It was always there. Constant, unrelenting, like a jagged wound across his mind. The energy blasts had left him feeling sick and dizzy, and the Dart half-formed out of panic and fear had felt as if he were tearing the wound open with excruciating slowness. Ryllaen trudged behind the Polaran, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the edge of the flapping cloak. He fought the pain, only partly successful in keeping it at bay, just as he fought the compulsion to form a Dart and leave the planet now, returning with the Polaran to Bureau Headquarters. In this at least he was triumphant: to attempt such a thing while his mind had not yet recovered from being dragged crossways through hyperspace would be tantamount to suicide, and he was forbidden that final release.
There had been times when he had tried it, times when he had been deliberately reckless. After that first mission, with the smell of blood and blackmail in the air, the bitter taste of treachery in his mouth and the blank, accusing faces a memory carved into his mind as if into imperishable stone; after that he had thrown himself into every battle. He had attacked every pirate and marauder with wild fury, earning a name for himself as a fierce protector of the small independent traders amongst whom's number he had once counted himself. But he had always stepped away from that final move, from leaving the vulnerable opening that would have seen him tumbling endlessly through space, a burnt, lifeless shell.
Nil'Tanar stopped abruptly and Ryllaen ran into his back. The collision brought the telepath out of his brooding; he looked around curiously. What is it? he asked, ignoring the furious glare of the other.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Nil'Tanar turned his gaze back to their surroundings. Night approaches. We should find shelter.
The sun was low behind their backs, setting the hills into patterns of light and shadow. They had walked for most of the day, yet still seemed no closer to the dark haze they knew to be Mirkwood. For space-faring pilots who were used to traversing the wide empty distances between systems, the lack of progress was frustrating.
Ryllaen shrugged; this hill seemed to him the same as any other. If you know a good place to go, be my guest.
The Polaran growled, stung by his sardonic tone. If you prefer to sleep in the open, in clear view of every wild animal that might feel a little hungry, be my guest.
He shrugged again, but followed Nil'Tanar to a stand of boulders that thankfully rested beside a small spring. Ryllaen sat down carefully. He would not admit it, but he had been almost ready to collapse. He was tired; the pain in his head was growing.
I don't suppose you have any food? he asked.
Nil'Tanar only looked disgusted. You were the one in such a hurry to leave, he pointed out. I don't even have a knife, since you led us straight into that spiders' nest. Be thankful I found us some water.
Speaking of which- Ryllaen sighed and leaned back against the boulder. Did you lose your blaster?
Carry an energy weapon on a Manta? Nil'Tanar looked shocked at the very idea. Our ships are not the senseless hulks of metal to be found in your Federation, Vell-os. And we have better training than to rely on such clumsy weapons.
No doubt, Ryllaen replied, too tired to find an appropriately sarcastic response. Water. It will keep us alive for a few days, I suppose. After that, not even a starving cunjo will want to gnaw on our bones.
Eyes narrowed, Nil'Tanar twisted his head around and stared at him. That is an Auroran creature, he said softly. What does a Vell-os know about cunjos?
Ryllaen met his suspicious gaze without expression, mentally cursing the slip. I could ask you the same, Polaran.
The barbarians press our borders more than the Federation does. We of the Nil'kemorya have come to understand what holds significance in their culture, even rare and obscure predators. What does a Vell-os in service to the Federation military know about Aurorans?
I've travelled. Ryllaen looked away, expression cold, and would not explain further, though Nil'Tanar's gaze did not leave him for a long time.
Night came and the telepath fell into a deep sleep, but Nil'Tanar caught little rest. The howling of wolves rent the air, not so distant as he would have liked, and as his eyes strained to pierce the darkness, he fancied he saw the moving flicker of torches on a far hill.
Nil'Tanar looked at the long shadows, then at Ryllaen. He was worried. Walking for days with no food and very little water had taken a toll on them both, and they were no closer to finding the end of these hills. The Vell-os stumbled as he walked, eyes glazed with exhaustion and a pain that Nil'Tanar could not fathom. He himself was rapidly becoming weaker, though he had training and greater natural endurance. Yet he was unwilling to stop when the sun eased below the line of the hills. Eyes had been watching them the last night, and he could not shake the feeling that they were being followed. There was no complaint from Ryllaen when Nil'Tanar kept walking. The young warrior frowned unconsciously, his unease deepening. If the Vell-os felt something...
Ryllaen stopped suddenly and swung around to face the way they had come; he looked more alert and wary than he had in days. Standing beside him, Nil'Tanar was silent. A moment later he heard the faint crunch of stone beneath boots. Glancing at the Vell-os, Nil'Tanar knew from his expression that whatever occupied those boots was not friendly.
I hope you have a plan for this, Ryllaen said quietly.
Nil'Tanar shook his head, glad that the night sky was clear and a bright moon shone, though he would have wished for more than one. I'll take the orcs if you can handle the dogs.
The Vell-os flashed a humourless smile. To save my life, certainly.
They were surrounded; Nil'Tanar heard the evidence an instant after Ryllaen sensed the malevolent thoughts rising up like a choking wave. Standing back to back, they waited. Nil'Tanar crouched into combat stance, his bare hands as much a weapon as his knives had been, and Ryllaen stood tall, feet apart, arms straight down at his sides, eyes distant as he gathered the strength to weave in the coming fight.
The company travelled swiftly and silently, heading arrow-straight to the point where Galind had seen the Men fall. A small band of Wood-elves clumped around their prince and the Rivendell Elves, while the remainder ranged out as scouts. Glorfindel and Elrohir watched them with interest; neither had dealt much with Mirkwood, and then only with the royal family. Their Silvan kin were an enigma, for they kept to themselves and prefered to remain unseen, even while their king entertained guests.
Elrohir cried out and spurred his horse forward a few paces, even as the forward scouts came running back. Fire! Fire in the hills!
The company gazed west. Flashes of light lit up the sky and patches of land, as if lightning struck up from the ground. It was at such a distance that the Elves could not see the source, though they strained their senses to the utmost.
It is the Men we seek, Legolas concluded. They must be set upon by some band of orcs.
The dark-haired son of Elrond's eyes glinted at the mention of the creatures. Then we must go to their aid.
Legoals and Glorfindel exchanged glances; they knew that look too well, having seen it often in their twin friends wherever orcs were about. We will go ahead, Glorfindel said at last. Our steeds will carry us faster.
We will follow, Legolas replied, nodding.
The Rivendell Elves spurred their horses on and were soon lost in the night, leaving the Wood-elves to run as swiftly as their feet could carry them.
The two Elves scanned the ground carefully. There were many tracks, both orc and wolf, and a few that belonged to neither. A great fight had been fought and blood left its stain on charred ground, yet no bodies could be seen. The orcs had carried off their own dead.
They continued north, Elrohir said after a while.
Glorfindel turned to gaze in that direction. He was not so skilled a tracker, and it took him a moment longer to find the signs amid the confusion. Why north? It seems that they were heading east, back to Mirkwood.
Elrohir shrugged and returned to his horse. I think they had little choice in the matter. They were hard pressed in the night.
We must hurry. The golden-haired Elflord scanned the battlefield one last time. The orcs will be upon them again tonight.
The tracks were easy to follow, daubed with disturbing amounts of blood, and they knew that at least one of the Men was gravely injured. It did not take them long to catch up; spotting them in the distance several hours before sunset, they rode hard the rest of the way. Both Men turned at the sound of hooves pounding behind them, wary and watchful but too exhausted to run. The grey-cloaked warrior clutched a dark orcblade in one hand, lowered but ready to be used in an instant. The long-haired wizard simply stared at them, eyes growing wider as they neared. With a strangled cry he turned and ran, limping heavily.
Glorfindel cried.
He was greatly surprised when the Man obeyed. The Man turned, unwillingly it seemed, and Glorfindel saw that he was wholly terrified.
I do not desire to harm you, Glorfindel said, voice low, soothing. Come, you have wounds and will not last the night against orcs. Do not be afraid. He brought Asfaloth to a halt a few paces from the grey-cloaked warrior.
The long-haired Man shook his head wearily. You ask the impossible, he said at last, a tremor in his voice, and resignation also.
But he suffered the Elves to approach, and flinched only once when Glorfindel tended his wounds.