Chapter XX: The Board is Set

A few hours later, atop a mountain peak in the Misty Mountains where they slept, Celebdraug and Mordae sat up at the same instant.

"Did you hear that?" Mordae whispered.

"Yeah. Orcses," Celebdraug replied, reaching for her bow.

Mordae rolled out of his pack, grabbing his bow as he did so, and knelt on a rock, peering out into the mountain range. Celebdraug hopped lightly up beside him, and began scanning as well. Suddenly, she pointed. "There."

He raised his bow and followed her arm to a cluster of two-dozen orcs stumbling down a nearby mountainside a few leagues north. The orcs were at a much lower elevation than the elves, which gave the two an even greater advantage in their shooting.

"Namarie," Celebdraug whispered.

There was a whistling sound like that of a banshee that echoed all throughout the mountains, gradually growing to a drone reminiscent of a swarm of bees.

It ended with two distinct cracks as two orcs fell, long arrows protruding from their foreheads. Their companions, rattled by the noises and shocked by the death of their comrades, paused. With another crack, two more orcs fell. With much shrieking, the remaining score began to scatter for cover amongst the boulders jutting out of the snow, four more falling before they could hide.

"Damn," Celebdraug hissed as the final orc disappeared from view, "Come on."

"Shoot head level to the left of that boulder," Mordae ordered, pointing to one of the rocks. "On my mark. Ready...Mark!"

Two arrows hissed from the peak, Mordae's lodging itself in the leg of an orc that was only partially hidden, causing it to leap back and take Celebdraug's bolt in side of its head.

"Oooh, very tricky," Celebdraug murmured, drawing another arrow, "That counts as my kill, you know."

"Does not."

"My shot killed it. My kill," Celebdraug said with a smile, her elven eyes shining.

"Dirtbag."

There were a few moments of standstill as the elves waited for another opportunity, then, the orcs did the most foolhardy thing possible; an all out charge.

"Hold your fire!" Celebdraug commanded emphatically as Mordae raised his bow.

He released his arrow, sending another orc crashing into the snow, and turned, "Hm?"

Celebdraug shook her head in resignation, "Come on. It'll be a lot more fun if we take these guys out the old fashioned way."

The elves were soon strapped to the skis they had created, a pole with a knife strapped to the end in each hand.

"Race you," Mordae said, throwing a snowball into Celebdraug's face and dropping in from the rock, sending him rocketing down the face of the mountain.

Celebdraug shrieked and followed blindly, flailing her hands across her face to remove the snow.

The orcs slowed their charge in bewilderment several hundred meters up the mountainside at the sight of the two figures screaming toward them. Before they could split and hide again, however, the elves blasted through the center of the group, poles hissing through the air.

Mordae bunny hopped off the ground and glanced one of his skis off the neck of an orc, snapping the creature's neck with a satisfying crack. As he continued down the slope, Celebdraug skidded to a stop in the center of the shrieking orcs, knocking one of them down as she slid.

She struck out left and right, feeling her poles whip through armor and flesh as arrows began to rain down, fired by Mordae several meters below.

As the last orc fell, Mordae turned and swept down the remaining hundred meters of mountainside, stopping at the bottom. Celebdraug joined him a few moments later.

"I win," he said happily.

"Pherrinah1."

"You're just jealous," Mordae scoffed as he removed his skis and began hiking up the next mountain.

Celebdraug rolled her eyes and glanced up the mountainside they had just come from at the pile of orc bodies.

"Us, thirty. Orcses, nothing."

As morning broke, bathing the forest of Lorien in its golden warmth, the normal serenity was broken by the thunder of thousands of horses riding from the south.

The lead rider in the lead bore a white flag of peace, but it was unnecessary. The elves of Lothlorien had detected their coming hours previous and had already determined that the army was friendly.

Thus, as the Venyarohirrim entered the outskirts of the tree city of Lorien, they were not greeted by a show of force, but by a small group of the peoples' leaders, Aragorn and Gandalf at the head.

Athfaë, Dacil, and Elfwine, the riders in the front of the Venyarohirrim group dismounted and knelt before the small assembly.

Athfaë spoke, face still bowed to the ground.

"My lords, we come as but humble servants begging your assistance. I am Athfaë Qualmë, leader of the army of Isen Meares, the Venyarohirrim. Our people are besieged by on all fronts by the Fellowship and the Remnant. Without your help, we shall surely fall."

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, leader of the Dunedain and rightful heir to the throne of Gondor. You come seeking aid? What have you to offer?"

"My forces number 150,000," Athfaë answered, "All of them well-trained cavalrymen."

"As well as the armies, I, Dacil Rom, currently command inside Belg..." he paused, "Gondor. I hold the rank of Second in Command inside the Fellowship. I have convinced my superiors, including your son, that I am working as a double agent for them, when I am in fact not. Therefore, I can give us information and give them lies, and they will not know it."

Aragorn nodded. "And you?" he asked, gesturing to Elfwine.

"I act as an advisor to my daughter, as I should."

"Very well. You may make you camp in our forest while we discuss further plans and alliances, but here this! If one tree or pool is harmed by your men, your lives are forfeit."

"Yes, my lord," Athfaë responded with a small nod.

Gandalf spoke for the first time since the group had arrived, "I sense a fear amongst you. You had an encounter with a kind greater than yourselves, did you not?"

"Yes sir," Dacil answered, "We were attacked by what I believe to be two Drow last night. We caught the name of one of them. Dilotè, I believe, sir. She tried to kill herself when we caught her, but she got away."

Gandalf exhaled slowly, "Come, we must talk. Time grows short."

"Stinking horse-lovers," Dilotè growled as Turdú sat her down on her bed inside her tent in the Remnant's Isen Meares camp.

"Speak common tongue. There are too many ears around right now," Turdú answered as he drew his knife and pulled out his canteen.

"What art thou doing?" Dilotè asked as he knelt beside the bed.

"What does it look like? I am going to get this filthy dart from thy shoulder."

"I can do it myself, sir."

"Just keep thy mouth shut," Turdú ordered, "We were not supposed to be out there by ourselves."

"But thou told me..."

Turdú slid his knife blade alongside the head of the arrow and pulled up, popping it free from Dilotè's shoulder.

The Halda'ohtar warrior hissed, and chanted softly to herself, "The Halda'ohtar does not feel pain."

"Must you always hide behind this warrior mask of thine?" Turdú asked in frustration, "Pain is a force we must all fight; to deny it is ignorance."
Dilotè sighed and sat in silence for a moment before she spoke. "Are thou still angry with me for what I was going to do?"

"An honor killing?! What kind of idiot taught thee that? Thou art far too valuable for you to kill thyself just so that thou are not captured, Dilotè. I want thee to promise me that thou will never do that again."

"Why?" Dilotè asked with a mischievous grin as Turdú washed and bandaged her shoulder, "Would it upset thee if I was gone?"

Turdú glared up at her and spun his knife in his free hand in a mock gesture of anger. "Go to sleep, Captain. Make sure you keep that wound covered. I do not want to be relieved of command because my Captain is too slow to dodge arrows."

"There were four of them!" Dilotè began to protest.

Turdú grinned, sheathed his knife, and strode from the tent. "Nidanostre, Dilotè."

The Remnant captain shook her head slowly as she watched the General walk away, "Nidanostre...Turdú."

1 Hobbit