Disclaimer: I love lord of the rings. Unfortunately, that doesn't automatically mean I own it. Although, if the plan for world domination I attempted yesterday had excluded the sheep, it would. But of course, it didn't. So I don't. Damn that sheep. ^_^
Chapter 9: Attacked
They were no longer moving when she awoke. Wondering where she was, Isilme slowly opened her eyes to find that she was sitting on the ground, with her back against a tree. The cold, grey light of morning came through the leaves. As she slowly became aware of her surroundings, her mind registered voices nearby.
Tiredly, the girl tried to lift her head. She was stiff and aching from the fight and the ride last night. Or had it been last night? She found herself completely disorientated, barely able to tell what time of day it was. Remembering what had happened, she tried to stand, only to discover that her hands were tied around the back of the tree. Her blade was gone, along with her bow and quiver. But she was too tired to be angry. Isilmë wondered how long they had been travelling - she remembered nothing of their journey but a continuous drifting in and out of consciousness, and the steady rhythm of the horse moving beneath her.
She heard the sound of footsteps nearby. A figure appeared. As he came closer she realised that it was the same man as she had been riding with, now coming towards her holding something in his hands. Isilmë tried to stand again desperately; it was no use.
'Do not try,' he said calmly, stopping a metre from her. 'We will be moving off again shortly. Meanwhile, will you eat?' He held out some bread wrapped in dry leaves. Isilmë turned her head away defiantly, as best she could. She had nothing but pure hatred and a burning anger for this stranger who had ruined her plans. Eat the food offered by her captors? No.
He stayed there for a moment, then rose and left. Why? Thought Isilmë, closing her eyes again. Why did this have to happen? Just one, short ride She felt a stone on the ground behind her as she pondered her fate, picking it up she turned it round in her bound hands, trying to cut at the rope. She didn't even know where she was although they had said before they had caught her that they were bound for Mirkwood. Mirkwood! She angrily flung the stone down. So far from Minas Tirith And without Mirlomë the intelligent mare would have managed to loose herself when her mistress hadn't returned, Isilmë had no doubt about that, but without a horse she had no chance of escape - on discovery of her disappearance, they would easily catch her up, no matter how long ago she had left.
She wanted to scream out loud, as her mind was. Her journey had been so foolish. It was her fault, after all. Overwhelmed with the mixture of anger, fear and frustration, she slumped forward, her golden hair falling out from her hood and over her face. A single tear slowly slid from under her closed lashes.
~*~*~*~*~*~
As he returned slowly through the trees to the makeshift camp, Eldarion thought of his mission. His instructions had been to ride north, until Thranduil's halls, where he would warn the king if they had not located the outlaw band they hunter. If they had, the patrol could rest awhile in Northern Mirkwood before taking their prisoners back to Gondor.
The journey had been fairly uneventful thus far. He had decided not to question the prisoner of his knowledge of the band; he doubted there would have been anything more to be gained than long, defiant silences. But any information would have been useful... The fact that they had as yet seen no sign of their quarry, apart from the one they held prisoner, worried him, as the thought of the destruction and havoc they had already wreaked upon several small homesteads and villages, from Gondor through to the southern reaches of Mirkwood, was ever in his mind.
Yet they had seen not a trace of the reported aggressors. It was rumoured that the outlaw band had grown particularly strong and had strayed so far as both to the south of Druadan Forest's borders and to the southern reaches of Mirkwood. The elite patrol with him as its leader had been chosen to ride through Druadan, sweeping north into Southern Mirkwood, to locate and capture the group, which had attacked several small villages and homesteads, slaying or driving out the occupants and taking their property. The swiftest forerunners of the homeless villagers had arrived in Minas Tirith three days since; the patrol had been sent out immediately to try and locate the band. Leaving at sunset the same day as the arrival of the messengers, they had now passed north, through the forest of Druadan and across the Entwash, then still northwards, leaving behind the falls of Rauros and Sarn Gebir on their right. Across Anduin, just below its meeting with the Limlight, and finally the gallop across the wide plains of the Brown Lands stretching up to the borders of Mirkwood. It had been a long ride, though they had completed it sooner than he had expected. Perhaps because they had passed through Druadan more quickly than had been planned.
This reminded the young man of the lone figure he had caught watching them, who had refused to tell his name or business. A grim smile crossed Eldarion's face. He had been quite a fighter, though no match for the king's son. And evidently, their scuffle had exhausted him more than it had Eldarion; he had not fully awoken throughout the full three days' journeying to Mirkwood. Perhaps because his had been a long journey beforehand, or merely that he had not engaged in combat for a while. Whichever, it was likely that he was up to no good in Druadan; indeed, he might well have been one of the band they were seeking, spying on them. It was well that they had taken him captive; he could have later posed a threat to the patrol.
He passed the sentry and reached the clearing where the patrol rested, surveying his men. An uneasy silence hung over the group; no one slept. They had built no fire, not wishing to announce their presence. With a frown, Eldarion turned and went to check on the horses. Arvedui stood alert, head erect, unmoving. The others were shifting restlessly. Arvedui turned as Eldarion went to him, scanning the trees around them as the black horse nuzzled at his hand. Not a single bird sang in the trees, not a branch creaked. The forest was unnaturally quiet.
Isilme opened her eyes as she heard a slight rustle of leaves in front of her. She focussed at once on the source of the sound. A second later, she could just make out a brown-clad figure crouched beneath a tree, just hidden by leaves in front of her and to the right.
Mystified, Isilme watched as it moved slowly forwards, in the direction the leader of the band had left in. Suddenly aware of her vulnerability - nothing hid her from anyone within five metres or less - a sudden fear came over her. What if someone saw her? She tensed, trying to breathe quietly, silent praying she wouldn't be noticed as she huddled back against the tree. The figure continued to creep forwards. She could see the dagger at his waist and the bow in his hand; now he slowly and carefully drew an arrow from the quiver on his back. Isilme's mouth fell slowly open as he fitted it to his bowstring and paused, intent on his target, ready to draw it back. Isilme had to catch herself from crying out loud; the instinct to warn was strong. But as she watched him standing motionless, she realized that he was waiting for some kind of signal to shoot - he was not working alone. This was a carefully orchestrated attack... In the split second it took her mind to register the piercing whistle that sounded through the trees, the man had fired.
A thump, the whistle of another arrow, and shouts arose from the camp. The figure sprang forward, notching a third arrow to his bow string, and disappeared from Isilme's sight. The clash of arms rang out; a brief moment of paralysis and then Isilme was struggling hard at the bonds imprisoning her, half-terrified, half-calm, but with a growing sense of urgency. She could see nothing but vague shapes and slight movements through the trees; she was thankful to be away from the fighting, but still was mindful of her dangerous position. If she managed to free herself, even if she could not escape afterwards, at least she would be able to hide from the band's attackers, as likely just as ruthless and cold-hearted as she had no doubt her own captors were. She winced in pain as she pulled too hard on one side, wrenching her other arm back hard and twisting her shoulder in the process. Cursing her own clumsiness, she nudged the shoulder with her chin, eyes widening in frustration as a bolt of pain coursed through her entire arm. It was not too serious - she had done herself similar injury many times before in her swordsmanship lessons - but it would make life difficult for a while. With a grimace, she resumed tugging at the ropes, ignoring the continuing pain. If only they had not been tied so tightly! She scanned the trees for any sign of danger as she twisted and pulled.
The shouts continued, growing even louder. Suddenly, an arrow whipped past her face, so close she could have touched it. She shrank back against the tree in fear, her body rigid, and slowly turned her head a fraction to locate its origin. A tall figure holding a bow casually in one hand stepped out from the trees to her right and walked in the wake of his arrow, pausing for a moment to consider Isilme. The girl looked up at him from under her hood, her eyes wide. An elf.
As the figure strode off, Isilme realised that that arrow had not been meant for her... Indeed, it had probably reached the target it sought. She turned as another pair of green-clad archers appeared and melted back into the foliage just as quickly on the other side of her clearing, hands at their knives with barely a glance for Isilme. She could only stare in confusion and surprise. Elves? They must be deeper into Mirkwood than she had hoped... But what was their purpose? It would have been characteristic of the reclusive race to stay well back, avoiding taking sides in the affairs of men... But no. They aided them. One group, at least, though she could not say which.
Thoroughly confused, Isilme was jolted from her thoughts in a sharp reminder of her injury as she subconciously tried to move her arm forward. Closing her eyes for a moment in pain, she realised suddenly that the woods were silent once more. Apparently the fighting had stopped.
A moment later, a man appeared, walking towards her, wiping his blade on his cloak. From his similar garb to her earlier opponent, she guessed that he was from the first group. When he reached her, he went behind the tree, and Isilme felt the rope holding her wrists together go limp. She brought her free arms forward slowly in relief, testing her injured arm with her hand, ignoring the intense pain, as the man came round to face her. She had no intenting of trying to run; she ached so much that she would probably had tripped and fallen flat had she done so, and besides, he looked like he could easily outrun her. She kept her head down as he considered her, trying to work out what the prisoner was thinking, or planning. Her hood still hung low over her head.
After a while: 'On your feet,' he said gruffly. She slowly rose, her every part of her body protesting the whole way, and as she stepped forward he went behind her to retie the ropes. Isilme stood silently, every tiny jerk causing her arm to throb, then walked as he directed her. There might have been a blade at her back, there might not have been; she could not tell, and she did not care.
As they came through the trees into a large clearing, Isilme's half-closed eyes widened in shock. She should have been prepared for such a sight - after all, she had heard clearly the sounds of battle - but even so, she gasped audibly, stopping in her tracks.
A/n: next bit half-written; will be up soon.