Aragorn left his room, and his guard, to wander the streets. He wanted desperately to know how many survivors there were, and what state they were in. The little girl blazed in his mind.
He heard, frequently, the pattering of bare feet, but the townsfolk were swift as ghosts, and disappeared as soon as he saw them. That is, except for one; his sharp ears caught the soft singing of a child and, turning, he saw the girl as she sat on her front steps and played with a doll.
She saw him when he began to move toward her, and held onto her doll so tightly she trembled. Aragorn paused. "Hello," he said.
"Hello," she answered cautiously. She looked around without fully taking her eyes from him, and asked, "Where are the others?"
"They are resting. Do you mind if I join you?"
"Join me on a walk? That's where I'm going," she hastily stood up.
In the cottage, Aragorn saw a child, even smaller than the girl, scurry away from the windows. He didn't mention that he knew what she was protecting, and followed her instead. She led him to the town center, where he remembered a beautiful marble fountain had once been.
It was still there, but now mud gurgled and churned in place of clear water. "Master Vel and the big men came, and the water changed," the girl explained.
"How long ago was that?"
"When I was little," she said. "About two years ago."
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Iryel." She looked up at him. "Are you from Laskan?"
"No," Aragorn shook his head. "I come from Gondor."
She allowed a smile. "Mummy used to talk about Gondor." Her eyes lit suddenly. "Wait here!" she raced back to the ruined shack that passed for her house, and when she came running back, she held a collection of odds and ends in her small, dirty arms.
Aragorn knelt down, and Iryel presented him first with a painting of Minas Tirith and a leather bag embroidered with the crest of Gondor. She stepped closer, to look over his arm as he studied the painting.
"Mummy painted it," she said, assuming from his silence that he didn't already know. "She painted it before I was born. Do you like it?"
"Very much," Aragorn said at length. "She was very talented."
Iryel nodded, and her lower lip quivered. Aragorn lowered the painting and took the child in his arms; silently, she cried.
"What is your name?" she asked when her tears had ceased.
"I am known by many names, yet I would have you call me by that which I knew best when I was your age; call me Estel." Aragorn turned then, with Iryel still in his arms, for he heard someone approaching; one who wore no armor, and was only somewhat heavier than a child.
"Look, Estel," Iryel said when a hunched figure appeared. "It's Senia. Senia!"
"Iryel, child, what are you doing?" A thin, haggard woman came towards them; though she looked no more than thirty, her hair was gray, and she was aged by the cares of the world. An understandable thing, that.
"This is Estel. He's from Gondor; he's nice." Iryel squirmed slightly, and Aragorn set her down. She scampered to Senia, and was given a ragged blanket and some food.
"That was all I could find," Senia told her. "Make it last."
"I kept some from last time you were here, don't worry." Iryel looked back at Aragorn. "She brings things from other lands, but it takes her a long time. I'll be right back." She went away to her house again.
"How many are left in this town?" Aragorn asked, when Iryel was out of earshot.
"Twenty children, but most of them went to be with cousins in other towns. Some of them, such as Iryel, do not have that luxury. There are four others like her; so, with me, there are six who still remain here."
"You live here?"
"Nay, I live on the road." Senia settled herself next to the mud fountain with a sigh. "I am always on the road, but at least we haven't frozen to death. For that, I think the sacrifice of a few blistered toes is enough, don't you?"
"Why have you, one who lived here and saw the horrors as they unfolded, why have you not gone to your allies? Did you doubt that we would send aid?"
"Aye, milord." She stared at him, and then at the fountain, as she ran her hand through the thick black mire. "This is Olde Laskan now, and property of Vel. I would not endanger my allies, who would naively interfere with those the Laskanik people see fit to torture."
The host that had been issued from Gondor was stretched out in a long row of twos, and Legolas and Glorfindel rode at its head. Elves who had received the warning from Aragorn's messengers were now joined with them, and King Thranduil, they had heard, was preparing to send aid. Tension went with them, thick and hot.
"Riders," Glorfindel said suddenly. "Coming from the Northwest."
Legolas shaded his eyes and, peering there, saw the shining helms. "The Rohirrim!" he turned to those behind him. "The Rohirrim approach us; I will go to meet them."
The Riders reported that they had been sent by King Eomer, and would go with Legolas and Glorfindel wherever they went, and fight with them against whatever foe they now faced.
And so the company grew; four hundred more warriors they now had, which was of great help, for Rohan was skilled in war, and under King Eomer they had become even more so.
"We have news," the Captain said. "On the northern boundaries of Rohan, there has been a sharp increase of wolf attacks on our herds. The hunters who go to destroy the packs rarely return; if they do, they come with grave wounds."
The Elven Prince frowned. "Then that is where we must go."
Gamphall glided along in the midst of the wolf pack. It towered above them, golden white to oppose their uniform steel grey. When it wasn't invisible in the trees, the two men who traveled with the beasts found it hard to ignore the panther. The men were hunters, when they weren't performing their duties as soldiers of Laskan, so surely even Vel would forgive them for eyeing the beautiful white pelt.
So long as staring was all they did.
Gamphall covered the miles effortlessly, taking long graceful strides towards some destination the men knew naught of yet. Eventually, Gamphall began to lag behind, as it scouted the distance, and one of the men fell back with it. He whistled and some of the wolves loped to him. They waited together, tensely.
Gamphall slowly began to pick its way over the brush. Its round ears were trained ahead, though one would at times swivel back to the wolves, checking their positions. The wolves fanned out, disappearing and preparing to leap in to the hunt, should they be needed.
The man began to urge his horse forward, but Gamphall turned, ears now laid back. The man took the warning and held back. The panther stalked ahead without a sound.
Distantly, the soldier fancied he heard horse hooves.
Indeed, the man had.
Out of his sight, one of Gondor's messengers had paused to let his horse rest. He had done as King Elessar had asked, in delivering news to whom he could. Any he met along the way home he would speak with as well, but for now he was content to rest in the thick woods. Above, the birds chirped and fluttered, and below, the insects buzzed and clicked in so many directions he couldn't trace, had he wished to.
His horse suddenly reared back her head. She stood tensely for a moment, her nostrils flared, eyes wild with fear. The messenger frowned and turned, straining to see what was spooking his mount.
Years spent in the wilderness allowed him to pierce the forest and see the wolf stalking them. He turned to retrieve his bow, but as he did so, he saw another wolf, and then another. They drifted from their hiding places, and he wondered that he had not seen such a large pack moving in on him before.
He could not fight them all off, that was certain, but in previous battles, he had been able to stop wolves by facing them unwaveringly. He pulled his sword from its sheath, and his horse shuddered, but did not take flight.
The wolves paced, searching for an opening. He was determined not to give them one.
They would not dare to attack him head-on; and they would not brave the horse's front hooves, which could crush the skull of a wolf with a single blow.
One of the larger beasts snapped at his horse, but pulled back ere she could retaliate; another rushed her from the side in the instant the first was safe, and hardly a second later, two charged at him. He struck at the two wolves with his sword, managing to hit one, but the other's teeth clipped dangerously close to his free hand.
The injured wolf limped backwards, and another came forward to replace it. He heard a yelp behind him, and knew that his horse had managed to free herself. The wolves were more wary of her now; swiftly, he mounted and urged her straight on through them.
The wolves darted from her flying hooves, but recovered and gave chase.
Gamphall sprang from where it had been lying in wait, and the flash of its coat was like lightning in the grasses. The wolves had stalled the horse but a few seconds, yet now it was not far enough ahead to outrun the panther.
Gamphall took a bound that carried it four feet off the ground, and perhaps three meters forward, and it landed on the horse's back. It's weight pushed the rider forward, and pinned him against the horse's neck. The shock of the three hundred pound creature tossed the horse off balance. Gamphall easily sank its fangs into the horse's throat as the three tumbled to the ground.
From the moment its feet had left the ground to the time the horse fell, it had been seven seconds.
Three of the claws in it's front paw had caught on the man; when the horse hit the ground, with Gamphall clamped firmly on her throat, the man was jerked from his saddle, but his foot caught in the stirrup and his ankle snapped like a dry twig.
Gamphall freed it's paw from the man's back, so that it could better secure the horse. When the horse was dead, Gamphall stepped back, panting hard and lacking the strength to do more than sit. The wolves came, surrounding the man.
He strained for his sword, but he could not reach it, and he could not stand. When
Gamphall recovered some of its strength, it rose slowly and looked at him. The moment when it
pounced, the man did not see; its fangs closed on his own throat, and he knew nothing more.
Gamphall sniffed at the two victims; the wolves drew near to the dead horse, and Gamphall snarled and hissed at them until they kept their distance. From the man it could find nothing to take, but the horse's saddlebag had been torn open, and from that Gamphall took all that it could find.
Author's Notes: Yep, I based Vel off of Vlad Tepes the Impaler (better known as Dracula). But to be really specific, I'm basing him off of the Russian reports, rather than the Germans'. Sooo, now you can always say "Well, at least I'm not as obsessive as that Pachelbel chic."
(Sorry for the short chapter and the long wait, but Ch. 12 is in the makes, and I have way more ideas to put into that one.)
Estel means Hope (it's the name Elrond gave Aragorn in the appendixes). Seems I've made hope a theme in this one, eh?