Chapter 4

The fumes around them took on a lighter, warmer shade, heralding a new day, when Lord Barahir returned, bringing news from his scouts. "Arthad met with the forces you left on the southern bank, they have crossed the river and should reach us within an hour. But he was also told they had to fend off a huge contingent of Orcs coming from the north-east."

"Then we shall all retreat south as soon they are here. What of the wounded?"

"All are taken care of but some are grievously injured and probably will not survive even with more of your healers arriving. I also had the area searched for survivors but found only one."

The Man continued listing their casualties and Edrahil, mechanically stroking Finrod's hair, felt his stomach twist and his eyes prickle with tears he could not blame on the acrid fumes that still engulfed them all. Far more were now dead than alive, both of their party and the Men, their painfully short lives cut even shorter.

He felt Barahir's hand rest on his shoulder. "Do not feel guilty. All of my men came here of their own free will. When we learned from a band of Orcs we had crushed that they had been sent to ambush a great Elven king, I told my men chances were against us and yet they volunteered."

"Eat and drink, my lord," Barahir said after a moment, placing a canteen and an unopened parcel of waybread on a grassy clomp to Edrahil's side before retreating to allow him privacy.

Beneath Edrahil's hands, Finrod stirred with a hiss, his eyes flying open. "Water," he croaked.

Edrahil supported his head and held Barahir's canteen to his lips, offering also a quarter of a waybread wafer, which Finrod accepted eagerly. "Thank you, otornya," he repeated his words from the night, munching on the coimas, and smiled slightly, lucid though obviously confused. "I fear you will have to fill me in on the newest developments, my Lord Steward."

Edrahil's surprise at being called his King's otorno yet again was soon replaced by a sudden self-consciousness at all the liberties he had taken during his nightly vigil and he tried to at least withdraw his offending hand, but the King caught it in his own and held it in place. "Tell me, the Bëorings came to our rescue? I remember two Men carrying me."

"Yes, sire, they made a sandastan around us under Barahir the brother to the Prince of Ladros." He continued his tale, but it soon turned out Finrod not only remembered images from the rescue, but also had heard most of Edrahil's earlier discussion with the Mortal commander. Some of his usual energy was already returning for he asked for Barahir to attend on him.

The Man appeared, his two nephews at his side, bowing and, at Finrod's gesture to take their ease, squatting a bit awkwardly, for Finrod himself was now sitting on the ground, leaning on Edrahil.

"My lords, pray forgive my briskness, but our time is short. Tell me all you know of the state of war in Dorthonion. I would also value your counsel on how best to aid my brothers."

The three Men exchanged nervous looks, then Barahir drew in a long breath and, visibly steeling himself, looked Finrod straight in the eye, his own suddenly full of anguish. Finrod shuddered against Edrahil's supporting shoulder even before the blow came. "Forgive me, sire, for being the bearer of such grave news," said Barahir gently. "Whoever was on the plain that first night… perished in the initial attack."

A gauntleted fist smashed into the pit of Edrahil's stomach. All their forces in the leaguer… gone?

Alarmed, he turned to the King. Finrod's face, pale from the blood loss and pain, went white as a sheet, his eyes staring unseeingly ahead, his mouth, opened, moving slightly as if he was trying and failing to form words. "Nnnno… I–I talked to them… after…"

Edrahil was suddenly reminded of the talk he had had with Finrod in the King's bedchamber the night they had learned of the attack. O sweet Nienna, Finrod had witnessed the Princes' death through ósnawe?

As if unable to comprehend, the King asked, "My brothers… both?"

Barahir closed his eyes and nodded slowly. "I am sorry. Yours – and mine."

"Bregolas is dead?" rasped Finrod, shocked.

"He was with the Princes to our defenses."

"Edhellos?"

"The Princess was with the Prince her husband."

The news was shocking. Devastating. Edrahil's mouth went dry, his stomach twisting and turning as if he was going to be sick. All dead. Swallowing the bile which rose in his throat, he took over the questioning for Finrod's ragged breathing and twitching hands told of a losing battle for self-control. "Surely, there must be some survivors?"

Much to his surprise, Baragund took up the tale. "I was traveling with a small party to relieve my father," the young man said in a strangely numb tone. "The evening before, we had reached the border of the plateau and set up a camp instead of descending in the gathering darkness. The site overlooks the plain and we could see the fires of the camp down beneath us. Then…" Here words failed him and his entire face crumpled.

Sweet Lady, this… child almost, had witnessed his father's death. Edrahil's mind supplied what the Man could not find in himself to tell: the screams of the men, the whining of the horses, the blazing fires, the utter chaos of their desperate retreat, too slow.

After a little while, Baragund continued, "Fire spread through the forest and we had to fly, but we saw the whole plain engulfed in flames and there was no trace of our camp and… no-one alive."

A heavy silence set over them, all engulfed in their own thoughts, and only Belegund gripped his brother's shoulder, whispering intently yet so silently Edrahil could not be sure he heard properly. "There was nothing you could have changed, had you descended to the plain, all you'd have achieved is die yourself , you know that."

Then, surprisingly, Finrod spoke in an almost even voice. "My Lord of Ladros," he said to Baragund. "I believe we shall for now dispense with any formalities–"

The three Men again exchanged uncertain looks, but this time it was Baragund who spoke. "Actually, we have… That is, with the gracious permission of Your Majesty, I would like to cede my right to my uncle."

Edrahil's brows shot up and he saw an equal surprise on Finrod's face, as the King asked bluntly, "Why? And what of your brother?"

Belegund spoke up. "My brother speaks for us both. For while we are both men grown, our uncle has more experience. We believe he should lead our people in this desperate hour."

Finrod looked searchingly into both brothers' eyes, and they met his gaze steadily. At last, he nodded. "If this is your wish, we grant it. Barahir son of Bregor," he turned now towards the third Man. "Do you accept?"

"Yes, sire."

"Good." But when Barahir started to unbuckle his sword, Finrod stopped him. "There is no need. I believe you have already proven I can rely on your blade, don't you think, my Lord of Ladros? But tell me, what is our best course of action if we are to reach Dorthonion?"

"If you will have my counsel, sire"–Finrod nodded encouragingly at that–"I believe you shall withdraw. The road to Dorthonion is blocked by a huge contingent of Orcs. Your army has already skirmished with them and retreated. Perhaps you could force your way through, but only with grave loss. It is not worth it. Retreat, renew your strength, and then come to our aid."

"You intend to go?" blurted Edrahil.

"Ours is but a small party, we shall slip through, especially if those fumes continue," explained Belegund.

"You would go where you counsel me against going?" Finrod looked at all three Men and there was an edge to his voice.

"Good my lord," the new Prince of Ladros stepped in. "Your bleeding out your people will achieve nothing. Do not waste the strength of Nargothrond, for it shall be sorely needed in the years to come."

"Yet you are adamant to go?"

Barahir nodded sadly. "We have left our families in Ladros, my lord."

A spasm went over the King's face and he swallowed audibly, yet his voice did not waver. "Then you shall go with our blessing. My Lord Steward." He put his hand on Edrahil's, but did not say anything else. From his expression Edrahil gathered he could also hear troops approaching. "An army's coming!" he whispered frantically. "Ours or the Enemy's?"

Everybody tensed, and he saw both younger Men's hands move to the hilts of their swords, just like his own did. They listened in silence, time dragging mercilessly, until they heard greetings being exchanged in Sindarin, and then Derthedir was racing towards them. "Sire! Oh, sire!" he exclaimed in relief, when he spotted Finrod, his hands pressed together, his eyes glistening.

In the blink of an eye they were surrounded by their own men, dirty from their fight but smiling in relief and bowing low, while some went as far as throwing themselves on their knees. The King sat among them, visibly moved. "Thank you. Thank you," he repeated thickly.

Yet before he could say anything else, their tableau was broken by an imperious voice. "All right, get to work, all of you. Fandis, show the others who needs what help. Go, girl." Lady Annúngil certainly did not waste time. "Sire." She turned towards Finrod, dropping a perfunctory curtsy. "Allow me to see to your wounds." And not waiting for Finrod to grant the permission she sought, she started to unpack her supplies.

"Of your courtesy, my lady," said the King with just a slight touch of steel to his voice, "grant me a few more minutes of respite. Mistress Fandis has done very well." And not waiting for her to reply, he turned to Edrahil. "Before we go, there is one more thing to do." His eyes travelled towards where Lord Barahir was standing out of the way of Finrod's enthusiastic soldiers. "Please summon my people."

Guessing Finrod's intention, Edrahil prepared for him a makeshift chair of a flat rock one of the soldiers pointed to him, covered with that man's cloak, a far cry not only from the splendor of the Dwarven-carved throne of Nargothrond but also the travelling faldstool, left behind among their wagons. But then, surrounding them were not courtiers in bejeweled finery, nor even fresh soldiers in full splendor of bright armor, but battle-worn warriors in churn tabards and gore-splattered mail.

Having no banner to unfurl behind the King, the one they brought lost in the fighting, Edrahil took place, empty-handed, behind and to the right of this… throne, indicating that Derthedir should take one to the left, for the Lord of Ladros, to whom it should by custom go as the highest ranking among those present, would be needed elsewhere.

When everybody, Men and Elves alike, gathered, Finrod regarded them for several moments, full of regal majesty even in a torn gambeson covered with an equally worn-out cloak, despite sweat beading his forehead, and his entire body being tight as a bowstring. At last he said loudly and clearly, "My loyal people, we thank you all for your steadfast contribution to our cause. For now, you will have to contend yourself with our thanks." He smiled ruefully. "But we promise you all proper honors for your valor." He paused and his eyes swept across the faces of those standing nearest. "There is, however, one among you, who will receive his due now, for he shall soon depart from us for Dorthonion. We would have you all bear witness to this oath." He beaconed for Lord Barahir to approach. "Barahir son of Bregor in the direct line of Balan known as Bëor, Lord of Ladros, your valiant deed far surpassed the call of duty. We thank you." The Man merely bowed his head, a small, sad smile on his face, but Finrod slipped a ring from his hand and held it up for all to see. At that Edrahil managed to keep an impassive face only due to the long years of training, while the crowd erupted into a wild buzz, with those closer relaying to those who stood farther away what was going on.

The King gestured for silence. "You have hastened to our side," he continued in a clear voice, but soon his composure broke, "in the hour when I needed it most, heedless of the risk to yourself. I owe you my life and my freedom, I can never repay that. As the Belain[i] are my witness, and the One Himself, you and yours shall have of me whatever you ask in your need, I swear. This ring…" He placed the ring, emeralds gleaming slightly, in Barahir's calloused palm and closed his fingers over it, pressing with both his trembling hands. "Take it in token of my pledge. For you shall be my friends not servants," he said fervently and indicated he wanted to rise. Derthedir, obedient soldier that he was, immediately helped him up. Finrod gave Barahir a kiss reserved for the closest of kin and this time Edrahil, who had witnessed Finrod's passionate oath with a growing surprise and confusion, failed to suppress a dismayed gasp.

Obviously startled, Barahir made a half step back, but Finrod grabbed his forearm in a warrior's clasp, repeating, "Whatever and whenever, Barahir, upon my honor." And then, his legs failed him and he fell into the arms of the surrounding men.

"All right, my lords, that is quite enough." Obviously unimpressed, Lady Annúngil pressed her way through the crowd. "Please carry His Majesty to a litter."

Barahir gripped the King by the arms while Derthedir took hold of his legs and together they followed the Master Healer towards where the healers' horses were waiting patiently.

Edrahil followed them with his eyes and then tore himself from the sight. Now that his lord was safely in the competent hands of the Lady Annúngil, he had other tasks to perform.

He was soon joined by Derthedir and so, within a short time, everything was ready for their departure: all wounded safely in horse-carried litters, scouts sent to check on the road, men gathered by troops. Yet before he ordered the army to march on, Edrahil sought out Lord Barahir, who, accompanied by his ten surviving comrades, was making a last minute check of their gear. "My Lord of Ladros," he said, "I come to thank you all for my life and those of my King and comrades." He bent before the Men in his most correct, most profound bow.

Barahir made no reply but set his hand, the King's ring gleaming on it, on Edrahil's shoulder, looked him squarely in the eyes and nodded slightly. And then, beckoning for his men to follow, he turned round and disappeared into the fumes and gathering fog.

NOTES

[i] Belain another S. word for Valar, sing. Balan, possibly directly influenced by Q. Valar.