Sarah is back at last!! And man alive has she enjoyed this feedback… ; )
Starfleet Hobbit: Wow, you're keeping track? : )
e: I'm so glad you liked it! I was rather afraid initially that it might have been too abrupt. And nice sum-up, by the way! Are you sure you haven't been snooping inside of my head? ; )
SpaceVixen: *quirks eyebrow* Nice dance. I'm glad you approve! : )
Emmithar: *blankly* Legolas? Who's Legolas? Oh yeah, you mean the elf guy? Well, we'll get to him.
Cheysuli: I mean, evil-scary-thing-that-used-to-be-Cheysuli, here is your post. *smiles nervously*
Enigma: 'Smart ones die early'; well, for Furnmorth that's sure true!
Halo: Funny, your post made me think of all those little munchkins in Wizard of Oz singing 'ding dong the mean old witch is dead'… ; P
Dishwater: Thanks! : )
Lina: LOL! Don't worry, don't worry, he'll find out… eventually. Until then, try not to smother him, eh? ; )
Rainy: I'm already cold! My toes are going numb as I write this. ; )
LittleFish: You're about to find out whether or not your guess is correct! Yeah, I don't like Naraka either, and I helped create him. What does *that* tell ya? Anyway, I'm glad we got you so glued, and even managed to shock you a little. *bright smile* That's what we live for, you know!
saber crazy: *mock scolding* What are you doing to our tension?!
Greenleaf: Don't die yet. ; )
*whew* There's getting to be a lot of you! Onto the post…
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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 15
Plans Set Into Motion
No one paid any heed to the tallish figure wrapped in the usual dark cloak of the guards as he walked towards the orc chambers. Only a few even saw him, and they were too preoccupied to notice that his cape was actually of the finer material, worn only by the Lord Furnmorth.
Keeping his hood down, Aragorn slipped down the all too familiar passage, and paused, his heart racing in spite of his efforts to be calm. The chamber in front of him was dark, but he remembered it well. The smell still clung tenaciously to the walls, and as he forced himself to enter, he cringed at the crunching of bones beneath his feet. Most belonged to mountain goats, and other native animals, but that did not ease his revulsion.
Reaching his hand to the wall to guide him, he traced his way gradually to the one sliver of dim light in the whole expanse of blackness. Stooping down, he slid something flat gently through the gap in the wall.
"Namárië," the Dúnadan whispered softly, falling into the gray tongue as Legolas had so often done. Moving swiftly, he left the room once more and turned towards the tunnel entrance one level down, adjusting his disguise as he went.
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Kelegalen shifted in the half-light cast by the torches at the entrance. Beside him Nethtalt had fallen into a deep sleep, exhausted by the day's work and looking even younger than his actual years, but the man of Rohan was unable to sleep. Strider had not been permitted to return, of course, now that he was being punished yet again, but all the same, Kelegalen found himself watching for the ranger. Someone had to talk to him and soon. If left to himself any longer, he might yet perish from his own despair, or else turn hard as Helkhmorn had done. It was a grievous thing that the elf had been slain, and burdened Kelegalen's heart even now, but Strider could not be allowed to further advance the evils of Naraka's actions by adding to them his own death.
Promising himself firmly that, whether the other listened or no, he would corner the ranger the next day, Kelegalen readjusted his position — and paused. A faint whisper of sound caught his ear and he leaned forward once more to see something flat protruding from the vent that led to the orc chambers beyond the wall. Frowning and sliding quietly forward, he withdrew the object to discover that it was a letter, with his name written carefully across the front.
Breaking the wax seal, Kelegalen eased closer to the entrance to catch as much light as he could and quickly read the contents.
Kelegalen,
I have made a choice, and I hope it will not ill affect you, or any of the others. I have learned that the slaves are to be destroyed within this coming day, and if you wish to live, you must act as soon as may be. Furnmorth is now dead, there are few guards in Gundabad at present, and thus your task should not prove too difficult if you make use of the weapons that they are forcing you to manufacture. However, I shall not be there. I gave my word to Legolas that I would protect his home, whatever the cost, and the time for me to prove my word has come. I cannot lie disheartened and idle any longer.
Please do not forget, as I nearly did, that Helkhmorn was wrong. Death may be my final lot, but despair is never binding unless you give it power over you.
I thank you for your friendship, and your aid, both to myself, and to my friend. May you one day return to the lands whence you came.
Strider
Refolding the letter, Kelegalen gazed at it in wonder: both because of the contents, and because of the parchment. It was Lord Furnmorth's own paper and ink that had been used, and his own seal that graced the back. Smiling silently to himself at the irony, he settled into the shadows; tomorrow was to be a harder day than he had supposed.
//Go swiftly, Strider, and may you find peace at your journey's end.//
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Legolas was nearly stumbling with weariness, but hid it as best he could as Bonfur and Moín dragged him once more above ground and followed Dorm out into the hills around their mountain. Taking a route that avoided the elf's cliff, they were still in easy sight of Gilthad when the messenger, a dwarf named Frói, finally brought them to a halt. A little ways below them a handful of dwarves had clearly been busy measuring something, and there were wooden markers driven and lengths of cord stretched in a rough rectangle.
One of the dwarves came forward and bowed as they approached, answering to the name of Glor when his lord addressed him. Stepping carefully over the taut cords, Dorm's group paused in the center, looking around the large flat space and listening to Glor's explanation of what he had discovered.
"I was searching for a likely spot to sink a new vent shaft, but I wandered to far and found something disturbing on my way back. The watch helped me mark it out, and then we sent Frói to get you. If you look careful, my lord, you'll see what I mean." Glor gestured to the middle of the rectangle, and then to either side of it, his long, black beard twisting about his head in the sharp wind.
Legolas glanced down to find three cracks in the rock, evenly spaced, only about a finger's width across each, but nearly an arm's length long, and all dropping down and completely out of sight. He blinked, their meaning completely lost on him, but from the look on Dorm's face, and the faces of the other dwarves about him, there was clearly more to it than could be understood by an elf.
"Shoring spikes." Dorm muttered, his large, calloused fingers brushing the snow-dusted stone and a frown creasing his forehead deeply. "For a tunnel. How far and how wide?"
Glor shrugged, "Can't say for sure, but I'd guess near half a league straight down, and wide enough for ten or more to walk abreast. Large, certainly, but pretty poor work, if it cracked this far up, even allowing that it's cold. It appears to me we might have someone trying to thieve a little off our profits without us knowing."
Fró i nodded vigorously, "Aye. Ó en found more cracks a quarter league off, and then a quarter again, for a full three leagues west in a straight line, before he returned."
"Did he reach the end?" Dorm asked, moving to examine the other cracks.
"No, my lord," Frói shook his head, "it went too far."
"Must be some of those woodsmen." Glor nodded sagely, glaring when Bonfur snorted. Dorm, however, wasn't listening any more, his narrowed eyes fixed on the bound elf standing behind him. Legolas returned the gaze easily, his superior age giving him all the edge he needed to stare the dwarf lord down.
Turning away, Dorm asked abruptly, "Can we collapse it?"
Glor nodded, "Aye, but so far deep it will take some doing. Likely to take at least three days if you don't want them digging through again."
For a moment, there was silence. Then finally, Dorm rose and brushed the snow from his clothing, nodding to Glor, "Get started. Collect anyone you need from the mountain. Frói, return to your post, and you, Thúril," this to a gray-haired dwarf, "come with me." Making his way swiftly back to the mountain, Dorm sent messengers before him to retrieve several more dwarves and jerked his head at Moín and Bonfur, "Bring the elf."
Three dwarves, including Nowin, were waiting when they returned to the throne room, and Dorm did not spend extra time on explaining his actions, "Nori, go to the northwest store room and search for any sign of disturbance, or echoes that might mean a second tunnel beyond our walls. Nowin: the southwest store room, Frerin: the west smelting chamber, and Thúril: the west guard room. You will report back to me when you are through."
Bowing, the four dwarves left obediently, without questioning their orders, and soon the room was silent once more. Dorm remained sitting in his chair, the weight of responsibility holding him down, and contemplated the floor as a thousand and one thoughts flashed rapidly through his mind. Eventually he raised his eyes to the two remaining dwarves and the elf between them. "Bonfur, tell Funmar his watch will be replacing yours, then bring me Roden from the armory. I will need you both. And Moín," the dwarf looked up at his name, a worried expression on his face, as if he guessed what the order would be, "cut the elf loose."
Moín glowered blackly at Legolas, but did as he was ordered, stepping back as the elf straightened. Legolas did not bother to bow, but Dorm seemed not to notice, so distracted was he with his own plans. Giving a brief nod at the elf, he said gruffly, "I suppose you should go sleep, or something."
Without a second look, Legolas turned and left the room, wending his way back towards the fortress entrance and finding an abandoned corner in a half-crumbled guard room. Settling down, his breath sighing out of him with faint satisfaction, and his eyes actually closing with exhaustion, he fell into a deep sleep and did not move at all for several hours.
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Jostling, cursing, lunging — the dark mass surged through the tunnels like a foul stream, blackening the walls in passing and pounding away at the rough ground with iron shod feet. Here order was no more needed than obeyed, for running was all that was required of them; ceaseless running, and at the end, as reward, blood and battle. Snarling with lust, their gruesome faces barely visible in the light from the occasional torch bearers, the orcs continued on single-mindedly, noticing neither the weight of their armor, nor their companions, unless it was to bite and kick at them. Aragorn, for his part, stayed out of the way of both.
Lack of sleep was beginning to wear on the ranger heavily, and though he had eaten and gathered extra food before leaving, his body did not have the strength it needed to match the pace. Still, he forced himself on, shutting out both the noise and weariness, sparing no thought for the end of the tunnel, and no anxiety for his present condition, unless it were to avoid yet another armor-clad brute, seeking to trample him in passing.
Not only would he still be standing at the end, he promised himself, but he would be nearer the front as well, leaving at least a little time, he hoped, to warn the dwarves before the full flood broke upon him. With that last thought, he turned his mind back to the present and continued on, merely one more soldier, indistinguishable amongst all the others. Running.
TBC…