Chapter XLI: Preparations
"Where are the Udunaedos!?" the massive orc thundered again in Glorfindel's ear.
"Thy mother was a filthy hobbit."
Most special operations soldiers had been trained to respond with just their name, rank, and allegiance, but Glorfindel found it much easier to just respond with an insult. He figured that if they were going to torture him, he might as well not make it much fun for them.
The elf had decided nearly an hour ago that he could no longer feel where it hurt. It seemed as though every nerve in his body was screaming in pain at him. But he focused on Niphredil, thoughts of Lorien, and better days of old.
The orc leaned menacingly over Glorfindel's face, his rancid breath causing the elf to hold his breath.
"You do realize, elf, that I will feel no regret in killing you if you do not tell us what we want?"
"Thou dost realize, orc, that thy breath could slay a Nazgul? Thou should give up this rack device and simply breath on thy prisoners."
A giant, corpse-like fist slammed into Glorfindel's gut, causing him to attempt to double over, which only strained his already over-extended limbs.
"Cease," a smooth baritone voice rang melodiously through the torture chamber.
The torturer took two steps back and stood at attention beside the rack.
A black-cloaked figure swept gracefully to Glorfindel's side. The hood was removed with great poise, revealing the purple-tinted skin of a Drow. Glorfindel's shining blue eyes searched the unmistakable face. The red eyes, blue flame tattoos crossing his face and the top of his head, and generally condescending demeanor could only belong to one man.
"Mornië," Glorfindel grunted. "Pleasure making your acquaintance. You know, I must say that your torture services are below average for a power-hungry psycho-bastard. In most cases that I have encountered..."
The elf screamed and arched his back as every pain receptor in his body did fire all at once, ordered to do so by the Drow's incredible mind powers.
He fell back heavily against the table as the pain ceased as suddenly as it had come on, sweat dripping from his forehead.
"It is a pleasure making thy acquaintance as well, Glorfindel. I must say that thou art the epitome of why I should rule Middle Earth. To cleanse it of fools like thee."
"Oh, that was actually pretty good. Speak Elvish, you moron."
Again, pain shot through Glorfindel's body.
Mornië smiled viciously. "Let us begin, shall we?"
Mordae powered onward, his feet moving in a silent rhythm over the leaf-laden forest floor as he raced the bat flying above him. As far as he could tell, Lynza had no idea he was below her, only a few meters to the vampire's left.
The ground below the elf suddenly began to shift downward, allowing Mordae to accelerate, charging ahead and passing the flying bat.
He hoped to arrive in Lvrast before Lynza did, so he could set up a good sniper position for Celebdraug, Draylen, and himself. He carried his dragon heartstring bow and a full quiver of the elves' special silent arrows, perfect for sniping and stealth missions such as these.
The elf leaped over a low lying log, hit the ground, rolled, and came up sprinting again, readjusting the bow, which he had knocked slightly askew. He prayed that Lynza was taking the most direct route; seeing as she could fly over whatever obstacles lay on the ground, and that he could simply follow the path she was flying on to arrive at the abandoned Remnant barracks.
Mordae swore as he skidded to a stop at the bank of a small river. Buckleberry, where the hobbits had long ago crossed over to escape the Nazgul; a savior to them, but a hindrance to the elf.
Granted, it was not exceptionally wide, but Mordae knew there was no way he could leap it. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder where he knew Lynza was approaching from.
Abandoning all reason, Mordae executed the first iota of a plan that appeared in his adrenaline-clouded mind. Securing his bow and sealing the canvas lid on the quiver of stealth arrows, Mordae dove into the meandering current, and in a matter of moments, his long, powerful strokes carried him to the other shore, where he stumbled to his feet and continued his journey.
Draylen burst through the door separating his quarters form that which he shared with the elves, and immediately regretted it. A pillow whipped through the air, slamming into the wall beside his head. Celebdraug stood aggressively, an angry look on her face, wearing her chain mail and light clothing, but not her outer tunic.
"Didn't your mother ever teach you to knock?" the elf growled.
Draylen, who had backed up behind the door to give Celebdraug the privacy she wanted – and to avoid getting his head caved in by a flying pillow projectile – shrugged.
"You're wearing clothes, for crying out loud," the vampire whined.
A moment later, Celebdraug stuck her head around the corner of the door, her black tunic, pants, and, of course, cape, in their proper places on her body.
"But what if I wasn't?"
"But you were!" Draylen protested incredulously.
"Forget it," Celebdraug muttered, backing away from the door.
"Blood of the ancestors," Draylen muttered under his breath. "Somebody has issues."
Celebdraug spun her head, the elf's flaming red eyes boring into Draylen's face.
"My issues are my own personal business."
Draylen raised his hands in surrender, making a mental note to question Mordae about Celebdraug's obvious discontent.
There was a long, uncomfortable moment of silence, and then Celebdraug nodded to the weapon Draylen had mounted on his back.
"What in Illúvatar's name is that?"
The vampire whipped the contraption expertly from his back, pointing it downward at the wooden floor.
"Vrylna."
"Vrwhat?"
"Vrylna," Draylen repeated, holding it up slightly.
"Why does...vampirish...sound like you just took as many consonants as you could and smashed them all together?" Celebdraug asked, banging her head slightly with the pillow she had picked up from the ground.
"Because we did," Draylen offered tentatively. He hoped humor would disarm whatever accidental sores he had tread upon. "To make it inconvenient for elves. Too many vowels in Quenya, if you ask me."
Celebdraug smiled slightly, and Draylen unconsciously exhaled.
The vampire took a step toward Celebdraug, holding the vrylna out to her to examine. He also figured that the elf's love of weaponry would take her mind off of whatever it was her mind was on.
"It's a combination between the elvish longbow, the orcish crossbow, and a human saw blade," Draylen explained. He dropped his hand down to his side and plucked a string of three silver disks from a vast gauntlet of ammunition on his belt. The disks were approximately ten centimeters across, edged, and curved into a sort of s-shaped circle.
"You place the trio of disks, the lizcan, onto the string..." the vampire took the vrylna back from Celebdraug and put his words to action, hooking the small clasps on the back of the lizcan onto the bowstring, which was about three-quarters of a meter long and held horizontally over a piece of intricately carved wood running across Draylen's left arm where he held it.
"Turn it like a longbow..." the vampire flipped the weapon ninety degrees, aiming it rather like the elvish longbows that Mordae and Celebdraug used at a knot in a tree twenty meters out the window.
Draylen reached his right hand up to a small slide attached to the bowstring and running the entire length down his left arm.
"And let her rip." Draylen jerked hard on the slide, snapping it back toward his shoulder. The slide caused the bowstring – which Celebdraug now perceived was much longer and entwined in the three gears that marked the top, bottom, and middle of the weapon – to wind, tighten, and then release with a surprising amount of force.
The three disks sailed off the end of the vrylna, separated into a triangle with a quarter-meter between them, and slammed into the knothole, slicing three thin cuts in the tree.
Celebdraug nodded, impressed.
"Not much power compared to a longbow. Doesn't have the same accuracy, either," the elf noted. "Still impressive."
"It's not made for sniping," Draylen countered. In one fluid motion, his hand dropped to his side, loaded another lizcan, rotated, and fired the vrylna again, this time high into the night sky.
"It was designed for launching into oncoming airborne hordes, which we have to fight against quite often. Power isn't really necessary when you're trying to cut through bats," Draylen offered.
"True, true."
The vampire gestured out to the three shining disks, which maintained their flight for quite some time.
"If you get twenty vampires all launching into swarms, the disks sail around, ricochet off one another, and generally just rip incoming hordes to shreds."
Celebdraug nodded sagely. "Ingenious. And I suppose you designed these?"
Draylen nodded modestly. "I was on the team of designers, yes." He slung the weapon expertly onto his back. "Now, as I demonstrated, it can be used to fire into ground targets, but as you pointed out, it isn't very accurate. The distance between the disks widens at a one to ten meter ratio. The farther the shot, the larger the spread. Efficient for hordes, but not single targets."
"Bring it anyway," Celebdraug suggested, slinging her longbow and sheathing her broadsword.
"I plan to. Better to carry a heavier load than be carried back as ashes. Or in your case, a body."
"Well put," Celebdraug said sarcastically with a smile. "Are you ready?"
"I was born ready," Draylen announced dramatically, striking a heroic yet ridiculous pose.
Celebdraug shook her head sadly. "I'm going to throw up."
Dilotè glanced up sharply from the mat where she sat cross-legged in her tent as she heard a noise and detected an intruder.
A torch poked through the canvas entrance, waving erratically.
"Flaming!" a male voice cried, a ridiculous growling sound.
The Halda'ohtar shook her head slightly. "Come."
Turdú's smiling head followed the torch.
"Am I welcome here?" he asked, the amused tone not yet faded from his voice.
"Of course," Dilotè sounded slightly incredulous.
Turdú raised his eyebrows, but extinguished his torch and entered. The Drow glanced back and forth, listened intently to the outside noise of the other Drow troops, then knelt beside Dilotè.
"Listen," he murmured, "I want to explain what happened the other night."
"There is no need to explain," Dilotè replied in the Common Tongue. "Thou art a soldier, blindly following orders, just as I."
"But that's just it," Turdú insisted. "You don't just blindly follow orders. You make a stand for what you believe in, how you were raised. I admire that."
Dilotè smiled half-heartedly and gazed in near astonishment at her commander.
"I slashed your flag," she said disbelievingly. "I ignored you for the last three days. Yet, you still don't get it through your thick little skull."
Turdú opened his mouth in teasing shock.
"Was that an insult?"
Dilotè grinned viciously at him.
"I suppose it was."
The Drow General smiled.
"Good, we're getting somewhere. Insult is a step above ignoring me."
Dilotè shrugged in agreement.
"I've decided something," Turdú continued. His voice was hushed and slightly strained, causing Dilotè to listen more intently to what he had to say.
"There is no way that I'm going to let Mornië use you like that. Of course, I can't exactly stop the man; he's a slight bit more powerful than I."
Dilotè smiled faintly and nodded, enjoying what she was hearing.
"However, he's not powerful enough for me to let him kill you when he's done with you. I need you. You're far too good of a soldier and too good of a person for me to lose you because of his stupidity."
"Treason," Dilotè whispered with a faint giggle.
Turdú shrugged. "So you'll help me. And then, once I think Mornië is getting close to being through with you, I'll get you out of here, back to your people. I don't care how many elites you need to penetrate Remnant lines or how many worthless orcs you have to kill; you're not going to die to a murderous scumbag."
Dilotè was shocked. "Have you lost your faith in the Cause?"
"Of course not. The Drow are destined to rule the world. Mornië is destined to lead us to that greatness. Whether he is destined to continue to lead us after we have acquired that power..." Turdú trailed off. "The man is a genius. But he is not worthy to rule a people. Command hordes, yes. But rule, never."
The General stopped as he heard approaching soldiers.
"For now," he added hurriedly, "Do you trust me?"
Dilotè paused, considering Turdú's plea. The Drow seemed genuine enough. He obviously cared about her.
She nodded, including, "But there's no chance between us, right?" The woman referred to the remote instance of a slightly romantic possibility.
Turdú inhaled through clenched teeth and raised his eyebrows. "I suppose not." He offered her a large grin.
"Hail!" a deep voice called from outside the tent.
"Hail!" Turdú responded, rising to his feet.
A black-cloaked elite reconnaissance soldier entered, saluting first the General, and then the Captain.
"My lords," the soldier barked in his deep voice, "The battle has begun. It looks to be as though they will do a fine job of tearing one another apart. We can approach from our position, westward, and strike them in the center. The marshlands make for rough travel, but if they navigated them, so can we."
"Agreed, sergeant. I will make ready the troops. How long until thou sayest that we should attack?"
The sergeant paused, taken slightly aback at the though of him making such a monumental decision. He cleared his throat to cover after a moment.
"Three hours, sir, and they will be nearing the most intense fighting of the battle. They will have fully merged forces by then."
"Three hours it is, then," Turdú agreed. "Thank thee, sergeant. Dismissed."
The reconnaissance agent saluted, spun on his heel, and sauntered off into the camp to enjoy a brief respite from his duties.
Turdú glanced over his shoulder at Dilotè, who had begun to grin at the prospect of the excellently planned ambush that would soon occur.
The General smiled menacingly. "It's time to show the infidels who is really in charge."
