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The Mountains

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The wind blew strong outside the caves where Mírian lay trying to sleep. Its howling bluster through the hills and valleys kept her from dozing long, and in the dead of night she lay awake in the dark. At length it began to die down, allowing her to finally drift off, when suddenly she heard a rustling nearby: sounds of clicks and clinks of wood and metal, and the shuffle of clothes and shoes. Her eyes shot back open, and she heard soft taps receding into the distance. Mírian sat up and got herself dressed straight away, and off she went in following.

Outside a figure hard to discern was already at a distance, growing smaller as it wove through the shadows between the trees. Mírian pulled her cloak around her - it was approaching the coldest hour of the night, here in these northern parts in early spring. She had to start at a jog, but eventually grew closer to her mark, who was now wading into the deep grasses of the low hills beyond the lake that descended down to the rolling plains of Hithlum. Finally the figure ahead slowed its pace, and crouching down crept along slowly. Mírian veered off course and made her way up a nearby hillside until she found a spot close enough to keep a watchful eye on things.

Behind the mountains to the east the sky was just beginning to lighten, and from the cover of a large boulder Mírian brought forth a small wooden bow she had carried under her cloak. Slowly she crept around the side of the boulder, placing a pile of arrows by her knee. She took one up and strung it, holding it taught.

Mírian had no heart for hunting, for she loved the creatures of the forest, trying rather to befriend them to the amusement of her family. They likened her to her ancestor Bëor the Old, who was rumored to have such a way with animals that he could have speech with them and refused to eat their flesh. The crafters of the folk with whom she lived even fashioned shoes and water containers for her without the use of any skins. But she joined the hunting lessons anyway, so as to learn of tracking and stalking and moving in stealth. Now she remembered her lessons, and watched, and waited.

*.*.*

Dawn was approaching when young Tuor at last reached the enemy camp which he had overheard his elders discussing not long before. It was small, they said, and they planned only to keep an eye on it for now, to gauge where they were headed and what they were searching for. His foster folk managed their defenses well enough at need, but would not charge forth and retake Hithlum for his people and for their own lands of old. 'But I am my father's son,' he thought to himself, "I can avenge him and the people of Hador!'

The young warrior took a moment to gather himself, his spirits full of the rage and energy and pride of his father's house, and pulled his ax from its sheath. Then suddenly he sprang to challenge his enemies. "Begone foul vermin of Morgoth!" he cried, pointing his weapon at them, "If you would not feel my wrath by the sting of my blade!"

His targets had been idling at their ease, relaxed and laughing and unaware. The three of them sprang up in surprise, fumbling to pull their own blades. But at fourteen Tuor was quite accomplished with his weapons, and came at them bold and confident, and two he slew quickly. The third was quicker, jumping out of the way and pulling his whip, and snagging his attacker by the neck. Thinking fast the Tuor swung his blade, aiming to cut the restraint. But his enemy caught his swing, and clenched his wrist so fierce the boy dropped his ax with a terrible yelp. The fair handle of his knife took a great stomp of his large foot and split in two.

"Now, then!" said his captor in the common speech of those parts with a rough, gravelly voice. "What to do with this mean little squirrel?"

Realizing he could either make some money selling his captive to the local Easterlings or win favor by handing him over to the Great Master up north, he fished out a rope, wrapping his captive's hands behind him, so tight they soon began to feel cold. Then he pulled out a large black dagger. "You'll pay for that," he said, pointing the blade at his slain comrades lying on the ground. "But let's see here, should I just kill you now? Or tickle you with this first?" Tuor's heart sank as he realized the scale of his dilemma; he was caught, with no help coming.

He soon discovered the camp was not as small as the overheard conversation led him to believe. Two more approached the fire from where they had been out in the field, and flew into a rage. "I say we kill him!" cried one as he came up from behind and shoved the boy to his knees with a fierce foot to the back that made the captive bowl over.

"Oy!" the first replied, "he's my prisoner and I say we tickle him first! Make 'im suffer for that. But he's a brat of those yellow haired Men, with an elf weapon. High up among his kin I bet he is. I reckon the Big Boss rewards us handsome if we hand this one over. We could run his stick legs all the way to the Fortress - wouldn't that give us a fun time!"

There was a chuckle at this, and the first newcomer stopped to consider the idea. "Oh bugger the Boss; just kill 'im!" cried the other. He came up, pulling out a short broad sword and raised it up to prepare a swing as he yanked the boy's head back by the hair back to better expose his neck.

Then suddenly the sword fell, and he dropped to his knees, falling back in a heap. His comrades looked and saw an arrow right through the ribs. They looked up, searching the nearby hillside in a fright, and dashed for cover as more arrows flew, two missing a mark and one piercing a leg.

Tuor likewise looked up at the dark hill nearby, realizing he was not alone. Fear gripped him, but not for himself, having a good idea of who might be helping him. But seeing his chance he scooped up the dropped sword and ran it through the Orc that was coming to haul him away to cover. Now emboldened again, Tuor turned on the last one plucking the arrow from his leg, and dashed toward him. But then yet another one sprang up out of the grass from the shadows beyond the fire, with a great iron-tipped spear pointed at him.

"Drop it, little worm," the new one growled, "or you'll feel the bite of this!"

Tuor froze, staring into the eyes of this much larger and more fearsome looking one, hoping the hidden archer might come to his aid again. Then he heard rustling and footsteps behind him, and saw more enemies appear. One seized him and took the sword. Still no more arrows flew. Then two more appeared with another prisoner in tow. He looked up, and his heart fell.