The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

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Tumhalad - Part 2

Turin calls for the general attack of Nargothrond's armies against the smaller orc force to crush it quickly, but Glaurung leads a huge army from the Woods of Nuath to surround them.  King Orodreth and Gwindor lead the infantry while Captain Tintallo leads the cavalry.  Morelen confronts Glaurung again.  

*I did a fair amount of research on the Battle of Tumhalad of which there's not much, but I got some of the ideas from LOTR podcasters on the topic.  I wanted to paint a picture of the influence that Turin has over King Orodreth.  I'm also taking the path that Orodreth is Finrod's brother and that Gil-Galad is the son of Fingon.  Makes more sense to me.

Also, I originally was not going to do anything that included Gondolin, but I can't resist writing about that wonderful kingdom.

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48)  Tumhalad – Part 2 - Year of the Sun 495 Yavannië (September)

Morelen

His eyes huge with urgency, Líreno pointed north where another angry dust cloud floated up from the plains.  “The enemy from the woods will be here shortly!” he called and Morelen could see a wall of orcs, wolves and trolls being herded by balrogs and led by Glaurung, massive and bloated, twice the size that she remembered.  “We will be surrounded!  We must fall back,” he said, stabbing his hand towards the Narog.

Notaldo sounded his horn to get the attention of Túrin and King Orodreth.  The situation had changed far more rapidly than they had anticipated. The King and Lord Mormegil turned and stood up in their stirrups as Notaldo waved frantically.  He jammed his finger at Morelen.  “Get over there and warn them!  Tell them we should recross the river and defend there!  We could hold them on the far side.  Líreno, take command of your squadron and prepare to fall back,” he called, his face now etched with concern.  The new force could hit them in about twenty minutes at most.  Morelen gasped and then pushed her heels into Lindarion and sped off to the infantry at a full gallop.

“My King!  Lord Mormegil!” she shouted as she neared the great formation of spears, getting their attention.  “The northern force with Glaurung has moved to hit our flank. My captain recommends falling back across the river to defend,” she told them urgently.  “I could see them moving at great speed across the plains towards us. We have twenty minutes at most,” she advised urgently.  “If we fall back now, we can delay them enough to cross the Narog.  The riders can hold them there while the King withdraws.” She desperately hoped that they would heed her words.

King Orodreth looked at Túrin for a decision, his face full of concern and even fear but Túrin merely smirked.  “Fall back? Nonsense, my faithful lieutenant. This is opportunity,” he said as a smile spread across his face.  “Twenty minutes?  I only need ten to defeat the weakened force before us and then wheel about to meet Glaurung.”  Orodreth nodded slowly to the dismay of Morelen and Gwindor, the captain by Orodreth’s side.

“My King…my lord,” Gwindor protested, his face hardened, “we will be caught between two armies.  We need to listen to Notaldo.”

Túrin slashed his hand down and sideways.  “Enough! Time is wasting.  You’ve been timid since your escape from Angband, Gwindor. Timidity gets us nothing.  Don’t you understand, my friend?  Morelen, we appreciate your concern, but you need to stand with me.  We will need you here now with us,” he said, pointing to the ground.  “My King, I will signal the general advance.  We need to do this quickly,” he declared and blew his horn, followed by the horn of the herald, Nandamo.  “Attack now!  All companies, attack now!”  Ranks upon ranks of spearmen, shod in mail and scales, grunted out loud, rattling their weapons and shields.

The blood drained from Morelen’s face, and she saw the horror in Gwindor’s eyes.  The King seemed at a loss and merely nodded, his jaw slack, his eyes nearly blank.  She began to wonder who was actually in charge of Nargothrond.  Would Orodreth step up and lead?  The archer wanted nothing more than to return to Telepta, but an order was an order.  She had to trust in Lord Mormegil.  There was no other choice and he had never failed.  She rose up in her stirrups and looked back at Notaldo, who gave her a confused look, and she shook her head and gestured to Túrin.

Drums beat out the advance as Túrin led the troops in a battle song that resonated across the field. “Focus only ahead, my friends!  We crush this enemy and then destroy the next one! We will feast in the Great Hall tonight!”  Elven arrows began to fly at the weaker orc army, and they banded together to form a makeshift shield wall.  Morelen drew her bow, but knew that she should be with her company.  One bow would not do much here, so she tried to aim for the higher-ranking ones.  Surrounded by the infantry, Túrin dismounted and drew his black sword that shimmered in the sunlight, casting a malevolent sheen.  “This is it!  My brave troops, charge!” he ordered and the lines of spears advanced in clean, powerful lines, lowering tips as they crashed into the orcs.

This time the enemy seemed to find its resolve and held ground as elven spears pierced armor, flesh and bone.  Bodies began to pile up along the front and the elves pushed ahead, but only slowly now, too slowly.  The orcs were savage in their defense, not giving a single inch that wasn’t fought for, the howls and shrieks of battle filling the air.  Morelen looked over to see Glaurung’s army closing rapidly and she began to think of a way to return to Telepta.  This was not going the way that they had planned.

“Don’t look at them!” Túrin ordered her.  “The only enemy is in front!  Keep firing. Protect the King!”

She forced herself to turn away from the army that was closing quickly, Glaurung’s face now clear, his eyes burning with hate and hunger.  “My lord, we need to turn the line to meet the new attack!”

“They don’t matter! I told you to keep firing!” he shouted in practically a snarl as he waded into the ranks of orcs, hewing with Gurthang, splitting helms and slicing off limbs.  The enemy wavered in the face of the Dragon Helm, their eyes filling with terror.  Some fled before his onslaught.  This might actually work.  Morelen scolded herself for doubting and fired an arrow into the eye of an orc leader, then scanning around for other enemies.  An opening was forming in the orc line and Orodreth led a force to exploit that, Gwindor and Nandamo by his side.  “We’re breaking through!” Túrin cried, “we have the day!”  A stream of orcs threw down their weapons and fled in all directions.

Then, it happened…the roar of a dragon, followed by flame and death.  Glaurung crashed into the flank of the elven army, throwing men about, slashing with claws and raking the line with fire.  Cries of dismay erupted from the lines as men froze in terror, some even throwing down weapons and fleeing towards the river.  Burning troops ran in panic as smoldering bodies lay on the plains.  Morelen felt the heat and smelled burning flesh filling her nostrils as the sky became full of ash.  The weaker orc army stiffened their resolve and fought back with ferocity even as Túrin hewed their commander from shoulder to belly.  A troll crashed through the line of infantry, pierced by multiple spears and fell as orcs surged over his body towards the King, who fought valiantly with Gwindor and Nandamo.  Morelen spun her horse about as Lindarion kicked any enemy who got close.  All she could see on the right flank now was fire and panic was creeping into her body.  Stay calm, stay calm, keep fighting.  A flash of the dragon’s maw went through her head from her encounter with him on Ard Galen.

Gwindor, Nandamo and Orodreth were hard pressed and the King’s guard were giving ground, falling, one by one.  Morelen continued to pour fire into the orcs that were rushing at Orodreth, emptying one of her quivers.  Túrin continued to drive ahead, seemingly oblivious to the plight of the King, laying about with his black sword.  Orcs piled up around him, and some began to flee.  It was complete chaos.  Still, Morelen felt the battle was lost now.  Maybe there was still a way to salvage this, save some of the army and the city?

“My King!” she yelled over the din of fighting and screaming.  “My King, please give the order to fall back.  We’ll cover you across the river!  You must give the order, please!”

Orodreth looked around, wild eyed, seemingly lost.  He looked at her without recognition.  “We…we can…still win this,” he mumbled.  “Lord Mormegil will…will lead us to…victory.”

“Gwindor!  Get him on his horse!” she yelled.  “Get him out of here.  We’ll hold for you!  Nandamo, signal the retreat!” she ordered them as the dragon roared in the background amid horrid screams of people on fire.  The herald blew his horn loud but if any could follow that order, no one was sure.

Gwindor nodded sharply and grabbed the King’s horse as orcs leapt over their fallen brethren and crashed down on the elf.  He sliced through two as Morelen brought her sword down on another, cutting the orc down the face, spraying black blood.  Another orc stabbed Gwindor through the gap in his armor, just under the armpit and the elf cried out, slashing it through the throat.  Then, he staggered, holding his side with the stump of his left hand, lost while escaping Angband.  Blood streamed down the side of his breastplate, bright red.  Still, he started to push Orodreth up into the saddle when a spear drove into the horse’s neck and it reared up and fell over.  Morelen was in complete fury now, slashing about, keeping the orcs away from the King as much as she could against the tide. She barely noticed Nandamo fleeing for his life.

She reached out to grab the King, but more orcs piled on him as he fought, seeming to awaken from his stupor now.  One orc cut him on the back of the leg with a cruel, jagged scimitar, and he staggered as another grabbed his arm.  Morelen sliced that orc down the back and Orodreth hewed another pair, but they seemed endless.  A spear was thrust at the King, but Gwindor stepped in front, the tip piercing through his collar.  He cried out again and cut the spear shaft in two, the tip still buried beneath his collar bone.  Chaos was consuming the battlefield now, the din of fighting and the screams of the dying filling her ears.  Unit cohesion was unraveling down to individual fights and vicious brawls.  She grabbed Orodreth by the collar of his surcoat, but he was too heavy to lift with one arm, and she had to keep swinging Melima to ward off the attacks.  “My King, get on behind me!  Hurry!” she called as an orc crashed into Orodreth, knocking him from her grasp.  Gwindor swung weakly, falling to his knees, wheezing with blood bubbling from his mouth.

Morelen hesitated for a moment, trying to decide who to help.  In the seconds that she paused, two orcs drove Orodreth down, one stabbing him in the neck, under his helm.  The King slashed one, but another spear plunged into his side.  “Go, Morelen, save yourself,” he gurgled, waving her away, his eyes full of fear behind his visor.  She started to dismount but Túrin came howling back, slashing at the enemy, driving them away for a time.

“Rally the cavalry, Morelen.  Screen our retreat.  We’ll regroup at the river.  I’ll save the King!” he yelled, waving her off and she kicked Lindarion in the flanks, speeding away.  She looked back to see Lord Mormegil pulling Gwindor into the saddle as King Orodreth fell under a wave of orcs, the crest of his helm vanishing beneath the mass of attackers.

Her face burned red, seeing Túrin leave the King to his doom as he fled to safety.  She had been a fool and now they were doomed.  She was tempted to fire at the lord, but she couldn’t waste the arrows.  She let out an agonized shriek instead and jammed her heels into her horse.  Tintallo led the Misë Company in a desperate countercharge to save the King, but it was too late.  Orodreth was already gone.  She tried to get Tintallo’s attention, to call him off, but the lances were already plunging into the orcs.  She let out another feral cry of anguish.  Another disaster.  Another lost king.  It would never end until they were all dead…or worse.

Notaldo had rallied the Telepta, firing arrows to keep the enemy at bay.  She galloped at them, seeing Glaurung spraying the infantry with fire, troops melting in front of the dragon amid horrid shrieks.  “The King has fallen!” she shouted at her husband, her eyes wild and full of panic.  “We must get back across the river!”

“Take command of your squadron and we will fall back!” he called to her and she held her hand up to Sanamo and Ringion.

“We will cover the retreat!” she ordered her sergeants.  “Líreno!” she called to her friend.  “Head to the river and then cover us there!”  His squadron turned and rode towards the Narog at a full gallop.  It was a small blessing but Glaurung and the balrogs were focused on the infantry of Nargothrond, ripping them to shreds like paper.  A pack of massive wolves turned and charged at them, snarling, fangs bared and she nocked an arrow.  “On me! Fire!” she ordered her squadron and gull-feathered shafts flew, piercing fur, flesh and bone, wolves tumbling into the dirt, leaving a line of dead animals.  She rode up to Caladiel, whose eyes were full of fear.  “Stay with me.  Do not get separated.  Head to the river and cross with Líreno if anything happens to me.”

Misë and Morna were fully engaged in battle, Tintallo and Ehtyarder now cutting with their swords, slashing down on the sea of orcs.  “We’re going to get them and bring them back!” she yelled over the howls and screams and drove Lindarion back to the field, followed by her squadron and Notaldo. They galloped closer to the rout where elven soldiers fled in terror, some running towards the woods to the south, some towards the river.  “Regroup at the river!” she called.  “That way! The riders will cover you!”

Notaldo wheeled the group to get a shot at the orcs surrounding their friends.  “Pick your targets carefully!” he ordered.  “Fire!” he shouted and dozens of arrows struck the enemy, creating a gap in the ring around their trapped friends.  Some of the Morna fled through the opening, their horses bolting with their helpless riders.  Tintallo wouldn’t budge, driving his depleted force towards Glaurung, slashing through the orcs who were giving way from his fury.  As one of the mighty Eldar, he was fast and strong, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.

“Tintallo, fall back to us!” Morelen cried over the battle.  He glanced at her and shook his head, his teeth clenched and Caladiel screamed.

“No!  Come back to me!” she cried, her entire body shaking in rage and terror.  Caladiel shifted in her saddle and Morelen knew that she meant to charge.

“No!  I’ll go!  Sanamo, Ringion, keep the way open for me!” she yelled and began to ride with Notaldo right beside her.

“You’re not going alone!” he shouted at her, his eyes intense and focused.  She always appreciated his calmness in terrible situations.  “We’ll get him out together,” he added as he waved fleeing riders towards the river.  “Tintallo!  Fall back, fall back.  We’ll cover you!”  The Misë Captain didn’t even slow down however, driving a wedge for his men to Glaurung.  They rode through the gap as arrows rained down on orcs around them, the careful shots of the Telepta.  They leapt over fallen bodies as the wounded crawled, and they raced towards Tintallo and what was left of the Misë.

They caught one of his sergeants, Tyalro, she thought his name was.  “Get back through the gap!  We don’t have long,” Morelen said as she yanked him by his arm.  His eyes were huge and he was terrified.  He wheeled his horse and fled without another word.  They pulled out one rider after another, directing them to the rally point.  Still, Tintallo pressed forward amid the chaos and rout, determined to turn defeat into victory.  For a moment, the front went hush, the sound of battle dying away as the dragon put his attention on Tintallo.

“No, no, no!” Morelen cried out and fired an arrow into Glaurung’s nostril and the dragon winced, turning his gaze at her.  “Come on, Tintallo!  Fall back to us!”  Glaurung’s eyes bore into her, and it felt as if her mind were being ripped apart by claws. She felt blood dripping down from her eyes, nose and ears and she screamed under the assault of his power.

“We meet again, elf,” the dragon spoke in a deep rumble.  “Your pin pricks are most annoying,” he said coldly, glaring at her with a curl of his mouth, showing his fangs that were as long as glaives.  Then, he paused.  “But now is not your time.  I will let your father decide your fate.”

Tintallo had reached the monster and sliced it on the leg, making it snarl, looking away from Morelen. The horror dawned on her.  There was no way to win this.  There was no way to save him.  In seemingly slow motion, Glaurung reared back, inhaling deeply, his chest glowing red through his dark scales.  Notaldo slapped Lindarion on the rear.  “Go!  Go! I’m right behind you,” he called as their horses bolted back for the gap.  Glaurung opened his maw and flame burst forth, incinerating all before him, friend and foe alike.  Ashes blew on the wind, turning the sky black as they galloped to the river with the few survivors.  Caladiel was openly sobbing and Morelen couldn’t blame her.  She wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and drown in the river she was so numb.  But there was still the city.  The army left Nargothrond with nearly twenty thousand.  Who knew how many remained.

They stopped at the camp where men and grooms stood, jaws agape, watching the smoke rise from Plains of Tumhalad.  Notaldo ordered them to mount up and ride together.  Morelen looked at the orc prisoners, and her heart was filled with rage.  “I’ll take care of them,” she told him in a chilly voice. “Go, I’ll catch up to you.”  Her face told him not to question and he nodded, heading back to his mount.

As the company rode away, Morelen drew her dagger and marched at the orcs who were contained in a pen.  She glared at Gorka, her lip curled up.  Then she cut the ropes that held the pen closed.  “I don’t know why I’m doing this.  Go, save yourselves.  You will probably kill me one day, but I can’t do it.  I can’t kill someone who poses me no threat.”

He looked at her curiously, not sure of what to make of her action.  His gray face and black eyes seemed lively, thinking.  “You…you are not going to kill us?  We would surely kill you,” he said thoughtfully, calmly, very unlike what she expected from an orc.

“That’s what makes us different, Gorka.  I’ll have you know that it was my mother who saved you.  If she felt you were worth healing then who am I to question her? Go, and I pray that we never cross swords again,” she said, her voice full of emotion as she climbed back into the saddle and rode away.

Líreno waited for them just across the ford, bows at the ready.  He was shaking, barely able to contain his fear.  Notaldo grasped him by the shoulder when they had crossed the river. “I know what you’re thinking, Líreno. Go, go to Nargothrond and evacuate as many as you can.”

Unexpectedly, he shook his head.  “No, my friends.  I stand with you.  Telerien knows what to do.  I feared that this would happen.  We spoke about it last night and she is packed and ready with a great many of our friends.  If I fall or if we are separated, you know where to go.  Voronwë shared some things with us…about how to get to Gondolin. That will be our last refuge, our last chance.”  Still, his face was etched with worry.

Notaldo nodded solemnly, watching streams of survivors fleeing towards them, the enemy in hot pursuit. “We hold as long as we can to let people across.  Then, Líreno, you lead us.  We’ll need to take a deceptive route to throw off anyone who follows.”

Morelen kept waving stragglers to them.  “Keep coming, keep coming, form up behind us!”  Ragged, terrified and beaten soldiers waded across the river and tried to form a line behind the cavalry.  “Go, march east!  Go to the Methed-en-Glad outpost.  Rally there!” she shouted.  She had to keep her mind off of Glaurung and Tintallo’s last moments.  She raised her visor and wiped away the tears and blood that had caked on her face.

Caladiel rode up to her, her helmet missing, her eyes and nose red.  “He’s gone, Morelen, he’s gone.  I know…I know you did your best.  I…I loved him, you know.  And he’s gone…just like that.”  She blinked, her eyes unfocused, her blonde hair matted around her face.

Morelen reached out to her and they held hands.  “I tried to get him, I really did.  I’m sorry, I am, but I need you to stay strong.  We’re not out of this yet.  Morgoth’s army will pursue us, and they will attack Nargothrond and there is nothing we can do now to stop them,” she said, choking up.  For a moment she thought the river would shield the city.  Maybe some semblance of the kingdom might survive and then she remembered the great bridge.  It was easily large enough to support the dragon.  She grunted in frustration and helplessness and shook her head.  “No…the city is gone.  We must survive and endure.  I promised Lyaan that I would bring you home safe and I will.”  Flashes of the great caverns filled her mind…the kiosks which would be in full swing now, the underground docks where she liked to sit and listen to the water, the magical conservatory and arena.  All would be consumed.  She imagined flames and screams coming from the caverns and she shook, more tears flowing down her cheeks.  How much more could they endure?  Why was she even still alive when so many others had perished in this endless war? At least Tintallo died as a hero.

The last of the stragglers were across the river.  “So few,” she said in practically a whisper.  Of the nearly twenty thousand that marched out, they had maybe a few thousand gathered with several hundred already marching to Methed-en-Glad.  Túrin had fought Morgoth’s forces from there before he came to Nargothrond and he established an outpost there with a few dozen soldiers.  And perhaps another thousand troops fled to the woods across the Teiglin.  She could only hope that they were safe.  Of the three-hundred original riders under Fingon, centuries ago, one-hundred and ninety-six rode out of Nargothrond with one-hundred and four replacements.  They barely numbered half that now.  It was nauseating.  Then her blood boiled.  “Where is Túrin?” she said with a snarl, remembering him fleeing and leaving them to die.

“I last saw him galloping south with Gwindor over the saddle,” Notaldo said sadly.

She let out a feral shriek up to the heavens.  “I am such a fool!  I believed him!  I trusted him!  I did!” She dug her gauntleted hands into the pommel of her saddle, trying to wrench it free with her anger and despair. “He lives and Tintallo and Orodreth die. And we are left with this disaster!” She grunted in fury.

Líreno touched her on the shoulder.  “I’m sorry. I’m not criticizing you for this, I’m not.  He was charismatic and the King believed in him like many did.  We must go on,” he said, his eyes full of sympathy.

She chuckled cynically. “I’ll never not listen to you again, you and your damn skepticism.  I was a fool.”

One final straggler crossed the river.  It was Nandamo, the King’s Herald.  He had been burned in several places and wounded many times.  His armor was dented and scratched, blackened on part of his breastplate.  He staggered up to the edge of the banks of the Narog, his helmet missing and his eyes wild and feral.  Morelen dismounted and went to help him, extending her hand.  “Nandamo, it’s me…it’s Morelen.  Here, let’s get you to safety.  We can treat you.  Here, take my hand.”

His eyes scanned back and forth, not seeming to see her.  She called him again, more forcefully this time and he made eye contact. She nodded slowly, comfortingly. “Yes, Nandamo.  It’s me.  It’s Morelen. Come.  Let’s get you treated, and we can be away from here,” she told him, now seeing the enemy advancing from afar.

His nostrils flared and his eyes went even more wild and he looked up, letting out a ragged scream and sob as he drew his dagger and slit his own throat.  Morelen’s mouth fell open as his body hit the water and began to sink under the weight of his armor, staining the waters red.  She gulped hard, eyes huge, trembling and frozen in place until she felt Notaldo shake her.  “Morelen, get on your horse.  We have to go.  We have to go now.”

She started to wade into the river for Nandamo, oblivious to the dragon raging towards them, crawling like a lizard, slithering like a snake.  A hand seized her surcoat.  “Morelen, we have to go.  Get on your horse now!”

She turned back, hand on the hilt of her sword, shaking, tears running down her cheeks.  Then she let out the same ragged scream that Nandamo made and climbed into the saddle.  She thought about turning and charging at Glaurung but that would prove nothing and she didn’t want to die in flame.  But if she ever saw Túrin again, blood would be drawn.

Some of the survivors wanted to march to Nargothrond and defend it, and hopefully bring the bridge down. Notaldo wouldn’t stop them even though they already knew the outcome.  Surviving was all that mattered.  Morelen spun an illusion to mask their flight and they headed east in a zigzag towards Methed-en-Glad along the north side of the Andram Mountains with the cavalry at the rear to defend against any attack.  Thankfully none came.  Glaurung was too obsessed in his prize of the city, and they weren’t even worth his effort now, a beaten and demoralized force.

The march east was more like a funeral dirge with little talking and no laughter.  Agonized groans from the wounded rose along with weeping from many of the surviving citizens.  By the end of the day, they saw pillars of smoke rise from where the city was and ash floated down on them along with the smell of sulphur. Nargothrond would be no more. Morelen removed her gauntlet and bit the back of her left hand until it bled.  They continued through the night, watching the orange and red glow coming from the city.  “We’re all going to die,” she said without emotion and then let out a crazed cackle. “We should just all sail west and let the Valar drown us.  We deserve no less.”

Notaldo looked at her sternly.  “Lieutenant, pull yourself together.  You lead your section by example.  They look to you for strength.  They deserve no less and you will meet that standard.  Am I understood,” he said authoritatively.

It was exactly what she needed to hear.  She looked around at her riders and then nodded.  “Yes, captain.  I apologize. You are right and I was weak.”

His face softened. “Not weak.  We all feel it, but we cannot show it.  There will be time to grieve when we are safe, but we need you strong right now.  We will reach Methed-en-Glad early tomorrow and we can rest and care for our wounded.” He reached out and touched her on the shoulder.  Her cheeks blushed red in shame.  He always knew what to do and say.

They reached the outpost by midday where the few hundred who went ahead were telling the outpost soldiers what had happened.  Líreno searched around desperately.  This was the rally point.  Then, his eyes lit up, and he let out a cry of relief as he rushed to Telerien, who was with several hundred refugees from the city.  Notaldo and Morelen ran over there to see a ragged band of elves with some humans and even Throim the dwarf.  “I am not even remotely a religious man,” Líreno called out to the sky, “but thank the Valar for small blessings.  I give my thanks to Eru and Manwë for their mercy!”  Telerien told them about their escape through a secret passage as Glaurung approached.  She tried to find Finduilas, but the princess could not be located before they had to flee. Finduilas was now dead or worse.  All of mighty Finrod’s relatives were gone but for Galadriel.

Morelen looked around to see if anyone was watching and she went to the nearby stream to wash off. Her armor and clothes were caked with blood and her face coated with it.  Small dents and scratches lined her breastplate and the arms and legs of her harness.  Her helm had a long gash above the visor, and she didn’t even notice when she was hit.  She washed off the blood and then soaked her clothing in the stream.  It would begin to reek in a day or so otherwise. She set everything out to dry on the stream bank in her meticulous manner, everything in its place, neat and ordered.  It was all that she had left to hang onto.  Nothing seemed real anymore.

She looked at the bite mark on the back of her left hand that was healing quickly now, staring at it, laughing and shaking.  Was she losing her mind?  How much could her mind take?  She hugged her knees and sobbed, rocking like a child.  They would never be safe.  Morgoth would destroy the world.  She felt someone touch her bare shoulder and looked up at Caladiel.  “No one should grieve alone,” the younger elf said and sat down where they embraced, sobbing together, their tears falling into the stream to mix with blood.

By nightfall, the leaders of the survivors met to decide their fate.  A group of the officers from the riders and the remaining infantry stood in the outpost hall, debating, voices loud and some angry.

“Quiet, everyone, quiet!” Notaldo called.  “We need to determine who is in charge of what remains of Nargothrond before we can determine anything else.”

Ehtyarder, Lieutenant of the Morna, bowed to him.  “You are the ranking member of the survivors and an anointed noble of the realm.  Lord Notaldo, you are in charge.”  Members of the gathering looked around and then nodded.

He looked stunned, his jaw slack.  “No, that can’t be.  There were hundred of nobles and council members of the realm on the field.  It cannot be.”

Líreno patted him on the back.  “They all perished with King Orodreth.  It is you, and I trust you to lead us.  If you will trust me, I can lead us to Gondolin.”

Notaldo gulped hard and nodded slowly, his eyes intense and focused, deep in thought.  “Very well.  If I have your support, I will accept this responsibility for the good of our people.  When we reach Gondolin, I will relinquish that role to King Turgon,” he said and blew out a long sigh.  “I will go to Gondolin, but I fear that King Turgon may not allow us in.  It is even less likely with so many refugees.  I will not bind any of you to my decision. Those who wish to flee to the Mouths of the Sirion are free to do so.  But if you follow us to Gondolin, you will accept my authority.  We will leave early tomorrow morning, so you have until then to decide.  If you have any questions, now is the time.”

Voices rose, calling out concerns, ideas and questions, which he answered patiently.  Morelen could not understand how he could keep together through this.  She wanted to fall apart every second of the day.  It would be easier to ride out and die at the hands of a dragon, balrog or even the Dark Lord himself than to remain and put their lives back together yet again. Notaldo held his hand up, silencing the gathering.  “I will also need a headcount of our remaining forces, citizens and what stores of food that we have.  I need them within the hour.  We need to send out pickets and sentries to prevent any ambush…Morelen, Líreno, see to it. Finally, get some rest.  We have a long road ahead of us.  We must survive this.  We will survive this,” he said confidently but she could see something in his eyes.

As the session broke up, Notaldo slipped out the back way of the hall and Morelen followed him, a bit behind.  He went into the kitchen and crumpled down behind a cold oven.  Morelen could hear sobbing and his fist pounding on the wall. She wasn’t sure what to do at first. He had never broken down, and this terrified her.  She ran to him and held him from behind.  He turned and held her, pounding on her back.  “I have you.  I’m strong for you now,” she whispered.  “We’re together and that’s all that matters right now.  Let me be strong for you.”

He pushed back and looked at her, wiping his face.  “Thank you. I am well now.  I am well,” he said, almost more to reassure himself. “I cannot show weakness for our people, I cannot.  I am sorry that you had to see this.”

“No,” she said emphatically with a chop of her hand.  “No, do not apologize.  I need to know what you are feeling if I am to stand behind you.  I will catch you if you fall.  I will wipe your face when you falter,” she said, wiping his cheek with the back of her hand.

He nodded and forced a smile.  “I am…I am so lucky,” he said, stifling another sob.  “Come, they need to see us strong for them.  I just had a moment of weakness, nothing more.”

The next morning came and they found a dozen of the refugees hanging from the nearby trees, people too broken to continue.  Another ten had thrown themselves into the river and drowned, their bodies floating in the pools, their faces white and puffy.  Some of the worst wounded had passed too.  They were all buried quickly so as not to crush morale any further.

As the camp stirred to life, nearly three thousand of the survivors and citizens wanted to head south to the Mouths of Sirion, including Throim, who would find his way home to Nogrod after.  That group would sail through the Pools of Aelin-Uial, down the great river to the Gates of Sirion at the Andram Mountains, traversing down the stairs by the massive falls. Then, they would continue down the river, through Nan-Tathren, where fabled Ents were rumored to live in a forest full of butterflies, and onto the Havens of Sirion.  Nearly two thousand would stay with Notaldo to find Gondolin, including all of the remaining riders.  They would leave a cryptic note, hidden by glyphs and wards, for any other survivors to go south to the Havens of Sirion.

Farewells and well wishes were said in the predawn morning as the last remnants of Nargothrond’s people parted, likely for all time.  People that Morelen knew and were friends with would likely never be seen again. Another heartbreak.  The kingdom of the great Finrod Felagund was no more. It was time to survive and move on. The riders led the others north along the Sirion.

“We’ll remain on the east side of the Sirion for now until we reach Doriath,” Notaldo told the riders as he ordered scouts ahead and to the west.  “Elu Thingol’s heart has hardened against the Noldor, and we will find no refuge there, so we’ll cross over to the west through the Forests of Brethil and Neldoreth.  We will avoid the Plains of Dimbar for I fear it will still be full of orcs.”

Líreno nodded. “We’ll use the Ford of Brithiach and then you’ll have to follow me,” he said as he patted his chest where the map that Voronwë gave him was stored.  He vowed to die before it could be taken from him and reveal the area where the secret entrance to Gondolin was located.  Not even Telerien knew where that was, he was so careful with the information.

Telepta Company did most of the scouting as both the Misë and Morna were depleted with many still wounded.  Pillars of smoke from Nargothrond still rose above the city like a wraith, dark and evil. The journey went on for a week through the woods with them occasionally seeing Sindarin and Silvan scouts from Doriath glaring at them.  They were not foolish enough to test the guardians.  At one point, Caladiel called to them, “I’m one of you!  We mean you no harm!  We are refugees!  Please let us enter!” but there was only cold silence in response.  Elu Thingol’s heart had not thawed.  They knew enough not to test the anger of the great King of Doriath. They wouldn’t have made it past the Girdle of Melian in any case.

They continued up the Sirion through the Forests of Brethil and Neldoreth, the scouts reporting all quiet. Morgoth had pulled his forces from other areas for the attack on Nargothrond, giving them a window of opportunity.  Even the Plains of Dimbar were barren and desolate, much to their surprise.  The wounded were mostly healed by now and the once demoralized force even dared to have hope.  But spirits were still muted and weeping could still be heard at night. As planned, they crossed the Fords of Brithiach, unbothered.

“I dared not hope that we would make it this far, unmolested,” Notaldo said.  “Though I’m not holding my breath that we will get to Gondolin without more battle.”

Morelen pointed back to the line of refugees, many of them just citizens of the realm, artists, sculptors, dancers, healers and merchants.  “If we’re attacked in force we can’t protect all of them.  It would be another disaster.  We need to keep hidden as best as we can,” she said as the sun began to set.  The last of the refugees had crossed at Brithiach and they began to march north along the dry river as Morelen placed glyphs of illusions to hide their tracks under darkening clouds.  The Crissaegrim, the southern part of the Encircling Mountains, rose tall before them, supposedly hiding the kingdom.  Above, great eagles circled, watching them closely.

“This is it, I’m sure of it,” Líreno told the group, pointing up ahead.  “Follow this dry riverbed,” he said with confidence but his eyes betrayed fear and worry.  He searched around for a minute and then pointed north.  “Yes, this is it.  Voronwë assured me that it was.”

Notaldo looked back at the column, some were tired and obviously hungry.  “All right, the rest remain here, out of sight, while Telepta scouts the way ahead.  Have the infantry set sentries all around.  No surprises at this point.”  He circled his finger above his head.  “Telepta, on me.  I’ll take lead for now,” he added, indicating that he would assume the highest risk.

Ehtyarder of the Morna rode up.  “My lord, I would ask to accompany you, if you please.  I want to do my part.”

Notaldo scoffed.  “My lord?  No, none of that nonsense.  We have no king, we have no kingdom.  We are leaves on the wind until…or unless we find Gondolin.  So, captain or my name is fine.  If worse comes to worst we can live as outlaws, preying on Morgoth’s forces much like Túrin did.”

Morelen curled her lip up in a sneer.  “Do not say that name near me.  If we should cross paths again, there will be blood.  Likely mine, but he would have to get through a hail of arrows first.”

Líreno smirked.  “It won’t come to that, trust me.  His doom lies elsewhere, I can feel it, and it will be a great doom indeed.  Forget him for now.  We have to get these people safe and settled.  That is our responsibility.”

Notaldo smiled. “Well said, my friend.  Join us, Ehtyarder,” he said with a nod and then thought a moment.  “We barely have enough to form a single company now.  I would like to just call ourselves ‘The Riders of Fingon’ from here on in.  That’s who we were and that’s who we’ll always be,” he said and then reversed the sigils on his helm and breast, putting Fingon’s above Orodreth’s.  “We will always honor Orodreth, but I feel we should return to our roots.”

The riders nodded and smiled while doing the same with their badges.  Morelen changed hers, a tear dropping on her hand.  She needed this.  She need some confidence back.  Notaldo was her rock.  What would she do without him?  They scouted north along the riverbed, riders spread out in a skirmish line to avoid ambush. After an hour they reached the end of the dry river with nothing in sight but the great mountains, reaching skyward beyond their ability to climb.

“It’s here,” Líreno declared.  “It has to be here.  I’m sure its hidden,” he said, dismounting and scrambling around, becoming more desperate with each passing minute.  “It’s here! It has to be here!”  He threw a rock with a frustrated grunt, pulling a large rock over and finding nothing.  Morelen rushed in and began to search, her hope fading.  Líreno fell to his knees and raised his hands up. “Mighty Ulmo!  Please!  Please! Do not leave us abandoned!  Please help us!” he called out in despair as the temperature dropped and mist formed in the riverbed.

At that, lighting shot across the sky, followed by the deep rumble of thunder.  It was almost as if there were a face in the clouds, bearded with a helm like a seashell.  Rain began to pour on them, forming pools on the dry riverbed.  The pools of water shimmered and glowed as they watched raindrops beat on the surface of the pools.  They then heard footsteps and splashes in the water.  The shimmering intensified and began to form into the shape of an elf.

“Voronwë?” Líreno blurted out.  “It’s…it’s you.”

CODEX:

Weapons:

Kynac – A single edged bladed weapon, longer than a dagger and shorter than a shortsword.

Ikasha – A large, multi-edged throwing star.

Clothing:

Gambeson – a quilted shirt worn under armor.

Doublet – a fitted jacket.

Hose – leggings worn under the armor.

Chausses – loose pants worn under the armor.

Pauldron – armor over the shoulder.

Organizations:

The Riders of Fingon –

Misë Company – Green

Telepta Company – Silver

Morna Company - Black