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Chapter 6:
To Purpose Evil unto Evil

Maitimo's eyes grew unfocused as he ran every possible factor of the plan a thousand and one times through his head, but their distracted state cleared as he looked up at the light pitter-patters of running. One of the spotters emerged from the darkness and veered in his projected path to head straight for Maitimo after searching him out. Maitimo lifted his chin. "The scouts return?" he lightly called.

"Yes, Highness! Just behind me." The Elf slowed down to a brisk walk.

There was a stir among the warriors behind Maitimo, a drastic difference from the near dead silence that had lasted for a good hour. There were no exchanges of words, not even soft murmurs, but there was a lot of shuffling of feet and armaments. Maitimo forced himself to keep his eyes straight ahead, taking another steady breath.

"How can you be so calm?" Sornion suddenly whispered in his ear, and Maitimo could hear the tight anxiety in his voice.

He gave a faint smile. "It helps if you are terrified," he whispered back out of the corner of his mouth. Sornion snorted and Maitimo fought to maintain a straight face. By Aulë, was he that nervous that he was able to find dark humor during such a time as this? Nothing about their situation was funny.

Maitimo kept his gaze directed straight ahead and before long, tall and dark shapes emerged from the shadows between the high rocks. Three of them with the other two spotters following behind, all of the Elves bearing either sword or bow as they materialized fully out of the darkness and came to stand before Maitimo, saluting to him. The silence behind Maitimo was so tense that he could practically feel it against his back.

"Well?" Maitimo looked from one to the other, proud at how untroubled he managed to sound.

"They are there, Prince Maitimo," reported the scout who stood in the middle. His face was carefully composed, though his eyebrows drew down slightly. "Twenty is their number."

A hushed murmur rose among the Noldor and Maitimo was pressed to keep the jolt of surprise from showing in his own face. Valar, not surprise. More like shock that rapidly grew. He could hardly believe it….

"I cannot believe it," Aráto muttered from his right, voice liberally coated in astonishment. Maitimo made a face at him. So much for someone having to believe that Moringotto was being honest.

Sornion shifted, glancing quickly at Maitimo before turning an appraising yet troubled look on each of the scouts. "You broadened your search?"

"Yes, Commander. These rocks differ further in than those we have seen thus far, but we expanded our search a furlong out from his delegation and there was no sign of any further spawn of the Enemy. We sensed something at bay, like a darkness or something, but we could only attribute it to Moringotto's delegation. After knowing that there was that Orc-Maia-person among the embassy you encountered, Highness, we wondered if there might not be one among the twenty."

Maitimo turned the information over in mind with a slight frown, glancing beyond the scouts. He knew he did not need to ask if the scouts had been spotted by the Orcs or if they saw all truly, but he wished the embassy was in sight to see it for himself.

Sornion looked sidelong at Maitimo, his eyes narrowed. "Would that be a breaking of the agreement?"

That was what Maitimo was trying to decide. After several more moments of consideration he slowly shook his head, his frown deepening. "No," he answered, unsure at first, but his voice started to sound more certain. "It may simply be the Orc-speaker again. It is not so absurd to believe he would head Moringotto's delegation a second time when we need someone to communicate with, much as why there was a Maia with the first embassy. If there is a Maia among them, it may be out of necessity. But," he added sharply, turning his attention back on the scouts, "such conjecture depends on the purpose of their presence. Saw you the Silmaril?"

All of the expressions of the scouts morphed into something very uncertain, many exchanging glances, all the while avoiding Maitimo's gaze. "No, Highness," the middle scout replied. "So wholly bright as it is, such a Jewel would shine as nothing else in this darkness, but we saw not even a glimmer of Light, of any light."

Maitimo released a small sigh, his lips pressing together as he considered that as well. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, suddenly feeling the hefty, discomforting gazes of over sixty Elves on him. "Mayhap it is covered," he mused. "Just possibly. I make no excuse for them, but we are still learning about these Orcs and their assault on the Host supports the idea."

The Captain of the second division looked at him in confusion. "Why would they cover it, Prince?"

Maitimo's eyebrows hiked up as he turned to him, a wry grin tugging at his mouth. "Look above us, Captain." Though it was more of a rhetorical instruction, every Elf did anyway, casting curious glances at the sky. "These dark clouds have yet to part since our first crossing over the mountains, though they seemed to have stopped instead of proceed on into Hísilómë. The Orcs cannot tolerate even a meager amount of starlight and the majesty of my father's Jewels exceeds the brilliance of them all. They may just find themselves blinded looking upon Silmaril Light."

There was more than one snort of derision, but several quick nods followed and part of Maitimo could not help but wonder if they trusted his speculation because he possessed the most intimate knowledge of the Silmarils of all there, perhaps second only to Fëanáro himself, or because he was the high commander on this venture and they were supposed to.

Maitimo dismissed the idle musing, turning to face the mass of Elves and he could not deny feeling a quick swell of pride at their ready stances and calm composure. He took one more breath of resolve. "Let us do this, my good companions. I would have no one suffer wounds, nor anyone be slain. When in arrow's reach and upon my command, those of you among the Pilindossë give them a volley at the Captain's call. To the rest the assault will follow swiftly from there, so be ready."

"What of the Silmaril, my lord?" called a warrior over on their left flank.

"We will search their carcasses after the deed is done. But be you all ready to hasten back upon our path, for I wager the Enemy will be wroth at our subterfuge. I would rather us be back among the Host to face whatever new design he would unleash on us. Now," he finished up, turning around once again and nodding at the scouts to take point, "let us march."

They continued with the scouts positioned at the van to lead them on the quickest path, the ever persistent rumbling of rolling thunder above them. The final legs of the crossing seemed to pass within no time at all, though Maitimo knew it to have been over an hour at least.

The scouts' forewarning of the landscape had been accurate, however; before long the Noldor found themselves treading a bed of rocks so thick that barely any of the wild grass underneath managed to poke its way through. Yet the rock bed was curtained not only by the massive boulders they had bypassed now for six leagues, but also the new formation of rock the scout had mentioned. And some towering as tall as the height of alders, these rocks looked like the wave of a churning sea immobilized during its crashing upon a cliff, for this dark, almost black sediment spiked high and broad from the ground in many long, tapered teeth. This could not be any natural rock, Maitimo wanted to swear, and if it was, it seriously made him want to question many things that had been unquestionable before. But the darkness persisted in its smothering essence and though the Elves were lanternless and encumbered by the wide bed of rocks, they were not weary and Maitimo knew all their senses were heightened. They progressed more slowly, making very little sound despite all the armor and steel they bore, and the scouts soon returned with word that the embassy was just ahead.

Soon enough, broad and stout forms easily recognizable as the hunched profiles of Orcs began to take shape in the dark and Maitimo held up a clenched fist, stopping. The company slowed to an immediate halt and the silence that fell over them was deafening, making the wind blasting against them from the east and whistling through the rocks even louder. They all waited, but the Orcs were still. Maitimo's eyes quickly grew accustomed to them in the dark and he could see indeed that there were only twenty of them. Twenty exactly. His eyes flicked back and forth, peering and searching.

A deep frown creased Maitimo's brow as he stared at them, a seed of foreboding budding deep in his chest. Something was wrong.

There was no Silmaril among them. Yes, it might have been covered for the reasons he had suggested. And it was highly believable that the Orcs would cover such a caging of Light if they could not even stand just a little starlight. But Maitimo had been there during the Jewels' making, had been one of the few his father had permitted to see them, and he had always lived within their vicinity up until the time they had been stolen from the vault. He knew the holy resonance of the Silmarils on an intimate level, knew them as well as the beat of his own heart. It was a resonance burned permanently into the well of his memory and a resonance he could not now sense among the group of Orcs. Something was wrong.

"Hail Nelyafinwë, King to Be!"

The Orc-speaker. Though Maitimo was not above disbelieving anymore that Moringotto might have other Maiar at his beck and call perfectly capable in speaking Quenya, he recognized that grating voice he had heard only once before. The lead Orc of the delegation shifted in the dark, the others behind him stirring in that familiar manner of Orc impatience.

Maitimo did not yield a return answer, refused to, and that foreboding that now felt like a solid rock in his chest grew stronger.

Because he was baffled. Why send the promised number of twenty but not have the Silmaril? Why send twenty and not have the Jewel with them to surrender when Moringotto must have known it would only result in his Orcs being slain for so obviously breaking their pledge? Yes, it was a bitter and rancid disappointment to truthfully know without a doubt now that Moringotto had lied, but Maitimo could not pretend to be surprised. They had all known the high improbability of it. But what flabbergasted him was that Moringotto had still sent only a score of Orcs. For what?

To not send a Silmaril with them, but still send forth only twenty. It was completely illogical. Therefore, there was only one logical conclusion to make:

He had not.

"Retreat."

The word barely passed his lips, but every Elf seemed to hear it and he could sense their reaction to his single word without even having to look. But Maitimo kept his gaze firmly on the score of Orcs a hundred paces out, his breaths quickening.

"My prince?"

He did not know who spoke, probably Sornion, but he stepped back himself, the Elves directly behind him forced to shuffle back as well. "Retreat!" he again commanded in a harsh whisper. "They have no Silmaril!"

"But they number only tw–"

"Retreat!"

No one wasted a moment longer to do as Maitimo bid, appearing to take his words at face value and not questioning the urgency in their prince's voice when they outnumbered the Orcs before them by three. Not even Sornion tossed him a look of enquiry before his commanding voice was ringing out over the Noldor, his tone edged with a new, more dreadful form of anxiety that had not been there before. But before the Noldor could do more than shift their feet to turn about, the eerie silence of the night was shattered, but not by the slithering draw of Orcish weapons as they might have assumed would happen.

Without warning, the earth quaked wrathfully beneath their feet, literally shifting and making the stones of the rock bed tumble over each other. After several hasty steps with his feet, Maitimo fell to his knees at the sudden unstableness of the ground and winced in pain at the impact. The muttered curses he heard around him told him that he was not the only one to have collapsed. Elves were yelling in a blurring mixture of shock and consternation behind him, Sornion's voice the loudest of them all, but the booming quakes in the ground were too deafening for Maitimo to comprehend anything of what they shouted. But even as he was being hoisted to his feet by fierce grips on his arms, Maitimo's eyes were compellingly drawn upward as a sudden mass of darkness gathered rapidly overhead. Clouds, dark and impenetrable and so many of them conglomerated above like a veil and a scream ripped from Maitimo's throat as, without any warning again, he was suddenly smote in fëa by the tendrils of a Chaos that felt to shred apart the whole of his being. Distantly behind him, Maitimo could hear similar cries of dozens of Elves blend with his own.

Whatever that horror was soon ended. Come now, Maitimo inwardly castigated, regain your wits! He shuffled to stand on both feet again – on somewhat steadier ground, though it still rumbled and trembled – and he drew in a deep breath to shout at the Elves to run.

Just as the sounds of the first syllable emerged from his throat, a monstrous noise roared from their right, louder than anything Maitimo had ever heard before. And a couple hundred paces east of their position, the green, rock-strewn ground split open into mighty ravines from which immediately issued forth billows of rancid smoke. Smoke that swiftly blasted away as a great flare of light shot up against the background of the darkened East and the ravines lit with that familiar diabolical glow of red.

A very familiar glow of red.

Maitimo felt his heart climb up in his throat as he watched aghast as those they named Valaraukar emerged from the depths of the ravines. Four of them. Four! Maitimo could barely breathe, his heart racing wildly, and he began screaming again without restraint for the host of warriors to flee. To flee and fly fast, curse it all to the Void!

"To the steppes and do not stop! Move! Sornion, to the van and keep them moving!" The panic in his voice could not be suppressed, nor did he care.

They ran.

But something soon happened to slow the company to an abrupt stop, an issuance of a command to halt by the rearguard Captain. Maitimo surged forward as far as he could, forcing himself through several bodies and looking over the helms to see what impeded them to actually stop, because Valar, they could not stop! The frantic desperation among the Noldor was now very real and Maitimo had no idea what to say or do. Their only option was to run. Just run. Maitimo narrowed his eyes, straining them to peer into that swiving darkness to see just what the problem was.

He felt his heart stop.

A throng of Orcs that must have been three hundred strong were marching up on their rear, not even half a furlong away, and their cadence barely carried through the massive rocks, despite the steppes being as flat as a platter. Even as the beasts ran with the adrenaline of battle in their uncouth step, the Valaraukar, four of them at twice the height of their Elven statures, shifted from their emergence from the pits in the ravines and came to the fore, trampling all manners of the foliage underfoot as they moved towards the rear right flank of the Elven host, nefarious growls rumbling from deep within them while their dark fire and blazing manes casted a raw shadow of horror over the whole expanse of land that the storm clouds above could not even begin to contend.

Maitimo was unable to do anything, not a damn thing as he watched the sight unfold. He saw the raw panic alight on Aráto's face, even Sornion's at the ambush that had materialized within the space of a matter of breaths. Shouts rang out, Maitimo's among them to draw their weapons and fight free of the blockade, but the Orcs enclosed the space between them faster than the distance suggested and fanned out among the rocky labyrinth. But the Elves' alternate paths to the sides were soon cut off, beset by their hideous shapes leaping from behind rocks with mewls and roars, their teeth bared.

With a flash of steel and a surge of burning fury, Maitimo did not hesitate to decapitate the Orc that rushed him on his right, sheering through what little iron his sword met. Black blood spurted high and Maitimo followed through with a fierce fist to the Orc immediately behind the one he slew, crushing the muscle-ridden neck beneath the folds of his gauntlet and rendering the beast still enough to drive in his sword beneath unprotected ribs.

Chaos unfolded.

The ring of swords being drawn was loud amid the din and, much to Maitimo's bewilderment, the Elves moved almost as one body within the ring of Orcs to knit closely around him, facing outward as much as Maitimo was. Their blades, already fast and swift, were now spurred on with a speed that came only from pure panic, and the panic among the Elves now desperately fighting was one Maitimo had never before witnessed. The terror they exuded was overpowering and Maitimo's fury grew greater. His strokes came down harder, more vicious, and his mind echoed relentlessly with the burning question of how many would die. How many?

How many would die!

The thought gave him an extra surge of energy as he sent a brutal kick into the Orc he parried with, sending him doubled over with his back exposed and Maitimo reversed the grip on his sword to pierce the thrust in between the iron-plated armor. Before the Orc could even completely crumble to the ground, Maitimo shoved the beast and its weight back into the Orcs behind it before looking over his shoulder, drops of sweat falling into his eyes. He saw Aráto dodge an iron blade just in time that flew through the air, though it nicked the surface of his neck from which blood quickly welled. And Sornion was close beside Maitimo, flanking him on the opposite side, the swiftness of his sword and shield moving with desperate speed. Maitimo's eyes quickly flicked over the rest of the host before he turned back to fighting once more and his heart went beating erratically with a newly growing horror, for there was only one outcome to all this. Only one, an inevitable one, no other. The twang of bows sounded in no set pattern, telling Maitimo that the archers fired at their own will. And though the razor-edged arrows were finding their marks, the sound of the number of bows was lessening as one by one they were killed.

The strokes of the Elves visibly began to grow more frantic. For every Orc slain it seemed there were three more to take its place and swords hammered from the finest steel intercepted Orcish blades of a coarse molding. In several series of flashing strokes the Elves repelled the Orcs, but it was just not enough. The repetitive bang on shields echoed the loudest over the entire skirmish's din, and more than one Elf was finally driven to his knees. But when the Valaraukar started to engage those Elves in the rear, the desolation in Maitimo's heart knew no bounds, especially when he saw out of the corner of his eye many shots of flame igniting in tune with the sickly sound of flesh being minced.

And the Orc-speaker remained where he stood, watching.

There was a sudden cry of Aráto's voice cut short behind him and Maitimo spun on his heel, blood-streaked sword held aloft and ready to land a blow wherever it might be needed. But as soon as he turned he closed his eyes at the unexpected spurting of blood, hot flecks of it hitting his cheek. He snapped his eyes open, but the Captain was gone from his sight, somewhere on the ground amid Elven and Orcish legs that flew around his body, even trampling or tripping on it.

Sornion stood not too far off, his always confident face now completely twisted in despair while he bled profusely from what seemed like many places, for he was covered in blood that was more red than black and was unable to stand fully erect anymore. Maitimo saw it, saw it all, heard it all and his vision went red. The Orc roars might as well have been another layer of the thunder overhead and the keen clamor of steel and iron blades rang over the field, the noise incessant and jangling to the nerves for all the flashing of their swings. And more than one Orcish blade was cleaved by Elven steel.

But as Maitimo parried another Orc's blow, running his sword through said Orc's throat when the opening came, the helm of a nearby warrior of the King's Guard caved under the mighty blow of an axe. The warrior fell, the spear bearing the pennant of the Star of Fëanáro landing with an ungraceful clatter next to him. Elves were dying, one by one being killed by the onslaught of beasts that would just not lessen in their seemingly infinite number. But above all the horrid noise of battle, the shouting and crying of Elves was absolutely deafening to Maitimo's ears, cries of hopelessness, pain, and many of those cries being abruptly cut short.

And something in him snapped.

His eyes narrowed as his expression went from desperate and frightened to threatening and dangerous, and he moved with an alacrity that he had never moved with before. His sword flashed with a newly born fury, singing its own song of that screeching clash of metal. He rained blow after blow upon any Orc within reach and they moved to parry and block but were barely fast enough. Backhands, overhead cuts, round arm swings, harder and faster, cutting and slashing freely, the curvature of the blade a blur as it was propelled by fingers and wrist, shield used to block hits as much as to ram solidly into those Orcs charging him, and his left arm began to grow numb at the endless battering on his shield's honor point. He heard himself screaming, an unholy yell tearing from his throat. He felt the devastating blows of iron blades and even the solid impact of a cudgel landing on him, felt the severing of skin. Several Orcs suddenly charged him at once and he stepped back to hastily evade their lunges, but he lost his footing as he stumbled over a limb and toppled over, landing so heavily on his back that the air was driven from his lungs and his sword was knocked from his hand. He heaved in a lungful of air and moved to rise, but an Orc foot shod in iron stomped down on the chief of his shield, bending his arm backwards at the awkward angle.

Several Orcs then approached him and he ripped his forearm from the buckles of his shield, the tendons of his wrist stretching at the sudden pull. He reached over for the fallen spear just as the nearest Orc went to drop on top of him. Maitimo stabbed the spearhead directly into his chest, the momentum of the Orc driving its own body down without Maitimo needing to exert any force of his own. The biting steel tore through its armor like wool, black blood emerging and soaking into the beautifully woven pennant, and the beast slowly collapsed on top of his legs. Maitimo rolled out from under the Orc and sprang to his feet, slamming his elbow into a throat, the sharp corner of the steel splits of the vambrace tail slitting the skin of whatever Orc he hit, and he mashed the gauntlet of his sword hand viciously into another Orc's face.

He wielded the spear with wild abandon, his grip slick on the blood-coated shaft and the pennant coiling around the langets. But neither of these things hindered his violent swings, the spearhead finding its mark on several necks and around several bucklers to spear into poorly iron-shod chests while the butt moved in graceless arcs to deflect oncoming blows. He felt the continuous seeping of hot blood trickling down his shoulder blade but thought nothing of it as Orcs continued to fall around him. Soon, though, they paused in their concerted assault, ranging around Maitimo in a circle and Maitimo watched them with a feral glare, spinning with the spear held at the ready, blood dripping from its spearhead. But the Orcs held off, snorting and huffing while clenching their fists on the hilts of their iron weapons. Maitimo turned, waiting, seeing nothing but a sea of monstrous faces everywhere he turned as he looked for the next attack. The next axe to come hurtling. The next blade to come swinging. He looked, watching and waiting and spinning. He turned and turned, but they did not advance. Valar, what were they waiting for?

Looking from pair to pair of sallow eyes, all backlit by the Valaraukar's flame, it was by mere luck Maitimo managed to just glimpse his sword lying half-buried in the dirt and rock. With only a moment of hesitation, he dove to retrieve it. The Orcs lunged at his lapse of attention but Maitimo was faster, throwing his sword up to awkwardly deflect a strike aimed at his spear arm with a clang before thrusting said spear up through the Orc's torso and into the cavity of his chest. But the spear caught tight and, ducking another attack, Maitimo forsook the spear and sprung to his feet, sword once again flashing silver as he struck against any moving form nearest to him or coming–

Where were the Valaraukar?

The thought came randomly, but he spun wildly around to face them, to somehow fend off their attacks and dodge their blows with as much as speed as he could muster…but they were standing off. They stood off. Why did they stand off? Why!

The brief flicker of hesitation cost him.

Before he could evade it, before he was even fully aware that it was coming, a flying cudgel came from his right and his vision flashed white as it struck his head. The straps broke under the blow and his helm flew off his head. Maitimo collapsed to his knees as he was abruptly assaulted with a pounding pain in his skull that immediately rushed through the rest of his body. The sounds of the skirmish faded away as his ears were overcome with a piercing ring, but it soon lessened. The white in his vision also faded, though his sight continued to swim with the image he found himself staring at as he knelt there: the sight of dozens of bodies lying in a haphazard heap that stretched out endlessly, bodies both Orcish and Elven, coated in blood both black and red, and their corpses silhouetted by the fire of the Valaraukar.

He swayed on his hands and knees as he tried to stand, his body wracking with tremors all over. At mid-rise something slammed into him from the right and he landed on his back, the air driven from his lungs. Before he could even breathe again, a heavy body came crashing down on his chest and Maitimo found himself staring up into the savage eyes of an Orc at the same time when strong, scarred fingers wrapped around his neck and squeezed, completely cutting off his windpipe.

Any remainder of breath he still had left him in a painful, clawing gasp as, hardly a moment later, Maitimo felt a hobnailed boot stomping down on his right wrist, his sword being wrestled from his hand and taken completely. His chest burned as it strained furiously for air, his mouth falling open, and his fingers clawed at the hands around his throat, his nails tearing into the skin. But the Orc did not even flinch, continuing to stare down at him with a malicious snarl. Maitimo's heart was pounding and, in a swift move with an extra surge of strength, he reached down and wrestled the dirk from its sheath on his hip and brought it up, thrusting it barely halfway into the Orc's neck. Black blood spurted from the wound, hot against Maitimo's neck, but the fingers slackened as the Orc went limp, falling to the side.

He coughed, dragging in frantic, ragged breaths, his heart galloping furiously as his blood rushed through his veins, and he shifted to do something. Anything. To rise, to swipe the dirk at the underside of the knee of the Orc still standing on his wrist. But only two pounding beats of his heart passed before another Orc was above him, knocking the dirk from his hand with a painful kick. A kick so strong that it bespoke of a strength not found in any Orc and Maitimo saw why as a familiar face appeared above him, a knee pressing down on his chest with a crushing amount of weight. And powerful fingers once again cut off his airway as they squeezed, squeezed tighter and more mercilessly than the last Orc had.

Maitimo's only free hand scrabbled at the thick wrist as he bucked, desperately trying to wrench his other arm free of the foot on his wrist to dislodge the Orc-speaker choking him. But the unworldly beast was as sturdy as a mountain and no matter how greatly Maitimo tore at his wrist and made it bleed, the fingers remained steadily wrapped around his throat, tightening even more. His lungs were on fire and the frantic movements of his body gradually began to slow, but the hand on his throat did not relent. Maitimo's heart beat rapidly and he made a low noise of distress, a raw terror overcoming him the longer he tried to draw in the slightest breath and could not. His mouth fell further open as he desperately worked to draw in even a morsel of air, but he might as well have been drowning. Involuntary tears stung his eyes as he continued to try and rip away the hand on his throat, though his fingers were now feebly twitching more than anything. But the suffocating persisted.

His vision began to dim and his fingers tingled. His thoughts grew distant and blackness began to shutter and spread along the outer edges of his vision.

The last thing he saw was the remorseless expression of the Orc-speaker calmly looking down at him.