Chapter Twelve

Night
Foothills of the Ephel Dúath

When Russ had told Celebsul that he was cold, that wasn't entirely accurate. He was, in fact, freezing. He had been over exerting himself on the long run from his farm to the now collapsed cave sustained only by his anger and his fear for Nik. All day long he had been sleeping and had not eaten a single thing since the morning of previous day. The truth was that he ate very little during the winter months and because of this his body had precious little fuel to burn. Even short periods of strenuous activity took a heavy toll upon him physically and the run had been anything but short. Still, with the exercise and his covering of fur, he had been warm enough. Now however, things had changed. His fur was gone. The activity that had kept him warm had ceased and his body had little enough of a reserve to begin with. Now it was all but spent. Slowly at first, but with ever increasing frequency and intensity, he began to shiver and shake. Soon it would become uncontrollable and then he would be faced with a disastrous choice: resume his bear form and risk the rage that was sure to come with it, or stay as he was and remain in control, but at the risk, and quite possibly loss of, his life. In short, Russ was beginning to freeze to death.

Russ looked around while he vigorously rubbed his limbs. Steam had stopped coming from his body and he began to feel pain in his toes and feet. Snowflakes no longer melted at the first touch upon his body and ice clung in thin streaks to his hair and beard. Where were the orcs? He needed them now, more than any of these others. They had said that they would bring "summat" back for him to wear. Russ didn't have any illusions that they would have clothing available to fit him. But even if he could bury himself under a pile of jerkins and breeches, it would help. Some. What he was really hoping for were blankets. Enough of them and he could wrap himself up well enough to make it through the night. The smell of smoke came drifting back to him through the woods. Someone had started a fire.

"And about time too!" he muttered. Slapping his hands against his arms, Russ trotted back toward the cave, or what had been the cave.

xxxxxx

Aerio had kindled a fire at his master's request, to which people ventured from time to time to warm one side or another of their bodies. The snow continued to fall, white flakes winking out of existence above the fire; the hands and feet of the timber gatherers swiftly grew chilled despite their labors.

Russ emerged from the woods and approached the fire. Not far from where he stood lay a man, bundled silently in blankets and saddle blankets, his moustache like a smudge of soot against the waxen pallor of his face. Russ recognized him as the one who had drawn a sword against him.

"What a mistake that had been." Russ thought. "Bet it's one he doesn't make twice."

As soon as he had the thought he knew it was the truth. One look at the fellow and Russ knew that he was unlikely to make that or any other mistake ever again. And with this realization, the Beorning felt a sudden queasiness rise within him. He had killed many times. It had been war and killing and death were war's business. But this time it was different, this time his victim was a man. A sudden violent shiver seized Russ. He waited for it to pass, hoping that none would notice. None did. Then he moved quickly to the fire.

xxxxxx

After Russ took up his station beside the fire, fewer of Darien's men ventured near. Even when he crouched to be near the heat, his massive nine-foot frame loomed fantastic in the flicker of shadow and firelight, and those who cast sideways glances wished for the courage to ask the questions churning in their minds. However, nothing in the Beorning's stony demeanor encouraged familiarity and so their curiosity remained unquenched.

Only somewhat less intimidating was the one-armed man, Anardil, who sat in shadows back from the fire, points of flame glinting in his eyes the few times he chose to look at any of Darien's men. Though the two Rangers stayed close to him, Darien and his men soon realized it was the elf Celebsul who held whatever invisible leash controlled him. And the small hairs stood straight up when any passed near the elf Aerio, who watched them with the unblinking, pitiless eyes of a big cat. The woman now trapped with their comrades was Anardil's, they learned, and Aerio would have been her guard, had she not left in haste. Were it not for the need of manpower once the orcs returned with tools, Darien realized he and possibly others might be dead by now.

No matter, Darien thought dully. Every last thing that had gone wrong this past day was his doing. If the woman died for his near-sightedness it would be little less than murder. His will to survive would last no longer than the time it would take to open the cave and then sue for the pardon of his innocent men. Grady they could have along with himself. That would be the last act he would take as leader. He stared at his hands in the dark and thought of all that had slipped through them, friends and their families, his family. Their mission was in ashes as their homes had been. He should have fallen in battle and not lived to see all that followed. He had erred badly in this vain attempt to justify his existence. Now they waited on the enemy to bring them a chance to undo what they had wrought.

"Will they come back?" he asked, looking into the snowy wood whence the orcs had vanished. With nothing but bare hands, there could be no digging, no rescue, and no hope.

The Ranger Elros simply looked at him. "They will."

Darien nodded and spoke no more. He accepted that madness had become rational. Here he stood with elves, a shape-changer and a talking warg, waiting for orcs to bring tools to save buried men. If trees spoke or stones grew legs, he was long past the capacity to question. Indeed, if he were to lapse into insanity, he doubted he would notice the change. Except, maybe it would be a relief.

xxxxxx

Russ knelt as close to the flames as he could and let his body soak up the fire's life saving heat, or at least as much of it as was possible. To his gratification the one-armed man, Anardil, sitting wrapped in a cloak further back from the fire did not seem inclined towards idle chatter. Russ found a small stack of wood piled near the fire. He added several additional pieces and waited for the flames to rise up. Across from him the wounded man stirred and, seeing Russ crouched next to the fire, groaned and tried to draw away from him. Right at that moment the only thing Russ wanted to do was get up and leave. But he knew he could not. Even this close to the fire he was still too cold. He dared not move away.

"Lie still, I'm not going to hurt you." Russ said to the man, not meeting his eyes. "Save your strength, you'll need it."

The man looked at Russ' huddled posture near the flames and his fear left him. As big as he was, the huge man was himself in a bad way. He grunted.

"For what?" the man replied, his words coming slowly, as if he were half asleep.

"We both know I won't see another sunrise."

Russ nodded. "Perhaps. Probably."

"You're a real comfort," the man said. Russ ignored the sarcasm. "What kind of creature are you?"

At last Russ looked at him. "A Beorning, one of the children of Beorn," he said, his voice flat and expressionless.

The man shook his head. "Never heard of him. Where are you from?"

"The west of Mirkwood, near the Anduin." Russ answered.

He didn't like this. The man's tone had relaxed, turned nearly casual. Sarcasm Russ could deal with, even anger or hatred. He expected it. But this? As he watched the man's eyes narrowed in contemplation.

"You got a name?" the man asked.

"Russ."

"Mine's Oren. Nice ta meet 'cha," Oren said, then gave a short, harsh laugh that dissolved into a fit of coughing.

Russ said nothing'If only this damned snow would stop.'

"What?" Oren went on, a glint that might have been irony in his eyes. "You don't think that's funny?"

"No."

"Hmph," Oren grunted. With an effort he raised one arm and drew his sleeve across his mouth. It came away red. If Oren noticed it, he said nothing. "Beornings don't have much of a sense of humor do they?"

Russ shrugged. "What would you have me do? Start telling jokes?"

"Something," Oren muttered, closing his eyes.

Neither of the two spoke for long minutes. Anardil got up and silently walked away. At the moment the only sounds were the crackling of the burning logs and the steady fall of an ax as the wood was cut for shoring timbers for the excavation. Russ added more wood to the fire. He wondered how long the wounded man had left to live. Hours? Minutes?

Oren looked at Russ. "Cold?" he asked. Russ just stared at him.

"Aye, I thought so," Oren replied. "I guess that was a foolish question."

More silence. Oren closed his eyes again and tried to take a deep breath but immediately fell into another fit of coughing. Finally it passed and he lay still.

"Does it hurt much?" Russ asked.

"No," Oren said, a slow surprised look coming over him as he pondered the question. "It doesn't. Huh. Figured it would, figured it would hurt like blazes, but I don't feel nothing, at all except that sometimes it's a little hard to breathe."

Russ just nodded.

"Look," Oren said, his voice sinking to weariness. "I just want you to know…it's alright."

Russ looked at him, genuinely puzzled. "What's alright?" He asked.

"This…" Oren said, weakly lifting his working arm to indicate his wounded body. "I just wanted to let you know ... there's no hard feelings. I'd have probably done the same thing, myself."

"You would?" Russ asked, surprised.

"Aye," Oren said. "If someone had my friend and were going to hurt him ... cut him up like we were ... I'd have done the same as you." The man's chest rose and fell in a hitching breath, and then he added drowsily, "Funny. Knew it would end like this ... but never thought it would be a bear-man."

Russ nodded. The man was beginning to slur his speech but Russ had no problem understanding him. He had not realized just how dangerous things had become when he had arrived. They had planned on hurting Nik, perhaps even killing him. "…going to hurt him, cut him up like we were." Oren had said. Russ felt his anger rising again. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why what?" Oren replied, blinking himself back from wherever his thoughts were drifting. "Why hurt him? He's an Orc. We didn't think anyone would care."

Russ shook his head. "Well, you were wrong."

"So I noticed," Oren said, and the ghost of a wry grin twisted his lips. "So I noticed. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that me personally ... I got nothing against you for what you did."

"Thanks" Russ said, not really caring, even a little. Not about the man's forgiveness at any rate. Russ didn't need it or want it, but if it made Oren feel better, well that was all right, he supposed. Especially considering the circumstances. But if he was expecting the same from Russ … Oren started his racking cough again. When he had finished his face had become even paler. It wouldn't be long Russ figured, before the man was gone.

"Well, that was all I had to say," Oren sighed, and let his eyes drift closed.

After that no one spoke for a long time. Several of the men who had been with Oren came by the fire to see him. They spoke lightly enough, the timeless black humor of warriors facing the final enemy, but it was clear from the expressions they wore that they could see only too well what was happening to their friend. One of them gave Russ a dark look, but Russ ignored it, pretending instead to keep his attention focused on the fire and staying warm. Finally they each gripped Oren's hand briefly and fiercely before leaving. Russ thought he might have caught the glint of tears in one of the men's eyes. Then Russ and Oren were alone once again.

"You know, I never killed anyone before," Russ said.

And it was true. The only men that Russ had ever met, aside from the occasionally passing ranger or even less frequent wizard, had all been on the side of the free west against Mordor and Isengard. The only enemies Russ had ever met were the orcs, goblins and trolls of the Misty Mountains. No men that were in league with the Enemy had ever shown their faces on the High Pass or the ford of the Carrock which was where Russ and his kin had fought. Killing the others had been easy. Russ had been able to do it without remorse. Men, however, were different. And in spite of his rather notable difference, Russ was still a man.

Oren opened his eyes. "Really?" he said. Now it was his turn to be surprised.

"Well, not a man anyway," Russ said.

"Huh," Oren replied, and again that sardonic grin touched his mouth. "I figured you for a killer for certain. You sure had the look of it about you ... If you never killed a man ... what did you kill then? Elves? Dwarves?"

"Don't be a fool," Russ rumbled. "I killed orcs and goblins, same as everyone else. I just never had to kill a man before."

Oren chuckled weakly. His eyes were becoming glassy, unable to stay focused, and his breathing shallow. He was starting to fade quickly now.

"Killed orcs and goblins to save men ... and now he's killing men ... to save orcs and goblins. If that don't beat all."

"Yeah," Russ said stonily. "If that don't beat all."

"So how'd you like it?" Oren asked, his gaze briefly sharpening. "Killing a man, I mean."

"It hasn't happened yet," Russ said.

"Sure it has," Oren replied, and gave a soundless huff that might have been laughter. "It's happening right before your eyes."

Again, Russ said nothing. Oren seemed content to just lie there now. Speaking was getting to be an effort for him. Then the next breath seemed to snag sharply and suddenly Oren's body was racked by a long series of hoarse, choking coughs. Flecks of red flew from his mouth and speckled his face and the blanket and saddle blankets that had been laid over him for whatever warmth they might provide. When it had ended Oren lay still and uttered a long groan.

"Alright," he said; it was barely a whisper. "That time it hurt."

"I really think you had just better keep quiet," Russ said.

Oren nodded weakly, but spoke anyway. "You haven't answered my question yet."

"What was it?"

"So how do you like it? Killing a man I mean."

Russ stared at Oren for a long time before he answered. "I don't like it," he said, "Not at all."

Oren laid his head back and closed his eyes. "Well," he said softly, "at least there's that. Do me a favor?"

But Russ never heard what it was. Those were the last words that Oren would ever speak.

Russ watched for awhile as Oren's chest rose and fell. Every now and then he would give out a short, wet cough. Each time Russ thought it was the end, but then the man's chest would resume its telltale movement. Just when Russ began to think that Oren might in fact make it through until the morning, his breathing stopped and Oren lay still. Russ simply sat there staring at the man he had killed. Finally he went over and removed the largest blanket from Oren's body. He didn't need it any more.

No, Russ did not like it at all. Not one little bit.

xxxxxx

The last of the logs for shoring were stacked in the clearing and the men were gathered near the fire, when the warg's head rose and her nose pointed alertly into the blue shadows. Footsteps dully snapped snow-covered branches, before dark, hunched forms appeared trudging towards them through the snow. The orcs had returned, laden with battered shovels, picks, iron rock-bars and an assortment of tools, some immediately recognizable, others less so.

Gubbitch shuffled up to Russ with an armful of woolen cloth, "Tha looks co-wald. Don't know if any of this'll fit thee, but help the'sen any row-ad." Gubbitch bundled the cloth into Russ' arms and gave him a final look, up and down. "And they say we were bred to be freaks."

Chortling to himself, the orc turned to begin directing his crew.

"Gubbitch!" called a sudden voice, and he turned to see Elros striding to meet him.

"Gubbitch, do suppose one of your lads would be willing to go the Troll?" The tall Ranger made an apologetic face and added, "The news may not be good, but I would rest easier if those at home at least know Sevi is found and what we are up against."

"Ah reckon," said Gubbitch pondering for a moment. "Ah'm thinkin' one that goes could bring back some more food and such. We brought what we could but more'll be needed."

"Let me go!" The little orc Titch bounded eagerly between them. "Ah'm the least 'un, and tha'll need the big 'uns for work!"

Titch was desperate to do something to make up for his desertion of Nik when the men had attacked the two orcs earlier. Also, he had recognized the big man with the beard as one of the attackers and was not sure he could control his temper around him. Titch did not want to shame Gubbitch by going into a rage so it would be best for all if he went to the Burping Troll.

At a nod from his leader the little orc fled on racing feet. Now the hard business of rescue could begin. Soon the unlikely company lit new torches and warily approached the great, tumbled chaos of fallen earth and stone. There they stood staring in dismay at its bulk, now heavily dusted in snow. Hearts sank to imagine how anything or anyone might survive beyond those tons of crumbled mountain. Their only hope was that the cave itself remained intact beyond, and that those inside had gotten deep enough to survive the collapse at the entrance.

"Start at top, ah reckons," said Gubbitch. "Dig to top of cave, less rubbish to move an' less to fall on us, any ro-wad."

"Should we ...?" Bob paused with a pick in his hand, uncertain what he wanted to ask, but struggling to embrace a stubborn flicker of hope. "Should we holler or something, so they know we're working out here?"

"Can't 'ear shoutin' under muck," Gubbitch said. "But they might 'ear a good clang or two."

"How?"

"Bang on rocks wi' summat metal."

Elros swung the unwieldy weight of a rock bar level, as if it were a spear, then began clambering up the rubble heap. Rock clattered as his foot slipped.

"Be careful," Bob warned.

The Ranger lurched his way several yards up, and then stopped. Then with a confirming glance down at Gubbitch, he brought its iron length down upon a shoulder of broken stone. The clangor of sound it produced jangled every bone and sinew from his fingers to his hips, but he swept the bar up then down twice more. As he straightened, the ringing echoes were swallowed in the falling snow.

"I hope they heard that," he said. He hoped a lot of things.

"Reet, lads," said Gubbitch. "Let's git to work."

Up the heaping ruins they clambered, men and elves and orcs, and thus began the long work of rescue. It was much later when they realized the snow had stopped, and the clouds began to pull apart in shimmering tatters, as a hidden moon sought its reflection in the snow.

xxxxxx

Anardil stared into the fire whose warmth did nothing to penetrate the coldness within his heart. Unable to assist with the digging, he had taken on the duty of keeping this fire going. After, he reminded himself, taking on the duty of dragging the dead man away from the fire and laying a saddle blanket over his face. No reason, after all, to turn the stomachs of men seeking the only heat source in this forsaken wilderness. The wide yawn of the Warg sitting beside him caused him to eye askance the powerful beast.

"Sorry," Warg said closing her mouth with a snap. "Been a long day."

Anardil replied with a grunt. A truer statement he had never heard, the only difficulty lay in the fact that it came from the mouth of an animal. Why that fact did not bother him more was something he would have to examine more carefully at a later time. For the time being, he would just shove it behind the mental door he had labeled Unusual Happenings and carry on with the job at hand.

A job that, unfortunately, required the one thing he was no longer able to provide. Two hands.

The moon painted strange blue shadows on the snow, as it peered between drifting barges of silvered cloud. As the storm had broken up the cold deepened, and Anardil wondered how cold it was beneath the mountain - if any were still alive to feel anything. Sevi... He would see forever the nightmare spectacle of black earth breaking its sheath of snow and surging down as if stone had suddenly become water, and him knowing that Sev was somewhere under it. If she were not found alive, this night would end, but the darkness that had reached for him two years ago when he lost his arm might this time consume him utterly.

His mind twisted itself on a tortuous path, time and again bringing images of Sev, the delightful surprise of her laugh, the fierce independence that governed her, the wonderful warmth when he held her and how right she felt in his embrace. The fire in her eyes when aroused to temper and the toss of her head when she turned her back on an argument no longer worth her trouble. For each memory he thrust aside another took its place, but he opened his eyes to only the empty cold of night. He could not even find release by expending his strength in the desperate hunt for survivors. She needed him and he was powerless to help. Out there steadily rang the clank and thud of labor, as people dug and timbers were wedged to shore up unstable rock, and Anardil hated his uselessness with a savage passion.

Aye, for the first time in his life he understood the heart-rending agony of helplessly waiting for word of a loved one in peril. Sev had lost her husband and son to war, and once she had voiced her great fear of ever waiting in that awful uncertainty again. Now he comprehended that fear with a clarity that shook him to the soul. The ending of one life was the ruin of another.

Tossing another log into the fire with rather more vigor than was necessary, Anardil forced himself not to dwell on the fact that across the fire were two of the very men who had put Sevilodorf behind that avalanche of mud and stones. One of them was a bearded man with two black eyes, gotten, he had heard, when they captured the little Uruk, Nik. The other was a youth called Neal, sent back to the fire after a misstep in broken rubble had left him with a badly-wrenched ankle. The young man had spoken not a word since sitting down, his gaze fixed on the flames. Now he picked up a stick and gave the log Anardil had just tossed a sharp shove, resettling it with a shower of tiny sparks. A growl so low Anardil at first could not recognize it grew in the throat of the warg at his side as she eyed the men. Neal prodded the fire stiffly again, evidently having his own perception of how it would best burn, and Warg's growl rumbled more deeply.

Startled, Neal looked towards them, and then the corners of his mouth turned down in a hard grimace. "Are you going to eat me, then? Leap over the fire and tear my throat out?"

"I might," Warg grumbled.

His expression flickered, then Neal slumped forward with his young face a sullen mask. "Go ahead. What do I care?"

Reflexively Anardil dropped his hand to Warg's back, and felt the growl vibrating through her thick fur. To Neal he said, "I would not tempt her, if I were you. The woman you kidnapped is her friend."

"I kidnapped!" Neal's voice cracked in outrage. "I wasn't even there! I had nothing to do with it!"

"You belong to them," Warg said, and her eyes gleamed like molten copper coins. "You are one of them. And she is one of us."

Very quietly the bearded man stood, the firelight throwing shadows across a battered face. "Neal, best you come with me."

"No." Jaw tightening, Neal gave the fire another poke. "I'm staying here. I'm no good up there any more, I can't work - just leave me alone!"

"Neal -."

"I said leave me alone, Carrick!"

At that shout, the man flung up both hands in a gesture of appeasement. "Suit yourself. But just have a care for what you say."

With a last wary look at the matching baleful stares of the warg and the one-armed man, Carrick turned and walked away. Behind him, Neal's mouth twisted in a flash of emotion and he flung his stick into the fire. Then he propped his elbows on his knees and braced his forehead in one hand, the fingers shielding his eyes from the firelight.

"Do what you want, warg," he said tightly. "Finish off what the orcs and landslides and everything else started - I don't care."

"The orcs have done nothing," Warg replied. "You came hunting them."

Instantly Neal's head snapped up. "Nothing? NOTHING? Our home is gone! My father is dead! And my mother -." He turned his face sharply away, teeth clenched. "Don't tell me what orcs have done," he said harshly. "For all I know the beasts who came to destroy us were your masters."

Warg's eyes glittered. "I serve no master. And I hunt only evil things. The only warg rider I have known is Nik, and you took him and you hurt him, and he has done no harm."

"No harm!" Neal spat out the words. "It is uruk, so all it has ever done is evil. That is what it was bred for as were you."

Anardil felt the Warg's muscles tense and leaned on her. He knew if she decided to leap across the fire there would be no way for him to stop her.

"Warg," he said addressing her directly for the first time. "Celebsul would not like it."

With a curl of her lip, Warg snarled, "That is all that has kept me from ripping them to pieces. I do not understand why he wishes them to live when they have hurt one of us, but he is leader and I obey." With another rumbling growl, Warg rose to her feet, nearly unbalancing Anardil. She padded slowly around the fire, until she stood only inches away from Neal. "For now, I obey. But cub, you need to control your anger or I will give you a lesson in manners."

Neal faced her defiantly for but an instant then dropped his head and covered his eyes again. Anardil was torn between admiration for the youth's courage and the desire to join Warg in giving him a lesson in manners.

"Warg," he said again and rose to his feet.

Warg turned her massive head and gazed impassively at him. "I have said I obey for now; however, if Nik or Sevi are not retrieved, pack vengeance will be demanded."

The baleful look she gave Neal's huddled form left little doubt as to what that vengeance would be. Anardil nodded, but placed his hand on his sword hilt and said, "You will have to get in line for that."

Warg gave him an approving nod and opened her massive jaws in a chuffing sound that Anardil slowly understood was meant to be laughter.

"A fit companion for our Sevi," said the Warg. "I will take myself out of the sight of this cub before I forget my own manners."

Giving Neal a final sniff of disdain, Warg slipped into the darkness beyond the fire's circle.

Anardil stood silent with a bemused expression on his face. Had a Warg just approved him as a suitor? What next? Would the orc, Lugbac, give him hints as to suitable gifts for Sev?

"How can you?" an agonized voice broke through his reverie.

Anardil looked down to meet Neal's anguished eyes. The warg was right, this one is only a cub, but that did not make youthful righteousness easier to tolerate.

"How can I what?" Anardil replied in a voice hard as stone.

"Be on their side."

"Should I be on yours then, youngling?" Anardil felt all the rage he had been holding in check for these many hours boiling up inside and clamped down on his words viciously. This was just a boy.

"Yes," Neal exclaimed. Then he turned from the heat of Anardil's eyes to look into the darkness, towards the muffled clunks and scrapes of digging. In a smaller voice, he said, "No….." Then finally in a whisper, "I don't know."

Anardil followed the boy's gaze and in the cold moonlight watched the lumbering figure of an orc working side by side with his fellow Rangers and the elf, Firnelin. Rubbing his hand hard along his jaw, he felt some of his rage dissipate.

Dropping down beside Neal, he said, "I don't know either."

Man and youth sat without speaking until the orc Lugbac emerged from the trees nearby towing a long, heavy tree limb. The orc paused uncertainly when he became aware of the intense scrutiny he was receiving from the two at the fire. After giving a small nod and a grin that displayed his sharpened teeth, Lugbac ducked his head and continued on with his burden. Anardil shuddered without thought.

"You don't like them either," the boy stated emphatically.

Anardil met Neal's eyes squarely. "My likes or dislikes for the orc are not the issue here," Anardil said firmly. "You have broken the King's peace and done harm to an innocent woman."

"I didn't do it. Grady's the one who knocked her out," Neal spluttered, then realized his error with the hardening of Anardil's face.

"Yet, you stood by and did nothing to stop him. That is a choice of action as much as any decision to raise a sword."

"We only wanted her to lead us to the orcs." Neal lifted his chin towards Anardil's empty sleeve. "You've fought them, too. Surely you understand why we hunt them?"

Anardil cocked his head, watching the young man's troubled face. He could imagine a dozen reasons for the lad's fervor, and found himself wondering again what drove these men to a life of errant orc-hunting. But he also realized that direct questions here would probably be met with hostility rather than clear answers. Thus he settled himself into a pattern made familiar in the past two years; drop but a few goading words, and let the other reveal himself.

"Do I?" he asked.

"You're a Ranger!" Neal exclaimed furiously. "Or you used to be, that's plain enough. It's supposed to be your job to protect people from the creatures of Shadow!"

"And I do."

"But you're here with - with them!" The youth flung an arm towards the clank of labor, where Gubbitch and his 'lads' toiled on. "How can you stand it? You can't - I saw your face when that big one walked by. Tell me they don't make your blood run cold."

"I have never said otherwise."

"But you stand against us!" Neal's voice rose on a sudden storm of passion. "We should be standing together! Don't you understand - my mother is dead! My father is dead! The war was over and everyone came home, and then one night the orcs came down from the mountains and fifteen of our people died. Men, women, children, they cared not who they slew. Darien stood over the graves, with our homes burning behind us, and when he asked for all who would ride with him to cleanse the wild places of these abominations, I said yes! All I have left is this purpose and my brother Evan, who is somewhere - who is there -."

The words abruptly choked as Neal made a sharp gesture towards the shadowed rubble yonder, then closed his hand in a fist that he dropped helplessly to one knee.

"Evan is how old?"

"Fourteen. Almost fifteen. He found mother - he has nightmares - I should never have brought him here."

Anardil took a slow, careful breath as the young man silently struggled to master himself. No, there was no meanness in this boy, nor anything that Anardil had not at various times seen mirrored in himself. Nor was bad leadership the fault of them who followed and he shrugged uncomfortably against the cheerless empathy he felt for the anguish of a brother also trapped in that slide.

After a long moment, Neal lifted his head and fixed Anardil with a weary look, firelight painting his young face in gaunt lines. Quietly he asked, "Why do you make us your enemy?"

"I have not named you as such."

"But if we had fought - if we had feared too much that you were all ensorcelled by some evil spell - would you have helped them kill us?"

"Yes."

The flatness of that reply rang like a coin down a well, and Neal stared with mouth agape in horrified shock.

"But ... why?"

"Because your people used evil as a tool," Anardil replied evenly. "The quest for your own justice ceased to be just at all, when an innocent woman was taken captive and made a pawn in your designs."

After two sputtering attempts, Neal burst out, "But it was an accident!"

"Which part was an accident?" Anardil shot back. "Knocking her out? Binding her hands? Carrying her off into the wilderness against her will? Or that not one of you spoke out to say that this was wrong?"

Neal could not hold that steely gaze and turned back to the fire as he groped helplessly for words. "I tried to help ... I checked the injury and made sure there was no serious damage ..." Flinching from the sudden sharpening of Anardil's look, he added hastily, "My mother was a healer. She taught Evan and me some things. That's how we help, if anyone gets hurt."

"Did you know that Sevi is also a healer?"

"She ..." Neal blinked as he gazed into the dancing flames. "I think someone said she sold herbal remedies and such ..." Without turning his head, Neal slanted a look at Anardil. "She's really a healer?"

"Yes. And a good one." Anardil paused a beat before adding, "She says she perfected her skills at the battle of Helm's Deep."

Astonishment brought the youth's full attention around, and he stared at the older man. "Then how in the name of mercy can she trade with those foul things? Why didn't she help us?"

"Did anyone ask her?"

"Well ..." Neal frowned as he reached into his recollections. "I overheard Landis saying they tried, but she said no. They asked her something about the orc gems."

"They lied and claimed they were also traders in gems. Hardly a way to inspire trust."

"They said that?" Neal frowned, and then his shoulders sagged around a long, slow sigh. "This is so mucked up."

"Yes it is," Anardil replied. "And there is much we would both wish was otherwise, but a man cannot live by wishes. He must do the right thing - and that does not mean trampling smaller rights on the path to a greater goal. The end does not always justify the means."

The fire popped and spewed a sudden shower of sparks as Neal stared broodingly into the flames. Anardil did not envy him his confusion, but he did realize that, within himself, he was at last finding his way to higher ground.

"You belong to a group of men who has done a grave wrong," Anardil said. "But that does not make you evil. And these orcs belong to a race that has devoted its very existence to evil - but these few have chosen another way. They toil to save lives this night, lad. Not to take them."

"They want to dig that little orc out," Neal said sullenly.

"Yes. But tell me why they came to us with Sev's abandoned cart, and the news that she had disappeared."

Scowling, Neal said, "Because she trades with them!"

"Yes. But why should orcs care what happens?"

Neal blinked at him and frowned deeper, but made no response.

"Doesn't it seem the least odd, that murderous orcs would find an ounce of loyalty for a human woman?" Strange it was how the pieces suddenly fell into a comfortable place in Anardil's mind even as he spoke. "Far simpler I would think it, if they had simply waited until you slept, then killed you all in your beds and whisked their orc friend away. Yet all this chaos, all this trouble, all this struggle to rescue Sevi with words and the help of elves and Rangers ... is because they did not wish you dead."

"But people are dead! That bear man nearly strangled me! And Oren ..." Neal's eyes were dark with the remembered horror of his comrade spinning bloody to the snow from the beorning's powerful blow.

Gently Anardil asked, "And who struck first?"

"But he would have killed us!" Perplexity and resentment warred visibly on Neal's face.

"Have you ever heard of a Beorning attacking any man? Have you ever heard of a Beorning allying himself with forces of Shadow?"

"I ... he's a shape-changer."

"Aye. But he is a son of Beorn. If orcs and wargs have a hereditary enemy, it is the bear-men."

"Long ago," a deep voice boomed from out of the darkness, "My people…my father, used to live among the high places in the misty mountains." Russ, clad in an odd assortment of rags and cloths, stepped forward into the firelight and began to warm himself. "In those days orcs, or goblins as we called them, kept far away. We kept to ourselves for the most part, living in peace among the giants and eagles and other, older creatures that shared the mountains with us. But with the coming of the Sorcerer of Dol Guldur to Greenwood the Great, now called Mirkwood, dark things crept from there up into the mountains. Trolls there were and orcs and the grim beasts whose names are best left unspoken. I do not remember those times, though my father spoke of them often. Few enough came to the mountains at first, so that we were able to keep them at bay. But ever they grew stronger until, no longer able to drive them away from our homes, we ourselves fled down to the vales of the Anduin."

"Even after the Sorcerer fled from Mirkwood to his keep in Mordor, the goblins and trolls and wargs remained behind. Only the giants and eagles were left in peace, but the Eagles are fell and the goblins feared them. And the giants, well, the Giants are a strange folk and none really know them save perhaps the wizards. Often did my father and brothers venture forth to punish the goblins for their deeds, but we were too few and so remained exiles from our homes." Here Russ paused and gave a great sigh as he remembered the tales his father had once spun around fires not so different from this very one.

Neal took a breath as if to reply, but then sagged once more with elbows on his knees and remained mute. Anardil stared thoughtfully into the flames, saying nothing. Russ continued.

"Then came the finding of the one ring and the moving of the great events of our time. The numbers of goblins dwindled somewhat, as they left the mountains to serve their master in Barad-Dur. And so we returned to the High Pass and kept it open for the free folk so that news and travelers might pass in as much safety as we could provide. But still the enemy was strong and though we fought them and were able to keep them at bay, our losses were great. Many of my own kin and many others who were dear to me fell there. And though there are no songs to tell our tale, the folk of the Greenwood and Rivendell know of our deeds and so our losses do not go un-mourned. So you can see that I, as well as the rest of you, have no reason to bear love for any of the dark creatures of either Orthanc or Barad-Dur."

"But why, then?" Neal asked bewildered. "Why do you make these creatures your friends? You should hate them. They killed your friends, your family, drove you from your homes. How can you not hate them?"

Watching the young man's troubled face, Anardil was glad it was not he who was being called upon to try to explain further a thing that he did not understand himself. He knew little of the Bear-man's tale and how Russ had befriended the undersized uruk-hai was beyond him, but an equal mystery was how Gubbitch and his little band had become whatever they now were. Ancient tales whispered that once, in the deeps of time, the First Enemy bred orcs from the hideous corruption of long-ago elves. Could it be that, with the passing of Shadow, in some few of these creatures a brief, lingering spark of humanity yet remained, and here had found a feeble flicker of life? However, a man would be foolish - and most likely dead - if he presumed such a thing of orcs as a race. Their enmity and evil reached into ages before Men awoke in the world. But here, in this place, somehow the grand design of the world was sewn in a different thread.

"Because it wasn't his fault," the Beorning said simply. "Nik did not ask to be what he is, anymore than you or I or Anardil here have. More than that, Nik never had a choice. He was bred for a purpose, and he worked to fulfill it much as a sheep dog will do the same for its master, even a cruel one."

Russ stood and stretched his long limbs and Neal's eyes grew wide at the sight of it. Russ looked down on Neal and smiling, spoke in an easy voice. "There are others who did have a choice, and chose to serve the enemy. Do you hunt them as well? Do you hold them equally to blame as you do Nik and his kind?"

With those last words Russ turned to look upon Anardil, who met his gaze for a moment then turned back to the fire.

"The war is over," Russ said. "It is time for living and not for dying, and that is all Nik has ever asked of anyone. A wise man once said, 'Many that live deserve death, and many that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then be not eager to deal out death in judgment, for even the very wise cannot see all ends.' And that is enough for me. I wish," Russ added sadly, "That it were enough for everyone."

Neal felt his cheeks flush and looked away, saying nothing, nor did Anardil speak, but Russ was not expecting a reply. He turned and looked at the workers on top of the pile of mud and rock and debris that covered the cave.

"Well," he said, "I suppose I ought to go and see if I can lend a hand." And the big man moved away and started up the hill.

Anardil drew a long gulp of chill night air, and shook off the leaden fog of too much thought. The moon was sinking like molten silver to the west, drawing the tattered rags of clouds with it to leave behind a sky of icy stars. A cold dawn would awaken beyond the rim of the world and, judging by fragments of conversation echoing across the frozen snow, the searchers might soon know whether any hope remained for those buried by the slide. He felt his stomach clench in a tight, icy fist as he turned his head to look for the dark figures working yonder, digging, prying, heaving earth and cutting logs to wedge as shoring against further rock-falls. Men, orcs and elves together.

"I just want my brother back."

Neal's quiet voice recaptured Anardil's attention, and he looked to see unshed tears shimmering in the young man's eyes. Mouth drawing tight, Neal said, "And I don't even care how or who does it."

Aye. Anardil reached for another log and settled it carefully onto the coals. Together they would bear the soul-crushing weight of uncertainty, and the matter of enemy or friend no longer seemed to have any importance at all.

xxx

TBC ...