Chapter 6

BrannonÂ’s hand grasped the hilt of his sword. There was something that had his senses on edge. He looked about him. Above was the familiar gloomy emerald roof of Mirkwood forest. The dark stretched on either side, the gnarled trunks just barely visible in the gloom. The only sound was that of the scouts behind him and his brother Adan, their footsteps even so barely audible. The only light came from a torch that Adan carried, its beams small and easily swallowed by the smothering dark. The forest was even darker of late, on account of the shadow that had issued from Mordor the previous night. The air was completely still. It seemed to Brannon almost like the calm before a storm. He loosened his sword in its sheath.
“What are you doing?” inquired Adan.
“Nad no ennas,” he whispered in reply.
“Man cenich?”
“Han mathon yrch. Andelu i ven.” He caught a rank smell on the air and wrinkled his nose. “Han noston yrch.”
Adan drew his sword. The other elves sensed the same danger, and drew their swords as well. The reached a place where the elf road dipped into a dell encircled by trees. Just at the edge of the incline Brannon hesitated for a breath of a moment before pressing onward. The ground rose up now on either side of the path and the path narrowed so that they could only walk single file. Finally the cliffs above the path smoothed away and became a wide bowl that was crowned above by trees. It was then that Brannon realized he had made a mistake.
“Form a circle with your backs to the center. There are orcs here and I fear they will not let us get by unharrased.” He hissed these commands in an urgent voice they dared not disobey. Sure enough, they had barely formed a circle when there came the harsh croaking of orc laughter. Lights quite unlike the fair light of the elves began to advance towards them from all sides, illuminating the mighty trees crowning the dell. Harsh orc voices shouted out commands in the Black Speech of Mordor. By this, Brannon knew that these were no ordinary mountain orcs, but orcs bred and trained for war. The Great War they had anticipated was now being set in motion, and the forest of Mirkwood was one of the first targets.
“ Kill the elves! Take no prisoners!” They shouted in their hideous language. All of a sudden there was a wave of orcs that swept down the edges of the dell. Brannon held his sword so tightly that his knuckles were white, anticipating the moment of contact. The moment an orc came within swinging distance, he took off its head with a clean sweep of the sword. The next orc was not so easy to kill. It parried and glanced away many of his blows and gave him a nasty gash in the arm before he was able to run it through with his blade. He killed many orcs this way, and the tide seemed as if it would never end. The orcs were nasty, underhanded warriors, throwing in cheap shots whenever possible, allowing them to gain control easily. The orcs not only killed their opponent, but they grabbed the hair of the dismembered head or the limb that they wanted and let the rest of the body fall away. And Brannon was so busy trying not to come to this end that he did not realize his own men were. The thing that brought him back to reality was the pained cry of his brother. He looked to see Adan trying weakly to fight an orc while holdin his stomach. Throwing off the orc that assailed him, Brannon ran to his brother, jumping over the mangled bodies of his comrades. He sliced the orc in two in an explosion of black blood and dragged his brother to the safety of some trees. He inspected the wound and found that it as quite serious. Dark red blood seeped from a deep gash in Adan’s abdomen. Looking around, he saw the orcs coming, with no one to hold them off. The elves lay dead, their lifeless eyes staring at him. He did the only thing he could do anymore. He picked up his brother’s weakening body and ran.
***
King Thranduil sat in his chambers, worrying over the recent news he had received about his son Legolas and discussing it with his chief counselor, Orgof. According to his messenger, a thrush, Legolas He was traveling with Aragorn and Gimli to the battlefield of Gondor. Pelennor Fields was not so far away and they were traveling quickly.
He sighed and rested his head in the palm of his hand. The news of his son was not the only apprehensive news. There was rumor in the Woodland Realm of movements of orcs throughout the area, including the Hithaeglir, Ered Mithrin, Iron Hills, and other parts of Rhovanion. The shadow that now covered much of Middle-Earth only served to cement the rumors. He and Lord Celeborn had both sent out scouting parties and all brought back the same; war was impending. In fact, he had just sentÂ…
The oaken doors to his hall were flung wide as a harried elf, the healer of those parts, burst in with two other elves behind him, one supporting the other. One was the chief of his army, Brannon Neldoreth, who was muddy and bloodied. The other was his brother Adan and he was also in the same state, but his pallor was of one on the doorstep of Mandos. Weak from his wounds, Adan slipped from his brotherÂ’s grasp and collapsed to the floor. Brannon fell to his knees, and as the healer tended to his brother, he weakly told Thranduil of the ambush.
“There were at least twenty-score of Mordor orcs traveling in a northeasterly direction coming from Dol Guldur. They ambushed us in one of the glens between the Forest Road and the Mountains. They were too numerous for us. Only Adan and I made it out alive. The rest are dead.” With his energy spent, Brannon collapsed, and soon the healer moved from Adan to him.
Thranduil cast off his kingly cloak and the crown of spring flowers he wore and strode through the tunnels of his halls followed by Eruhîr. He soon came to the armory, deep underground, and entered within. He touched his son’s armor with just a glance, going to where his own hung. Eruhîr took it and began to strop it to the king’s body. When he was done, Thranduil bid him go and ready himself for the battle that was soon to come, upon their very doorstep.
***
They marched in lines beneath the dark eaves of the forest. They trod the golden leaves beneath their feet as they filed on to their doom. Carangil was foremost in the line, with Dordhaer to the left, and behind Annunfalath, and, though he did not recognize her, her brother Gelmir. She had managed to get this far, and by now her heart was pounding with fear. This was it; the final stand of the elves. They would defend their home, or die trying.
“Carangil!” She was roused from her thoughts.
“Yes sir?” She tried to make her voice lower so Voronwë, the captain, would not recognize her for who she really was.
“You, Aglargelair, and Pedhrin will be the first to strike. You will be followed up by Beriorgan, Thinaráto, and Gelmir. Understood?”
“Yes sir.” As he left, Carangil loosened her sword in its sheath.
“A erichin, u-dano i faelas a hyn a uben tnatha le faelas!” shouted Voronwë to his troops.
Already were the shouts of orcs and barks of Wargs audible, and the tramping of thousands of foul orc feet trampling the fair grass of the East March of Lórien. Almost too soon were the swarthy, leering faces of the orcs in sight, with their curved scimitars and wicked darts.
It was the unsheathing of Maeghlach that Gelmir saw with horror, and whas powereless to stop his sister, Caranfirith, under the guise of Carangil, as Voronwë gave the cry and warriors surged forward from both sides. They met with a clash of iron. Carnëyávië was plunged into the noisy, confusing world of battle once again. She fought fiercely against the tide of evil that now surrounded her. The battle would have been not unlike that of Helm’s Deep if it hadn’t been for the sheer volume of the enemy. They surrounded her on all sides. She whired, ducked, twisted, while her sword flashed menacingly as it sliced through the flesh of many orcs. Time and time again she was bombarded on all sides, but skillfully, because of the intense training of Haldir, she was able to dodge and deflect most of the blows. A gash on her thigh and one on her arm leaked blood, but she ignored the stinging, concentrating instead upon the strokes of her sword. She stared into the eyes of each attacker with eyes glittering with a fell fury that would have caused even the bravest man to quail in heart
Already were the bodies of orcs and elves alike heaping upon the ground. Carnëyávië saw with horror the bodies of Dordhaer and Thinaráto amongst them, their vacant stares being cast towards the forest’s golden roof.
All of a sudden Carnëyávie was grabbed from the front by the neck by a gigantic orc whose face had been slashed open before, but was now hel together by crude stitches. It leered in her face, showing yellow decaying fangs, its moldered breath huffing in her face until she feared her stomach would turn inside out. The orc’s face was then caught in a surprised expression as a sword showed its tip in its chest. Its fingers released her neck and she gasped for breath. Enetheru, her close friend, pulled his sword free and winked at her with his hazel eyes, and soon his shining brown hair that stood helmless disappeared from sight as he was swallowed up by the fray.
Grievous harm was being done not only to the elves themselves, but also to the fair woods. The orcs had brought axes with them and destroyed trees as they went. Also because of the darkness, they had brought foul, smoking torches that they also used to burn every chance they got. They set fire to the bodies, to the dismay of the elves. Bringing up the rear were great mountain trolls swinging clubs of stone, killing orcs and elves alike. One of thse got far too close to Carnëyávië, and snatching a torch from where it had fallen, she thrust it into the face of the troll. It dropped its club, clawing at its eyes in pain, and soons he was able to bring it down.
Even though she could not see it, she knew that the sun was making its descent from the sky. Her strength was waning, but the enemy was still coming full force.
All of a sudden there came a new wave of the enemy, the foremost falling back to regroup. From what had been a lull in the battle burst forth noise and confusion once more. Carnëyávië backed up to a tree, for now there were few friendly bodies at her back.
A whistling sound far above her caused her to quickly glance up. There, upon silver leaf-shaped flets, were elven archers, five to each flet. With their keen eim they picked off many of the enemy. TO the untrained eye they would have been invisible, for they wore cloaks that blended with their surroundings, with hoods that covered their hair.
And now came a new enemy to meet them. Easterlings and Haradrim of the south. With curved swords, they cut down many elves before them.
“Hado in philinn!” A new volley of arrows sprung forth from the trees, cutting down many in the forefront of the advance. A few Haradrim hurled their spears up and into the canopy. With a sickening crunch and elven archer plummeted to the ground only a few feet from Carnëyávië. His eyes were open in an expression of surprise, and a spear was clean through his heart. It was all she could do not to utter a dismayed cry, for he was one of her childhood friends, Dimnar. It was he who, along with her brothers, would practice swordplay with her and teach her new techniques and footwork.
With a fierce cry of the blackest rage, she charged forward and began to cleave and impale every Easterling and Haradrim before her with a fury that caused many of them to quail at her onslaught. The only sound was that of the insistent pounding of her heart in her ears. All else was silence to her. All that was reality to her was her rage and the thrust of her sword as it killed all in its path. The ferrous smell of blood filled her nose.
Her breath was abruptly forced from her lungs as a blow from behind force her to the ground, bringing her back to reality. A rush of sound crowded into her ears.
To be continued….