In An Age Before – Part 266
Chapter One hundred fifty-nine
Moria and Kâpul Ulot – The Third Age of the Sun
Now 'twas but five years after Helluin returned from her perplexing meeting with the Ghost of Sîr Ninglor that word came to her of a new attack on Gondor. When the southern campaigning season opened in Gwaeron of 2475, an army of Uruk-hai from Mordor came o'er the pass of Cirith Ungol. After mustering in Imlad Morgul, they assailed the crossroads in Ithilien on a sudden, sweeping aside the sparse Ranger defense, and then marching to attack Osgiliath.
In those days, the old capital city was already 'nigh deserted save for a few of the stubbornest Gondorim and a token force as the garrison of some guard positions on the city walls and the gates leading to and from the river. They were too few to do more than hamper the enemy's advance by breaking the last bridge o'er Anduin ere retreating to the Pelennor forts, yet their desperate defense bought Gondor two critical days.
'Twas only because timely warnings from the Rangers were received in the King's City whilst the Uruk-hai were still marching through Ithilien that Steward Denethor was able to marshal forces from nearby Lossarnach and Anórien. Added to troops and Rangers from Minas Tirith and the Pelennor garrisons, they formed a muster of twelve hundreds. Boromir, the steward's son and heir and a renowned captain and warrior, led a counterattack that finally stopped the enemy's advance and eventually drove the Orcs from the city.
A great victory 'twas, but it left none feeling secure. Boromir had been outnumbered two to one. Only because of the quality and morale of his soldiers and their knowledge of Osgiliath's layout had he prevailed.
The Uruk-hai had been poorly commanded, poorly prepared for fighting in the city, and they had known 'naught of the tunnels, shared basements, and passageways 'neath the buildings on both banks. Boromir's troops had flanked, cut off, isolated, and eventually exterminated their companies. Superior archery had also played a major role in preserving Dúnedain lives during those engagements. For another week, the soldiers of Gondor hunted down packs of Orcs, but eventually, the ruined city was cleansed. The surviving Rangers in Ithilien harried the few foes that escape as they retreated to Minas Morgul.
Helluin had been furious when she had learnt of the battle. 'Twas already mid-Lothron by then and the fighting had been completed in a fortnight. By the start of Gwirith, the battlefield had resolved and there was 'naught that she could do about any of it.
In the aftermath, Osgiliath and Ithilien no longer hosted even the most stubborn civilian populations. Soldiers of Gondor held both banks of Anduin in an uneasy custody. They built a narrow wooden bridge to replace the stone bridge that had been rebuilt after King Eldacar's restoration. O'er it, supplies came to the east bank defenders by barrows and dogcarts, and secretive companies of Rangers rotated deployments into Ithilien to maintain their watch on Imlad Morgul. Yet afterwards in the minds of the Gondorim, the lands east of Anduin were debated territory, subject only in name to the rule of the Stewards. Few doubted that they would eventually become tributary to Mordor.
Despite the fears of Denethor, no further attacks came. It had been a limited probing action by Sauron, no more, and no less, and the Southern Dúnedain had prevailed, barely. Two years later, the Lord of Minas Tirith laid down his life in the House of the Stewards along the Rath Dínen and Boromir took up the white rod of office as Gondor's Eleventh Ruling Steward.
Alas, the great Captain of Gondor had expended effort to hide a wound he had received during the fighting in Osgiliath. It had seemed no more than a scratch at the time and he had not taken pains to tend it in the heat of battle. After his return to Minas Tirith with tidings of victory, it had begun to fester. Despite the ministrations of the steward's healer, its corruption ne'er resolved. Pain came and stayed, becoming his companion through the last fourteen years of his life. Slowly, the wound sapped the new Steward's vitality, aging him ere his years merited and robbing him of decades of life. Reluctant to diminish the morale of his people during such uncertain times, the Lord Steward ne'er mentioned his debilitation.
Boromir died in 2489 at the age of seventy-nine. With acute hindsight, the loremasters of the city eventually deemed that he had borne a Morgul wound, and they rued the absence of a king who might have diagnosed and healed him. 'Twas long ere his plight became common knowledge.
Frustrated as Helluin had been to learn of the attack on Osgiliath, she had another cause for trepidation. Following her destruction of Throqûrz-foshânu's hundred Uruk-hai in Cerveth of 2465, she had taken a company south at that time each year, but each year the wolves told her that no more Orcs had been seen. A decade had passed, and with each year, Helluin became more unsettled. It seemed that Sauron had suspended his attempts to search the east bank of Anduin, at least temporarily. Dol Guldur remained quiet. The problem for the Noldo was that in her experience, evil rested not and she suspected that the Dark Lord was simply concentrating on an alternate plan. This was indeed true, but years passed ere she learnt of it.
During those years without new threats, Helluin did what she could by continuing to train the Tatyar in the warfare of the Laiquendi. The fourteen warriors at Norðr-vestandóttir Bý had digested eleven years of instruction and they had become highly proficient at remaining unseen. Though they were not the equals of the Green Elves of Eriador, they were stealthier than the Galadhrim of Mirkwood or Lothlórien.
In archery, the Noldo offered the same lessons she had provided to Legolas Thranduilion, for none of them could learn to shoot as had she and Beinvír, or the other Calaquendi. Their route to perfection was through incessant practice with superior weapons applied towards purposeful goals. Their skills Helluin reckoned equal to the Green Elves she had known during times of war, and that she deemed was a great achievement. What they shot at was hit, not most of the time, but all of the time, and this whether afoot or ahorse. Mounted archery was a skill that none of the Laiquendi practiced, but Helluin knew its value in battle. Half a million Mâh-Sakâ could not be wrong.
Now whilst Helluin trained her warriors at Norðr-vestandóttir Bý, Dol Guldur indeed appeared to sleep. After waiting a year and hearing no reports from Throqûrz-foshânu, Sauron forbade any of his troops from showing themselves beyond the verge of Mirkwood. In 2466, he shed his meat suit and took his leave of the fortress upon Amon Lanc for a short span of time. Into the east his black cloud sped, to the encampment of a new generation of devotees. These were the dregs of Rhûn, and they had but two virtues that made them useful to the God of Fire; they were violent barbarians, and they were numerous.
These dregs encompassed the survivors of an entire nomadic culture driven west by the Mâh-Sakâ and the Ithryn Luin to congregate 'twixt the Sea of Rhûn and the eastern edge of Mirkwood. In an example of irony, they preyed upon the last remnants of the Wainriders/Medes who had retreated to those same lands before them and for the same reasons. From them they appropriated the practice of living as nomadic raiders in constantly moving camps of large wagons. The few horses that they had captured from the Medes and not eaten, they used to haul their wains, for they had no history of horsemanship 'til that time. Breeding and maintaining herds simply required more discipline than they could muster.
Now these people called themselves Scoloti*, though in Gondor, they became known as the Balchoth. The portion that came into the histories of the South Kingdom of the Dúnedain were the westernmost segment of their population at that time, and being those who had fled first and furthest from their old homelands, might also be considered the most desperate or the most cowardly.
In another example of irony, they had in common with the Medes their devotion to the God of Fire, and that god cared not that one faction of his worshippers oppressed another. Having displaced the Wainriders o'er the last couple of decades, they had become the most useful to Sauron.
When the dark cloud of their god's manifestation appeared at their chieftain's camp in the summer of 2466, they burnt prisoners as sacrifices, made offerings of their own blood, and staged wildly drunken celebrations and contests in his honor. These contests were 'last man standing' free for all melees, and the last men standing staggered before Sauron to offer their service. This he gladly accepted. From a dozen camps came a dozen Men of Darkness, battered but proud, (and still very drunk). The Deceiver bid them follow him to his fortress, to serve him as esteemed warriors. Of course, they were elated to be chosen for such an honor and followed him without question.
From amongst the losers of the contests, he chose a half-dozen. The black smoke surrounded them and their screams were deemed cries of rejoicing at meeting their god. Sauron rent their bodies to make a new meat suit, and thus made manifest, led his new troops west to Dol Guldur.
Upon their arrival, the Scoloti found an aging fortress of stone atop a bleak hill. 'Twas already filled with many hundreds of Yrch. Accompanying the Uruk-hai were packs of Wargs, and from the north, litters of White Wolves. These were not like their grey kin. Of old, they were larger, more dangerous, and like the Orcs, almost wholly without honor. They had served Morgoth in Beleriand, and those that escaped his fall had fled into the north. There they had survived to serve Sauron from time to time. He had called to them after his arrival at Dol Guldur in 2460 and some had come, eventually, from the valleys in the Ered Mithrin where they had passed the centuries feeding on wild animals, livestock, and stray Dwarves and Men.
The Dark Lord had seen the newest of them born ere he had gone east. When he returned with his twelve Scoloti warriors, they were ready. From their litters, Sauron chose the strongest dozen pups, and as soon as they were weaned, bent them to his dark will. In the throne room of his keep, White Wolf pups and Easterling warriors were surrounded by the black cloud of their god and master. Within its embrace, they were all stripped of their spirits and those of the pups were discarded having barely had a chance to live. Then the spirits of the Scoloti were forced into the flesh of the White Wolf pups. They gazed out of their new bodies with confused eyes that glowed red in dim light, and in horror, they saw before them their old bodies.
These leftovers Sauron left standing, bereft of mind but still alive. They had no longer wills or appetites and left to themselves would tarry or wander 'til starved and exhausted, they dropped dead. Yet for these too, Sauron still had a use, and as they had sworn themselves to him, their service in his name was not yet done. Yrch kept them alive at their master's command, force-feeding them in the iron cages that kept them from straying. They had fought for the honor of becoming the most pitiful of creatures. In some places, their kind came to be called Oreks**.
Now the years 'twixt 2466 and 2475 passed, and during that decade the pups grew to maturity. Soon, a vicious wrath towards all things had replaced their initial confusion. 'Twas driven by a cunning intelligence that knew the words of Men and Orcs and spoke in snarls as oft as howled. Large and strong they grew, larger and stronger than their sires or any of their kind since the Dark Days, for like Anfauglir of old, their master set his power upon them and fed them on living flesh. Hunger o'ercame their horror and revulsion as he knew it would. By the ravening emptiness in their bellies, their master mastered them anew. Then, bite by bite, meal by meal they each devoured the flesh of their original bodies, the bodies of the Scoloti warriors in whose meat they had been born, and so they were born again as Werewolves and Sauron was pleased.
'Round the time that Boromir became Steward of Gondor, Sauron mustered his Werewolves to lead a company of a hundred Wargs and their riders on a mission that he had long contemplated and could no longer resist.
For five centuries, the Dwarves had been gone from Khazad-dûm. During all those years, they had ne'er returned and so he deemed that some great calamity had driven them hence. Perhaps some great evil had usurped their hegemony in the Hithaeglir and they had left behind a fastness he had ne'er conquered, an unassailable fortress that commanded the central highlands. The strategic value was enormous. Great wealth lay there too, and that he would have. The mastery of Moria was irresistible, for with it he would have an entrance into Eriador where he deemed that at least one of the Three abided still. T'would also provide a foothold from which to threaten Lórinand wherein he felt the presence of an enemy that he could not see. At the time, he suspected 'twas Helluin.
To his troops, he gave explicit instructions.
"Gijakûrz-kragor¹, thou shalt serve me as captain," Sauron said, assigning command of the company to a Werewolf at random. ¹(Gijackûrz-kragor, Bloody Fang = gijakûrz(bloody) + kargor(fang) Orkish)
Then, addressing the whole group, he ordered, "Ye shall make your way south, ten leagues within the forest 'til ye reach its southern border, and then another fifty miles o'er a flat and barren land. There ye shall come upon two rolling downs and past the steep southern face of the second lies a passage 'twixt folded lands. Follow it west. Two score miles shall bring ye to a ford 'cross the great river. On the west bank, turn north and shortly ye shall come upon a smaller river. Follow its bank west 'til ye can ford it and then continue to follow it upstream.
A dark forest ye shall come upon. Shun it. Follow its northern border west 'til the mountains rise before ye, then go north. Another small river ye shall come upon, spanned by a bridge. Cross it with care, for enemies lurk in the woods to the east. Follow the road from the bridge towards the mountains as it climbs a great vale. Beside the mere at the top stands an ancient gate into the mountains. This ye shall enter, but be ye ware.
The deep halls of a vast realm are delved therein, but perhaps a great power also abides there. I would make alliance with this power if that may be, for it drove out many enemies. Ye may also find some Uruk-hai of the mountains. Remind them of their allegiance of old, for this I claim again as their master and ye shall represent me. Go now with haste and care and do not fail."
He stared them in the eyes to make sure that they understood. Daunted, the commanders of the Werewolves, the Wargs, and the Orcs bowed their heads. Then with howls and snarls, many curses and much bickering, they fled his presence and raced south through Mirkwood. 'Twas Nórui of 2477.
None marked that company as they passed amongst the trees and it remained so whilst they crossed the flat scrubland south of Mirkwood to the downs. O'er the downs they ran 'til they found the valley north of the folded Brown Lands, and as they had been ordered, they followed it west to the North Undeep where they forded Anduin.
On the west bank, they entered the realm of Gondor, but it had been centuries since the Southern Dúnedain had patrolled those furrowed lands. Not since their depopulation during the Great Plague had they committed the manpower to hold their old forts and watch posts, and so Sauron's servants passed unchallenged.
Almost at once, they found the mouth of the river Limlight where it emptied into Anduin just north of the Undeep. This they followed west 'til after two score miles the river left the canyon it had cut through the downs. Bloody Fang led them a further score miles to a ford, (the same that Helluin, Lainiel, and Annuihír had crossed in 2003), and so they passed o'er Limlight and continued west on its northern bank.
After three score miles, the forest of Fangorn came into view and they liked not the look of it at all. Indeed, none of them would have entered amongst those trees even without the prohibition of their master, for they perceived the residence of some power that was no friend to their kinds. With loathing, they skirted it to the north and a hundred miles west from the ford o'er the river Limlight, came to the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Thus far, they had remained well away from any established realm, yet now they came to the most dangerous part of their journey, for they would approach the Golden Wood of Lothlórien.
Now the Werewolves and Warg Riders intended to follow the foothills of the Hithaeglir north as they had been ordered to do, yet they had come but a furlong from the border of Fangorn ere they found the foot of a trail leading uphill. Indeed, 'twas the same trail that Helluin, Glorfindel, Thórá, Gwingion, and Galadhon had descended in late Gwaeron of 1974. The company from Dol Guldur knew not whither it led save upwards. After considering the warnings their master had spoken concerning the next river, its bridge, and the presence of enemies in the surrounding woods, their commander deemed the path worthy of exploration.
Gijakûrz-kragor chose a trio of Werewolves to scout the rough trail whilst the remainder waited behind, unsettled by the dark forest stretching southward, whence came ominous creaking and groaning, but not a breath of breeze. The remaining Werewolves stared at the trees in silence, calculating and ready to spring upon 'aught that came forth. The Warg Riders cowered back, muttering and cursing.
"Hoshum¹!" Gijakûrz-kragor snarled at them. "If there are enemies, ye shall draw their attention." ¹(hoshum, silence Orkish)
The Yrch grumbled at first, but fell silent. The Wargs growled, but retreated a few paces. The camp quieted, but none were at ease. They waited a nervous hour before the Werewolves finally came back down the trail.
"What did ye find?" Gijakûrz-kragor asked.
"The path leads uphill for a quarter mile to join a trail leading north and south," one of the Werewolves reported. "We could see it continue north at least a league 'til it disappeared 'round the next arm of the mountains."
"Did any caves open onto the trail?"
"None that we saw. Any such must be more distant."
Bloody Fang stood thinking a while, but he could find no reason not to try avoiding the upcoming river, its bridge, and the woods filled with enemies. At the worst, they would come to a dead end and have to backtrack, but their master had given no deadline for their mission, so the time was his to spend. He nodded to himself and then bid the company begin the climb into the highlands. The other Werewolves followed their assigned leader whilst the Warg Riders were only too happy to leave the forest behind.
In single-file, they scrambled up the scree-covered path as the view of the scrubby land opened up behind them. Most cast apprehensive glances to the dark forest that stretched out to the south as far as their eyes could see. To the north and east, the irregular rolling landscape lay covered with coarse grass, spreading shrubs, and copses of stunted trees. Before them rose the snow-crowned heights of the Misty Mountains whence a chill breeze rolled down bearing the scents of pines, rock dust, and snow. No fires did they see, no signs of habitation, and no movements. The mountains seemed deserted and that was a relief, for they knew of no friends in these lands.
After the third part of an hour spent climbing, the company came to the trail and took the northward spur. On their left, a sheer cliff face leapt up a hundred fathoms, whilst on their right, darkness shrouded the bottom of a precipice. Grimly they continued on, advancing hour after hour, finding no entrances to caves or lairs, but also no breaks in the trail as it wound from promontory to bay amidst the arms of the mountains. It seemed to lead on just as they had hoped.
During their second day, they looked down on the tops of trees as they approached the dark mass of another forest, this one very different looking, but just as threatening as Fangorn. The trees grew taller, straight of trunk rather than crooked and tangled, and their leaves were a brighter green. Soon, they could see twinkling reflections off running water through the canopy as Nimrodel flowed downhill to Anduin. All felt thirst, for there had been 'naught to drink along the mountain path. Gijakûrz-kragor traced glimpses of a white stone road leading through the trees and knew that somewhere below was the bridge the master had warned of. That meant that the road climbing uphill from it led to the broad bay ahead, and that meant that they had succeeded in bypassing the enemies below.
In the late afternoon, the company came to a descending trail that ended on the southern wall of a steep bay just south of the head of the broad vale of Nanduhirion. 'Neath them wound the road that climbed uphill from the bridge, and further north, the mere.
In the cliff face just out of sight must lie the gate the master spoke of, Gijakûrz-kragor thought. We have survived and arrived and we have seen 'naught of foes. He eyed the sky. The sun had already dropped behind the mountains and all the land 'round them lay in shadow. Nightfall was soon to come.
"We halt here and come to the gate after dark," he told the others.
They spread out on the trail, resting and staring down at the forested land filled with enemies. At some point, each of the Warg Riders realized that because of Gijakûrz-kragor's leadership, they had avoided the dangers and enemies their master had warned of. They were thankful, but no more loyal, for leaders died and were replaced all the time.
None of them would have dared to challenge the master's will, yet now they were far away from Dol Guldur. Accidents were always possible. Still, the Werewolves were terrifying, o'er half again the size of the largest Warg, much smarter, but no less vicious, and they numbered a dozen. Though the Wargs and the Uruk-hai numbered a hundred each, none of them believed that advantage was sufficient to seize power, and they had no clear leader amongst them that all would follow.
Those who deemed themselves cunning and ambitious realized that they would have to wait and hope for some unforeseen presence or event to change the balance of power. Otherwise, they would spend howe'er many days were left to them serving the fearful proxies of their blood-curdling master.
Gijakûrz-kragor's success in reaching the Azanulbizar Gate was greater than any of them, or even he realized. By ne'er showing themselves in the lands west of Mirkwood, they had avoided the olvar and kelvar in the Vale of Anduin. The plants that whispered to Helluin and the Elves at Norðr-vestandóttir Bý had spoken no rumor of them. The animals that served the Ithron Aiwendil knew 'naught of them. Neither birds of prey nor packs of wolves told of their passing. By traveling south rather than north, they had avoided all the abodes of their enemies, Suꝺriborg, Rhosgobel, and eventually Lothlórien. None had marked them at the Old Ford of Anduin, traveling the Dwarf Road, or passing through the Loeg Ningloron. No soldier of Gondor, Eagle, Periain, or Marchwarden had espied their coming. Not even the Orcs of the Misty Mountains suspected their presence. They had traveled safely and successfully, (even if still fearfully), from Dol Guldur to Moria, a feat not achieved in centuries.
When night fell, Bloody Fang led his company down from the trail and into the Vale of Nanduhirion. They came first to Kheled-zâram and drank their fill. There they lounged on the turf a while, enjoying the respite from having hard stone 'neath their paws. Bright Ithil shone down, but the Wargs had been forbidden to howl. No Uruk lit a torch. From the headwaters of Celebrant, they snatched some fish and scarfed them down raw. Then they made their way to the East Gate of Moria and slipped inside.
Some moments they spent allowing their eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. They sniffed the air, detecting many scents grown faint with age. Carefully, they listened to the watchful silence; the faint echoes of their own breathing the only break in a blanket of stillness that would quickly grow oppressive. Eventually they detected a faint and distant susurration that spoke of water somewhere 'neath their feet.
There was danger too 'neath the mountains; they all felt it pressing in with the darkness, as if something waited on a revealing sound or voice ere it pounced. There was a nameless fear that raised their hackles and threatened without declaring itself, that would not reveal itself save if 'twas disturbed, but whose fatal consequence they doubted not. The realm of Moria had already a dark master, nameless, faceless, and silent, who brooked no challenge. This they all sensed.
As they stood in the First Hall of the East End, they marked that no defenses had barred them, the gate had stood open and unguarded, and no sentries had challenged them. It spoke of supreme confidence. Their master had laid upon them the task of offering an alliance to the power that he suspected dwelt within these silent delvings. The prospect of approaching what they felt now was terrifying, for 'twas wholly foreign to them. It seemed to need or desire 'naught from the outside world and perhaps it craved only to be left alone. What could they possibly offer, assuming it would even suffer their presence to parlay?
Gijakûrz-kragor ordered the company to scout the First Hall, the barracks, mess hall, guard chamber, and the stables adjacent to it where Helluin had stabled Barq in 1975. They found all of it deserted including the public inn and dining room where Barkûn, sergeant of the gate guard company, had hosted Glorfindel, Thórá, Gwingion, and Galadhon in 1974. Yrch and Werewolves searched 'til they were convinced that they were alone and only a single way led from the gate to the interior of Moria. Down a broad staircase and 'cross a couple platforms lay the bottomless rift and the slender arch of stone known as Durin's Bridge that spanned it. The very sight of it was as an ill omen.
Despite their excellent night vision, all that lay beyond the bridge was invisible in the darkness. The hints of echoes suggested a vast space and so the Second Hall was, half again longer than the First Hall and with a loftier ceiling, but 'twas from the open maw of the black chasm that the faint suggestions of sounds came. Somewhere far, far 'neath their feet lay a great expanse of water; they were sure of it. Its humidity rose from the depths, coming ghostly to their nostrils. 'Twas as clear to them as the scent of fear that clung to the stones of Dol Guldur's dungeon centuries after the last captive had died.
Long they stood listening and trying to smell 'aught carried upon the slow movement of the air, for 'twas not stagnant as one would expect in a closed cave or mine. As yet unseen, there must be at least a second opening to the outside world. Moria breathed, softly and slowly, like some slumbering creature unimaginably large whose faint life signs defied the perception of the living.
With his eyes and the pointing of his muzzle, Gijakûrz-kragor silently assigned watches to the stairs, the platform on the hither side of the bridge, the First Hall, the chambers branching from it, and the gate itself. They would spend hours in silent vigil, watching, listening, and smelling for any movement, sound, or scent that would betray the presence of any others ere they committed to advancing further. Bloody Fang was loath to reveal his company or invite an attack by unseen foes because of impatience. He lay down at the foot of the staircase and rested his head on his forepaws, but his senses were sharp as he watched the bridge and listened to the whispers from the bottomless chasm 'neath it.
We are not alone here, and no matter that we see and hear 'naught, I can feel…something, but I know not its kind, he thought. I shall be surprised if we survive, for this ruin is a trap if e'er I have seen one.
Being as 'twas now early in the month of Cerveth, (July, more or less), and with the long summer days dawning early and twilight coming late, the nights were short. The company maintained their watch through the remainder of the dark hours. Slowly, the scant light that entered the First Hall through the Azanulbizar Gate cast faint illumination on the bridge and revealed a hint of the size of the Second Hall beyond. Dawn had come to the Hithaeglir. In Moria, none moved.
For an hour, the light grew and it revealed more details, for though exceedingly dim compared to a dawn above ground, set against the e'erlasting darkness to which their eyes had adapted during the night, 'twas as though bonfires had been lit. Now they clearly saw the measure of the stone bridge and the opening of the bottomless pit riven 'cross the floor of the hall's eastern end.
Half a hundred feet that span and not a half-fathom in breadth, a brilliant defense, Gijakûrz-kragor thought as he gazed upon it in awe, and we are surely lost, for what prowess of an enemy could o'ercome such an approach to defeat the builders of this place? In single-file must we cross and I deem only speed can aid our cause.
Now Gijakûrz-kragor assembled his company and outlined what little of a plan he could contrive.
"In silence we cross single-file, one following close on the heels of the one ahead and all at a flat out run," he said. "To linger on that bridge is death. Upon the far side, we shall spread out in pairs and advance with space between. Take the Second Hall fast. Heed any entrances and stay sharp for the foe may come from anywhere in any numbers. We know too little to do more."
Trusting the Warg Riders not at all, he forced them to go first. The dozen Werewolves followed, snapping at their heels. Wargs and Werewolves crossed Durin's Bridge at a gallop and no few of the Yrch clenched shut their eyes in fear. But Gijakûrz-kragor, who followed the wisdom of leading from the rear, took up a small stone from the floor in his mouth, and when he stepped upon the bridge, dropped it into the chasm and then ran forward with ears cocked to hear it land. It ne'er did ere he was across, and then the necessity of the assault captured his attention.
Fifty pairs of Wargs and six pairs of Werewolves raced to spread out through the Second Hall, deadly eyes squinting into the darkness of intersecting passages and halls, and they met none to hinder them. After a short while measured in heartbeats and the intake of breaths, they sat and listened, sniffed the air, and looked all 'round, but they saw none save themselves. No foes sought to assail them and no defenders sought to repel them. The same silence they had spent the night in continued uninterrupted. Though it felt like a year had passed since they crossed the bridge, it had been but a couple minutes. Then softly from behind came the faint and distant sound of a pebble bouncing off stone ere falling into water.
*Scoloti: Endonym for the ancient nomadic people of modern Ukraine and southern Russia later known as the Scythians whose warrior elite were called the Royal Scythians.
**Orek: In Turkic folklore, an Orek is a reanimated corpse, usually brought back to life by witchcraft or other supernatural means, and typically mindless and hungry for human flesh. It is basically a zombie.
To Be Continued
Guest: Thanks for your review. I've always thought that details help a story. When actions have cause, they become more believable, but also, how characters prepare reveals how they think. I research the details, especially where my own experience is limited. Writers are usually advised to 'write about what you know', but alas, I've never been to Middle Earth, never grew up in a medieval village, fought in a medieval battle, or lived in a feudal society. I probably overcompensate at times, so if my explanations of processes become tedious, or descriptions get long-winded, it's my deficiencies in experience and insufficient editing that are at fault.
As evidenced by each Age ending in a grand conflict between good and evil, there is a repetitive nature to Tolkien's Middle Earth history. Themes are reiterated, (though on progressively lower arcs), from the grand hosts of the War of Wrath, to the desperate fool's hope of a Hobbit destroying Sauron's Ring. Rather than an army of Avari to defend Calenglad, Helluin now has fourteen to train again, hopefully, a case of quality over quantity.
You pose a very good question; what was the Tatyar's motivation to come west and seek out Helluin? I'm intending to reveal that in conversations and flashbacks, rather than devoting a separate chapter to it, but I can't get into it here as I'm not fond of spoilers, lol. Stay tuned.