Chapter XXXI: Several Meetings

Turdú gazed blearily out the window of his barracks at the rising moon. He had spent the whole day either moping around in his home or marching angrily up and down the ranks of the drilling troops yelling orders to nobody in particular.

He had yet to catch a glimpse of his captain, but he had heard gossip from the other Drow that something had occurred and that Dilotè had only been seen briefly that morning. He had been attempting to track her for a short time before finally giving up in frustration; she had covered far too well.

But now, as he stepped outside at the time he had appointed for his troops to begin the journey north, he found Dilotè seated on her black mare in her usual place in the front of the assembly.

He saluted and smiled weakly at her as he approached on his stallion; she responded only with a curt salute, and continued to stare straight ahead, as if she could not even see him.

"Captain, thou art fit for duty?"

She nodded tersely.

"No blades in the back while I am not paying attention?" the General asked with another weak smile.

A faint light flickered in her eyes, as if the idea appealed to her, but she shook her head once and resumed her stare.

Turdú looked at his First Lieutenant, Serke'turr, and shrugged. The other Drow shook his head slightly and returned the shrug.

"All right, then," Turdú said resignedly. He turned to the assembled Remnant troops - mostly Drow, but with a good-sized horde of orcs and lychens, with a few vampire reserves – and shouted out.

"Come! We ride north!"

The massive army thundered off behind their General onto a path of death and destruction that would rake its bloodstained trail northward through Isen Meares and into Mirkwood, leaving behind no survivors to tell tales of the horror the townsfolk would face.

"Yer drinks," Butterbur said with a great flair, plopping two ales down on the table at which Mordae and Celebdraug sat, hoods still drawn over their faces, not speaking. The elves nodded, and Mordae slid an amount of currency enough for Butterbur to retire on into the bartender's hand.

The large man raised his eyebrows, but did not question. Mordae pulled him closer.

"This is in advance for any damage we cause."

"Wha' in blazes are ye talkin' about?"

At that moment, the seven men from the back alley burst into the bar, eyes burning with fury.

"Where're the little rats?!" the large man, who stood in front of the group, screamed.

His nose was obviously broken, bent off to one side, and blood was smeared all across his face. The rest of his men looked no better; most were bleeding, a few limped or held limbs at odd angles. All of them had murder clearly written on their faces.

Butterbur scurried behind the bar table. "Who? Ye best be takin' yer men and leavin' here, Greymous."

Greymous, apparently the name of the large gang leader, stormed across the tavern, which now sat in silence, and grabbed Butterbur by his collar, lifting him up and over the counter.

"Ye list'n ter me!" he thundered. "Ye've messed 'round wit' my business fer the las' time!"

"Drop him," a calm alto voice rang out.

Greymous turned slowly, dropping Butterbur onto his haunches. Celebdraug and Mordae stood in the center of the tavern, faces still hidden.

"I thought I'd find ye here," the giant muttered, signaling to his men, who formed a half-circle around the elves.

"Dost thou really wish to fight again?" Mordae asked. "We beat thee soundly in the last bout."

"Ye won't this time."

Before the elf could respond, the door burst open again. Two more cloaked figures, practically identical to Mordae and Celebdraug, stood in the entryway. Both of them held bladed staves in their hand, and they both looked somewhat rattled.

The smallest of the new arrivals looked up at the combatants, shook her head, and pushed through the center of the half-circle.

The hood slipped off as she wormed her way through, revealing a pale, black blood-streaked face and dark tussled hair.

Greymous stepped ominously toward her, but he stopped short as the taller figure whipped one of the blades on his staff around to the giant's neck.

"Look," the girl, Lynza, hissed. "I have no clue vat you foolsss are up to here, but ve all need to get out. Now. Zer isss a masssive Remnant forssse approaching Bree asss ve speak. Zey vill arrive here in lesss zan ten minutesss, ve essstimate."

Panic took hold of the tavern as men rose up, drawing swords and daggers left and right. Greymous took advantage of the delay to push the staff from his neck and leap toward Celebdraug, who kicked the giant in the stomach, knocking him backwards into the other vampire, Draylen, Lynza's captain. Draylen let his staff spin in the direction Greymous had shoved it, then stepped forward, plunging it through the giant's chest. The man let out a gasp, then collapsed on the floor, where Celebdraug finished him with a slice across the throat with her dagger.

Draylen took a slight step forward as Lynza attempted to calm the patrons and held out his fist toward Celebdraug, pulling back his hood with his other hand. He had an angular face, but not too sharp, with black and blonde streaked hair. He winked one of his black eyes at Celebdraug as she punched his fist lightly.

"Pleasssure vorking vith you," he whispered with a charming fanged smile.

Celebdraug smiled as well and began to draw her hood back, but stopped as Mordae's icy glare shot to her.

What? she whined.

Mordae sighed audibly, then turned his stare back to the other six men that surrounded them. One of them feinted forward at the elf, which lashed out with a hidden dagger, slicing the man's chest open.

"Sssit down, all of you!" Lynza screamed.

All in the tavern ceased movement at her command, save the body of the gangster falling atop his leader with a muffled thump.

The vampire girl spun to Draylen and growled a few angry words in their strange language, causing him to roll his eyes and lower his blood-dripping staff. She then turned to the elves.

"Seeing as you two appear to be the only half-sane beings left in this town, I need you to get all of these people out of the city," she hissed in broken and badly pronounced elvish.

"You speak elvish?" Celebdraug asked incredulously.

"No, you just think I do. Now, can you get these people out of here?"

Mordae responded by holding up his hand and using his mind to rip his sword from Butterbur's holding closet, which it punched through with a crash, scattering fragments of the door all across the room. The blade whirled to the elf, then stopped just before him, resting its handle in his hand. Swinging the weapon in a graceful arc, the elf placed the tip on Lynza's throat.

"I don't care how sane you say we are, we will do nothing you tell us to," he growled.

"Mordae!" Celebdraug cried in exasperation. She looked over Lynza's head at Draylen, who, remarkably, had not moved to protect his Commander; he leaned casually against a bar stool, idly running his hand up and down the shaft of his staff.

"No, no, it is quite alright," Lynza dismissed Celebdraug's outburst with a slight wave of her hand. "I would worry if you did not question my loyalties. I assure you that I am not part of the Remnant, and that I would never betray you to them."

"And my blade will assure that you never live to betray another soul again," Mordae snarled.

"Cranky little brat, aren't you?" Draylen murmured to no one in particular.

Celebdraug nodded in agreement and put her hand on the flat of her cousin's blade.

We can trust them. she assured him.

Why? Because you think the smart-mouth in the back is cute?

Yes. And because they wear no Remnant colors or signs anywhere. Mornië insists that all his troops must.

Mordae paused at this, and his blade wavered a bit. His gaze swept back to Lynza.

"And how do you know we are not Mornië's mercenaries?"

"Because everyone knows you aren't. No High-Elf would ever lower itself to be in that scumbag's service." The vampire spat convincingly at the thought of being a Remnant soldier.

Mordae raised his eyebrows and lowered his sword.

"Swear that you are not one of Mornië's rats."

Lynza raised her hand and ran it along the blade of her staff, causing a black mist to flow from the laceration.

"I swear by the blood of the vampires and by the Moon itself that I would die before serving the traitor Vrayon and his master, Mornië."

Behind her, Draylen slit his own palm, waving it in intricate patterns and watching in mock fascination at the designs the mist made in the air.

Mordae glanced at Celebdraug, who nodded.

Quite convincing, she offered.

By blood and the moon, pretty sacred for a vampire, Mordae added.

With a flick of his wrist, Mordae sliced the edge of his blade across his own palm, releasing a thin stream of white blood.

"I accept your promise, and I swear to defend your cause to whatever result, as I would a friend."

Celebdraug followed suit.

"There," she said, pulling her hood back, "Now we can all put our swords away and get along, right?"

Mordae slowly sheathed his sword. "Man, I was hoping to get to kill somebody."

Draylen gestured toward the body of the two gangsters on the floor.

"Yeah, but he died too easily," the elf whined. "And you killed him," he added, pointing at the giant.

"True, true," Draylen acknowledged.

"Look, if you want to kill somebody," Lynza sighed, her gaze sweeping around the half-full tavern, "Kill one of these idiots so we can all get out of here before the Remnant wastes us."

Mordae perked up immediately, raising his hand toward the roof. There was a thunderous crack, and a bolt of light blasted a huge hole in the roof of the tavern.

"Get out!" the elf thundered.

Nobody argued. The tavern was emptied within a minute, the patrons racing through Bree, crying out the alarm to all the townsfolk.

Butterbur lingered at the doorway, staring melancholically into the tavern. Celebdraug moved quietly to his side and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Worry not. Thou shall return to thy town, safe and sound, I promise."

The bartender smiled. "If ye say so, Celey."

"Thou would best be leaving, if thou wants to survive," Mordae suggested.

Butterbur took a deep breath, turned, and marched away from the tavern, head held high.

Mordae smiled, strode back to the table the elves had been seated at, and picked up one of the tankards that sat upon it. He took a large swig of the drink, reveling in the taste. When he saw Lynza staring at him, he shrugged innocently.

"Hey, I paid for it."

Celebdraug smiled stepped around the vampire woman

and began speaking to Draylen.

"There is no way that the villagers can fight off this wave?" the elf asked in the Common Tongue, sensing that elvish was obviously a difficult language for the vampires to speak.

"No," Draylen answered. "Their troops are terribly trained; the Remnant have just been toying with them until now. This is the crushing blow." He spoke in a language that was part Common Tongue, part Numenorian, and part Sindarin Elvish known as Endea. It had been used during the transition in the time when the balance of power was shifting from the Northwest Numenor to the Southeast Gondor.

"You still speak Endea?" Celebdraug asked incredulously.

"You still speak Quenya?" Draylen countered.

"Good point."

"Hey, we've already found another thing we have in common! We both speak dead languages!" Draylen announced joyfully.

Celebdraug smiled, absently fingering a part of her cloak.

Mordae coughed with extreme un-subtlety, rolled his eyes, then, turned to Lynza.

"We need to get north. Can we get through the Remnant forces?"

Lynza laughed. "I think you can get through anything you wish. But with our help, definitely."

Draylen glanced up suddenly. "Hey, they can stay with us! You know, re-supply before they go and do..." he paused and looked slightly confused. "Whatever they're doing."

Lynza nodded slowly, as if pondering a great quandary.

"Yes," she said finally. "You may stay with us. But we need to move, before your wish to kill somebody becomes far more true than you wanted."