Chapter 30
"Have no fear," Legolas appealed, "the spell is harmless."
Just like himself not long ago, those of the King's Guard had reacted with wariness, and even dread, to the map that appeared out of thin air with one touch to the locator's surface. Caenir had jumped away, his bow at the ready. Celephin lay a hand upon his brother's arm to soothe him, no doubt feeling the same alarm at the sight of unknown magic.
Nendir gave a low whistle. "A useful trick," he commended as he crouched beside Legolas to study the grid, tilting his head to get a better understanding of Naima's whereabouts. "Ravenhill," he commented aloud, his eyes narrowed towards the snowy peak as if trying to see through the clouds. "What are the orcs doing there, so far from their hunting grounds?"
"I do not know," Legolas admitted, "but neither they nor us are quite where we should be."
He glanced over his shoulder, towards the encampment that lay at by edge of the valley. They had sent Rannor back with news of Legolas' good health before they had left for the Northeast, yet the camp had not been lifted, growing in size instead as reinforcements from Mirkwood trickled in from the South.
Nendir motioned for one of the men to approach. "Aglarion, you know these lands better than anyone. What is it that lies up there that can interest our enemy?"
The warrior took a moment to examine the red dot that hovered above Legolas' forearm, sweeping his fingers between the vambrace and the grid before sheepishly lowering his hand under Nendir's stern gaze. "I see but one place," he murmured. "An old dwarven stronghold, its true name now forgotten. The ridge itself is called Ravenhill, for it swarms with birds during nesting season."
"Ravenhill," Legolas repeated. An ominous name; unlike their cousins the crows, ravens favored carrion over less gruesome fare.
A hand came to rest upon his shoulder. "We will find her," Nendir assured him before rising. "Scout ahead," he told Aglarion, "report the enemy's strength, as well as Lady Naima's state of health, should you see her, but do not engage combat. Not until we are ready." As Legolas opened his mouth to protest, Nendir shook his head. "We may be well-armed and brave, my friend, but neither do we know how many orcs there are, nor their defenses. Let us prepare first, and strike them when they are most vulnerable."
At dawn, then, for the orcs feared the daylight as much as they loved the stealth the night could offer. Clenching his jaw against the dread that settled in his heart, Legolas nodded as he watched Aglarion disappear into the descending mists. Nendir was right, which would make a whole night of waiting in anguish all the more unbearable. Until the scout returned, he would not know what had become of Naima, and whether she was at Ravenhill at all. The orcs could have taken her device, or cut off the hand that bore it….
"Speaking of preparing, I would offer you my help, if you are willing to accept it." Nendir was looking at his bow, which lay unfolded at his side, his lips quirked in a half-smile. "Have you forgotten Gwenneth's lessons already?"
Legolas knew he had no choice but to accept, yet to admit to the reason behind it was another matter entirely. "Please," he scowled, proffering the spare string from his pocket, "demonstrate, if you remember them so well yourself."
Nendir made short work of the stringing, bending the limbs into submission with the same practiced dexterity that Legolas was no longer able to achieve. "You should try it out," he casually remarked, handing Legolas an arrow from his own quiver.
"There is no need." Pushing the arrow away, Legolas rose in turn. "I am certain the spline is unchanged."
"I insist." The smile had vanished from Nendir's eyes, replaced with concern and a sliver of suspicion. "As Gwenneth used to say…."
"I remember what she said," Legolas hissed, "for I was there with you."
"Legolas." The Captain grasped his arm, his eyes widening at Legolas' involuntary intake of breath as the movement jarred his side. The grip on his arm lessened at once, yet Nendir would not let go completely. "You are wounded," he scolded through his teeth – an accusation rather than a statement, his expression betraying his annoyance. "You should have told me."
"To what end?" Bracing himself against the pain, Legolas wrenched himself free from his grasp. "So that you would leave me behind, to sit in my father's tent until it is over? Or worse, to watch from the edge of battle as you fight in my stead, and patiently wait to know if Naima is still alive?"
His voice had risen along with his anger, carrying over the small ridge they were standing by, no doubt audible to the whole camp, including the King himself. His Guard, however, averted their eyes, well used to the King's temper and perhaps expecting the same from his son.
Nendir studied him in silence. "Patience was never your best quality," he conceded at last, "but how will you fight if you cannot draw?"
"I can draw if I must," Legolas declared, hoping to end the argument, grateful that his voice did not betray his doubts, "but I would rather save my strength for battle than waste it loosing arrows into the sky." If it meant saving Naima's life, or Nendir's, or anyone else's, he would draw – no matter the agony it would cause him.
"Indeed." With one last reluctant look, Nendir gave the signal to depart. "Promise me this," he murmured as they followed Aglarion's light footsteps, "stay by my side. I promised Liriel I would return, and to your father that I would keep you safe."
Legolas chuckled, his laugh tasting bitter in his mouth. "It seems that we have both made promises we may be hard-pressed to keep, my friend. I gave my word to Naima that I would protect her from harm, and look where it brought us both."
"Eh, we can still make good on those words," Nendir shrugged as they left the valley behind them. "We are Mirkwood's best, after all. If we cannot defeat Azog, nobody can."
oOoOoOo
Mirkwood's best reached the foot of Ravenhill come nightfall. The steps of hewed stone glistened with frost under the dim moonlight that filtered through the clouds, slippery to anything but elven feet. Unwilling though he may be to take the main road towards the stronghold, Legolas had to admit that other paths may be even more conspicuous, treacherous with loose gravel and rolling stones.
As soon as he set foot upon the steps, however, the locator on his wrist whistled softly and Legolas startled, his hand tightening upon his bow.
"What is it?" Nendir hissed behind him, peering over his shoulder to discern the unnamed threat.
Yet the surroundings remained still; the rising gale had drowned out the sound to all but the sharpest of ears. Only a small, red light upon the device blinked back at them, conveying a message he had no means to understand. If he had to guess, however, he would have waged that the bracelet had detected its twin, somewhere in the blackness of the ruins above.
"Nothing," Legolas muttered and turned the light towards the ground, motioning for the men to follow.
To an untrained eye, the fortress would have appeared abandoned, but Legolas could distinguish the shapes of orcs patrolling the crumbling battlements, bulky in their armor, their iron-lined boots scraping against the stone. The wind carried their stench and that of their wargs towards the troop, along with the scent of fresh blood. Legolas' heart stilled in his chest until he recognized the same odor he had smelled upon the path: orc, not human.
"They have started killing each other," Nendir muttered by his side as another strong gust filled their nostrils with the reek of death. "What kind of creature does this to its own kin?"
Remembering Ketja's deception, Legolas held his tongue. War and inconstancy were not the prerogative of the orcs.
"What is my father's army doing at the gates of Erebor?" he whispered to his friend as they crouched behind a boulder that jutted from the mountainside, opposite from the arch that marked the entrance to the stronghold.
The Captain cast a wary look towards the rest of the Guard. "Your letter," he began in a low voice, "came in one night ago, carried by a crow of Esgaroth. That very evening, a great clamor rose from the town, and the skies blazed with fire."
"Smaug." Legolas shuddered as the scorching heat touched his face from beyond the memory despite the bitterness of the night.
"Your father sent help at once," Nendir continued, "food and wares for the folk, and healers to aid those who had been wounded. But we did not find you amongst the survivors." The mist settled in droplets on his helm, trickling down the skull like tears.
Legolas repressed a pang of guilt at the thought of the worry his father must have endured. "We had already left," he murmured instead. The lights of the encampment flickered in the distance, their warmth familiar and inviting. In the King's tent, his father sat upon his throne, sipping a cup of Dorwinion and thinking about his son.
"So we have been told." Nendir followed his gaze. "Worry not, my friend. Gellin and Ioneth are safe. They have been rescued and fed. It was Gellin who told your father about your plans to travel East."
Legolas winced as the cold pervaded his muscles, waking the dormant aches. "I do not suppose Father approved of my decision."
Nendir dared not raise his voice against the King, but his grimace was an eloquent answer in itself. "Erebor is a long way from Esgaroth," Legolas remarked, "and there are more warriors than healers in the camp."
The men of the troop exchanged a look at his words. "So there are," Celephin agreed with great pride. "Ever since Smaug's fall, the Mountain stands closed to those who have a right to a share of its treasure. His Majesty intends to help the survivors of Esgaroth obtain their share from those who promised them a river of gold."
"Closed?" Legolas frowned. "By whom?"
"The company of Thorin Oakenshield."
Leaning back against the boulder, Legolas watched the distant lights. Following Celephin's revelation, they had taken on a ghostly air, the consolation they once brought now vanished into the night.
The dwarves had survived – thirteen lives spared against all odds, though they would not last for long with both winter and an elven army at their door. Could it be a sign that Naima was still alive as well, and that he must keep hope?
Just as Legolas raised his head towards the sky in search of an answer, the clouds parted and a light shone through. Faron, the lone hunter, cast his blessing over him – the one that Naima had called Orion – and though he belonged to Oromë, there was little doubt in Legolas' heart that it had been Varda's hand that had guided him through the mists.
"To thee, Everwhite, I will sing," Legolas murmured in gratitude as the verse of the prayer-song rose to his lips.
The Valar had spoken. Naima was still alive, and his heart soared anew with the joy of seeing her once again.
oOoOoOo
Aglarion returned mid-way between midnight and dawn.
Both the stronghold and the plain had grown deceptively still, as if lulled into a peaceful sleep. Even the ravens slept atop the walls, ruffling their feathers as they dreamt black dreams. The scout emerged from a hole in one of the towers and crept towards the troop, slipping behind the cover of the rock before shrugging off the dew that had gathered upon his cloak.
"Something is brewing," he declared without preamble, "something ill. Azog had gathered a large host inside the fortress, but they all left before dark, following their leader. Only a strength of twenty-two remains, including his son, Bolg, and a half-orc."
"Orbog," Legolas spat out as the wounds inside his chest flared up at the mention of the much-hated name.
"Where have they gone?" Nendir asked, but Aglarion shook his head.
"They took a path along the other side of the waterfall, riding their wargs down the mountain. Where they went, I do not know." He raised a hand as both Legolas and Nendir opened their mouths to question him further. "I have not seen Lady Naima, but the orcs guard the fortress as if there was something inside – or someone."
"She is here," Legolas breathed out, his eyes upon the blank wall of the stronghold. Somewhere beyond those walls, Naima still breathed – terrified, probably freezing, but alive.
"Who is this Orbog?" Nendir inquired, and Legolas grimaced in disgust.
"A foul beast, cruel and cowardly. He is gravely wounded, however, and should not pose a threat."
"How do you know?"
"I know," Legolas snapped, touching a hand to the hole in his armor; Nendir narrowed his eyes in understanding. "He and I have a score to settle, one that I intend to close tonight."
"Sixteen against twenty-two," Celephin confidently assessed, "I have seen worse odds before."
"Twenty-one," Legolas muttered under his breath, earning a warning look from his friend as Aglarion bent to sketch a plan of the stronghold in the snow, marking where the rounds passed and the position of the sentinels.
The plan was ready and agreed upon long before dawn. They would attack as the first rays of the sun skirted along the crenellations, blinding the orcs as the troop approached from the East and driving them back inside, where they could be easily cornered. The element of surprise, along with raking light, would ensure a swift victory – for neither Nendir nor Celephin expected a great challenge from the remaining garrison. Only Bolg could pose a real threat; they would leave him for last, once all the others had been killed and the entirety of their forces could be brought down upon Azog's spawn.
Legolas' father had had a similar idea. As soon as the sunlight vaulted over the Eastern ridge, the army left the encampment to march towards the gates in orderly lines, their armor shimmering under the rising sun. At their head, the King rode upon his elk, the beast's antlers tipped with silver. The movement stirred the survivors that had taken refuge in the ruins of Dale; the streets filled with people watching the elves – the same people the King had come to defend.
Legolas did not hear how the parley went, or whether his father gave Thorin a chance to speak at all before the first volley loosed upon the walls of Erebor. The ground shook, rippling down the valley, the rumble upsetting the gravel as the troop prepared to attack in turn…but that was not the making of the elves.
From beyond the ridge came another army – short and stout, mounted on war-hogs, their hammers glistening as they raised their weapons to the sky along with their battle-cry: "Baruk Khazâd!"
Dáin Ironfoot, the Lord of the Iron Hills, had come to his cousin's rescue.