5
The fires lapped against the enclosing blackness of the starless night encircling the provincial capital of Morrannon-Eiyre. High up in the governor's tower, past the secretary's famously creaky but now even more famously flammable desk, past the now-dead door guards and bursting through the heavy oaken doors that guarded the Peacekeeper's office, the shadow of the Nazgul hung heavy in the air.
The room was empty of all life, three bodies strewn across the white marble floor, their blood pooling together from the clean slices through the arteries in their throats. They bore a mixed expression of shock, rage, and fear, their mis-positioned heads cracked slightly to the side where an all-too-powerful thrust of the fateful dagger had nearly torn them from the victim's necks. They alone bathed in the single beam of moonlight shining over the Northern shore of the great Sea of Nurnen, their last moments splayed out for all to see by the late magistrate's perfectly positioned circular skylight.
"Please… please, I'll do anything," a horrified blubber emerged from the depths of the dark near the untouched right corner of the room.
"Talk fast," the shadow whispered, the deadly blade of its dagger reflecting silver light from its position on the whimpering clerk's throat.
"I…I, well… I…"
"There had better be more to come or you're going to join your companions far less cleanly than I planned," the rough abrasion of the shadow's voice commanded, the dagger pressing hard against the unfortunate clerk's throat.
"Jedvar," the Clerk spluttered, "Jedvar Stenkilsson came by, orders from the High governor, strictly classified… of course, no local or Mordorian authorities to be notified…"
"Good, I like the sound of that, sounds like information, keep talking," the shadow whispered, its hot breath barely a centimeter from the petrified adjutant's ear.
"Well… they said it was some sort of threat, not sure what though. Near the town of Sarabad, they said. All I heard next was that Jedvar'd taken his enforcers and a squad of local men-at-arms to check it out…" the clerk leaned back, the stain of embarrassing piss spewing down his leg, his tearful voice radiating fear, "now please, My Lord… I've told you everything I know."
"Then I thank you for your service… but the truth is, I didn't come here for you." The deep, menacing voice exclaimed.
The Clerk now felt a shred of hope blossom against his apparent demise, "Oh thank you, Lord, oh Merciful Angel of the Night! Please," he blubbered, "I can go free, right?"
"Unfortunately," the shadow cleared its throat, a grimace of disdain somehow showing itself within the wall of darkness, "I had specific instructions. Kill the Magistrate, leave no witnesses."
The Clerk gulped, his heart rate tripling.
"And even more unfortunately, you're a witness."
And all that was heard of the clerk from that moment on was a short, muffled scream culminating in the ripping sound of a punch dagger being driven through its victim's lower jaw.
"The scouts are in, My Lord," Elhokar of Morrannon said, his voice low on orders to be silent, "the village is undefended sire, and there's a strong likelihood the perpetrator is in residence."
"What about this… heir?" Lord Jedvar Stenkilsson asked, his voice petulant as he curbed his straying destrier.
"Can't say. We know that both a bartender named Stendarr and a boy called Alethorn Garadvas had a short conversation with the perpetrator in the Green Giant Inn yesterday, before Alethorn returned home to his father, Andrei Garadvas." Elhokar cleared his throat, pushing his chafing helmet farther down onto his face.
"Andrei Garadvas!? The old bastard who's renting Harlaus's estate!?" Jedvar exclaimed, his mutton-induced jowls bouncing with vigor. He raised his hand, halting the ongoing march of the column of sixty men-at arms that were threading their way through the dying forests just a mile and a half north of the village of Sarabad. A faint glow of moonlight shown through the thick branches, catching the silvery reflection of steel plates stamped with the all-powerful emblem of Gondor. At the head of the column, there were three squires carrying the respective standards of Gondor, the Empire of Arnor, and the Principality of Mordor.
"The very same, sir: lives in the old manse at the top of the hill," Elhokar replied, still trying to get that damnable helmet to fit comfortably.
"Any protection?" Jedvar said, wrenching the battle-lusting horse back onto the dirt track, all the while mumbling about over-pricing and 'those Theodred-damned orcs who can't tell a good horse from the ass-end of a warg.'
"Yes, Lord, five bodyguards armed with matchlocks within an enclosed palisade. Not much for our lot but that's where the villagers'll flee and Andrei has a hobby of collecting Old Gondorian weapons."
"Ah," Jedvar said, "Elhokar, take the Gondor and Arnor standards and fifteen men 'round near the manor, I want it sealed off before the fight begins. No fleeing villagers, no shots fired, just a cordon across the road, understand?"
Elohkar gave a slight bow of his head, the stupidly designed infantry half-helm slipping forward across his eyebrows. But, despite his outward actions, inwardly, he was seething. This great sack of Lard! His mind shouted, I know what 'sealed off' means and I know what needs to be done! You would've retired years ago if you'd ever tired of banging Melissa!
He bowed dutifully once more, kicking his horse off into a trot in the direction of the manor. Gods curse you, Jedvar Stenkilsson, he thought, his eyes wreathed in fury, I never should've joined the peacekeepers.
But he had, and he martialed his thoughts, the impetuous young man on the frightful destrier transforming into a hardened soldier of Arnor. There was work to be done.
Alethorn Garadvas woke with a start. His peaceful dream of a celebratory reunion with his father suddenly shattered into a thousand pieces. There, at the forefront of his spinning vision, was Matilda, her face a mask of worry.
"Come on, lad, up with you!" a harsh voice cursed, the shadowy figure to his right backhanding him into awareness.
"Be careful with him!" Matilda snapped, her voice quavering.
The shadow to his left seemed to ignore her, "Alright, lad, you ready?"
Alex stood, dazed, "umm…."
"Of course he's not ready!" Matilda fussed, shuffling over to Alex's side, "Look at him, he's not even of age!"
"When I brought him to you sixteen years ago, I intended him to be kept safe," the figure said, head bowed, "And through no fault of your own, he's not safe now, so I don't bloody well care if he's ready or not because he has to go or he's going to die, so move, woman!"
"Ready for what!?" Alex shouted as he was hustled out of the bedroom door, his wilting shortsword unceremoniously thrust into his arms.
"I'll tell you when you're ready, now go!" The shadow then shoved him down towards the front stairway, he and Matilda taking the fall and sprinting out the front doors of the manor into the walled-off gardens.
"This way!" The figure shouted, leading them through a side-gate out into open territory, immediately beginning to sprint full-tilt up the barren hill towards where the old lumber mill used to be, shoving his confused wards in front of him.
And immediately, Alex saw why they were running. Coming down off the ridge towards the sleeping village was a line of horsemen, plate armor picking up rays of moonlight and reflecting the ghostly glow into the eyes of the now-terrified inhabitants. Lances bared, they began to trot, properly aligned knee-to-knee to deliver a devastating charge, a herald towards the rear of the line braying a single, bone-chilling note from the lips of his hunting horn.
"Keep up, you old fool!" the mysterious man yelled, pushing the panting Matilda as they careened towards the deathly embrace of the Aversham woods.
The wood came as a relief as even Alex was gasping with exertion now, and blundering through the threaded barbs of thorns and thistles allowed for a slower pace and therefore a moment or two to catch the breath. The man in the black cloak seemed unfazed, hacking a trail through the thick undergrowth with his newly- drawn hand-and-a-half sword.
Presently, they had reached a patch of dead ground, where the bleached bones of long-starved oaks stood alone where the undergrowth dared not take root. The shadow raised a dark hand, signaling a stop where Matilda crashed to the ground, her wrinkled face red from exaustion. Alex simply stood with his hands on his knees, his eyes radiating confusion.
"Don't get much exercise, do you boy?" the shadow said, giving the sword a quick flip through the air before catching it and slamming it back into its scabbard.
Alex shrugged, sitting himself down on the rain-starved Earth, the inevitable questions of who, what, when, where and why forming on the tip of his tongue.
"Aye," the darkened man spoke, "get some rest while you can. We're out of their line of sight but we'll still have to get moving soon. I'll explain on the way, jus…"
The shadow spun around to the drumming din of approaching hoof beats, a thin line of glistening cavalry picking their way through the forlorn trees.
"Oh, shit," it breathed, "MOVE!"
Alex took the call, dragging the poor Matilda into the brush as the horsemen drew their swords, kicking their mounts into a hasty gallop.
"Head to the Weathershorn farm! I'll distract them!" the figure called, the great sword leaping out into action once more, the heavily-cloaked warrior leaping into the air, his blade held high.
"Run, Matilda, run," Alex panted, wrenching the old woman through the tangles of thorns, his pulse hammering, his fear driving him on like a thousand imaginary pinpricks sprouting from his back, heedless of the pain as his raked his body with barbed cuts.
Suddenly, they broke into a field, studded with the short scrub-grass that clung to a living in the blighted climate of Eastern Mordor. Directly ahead lay the flickering lights of the Weathershorn farm, where the old man himself was likely to be present with his hand-me-down crossbow. They had but a few hundred yards to go.
But then, there was flicker of iridescent silver, moonlight shining across the brow of a steel helm, and the ever-present rumble of iron-shod hooves.
"RUN!" Alex shouted, though the cry was unnecessary as the pair were already sprinting towards the dim hope of the cabin.
The knight, who'd been surveying the woods at the time, started, his destrier rearing, and wheeled his mount towards his prey. From his left hand dropped the menacing links of a war-flail, a spiked iron ball swinging casually at the end, enough to crush a victim's skull with a single blow.
Alex, the invisible lance-points spearing him harder, put his head down, pumping his arms and driving his legs into the hard ground, his vision narrowed. Get to the cabin, he thought, run… faster, get to the cabin. Get to the cabin, the thought hammered its way into his terrified mind, cursing himself for not running faster.
Suddenly, there was a scream. In his haste to flee, he had left Matilda behind, her struggling form silhouetted against the charging figure of the galloping knight. He spun around, his pitiful dagger drawn, gasping for breath.
Only to see the weighted flail come crashing down with a sickening crack of steel splitting bone, blood spewing into the moon-flecked gloom, the old maid tumbling to the ground before skidding to a fatal halt, the gaping wound launching viscera across the great stallion's forelegs.
"NO!" Alex shouted, himself falling to the ground. His eyes rained tears. He screamed, his mother in all but name dragging herself to a pathetic crouch, her mouth dripping blood, her back flooded with it as the armored rider circled.
The man-at-arms raised the flail, swinging it about his head experimentally, maneuvering his mount sideways for the perfect downward chop.
Suddenly, out of the black embrace of the night, a blurred figure shot at the rider, body-slamming him off the horse and rolling neatly onto the field, punching him again and again with the silvery shape of a serrated knife in its right hand, crushing the horseman's neck with inhumanely powerful strokes, smashing the box helmet and splattering blood across the dried-out chaparral.
Alex sprung forward towards the lumped shape of Matilda's scoured corpse, his mouth twitching, sorrow blossoming through his soul. He knelt gingerly beside her inert figure, the tears cascading from his face, her pulverized head in his muddied hands.
Suddenly, a gurgling rasp escaped from her shattered windpipe, clumped-up blood dribbling from her mouth, the pain flashing across her dying eyes.
"You…" she choked, coughing a great stream of bloody material that splattered across Alex's nightshirt.
"No…" he whispered, stroking her, his body wracked with sobs, "no…"
"Listen to me," she rasped, weakly grasping on to the upper sleeve of his nightshirt, pulling him closer.
"No… don't die," he whispered, "please don't die."
"Listen to me," she choked again, the coughed-up bilge simply falling from her mouth now, her smashed backside and neck rising and falling, rising and falling.
"You can't die…"
"I'm beyond passing," the whisper replied, her failing hand stroking his hair, a mother's love still present within those near-dead eyes, "but…" another gasp of blood, "but you still live… save us, Alethorn… reforge the ring, bring back the…" she choked on the words, her chest heaving as it fought for air, drowning in her own lungs, "… glory… save us… please…"
"What!?" Alethorn cried, holding her head, his face nearly pressed to hers, "what… I'm… I don't understand… I…"
"Reforge the ring… fulfill you're… destiny…" And then the eyes snapped shut.
"Boy…" the shadow to the left said. Alethorn ignored it, his body sobbing gently, his face buried in the corpse's chest.
"We need to move now." It said, the chink of mail obvious as it took a step closer, its foreign hand grasping Alex's collar.
"No…" he whimpered, still clutching her cleaved skull like a baby, the blood drenching him, drowning him.
"I know… I know you have lost," the shadow said, gently turning Alethorn's face to meet his own steady gaze, "but we must leave now, or we'll be buried with her, understand?"
He nodded, the tears slowing now, the resolve building. He stood, taking one last glance at the body strewn across the haloed ground, fire splayed across the night sky, the screams of the burning village seared into his memory for all eternity to come.
Elhokar de Vardia ground his teeth atop the great and bloodied destrier, his fists clenched irrevocably about the reigns of death. He too remembered the screams, the muffled moaning's as the rapists lined up to defile a weeping village girl, the great pile of bodies dumped unceremoniously in the center of the conflagration, the hordes of drunken horsemen reaping their plunder of a formerly prosperous village, lone amongst the desolation of the Northeast. Oh how he'd seen it all, the fires of that night burning a cavern of hatred deep into his mind, the look on the Andrei of Sarabad's face as he sneered defiantly at the laughing specter of Jedvar son of Stenkil, his hands cuffed behind his ramrod-straight back, his eyes telling of that same hatred burning inside him.
I will kill that man, Elhokar thought, his hand clenched around the hilt of his broadsword, may the Valar help me but I will be the vengeance of these people.