Chapter Two - The Cresting Storm
A pale sun settled on the western horizon, its dying beams casting long shadows across the cheerless land. Maeldhuin reined in his mount, and turned an anxious gaze from the fading light ahead, to the gathering storm at his back. He cursed himself for an inept fool, wishing for the hundredth time that day that he had stayed behind to take part in the defense of his city, instead of fleeing into the West with his companions. Maeldhuin was no warrior, but neither was he so craven as to abandon his city in its hour of need.
A gruff voice broke into his reverie. "Cease your moping, lad, and get moving! This is no pleasure ride!"
Maeldhuin returned his thoughts to the task at hand. His two companions had not waited for him, and now rode several paces ahead. He could ill afford to be cut off from them, and so, drawing his gaze away from the eastern ridges, he urged his horse to a trot.
As he rode, he considered the circumstances that had brought him to this place. Long ago, he had been forced to recognize that he had little skill with a bow, and even less with a blade. Indeed, his swordsmanship was a source of great amusement to his peers, causing them to jibe that any foe Maeldhuin challenged was more likely to die of laughter than of any wound his blade might inflict. The masters-at-arms, pushed beyond the limits of patience, finally suggested he concentrate on the arts of peace and leave the arts of war to those with skill enough to frighten their foes.
But neither, to Maeldhuin's shame, did he possess any great skill as a jewel smith, although he was, like his lord, a scion of Fëanor's line. Oh aye, he could whittle prettily enough, and had some small skill with a pen or a brush, but he could not pour his heart into the crafting of baubles. The master Jewel Smiths kindly suggested that he find a better use for his limited talent. The libraries were frightfully untidy. Perhaps the Keepers of the Scrolls could put him to some use.
And so, Maeldhuin had taken to haunting the libraries of Ost-en-Edhil, losing himself in tales of old, immersing himself in the languages, ways, and lore of distant lands. One day, Falathar, chief of Celebrimbor's heralds stumbled over him as he sat in the middle of a stack of ancient scrolls, lost in an ancient epic. Recognizing something of himself in the studious young Elf, Falathar took Maeldhuin as his apprentice.
Falathar drove the young Elf tirelessly, training his mind in the study of maps, protocol, languages, and cyphers, while he trained his body in the ways of shadows, stealth, and secrecy. In due time, Maeldhuin became one of Celebrimbor's most trusted messengers. Second only to Falathar himself, he bore missives from his lord to the scattered kin of the Noldor, wherever they dwelt in Middle Earth.
A crash of thunder pulled Maeldhuin back to the present. He twisted around on his saddle, turning to face the darkness over his home. The hills of Eregion were crowned with fire. Lightning smote the sky above the City of Ost-en-Edhil. Even at this great distance, he could feel the ground tremble and groan beneath him. Suppressing a shiver, he nudged his horse forward. "We must make haste," he whispered.
Duilin, his kinsman, and Falathar's newest apprentice, turned to him, laughed, and shook his head. "We are, Cousin," he said, "Or we would be, if you were not stopping every few minutes."
"I am sorry," Maeldhuin said. "Only, I cannot shed this fear. I do not think we shall ever see our homes again."
"Of course we will," Duilin answered. "I don't know why you're suddenly beset with gloomy thoughts. 'Tis but a storm. The Enemy's forces will not have reached our city so quickly."
"I pray that you are right, Duilin, but if our strength should..."
"Of course, I'm right. But even if he does, fear not, he will taste the welcome our warriors have prepared for him."
"Enough!" barked Falathar. "There will be time aplenty to ponder the fate of our people when our messages have been safely delivered. Now cease your mindless chatter, or we shall never reach the end of our road!" The herald's mien was grave.
Duilin guided his horse to Falathar's side. "Perhaps, if our Lord had sent the King one of his magic rings, the King would be better disposed to help our cause."
Falathar gripped the younger Elf's wrist. "Do not speak of it ever again!" he hissed. The vehemence in Falathar's voice stunned the young Elf into silence. He cast a furtive look into the growing darkness, then held Duilin's gaze. "Remember, my lad, not all of the servants of the Enemy walk upon two legs. Eyes and ears there are in the shadows, keener than those of any Elf." A wolf howled in the distance, its chilling cry punctuating Falathar's dire words. Falathar spun around. "Wargs," he hissed. "We can no longer tarry. Ride!" he cried, "and woe to him who dares to look behind!"
* * *
For three days and three nights, the messengers passed like a wind over the hills of Eregion, riding without rest, until even their doughty steeds stumbled with weariness. Only when Falathar's own mount slipped and nearly tossed him into a ravine, did the master herald reluctantly agree to a brief halt.
The horses and couriers rested in the warmth of a small fire. Falathar sat on the margins of the fire's glow, fingering the pouch at his neck. Duilin, having attempted to engage the elder herald in conversation, was gruffly dismissed for his pains. He drew close to Maeldhuin with a troubled expression clouding his features. "I wouldn't bother our Master, if I were you," he said, nodding in Falathar's direction. "I just asked him where we were exactly, and my ears are still stinging from his answer."
Maeldhuin gave a rueful smile. "Our situation must be dire indeed, if you cannot coax a smile from him, Cousin. It is not his wont to be so short with us."
"Aye, he is troubled. He knows more than he says, but will not voice his fears to us."
Maeldhuin turned his bright gaze away from the fire. Far in the East, blood-red lightning tore angry streaks across the sky. "Those are no natural storms," he said, shaking his head. "Whether they be Sauron's doing, or some other evil, I know not for certain. I know only that my heart is filled with dread."
"Will not Dwarves will come to our City's aid?"
"Durin's folk are doughty warriors, but I fear they will soon have foes of their own to fight. The Enemy knows of our friendship with Durin's Folk; he will vent his rage upon them, as he will upon our own people."
"Or worse," Duilin mused, "he may deceive them too, and set them against us. The memories of the dwarves are as long as their beards. They have not forgotten the scorn the Elves showed their fathers when first they awoke. "
Maeldhuin said nothing, but stared blankly into the night. Duilin's voice grew plaintive. "If your worries be founded..."
Maeldhuin tried to smile. "Hush, Duilin. I should have kept my own counsel, and not burdened your heart with my dubious misgivings. It is ever my wont to let my imagination get the better of me. Be of good cheer. Falathar will not let us fail."
Duilin cast Maeldhuin a doubtful look, and snorted. "It's never like this in the old stories. Where are all the great warriors of our kind? We are not made of such heroic stuff. I think our people are sadly diminished since the Elder days."
Maeldhuin lay back, folded his arms beneath his head, and stared into the murky darkness overhead. Three bright stars shone defiantly through a breach in the clouds. "Look," he said. a smile touching his lips. He pointed upwards. "See? 'It is the belt of mighty Menelmacar. The Swordsman of the Heavens is rising to our aid. Even now, his great sword is cleaving through this unearthly darkness. Is he hero enough for you?
Duilin smiled. "Aye, he is. And if he be with us, what need we fear?"
* * *
The storm abated, yet the air remained heavy with foreboding. All about, the world seemed bereft of life. Even the cheerful nut-brown waters of the Baranduin were uncharacteristically subdued. Maeldhuin had travelled this road in happier times, and wondered at the changes he saw. All light and mirth appeared to have fled these formerly pleasant lands.
Men dwelt in these parts and had opened their hearts and homes to travellers. Now their scattered holdings and farmsteads stood silent and cheerless, with fields untilled, voices quelled, and doors heavily barred. Rumour of war had blown in on the wind, spreading fear and suspicion, and Man and Nature now braced themselves against the coming storm.
A fortnight into their journey, the riders left the desolate plains behind, and began winding their way into the rolling hills of western Eriador. From the wooded hilltops, their keen eyes could make out the distant ribbon of the River Lhûn, the crossing of which would mark the final leg of their wearisome quest.
The horses had been skittish all morning, rearing, bucking, shying from shadows, even stopping in their tracks at times for no apparent reason. Only gentle words whispered into their ears had persuaded the frightened animals to go further, and they were held to the road only by the loyalty and love they bore their riders.
But even the most loyal mount can be pushed beyond the limits of endurance. Without warning, Duilin's docile mare reared and would go no further. The young Elf bent over the horse's neck to whisper a word of comfort, and as he did, an arrow came whistling from the shadows, barely missing his neck. Without thought, he threw himself to the ground. Falathar and Maeldhuin followed, springing from their horses, taking what meagre shelter they could in the shallow depression bordering the trail. The horses neighed wildly and bolted back down the path.
"Alfirin, stay!" Unmindful of the danger, Duilin leaped after his horse, and only Falathar's hand was quick enough to grab hold of his cloak.
"Release me, Master, I beseech you!"
"Get down, young fool! Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
"I cannot let her go!" Duilin cried, and tugging his cloak from Falathar's grip, he sprang away after his steed. A moment later, Maeldhuin heard the telltale whine of a second arrow, followed by a sharp cry.
"DUILIN!!" Maeldhuin ran crouching along the gully, until he found his cousin, writhing in the roadway, an orc's wicked arrow protruding from his chest.
Maeldhuin rushed to the side of his fallen kinsman. "Oh, Duilin!"
Falathar crept to Duilin's side and seized Maeldhuin's arm. "Leave him!" he hissed. "He is done for!"
Maeldhuin spun around to face his master, a look of horror on his fair face. "Leave him? To die alone, like an animal?"
"Look well! That is no hunter's stray. Look around you, lad. Would you be next?"
Gasping for breath, Duilin turned his face towards his companions. "Run! Fly, while you can!"
"I will not abandon him!" Maeldhuin wrenched his arm free of the herald's grip. Duilin's breathing was laboured, his bright gaze clouded with pain, his countenance a ghastly white. Maeldhuin took the younger Elf's hand, and forced a note of encouragement into his strained voice. "Be still, Duilin. Be brave. I will carry you to safety."
"Go, please!," Duilin wept. " Leave me, I beg you."
"Nay, I will not." Maeldhuin pulled Duilin off the trail, into the shelter of the gully. The younger Elf cried out in pain. Maeldhuin held him in his arms. "Hush, cousin." His voice was strangled with tears. "'Tis nothing of concern. You'll be right as rain in no time."
Falathar crouched by Maeldhuin's side. "There's a brave lad, hush now. Be still." Duilin tried to smile, but a stab of pain tore a gasp from his throat.
Falathar took hold of Duilin's hand, and caressed his pale brow. "Soon, my lad, you will enter the halls of Mandos," the elder herald began in soothing tones, "and after a brief time of rest, you will join the heroes of the tales you love so well."
"NO!" Maeldhuin cried, and clutched at Duilin's free hand. "He will live! You will live cousin!"
Falathar ignored him. "I charge you with one last mission."
"Master?" Duilin's voice was a breathless whisper.
"When you see my lord Finrod, greet him fondly for me, and tell him that one day, we will walk together in the Gardens of Lórien. Will you do that for me?"
Duilin smiled and closed his eyes. "The Gardens of Lórien. I will carry your words, Master. I will not fail you." He smiled and was still.
"Duilin?" Maeldhuin's eyes burned with tears, and he shook his head in disbelief. "Oh, Duilin!"
Falathar placed a comforting hand on Maeldhuin's shoulder. "He is gone. Come, my lad. We must not linger here."
Maeldhuin pulled Duilin's body from the ground. "Master, we cannot leave him thus."
"There is no time to tend his body. He would understand. The orcs that slew your cousin are closing in about us. If we are taken, and our mission fails, then Duilin will have died in vain."
"What will they do to him?" Maeldhuin asked, refusing to release his cousin's hand.
"I dare not guess. It matters not. Even now, his spirit is flying towards the Undying Lands. This broken shell is of no further use to him. Come now, gather yourself. Take some token of his in remembrance, if you wish. It may, in time, bring you some measure of comfort. There will be time enough for grief and tears after we reach the King."
Maeldhuin lay Duilin's body down on a soft bed of heather, and brushed the tousled strands of hair from his peaceful face. He knelt beside him in solemn stillness, not yet able to abandon him.
"Come, lad," the herald said in a kind but firm voice. He placed his fingers over Maeldhuin's and gently loosened his grip. "By now the alarm will have been given. We must leave this place ere we find ourselves cornered like rats. "
Maeldhuin lifted a slender chain and medallion from Duilin's neck. Beneath his breath, he voiced a prayer to Mandos, and then, as tears clouded his sight, he silently followed his grim-faced master into the shadows.
* * *
To be continued