Title: The Web of Darkness

Author: Soledad

Author's notes: Khamúl's background is entirely my creation. Canon does not say anything about him, save his name, that he was called "The Easterling" and the fact that he was the lieutenant of Dol Guldur.

Canonically, the forces of Dol Guldur attacked Thranduil's realm as well as Lothlórien (the latter three times). It would be logical to assume that Khamúl, too, went with them. However, this is nowhere exactly stated. So I simply took some poetic licence here, assuming that only seven of the Nazgûl – including their captain – took part in the siege of Minas Tirith, while two of them remained in Dol Guldur to watch over the events in the North. In my interpretation, it was the other one, not Khamúl, who led the Orcs, Wargs and other foul creatures against the Elven realms, while Khamúl himself rejoined the people to which he had once belonged.


PART 12

Riding his huge back steed in ominous silence, the Nazgûl once known as Khamúl the Easterling watched the waves upon waves of well-armed, battle-hungry Khimmer warriors roll before him towards Dale. He had chosen to ride with the rear-guard, for that way he could use the sheer terror his very presence caused to drive the army of Rhûn forward with a speed they would never have been capable of otherwise.

As a rule, Ringwraiths wasted little interest on the people they commanded in Sauron's name. Men and Orcs, Trolls, Wargs or whatever other creature ended up under their iron-spiked boots, were but tools in their eyes. Tools that they could use or discard at will.

It had been that way throughout the whole Age. This time, however, Khamúl felt something vaguely akin to pride as he looked at the tirelessly moving sea of heavy-set, russet-haired warriors under his command. They were a proud people. A people of warriors who lived only for the fight and the bounty that came as the prize of the fight. Their lives were ruled by their peculiar sense of honour – which made them all the easier to manipulate.

Khamúl knew them well enough. Better, in fact, than any other creature of Middle-earth. Once upon a time that was now long lost in the mists of history, he had been one of them. He had once been a powerful jarl of the Khimmer people, with ambitions similar to those of Ragnar the Smith and Siltric Silkbeard: he wanted to become King of Rhûn, to rule unquestioned on the plains of the eastern vastness.

He would have done anything to reach that goal. He had risen to power shortly after Sauron's return from Númenor to Middle-earth. He was created second after the Witch-king, lured into the slavery of the Ring through his hunger for even more power and riches. Only he had not perceived it as slavery – not at first, in any case. While he had possessed the same barbaric shrewdness as most Khimmer jarls, thinking and plotting were not his strongest suit.

Like Angmar himself, he was able to keep his human form for many hundred years, and for a while he truly believed the Ring had gifted immortality upon him. He was the one to lead the attacks of the Wainriders, first against Gondor more than thousand years ago, than against Rhovanion, 'til he received a wound in the last battle in North-Ithilien against Eärnur's forces; a wound that would have been deadly for mere Men. In his case, it only resulted in him becoming a Wraith – and finally recognizing the trap into which he had walked with his eyes only half-open.

While Sauron was sleeping, Khamúl was trying to take over the Mountains of Nimvarkinh, under which he would rule the same way the Witch-king had once ruled over Angmar. It would have been easy; he knew the people of Rhûn, after all. He knew what they feared and what they desired most. He had gone there, certain in his victory, but was confronted – and subsequently driven out – by two strange sorcerers in blue robes.

He had wanted to return there with even greater armies, but his captain forbade him to do so. 'Twas not their hour yet, warned the Lord of the Nazgûl, and the sorcerers were more powerful than they looked in their modest mortal disguise. Without Sauron's might to empower them, they would be chanceless against one of those – and even less so when facing two at the same time.

Many hundred years had gone by since his defeat, but Khamúl was still Easterling enough, even in his current state, to have vengeful wrath burning in his insides when he remembered it. He had allied himself with his captain, hoping to make the most of the Dark Lord's return. Sauron might believe they were his willing servants, but Sauron had never been a Man. He had never known the intricacies of mortality, of alliances and betrayals and unexpected loyalties and the ties of kinship that could keep a Man bound despite any other alliances.

Once the so-called free peoples of Middle-earth were defeated and put in their proper places, Khamúl and his captain would begin to build their own empires. The Witch-king would return to Angmar and raise an army of Drow Elves to defend it. Khamúl would take the Deep Forges under the Mountains of Nimvarkinh as the seat of his power and rule over great numbers of fierce Khimmer warriors. Let the others guard Minas Morgul, Dol Guldur and what other fortresses Sauron might raise in the future! The two of them would have their own realms – and strong ones at that.

True, they would remain the slaves of their Rings and bound to Sauron's power. But they would be Kings over the other slaves – and, perchance, one day they might become even more. When all rebellious realms had been broken, there would be time for everything.

The first step towards that power would be the destruction of Dale – a task he had tried earlier and failed but would not fail this time. Khamúl could feel the victory within his grasp. He threw back his head under the black hood and released a long, triumphant cry that turned the hearts of the bravest Khimmer warriors to ice with the sheer terror of it.


Siltric Silkbeard, the powerful chieftain of the Tribe of the White Kine, was less than enthusiastic about the Nazgûl's presence among his men. While the shadow creature's presence helped to drive his army forth much faster than it would have been possible by their customary methods, it also spoiled their upcoming victory. Siltric did not like sharing a glorious battle with the Wraiths. They had no understanding for the pleasure of the fight, for the joy of the song before and that of the feast afterwards, for the respect and honour a successful raid – or even more so a battle won – meant for a Khimmer warlord. But one could not refuse a Nazgûl if it wanted to go to war with them, thus Siltric tried to make the best of it and put the terror the creature emanated to good use.

There was no joy in going to war with the Nazgûl in their backs, no joy at all. They had not even been allowed to take the great tent with them, the one made of the skins of six hundred white kine; the one that served as the mead hall before all their battles. And in the advance-guard that rode right before Siltric and his bodyguards – six grown sons of his own, including his heir, and six of the bravest valkyrie, shieldmaidens of the East – only the standards of lesser jarls from his own tribe were carried: red standards seamed with gold, depicting the black-horned white skull of a kine bull, with the runic symbol of the respective families on its brow in black. All other tribes had either allied themselves with Ragnar the Smith or been sent South to fight alongside the armies of Mordor against Gondor and Rohan.

Even so, the advance-guard of Siltric's army was an impressive sight to behold. It consisted of his entire cavalry: small in numbers compared with the mass of foot soldiers but still more than twelve hundred mounted warriors, wearing bronzed breastplates and helmets, armed with broadswords and carrying heavy, round shields that could resist a thrown lance from twelve steps. These were the least vulnerable troops in the entire army, unless the enemy had archers that could hit their eyes from a great distance. The advance-guard was made up of the lesser jarls themselves and their hand-picked bodyguards: the finest warriors the Tribe of the White Kine could offer.

"We shall stay with them all the time," said Siltric to his eldest son and heir. Sigurrd was his favourite, for he saw his younger self in the lad, even though Sigurrd was the son of a captured Northern woman, not born by his wife. Not that it mattered. The Khimmer cared more for strength and skill than for birth, and any lowly foot soldier could challenge the greatest jarl for his position if he felt up to it. Sons could only inherit their fathers' rank if they were willing and able to defend it from any challengers. Siltric himself had fought many duels to the death to keep his position, and so had Ragnar the Smith or any of the other jarls, even the lesser ones.

Sigurrd, too, eyed the advance-guard with the savage delight of a born warrior. "Where they go, victory will follow," he said in agreement. "We shall return home with rich bounty."

Siltric nodded. Sigurrd was the most capable one of all his sons: heavy-set and strong like the White Kine, with flaming reddish-gold hair and piercing blue eyes. He also had a keen wit and could judge people and situations very well. One day, he would be able to challenge the Tribe of the Bear for the leadership over the entire Rhûn. Not right away, of course. Not as long as Ragnar the Smith was in his prime. Siltric knew that no Khimmer warrior could challenge Ragnar and live to tell the tale. Many had tried; none had come even close to success. The chieftain of the Tribe of the Bear was like the namesake of his people: strong, cunning and cruel.

Siltric himself had never been foolish enough to challenge him. Not even he would have been able to best the Smith, of that he was certain. But Ragnar was already on the zenith of his might. In a few years, he would be forced to hand down his power to his chosen heir. And Ingolf Ragnarsson, although big and strong and bear-like as well, could never compare himself to his father. As soon as he would rise to take over, challenges would be declared. And then, Sigurrd's hour would come.

Siltric Silkbeard let his eyes sweep over the richly armed figures of his grown sons. They were skilled warriors on their own right, every single one of them, with wives and concubines in their halls and sons at their knees. All of them, save one. Ásgeirr, the only surviving son of his legally bound wife, was not worth to be called a warrior. The young man was an excellent spy – which was why Siltric had sent him with Gotharr's troops: to keep an eye on that dangerously ambitious ally – and mayhap he would make a shrewd trader, just like his uncle in Esgaroth, but was no warrior at all. He was weak, he was unsteady, more interested in his own wealth than the honour of his tribe. He had not been able to win a wife and sire sons yet. In short, he was an embarrassment. Spies and trades did have their use, but they were not considered honourable. For a jarl – and the chieftain of one of the strongest tribes at that – to have such a son was a shame.

In recent years, Siltric had often asked himself whether it had been a wise decision to become allied to Turcail of Esgaroth. Sure, it had brought him a handsome wealth over the years; coin that he could not have acquired otherwise. But he also had the vague feeling as if he had besmirched his honour as a Khimmer warrior by the mere contact to the merchant's family. As if something sticky and vaguely disgusting would cling to his fingers, to his very being through the mere presence of his wife in his bed. He had been relieved when the dry sickness finally swept her away, making room for new, younger, more worthy wives. It spared him the effort to have her killed.

He had not chosen a new wife yet. His female slaves served his needs well enough for the time being, and taking a wife always meant to make a new alliance with the wife's family. He would wait 'til the end of the war and see who would emerge from the chaos with more power and wealth. Then he would select a new wife to strengthen his own position further.

About the outcome of this particular battle, the one they would fight shortly, he had no doubts or concerns whatsoever. He had enough warriors to outnumber the united forces of Dale and Esgaroth several times. Even if the Dwarves of Erebor came to Dale's help, it would matter but little. Khimmer warriors were almost equal matches for Dwarves, when it came to strength or weapons skills, and they had the numbers. And thinking of the Dragon's hoard, still jealously guarded by the Dwarves, would prove a great inspiration for Siltric's men. They would fight like berserkers, just to get tot hat treasure, even without the Nazgûl in their backs.

Dale would have to be conquered and destroyed, its houses torn down to the ground. About that, the orders of the Nazgûl were adamantly clear. But the fate of Esgaroth lay currently in Siltric's hands, and the powerful jarl was still considering what to do with the merchant town. Keeping it intact could be advantageous: trade was needed. On the other hand, people like Turcail were every bit as dangerous as allies as they were as enemies. For the Nazgûl, they were of no importance. But for Siltric himself, the right decision could mean a great deal for his future power.

"My Lord," one of the shieldmaidens, whom the others called Amethyst, spoke up, "the scouts are returning. The advance-guard will soon be within eyesight of Dale. What are your orders?"

Siltric knew that he should ask the Nazgûl first, but he cared not. This was his battle, his army – he vindicated the right of the decision for himself.

"Let them stop as soon as they can spot the town walls," he ordered. "Allow the foot soldier to catch up with the mounted warriors and take on formation. This town is well known of its stubborn resistance; we shall not be able to take it without a proper siege."


On the evening before the enemy's arrival, King Bard entertained his knights, the master craftsmen of his town and the captains of Esgaroth who had come to Dale's aid. Guests at his table were also Tuilindo, Master Bowman of the Nandor Elves, the Dwarf Dork representing King Dáin Ironfoot and Drizzt Do'Urden, the Dark Elf. They were dining in the King's own home, served by the Queen herself, her daughter and the brides of the two Princes, for all the house servants had been sent to the Marketplace. There long trestle tables had been set up, to serve a festive dinner for all those who would fight upon the walls of the town in the next morn – and might die in defence of them.

The meal in the King's House began with a plate of cold beef seasoned with bread crumbs, red grape juice, onions, cheese, honey, cardamom and ginger, then continued with chicken in verjuice, rice baked in almond broth and honey cakes in rose petal sauce. The table was also richly equipped with preserved fruits and apples from the winter and small dishes with quince and almond paste.

At first, the air about the festive table was solemn; the very real danger of the next day weighed heavily on everyone's mind. Even after the first course, when a barrel of true Dorwinion Red was opened and filled into the silver goblets, none of their hearts were lightened. 'Twas Queen Regath who broke the silence, when the plates had been changed after the main course.

"'Tis enough of the gloom and the long faces," she chided her royal husband gently. "'Tis time for a toast, King of Dale; for a toast to all these good and brave people who have come to our aid in this hour of need."

The King glanced up to her and his grim face eased into a sad smile. "You are right, my lady wife," he said and rose, picking up the silver goblet before him. Then he looked at the people at his table, one by one.

"My friends," he said, "thank you for coming. Thank you for bringing your swords, spears, bows… and your hearts to defend our town. I have a very strong feeling that together we will be able to hold back the waves of barbarians from pouring over all Rhovanion. Let this hope strengthen you, too. Let us hope that in this same place we shall celebrate our victory with another feast."

"So be it!" called Lord Anarawd, raising his own goblet.

Everyone echoed his call and drank, and then Master Otir rose. He twirled his long moustaches and grinned from ear to ear.

"The Men of Dale trust in the strong walls of their town," he said. "The Lakemen trust in their weapons and their ships. The King of Dale trusts our hearts, and rightly so. For I say you, friends, that together we will be able to hold the town 'til the Dwarves of the Iron Hills arrive. For the Easterlings know not of the Dwarven army marching up in their backs; and between us, we will teach the barbarians a lesson they will not easily forget."

The guests cheered and drank again, and then all eyes turned to the dwarf Dori in expectation. The big BlacLock shook his head in distaste.

"We need more wine and less talking," he declared. "Wine to steady our hearts… and enough sleep to welcome the enemy in full strength in the morn."

The others laughed and drank some more to the delicious honey cakes, when in stepped a guard, halted in the doorway and bowed.

"Sire, the enemy has come within eyesight," he reported.

King Brand shrugged. "'Tis only their advance-guard, I assume."

"More than that, Sire," replied the guard. "Their foot soldiers are flooding in by moonlight like the tide. Our scouts have spotted lots of tents and several fires."

"They will be here at dawnbreak, then," said the King, dismissing the guard with a nod but asking him to bring further reports, should there be any.

After the guard had left, he rose. That was the signal for all to disperse and rest as well as they could. 'Twas clear to everyone that the first attack would come at dawn. With the Nazgûl in their backs, perchance even earlier. The Wraiths preferred the darkness, in which they were the strongest.

Drizzt, who also preferred the night, exchanged a look of understanding with Tuilindo. After a moment, the Nandor Elf stepped up to the King of Dale.

"My Lord King," he said with his deceivingly melodic voice, "are you giving the enemy the courtesy of welcoming them to Dale?"

"What do you mean, Master Elf?" asked the King.

Tuilindo pretended to be thinking. "I suggest selecting a proper greeting group of, say, two hundred Men and Elves and visiting their resting place briefly."

"Just so that they would not feel neglected," added Cuhelyn ap Dafydd, the Captain of the Gate Guard, clearly supportive of the idea.

The King looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "All right," he said. "I have no objection. A charge like that may fill the hearts of our people with new courage."

"That is what I was thinking," said Tuilindo with a sly smile. "If the spirit is strong, the sword does its work better."

"However," added the King, looking at Cuhelyn ap Dafydd sternly, "I am not allowing you to go, Captain."

"Sire!" the young man protested, but the King waved his protest off.

"Nay, Captain. You are too hot-headed, and I cannot risk losing you. You are needed on your post – the Gate will be the place most endangered during the siege. But Prince Meilyr may go – although not with two hundred men. You can take a hundred, my son, no more. That will be enough. Make a charge, harry them a little and return … unharmed and without casualties. We cannot afford to lose any people, is that understood?"

The young prince nodded. "Understood, Sire." Then he looked around. "Who will come with me? Only mounted warriors count."

He lacked not in volunteers, so he could choose as he wanted. From the knights of his father's court, he chose Finion, the son of Lord Anarawd, and Cadwallon ap Grippiud and his brother Cadwaladr. He asked Tuilindo for a team of archers to give them cover during the retreat, then hurried down to the barracks, for the Gate Guard was basically the town's cavalry and thus housed all the war-trained horses. Waking them with a bugle-call, he chose the best riders and swordsmen among them, ordering them to meet him at the Gate in as quarter mark, armed, mounted and ready. He also wanted them to bring a so-called mantrap. Drizzt had no idea what that might be, but he knew one thing for certain: he wanted to go with them.

"My Lord Prince," he said quietly, "you would do well to take me with you. My darkvision is better than anyone else's in Middle-earth… and I have faced demons before."

Prince Meilyr gave him a long, piercing look – then nodded. "Take a horse," he said, "and cover your hair. Be on time, though, for we will not wait for you."


They were soon riding down the road on the eastern shore of the Long Lake, under a somewhat cloudy, moonlit sky. About fifty paces ahead of them rode Deiniol ap Dafydd, Captain Cuhelyn's younger brother and a member of the Gate Guard, he who knew the hidden paths around the Lake better than anyone else. After half a mile, he turned off the road, leading them through the fields where the soft earth swallowed up the sound of the horse-hooves, making their ride noiseless like that of fleeting shadows. When they caught sight of the first watchfires, Deiniol ap Dafydd halted, allowing the others to catch up with him. The moon peeking out from among the clouds gave just enough light for their shapes to stand out like black shadows in the night.

Prince Meilyr rode over to Drizzt.

"We can take advantage of your darkvision now, Master Elf," he said. "I would like you to go as far as the first watchfire. If there is a lonely guard, creep behind him and stab him. Then take a look at the fire. If there are no other guards beside it, throw this little oilskin on it to give us a signal. But be careful: it will spark a hellish flame, so you will have to get down that instant, least they will catch sight of you."

Drizzt nodded; it sounded like an excellent plan. "What about my horse?" he asked.

"Leave it with us," answered the prince. "We shall guard it for you 'til your return."

"And if there are guards at the fire?" asked Drizzt. He would be able to slay two or three undetected, but hardly more. Khimmer warriors, he had learned in the previous battle, were good and always on alert.

Nor was that what the prince wanted him to do, apparently.

"In that case, have a good, hard look around to see where and how they are lying and how many of them are there. Do not attack, just come back with word. That is what we need most."

Drizzt nodded again, dismounted and merged with the darkness. With his keen Elven ears, he could hear the prince instructing his men for a while yet.

"As long as you see any Easterlings stirring, hit them and strike them," explained Prince Meilyr. "Do not go any further than a hundred paces from the others, in case you take a tumble. As long as you hear the sound of the bugle for the second time, turn around and race homeward. Wait not for the others, unless you see someone in grave peril. We all meet again where we have left the road."

"Are we to look for anyone or anything special?" Deiniol ap Dafydd asked.

The prince shook his head. "Nay; just keep your wits about you. These are battle-hardened warriors, born and bread to fight. Even if they take a fright from our uncounted-on attack, they will surely resist. They are taught to do so. If they do, keep striking where they are closest together 'til they fall apart. You have the advantage of being on horseback – use it! Strike so swiftly that they would not have the time to strike back, or else they will slay your horse. The blow should fall like the hail."

The Men nodded in understanding. The Elven archers, too, were impressed. For the inexperienced warlord of a small, usually peaceful realm, Prince Meilyr surely showed some decent talent for strategic thinking.

Said prince looked around as if seeking for something. "Where is the mantrap?" he asked.

"Here, my Prince," replied a young voice, and one of the common soldiers rode forth, holding a long, fork-shaped instrument in his hand. He wore the uniform of the Gate Guard.

"Do you know how to use it?" asked the prince.

The young man nodded. "Captain Cuhelyn showed me."

"Well, then, just grab the neck of one of them with it and bring him down," ordered Meilyr. "Be careful, though, for Khimmer warriors are stronger than most Men. 'Twould be better if we could capture one of their Mordvin slaves; such a one would be more likely to speak, too. But if we cannot choose, just grab the first man coming your way."

"And when we have him?" asked the young man.

"Tie his hands behind his back and get off home as quickly as you can," replied the prince. "Do not wait for us. Make him run beside your horse; that will not leave him enough breath to shout out or try to escape. If he tries anyway, hit him on the head, put him on the horse before you and ride off."

In that moment, a sudden flare of a fire could be seen in the short distance that parted them from the Easterlings' night camp.

"'Tis the sign," said Prince Meilyr calmly. "Make yourselves ready. We are going to attack as soon as we have heard word from our scout."

He was still speaking when Drizzt appeared out of the darkness like a ghost, tossing back his dark hood, so that the Men would recognize him by his thick mane of strong white hair.

"I stabbed the guard," he reported. "He did not hear me coming; just fell over like a sack. The fire is burning in the middle at the tents. There are at least two dozen of them, and a great deal more further off. Seems like they are taking a rest ere they attack. There was only one Man sitting beside the fire. By his clothes, he must be a servant of some sort, as he was not armed. I hit him on the head to keep him from alerting the camp."

"A Mordvin slave, most likely," Prince Meilyr looked at the young guard with the mantrap. "Try to get him." The young soldier nodded.

"The rest are lying on the grass in their hundreds, on skins and blankets," continued Drizzt. "They are all together to the left of the fire."

"Are they sleeping?" asked the prince.

The Drow nodded. "Like dead. The hard march must have been too much, even for them, which is probably the reason why their lords are waiting with the attack at least a few hours."

"Could you feel the… presence Ithel ap Ifor was speaking of?" inquired the prince.

Drizzt shook his head. "Nay… and that was unexpected. Perchance it comes with the rearguard and is still some distance away. We must strike quickly, though. I have no wish to face that one during the night. Not yet."

"Neither do I," murmured the prince; his haunted eyes told of some past horrors he was not ready to speak of. "Right then, men, keep well apart, at least ten paces. We will make a circle around them. When you hear my bugle sound once, fall on them like Wargs. Shout, scream and strike with all your might, as if there were a thousand of us, or more!"

Meanwhile Drizzt had mounted his horse again, and the hundred riders scattered towards the East. Lord Cadwallon ap Grippiud and his brother Cadwaladr were right on the wing, easily recognizable by their silver-washed armour and the three eagle's feathers adorning their helmets. They led the long line of mounted warriors in a half-circle and adapted their speed to that of Prince Meilyr's trot, who was now in command.

The prince trotted gently along the line of the bushes for a while – then he suddenly broke into a swift gallop, Drizzt, and the Elven archers in tow. The Nandor Elves were every bit as good at shooting arrows from horseback as they were on foot, and they felled any awakening Easterling ere those could utter a sound.

The wild cry of the first Khimmer warrior not dying immediately from his arrow wound shrilled into the night, and hell broke loose in its wake. Now that the element of surprise was over, Prince Meilyr blew his bugle, and the hundred mounted warriors from Dale swept like whirlwind on to the exhausted Easterling troops, shooting at the tops of their voices and striking at everyone they could get near enough to.

But the Khimmer warriors had been well trained, and it showed. Within moments, the sea of tents came alive with creaks and cries. The shouts of friend and foe mingled into a single tempest of sound. The Easterlings sleeping on the ground started up, yet after the first moment of confusion they picked up their weapons to face the attackers. Some of them tried to push their way through the tents, in order to get where their horses were grazing.

"Forward! Forward!" called the clear, ringing voice of Prince Meilyr above all the noise. "Keep moving! Offer them as little target as possible!"

The camp of the Easterling advance-guard was shrouded in chaos. Shouts and curses filled the night. Shadows dodged, leapt and mingled. Swords glinted and swished, clubs thudded, horses clattered and snorted, tents creaked. Now and then, the slight pang of an Elven bowstring could be heard, ere the noise swallowed it again. The ground thundered beneath the hooves of the galloping horses.

Drizzt felt a strange calm coming over him. His scimitars moved in a deadly dance, seemingly on their own, slashing right and left. He felt them pierce flesh every time, but it seemed to him as if someone else would move his trusted blades. The enemy fell before him, parting aside like the waters following a wizard's spell, but his spirit was watching out for something else.

He was seeking the presence of the Nazgûl. He was best suited to feel the approach of the foul creature. He needed to stay on alert, to warn the others if necessary.

Around him, the fighting was raging on mercilessly. Some of the Khimmer warriors had reached their horses and slashed the hobbles with their swords, leaping on to them. Prince Meilyr saw it and knew they could not afford to let the Khimmer cavalry form a defensive line.

"Follow me!" he cried out, and his knights raced to him, assailing the riders, cutting and stabbing men and horses alike. The Easterlings put up a valiant resistance, but right there, right then, they were outnumbered. They fell in a wild rattle of swords and clash of spears.

And in that very moment, when some of them turned to escape on horseback, seeing that they had no chance, Drizzt could suddenly feel it: that unnatural emanation of darkness and malevolence he had already felt once, in the Front Gate of Erebor. The Nazgûl was closing up. They had to leave this place at once.

He slew the foot soldier that tried to break the front leg of his horse with an axe and rode up to Prince Meilyr in a great hurry.

"We must go!" he shouted over the battle noise. "Now!"

The prince understood at once. He halted his horse and blew the bugle twice. Hearing the sound, his men galloped back to him from all directions through the tents.

"We have accomplished our task," he said. "Now we must head home without delay. Wherever there is a fire in front of a tent, kick the fire on it, but do not tarry to gather any bounty. This is not the time for that. On your way, quickly!"

The men obeyed without question, hearing the strain in his voice and understanding that an even greater peril was coming up against them. There was no pillaging the tents in that night. The only thing they brought with them was a blood-red standard, seamed with gold, with the black-horned white skull of a kine adorning it. That and the Mordvin servant captured with the mantrap, whom the young guard had tied up and thrown across his horse before the saddle.

'Twas well after midnight when they reached the Gate of Dale again. But when they thundered through the gateway, half the town was still awake, waiting for them and cheering them heartily. Drizzt only wished that the successful charge would give the defenders enough strength and willpower to face that which was waiting for them at dawn.

TBC