Guess who? Okay, yeah, it's Sarah. Can I help it if the story is stored on my hard drive? ;)
saber crazy: Happy to please! Unfortunately (for you, not for Thorongil), his agony is not as prolonged as it might have been; but then, it's getting hard to do that without copying either Cassia, or ourselves… :P Yeah, I can imagine dwarvish has plenty such words. LOL! Memory as a general skill is a whole other issue! I myself already have all the difficulties that my grandmother has in that area, leaving me to wonder what I'll do when *I'm* 60-something… Frightening thought. ;)
Lina: LOL! Ahem. No, it wasn't that funny, really, but you sure made *us* laugh! :D For crying out loud, though, I thought we'd made it perfectly clear that Findel is Nethtalt's girl alone and doesn't care sixpence for 'your' Thorongil! *shakes head* Don't tell me you want Nethtalt TOO now. :| *runs to pull Mavranor to safety, then drops the horrid woman in a heap* The everlasting conflict of fanfic writing! You spend your time alternately beating up the heroes and rescuing the villains. :P
Eomer: *rubs finger in ear* My goodness, your Rohirrim have… unbelievable singing capabilities. Maybe we ought to pay them extra after all… *is deafened by cheers, followed by a louder chorus on the part of the Rohirrim* WAIT! *Rohirrim pause, mid-sentence* We meant pay you extra to stop. For pay you will of course be getting the standard wage package for thread guards: eighty pounds of chocolate apiece and reimbursement for horse feed, as well as a bonus of tickets to Disney World in Florida (if you ever manage to go south) in return for cleaning up so much. As for vacation, you'll get a nice one in about nine chapters. These terms are marginally negotiable, but right now you ought to know that sneak previews of Nefredal stolen from Chloe's computer are not available, and neither are gold-plated rubber duckies. We appreciate your constant hard work and desire to maintain good relations in hopes of having you back for 'Darkest Night' sometime this summer/fall. Very sincerely (blah blah blah), Sarah and Hannah :D
Anarril: Yep, Mavranor's not the most objective human being in Middle Earth. *bows at sarcastic applause that greets this understatement* ;D Glad she's making the intended impression! (Even if I'm sorry she's making you a trifle ill…) Ooh, you've got several good guesses here! I can't tell you which ones, but read on and you'll see. ;) Once again: hugs for liking Findel!! :D No, she isn't related to Eowyn (although Thengel's little girl, Theodwyn, is actually Eowyn's mother). And yes, two character deaths is correct, but one of them has already happened — alas for Meldir — so that may help you feel a little less worried. :)
None: Thanks! We'll see what we can do. ;)
RainyDayz: You may very well be correct on several of those predictions! I'm afraid I can't say anymore than that. ;) Glad you like our Gandalf/Legolas stuff. :D And yes, we're mean, we admit it openly and freely! But really now, where do you think we ought to have stabbed him? Most other spots are either too likely to be fatal, and then we'd have a *dead* Thorongil — at which point you'd give up calling us 'mean' and come after us with a machete. :P Thank you so much on the scared-Mavranor bit! In general it's not possible for the villains to find out just who it is they've been beating up (at which point they might very well finish him off), so this is our compromise, if that's the right word. :) Oh yeah, and we like 'long'. ;D
Mouse: *sighs* Okay, we'll see what we can do about 'arrar'. But for the Easter eggs, mind you! ;D
Gwyn: Interesting question, though you'd probably have to alter it to: What would Aragorn do if he walked in to find Legolas killed in the process of trying to kill an innocent civilian? *dodges tomatoes from irate Legolas fans for making such a suggestion* All the same, if Thorongil were anything but half-dead right now, he probably *would* still be feeling sorry for her. As for possible Legolas problems: hope our 'scratch' is up to scratch! *flees more tomatoes at bad pun* ;D
Maranwe: *considers request to bind Mavranor* Sorry; it's not that I don't *want* to, but… plot, you know, there's still a plot here we need to consider. ;D The sudden appearances of Gandalf are of Tolkien's invention, and I believe it has something to do with his second sight as a Maiar, though I can't be sure of that. One of my favorite parts regarding that in the books is when someone (can't recall who) says to him, "May you ever appear where you are most needed and least expected." :) SO glad you liked Nethtalt and Findel! As for 'crazy': Findel? Ha! *grins innocently* :P Don't worry, eventually Cassia will begin posting her next fic and it will be all better. *realizes that she probably hasn't convinced Maranwe a jot* This one's a couple pages longer than usual, but not much. ;) And we're so pleased we brighten up your day!! Believe me, your feedback makes that a two-way street: we love hearing what you think. :D
Larus: Thanx!! And actually, you're review this time was about the same length. :D *passes all the torture praise to Hannah* She's the blatant-torture queen of our house — I tend to stick with accidental injury and minor torture. Really, though, she's absolutely harmless in person! ;D Cliffs are becoming a specialty of Thorongil's (although we tried to make this one more of an incline and less of an obvious 'cliff'), and yes, several of those moves were used from the movie! ;) Oh, we made you mad? *begins to smile and then straightens out her face immediately* I mean, sorry about that, it's true: Galmod's a sniveling little toad. And I like that quote of K's! I use it frequently myself when reading the news. :P Yeah, I think the popping up thing must be one of the products of being a Maiar; and fortunately he and Galmod aren't going to be spending that much time together. ;) On the rank question: we know Thorongil was a captain from what Tolkien writes, but we couldn't find anything on the Southron military hierarchy, so technically 'general' is our own invention, yes. The Rohirrim rank system is headed chiefly by the king and the marshals (Bronweg is a marshal), but we're uncertain of their system beyond that and so took the liberty of filling in the blanks for them as well. :) Thank you so very much on behalf of Mavranor (who is too preoccupied just now to be polite ;) — we're glad her bout of absolute fury hasn't manage to ruin her character. When we decided to include a couple females in this fic, we tackled the job with the sort of 'grit-your-teeth' attitude we have towards battle scenes: we desperately wanted to avoid all the pitfalls you listed, and since (like you) we are not feminists either, we wanted our women to still be women when we were through. Tolkien managed the balance excellently in his books: the most we could hope for was basic approval from all of you readers and basic satisfaction on our part. So for Findel: no, we absolutely never intend to try matchmaking with Aragorn and Legolas, so you may set your mind at ease. We furthermore do not intend for her to imitate Mulan — especially since, in the first place, her desire was to protect Nethtalt from prying eyes with her presence as a *woman*. :) See ya when we see ya!
Staran: Thanks! Read on and we shall tell! ;)
Mercredi: Mm, bright and loud you think? *smiles mysteriously* ;) No, we can't seem to leave the poor guy's shoulders alone, can we? But if we were to go for the chest or the legs, he'd either wind up dead, or at the very least: unable to escape. It's a thorny problem that seems to have no other answer than to stab him in the shoulders… again. ;P Mavranor is more obsessed than insane, if it makes you feel any better, but I'm afraid you don't see as much of her shrewd and clever side in this fic as we might have shown you. As for our stubborn love birds: glad you seem to be enjoying them! As for where Findel went… ;)
Asen: On the subject of Gandalf: THANKS! As for Thorongil, it may help to know that the really blatant torture is pretty much done. I can't promise to avoid minor/major injuries in the line of every day living (Thorongil's version of 'every day living' tends to be pretty painful on average), but I'll try to see about containing Mavranor… *watches knife-wielding lady run past, waving a knife and laughing maniacally* The pertinent word in that sentence being 'try'. :P As for the cardboard: who'd a' thunk? And here I thought *wax* was the best material for crafting wings… ;P Yeah, I know, I need to catch up on all my mythology homework.
w: A very heartfelt thank you on our plot manipulation! Quite a large number of our brainstorming sessions are devoted simply to adjusting the reality of our fics — Sarah: I was awake last night and realized it makes no sense for X to do Y! He'd have just done Z and saved time. Hannah: Well, what if we were to have M get caught with him. Sarah: That'd work, but we'll need someone else to do N if M's going with X. Hannah: (joking) We could beat up O. — which gives you a brief snapshot of a relatively easy to fix blooper; the hard ones generally cause us to lose sleep for a few nights: thrashing the problem to death at 11 pm. :P Needless to say: whenever such things are noticed (let alone appreciated), we're oh-so-happy! :D LOL! Thanks! And such words have ways of attaching themselves to a person's fancy, don't they? ;) No, we're not surprised — we knew that even if we managed to avoid the Mary Sue outcry when we introduced Findel, someone was bound to notice her drift towards the brink at this point. We're grateful you took note of our attempted precautions (that Findel is not a fighter, and that her motivation is understandable), and so far as the rest is concerned: her request to go as camouflage was based on the fact that Nethtalt's diversion will have to be placed in the Southron *civilian* camp, not the military one (and thus the appearance of a lone young soldier might arouse suspicion), and as to whether her request is reasonable, really, we don't suppose it is — but then Findel isn't exactly all grown up and wise-as-a-wizard yet. ;) Hope we keep her sufficiently in the realm of the real as we go! We've tried our best, but we knew it might not come off right even so. Thank you for always mentioning your opinions/concerns nicely! :) Pleased you liked Gandalf's silly explanation! It's actually the same one he gave when Legolas asked him why he didn't help kill the warg at the beginning. :) Last of all (yes, I do intend to zip the lip eventually): So glad our Mavranor/Thorongil stuff went over well; particularly that line of his!! As is usual: make that Hannah's Mavranor/Thorongil stuff — in general we take group credit for our fics and don't bother to specify who wrote what, but some stuff really needs listed by author. :D Over all, you have once again made our morning! Thanks so much! :)
My goodness, will I never SHUT UP?? *shakes head over three pages of rambling* Onward we go! :D
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Thorongil
By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)
(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries
available at the top of chapter 1)
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Chapter 22
A New Companion
Morning dawned white and clear. Gálmod brought arrows to replace their stores, and paused to calm Espalass, who seemed skittish. The horse twitched from side to side, its head swinging, and eventually went so far as to rear back, pulling its reigns from its master's hands. Gálmod's face pinched with frustration, glaring at the others as if he blamed them for his embarrassment. Legolas was the only one who caught the glance; his own beast, Norleg, stood quietly behind him. Attempting one last time to perhaps bridge the gap that had opened between himself and human, Legolas caught the edgy horse before it could bolt and laid his slender hand on its forehead, whispering soothingly in its twitching ear.
Espalass calmed, but his owner didn't. Catching hold of his animal's reigns as soon as Legolas released them, Gálmod jerked the horse to the side impatiently. Glancing back at the elf, who was still standing in the same place, he asked cuttingly, "If elves are as perfect as legends tell, it seems to me interesting that one could forget something so common as its saddle."
Legolas cringed inwardly, "I do not always use one, and Norleg needs little more than kind handling."
"Amazing," the man said insincerely, and turned away with hunched shoulders.
The elf sighed, his hands hanging loosely by his side, "Perhaps — I suppose it is best that we will not be fighting together." He did not realize he had spoken aloud until another voice responded.
"Do not pay any heed, Legolas." It was Duurben, just bringing Breon from her stall, and scowling at the retreating Rohirrim. "Come, it is time for us to leave."
The elf nodded and mounted as Maerhiin was tethered behind Duurben's saddle.
Thalion embraced his wife and son, instructing Aldor to bring his mother within Medui's walls if battle should come. The boy accepted the responsibility with youthful gravity. Kelegalen finished speaking with Eorwine and Gandalf and mounted Kollnaur, turning about and glancing at the sky. Nethtalt, his hair strangely black about his shoulders and his skin brown, waited a moment longer before mounting, wondering if Findel had returned. Either she had not, or she simply did not wish to say good-bye to him. With a slight shake of his head, he swung into the saddle and turned Bregol to face the gate.
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The plains of the Wold had never looked more vast and their expanses had never seemed so disheartening. Rough piles of black rock, teetering in pillars or rising in mounds, contrasted with the winter-pale green of the grass; the land rolled, peaking and falling away again like rippling water; about their feet grew the larger plants in scattered tufts, yellow-brown like wheat; it was a wild scene, and Legolas could remember his first sight of it — when even he had felt the urge to stand in the middle of it and see nothing but wide land about him. Now he could think only of friend and clutch Norleg's mane in fear that, whenever he found him, it would be too late. Beside him Duurben rode as fiercely as the rest, sparing neither Breon nor himself. The lieutenant also could no longer hide his anxiety and Legolas was struck afresh by the loyalty Thorongil gained in so many.
The others too seemed apprehensive, but this time they weren't standing motionless at the crest of a hill, looking down at the lives of their women and children, unable to take action — now they had a task to do and a task requiring, above all, skill and speed.
After several hours travel, Legolas caught a breath of wind that brought ill tidings. "We are not alone," he called as quietly as he could. Kelegalen drew his steed, Kollnaur, to a slow trot and turned in the saddle to look at Legolas, listening closely to the wind.
"I hear nothing," Gálmod responded curtly after a moment's silence, though Espalass stamped uneasily beneath him.
"Hear you not the beat of horses hooves?" Legolas asked quietly, and at length Nethtalt and Kelegalen heard it as well.
"It is not common for the Southrons to ride horses," Thalion observed under his breath.
"It draws near!" Legolas called looking up in time to see the horse they had heard approach them over a rise at great speed.
It was the work of only a moment to take in the rider: small, petite even, with a head of flowing dark hair; but it was the horse that made Nethtalt suddenly let out a groan and urge Bregol up the hill. The steed the rider was seated upon was the ugliest specimen of horse-kind that Legolas had ever laid eyes on. Kelegalen's expression altered, and a moment later Thalion hastened after Nethtalt.
Legolas knew well, as everyone else did, who the rider was a moment before he heard Nethtalt's call.
"Findel! What are you—did you…Findel—" his face tightened and he was stumbling over his words. The girl drew her horse up and Legolas saw her clearly in the light of the sun. Not only did he find her hair dyed a deep black, but as with Nethtalt her skin had been stained as well. Her eyes were still clearly blue, but she had done her hair in such a way that it shaded her eyes greatly.
Nethtalt gave up on speech and turned instead to the girl's uncle as Kelegalen, Legolas, Gálmod and Stavhold reached the other three. For a moment no one could speak for surprise and then at last Thalion found his voice.
"Findel my child… what are you doing this far from the fort?"
"I cannot let Nethtalt go alone," her words had a sort of strained desperation to them. "You have said yourself the Southrons had only women and children in the camp! He will be far better disguised if I accompany him; with a woman he will not look conspicuous. Beyond that I pledge you on my life I will do no more unless asked." Her glance shifted pleadingly.
"It will be dangerous," Nethtalt demurred, but he met her eyes and after a moment he let out a breath and turned to Thalion, who was staring piercingly at his niece.
"You are her guardian, Thalion," Kelegalen said gently. "I feel it might be dangerous to send her back now — with the many Southron scouts that have been deployed; but I will not oppose any decision of yours."
Thalion looked about to respond when Gálmod spoke, "Let the maiden come! Such a spirited one will surely not falter on the mission ahead of us." The archer smiled and inclined his head, but Findel did not seem to mark the gesture.
"Please, Uncle?"
At last Thalion gave a resigned nod, and she sighed in relief.
"But you will stay close to either myself, Kelegalen, or Nethtalt, is that understood?"
She nodded quickly, anxious to continue on before either her guardian's mind or her own courage gave way, and turned Gailloth to fall into step beside Nethtalt and Bregol. Kelegalen motioned the group onward, though they continued their slow pace for a time to give the horses a rest. Nethtalt's manner, Legolas noticed, was nearly as restless as Espalass' had been before setting out, and the elf tried to put him at ease. When Findel had moved travel beside her uncle instead Legolas fell back until he was level with his friend.
"Nethtalt," Legolas alerted him causing the young man to jump and turn quickly in the saddle. When he saw Legolas he let out a breath and closed his eyes. "Nethtalt," Legolas said again with a reassuring smile, "no harm can come to her as long as you are with her, I feel certain of that."
Nethtalt looked up at the elf and after a moment returned the smile wanly, "I thank you Legolas, but that does not check my worry. Have you not felt that sometimes events are simply out of your control," Nethtalt glanced again at Findel, "and that the ones you care about are going to pay for your inability to change the situation?"
Legolas sighed wearily at that and nodded, staring ahead at the path they were traveling.
"More often than I can say," he replied softly.
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The sun was clearing the tree tops, but Harnwe, his tanned skin familiar with the golden rays, welcomed the warmth rather than shunning it. The sole hardship of this green, northern land was the horrible cold. Numbers of common people and soldiers had already fallen ill and died from diseases they had not known existed. Screams had been heard early one morning at the startling appearance of water, turned solid. Some black magic was clearly at the heart of this sorcerous mystery.
Not that these difficulties meant much to the king. They would be sorted out by his underlings and no more said. Chiefly now in his mind lay the plans he had formed for his victory over the barbarian horsemen, and anger at having to accustom himself to a new war beast. His own mûmak, a creature he had ridden since its first day of training, had gone suddenly mad. It had been found dead between its pen and the military camp, having been pierced by arrows through eyes and skull. Harnwe had still not discovered who the slayers of his beast had been; no doubt they were too afraid of his wrath to come forward, though the animal had become worthless even before its demise.
Mavranor likely could have discovered the truth for him, but he did not wish to damage her sudden euphoria by asking her. Better she be left to enjoy her revenge, whatever that might entail.
The selection of a fresh mûmak took several hours, but was finally settled; a dark gray creature, almost black in places, with a fiery spirit. Harnwe smiled grimly when the animal snorted and pulled away from him — such mûmakil were the best in battle, if one could manage them, and the king had been taming these beasts from childhood.
Not many Southrons used mûmakil in battle as frequently or with such confidence as Harnwe.
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When at last they reached the place where they would part ways, Kelegalen drew the company to a halt and turned to Duurben and Legolas.
"Farewell, friends, may Ilúvatar speed you on your way; I hope with all my heart that your mission will be a success."
"The same I wish for you, Kelegalen!" Legolas called as the two began to make their way towards the Southron's camp.
Legolas shifted on his horse's back one last time to see the six Rohirrim charge towards their own destination and their own battle.
A grayness had come to the sky and now more than ever Legolas felt the weight of what was about to come upon them and the people of Rohan.
Murmuring a command, the elf sped Norleg forwards to catch up to Duurben.
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"My lord Harnwe, favorable news!" General Fuinur announced as he entered his king's tent, bowing elaborately to his king. "The catapults are now complete, and will soon be gathered at the work field closest to the Great River."
Harnwe's face seemed impassive as he looked over the message his general presented to him. But there was a tremble about his eyes that bespoke his overwhelming eagerness. "It is time. The last stone has been laid and we are ready. Not an hour shall be wasted — have the men been kept in readiness as I ordered?"
"Yes, my liege. But what of General Brerg? He is still in the fort with the Lady Mavranor."
"Aye," Harnwe nodded impatiently, "a messenger will be sent when we set out. He will oversee the crossing of the catapults and lead them to join us — he already knows to expect such a missive. I will take a portion of the army and go south; you will take another portion and go north. The remainder will wait at the fort and come with the catapults. We will need to drive the barbarians to the supposed safety of their walls before we may overthrow them, and the sooner we move, the greater our advantage. Every day we linger grants them time to reinforce their weaknesses."
Fuinur bowed, amazed again at his overlord's incredible intelligence and commanding presence. Here was a fearless man whom a Southron could follow with heart as well as body! Were he to command his men to cast themselves into Orodruin itself, they would gladly obey. Today, blood was almost certain. And Fuinur, now General Fuinur, would be at the forefront; he would take the very fort that had Gwanur had failed to take! No man would be able to stand against him.
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Nethtalt helped Kelegalen cover the final boat with foliage to keep them from being found before turning to silently follow the others.
"You and Findel will enter the camp from the west side," Kelegalen explained softly as they walked. "As soon as you have created the diversion, move immediately to where they are keeping the catapults. There is a rough stone wall curved against the forest; it creates a large space for them to store their catapults, and we will find them all still there, I hope."
"But that will leave us trapped," Stavhold murmured from beside Findel.
"Nay, if we can hold the entrance in the wall we will not risk attack. They might come behind us through the trees, but by the time this is organized, we should have all the catapults destroyed. We should also have full warning even if they do attempt it; and they will most certainly try an assault on the entrance first. Therefore, as soon as our presence is known, Stavhold and Gálmod will need to protect the opening." Kelegalen waited for affirmation before laying a hand on his son's shoulder, "Make haste my son, but move cautiously." Nethtalt nodded. "And be careful, Nethtalt." The young man nodded again and squeezed his father's shoulder.
"I will."
He turned and took Findel's hand and the two moved down towards the west boarder of the Southron camp, being sure that no eyes followed them from the sentries.
Kelegalen waited until they melded with a crowd of Southron women and children before he motioned the others to follow him. "I hope these tricks of Gandalf's work," he murmured quietly.
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"Word from the scouts, my lord king."
Thengel looked up from the communiqué in his hand: Eorwine's reassurances that men had been dispatched to destroy the weapons of the enemy. They had been sent out from Medui to see to it but a day before. "What word?" the Rohirrim king asked.
"Ill news, I fear," Bronweg said tonelessly, "the enemy approach. They have divided in two groups, one turning for Medui and the other coming here. Mûmakil are in their train, but no sign has yet been seen of the catapults."
"Then there is yet hope Eorwine's men have succeeded," Thengel murmured. His gray eyes unfocussed as he gazed down at his hands, worn and calloused with the passing of years. So much time, so many struggles. Would he return out of this to ride once more to his home? Or would Morwen wait in vain?
He looked back at his marshal and his glance was now firm and steady. Such dangers were the right and duty of a monarch, and never would he shirk them out of fear. He cast his cloak about his shoulders, obscuring the armor he had taken to wearing daily in case of a sudden attack. "Assemble the men. We will take our stand in the field immediately; the enemy will not be long in coming."
"Aye, sire," Bronweg bowed.
"We will not surrender, Bronweg. Not while the sun rises and sets, and not while I am king." Thengel's eyes glittered in the morning light, and the marshal nodded once. They were agreed.
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Findel glanced warily around at the many Southrons and felt suddenly glad to have Nethtalt's hand over her own. All around her the foreign people moved, speaking rapidly to one another in their native language, going on about the business of working and surviving as best they could — and every so often the two Rohirrim would see another sentry armed with a heavy spear and scimitar. Findel kept her head down as much as possible to hide her eyes, but even then she could not help looking at the camp around her. Also, she was trying to detect a means of escape after she and Nethtalt had set off their diversion. Nethtalt gripped the strap of his shoulder pack tighter than he had meant and Findel squeezed his hand.
"It will be all right," she mouthed to him and the muscles in his face relaxed just slightly. They moved across the camp without incident; anyone who paid them any attention disregarded them soon after and did not hinder their steady progress between the tents.
At last they reached their destination; it was not a terribly well constructed building, but since the blacksmith work was some of the most important to the army right now, it was decently sized and certainly satisfactory for their needs. Glancing inside, Nethtalt saw one old man at work but he only had to wait a moment before the man left the smithy, snapped something to a sentry and moved a good distance away. Quickly stepping inside, Nethtalt felt his heart racing as he pulled Findel inside behind him.
Dropping the bag from his shoulder he handed it to Findel. "Findel!" he whispered urgently and she nodded once, opening the pack. Nethtalt moved over to the furnace where mettles were smoldered, studying it closely.
*"Remember, my lad, don't be anywhere near it when it is released, don't be anywhere near it at all."*
Nethtalt remembered the old wizard's words clearly and now it was making his head ache. How would he keep it from going off immediately?
Moving hurriedly, he grabbed two half completed shields from the wall, set them on the anvil, and looked around frantically for something else. His eyes caught sight of a large helmet and he pulled it down.
"Nethtalt!" Findel looked up tensely. He turned and saw that the man was returning.
"Here Findel!" he called and she handed him the object from his bag. "I just need another minute." But he realized he didn't have one, the man was only a few feet away.
For a moment the girl stood, seemingly unsure of what was to be done, and then to Nethtalt's alarm and without a word of warning, she turned and ran right out the door. Before he could even collect his wits enough to call to her, she had collided full tilt with the smith.
Unprepared for the sudden impact, the older man stumbled backwards and Findel fell to the ground. Nethtalt started up — and at the same moment, Findel bewildered him a second time. Rising to her feet to face the angry Southron, she began repeatedly apologizing in the man's own tongue! With the girl's apologies and the man's angry yells ringing in his ears, Nethtalt quickly rigged up his frame. Placing the two shields in the base of the furnace he lay the helmet in upside-down and put the thing Gandalf had given him inside the helmet until it sat upright. If he remembered correctly, the metal would heat enough to light the diversion, but not for another few minutes. Hearing the row coming to a fevered pitch outside, he quickly took the small fuse attached to the object and laid it across the mettle shield, then ran towards the door as the mettle began to turn crimson. The man was still yelling, but he was in for another surprise as Nethtalt rushed forward and grabbed the apologetic girl, pushing her frantically away through the crowd.
They had gotten half way to the rock wall when there was a great explosion that seemed to shake the whole ground. For a moment both Rohirrim were too shocked to move and came to a halt, only turning around as Southron women screamed.
A brilliant blue light had burst from the forge and as it lit into the sky it took the shape of a gigantic creature that every Southron knew well. A mûmak.
The dazzling light turned and charged through the grass, stampeding down towards the people below, it's tusks dripping flame. It then rounded and slashed across several tents, showering sparks falling from it's great back and setting them on fire. The Southrons broke away from the flaming tents, screaming and running in all directions, terrified of being trampled. Two times the mûmak crossed the camp, then doubled back a third time, charging back over it's original path towards the forge.
Nethtalt and Findel watched in amazement as the mûmak crashed into the building and let off a sudden brilliant display of fireworks, exploding in the sky and completely destroying the forge altogether. The brilliant colors blinded both for a moment and furthered the chaos among the Southrons who were now either running for the wreck or running in the opposite direction.
Not wasting another moment, Nethtalt quickly led Findel away from the tumult. As soon as they were a good distance away Nethtalt allowed her to slow slightly so that their escape would not be obvious to the people running the opposite direction.
"Where did you learn the Southron tongue?" he asked glancing down at her.
"I didn't," she confessed, breathing heavily, "I only discovered the meaning of that one phrase when we were held captive — decided to remember it just in case."
"It was well remembered," Nethtalt replied and he smiled at her suddenly, she smiled back and for a moment he felt compelled to say something…but this was not the time nor the place to talk and they picked up their speed once more, heading for the stone enclosure.
TBC…