Chapter XIX: Blades in the Night

In the great white city of Minas Tirith, Eldarion, Son of Aragorn and King of Belgor, hurried to his throne in the royal chambers.

Upon reaching his destination, the King glanced apprehensively over his shoulder, scanning for any watchers. Seeing no one, he pushed the throne aside, revealing a trapdoor concealed beneath the intricate rug.

Reaching down hurriedly, Eldarion jerked a hidden lever upward, causing the trapdoor to swing ominously inward, opening into a dark chasm lit only by a few meager torches.

Eldarion lowered himself into the dimly lit room, flicking another switch to close the trapdoor. He made his way to the center of the small room, where he sat in a large chair before a golden pedestal, on which sat a glowing orb.

Reaching out his right hand, on which sat the third elven ring of power, he placed it upon the orb, and closing his eyes, spoke in a low voice.

"Come, Isildur, father of my people," he murmured, calling forth the spirit of an ancient Numenorian hero with whom he had communed with on many an occasion before. In fact, it had been Isildur who convinced Eldarion to overthrow his father as king.

A green mist began to swirl inside the orb, and as the sea of emerald whirled about, he heard a voice, detached and echoing, inside his head. "I am here."

"My lord, the Venyarohirrim move about as if preparing for war. What shall I do to bring glory to our blessed country?"

"Send an army to New Edoras," the spirit replied, "Crush them at their head."

"New Edoras?" Eldarion asked in surprise, "Are we strong enough, lord?"

"With my assistance, you shall be."

Eldarion nodded, eyes still closed. "Of course," he responded as he began to rise from his seat to set the troops in motion, "It shall be done."

South of Belgor, in the tower of Baradu, the fortress of the Drow, Maneva Mornië cackled to himself as he turned away from his own swirling sapphire orb.

He turned to face his three generals, Turdú was on mission in Isen Meares, and chuckled, "Impressionable humans. They will believe anything a 'spirit' tells them."

The other three Remnant laughed as well.

"What are they doing now, sir?" Garulf asked, blinking his solid black eyes.

"Sssending zeir army to attack ze hobbitsssess?" Vrayon asked, tapping his glittering black claws on the nearby window-ledge.

Even Garulf laughed at this mental picture.

"No," Mornië answered after the laughter ceased, "Even better. They go to strike a grievousblow to the Venyarohirrim; at New Edoras."

"Where our troops will crush them," Grishnákh said as if stumbling upon the revelation of the Fourth Age.

"Congratulationsss," Vrayon scoffed with a mocking smile, "You vin anozer sticker for your shiny black armor."

Grishnákh growled, but Garulf's hand restrained the orc from unleashing his anger on the smaller vampire.

"Vhat of ze elvesss?" Vrayon asked, ignoring Grishnákh's outrage at the insult.

"Which ones?" Mornië asked ignorantly.

"You know of vhich I ssspeak."

The Supreme Commander of the Remnant sighed, "I know not where the Udunaedos are, but I shall find them, do not worry. I shall find them, and then," he grinned viciously, "They shall die."

In the darkness at the base of the Misty Mountains, a troop of a half dozen orcs scoured for food in the moonlight, searching for small animals to feed them and their kin. Little did they suspect that the hunters were now the prey.

There was a sudden explosion of white powder as two enormous figures clothed in all white burst upward from where they were buried, swords whirling. The orcs shrieked and aimed their bows, but were all struck down quickly and efficiently before they could fire.

The largest attacker bent over one of the orcs and rolled the headless body over onto its back.

"Moria filth," the attacker, Mordae, spat contemptuously.

The other figure, Celebdraug, smiled imperceptibly under her facemask. "Good."

Mordae sheathed his glowing sword and gazed up into the night sky, "We should get to the mountain peak before we pitch camp; we'll be able to see if more of these losers want to play soldier with us."

Celebdraug nodded, "It'll make a good sniper position, too."

Her cousin nodded, "Indeed. Let's bury the bodies."

"Shouldn't we give them a proper burial?" Celebdraug asked.

Mordae shrugged nonchalantly.

Celebdraug kicked the nearest body unceremoniously and spat on it. "There. Let's do this."

A few moments later, the two elves scrambled swiftly and invisibly up the now banks, leaving no trace save scuffed snow that covered the bodies of the newest victims of the Udunaedos.

Mordae and Celebdraug climbed quickly, floating atop the deep snow as if it were solid ground, climbing cliffs with the aid of their daggers, all the while keeping hidden from prying orc eyes.

They reached the peak within an hour, where they unfurled their sleeping packs.

"Damn, it's cold up here," Mordae hissed.

"Quit your whining, hobbit-breath."

"Thanks for the sympathy," he muttered, tightening his blanket around his shoulders.

"Glad to be of service." There was silence for a moment. "How far is Moria?" Celebdraug inquired.

"The gate?" Mordae responded, "Couple hundred leagues. The tunnels probably go for leagues around, but the gate is the only entrance I know."

"Then we'll get some skiing in?" Celebdraug asked brightly.

"I think we might have to force ourselves to," Mordae answered with a smile.

"Darn," Celebdraug complained sarcastically. "Nidanostre."

"Nidanostre."

In the northernmost section of Ithilien forest, Dúnhere, a lieutenant of the Venyarohirrim entrusted with commanding those guarding the south flank of the resting army, rested up against a tree, glancing about lazily. He did not expect anything terribly interesting to happen; the nearest Fellowship encampment was over a hundred leagues away, and the huge Venyarohirrim army that he defended was far more than a match for any attackers.

"Hey, Hama!" Dúnhere called out to the man he had placed in the closest proximity to himself.

There was no response.

"Hama?"

Now a slight rustling sound emanated from the bushes in the general direction of where Dúnhere had left Hama. Dúnhere reached slowly for his sword as he took a tentative step toward the sound, his eyes sweeping back and forth.

"Hama, no games here. Report, now!"

There was an explosion of leaves and twigs as a dark form launched itself from behind Dúnhere, who spun as quickly as he could to face the new threat.

"Report this, infidel," a woman's voice hissed in a tongue Dúnhere had read only in ancient documents back in his village's museum as the form smashed its forearm across his head, hurling him to the ground.

A long, thin, black blade swung artfully up to Dúnhere's neck, resting its tip against his Adam's apple.

The Venyarohirrim lieutenant held up his hands, dropping his sword to the ground beside him in a gesture of surrender.

"The Halda'ohtar take no prisoners."

Dúnhere swallowed at the coldness in his captor's voice.

"Could you make an exception?" he croaked in a weak attempt at humor.

The woman laughed, a sound that was strangely melodious for her harsh actions. "I think not."

The samurai sword swept upward in a massive arc, promising death with the downswing, its dark blade shimmering in the moonlight like water.

Before the Drow could strike, there was another explosion of leaves as an arrow ripped through the branches. Dilotè, the assassin, spun to avoid her demise and caught the bolt in the shoulder, causing her to lose her weapon.

She swore in elvish as she glared into the darkness from whence the arrow had come. Dúnhere took advantage of the distraction, bolting for his sword as the Drow tried to recover.

From the side came yet another ambush; this time it was Dacil who attacked, his sword outstretched toward the Drow maiden.

Dilotè lashed out with her foot, deflecting Dacil's sword away from her as she drew her other sword and hurled it into the blackness before her. A woman's voice cried out as the blade slashed through the brush. Moments later, Athfaë stumbled out from the trees, a long, bleeding gash running across her side.

Dilotè stood in the center of the three Venyarohirrim, the arrow still embedded in her shoulder, glaring into each of their eyes in turn.

"Surrender," Athfaë hissed angrily, lowering her sword until the blade pointed directly at Dilotè's chest.

Dacil and Dúnhere matched Athfaë's maneuver, lowering their weapons at the Drow maiden.

Dilotè smiled a curious, mystical smile as she turned her blade handle toward her captors, the tip pointing directly at her own stomach.

"Ten'lot1," she whispered quietly, raising her sword.

Dacil shot a quick glance at Athfaë, then lunged forward, grabbing the Drow's weapon at the blade, slicing his hand open on the sharp edge, but preventing Dilotè from completing her honor-suicide that was legendary of the Halda'ohtar.

Dilotè hissed and let out a tiny scream of frustration as she tried with all her might to force the blade into herself.

"No!" Athfaë cried, "We will not allow it!"

Dilotè paused in her struggle long enough to spit on Athfaë, who did not even flinch.

"Take her down," she ordered.

"Infidels!" a baritone voice shouted as Turdú dropped form the branches above, his glittering broadsword shining with his rage.

The Venyarohirrim split immediately, allowing Dilotè to launch herself over their heads.

"Go!"Turdú shouted to her.

The Captain did not move.

"Move, now, Captain! Dilotè, that is an order!"

The Drow maiden swept her sword from the ground and bolted off into the trees, leaving Turdú to face the three Venyarohirrim.

"Well, gentlemen, my lady, it has been a pleasure," the Drow said smoothly, "But I really must be off. Good night to thee."

Athfaë lunged forward, intent on not letting another captive escape, but Turdú held up a glowing hand, causing a mist of dark smoke to wreath up from the ground between them.

By the time it had cleared, the only signs that the Drow had been there were the destroyed bushes and Hama's body.

1 For honor