The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

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Retreat to the Barrow Downs

The party is joined by an elf but then attacked by a pack of warg riders and retreats to the Barrow Downs.

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The Old North Road – Ninui 9^th, 1410

With the sudden arrival of this newcomer – and an elf at that, Valandil bristled, his silver, knightly armor rattling in the stiff cold wind.  He put his hand on the grip of his sword, ready for any threat, including the elf. “Who are you and what is behind you?” he asked sternly, demanding an answer.

The elf flashed his green eyes beneath wildly waving sandy, blonde hair.  “I am Ascarnil of Rivendell, and there is no time to explain.”  He looked quickly behind him where the sounds of baying wargs could be heard close at hand.

Valandil quickly realized that the elf was far safer than the wargs and he grasped Ascarnil’s hand and pulled him up on his horse, whereupon the elf shouted something to the animal.  Valandil was surprised by the intensity with which his mount bolted away from the approaching beasts to be followed by the others.

The horses kicked up gouts of snow as they fled from the enemy.  Firiel looked back over her shoulder and gasped.  “By the Valar!”  Barely shrouded by the falling snow and wind were a dozen massive wargs ridden by snarling orcs with spears, their paws pounding the soft ground with incessant strides.

Haedorial needed no encouragement to ride.  He was kicking his horse with all the strength that he could muster.

With cool precision, Mercatur aimed his crossbow at the gallop and twisted his body left to angle for a shot.  He sighted his target down the shaft of the bolt and pressed the trigger, unleashing the black dart.  The bolt leapt forward, its feathers gripping the air to give it spin and, in an instant, it sank into the forehead of a warg.  The great beast, as big as a horse, toppled into the snowbank, hurling its rider forward with a squeal.

The elf followed suit and brought out a composite bow made of fine woods and sinews.  With a masterful eye, Ascarnil took aim as he drew the string back.  The bow sang as a long arrow shot forth and into the eye of another warg.  The giant wolf crashed to the ground, crushing its rider beneath.

Firiel moved to draw her bow, but then stopped. Her skill with it on horseback was nonexistent and she focused on keeping her horse ahead of the deadly monsters. Her breath shot out in streams in the icy chill as she looked back and forth between what lay ahead and the angry horde behind.  Firiel’s sharp eyes focused through the thick flurry on a line of hills ahead.  The Barrow Downs – the ancient and sacred burial grounds of the Edain.

The healer glanced over to Valandil as she hung onto the saddle for dear life.  He looked back at her, knowing that they would be entering the cairns that were built by their forefathers more than five thousand years ago.  The men and women that were interred there fell during the great wars of Beleriand, fighting beside the likes of Finrod Felagund and Fingon, lords of the Noldorin elves.  These epic battles, like the men and elves who fought them, were now only the stuff of legend.  They also knew that this was the place where Cardolan’s army was ground to dust by the iron fist of the Witch King and that this was Ostoher’s final resting place.

Despite their misgivings, they drove their mounts forward as Ascarnil took aim once again.  Another arrow flew back, imbedding itself into the throat of a warg, toppling it into the raging storm.

Mercatur swerved his horse toward Valandil and called to the elf.  “Which tribe?”

With his sandy blonde hair whipping in the breeze, the elf looked back and raised an eyebrow.  “Sulmog-vrás…why?”

“Sulmog-vrás?” echoed the mercenary.  “You must be pretty important.  They don’t have many left after the war.”

“Thanks to the elves,” finished Ascarnil with some pride.

The four horses began to climb the first of the Barrow Downs, galloping slowly through the thick drifts, steam rolling off of their warm bodies.  Ascarnil patted Valandil on the shoulder.  “I’ll turn and fight here.  Thanks for evening the odds for me.”

“What?  You’ll be killed!” answered the knight.  “There are still nine of them.”

“Great idea,” Mercatur stated as he reloaded his crossbow.  “It’s been too long since I had a good fight!”

The elf slid gracefully down the back of Valandil’s horse and drew a long sword from a leather scabbard.  The weapon immediately glowed yellow and Ascarnil yelled, “Runya!” causing the blade to burst into flames.  Snow sizzled off of the blade, turning into steam.

Valandil shook his head with frustration and turned, drawing his own dwarven-forged weapon.  He turned his horse about just as Ascarnil sliced through an orc spear. The elf then spun and cut through the two forelegs of the warg.  The beast howled as it crashed into the snow, throwing its rider.

The orc rose, hissing and drew a sharp scimitar and turned toward the elf in time to be shot by another bolt from Mercatur. The black shaft penetrated clean through the brute’s chest, and it looked down at the wound momentarily before collapsing.

As Ascarnil’s sword blazed in the swirling snow, sizzling, Firiel and Haedorial dismounted on the crest of the hill.  The half elf woman drew her short bow as the bard hunkered down in a snow drift.  He found two orcs charging at Valandil with spears outstretched. Focusing his energies, he cast a silent voice between the enemy and their warg mounts crashed into each other.

Valandil’s eyes opened wide at the sudden change in his fortunes.  He spurred his horse forward and lopped the head off of one orc with a wide swing.  He recovered his guard in time to parry a thrust from the second orc and the two traded blows, blades thumping on shields.

A small arrow punctured the orc’s mount, but to little effect and the giant warg leapt at Valandil.  Its huge bulk pounded him, knocking him sideways off of the saddle. Together, they crashed into the snow – man, horse, warg, orc, throwing up white powder everywhere.

Stunned, Valandil shook his head and saw the razor edge of a scimitar coming down at him.  All he could do is turn his face, letting the weapon strike his helmet. The ring of metal on metal reverberated through his head as he instinctively drew his dagger and plunged in into the orc’s thigh.

The orc howled and drew the point of his scimitar back, showing off its long curved edge.  As it began its thrust, the squeal of a warg distracted it for a moment. Valandil saw Mercatur’s axe fall hard upon the spine of the warg and he knew his opportunity was at hand.  He kicked the orc’s injured leg and reached for his sword.  In a broad sweep, Valandil raked the edge across the orc’s belly, spilling blood into the snow.  It took two steps back and then fell over.

Mercatur stepped over the corpse and pulled the knight up.  “We’re hard pressed and they have reinforcements on the way.  We must make for the Old Forest,” he said, pointing west.  “I love to fight, but I don’t love to die.”

The orcs had fallen back for the moment and Valandil peered through the falling flakes to see the faint line of trees that made up the Old Forest, known to the elves as Taur Iaur.  He nodded back at his friend.

Haedorial came forward and looked in the same direction. “They say an ancient sorcerer lives there.  It is fraught with danger.”

Ascarnil joined them, sheathing his flaming sword. “The Rhudauran is right.  It’s our only hope.”

The bard looked at the elf curiously.  “You spoke…Quenya earlier.  That is the language of the High Elves…the Noldor.”

“So, that’s why the orcs want you so bad,” voiced Mercatur.  “We don’t see a lot of you elfies out and about these days.”  Valandil listened closely.  He needed to know what was going on and why.

Ascarnil nodded.  He was slender, but short for an elf, standing three inches under six feet. His sandy blonde hair spoke more to his being a Woods Elf, unlike the raven-haired Noldor.  “Indeed.  My mother is of the Noldor.  They had killed my horse and I thank you for your assistance,” he said cautiously, observing his new companions.  “I sense that you are not of the enemy.  The truth is that I am on a…quest from Elrond.  It is of the utmost importance that I complete it.  Even since their defeat in the war, evil has not slept.”

“We’ll do what we can,” offered Firiel.  “I am merely going to meet my mother in Bree. We can help you in your quest.” She looked directly at Valandil, who nodded in agreement.

Ascarnil put his hands together in thanks and slung his bow over his shoulder.  The group gathered their horses and began to make their way toward Taur Iaur.  The tree line of the dark forest could just be made out in the swirling snow.  Valandil pulled his cloak around his armor.  The heat of the earlier battle was fading and that deep, penetrating cold was returning.  Why on Middle Earth did Firiel’s mother want to meet now?

In the falling snow, Haedorial leaned in close to Valandil.  “Evil things happen in that forest and, did you see the elf’s sword?”

The knight nodded.  “It’s impressive.”

“The runes on the blade are in the ancient Noldorin Tengwar script and are a blessing and a curse.  The sword is an orc and troll bane…but it draws them to the wielder like a flame draws moths.”

Valandil’s eyes widened.  “You mean that-”

Haedorial nodded.  “Yes, orcs will be coming after us as long as he’s with us.”