Chapter 4

In Stormy Weather

A drum roll of thunder sounded in the distance, jarring and clashing continuously with the steady rhythm of the splashing rain. A blanket of clouds covered the heavens, which was ever so capricious and whimsical in the spring, always choosing and deciding which dress it was more becoming in: blue or gray.

The dirt roads had long since turned to slosh, and Estel tried unsuccessfully to pull his hood and cloak closer around him with one hand, while leading his horse with the other. As a result, whips of water lashed across his face and the icy hands of the battling winds tangled around his neck, causing him to shiver uncontrollably. Indeed, this unexpected spring shower had already soaked him through, and his mare's insistent snorts and tosses of her head did not help matters.

He could not see three feet in front of his face unless a sudden rapture of lightning tore the sky with blazing fire. He guided himself with the broken images that he got, forming a crude and ill-made map in his mind, constantly stumbling over tree roots and getting a boot stuck in a particularly deep bowl of mud.

Unlike the cleansing spring rains of Rivendell, the dangerous hills around the blessed valley issued ominous billows of mist that ascended and brought about downpours so heavy and freezing, the very air filled with the chilling scent of tainted ice which brought perspiration that refused to evaporate on Estel's neck. Even now, he longed to wash himself, as the putrid rain ran down his face and through his clothing.

He looked around, and saw that even the elves were no longer bringing their faces to the clouds, taking in nature's cleansing. This rain was the exact opposite, and everyone knew it. Cuiladan had returned to the gloom that seemed to have been permeating his soul for the past few days, and even Elladan and Elrohir were no longer playfully joking. Estel's only comfort were the four guards, whose expressions had not changed since their departure. He had finally learned their names, and though they were only as old or younger than the twins, they had a menacing, taciturn air that the boy was loath to invade.

One was Ranien, from Mirkwood, and was always front left, almost like a scout for the small band. He seemed to be more liable to speak than the others, and Estel had found him smiling at the twins' argument when they were leaving Rivendell. He was a tall elf, but wore the strange greens and browns, which seemed to weave back and forth between each other, of the Great Forest, and a ready swordsman; he wielded the blade and bow with equal skill.

Another was Orophin of Lórien, who spoke little of the Common Tongue, and, had Estel not known this before, just as little Sindarin. Of all the aloof guards, he was the coldest, with eyes so blue, the boy swore that they reflected the sky. His hair was a mixture of gold and silver, and Estel found a great interest in this until Orophin, who was the rear guard, caught his eye and glared at him. After that, Estel only wished to never have the elf's eyes on him again.

The other two, Lindir and Gildor Inglorion of the House of Finrod, the boy knew, as Lindir was a resident of Rivendell and had a marvelous voice, as his name entailed, and Gildor was an exile, constantly roaming the western lands of Middle-Earth, but always stopped at Rivendell whenever he passed it. As a child, Estel had heard many of his stories. Gildor took the front right, and Lindir rode behind Estel, but in front of Orophin, constantly humming strange and beautiful tunes that the boy suspected that he was making up as they went along.

It was their second day on the road, and the Hithaeglir, or the Misty Mountains, were looming to their left, curtained with mystery and new adventure for Estel. Despite the rain, the boy had no doubts in his mind that better days were up ahead, and that he would soon find greatness at the end of their journey.

Suddenly, Ranien pulled his horse, a large black stallion, to a stop, and flicked his head towards the mountains. "Did you see--?" A shattering onslaught of thunder drowned out the rest of the question, but Gildor and the twins had already slowed their horses to a walk and caught up with their lead.

Estel pulled his horse next to Cuiladan's and stopped behind the twins, just as the raucous performance by the sky ended. His human eyes scanned the faint line of the mountains before him, but he could see nothing.

"Just an animal running for shelter," his brother decided, nearly shouting to be overheard in the torrent of rain, and began to plod his horse forward again.

"No, wait!" Elladan proclaimed, and just then, Estel saw, quicker than any squirrel or rabbit, a shadow in the moment that the lightning flashed. "There's something there!" Hands flew to sheaths and bows, and the boy let his hood fly into his face as the wind blew from behind him, and copied their examples.

What evil could be so close to Rivendell? he wondered, feeling silly with his hand on his new sword, freshly sharpened and lethal. Most likely, it will just be some traveler or a runaway slave. Still, his heart beat quickened, and he felt blood rush to his face, as his optimism sprang up, hoping against hope that this would be his first battle.

"Let us get closer," Lindir spoke, his voice melodious even against the raging storm around him. As one, the small band began to creep forward, legs bent, and crouched, low to the ground. Thunder sounded again, and Estel threw his hood back in frustration. The raw elements tore at his face, and he squinted to keep the water out of his eyes.

Lightning flashed once more.

Thwok!

Something whizzed by the boy's head and hit one of his packs upon his horse's back. Though trained by elves and was already unusually calm in such violent weather, the mare was not accustomed to being shot at. Wild, high-pitched neighs pierced the skies, and she ripped her nose from Estel's frantic grasps. She continued to scream, and the boy abandoned all thought of battle, turning his back and leaping up to grab his horse's mouth.

On his third try, he succeeded, but more arrows, undeterred by the weather, it seemed, flew by, narrowly missing him and his horse.

"We are under attack!" Elrohir called out unnecessarily, and Estel saw a glimmer of metal as lightning again crackled through the sky. The boy's heart leaped into his throat, even though his mind had already registered this thought, and in vain, he tried to quiet his mare and draw his weapon at the same time.

"Dartho!" he cried helplessly to the mare. "Estelio nin!"

Amazingly, she suddenly quieted, and lowered her head. Blinking with astonishment at the simpleness of this task, Estel could only hope that his next one would not prove to be any more difficult. Turning away from her, he drew his long bow, and bent it and strung it in one motion, as Elrond had taught him to do long ago. Luckily, the wind was on their side, and above the thunder and pattering of the rain, the boy could hear the faint twanging of bows as the elves and his brothers let loose their ammunition.

Squawks of pain erupted quickly from the distance, and the boy swallowed, thinking of his target. He drew an arrow, aimed it into the sky at an angle, and let loose, not knowing what else to do. His feet seemed to have lost all control of themselves, and he found that all the lessons his bow master had taught him had flown out of his head.

They were under attack. What should he do?

One line came to him. "…whenever firing long distance, it is best if one is as close to the ground as possible. That way, one has less chance of being a potential target…"

Thank the Valar for his instructor!

Estel nearly fell to his knees besides Cuiladan, who was inching forward, loosing arrows as he went. The boy tried to follow his brother's example, but found that he could not aim and fire at the same time that he was walking. Also, he was not able to fire the arrows as fast as his brother, and more than half the time, his fingers slipped on the bowstring because they were slick with rain.

"We don't even know who they are!" he wailed to Cuiladan, who's mouth was set in an unmoving line, as he saw from the lightning.

"They are shooting at us," his brother replied, as if that explained everything, and continued to inch forward.

Thunder, then lightning raced through the hills, and Estel finally saw the protruding figures against the mountain. There were at least ten of them, all about the same size, but the light was gone too quickly for him to make out any features. They could have been elf, man, or even dwarf, for all he knew.

Evidently, Elladan seemed to have made out their numbers as well, and shouted, "Advance! We will take them at proximity!" Just as he screamed this, a cry rose up on their own side, and Estel's head shot towards the center of their small formation. One of the elves had been hit.

"Go!" Cuiladan cried, but the boy was already climbing towards the source of the voice, trying to aid whoever had issued it. "No!" his brother grabbed him by the collar with a free hand, and dragged him to his feet. "Leave him for later!"

"But—"

"Go!"

Cuiladan nearly threw him forwards, and Estel stumbled and twisted his right ankle. Waves of hot, shooting pain raced up his leg as he collapsed once more, the razor blades of rain cutting into the skin on his face and head. He clutched at his ankle, but then remembered where he was, and confusedly, dropped his bow and tried to get up.

He was successful, but the others had long since passed him, charging into the territory of their unseen enemy. Estel grit his teeth, unsheathed his sword, and felt its familiar weight in his hands. His fingers found the grooves on the hilt, and suddenly, his sword lessons flooded back into his mind. He unclasped the choking bandolier around his chest that held his quiver of arrows, as he knew he would need it no longer, and steadied himself on his feet. Limping forward, he moved as fast as he could towards the battleground, ignoring the icy streams running down his back and into his boots. His stockings sloshed uncomfortably, and he felt his underwear heavy with rainwater, but he continued to lope forward, his sword held at his side, point faced down.

Everything was happening too fast, and colors and actions seemed enhance tenfold as Estel charged up the hill, closer to the mountains. The interval between the lightning and the thunder had grown so close together that they chased each other incessantly, making the boy's head spin.

Flash. BOOM!

The enemy seemed to be coming closer.

Flash. BOOM!

He could see the twins and Cuiladan way before him, three of the guards with them.

Flash. BOOM!

The enemy was racing down the hill towards them!

Estel did not know when he came upon his first Orc, but there he was, the eerie, blue lights flashing about him, with two of the foul, small creatures coming at him with their scimitars and stolen weapons. He never got a good look at their faces. His eyes seemed to only focus on his sword, and their weapons, as thunder and the roar of the rain hitting the uneven ground swept through his senses.

The blood rushed past his ears at his first parry, making even the boisterous storm grow faint. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps, and his fingers were slippery with sweat and rain. One of the Orcs screeched in anger and leaped nearly half its height into the air, coming down at Estel with alarming dexterity. Its arms were outstretched, the metal of the blade flashing in the lightning, and the boy watched, his mouth half open with horror, as it descended in uncanny slow motion.

Screaming with both fear and a touch of madness, Estel waved his weapon wildly, his feet tangled in a mass of bootlaces, and thrust the sword upward without thinking, his arms weighed down by the gallons of water that dripped from his sleeves.

A spine-chilling, foreign scream pierced the night air, and Estel joined it as a lance of hot pain lashed down the side of his arm. His own blood mixed with the rain and the warm liquid dripping down his sword and flowing over his hands, and he screamed again, dropping his weapon.

Thunder. Lightning.

He did not see the Orc fall.

Another at his right.

The sky lit up with raging fire, and it was only then that the boy realized that the storm was directly overhead. Lightning struck the ground only a few hundred paces to his left, and he jumped right, rolling on the ground at his adversary, weaponless. His sword arm was numb from the cold, and the only feeling came from the steady dripping of the warm liquid inside of him out onto the grass and mud. Blinded by the whiteness, he felt the unbearable heat wash over him, and he shut his eyes, expecting at any moment for a blast of lightning or the bite of his foe's scimitar in his flesh.

Nothing came, and completely soaked and saturated with mud, Estel opened his eyes, clutching his right arm with his left.

The sky gave an outline of his swarthy, bandy-legged enemy, holding a wicked-looking weapon overhand, ready to pierce it through his belly.

Fear jolted through the boy's heart, and spread down to his abdomen, squeezing and expanding like rubber. He tasted bile, and his mind went blank. If he did not do something soon, his heart would leap out of his throat!

He had no sword. The thing would kill him. He was too young. He could not die. He promised his mother. Where would he get a weapon? How could he survive? He needed a weapon…

ELLADAN'S DAGGER!

The image of his brother's birthday gift swam through his bleary mind, and he saw the elegant handle, carved with platinum and entwined with leather trailing along the back of his brain. The blade was as long as his hand splayed out, lethal, and sharpened to a barely-visible cutting edge. It was blessed with elven magic and glowed with internal fire…

Where was it?

He fumbled hopeless at his belt, as the Orc brought down its weapon. Estel's body reacted without thinking, and, hands still at his belt with his elbows spread open like a duck, he rolled away, hitting the nerve in his arm, and then cutting his wound on a jagged rock that stuck out of the ground.

He heard the chink of the metal slide through the ground, only a finger-length away from his head. The Orc's frustrated cry rose through the air, collaborating with the angry screams of the storm.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and Estel felt his mind suddenly clear. The dagger was not at his belt. He had it in his ankle sheath. But the Orc was already within a few paces of him, he was sure, though he could not see it, and there he was, lying helplessly on the ground, the storm raging around him, and covered in mud…

That was it! He was covered in mud. The Orc could no more see him that he it.

Stay still, Estel, he told himself, and tried to crouch, getting his knees to his chest so he could withdraw the dagger. It was not much use against a sword, but at least he would not be completely weaponless.

Fumbling with his soggy leggings that clung stubbornly to his legs, he scanned the area before his eyes, hoping that lightning would flash so he could see the presence of his foe. He could hear nothing except the storm and thunder, and he did not know where any of the others were. The twins had long since stopped shouting orders for fear of giving away their position, so here he was: alone.

I cannot think about that now! Estel screamed mentally, and finally pulled his leggings from his boot, located the sheath of the dagger, and pulled it out unceremoniously. The cutting edge split the bottom of his pant leg and he cursed loudly, unafraid that anyone would hear him over the sound of the rain.

He clutched at his chest, muffling the beat of his heart, for if anything else, he was afraid that it would lead him to his discovery. Never had he ever seen or been through anything like this. He wanted out. This was not what adventure was supposed to be about! The dark, the rain, and the cold… none of this was mentioned by his brothers or by the stories he read.

And heroes always fought standing up. None of them crouched, unnoted in the mud, filthy and wet. He tried to get up, but something icy and clammy choked his throat and would not let him up. Light-headed, he tore at the thing around his neck, and only then, realized that it was his own cloak. His eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head for the want of air, he clumsily tore the wet cloth, and threw it from his body.

A great sense of lightness came to him, and he felt free, away from his heavy cloak.

Lightning flashed again.

The other Orc was nowhere in sight.

Estel did not know whether to be relieved or afraid, and stepped forward cautiously.

Only then did he realize that he still had a twisted ankle and he cried out involuntarily. Instantly, thunder sounded, and blood rushed past his ears as he stumbled again and fell.

A swiping sound came over his head, and tears stung his eyes as he screamed again. A splitting pain issued from the back of his head, and he brought a hand up to his skull, catching the crimson fountain that was dribbling out of his head.

So much blood…

He had to be dying!

He spun like a drunkard, staggering and ignoring the pain in his ankle. One hand brandished elven dagger with no skill whatsoever, and he stabbed the air around him like a madman.

His head spun like a top. The little that he could see was starting to dim. He was not sure when he wounded the Orc, but suddenly, he was bathed in a warm and sticky liquid.

Had he severed an artery?

Nausea swept through him, and shuddering, he fell to his knees, hurling the contents of his stomach.

Something hit him over the head, and he remembered nothing else.

Thanks for reviewing, everyone! However, due to the fact that I will have to be in DTASC for this month, I will not be updating until November. I hope you enjoy this chapter and keep reviewing!