*sneaks in* Heheh… Umn, Hannah/Siri still here : ) I'm sure you're getting thoroughly sick of seeing me but Sarah will be here soon : )

Thanks for all the wonderful feedback *glows* Even if it was a little less than enthusiastic for our…creative chapter ending…hmm… Anyway, we really appreciate it :D

Yes *sigh* Men are cruel…these ones in particular though. (Nasty, mean, hateful etc.)

*flinches* Okay…Jasta didn't like our chapter ending ;) But I'm glad you're still enjoying it despite the umn…slightly bad stopping point =D

Heehee! Thanx Cassia, I'm afraid we excel at writing 'short blockheads' Though I can't say it's come up too much before ;)

Thank you Carrie!! We really appreciate that :D And glad you're enjoying it!!…I think you're enjoying it ;) j/k

*puts up her hand at Lina's glare* Sorry! It wasn't our fault blame Naraka and his cronies… *lowers voice* Or Cassia… *laughs nervously* Just kidding Cassia! ;)

Yes Chloe, I rather thought you'd like that bit of it ;) I'm glad you're still enjoying our story :D

Yeah Littlefish, that is a quote actually! And LOL! =D That line came up during the whole scene in Fellowship when a certain dwarf and elf (who shall remained nameless) were getting into a regular row about who had wear blindfolds into Lothlorien and who didn't :D I think it was the 'nameless' elf who said it, but I can't remember for sure.

*laughs nervously again* Heheh, nice teeth Littlefish! And as for Gimli talking Legolas into a cave that is EXACTLY what we thought when Cassia and Sio started this whole 'Legolas hates caves' trend!! Amazing! ;) LOL on your last line!! If that doesn't explain it all!! =)

SpaceVixenX, oooh ow! You okay?? Yes, well, they may have dangled that in front of him a little longer except that I think Furnmorth couldn't be bothered and Naraka wasn't in authority at the moment sooo…I guess Aragorn lucked out in a sense : )

Oh! I'm sorry Iverson! Well this was a very nice review : )

Thanks for deciding not to kill us by the way, though I can't say the same for all the bad guys. ;)

And yes, thank you, we are glad you like it!! : ) ONTO THE NEXT POST!! ;)

(((By the way, sorry for all the emoticons, I get a little carried away I'm afraid ;) :D : ) =D )))

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Death or Despair

By Sarah and Hannah

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 14

The Error of Lord Furnmorth

"Report, Captain." Furnmorth commanded quietly, not looking up from desk.

Naraka bowed, his face contorted into an expression that for him generally meant pleasure, "My lord, the last messenger has arrived from the tunnel's end and has informed me that the tunnel should be branched and completed in four days time. If we remove all the weapons from the armory, we should be equipped enough to outfit the whole army and begin our march by tomorrow, midday, at the latest."

Putting a final stroke on some document or other, Furnmorth deliberately sealed it as he nodded, "That is good, Captain. However, emptying the armory, while it may gain you an extra day, will also leave the garrison still quartered here with minimal weaponry. Have you thought of that?"

Naraka nodded, pressing down the slight feeling of nervousness that occasionally assailed him when talking this way to his lord, "Yes sir, I have. If you retain the slaves to work the foundries for a little longer, you should have the armory adequately refilled in a day or two."

Furnmorth smiled thinly, "Excellent. Continue with your plan, Captain. You will leave at exactly tomorrow midday, unless I contact you with contrary orders."

Naraka bowed again, "Yes sir."

"And Captain."

"Yes sir?"

Dark green eyes seemed slice through the semi-darkness, "May victory surround you when next we meet."

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Aragorn tugged at the coal release, not caring when the rope burned in his hand, nor noticing really when the round, rough black lumps tumbled down from their tower, several falling accidentally into the cooling pools. He had been alone in the massive room all day, but it was only now, in the late morning, that the other slaves had gone and were truly no longer working around him in body either. He couldn't remember when they'd gone, or why, but Agarwaen had ordered him to work on, and work was better than stillness. Especially when there was nothing else he could do.

//I'm sorry, Legolas. It is impossible,// he thought bleakly, returning to his anvil and going back to work on something new. Knives, perhaps, or a helmet. He had wracked his mind for any possible way of fulfilling his pledge to protect Legolas' home, but no answers had been forthcoming, and his mind was settling into a mire of weariness and grief. He could no longer think, and did not desire to make a fresh effort, for fear some new memories of his friend might surface to pain him further. In his one night of sleep he had dreamt of the elf so vividly, that he could scarce discern when the dream ended and the reality began. Except for the vacant place beside him in the slave chambers, and the echo of emptiness in his heart.

Since then he had been forced to labor at the anvil, and never once been left unguarded. Even now, one of the dark-clad men stood in the cavern entrance, his eyes watching the slave keenly so that he could not even secret a knife amongst his thin garments. It was truly hopeless. //I'm so sorry.//

"I have decided to allow you to complete the work on your own." A chill voice announced calmly.

Aragorn looked up dully, his eyes just focusing on the figure of the guard — no, Lord Furnmorth was there now instead — before he turned back to his work. Desperately, he wanted to hate this man, but whether he would or no, the words kept washing through his head like a river, unstoppable, "Peace, my friend. Anger will not benefit you." He could not do it. Too much time had he spent striving for the friendship of others to have any will left for bitter hatred, and too clearly the memories of Legolas and the lessons of his father rested in his mind to allow any argument. He said nothing.

"Did you not hear me, slave?" Furnmorth was suddenly standing next to him, though Aragorn had not heard him approach.

"I heard." Aragorn murmured, almost lower than the imposing lord could hear.

"And?" The word was smooth and menacing.

Finally raising his head from the task in front of him, his blue eyes turned midnight with desolation, Aragorn did not even change the tone of his voice. "I care not."

"What?" Furnmorth's voice was full of disbelief. "I am lord here, I control your life and your death, your work and your rest. You understand this?"

The slave lifted his completed dagger and thrust it into the water at his feet, turning his back completely to the lord as he laid it aside, and answered quietly, his weariness and acceptance of his own fate making him suddenly bold, "Yes, I understand. I understand that you have tormented the innocent, and slain the weak. I understand that you desire that which is not your own, and will plot and sell both honor and soul to obtain it. I understand that you have murdered that which is fair beyond your pitiful comprehension." Ice sharpened out of the ranger's dark gaze as he turned round once more, "You may control the physical, but as a tree infested with worms will eventually fall, you too shall tumble to earth, for rottenness has penetrated your very core. And you will never control *me*, 'Lord' Furnmorth." His voice sank into a whisper, "Any more than you ever controlled Legolas."

Furnmorth stood in silent, but fascinated horror as the man in front of him — filthy, underfed, and tired — seemed yet to grow until he was much taller than his cruel master. Suddenly there was fire in his eyes, defiance in his very stance, and it seemed almost as if a light flashed from around him, lighting the furthest corners of the cavern. The lord cringed back, wondering faintly who it was he now faced, and feeling an unfamiliar sensation tug at him: fear.

Then the ranger seemed to shrink once more; his shoulders slumped, his eyes dropped, and he turned once more to his tasks. The truth had been spoken plainly, for all the stones to hear, and there was no more to be said.

Breathing in a low, sibilant, hiss, Furnmorth watched the slave as a hawk watches it's prey and finally recognized the truth: there was only one way to subdue this troublesome one. Just one way… Catching up the weapon closest to hand, the lord stepped calmly forward, sure of his aim and his control, and bore the dagger downward, straight towards the slave's exposed back.

Naught but a whisper marked the knife's passage through the warm air, but Aragorn's hearing, sharpened by years amongst the elves, caught it clearly. Reflexively, he rolled to the side, over the pile of coal and away from the steel blade, his arms rising protectively to cover his face.

Furious at his mistake, Furnmorth leapt without consideration, the dagger glittering brightly in the red light of the fires.

The man who had meticulously planned every step of his army's advance…

The man who had continually reevaluated his strategy after each setback and before each countermove…

The man who had prided himself from childhood on his keen mind, strict self-control and ultimate perfection…

Finally, in a moment of inner rage, he had made one error. And it was a fatal one.

There was a sharp report as the keen blade sliced through the dried rope on the coal tower and the door tumbled down, followed by a seeming wall of black fuel. Without a cry, or even an expression, the lord was slammed backwards, directly over the low wall and into the cooling pool behind him.

Aragorn slowly rose as the coal continued to tumble forth; there was no way to prevent it's fall now that the avalanche had begun. For a short while, the cavern was full of rattling echoes, bouncing and rebounding from the forges, and the armor piles, and the walls. Then silence fell, and with a few last tumbling clatters, the tower was silenced. Stepping to the edge of the pool, Aragorn could not even make out a hand beneath the great load and the clear waters, still rippling from the disturbance.

Furnmorth, Lord of Mount Gundabad, was dead: buried fittingly beneath a mound of jet black.

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Clasping his specially made chain mail on over his leather tunic, and buckling his belt over top of it, his long sword shining in it's sheath, Naraka placed his helmet firmly on his head and turned to survey his army. In the light of the torches, the orcs were a fearsome group to behold, in spite of their small stature. And it was their quick agility that would be the undoing of the dwarves. Smiling slowly, and giving one last glance to make sure no messenger from his lord waited to inform him of some change in plans, he turned to Balkhfiren and nodded, "Lieutenant, order them to march."

The soldier turned, relaying the order on across the room and then following the captain as he started down the long, dark tunnel. Four days and they would reach Gilthad. Just four days.

Victory was in the very air, and Naraka laughed at the intoxicating scent of it as the foul army began to trail him at a run.

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//How long have I been standing here?// Aragorn wondered suddenly, pulling his head up and looking across the cavern. It took several moments before he realized that an opportunity had at last been granted him: he was alone in the foundry with not a single man to guard him.

Almost stumbling in his haste, Aragorn retrieved one of the newly forged daggers and started towards the entrance, determination filling him. With Furnmorth now dead, the army might be thrown into confusion and never even leave the mountain at all! But a sudden rumbling that seemed to vibrate the very stones told him the unfortunate truth: Naraka had already set out.

Slowly the ranger's face hardened into a grim determination. He had made a promise to Legolas that, even if he were alone, he would warn the dwarves. If he could not keep that promise, then at least he could aid them in their fight. Turning aside, he lifted one of the breastplates from the pile and fastened it on; it was a little small, but no one would notice, especially not if he were to wear a cloak over it. A helmet he also retrieved, and a sword to go with his dagger. Finally, when he knew he could do no more to hide his appearance, he strode confidently into the passage and started upwards towards Lord Furnmorth's chambers. He could be sure of getting a cloak there, and he needed to cover his face as soon as possible.

Half way there, he came up behind two of the human guards who were obviously on their way off duty and was forced to wait a ways behind them to avoid notice. They were slow as they wandered towards their barracks, discussing various unimportant things in a casual manner. Aragorn began to chafe at the delay, started at each echo from behind him: worried that a third guard might discover him and see through his hasty disguise. Then a turn in the conversation made him pay closer attention to what the two men were saying.

"If you ask me, I prefer to stay right here. Those dwarves aren't likely to be as soft as Naraka supposes, though of course I wouldn't say such things to him."

The other guard snorted at his companion's admission, "Not to his face, anyway. Come, though, I need some sleep, and there is much work to be done on the morrow."

"Aye," the first agreed, "how long are we to keep the slaves?"

"Only until evening. Lord Furnmorth does not wish to risk an uprising while so few of us remain, and he can easily replace them with dwarves when Gilthad is taken."

"Where is the lord?"

The second guard shrugged, "He said he had much to do when last he spoke with us, and we might not see him for several days at least. He has some strange ways, but I assure you, Umbath, that…"

Aragorn heard no more, for he had stopped dead in the tunnel and the two men had now passed out of hearing range. Chill sweat collected beneath his armor at the sudden obstacle in his plans. //Replace them with dwarves?// That could only mean that Furnmorth had not intended to leave the slaves alive at all, but rather to affect a second massacre once his use for them had ended. With the men assuming his absence was natural, it would go on as planned. That is, if no one were to stop it.

But Aragorn had promised.

For a moment longer he stood, torn, seeing in his mind the faces of Thranduil, and Kelegalen, Ranien and Nethtalt, floating side by side. Then his head snapped up and he advanced once again at a brisk run, his course decided.

TBC…