twelve of them altogether, Drizzt knew. Mayhap the rest had been slain… meaning that the Easterlings were there in truth.
The messenger galloped up to the Gate and leapt from his horse. He halted, covered in blood, sweat and dust, before his King who was looking down at him from the wall. His left cheek was entirely black with congealed blood.
"Beg to report, Sire," he said, touching a closed fist to his breast above his heart, "the Easterlings are here."
"The whole army or only the advance-guard?" asked the King.
"The first of them, Sire," replied Ieuan ap Ifor. "We could not see much of the main army, they were too far behind, but they were making good speed… and there are many of them. I have never seen such a huge army before."
"How did you get wounded?" his brother asked.
"They are on alert, too," replied the messenger. "As soon as they got wind of us, they sent a sizeable group after us. Half of my mates stayed behind, so that the other half could escape and bring word, but a few of the barbarians came after us anyway and chased us quite a bit. We were able to slay them, but not without cost. Two of us were slain – and the rest is injured, too."
"Why are your mates so far behind?"
"They are worse for the wear than I am, Sire, that is why I rode forward. But they will live."
The King looked at his weapons master. "Someone bring those men within the walls ere the Easterlings arrive. And tell your people to speed up preparations."
Dafydd ap Elisud nodded curtly and left to carry out his orders. He was a man of few words and many deeds. The King looked down at the messenger again.
"Is there aught else?" he asked, for he had the feeling the man had not yet told him the worse.
Ithel ap Ifor sighed. "Sire, there is. I cannot be certain, for I have not seen It, yet I believe that more than just the Easterlings are coming. I felt a… a presence. A very old and evil one. One that had visited our town not so long ago."
The King paled but managed to keep his outward calm. "I understand," he said. "Well, then, go to the healers and have your wound tended to. We shall need every man on these walls in the morn."
The messenger bowed – and had to grab for his horse, as sudden dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. "By your orders, Sire."
And leaning on the good beast for support, he walked through the Gate, while a team of spearmen rushed out to collect his injured mates.
Standing upon the wall, King Brand of Dale looked at his warriors in grim concern.
"Do you believe what I believe about this… presence?" he asked.
They nodded in unison, their faces every bit as grim as his. They had been with the King when the messenger of Dol Guldur came. They had all hoped never to feel that kind of dread again.
It seemed, though, that event hat relief would be denied them in the upcoming battle.
"I thought the Nazgûl would go with the Orcs and Wargs to attack the Elven realms," muttered Tudur ap Huw.
"There is more than one of them," reminded him the King.
"But I was told they were called back to Mordor," said Drizzt. "At least that was what the Wood-Elves believed."
"Dol Guldur has never been empty," answered the King. "At least one of the Nazgûl has always been there. The Wood-Elves believe him to be the lieutenant of the Dark Tower. They call him Khamúl the Easterling."
"The Easterling?" repeated Drizzt. "Well, that makes sense, I assume."
"Not truly," said the King. "Not even the barbarians can bear the presence of a Nazgûl, as a rule."
"Perchance the Nazgûl gave them no choice," said Master Otir with a shrug.
"So, where does this leave us?" asked Lord Anarawd.
"The same place where we have been all the time," answered the King. "We have to hold the town 'til the Dwarves come to our aid… and hope they will come in time."
"Even with their help, it will be much harder to resist when the evil will of the Nazgûl is driving the enemy forth," said Tudur ap Huw in concern.
The King nodded. "True. But this is our home. It has been our home as long as memory goes back. We shall protect it. With our weapons, as long as we can. With our lives, if we have to."
Drizzt wondered whether the King had had some insight into the future or it was simply bravely and despair speaking of him. In truth, that mattered little at the moment. They had a town to defend, and he was determined to help these good people at the best of his abilities. More so now that he realized he was about to face the Nazgûl in battle.
Those Wraiths had summoned him from his own plane of existence to help them massacre or enslave these people. He would show the monsters that no-one could use Drizzt Do'Urden to harm the innocent. Not anymore. He no longer was the confused youngster he had been in Melee-Magthere. He was a grown warrior now who knew his own strength – and after a very long time, he had a purpose again, one he had chosen himself.
Regardless of what awaited him in the upcoming battle, it was a good feeling. A very good feeling.
TBC