Chapter 13: Battle of Sudden Flame
In which there is finally some action of the seas-of-blood and heaps-of-slain variety.
There was no sign of activity from Morgoth during the following weeks. People started speculating that he might have gone to the lands of Men. At Formenos, life settled into calm routine - well, as calm as things can be when there are Fëanorians involved. Fëanor spend most of his time working on some new project; he claimed that it was something they needed to overthrow the author. The rest of them had to take his word for it, since none of them knew what he was doing. He insisted on making all his notes in his new runic alphabet, saying that this would make it harder for the author, as well as any spies who might happen to look through his papers, to figure out what it was. Nerdanel and Curufin were the only ones who had any idea what he was working on, because he would occasionally discuss some part of it with them, but even they didn't know much about it.
The food situation had improved with Nerdanel's arrival, since she had been foresighted enough to bring provisions. She even had some lembas. They were surprised that queen Eärwen had let her bring that, but Nerdanel pointed out that she was actually technically a queen, and thus entitled to give away lembas. With what she had brought, and what the sons of Fëanor brought in from their frequent hunting expeditions, they were in no danger of starving, and had time over to do other things than gather food.
Maglor seemed to be composing a new song, and spent most of the time alone in his room or walking outside. The other sons of Fëanor busied themselves with practising their already excellent fighting skills and looking over the fortifications of Formenos. Nerdanel took pity on Erwen and offered to teach her basic metalwork; at first she shied away from the thought, mumbling something about not being all that comfortable around fire and metal, but then her love of learning took over and she accepted. Maedhros' right hand healed, and Amras seemed to be getting used to the idea of giant lights in the sky. In short, a few weeks passed by in relative tranquility.
And then there came a night that was anything but tranquil.
"That is no big force," said Fëanor, staring intensively into the dark night. Of course, to his sharp elven eyes, the stars gave enough light to see.
"No," said Amrod. It was he who had been on watching duty, and who had woken them up with the news that they were under attack.
"A small band of orcs," said Caranthir. "We should be able to destroy them fairly easily."
"It has to be a trap of some kind," said Maedhros.
"I don't see how it can be," said Celegorm, "unless there is an invisible army out there. Any reinforcements will arrive too late; we will already have slaughtered the orcs and retreated when they get here."
"There has to be a catch," said Maedhros. "Perhaps he is trying to test our strength?"
"And if he is, what do you propose we do?" said Curufin.
"Well, kill them, I suppose," said Maedhros.
Curufin did not answer, but neither did he need to; that smug smile on his face spoke for itself.
"Right, right," said Maedhros. "I just want it noted that I don't like this. There is something suspicious about it."
By numbers alone, the small group of elves who gathered behind the front gate and prepared to attack the orcs outside was vastly inferior. But one must keep in mind that they were Fëanor and his sons: mighty warriors born in the age of the Trees when the world was young, hardened in numerous battles, wielders of blades forged by the mightiest craftsman that ever lived, fierce and fearless fighters of the house of Finwë. Well, and then there was Erwen.
"The plan is simple," said Maedhros. "We open the gate, rush out and kill them, and then return. Without getting killed. Is there anything that wasn't clear?"
No answer.
"Very well, then." He took a deep breath. "Open the gate."
Amrod and Amras pulled the bars and swung open the doors, and the poor orcs who were advancing towards Formenos found themselves facing a bunch of flame-eyed elves with swords that gleamed as ice in the starlight. If any orc had ever written an article for entitled 10 Signs Your Night Is About To Get Worse, this would almost certainly have made the list. Fëanor led the attack, laughing as he fought, and the orcs fell as bowling pins for his sword. Hacking and slashing their way through the orcs to keep up with him were his seven sons, accompanied by Erwen, who tried to make up for what she lacked in skill by sheer fury. Fear and confusion spread through the rapidly thinning enemy lines as wildfire. Some of the orcs on Maedhros's flank were fleeing already.
"That is for my hands," shouted Erwen as she stabbed a badly-armoured orc in the shoulder, "and that is for my tongue," she directed a blow towards the next one's sword arm, "and that -"
She stumbled and fell, and would have been pierced by the orc's blade if Caranthir had not stabbed him first.
"A word of advice," he said. "When in battle, focus on fighting. You kill your enemies with your sword, not your tongue."
"They are running away!" shouted Celegorm over the clangs of battle. "Come back, you cowards!"
"Don't follow them!" shouted Maedhros. "Remember the plan!"
There were only a few orcs left now, hopelessly struggling to deflect the blows of the elves. Then, suddenly, a red light appeared in the north.
"Flame and shadow!" said Maglor, absent-mindedly cutting off the head of the orc he was fighting. "I had forgotten how fast those things move."
"Ai, a Balrog - a Balrog..." said Erwen. Her sword fell from her hand.
"Only one?" said Fëanor. His eyes sparkled. It was about time he got his revenge.
The duel between Fëanor and the Balrog would have made a splendid film sequence. The fire of the Balrog was reflected in Fëanor's eyes, and his sword shone red as blood in the light of its flames. Many blows they exchanged, swifter than any mortal eye could follow; two spirits of fire, locked in a deadly dance under the stars. Although the Balrog towered over its opponent, it could not defeat him; once only had its whip touched him, but Fëanor's sword had already stung it several times, staining the ground with its black blood.
The Balrog's movements were slower now, but Fëanor's were as quick as ever; and then he leapt forward, ignoring the fiery whip that twisted around his legs like a snake, and drove his blade into its chest to the hilt. The Balrog shuddered and fell, hitting the ground with a final dull thud. Fëanor struggled back onto his feat, freeing himself from the smouldering remains of the Balrog's whip in the process.
"That was fun," he said.
"Yes, fine, and now let's go back," said Maedhros, with a worried glance at the surroundings. "If there are any more surprises for us out here, I would rather avoid them."
"Right," said Maglor. "Can someone help Erwen back on her feet? She doesn't look too well."
That was true. Erwen was half-sitting, half-lying on the ground, shaking all over. Her eyes were closed and her face was pale and sweaty.
Amrod extended an arm towards her.
"You can look now," he said.
She didn't seem to hear him.
"We don't have time for this," said Maedhros. "Get up." He grabbed her shoulder and roughly dragged her back on her feet. Although she looked a bit unsteady, she remained standing of her own accord.
"Er, Russandol," said Amras. He was kneeling beside the corpse of a small orc. "When you said you didn't want any more surprises..."
"What is it?" said Maedhros.
"This one isn't dead."
"Put its out of its misery, then," said Maglor.
"It isn't miserable," said Amras, "it's not badly hurt."
"Misery could be arranged," said Curufin.
Maedhros sighed.
"What are you suggesting, Attarussa?"
"We can't kill it while it's unconscious," said Celegorm. "That's not fair play."
"I think we have to take it prisoner," said Amras.
Nerdanel was not too happy about it.
"I thought it was bad enough with all those injured birds Tyelko used to drag home," she muttered, "not to mention that giant dog... but this is too much. An orc?"
"Well, we couldn't just murder it in cold blood, could we?" said Amrod.
"Be grateful that it isn't a dragon," said Maedhros.
Their mother sighed, and went to fetch some ointment for Fëanor's burned legs. Although, in truth, Fëanor did not seem too bothered by his wounds. His eyes were still burning brightly, in a cheerfully deranged way, and you could see how plans and ideas were rapidly forming and dissolving in his exalted mind.
"We may be able to extract some information from it," he said.
"We mustn't mistreat it," said Amras. "It's a prisoner of war."
"There is no reason we cannot talk to it, though," said Fëanor. He looked at the sad bundle on the floor. The orc had not reacted when they took away its weapons (Fëanor had muttered quite a lot about the abominable lack of craftsmanship evident in them), or when they dragged it to Formenos, or when they bound it and dumped it on the floor until they could figure out what to do with it.
"Except that I doubt it speaks Quenya," said Maglor, "or even Sindarin."
"Thindarin," said Fëanor automatically.
"Erwen speaks Black Speech," said Curufin. "Where is she, anyway?"
"In bed," said Nerdanel, standing in the door. They had not noticed her returning. "I gave her something to sleep on. The poor thing seemed terribly upset."
"Well, as soon as she and that thing are awake, she must talk to it," said Fëanor. "In the meanwhile, find a room to put it in, Turko. It smells terrible."
"It seemed like such an good plan," said Maedhros. "Why do our excellent plans always fail?"
"You said you spoke Black Speech," said Curufin.
"I did," said Erwen. "But that was thousands of years ago. The language of the orcs must have changed quite a lot. I really have no idea what it tried to say. I could understand a few words here and there, but nowhere near enough."
"You remained in Middle Earth until quite recently, Káno," said Fëanor. "Surely you must have learnt the languages -"
"I was walking along the seashore and singing, Father," said Maglor, "not studying languages. Least of all Orcish. You know I am no linguist; I had to ask Curvo to help me translate my name into Sindarin...
"Thindarin," said Fëanor absent-mindedly. "Speak correctly."
His sons exchanged a look. It seemed to say that the problem wasn't that Maglor had spoken incorrectly, it was that Fëanor's definition of correct was somewhat outdated. Fortunately Fëanor was too deep in his thoughts to notice it, otherwise they might have been treated with a long lecture about how their refusal to thpeak properly was completely abominable and a deliberate insult to his mother.
"I suppose..." said Fëanor slowly, "I suppose we could always ask Findaráto."
"Findaráto?" said Celegorm.
"I understand that he first managed to communicate with the humans," said Fëanor. "Talking to an orc cannot be very different."
"It's worth a try," said Nerdanel, "but do you propose to bring the orc to Tirion, or to bring Findaráto here?"
"I think we should all move to Tirion," said Maedhros. "We are too exposed here. We may have won this first battle, but that only means that the next strike will be harder."
"Will uncle Arafinwë let us do that?" said Maglor.
"What do you mean, 'let us'?" said Fëanor.
"I will talk to him, Makalaurë," said Nerdanel, "he can hardly leave us at the mercy of Moringotto."
"It is settled, then," said Fëanor. "I need some time to collect my things; after that, we march for Tirion. Oh, and do not tell people that we have an orc. No need to worry them.