For her it seemed almost like a quiet morning walk over a field of grass, still wet with dew and green like in spring, before colourful flowers spread up. No opponent even directed a weapon towards her; no arrow was flying in her direction. The stars on her cloak had begun to shimmer, her long , blonde hair was flowing in the wind, she was within a circle of light of her own.

When Nienor-Niniel had crossed the bridge, she did not hold her sword in her hands ? and after the battle she would spend long hours to search for it, for even if it did not hold any magic, any particular strength or beauty, it still was her dearest weapon. When she crossed the bridge, getting closer to the centre of the battle, to the scream, that she held the sickle in her hand. When and why she had taken it, she could not tell herself. It was just there, like evidence. Was it not for that reason that she had come?

Something was amiss in the centre of the battle, and when the ranks of dwarves opened in front of her feet, like a curtain opening to a stage, to show the scenery to the anticipating audience, Nienor saw it. It? Him? It was difficult to say ? there still was something human in the berserker, something that had the size and shape of her former mentor, but there was nothing human in his way to move, in his strokes, in his voice. It was hardly more than an incarnation of a spirit of anger, not a lot more than a beast of prey unleashed in a circus after a starving period. Hungry for blood, hungry for death, desiring ruin above all.

Seeing the breeches in the dwarven ranks, the bodies spread around the berserker, It was obvious that in the aim to win the battle it had been right to call upon him But would it not raise the price to be paid beyond anything that was worth fighting for?

A man lay on the ground, whom Nin recognised as one of the Knights in Training she had met before the battle in the tent. It seemed ages ago now that they had talked so confidently about strategy. But then this man must have touched the blade, just like herself, and the spell should work and protect him. Just like it should protect her. And yet, she had been called.

Nienor lifted her eyes to the dark sky, covered with clouds, from which too little light fell upon her. Light, she needed the light of Earendil, the light of the stars upon her face, upon her sickle to make it shine, to make it shimmer and to rise a star of hope inmidst of the destruction. Something that would protect her, something to surprise the Red hammer so entirely, that it would make them motionless, easy to be defeated, almost slaughtered then. She wanted the light now, as it had risen in the sky over Helm?s Deep. And now she had gained the power to call for it. Radagast hold told her to trust in the power given to her, to use it when she felt ready. And now in the twilight over the battlefield, watching the estranged figure of Erinhue, Nin knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted the light to shine, even if there was no hope that it would bring a light of consciousness in the bard?s mind. She wanted the Red Hammer, or whatever was behind them, for there had to be something to give the dwarves such strength, to turn towards her and her only, so that the other would be safe, at least safe enough to go after the berserker. She knew Anorast was nearby, followed probably by Tallain and Arwen, for no Mithril Knight would stand behind in such a battle. None, but herself.

Slowly she lifted the weapon above her head, and in response the clouds were torn open. The sickle needed no striking or using. All its power was in the starlight that it reflected. Indeed, the young woman was smiling now, and the light of the stars fell like a ray on the weapon, Nin?s blonde hair was shimmering in the silver light, all he light now focused around her Somewhere behind the curtain of light that the sickle had built around her, she heard other voices, voices of dwarves, of knights, she could not tell. They seemed like screams of panic and wonder, but just like an echo out of the depth before time under the mountains. Nienor-Niniel felt alone with the light.

And then from the outside that she could not see, she felt the strike.

"THE HAMMER!"

The Dwarven Captain could not believe his tired and bloodshot eyes; THE HAMMER...here...in this forsaken little town by the lake, NOT in Dale and NOT at Orthanc and NOT at the Lonely Mountain...but HERE!

His toothy grin broke into his bearded and bloody face; the Red Hammer King would reward him greatly!

With a cry of war and renewed strength, the Captain rallied his remaining troops. They had one intent: Get the Hammer. At any cost.

The Dwarves heard the order as it howled from the officers and trickled through the battlefield; the Hammer was here; get the Hammer; at any cost.

Within moments, the Red Hammer was surging for Nienor-Niniel and the Sickle...

Tempest had been steadily making her way back toward the center after she had successfully alerted her fellow warriors and knights about Erinhue's condition. However, when his inhuman howl filled the air, even she shivered at the sound and a sudden doubt pricked her heart. "Well, it's too late now for second guesses," she told herself. "The Berserker has been unleashed and there is simply nothing to be done."

She did not pretend to understand such things, for magic and secret arts had always held little interest for her, especially when she had seen in the War of the Rings what had befallen those who used them. For her, the sword and shield alone held meaning and she used them now as she warded off the advancing dwarves and skillfully maneuvered her way back to the center.

In a brief respite from battle, Tempest turned to find an elven messenger at her elbow. "We've been looking all over for you. I have a message from Lord Elbren."

"What is it?"

"He commands the captains to close the dwarves in upon Erinhue and let him drive them back and take them down. Let them keep him busy until the Berserker can be undone."

"Yes, yes. I know," Tempest replied hastily and the messenger looked taken aback.

"Lord Elbren says that, in the absence of Beliran, someone may have to disable the bard, strike him unconscious. That is, when the time comes."

"Yes. I realized all this."

The messenger lifted his hand and pointed toward a small group of people on the border of the front lines. "Perhaps you know this, but do they?" he asked in a strange voice.

Tempest spun around and watched in horror as Erinhue advanced toward the small group who she immedietly recognized as Telta, Raghnildur and Falathiel. From the distance it looked like they were trying to lift someone off the ground, probably a wounded ally. Tempest sucked in her breath. Why would the Berserker be interested in THEM? They should be protected by Carnimiriel's spell!

"What are you going to do?" the messenger asked in a hushed voice.

"I'm going to stop him, or at least turn his attention back to the Red Hammer."

"You cannot fight him."

"I didn't say I was going to fight him. I said I was going to stop him."

However, before Tempest could even turn her gaze back to Erinhue, a pulse rippled across the field, and she felt a surge of sudden energy come from the dwarves. Looking for the cause, she glanced back and was surprised to see Nienor-Niniel walking calmly onto the field.

The Sickle.

"Oh, no," Tempest whispered. The Sickle was here. Why had they brought it here? She cursed silently. "They know. They feel it," she thought, noting the cries that suddenly rang out from the The Red Hammer. They had immedietly recognized the presence of the Sickle.

And now they had another reason to fight with renewed vigor.

Tempest grabbed the messenger by the shoulder. "Go and tell the other captains: Protect Nienor-Niniel. She must not fall into the hands of the Red Hammer. They will center their attack on her, which we can use to our advantage. Let us hope that the Berserker will be distracted by her appearance and the energy of the dwarves as well and follow them in. Now, go!" The messenger nodded and quickly went on his way.

"There are powers here which none of us can understand," Tempest thought grimly, "all converging on this one battlefield. How strange, and how terrible for Middle Earth if we should fail to claim them and instead they rest in the hands of our enemies!"

Mirdain's forces were holding the line and making progress, albeit slow, toward the center battle group. After engaging the dwarven lines yet again, they were quickly forced to dismount and fight hand to hand as their horses were cut down beneath them, similar to what had been done to Jiyadan. Nonetheless they pressed on, even as their horses fell. Although he could not pick them out in the throng, Mirdain knew that Tempest and Erinhue were fully engaged.

That's it everyone! To the center! Drive the enemy forward and do not give ground! Mirdain shouted after jumping from his own horse.

Though they were less in number than the dwarves, the warriors of Lorien and Mirkwood that stood beside Mirdain and Idril were more fiersome and deadly, more skilled in combat. Though they had lost a third of their number, as Mirdain guessed, the dwarves still fell before them and gave ground. He was encouraged, thinking their victory was near at hand.

Something appeared out of the ordinary though. Ahead and to his left, where the fight was waxing fierce by the center battle group, Mirdain could see that the elves were retreating. They looked like waves retreating back into the lake. One was left alone with a wide space all around him. With his clear sight, Mirdain knew instantly that it was Erinhue. No, not Erinhue, he was changed...the Berserker!

Though Mirdain had not actually seen much of the Berserker in action, he had heard many stories of it in his time with the Mithril Knights. He knew, first and foremost, that it was best to stay back.

The dwarves did not know apparently, and they began to draw off toward the figure standing alone in the middle of the field.

Hold your ground! Do not pursue them! shouted Mirdain down the lines of his fellow warriors. We have them where we want them! Be on your guard!

Mirdain's group then took a defensive position, holding off the dwarves that remained there to fight them. Mirdain watched as the Berskerker reached the first dwarves nearests to it, and decimated them. Then, in the heat of battle, a messenger came up behind Mirdain and startled him. Mirdain turned from the fight for a moment to confront the person.

What is it? I might have killed you if I thought there were dwarves at my back.

Forgive me, but I carry an urgent message from Lord Elbren. You are to drive the Red Hammer toward Lord Erinhue and let him take care of them. Push forward. We must find a way to take him out of the berserker state, but until then he must be occupied with the dwarves.

That makes sense. I only worry that we will get to close and he will come after us. But I trust Lord Elbren's judgement. Inform him that we will push forward with all our strenght, but will be inclined to fall back if the situation becomes to perilous.

I will do so. With that, the messenger left. Mirdain sent word of Elbren's order to Edlund and on down the line to either side. Again the right flank began to push forward, toward the fury of the Berserker. The far right end of the line swung inward in order to push more of the dwarves toward the center. It was not difficult, since many of the Red Hammer were concentrating that way anyway.

Suddenly, as the elves closed in, the Berserker turned toward them. He was only twenty meters away at most and quickly hacked his way toward them. The few in Mirdain's group closest to the Berserker were cut down. Mirdain saw Edlund barely escape death, as he fell backward and the Berserker dealt him a glancing blow to the shield arm, seemingly without noticing what it did. At that moment, the Bersker turned away in pursuit of someone else.

Mirdain took the opportunity to hurry over to where Edlund lay. Mellon, you almost got yourself killed.

Undoubtedly. It feels as if I should be dead. I still feel a pain in my arm after that blow, even though it was protected by armor and shield. That Berserker is powerful beyond anything I have ever seen.

Truly. Now I must insist that you move to a safer point, away from it, before it decides to come back and finish you off. I will help you. Mirdain pulled Edlund to his feet, shouting the order fall back! as he did so. They had gotten too close for comfort, too close.

Mirdain found Idril near the middle of their battle group and handed the injured Lord Edlund over to her, saying My love, I must find a way to stop our friend. He has gotten out of control.

I am not sure that you can. It is not easy to stop him when becomes this way, from what I have heard.

Nonetheless I will try. Lady Carnimiriel told me that my crystal has many powers that I have not yet discovered. Now I have an idea.

Mirdain quickly found the Berserker. Oddly, it was standing still. "Over a fallen body?" he thought to himself. "No, someone living...another Knight!" Though Mirdain did not know him well, he recognized Raghidilnur. Quickly Mirdain pulled the crystal from beneath folds of his cloak and clasped it in his hand. In his mind he concentrated on Erinhue as the Berserker. The crystal glowed brightly, and Mirdain tried to convey silently what he wanted to say. "Lasto Clarion, sedho, edho..." But then he felt a counter-surge of power from the Berserker's sword, too great to withstand. Mirdain swooned and nearly fell back unconscious, but friendly hands caught him and a voice brought him back to his senses.

Now it is my turn to help you. The voice was Edlund's. I think that that is too great a power for you to confront like that alone, mellon.

It seems so. Did anything happen? Did Erinhue react?

Yes and no. He flinched and hesitated, because of your spell I think, whatever it was. Yet he remains the Berserker and has not moved from his spot.

Mirdain could now see that Erinhue stood still as if poised to strike Raghildinur. Then a strange new thing happened. To his amazement, some sort of energy pulse ripped through the field of battle. The attention of everyone around Mirdain immediately turned toward the source. Mirdain spotted the young Knight Nienor there, but could not understand what she had done, if indeed she was the source. Next to him, Idril stared wide-eyed, even as he spoke to her.

What is that, love? What has Nienor done?

Idril replied in a chilling voice. It is the Sickle. It is here. Why have the brought it here?

Mirdain could now see that that was exactly it. The dwarves clearly understood what it was as well. Any that were left fighting Mirdain and his companions now abandondoned them and concentrated all their efforts toward the young Knight with the Sickled in her hand.

With a gasp Anorast realized that Nin held in her hand the Sickle. He stopped still, shocked, seeing her stand in front of the berserker, not heeding the battle around her. As she raised the Sickle over her head the entire battle stopped, even the raging fury that was ?Hue. From on high above their heads a blinding light grew, and around Nin a halo of light appeared. Around him the Red Hammer dwarves cursed with fear and amazement, but in the light of the Sickle and the light of his own blade Anorast could see expressions of glee, lust, and possessive desire on their faces as they looked towards his lady. Behind him in the crowd of dwarves a great voice rang out, shouting out in their own language what was clearly an order. To Anorasts right a quick dwarf seemed to shake off the effect of the light, and with a resounding cry, hurled a small throwing axe directly at Nins back.

As he watched the spinning weapon fly towards Nin Anorast fell deathly still. A burning cold gripped his spirit, and he stood, unable to do anything, even as the Red Hammer began to move forwards. It came as a shock to him to see the axe bounce harmlessly away from Nin, repelled by the light surrounding her. But Nin was not entirely out of danger.

Seeing Nin resist the thrown axe loosed Anorast from his stasis, but the cold grip of fear did not lift. Instead of the burning fire of battle Anorast now felt cold, quiet, focused. The battle around him seemed to slow as all Anorast cared about was protecting Nin. With quick steps the old elf rushed towards his lady, dispatching with quick blows the dwarves that stood in his way. Ahead Anorast could see the berserker, rushing towards the nearest target, Nin. With a quick glance Anorast saw behind the berserker one of the KiTs he?d met before the battle, fallen to the ground. No dwarves stood nearby, and Anorast could easily guess that the spell of protection was not working correctly.

Ahead of Anorast the berserker had nearly reached Nin, still ignoring all who approached her. Yet the fearsome warrior did not appear to recognize his fellow knight, who was supposed to be safe from his rage. Running ahead of the enraged and greedy dwarves, Anorast had no thought of the danger he was in. Only once he stood beside Nin, facing the charging berserker, did Anorast realize that the fate of the piled bodies around him might also be his own. Pausing, the old elf looked straight into the berserker?s eyes as the man came on, lured by the light. Then as soon as he was close enough, the possessed bard swung Clarion directly at Anorast. But instead of dodging the blow, Anorast leaped forwards, raising his own sword to meet the runeblade. Smashing together, the blades locked, the strength of the berserker matched by the intense focus of the elf, the two opponents staring into each other eyes.

?Leave us! Slay the dwarves.? Speaking quietly, to only the berserker, Anorast stared at the possessed Erinhue. ?You shall not touch us!?

With a burst of strength coming from his great fear for Nin, alone behind his back in the midst of battle, Anorast thrust the berserker back. ?Go!?

Caring not whether Erinhue would attack, Anorast quickly looked back at Nin. With a look Anorast saw she was still surrounded by light, and any dwarf which tried to attack her was thwarted. Looking up, Anorast took a fresh grip on his shield, and raised his sword again. Around him lay a sea of enemies, and somewhere behind his back raged a crazed killing machine. It was only a matter of time till Anorast was overwhelmed, and Nin's shield failed, letting her be taken. But Anorast would yield the field only in victory, or death. No hope did he hold for himself as the dwarves closed in, intent on taking the Sickle.

Mirdain was nearly in state of trance. He did not know what to do, and could not help but stare. He snapped out of it once he realized that there was another messenger beside him, looking quite distressed.

M'lord, Lady Tempest begs that you protect Lady Nienor by whatever means possible, else the dwarves will surely kill her and take the Sickle!

Y-Yes, of course. Of course! Go back and tell Tempest we will do what we can. Also, if you can, find Lord Elbren and ask if there are any further orders from him.

As you wish. The messenger left, and Mirdain turned and spoke hurriedly to Edlund and Idril.

Now we must split up again. Idril, go to the far right and Edlund, to the far left of our line. I will stay around here. Tell everyone to protect Nienor at all costs! Oh, and use bows as much as possible! The two of them nodded in assent and parted from his side. Mirdain shouted to everyone around him,

Protect Nienor! Look to the source of the light! Use your bows, but take care not to hurt her, Anorast, or Lord Erinhue! Mirdain could now see that Erinhue was looking at Nienor, but there was nothing he could do about that at the moment. Anorast stood between Nienor and the Berserker...he would have to be enough. Swifter than the rest he drew his bow. A dwarf was nearly on top of Nienor, axed raised. With not a moment to spare, Mirdain felled him with an arrow through the eye. Then he gave the order fire at will! and everyone around began firing at the dwarves around Nienor as fast as possible, cutting them down in droves.

But would it be enough?

Elbren watched the scene with shock and the helpless feeling of being too late....but when he saw Anorast dare the field and the Berserker, the Elven Lord urged Erelas with a word. The stallion launched himself over the bodies, screaming at any enemy who dared to stand before him, making his way to Nienor-Niniel and her guardian Knight, Lord Anorast....

The sky was crimson mist, the ground blood soaked mud and in between them rage and terror and madness reigned. The berserker engaged in murderous revel, decimating the Red Hammer dwarfs and clearing the field around him. His great success forced a change of location and in the move something touched the berserker's enflamed senses.

Elves. The rythmic pulsing of their life's blood was like that of no other creature and it drew the berserker's attention. Propelled by bloodlust he advanced upon the source but something stirred within trying to break through the intense fury that filled the berserker's mind.

There was something about elves, something from long long ago, something all but forgotten by the spirit that possessed the runeblade. The thought, as did all others, remained submerged, lost to fury and a driving thirst for blood.

Erinhue advanced upon the tiny group of those he had so recently mentored. Falathiel and Teltasarwen had the fallen Vanaladiel by the arms as they hauled her to her feet. As they half dragged and half assisted their injured comrad back to the center line, Raghnildur drew his sword and stood between the retreating warriors and the steadly advancing threat.

The bard's straight white teeth were bared by the berserker's wicked grin leering at its noble, but foolish prey. Steel rang against steel as the two sword struck each other repeatedly. The berserker was zealous in his desire for Raghnildur's blood but there was again something struggling to the surface. It managed to pierce through scarlet veil to prick at the berserker's mind and slow the stroke of his blade enough that Raghnildur, using all his skill and strength, might hold on to his life.

And then he fell. Weither it was a slip of his foot in the muddy ground or a stumble over a fallen body or a succumbing to exhaustion, Raghnildur fell and the berserker was on him in an eyeblink of time. Sword drawn up to his chest, the death stroke had only to be delivered, when something stayed the blow.

The man's face became clear through the red haze that colored Erinhue's vision, and the berserker paused. Instinct made him look up and into a pair of anxious eyes. This face also came clearly through the vision clouding mist, and with it came a name.

Telta

To the berserker's utter surprise he knew the woman standing and staring at him. He looked down at the man he had nearly killed and his face also seemed familiar. In that moment's hesitation something happened elsewhere on the batttlefield. An unearthly light exploded near the Knight's right flank line.

For a frozen heartbeat all motion stopped, all attention was drawn towards the light. Whispered awe flowed through the ranks of the Red Hammer dwarfs. The Sickle was here among them and they were drawn to it. So was the berserker.

The shift in the battle was almost instantaneous, yet puzzling to those who were unaware of the significance of what had just occurred. The Dwarves abandoned almost every other front to fight towards where a Knight was now standing, and the light and power that emanated from her was almost tangible.

With the Dwarves now fighting to reach her, they turned their backs almost totally on the line that Jiyadan and Rholarowyn's companies had formed. Their armor was less developed at the rear, and Jiyadan called for a shield line with archers in positions between each shield bearer.

"Fire at will! Cut them down!" The command was given; the Dwarves began to fall. What few remained to fight them were hacked down by those with swords, and those who had turned to fight for the sickle were slaughtered as the arrows of the Elven archers found their targets.

Jiyadan took a moment to scan the battle field. The Red Hammer was now all but defeated; their ranks were decimated and their dead lay thick upon the ground. What strength they had left was in their fervor to retrieve the Sickle, and yet even in this they were being slaughtered as they all but abandoned their defense to achieve this goal.

Their forces surged towards what had become the dead center of the battle, and those of the Mithril Knights and their allies were now killing them with a strange kind of ease that made Jiyadan almost take pause, wondering if there was something he was missing in all this.

Pulling Rho back from the line, he yelled over the din of the battle, "What is going on? Who is that woman in the center?"

In the midst of battle, Marius forgot his pride. He forgot his youthful arrogance and how he had felt wronged. All that mattered was this battle, fighting for his survival and the survival of his allies. Elbren's words had hit a chord within him and his soul resonated with the theme--he would take this challenge and take down as many of the Red Hammer as he could with his bow.

But then the heads began to rain down upon them...

Marius had seen warriors die horrific deaths, bleeding upon the field, severed limbs littering the ground. But never had he seen an enemy who flung the heads of innocent refugees. For a moment, he was stunned and could not move. Berrog whinnied and shied at this, knowing something was amiss in his master. Holding on to his horse as though for comfort, the youth rallied his spirits and hardened himself against the unforgivable sin that had been committed against the people of Laketown, just in time to miss being hit by one of the boulders that were crushing men. He had lost sight of Lord Elbren, but knew what to do with the men who stood, dazed and separated from their leader.

"We must keep the shield wall up!" The boy yelled. Some of the men scowled at what they took to be a mere child in search of glory. "Now!" Marius glared back, sitting straight in his seat and finally giving him an air of some authority. The men fell back into line and pushed through the rubble that had been thrown by the Red Hammer.

The expected Red Hammer charge came sooner than Marius thought, for it seemed but a moment before that he had been separated from Elbren. Pulling Laikemuil from its sheath, Marius held up the elven blade that was forged at his birth, and urged Berrog forward, plunging the blade into a gory sheath of dwarf. The minutes went by, crimson-coated were his thoughts, as Marius hacked through any dwarf who dared to cross the shield wall automatically. Still he felt no pride, no glory in these acts. They were meant for survival only and he would continue to slash and rip apart any who dared to threaten his friends.

Suddenly, the next dwarf before Marius turned, his back toward the youth. This action stopped the automatic killing and he turned to look at what could be causing the dwarf to offer a weak spot to the enemy. It was the elves! They had come to relieve the Knights for a moment, Marius thought. Running his sword through the dwarf that ran once more, Marius heard the voice of Elbren upon the air, "ON YOUR FEET! ON YOUR FEET!"

Heartwrenching death throes of horses filled the air, high screams of agony that rode above the roar of death and wounding. Marius felt as though he couldn't breathe, his stomach seemed as though it had been punched, and it made him ever the more resolute to hack and slash through the enemy. Sliding down from Berrog, he spoke as softly as possible to his beloved steed and patted the stallion's neck, certain that as he watched the horse run from the battle that he would see him again.

The area around the son of Eomer cleared for a blessed moment and he took the opportunity to search for Lord Elbren. Had he fallen?

?We need to go! We need to get out of here, NOW!? His cousin's voice rang out behind him and he turned, seeing her panicked expression. What was coming? Where did you come from? He wanted to ask, but knew better, seeing the look upon her face. Never before had he seen such sheer panic on her lovely face and he knew that it was something of dire consequence. At that moment, he caught the eye of Alandriel. How could she trust the Easterling? Marius wondered.

But his cousin's voice rang louder than that of Alandriel and he raced after her, hacking away at the dwarves.

"Rho! Rholarowyn! Why do we run? With your charge, the strength of those at the wall, and Tempest's forces, do we not have the Red Hammer where we want them? Where are we to go now? Where is Elbren?"

Marius still had not seen Lord Elbren, though he had been near Rho not long before the youth had heard her voice. The ground was crawling with dwarves and he spent more time trying to protect himself than searching the battlefield. Surely he isn't dead, the youth thought. Elbren is an ancient elf who would not be felled by a few puny dwarves!

Suddenly, just as he took the head off a particularly aggressive dwarf, he realized something: he actually cared for the one he called "Master" and did not wish any harm to come to him. Furthermore, he knew that the people who hacked away at the dwarves were not just fighting a common enemy, they were friends. Marius was not a joke to them, he was of noble blood and would live up to his title one day.

"But perhaps today is the day," Marius said softly, mostly to himself, gritting his teeth and plunging forth once more.

Thora•n could not believe his eyes. Ever since his childhood, he had heard of the Red Hammer, of the Sickle of Arda, and sometimes doubted its existence. And now it was here, within his grasp - as real as the axe in his hands. What his father and forefather had not been able to accomplish, the mission that they had given him as the captain of the Red Hammer, he now held the chance to fullfil it. He would gain that weapon of legend which would bring the stars down in their hall of stones and allow them to dig for jewels deeper than they had ever done, and to find those whose existence they still ignored.

With a roar, he ran towards the woman in the circle of light, and with the same roar, most of the army followed him, almost like one man, running, weapons stretched out, howling, some of them throwing axes. Forgotten the attack of Laketown, strategy, forgotten the wounded and the losses so far. He felt something crack under his feet, but did not even look if it was a shield or the skull of a fallen friend or ennemy. Were arrows flying on the road he had to take? Thora•n did not care, and as he was not the only one, confusion was for a moment the only movement that the Red Hammer was able to deliver. In their greedy hurry, some dwarves fell over the others, and the captain avoided several severe clashes for inches only.

But so far, none of them had managed to cross the circe of light. It was not as if the woman whom he could not see clearly behind the curtain of light was behind a wall, but rather as if weapons thrown at her, lost all impact, flying through the air like feathers and falling softly on the muddy ground of the battle-field. They had been few so far, very few, and under an assault of thrown axes, spears, swords, bones or even bodies, he was sure that the protection would break. Or he Thora•n would make it break. Was he not the strongest captain of the Red Hammer? Hade he not come to the battle with a harness only, letting his hairy and muscled arms open so that everybody could see the mark of the Red Hammer tatooed on it, in a flaming red, looking like fresh blood. With another roar, he lifted his right arm, holding his sharp double axe straight ahead of him, ready to throw it, even if it would have to be useless, ready to throw himself into the wall of light. The blood of fallen ennemies had dried in his beard, and he could smell it, reminding him of the many he had killed tonight. And now there was only one target left for him, and if he had too, he would strangle her with his bare hands.

Another axe flew, and another and yet another, but unlike so many other dwarves running confused, he did not meet on his way an elven arrow or this creature that had been reported to him, swinging a sword like a scyth and in front of which the dwarves were falling like grass.

The scream on his lips had killed every logic thoughts in Thora•ns mind and when finally, he was close enough just like the others around him, he threw his axe towards the shine, and with a clinging sound it hit the others lying already on the ground. But the dwarf had not expected more, and howling once more he lifted his strong arms, the tatoo turned towards the woman, shaking his hand in wrath. Yet, in the moment, when the light of the circle fell on his mark, the red ink flashed up, and burned on his skin as if he had been branded. Yelling, he touched his tatoo, stumbling still forward and all of a sudden he was within the circle of light, facing the woman who held the sickle of Arda firmly in both of her hands, abover her head. She was hardly taller than himself and slender like a flower in a storm. The dwarf spit on the ground - a human, a woman, now that she was within the reach of him, her defeat would only be a question of seconds!

Since she had lifted the sickle, Nienor-Niniel had remained almost motionless in the same position, collecting the light from the stars. She felt it run through her, like at Helm's Deep, but unlike then, she could direct the stream. It was like a wall around her, a dyke on which the waves of the Red Hammer should break itself and sink. Through the veil, she perceived some of the battle raging still and a wave of hatred and greed that she had not expected to be so strong. Some of the Mithril Knights were clearly somewhere and she knew it when the attack diminuished. And somewhere behind the veil, she alsmot saw the berserker moving, distracted on his way to the circle by dozens of dwarves almost running into his blade to be killed.

How long she would be able to hold it? Nin did not know - and did not care. If the dwarves would kill her when she could not hold the wall upright any more, they would not be able to use the Sickle without her. Her life was nothing.

And then the dwarf had entered. With his beard full of dried blood and the red tatoo glowing, with the traces of fallen bodies on his harness, he looked as if he had stepped out of a tyle of bodies. There had been too much raging energy, too much desire to hold him back.

Thora•n spitted on the ground his hand stretching out for the little axe that he was carrying fixed on his belt - a single axe this one, meant rather for cutting fire wood than for fighting, but for someone as frail as the woman facing him, it should be more than enough.

Ç It is ours. We are the Red Hammer - and the Red Hammer belongs to us! È

Nienor-Niniel slowly lowered the weapon a very little bit and the veil of light became a bit dimmer. Quietly and almost thoughtful she looked at the dwarf, without any expression of fury.

Ç Come then. Take it. È the sound of her own voice surprised her - it echoed as if she was standing in an immense dome, yes maybe as if the stars had built a dome around Laketown.

Twirling the axe in his hairy hands, the dwarf was breathing heavily, puffing under the effort to keep control. And then, in the moment he threw his axe, with a movement so soft that he had not seen it come, Nin had lifted the sickle again above his helmet and from there slowly tore it down. It cut through the steel of the helmet as if it were wax, through the rings of the chain mail shirt as if it were a toy, the cut through the dwarven's body was so quick that not even a drop of blood had fallen when the two halfs of the former captain hit the ground, neatly separated.

In an overwhelming sound of thunder in this very moment, the stars of the sickle in the sky turned red, filling the sky with a strange light like a red dawn over Esgaroth. The light surrounding Nin was extinguished immediately and in terror the dwarves saw the body of her captain lie at her feet - neatly cut in two pieces, while NN held the weapon in her hand, seeming taller in the twilight than she really was. A shiver of fear went over the dwarven army under the red sky.

But no fear could touch the berserker.

Tempest watched with a mixture of relief and alarm as Erinhue turned his gaze toward the Sickle, seeming to disregard the Mithril Knights whom he had been preying upon. The power of the Sickle seemed to draw him to itself along with the screaming hoarde of Red Hammer who were nearing something akin to hysteria at the sight of it. "It's beautiful," she murmurmed softly. "There's something beautiful about it all."

She shook her head to regain focus and sprang forward in an attempt to reach Raghnildur and the others with him. She paid little attention to what was happening toward the center because a plan had begun to form in her mind about the Berserker. It wasn't so much about the crazed dwarves, but what to do when the Berserker ran out of them to kill.

Telta and Fala were attempting to lift their fallen comrade from the field when Tempest finally reached them. "Quick, see that Vana is tended to and then come back and rejoin the battle. We need all the able warriors we can on the field. We must protect the Sickle at all costs. It must NOT fall into the hands of the Red Hammer!"

They nodded, and then Tempest turned to Raghnildur, who had recollected himself after nearly falling prey to the Berserker's wrath. "I need your help," she said in low voice. "About Erinhue. I don't know what will happen when he reaches the Sickle, but eventually we have to get the bard back in control of his own body. I have a plan, but I need your assistance to ensure its success."

"Of course."

"Look at him," she said, passing her hand toward the field where the Berserker slashed his way through waves of dwarves in his eagerness to reach Nienor. "He won't stop, even if they begin retreating. He's not invincible, you know, even in this form. I'll not have him rush headlong into death on my account. I put him in this situation. I gave him the order. I won't let him destroy himself. Not if there's a chance at saving him."

"What do you propose?" Raghnildur asked slowly.

"We need to get close to him, and since he's headed toward the Sickle, that's where we want to be anyway. Once the battle has turned in our favor and I am certain that the Sickle is safe, I intend to draw his attention toward me."

"Are you certain that is wise? If he turns on you, there will be no stopping him."

"Perhaps. I don't intend to fight him; I'm not that much of a fool. But he's heavier than I, and slower. I'm lighter and quicker."

Raghnildur shook his head. "That may have been true of Erinhue himself, but in this form, I assure you his speed is...is unbelievable. You won't have a chance to run."

"His reflexes may be faster in this state, but as long as I stay a few paces ahead of him, I think it will work. It doesn't have to work long, just long enough to get him somewhere safer, where we can disable him. That's where you come in."

"You want me to disable him?"

"I'll explain more when the time comes. For now, we are needed in the center to protect the Sickle. The Berserker is clearing a path for us," she said, nodding her head toward the neat pathway carved out of dwarf helms and limbs that were left behind in the wake of the Berserker as he bore his way toward Nienor.

Suddenly, the sky was filled with light, so bright that Tempest winced and closed her eyes. When she re-opened them, she was surprised to see Nienor standing tall, the Sickle clasped firmly and proudly in hand. "She looks like a goddess, wielding thunder through her fingertips," Tempest breathed in awe. "Perhaps this is a gift from Eru himself. I didn't know she knew how to use such a weapon...It's strange, but I almost feel as though I've seen this all before, somewhere long ago. In another life," she murmurmed softly. "Don't you feel it? The light...it feels heavy. Like it's very old. Like it's been waiting all this time, waiting fo this moment, for her to use it. Strange...very strange." Tempest paused, but the look passed quickly from her face. Her mouth hardened and her eyes grew dark. She turned a deep, penetrating gaze toward the Mithril Knight beside her.

"Let's go."

Many leagues away...

A lone rider in black mail and a magnificent sable stallion cantered into the wilderness west of Mount Gram. He sat tall in the saddle, observing the land about him, noting the gentle falling of the land and the emergence here and there of scrub trees and thickets of bramble. The wildlife were less disturbed as well. Several of the hardy birds of the north flitted hither and yon, and rabbits dug beneath the thin blanket of new-fallen snow for the hidden tidbits beneath.

Dirk reined in Endl—m‘ and quickly turned him about. Something was wrong. Like a large fist knocking on his hauberk, an unseen force struck him, followed by a sound like distant thunder, rolling down from the passes of the Misty Mountains. As he stared, his eyes were pulled upwards into the clear early winter sky.

"The Sickle," he murmured.

In the eastern sky, the stars that formed the constellation he had recently learned was called the Sickle, had turned red. This was no coincidence.

He turned the great warhorse due north and leaned forward to whisper into his ear, "Forod, mellon. Na Carn-Džm."

The stallion took off like a loosed bolt from a bow, as if he had been anticipating the order, its rider tall in the saddle once again.

"It is time."

Raghnildur waited for the death knell. Pain seared from the broken bones in his left arm, and his vision blurred from the tears welling up in his eyes. He would not close them, however. If his time had come, he would face it willingly and without regret.

It was better that he would be taken than those he had sworn to protect on the road to Rhosgobel.

As his vision began to clear, a strange thing happened. Recognition began to swim in the eyes of the berserker, and the man lowered his sword and turned from Raghnildur.

A light was radiating across the field, the source of which was unknown to the fallen Knight.

As the berserker turned his wrath elsewhere to more unfortunate souls, Raghnildur heard the sound of many booted feet approaching him and set his jaw once more. The berserker had not taken him, but his time had still come. It would be at the axe of a Red Hammer Dwarf rather than Clarion, but it would come nevertheless.

Then a strange thing happened and Raghnildur looked on in amazement as the dwarven warriors passed by him, taking no notice of the fallen man. They were running toward the berserker once more, and toward Nin holding...it couldn't be. Raghnildur had heard talk in the camp about the Sickle, but here it was. The dwarves were rending the air with shouts.

Screaming about the Red Hammer.

Suddenly everything clicked into place.

At that moment he was surrounded by friends. Telta and Falathiel tried to lift the large man from the blood soaked soil, and difficult as it may have been the bond of friendship that had been forged proved the stronger as the two elves helped the man to his feet. At that moment Tempest joined them and charged Telta and Fala with the task of checking on Vana. They were to return as soon as they could to rejoin the battle.

Tempest's next words caused Ragnildur's heart to skip a beat. She wanted him to help her disable the berserker. For a few moments, the man thought he would be unable to bring himself to approach the berserker again. His mouth went cotton-dry, and he found it hard to breathe.

As he looked into Tempest's eyes and saw the grim determination as she told him the beginning phase of her plan, a smile began to return to his blood-spattered face. This could work. No, it would work.

It had to work.

He clapped his right hand onto her shoulder and let her know he was willing to do what she asked whatever the cost.

She spoke the words. "Let's go."

The two Knights made their way through the path the insane fury of the berserker had carved, seemingly just for them.

Directed by the roaring commands of Lord Anorast, the Knights pushed against the barricade to shield off the inner refuge of the falling city from the dwarven forces. Her muscles burning with the exertion, Arwen gritted her teeth and drove her slight body weight against the door. A slight pale figure moving past caught her attention and the peredhel watched with green eyes widened in horror as the Lady Nienor-Niniel slipped through the closing gate traveling as if in a trance toward the battle and the enemy.

What could their Captain do but follow? Drawing his sword, Lord Anorast paused only long enough for the man Rolin to pass him a shield before he tore through the door and across the battlefield to as the slight form of his lady wove through the raging shrieks and moans of both armies. And what could the new Knights do but follow their Captain? Arwen drew her twin swords and the blades seemed to gleam eagerly at the prospect of such bloodsport. Tallain came swiftly from the other side; he too had his weapon though the elf for a moment thought it did not look as comfortable in his hands as the bow had.

When Rolin proffered them the shields, the Easterling accepted readily his face an inscrutable mask. Though Arwen could have wanted the extra protection offered she could not wield both her swords as well as the shield and she prayed that she had learned enough of this double swordplay to see her through this next task she must face. Time to put both their skills to the test; Tallain and Arwen followed Lord Anorast through the gate listening as it shut behind them with an ominous thud.

At the sound the dwarves closest to them turned as if sensing fresh prey and they ran toward the three Knights, their blood-splattered axes raised high above cruel eyes locked in mindless rage. They raced past Nienor-Niniel as if she were invisible, some even moving around her and yet not really seeing her. It was as if an unseen and divine hand protected the lady, guiding her sure-footed steps as she walked calmly through the midst of battle and was unscathed. Grim-faced, Anorast, Tallain and Arwen faced the oncoming enemy line, themselves unprotected by whatever mysticism that led the enthralled lady.

Metal rang on metal, and the clear tones of çva-aunet‘-ni and Enyali‘ rang out in unison as dark-haired peredhel parried the blows meant to take her life and turned the death-giving thrust back deep into the hearts of the enemy. On her left, with his back slightly toward her, Tallain deflected the attacks that came by his side and the both of them inched along slowly, protecting their Captain?s back as Lord Anorast took the head of their expedition, swiftly dispatching all those who stood between him and Nienor-Niniel who at that moment raised the gleaming Sickle aloft where it shone with an unearthly brilliance that blinded all those who chanced to look upon it.

The battle had come practically to a halt, as the dwarves abandoned their small quarry for an even bigger treasure. The Sickle! How could they have brought it here, to the very place where it could endanger all their lives and the very thing they fought for! Arwen watched warily, her beryline eyes narrowed as the dwarf that had just been attacking her lowered his weapon and walked in a numb stupor, his beady eyes reflecting a nauseating greed as it locked onto the powerfully radiant weapon. The dwarves had gathered, a tempestuous sea of bodies that surrounded Lady Nienor-Niniel and threatened to beat her down beneath a wave of their malevolent desire.

Threatening whistles, and various axes cut through the air flying straight for the petite woman who wielded the Sickle. An anguished cry tore from Lord Anorast?s lips, as he stood helpless to stop the deadly throws. As swift as the wind, it seemed Tallain had hurled his sword toward the closes of the madly whirring axes and stopped its flight, but nothing could be done of the other three and Arwen watched in stricken silence as the blades continued their deadly arc. She imagined them cutting into the Lady?s slender form, cleaving it through and at the last second the peredhel turned away tormented eyes.

But the sound of a woman?s pained death-cries did not rise into the air. Instead the blades clattered noisily off the edge of light that had encircled Nienor-Niniel and had become a physical shield. After that everything happened in a blur, a path opened and the lone figure of Erinhue came into view, except that this was not the Master Bard as Arwen knew him. This was another person entirely, the form was the same but what resided within was much darker and did not make the distinction between friend or foe.

The peredhel shuddered and Tallain noticing the small sign of her body looked upon her questioningly. For a moment she could not speak, how to say the words that she herself could not yet believe? The Berserker had been summoned and now nothing was certain, not the spell that Erinhue has said would protect them and especially not the Bard?s ability to shake off Clarion?s possession.

should it come to the very worst and I advance upon you... kill me if you can, before I reach you

The Bard?s words to them before the battle haunted Arwen and she could not put thoughts into coherent words long enough to tell the Easterling who waited expectantly, a frown marring his features as he looked at her. It was at that moment that Lord Anorast threw himself before the Berserker?s path, in a futile attempt to shield his lady and went down beneath the other?s force. With no time to think, the peredhel threw Tallain one of her swords, to replace the one he had lost and he grasped it swiftly, both of them running to intercept their Captain.

As they came around, Arwen averted her eyes, forcing them to stay locked on the two struggling figures. Behind Erinhue, two others were swiftly approaching and the peredhel prayed that they had a plan to release ?Hue from the sword?s possession. If not, she addressed Tallian brusquely, her voice a brittle shadow of itself, ?If the Bard approaches you, kill him without hesitation.? She offered no explanation, nor did the man ask for one, acknowledging the hard finality of her words and nodding brusquely.

Arwen heard her own command and inside she quailed... if it came down to it, would she have the strength to do it? Despite knowing what she must do, she did not know if she had that much strength left within her.

She was not going to make it. She waited for Hue?s sword to fall even as she ran, waited for that deadly stroke that would end Raghnildur?s life. The berserkers eyes came to rest upon her and she raised her sword automatically ready to defend herself and Raghnildur but unwilling to swing at him. She had seen what he could do and she knew that she could not stop him.

She stood there anxiously holding her breath as he looked at her. He did not know them. The grin upon his face was chilling and deadly. Two hands gripped her sword ready for his attack.

Yet for an instant she saw something and the grin faded. Was that recognition? She lowered her sword a little as he looked from her to Raghnildur. ?Hue??....was all she said before a bright light lit up the area diverting everyone?s attention even Hue?s. This was the moment she?d been waiting for as Fala slipped past her and together they struggled to lift their wounded friend careful of his injured arm.

Tempest reached them as they got him on his feet. "Quick, see that Vana is tended to and then come back and rejoin the battle. We need all the able warriors we can on the field. We must protect the Sickle at all costs. It must NOT fall into the hands of the Red Hammer!"

?But ...? Telta turned to Fala then she fell silent and together they nodded their agreement as Tempest and Raghnildur turned to planning.

LŽan‘ had not had much to do since she and the other Knights in Training had arrived to the Mithril Knights camp with Lord Elbren.

After seeing that Storm was properly stabled, and given him a quick rubdown, and ensuring that he had enough food, she had wandered rather aimlessly around the camp, unsure of what to do.

Lord Elbren had gone off to talk to the Mithril Knights already there, and Prince Marius, Alandriel and Tallain had also gone with him. LŽan‘ had thought, for a moment, of also going with them, but something had held her back. Somehow, she had the strangest feeling that she would not be going with the Mithril Knights on their assault against the Red Hammer. How she knew this, she was not sure.

It was actually quite something to her that she could actually think clearly about anything at the moment, because her head was still achy and she still felt befuzzled.

The ?dreams? had not stopped. Indeed, they now came to her even when she was awake.

LŽan‘ was beginning to despair; thinking perhaps she was going mad at last. She longed to speak to someone... anyone ...about what was happening to her, and possibly find some sort of explanation as to why she was suddenly being assailed with such ?visions? with such frequency. Yet, whom could she ask? Everyone had more important things to worry about ? the approaching war. LŽan‘ felt very small and insignificant, and not for the first time, wondered if she had been mistaken in wanting to become a Mithril Knight. She was a warrior and a shieldmaiden, but at the moment she did not feel like either.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As LŽan‘ had wandered around the camp, she had found herself unknowingly walking past Lord Elbren?s tent.

She stopped when she heard his voice speaking, wondering what was going on. Ever since they had reached the camp, Lord Elbren seemed to have forgotten about everything else except the coming battle and his plans and strategies for it. LŽan‘ had not seen him since he had gone off earlier.

Now, overcome by curiosity, she crept closer, and shamelessly eavesdropped on the ongoing conversation, forgetting for the moment, her own troubles.

"And now, good Thalos, tell me again about the Sickle and the Red Hammer."

?Thalos? I wonder who that is,? thought LŽan‘. She risked moving a little closer, and peeked inside, and saw that Lord Elbren was speaking to a Dwarf, who looked tired and badly wounded. As the Dwarf spoke, LŽan‘ glanced around the tent, and saw Prince Marius there, and also, to her surprise, that Lord Erinhue, the Guild Master of the Bard?s Guild, was there as well, with three others. Alandriel, the red-haired Ranger LŽan‘ had so admired from the very beginning, was sitting near the Dwarf Thalos, and together with another lady, tending to his wounds.

"...Elbren, I swear to ya, the Red Hammer on the shields of the Dwarves isn't a hammer at all, it's the Sickle that we found in the Chamber in Orthanc!"

The Red Hammer again! What does this all mean? And the... Sickle? What...

"You are certain?" Lord Elbren asked wryly. "I wouldn't have risked leaving the safety of Orthanc if I weren't," Thalos scowled. "Very well," the Elven Lord sighed, "then we must inform Anorast and Nin immediately. Marius, we'll go and see the Laketown boat party off." Then he turned to the assembled warriors, "Any questions? Now is the time to ask, mellyn."

LŽan‘ did not wait to hear anymore. Quickly and quietly she walked away from the tent, and made her way towards a small hillock that stood empty. She made her way up, and then sat down on the sweet smelling grass, trying to understand everything that she had gleaned from the conversation she had overheard.

The night was passing, and though the stars still shone, LŽan‘ could see the faintest beginnings of light in the eastern horizon. She breathed in the cool early morning air ? there was a smell of death and smoke and burning in it ? a brooding menace ? and it sent a shiver down her spine. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them, and rested her chin on her knees, trying to ignore that sense of foreboding, thinking hard. Then she sighed and shook her head.

It didn?t make any sense to her at all.

But whether it made any sense was not important. For LŽan‘, the main thing now was what she could do. What could she do? She could fight ? she was a blademaster, after all. Her skills would be needed, would it not? Yet... Yet, how much could she really do, seeing that her mind seemed not to want to obey her will anymore? Here, it would cause no harm, but in the middle of a battle, her ?lapse? could prove disastrous. How could she go, when she could not trust herself or her abilities in the field?

And how would she explain all this to Lord Elbren? She had not spoken to the Elven Lord about her ?dreams? and the havoc they had been causing her mind. She was sure that, though he had not called upon her yet, soon he would summon her, and give her instructions to ride to battle with the other Knights. LŽan‘ did not want to be left behind, yet she feared to ride forth while her mind was not her own.

Even as she thought all this, the summons came.

?And so it begins...? she said softly to herself, as she stood, and stared at the sky. The light of the rising sun stained the sky a glowing red, and even as LŽan‘ looked, suddenly from far above, a wheeling shape came flying swiftly from the North. A hawk. It stooped low as it approached the hillock on which LŽan‘ stood, and circled thrice above her head, each time uttering a harsh cry. Then swiftly it rose again, and like an arrow let loose from the string, it flew off towards the West. LŽan‘ stared after it a few moments, wondering if this was some sort of sign. Then she shrugged and made her way down the hillock and towards where the remaining Mithril Knights were gathering.

All day the preparations took place, and all day LŽan‘ waited. Still the Lord Elbren did not summon her, nor tell her what her duties were. She nevertheless prepared herself for the skirmish ahead, sharpening her sword, and the dagger she had received from the Mithril Knights armoury, checking her wrist knives, and finally cladding herself in the mail of a Rider, which she had been given by her brother FrŽa. She was determined to ride with Lord Elbren?s group, though in her heart she still had grave misgivings.

Finally, as the afternoon wore away, LŽan‘ could stand it no longer. She sought out Lord Elbren, if only to find out what she was meant to do. Yet, though she had made up her mind to ride (or so she told herself), still her heart misgave her, and the foreboding she had felt at the dawn had grown as the hours had passed. Now, more than ever, LŽan‘ felt that she was not meant to ride to this battle. But her pride would not allow her to remain behind.

No, whatever happened, she would go, and she would fight.

She found the Lord Elbren in his tent, going over the last details of the battle plan with the Captains. Unwilling to interrupt, she waited silently in a corner, until he had finished, and the Captains had begun to leave. Then she strode forward. The Elven Lord was bending over a map, deep in thought. LŽan‘ was reluctant to disturb him, but this was something she could not put off any longer.

?Your pardon, Lord Elbren.? He turned around and looked her, seemingly unsurprised to see her. ?Ah, LŽan‘. Are you ready to ride?? asked the Elven lord gravely. ?I...? She hesitated for just a moment; then said firmly, ?Yes, I am, my Lord.? She squared her shoulders; the decision was made. ?I was hoping you would tell me what position I am to hold in the battlefield, and tell me... my duties, I suppose,? said LŽan‘, but her words faltered at the end, and she looked down. The Elf lord looked at LŽan‘ keenly, then walked up to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. ?Something is troubling you, LŽan‘ of Rohan.? LŽan‘ nodded slowly, but struggled to get the words out. Finally she took a deep breath, and looked up at Lord Elbren. ?I wish to ride out with the other Knights, Lord Elbren, and go to battle, but... I... do not think... I can, m?Lord,? she whispered, looking away, tears of shame beginning to form in her eyes. ?Why not? What prevents you?? The Elf lord was clearly puzzled.

LŽan‘ sighed and turned away; her head was beginning to ache again. Slowly she began telling Lord Elbren of her ?gift?, and how, since she had come to the Guild House in Mirkwood, it had gotten out of control. Day and night now, whether awake or asleep, the ?visions? assailed her mind, and she had no defence against it. ?If this should happen to me on the battlefield, Lord Elbren, it could prove disastrous,? she finished softly, as she once again turned around to face the Elf lord. She paused and looked at her Mentor Knight, and then said, ?As all the other Knights have gone to the battle, I should be shamed to stay behind. Yet I would not knowingly put anyone in danger. I do not... I do not know, m?Lord, what I must do. I simply do not know.?

Lord Elbren?s face was grave, and he looked at LŽan‘ long, thinking. Then a small smile appeared on his face. ?You were taught the arts of healing in Imladris, were you not, LŽan‘?? he asked her. ?Yes, I was, m?Lord, somewhat,? said LŽan‘, her brow creasing slightly in puzzlement. ?Then you need not go into battle,? said Lord Elbren gently. ?You may remain here, and help the Healers in whatever way you can.? LŽan‘?s eyes widened. ?But, m?Lord, perhaps I could still...? Lord Elbren help up a hand to stop her. ?You yourself have told me that you would not trust yourself in the battlefield while this... err, affliction is upon you.? LŽan‘ bowed her head. ?And also, LŽan‘,? continued the Elf lord, ?if you stay, perhaps the Healers here could help you once again to bring your ?gift? under control.? ?But, Lord Elbren...? ?I will say no more,? he said, suddenly stern. LŽan‘ bowed and went away unhappily.

She stood a while, staring at the lines of Knights preparing to start. Then she sighed, and turned away, seeking the Healers. Since she did not rightly know where to find them, she looked through a quite few tents, before she found anyone.

The Healer glance up as LŽan‘ poked her head in, and she saw the this was the same Healer that had been in Lord Elbren's tent earlier. And there on the bed, lay the Dwardt, Thalos. Clearing her throat nervously, LŽan‘ bowed and said, "I was told that perhaps I could be of some help to you in your work, lady. Is there anything I can do?"

Even with his new heightened awareness, Dirk was not comfortable in the open. At dawn, it had begun to snow lightly and upon the plain, the galloping horse was a very easy target. Dirk had only heard and seen the fauna of the wilderness since he turned northward, but now with the weak winter sun overhead, he could easily be spotted by the enemy lying in wait. He had gained better use of the senses he was born with, but he had not gained elven sight or hearing; so without the benefit of cover, he could still be seen just as easily as he could see. But it did not matter. The time for hiding and moving slowly from one tussock to the next ended when he saw the red Sickle in the eastern sky.

As noon approached, he was forced to pull the hood of his Mithril Cloak closer about his face to ward off the worsening snowstorm. Combined with the wind-whipped snow, this hampered his vision further.

His other senses were dulled as well: by the cold, by the sheer mind-numbing drudgery of the ride. His unbearded face was stinging with each gust of wind and drone of the great warhorse's hooves lulled him into turning his thoughts inward.

He concentrated on the newly-found mental bonds with this enchanted arms, listening to the voices of Ešl's armour and Neleg Amlug. Their whispers grew louder and more insistent with each league they travelled. The sword's unintelligible murmuring transformed into coherent words of malice and hate with a tinge of aweful laughter. The armour spoke warnings, each more grim than the next. Dirk had never heard them before, the two distinct voices. Had he become so adept at ignoring his sword that he tuned out the armour as well? Or was this a new charm, added by its maker when he appeared in Greenwood?

It was thus that Dirk was embroiled in his own thoughts of the armour and his sword that he rode directly into the midst of another patrol. He had failed at Ešl's lesson and lost vision of the outer world while concentrating on the inner. However, everything snapped back into sharp focus as he found himself in the center of a ring of eight ugly rusted blades...

The pure white light emanating from the Sickle bathed the battlefield in waves, spreading out over the carnage to draw the attention of every Red Hammer dwarf. The ethereal glow penetrated the red haze that veiled Erinhue?s vision and reached in to touch the rage clouded mind of the berserker. It stopped him, held him transfixed and offered the one and only thing that mattered to the berserker. The Light offered a chance at redemption.

In that frozen moment the long years fell away and the spirit consigned to the runeblade recalled its ages old betrayal of its master and its purpose. Instead of protecting the Light, it aligned with the Dark Deceiver and allowed a forbidden passage that resulted in the annihilation of the Two Trees. Betrayed in turn by Melkor?s lies to bitter repentance, the spirit had been sentenced to the just doom it now served out, and given a last hope of salvation.

The man lying at his feet was forgotten, along with the one called Telta ,as the berserker turned towards the source of the light. The Red Hammer dwarfs were all running towards it, crying out their desire to reach it, crying out to claim it for themselves. A deep throated howl joined the outcry of the dwarfs as the berserker left Raghnildur to join the rush towards the center of the battlefield, the rush towards the Light.

Screaming rage ran at the heels of the retreating dwarfs. Cold steel cut them down as they ran. Erinhue?s long legs easily outdistanced the dwarfs and Clarion sliced through the armor, flesh and bone of any that he passed in his mad dash towards the light and Nienor Niniel

A figure, Anorast leaped up between her and the rapidly advancing berserker. Raising his sword, Erinhue moved to cut him down but the stroke was blocked and turned by Anorast?s blade. The Flame of Arnor blazed upon contact with the runesword?s blade. Both swords flared and became like staves of lightening flashing angrily in battle one against another. Clarion began to glow a deeper and deeper red while the light of Anorast?s sword duplicated the pure brilliance of The Sickle glowing above Nienor-Niniel?s head.

A voice cut through the howling rage in the berserker?s mind saying ? Leave us! Slay the dwarfs.? And then with the full force of the elf lord?s determination.. ?You shall not touch us!?

In the next moment Anorast gathered his strength and shoved the berserker back, crying out ?GO!?

The berserker stared intently at Anorast as the command sifted through the unfocused fury clouding his mind. This man had a face, and like the other two left behind at the outskirts of the fighting, the face was somehow familiar. The press of the Red Hammer dwarfs allowed no more time for unaccustomed contemplation. The true enemy was eagerly approaching, their own desire for The Sickle plain upon their faces, obvious in their cries. A growl began deep in the berserker?s chest as straight white teeth were laid bare in a brutal snarl. The Light would NOT fall to them.

To Anorast?s relieved surprise, the berserker turned his back upon them and began to hack at the approaching dwarfs. Blood spurted from a torso suddenly missing a head and both arms as the possessed bard waded into the Red Hammer?s advance, butchering any dwarf that came within the long reach of his sword.

When Lord Elbren rode up and attempted to take Nienor-Niniel from the field, the berserker leapt in front of him and took up a protective stance between the elf lord and the Light. Erelas, being an intelligent creature, danced nimbly aside to keep his rider safe from the threatening blade. The stallion screamed back at the berserker?s growl and slashed a hoof through the short grass in warning.

Anorast called to Elbren that perhaps it might be best that he withdraw. It was evident that the berserker had decided to protect Nienor-Niniel and the Light, and was not going to allow Lord Elbren to get nearer. When Elbren nudged Erelas to back off, the berserker eased off too and returned to the task of slaughtering Red Hammer dwarfs.

Incited by the metallic scent of fresh spilled blood, Erinhue began to howl again as the blood lust claimed his mind and added zeal to his attack. Clarion?s whine was rising up the scale. It plunged so deeply into the chest of one dwarf that the berserker had to use his foot to push the body off the blade.

The runes carved into the length of the great blade were ember bright, leaving crimson trails in the air as the sword swung in its work. The berserker howled pure madness and gave himself completely to the slaughter.

Blood spattered his arms and face and flew from the swift moving blade but the berserker took no notice. The corpses piling at his feet meant nothing. The Red Hammer?s continued advance and seemingly endless numbers did not matter. Tireless muscles warmed to the demands of the task. TheRed Hammer could keep coming until there were no Dwarfs left in Middle Earth. He would kill them all before allowing them possession of the Light.

Raghnildur and Tempest watched in something akin to awe as the Berserker lay waste to the Red Hammer who were unfortunate to travel within reach of his sword. Even in their lust for the Sickle, the dwarves were beginning to be disheartened by the steadfast guardian whose flashing sword prevented them from getting even within a few meters of their quest. The pile of bodies rose around the bard, creating a small wall that further sheilded Nienor and her weapon.

?Well, at least we have that to be thankful for,? Tempest muttered under her breath. ?He seems to be on our side for the moment.?

When it became clear that the dwarves were in retreat and were no longer sending soldiers, save for a few suicidal charges, Tempest turned to Raghnildur with a cautious smile. ?Alright. Are you ready for this??

?You?ll lead him away and I?ll come up behind him.? he answered slowly.

?Yes, I?ll draw his attention. I?ll try to call off the Berserker first, but I have little faith that it will be successful. He should be focused on me, though he will probably be aware of you. In the absence of Beliran, we have no choice but to knock him out. Bring your sword hilt down hard, don?t hesitate or soften the blow for fear of hurting him. If he isn?t knocked unconscious, we both will lose our lives.?

?Understood.?

?Will you have enough strength to do it, even with your arm being injured??

?Yes.?

?Very well. I?ll go first. Wait until he begins to follow me, then come around behind us. Make sure you stay clear of him.?

They exchanged a few more words and then Tempest drew a deep breath and cautiously approached the fury that was the Berserker. He regarded her with fiery eyes, but for the moment made no move to challenge her. His gaze was momentarily occupied by a dwarf who lay weezing at his feet.

Tempest drew closer and spoke in a commanding tone. ?Erinhue, stop! Erinhue, return! RETURN! The deed is done! Return to us!?

He ignored her and set upon the dwarf, who screamed in fear and anguish as Clarion descended again and again. Tempest reached out and touched his shoulder gingerly and then sprung back. Immedietly she realized her mistake. The eyes that turned to meet her were not the friendly eyes of her friend, but that of a fiend. They fastened on her face, but no recognition registered.

Tempest took several steps backward. ?Erinhue,? she said in a clear voice. ?Ok. You can stop now.?

The Berserker paused, but then took several large strides toward her.

?Erinhue. It?s Tempest. I ORDER you to stop!? she said, keeping a several steps ahead of him. She now had his full attention. It seemed that he believed she meant to harm Nienor

Her hand flew to her sword, and the Berserker lunged forward anticipating a hostile action. Tempest leaped to the side and took off running, saying something particularly nasty in the Black Speech, which further enraged her pursuer. She glanced back and was relieved to see that he was following her, though his pace was much faster than she had planned. She noted that Ragnhildur was trailing behind him.

?Good. Not too much farther now,? she thought.

Everything was going as planned until she tripped on a splitered shield and fell heavily onto the ground. Erinhue was upon her before she could even attempt to get up, so great was his rage. Even as she rolled away she felt the cold bite of Clarion against her left shoulder and she sucked in her breath against the pain as she felt the warm blood issuing from the wound. It wasn?t deep, but the pain was acute.

She didn?t have much time to contemplate it because she looked up to see Erinhue stabbing his way toward her. She expected the blow to be swift, but the Berserker suddenly paused. She looked up and saw that her blood had stained the sword brightly and it seemed to be having a strange affect upon him. For a fleeting moment she glimpsed Erinhue behind the Berserker mask, those same eyes that she knew so well. Clarion seemed to react to the blood spilled upon it, as if it suddenly recognized its error. At the same time, Tempest heard an almost inperceptible voice on the wind and Erinhue's face contorted violently. Was there someone or something interfering with Carnimiriel's spell? Tempest tried to crawl away for she feared the worst. In a moment, the friendly bard was gone again, but it had been enough for Raghnildur to creep up behind him.

?NOW!? Tempest gasped. ?Raghnildur, do it NOW!?

Rho never got a chance to answer Jiyadan's question as the fighting began a new wave against their line. The Red Hammer no longer persued the Sickle with suicidal ferver as their ranks were cut down by the bezerker. They now turned their attentions back to fighting with axe and sword, lashing out in rage at those who kept them from their goal.

The Sickle, both in Nin's hands and in the sky, now glowed with a red light, and before Jiyadan's eyes, the stars that had always seemed slightly alive upon Rho's tunic now mirrored that red glow. No.. no not mirrored. Jiyadan noticed they were not reflecting the red, but glowing red of their own light. He took a half step back, his eyes growing wide, and Rho looked down at her tunic to see what it was he was seeing.

The Red Hammer Dwarves who were again battling their lines noticed the red glow too. An unearthly howl went up from those in the front as they renewed their fight, now striving to take the tunic that fired their lust. A sudden surge from behind, and the Dwarves broke the shield wall and began to advance towards Rho.

The blizzard had dulled his senses. He had let go his vigilance for haste and ridden directly into a marching patrol of eight orcs. Endl—m‘ plowed over two of them before they had ever realized what was happening. The great horse reared and bucked. After a stunned moment, the leader, an old orc of the breed more commonly known to the north reaches, shouted orders in the Black Speech.

"Vras shara! Marr kri!"*

Before Dirk could calm his mount, the leader, who was the only one not of the strange, squat breed, thrust his rusted, dull spear into Dirk's left side. It tore easily through his tunic and leather hauberk, but was turned by the black mail beneath. Still, the thrust was hard enough to fracture a rib or two. The armor's voice shrieked. Neleg Amlug wailed to be unleashed.

One of the twisted short creatures managed to bring his blade up swiftly across Endl—m‘, cutting the horse deeply at the right shoulder, just in front of Dirk's knee. The orcs were closing in tightly despite the stallion's hooves and teeth. The ones that were bowled over regained their feet. The Knight and his steed were in danger of foundering.

Dirk bellowed, "Ai! Ai! Midnight! Go!" and he dug his heels hard into the horse's flanks. The warhorse reared, bringing his forehooves down upon the one that dared to cut him, crushing the orc with his full weight, then bolted, breaking the press of the attacking patrol.

They covered fifty yards in a heartbeat and Dirk reined in the great warhorse, keeping his back to the charging orcs. He forced his breath into control, as he had been taught. The voices of his arms were once again intelligible. He could smell his enemy, judge their number and their distance by the sound of their footfalls. He leapt from the saddle, calmly checked Endl—m‘'s wound. It was deep, but did not bleed too badly and would not endanger his life. He whispered into the stallion's ear, which sent the steed trotting to the trail's edge as if it were a leisurely spring morning on a Shire lane.

When the horse cleared the way, Dirk was left standing alone in the middle of the road. He turned and looked at the ground, still mastering his senses and connecting with the control elements of his arms. The pain of his broken ribs forgotten temporarily. He was ready. He slid the black blade from its silver-bound sheath with an echoing ring. The fell laughter in his head was intoxicating. He laughed aloud and lifted his eyes to his enemies.

When the orcs saw his eyes and his blade they halted immediately.

"No!" the leader said in the common tongue. "He is an imposter! It cannot be! KILL HIM NOW!" His underlings hesitated. But he did not.

The largest orc lowered his spear, howled menacingly and charged full bore at Dirk. Tenatively at first, but then with growing fervor, the rest resumed their charge.

It was as if they moved at a walk, foretelling their next steps well enough in advance for Dirk to plan, defend, and counterstrike.

He parried the spear-thrust, shifted his weight to his left foot, leaning back and out of the way so that the leader's energy took him right past Dirk, tumbling in the new-fallen snow.

The next two arrived simultaneously; and still charging blindly. Dirk shifted again, stepped his right foot forward and crouched low, avoiding their wildly swinging blades. Two controlled movements, a swish to the right and a backswing to the left, and both tumbled, disembowled, alongside their leader, who was recovering slowly to his feet. He brought the Dragon's Tooth back up in front of himself. It was glinting red dully at its edges, and was free of black orc-blood.

The next squat orc arrived and assumed a defensive stance. He was aware that the last two were attempting to flank him on his left side, and that the leader was now on his feet and advancing warily behind him.

The orc before him sidestepped and Dirk followed suit. Others watched from the side of the road, coiled to pounce at the opportune moment. The leader, thinking that Dirk was not aware of him, inched ever more closely.

The opponent in front made his move, thrusting wildly at Dirk. The young Knight brought his sword down hard upon the orc blade from above, forcing it into the ground and snapping its notched blade; the earth as the anvil and Neleg Amlug the hammer. Dirk followed the downstroke immediately with an upward cut, which caught the orc at the intersection of his jaw and his throat. The stroke continued upward as if there were no resistence. The flesh and bone gave way before the blade, so that it never touched its victim. The orc's mandible fell upon Dirk's boot. The flesh of his face and the front half of his cranium hung by sinew for a moment as Dirk straightened, then slid to the ground with a sickening splat. As the orc's body crumpled to the snow, the leader made his move. Dirk deftly removed one of his throwing knives from its holster at his back and flung it, burying it deep in the leader's forehead. The light was extinguished from his eyes, but still his body came at Dirk. Once again he sidestepped the large orc, this time neatly separating his head from his shoulders as he went by.

"Who has taken whose head now?" Dirk spat in his raspy, broken voice, and he rounded on the last two.

They were huddled together, still at the roadside, holding their swords up before them. Dirk crossed the road slowly, smiling.

"Yes, snagaz I am who you think I am. If you doubt it then feel the bite of Kasak Kulkodar."

Almost as an afterthought, Dirk calmly swung the terrible sword in a great arc. Again, flesh and bone gave way before the blade and both orcs' swords clanged to the frozen dirt road with their hands still clutching the hilts. Both fell to their knees with their faces burried in the snow. Dirk lifted the right-hand orc's head with his blade and held its point at his throat.

"Do you know me?"

"Yes, Zaugoth**," he wimpered, clutching his stump with his good left hand.

"And you?" Dirk glared and turned the blade on the other.

"Yes..." he trailed off into tears as the unchecked blood flow turned the snow around his knees into crimson slush. Neither could raise their eyes to look into Dirk's.

"Pile your fellows here," he pointed at the center of the road, "douse them with liquor and set them on fire. Do you understand?"

They lowered their heads in acquiescence.

"When you are finished," he continued, "fly and tell your masters who is come."

Dirk sheathed the still-pristine blade and turned from the orcs who immediately set about dragging the bodies of the fallen mates together one-handed. With his back turned to them, his face twisted in a grimace of pain and his breathing turned ragged-the broken ribs.

He steeled himself for appearances sake and turned back toward the grisly scene. He lifted the leader's head from the pile by its grimy hair and then found his spear. He planted the spear into the frozen road with a great effort and placed the head upon it, facing north. He then wrenched his knife from the skull and wiped it clean in the snow.

Turning his attention away from the working orcs, he walked over to his noble mount who stood proudly at the roadside. Dirk bent and packed a tight snowball and held it to the horse's wound. He whinnied half-heartedly, but did not flinch away.

"It is a flesh-wound, friend." He removed the snow, "a clean cut. It should heal well, though I fear you will be scarred."

Endl—m‘ snorted in digust at the last carcass being dragged to the pile: one of the smaller orcs, with an unmistakable hoof-print buried in its forehead.

Dirk did not turn to look, but rather he heard and smelled the foul draught of the orcs being poured over the pyre, followed by flint striking steel to set it ablaze. Once the flames grew sufficiently that they knew it would not blow itself out, the orcs immediately took off at a flat run north upon the road. He listened as their steel-shod boots ran over the snow-covered road until there was naught but silence.

Dirk leaned heavily upon Endl—m‘, clutching at his side.

*Kill the human! Take his head!

**"Black master"

Tempest and Raghnildur moved away, plans forming as to how to stop Hue. Telta looked over at Fala and the helplessness she was feeling must have shown for the elf spoke. ?She could not have known, my friend.? She nodded knowing Fala was right. Vana had already been carried off to safety but with the battle raging on, how was Tempest to know that? She must have seen only when Vana fell and not what had come after.

Then she tried to help Raghnildur when he fell only to have nearly brought Hue?s wrath down upon her head. She had done precisely what Hue had asked them not to do. Rather than moving out of his way she had walked right into his path of destruction and she did not raise her sword against him. She had seen recognition in his eyes for one brief moment and if it hadn?t been for the light that distracted him ....what would have happened she would never know. Yet she was certain that she would have been no match for his strength. What a fool she had been for rushing in heedless of the danger.

The clear path that had been in the berserkers wake was closing in as the Red Hammer ran towards the light. Raising her sword once more she awaited the oncoming dwarves. Their numbers had dwindled and only a few ran heedless of the berserker ahead. But those that did, came up against Fala and herself. The two elves fought hard. The dwarves were angry and not easy to overcome.

Her own frustration at not being able to do more came through in her stokes as she sliced away at the Red Hammer trying to do as much as she could to keep the enemy away from Tempest and Raghnildur, letting them carry out their plan.

Her first swing decapitated the nearest dwarf but she did not stop there as they moved in. Telta was aware of Fala a short distance away who was slashing her way through those that stepped into her path. Together they fought heedless of the swinging axes and stabbing swords trying to cut them down. At least she could be of use here.

When the direction of the battle changed she was caught up in the fighting determined to keep them at bay and off in the distance she could hear Tempest cry out ?NOW! Raghnildur, do it NOW!?

Telta fervently hoped that Hue would be alright.

All seemed to be in order until Tempest approached the crazed man and touched him. Before Raghnildur was able to shout a warning or think of any way to avert the consequences of that action, the berserker set upon her as he had not set upon an enemy yet that night.

Tempest fended off the hellish attack with an unparalleled combination of skill and speed, and Raghnildur was nearly too awestruck by the display to follow the pair as Tempest drew him away from Nienor and the center. He composed himself and collected his thoughts before the two escaped his ability to catch them, and began to stalk their path. The Red Hammer did nothing to impede his progress or that of the other two knights. If anything would take the man out of commission, it would bring them that much closer to their goal. Whether or not the woman wielding the Sickle could be overcome would only be seen once the unstoppable warrior had been disabled.

Tempest held her own against the murderous rage of the berserker for what seemed like days, though it could not have been more than a few moments. Everything was perfect, until her foot landed on a splintered shield and she fell.

The berserker was on her immediately, and Raghnildur watched in horror as Clarion bit into Tempest?s arm.

He drew up behind the berserker, he was mere paces away.

The berserker was hesitating. Raghnildur stopped where he stood. Fear clouded his mind, he was positive that Erinhue was aware of him and would turn on him in the moment he chose to strike. Sweat dripped from the white-knuckled hand clenching his sword. For once, he was completely unsure that he would be able to follow orders. Perhaps Erinhue had begun to recognize Tempest, perhaps the blood from her wound had made an impact on the accursed sword? If he left things as they were, was it possible that his mentor and friend would realize on his own that he was trying to carve a wormhole into one of his closest friends and allies?

?NOW!? Tempest gasped. ?Raghnildur, do it NOW!?

All doubt and hesitation vanished when Tempest gave the word. Her command echoed across the field. Even if Raghnildur had wanted to renege, the opportunity was gone. He tossed his sword in the air as he ran forward, catching the hilt with the blade facing downward. The berserker heard Raghnildur?s approach and began to turn. Raghnildur swung with every ounce of strength that remained in his weary frame.

The pommel of his sword hit Erinhue square in the temple with jarring force. The connection made a sickening thud. As if all the world had stopped, the body of the Mithril Knight and master Bard very slowly went limp and crumpled to the ground. As he fell, Clarion slipped from his fingertips and lay on the ground beside him.

Immediately the air was filled with angry cries and the sound of boots trampling toward the fallen Knight. Raghnildur turned and met the hungry stares of eight dwarves who had been eagerly watching, waiting for the impossible, waiting for the demon man to fall.

Raghnildur righted his blade and stood over his mentor. He would be cut down before one of these cursed dwarves laid hand to his master. Within moments the Red Hammer reached the injured knight standing over his friend, and the clang of steel meeting steel rang throughout the field.

Tempest felt a flood of relief as she watched Erinhue crumble to the earth but this was quickly forgotten as she noted the approaching dwarves who were eager to finish off the fallen berserker.

She joined Raghnildur as he took his determined stance in front of Erinhue, though she winced at the sharp pain in the arm where Clarion had wounded her.

"Take Erinhue and get him to safety," Raghnildur said grimly, as his sword cleaved a dwarven helm.

Tempest eyed the silent body of the bard and contemplated this for a moment. "I could try, but I don't know if I could move him by myself. Not with my arm like this."

"Is it deep?" he answered with concern.

"No, but it's bleeding more than I thought." She took out three of the advancing dwarves with a charge followed by three quick slashes. She hoped that Elbren had been told of what occured and would order some of the troops into their section to cover them as they removed Erinhue. Looking up, she could see that other elves and Mithril Knights seemed to be headed in their direction, seeking to cut off anymore Red Hammer that followed.

When she had a spare moment, Tempest cut a length of cloth from a Red Hammer banner that she found lying nearby and attempted to wrap it around her arm. The angle was awkward, and when she had failed several times, she sought Raghnildur out again. He was still standing vigil over Erinhue.

"Help me tie this," she said, offering the cloth along with her wounded arm. The blood had reached her hand and was covering her shoulder as well. "Tie it tightly. I don't know when I'll be able to reach a healer," she ordered and grimaced as he obeyed. Her arm was beginning to throb.

"Alright," she finally said. "Help is on the way. Let's try to carry him off the field, or at least as close as we can. We can't be constantly worrying about him while trying to fight, and now that the tide has turned in our favor, we need to route their army and send them into retreat."

They both set about trying to lift the fallen bard from his resting place. This proved harder than it seemed, for both Tempest and Raghnildur had been wounded and each step they took while carrying Erinhue was pure agony for them.

"If his arm wasn't broken before, it is now," Tempest thought, glancing at Raghnildur. Every few meters they would have to drop their patient and take up arms against their enemies.

"A little help would be appreciated, Elbren," she muttered under her breath. Where were the archers when she needed them?

Quickly Rho glanced down to see what Jiyadan was looking at and that?s when she saw it

the red glow from the buckles on her tunic in the form of the sickle. For a moment her mind wondered if the tunics of Anorast, Nin, Elenath, and Erinhue, even in his current form, were doing the same thing? Or were they even wearing them? She didn?t know.

With her sword still in hand the shieldmadien looked up when she heard Jiyadan?s yell

"They're coming! Close the line, close the line!"

Her head snapped around and she saw that the dwarves had indeed breached the line. Suddenly swords and axe blades were fighting anew with the archers firing their arrows while the enemy appeared to be making their way towards her. Another quick glance at her tunic showed that it?s buckles were still illuminated with the eerie red glow.

Standing her ground, Rho raised her sword preparing to meet the Dwarven enemy head on. But off in the distance an elven archer standing at full draw was suddenly hit from behind. An axe blade found its mark deep in his back, killing him instantly.

A moment later a Rho?s sword fell to the ground as a searing pain shot down her right arm. Instantly she clutched at her shoulder, her hand meeting both the arrow shaft imbedded deep in her flesh as well as the warm moist blood spilling from out from the wound. Ignoring the pain and the momentary nausea that was threatening to take over, the shieldmadien dropped to her knees, quickly wiped off the excess blood on her hand, and then grabbed the hilt of her sword with her left hand.

?A horse...get me a horse!? The deep voice of the Easterling cried out.

And then Jiyadan was at her side helping her to her feet. She looked at him only for moment and realized, there would be no argument.

The next few moments whirled by in an instant. After Jiyadan had taken care of her sword, a large bay horse was brought over and Rho was suddenly on top of the battle seasoned gelding. Then the Easterling was behind her. Turning his mount around quickly, Jiyadan pressed his legs into sides of the well-trained beast and urgently rode off, carrying Rho away from the battlefield.

Anorast moved around behind Nin, slaying dwarves. Out to his side the berserker ravaged his way through the dwindling army of the Red Hammer. Cleaning up was all Anorast needed to do. Nin was protected by her shield, and the berserker was busy. Around the army Anorast could see the remaining forces of Mirkwood and the Mithril Knights, helping in the steady destruction. It was only a matter of time before the Red Hammer force was eradicated. But Amlugil Adonnen* seemed to disagree.

The silver blade burned brightly, its flame lighting the entire area around Anorast. Every dwarf he slew was burned by the fire. And it grew in intensity. The old elf was baffled by this, for he did not face a massive army of orcs, but instead a dwindling force of dwarves. The spells laid upon the sword had never responded to anything but orcs and the most fell of the servants of darkness. The smith that reforged it had not known any other spells but those, the ancient ones perfected in Gondolin. Yet before his eyes the white fire grew.

Off to the side Anorast heard a cry, distinctly female, and distinctly elvish. Spinning he caught side of Arwen, one of the Mithril Knights he?d lead to Esgaroth. Checking quickly to see if she was injured, Anorast saw nothing of the sort; she was perfectly fine, and seemed to have slain many dwarves with her two blades. That was not the cause of her cry. Instead Anorast saw shock in her eyes, and quickly he followed her gaze, towards a point behind him. Anorast turned just in time to see a large dwarf raise an axe above his head, only an arms length from Nin, inside the white barrier.

Time stopped for Anorast. He had not succeeded in his vow, and now Nin was unprotected, vulnerable. He had failed. Not breathing, Anorast waited for the blow to fall, slaying his love, ending the life of the one he?d sworn to protect.

But the blow did not fall. Instead Anorast watched as Nin stepped forward, and draw the Sickle down through her opponent, literally slicing the dwarf in half. As the two halves hit the ground, Anorast saw Nin unobscured by her shield of light. It was not the small young woman he knew that the elf saw, but instead a strong, fearless warrior, holding in her hand a brand of red fire. On her face was an expression of determination and will, and in her eyes was the promise of death. On her tunic blazed the Sickle of Varda, blood red. Even Anorast felt the power and threat of the Wielder of the Sickle.

Before Nin the remaining dwarves were still, staring at the figure in front of them, and the two halves of their leader. In their faces the red light of the Sickle burned, holding them spellbound. Where previously they had been rushing towards Nin, intent on seizing the Sickle, they were now confused, afraid, shrinking back against their fellows. To their front stood death, and behind them, the same fate awaited.

As Anorast came back from his moment of shock, he realized that his tunic mirrored Nin?s, the star clasps burning red with the same fire as the Sickle. Seeing a small group of dwarves nearby, frozen by the sight of the Wielder of the Sickle, Anorast moved quickly to dispatch them. Anorast received another shock as he raised his sword. Where only moments before white flame had blazed, red fire now burned. The same light that Nin wielded burned on the sword. When she had slain the dwarf, turning the light red, Amlugil Adonnen had been affected to. He did not have time to dwell on it, but Anorast suddenly realized that his blade, created from a fallen star, was connected intrinsically to the Sickle. Both weapons were of the stars.

Slaying the dwarves, Anorast looked about. Around him the remaining Red Hammer were being systematically slaughtered by the Laketown liberation forces. Only a few remained when Anorast caught sight of the berserker chasing Tempest across the battlefield. Curious and caught off guard, Anorast watched as the berserker was brought to the ground by a blow to his head, delivered by Raghnildur. As ?Hue hit the ground, the light from Anorast?s blade, and from his tunic, vanished. In the starlit darkness elvish eyes picked out Nin, now her familiar self, standing alone. The only dwarves near her lay dead on the ground. Anorast quickly walked over to his lady, and put an arm around her shoulder. Silently she put the Sickle back in the leather bag tied around her waist, and walked off towards the Mithril Knight campsite. The two ignored the battle behind them, and the blood and bodies around them. Their part in the battle was over, and they were both ready to rest, sitting beside a fire.

--------------------------------

* Anorasts sword, translated ?Dragonstar Reborn.?

Mirdain and his forces were almost out of arrows when the light pulsed from the Sickle stronger than ever. There seemed to be a thickness in the air, and then the light from the Sickle glowed a deep red.

"She has used it" Mirdain thought to himself. "Eru save us."

Now he could see that the berserker no longer payed attention to Raghildinur, but instead began to rampage toward the dwarves.

I can't imagine what is going on inside his head now, Idril said softly at Mirdain's side.

Nor I. He cannot possibly keep this up forever. Someone must stop him. Look! He is moving out of range of our protection!

At that moment, the berserker was moving deeper into the dwarven lines and was cut off from the line of fire of Mirdain's company. Edlund stood nearer to the lake and had a better angle, so Mirdain called to him.

Mellon, what can you see? Has Lord Erinhue fallen?

Yes, fallen, but not by the hand of our enemies. Tempest and the young knight knocked him to the ground! But why...?

I do not know all the workings of the berserker spell myself, but I can only assume Tempest knows what she is doing. She would not intentionally harm Erinhue. Tell me Edlund, are they out of our range?

Yes, too far I think. They are retreating slowly. Something must be holding them up. I cannot tell what.

There may still be grave danger for them! We must move toward the center so that we can cover them! The dwarves are nearly finished here. I do not think they will trouble our flank again.

Mirdain called for all of his group to move closer together, toward the lake, making the line shorter. Then they began to advance steadily through the dwarves that still impeded them, toward the center battle group.

Marius was lost among the reeking bodies of dwarves, much shorter than most of those who still fought the good fight. Rolling one dwarf to a sturdier position above another, Marius leapt upon the hardening flesh to see if Lord Elbren was nearby. He had lost track of his cousin, who apparently had not heard his questions, but who could hear above the panic and death-cries? Perhaps she had responded and HE had not heard? But it mattered not, he needed only to know that she was safe and he would be content.

The youth jumped from the pile of bodies and pulled out his deeply stained bow that still glowed as it had the first time he beheld it in Antheod's shop. Fitting his first arrow, he took aim at a dwarf whose axe was on its way to plunging into yet another elf's back, releasing it just in time to fell the axe harmlessly. The bow sang its magical song of glory and supple strength, making the situation into a grotesque musical. The dwarves fell to the rhythm of the draw and Marius let his fingers fly over the satiny finish. No other bow he had ever drawn flew like this, like the eagle that soared above, like the mearas who artfully resisted evil.

He had been a naive boy when it had been given to him as a gift, a boy who had desired a bow with elven runes carved into it--no other bow would do. But the bowyer's magical hands, those that had crafted this magnificent bow, knew better and handed him the bow that would save his life many a time in battle. Never had the bowstring loosened or snapped, never did blood stain the blemishless finish, never did Marius fail to hit his target. For these reasons, he continued to believe his childish fantasy that the old man who hobbled on a wooden leg was a magical sort, or at least a man who had learned the old ways of magic and enchanted the bow.

However, the bow could not protect him from being the target of others.

Running toward the enemy, Marius continued to send his arrows into his targets, knowing that soon he would have to search for arrows amongst the dead and praying that none of those he knew were lost.

Suddenly, the young man lurched forward and realized that he had been hit by an axe. His heel was throbbing a gory mess as he pulled the weapon from it, stunned by the unexpected blow. Shock overcame the agony that gave the battlefield a red hue, and he tore some cloth to bind the flowing wound, knowing fully well that he would not be able to walk on his own, as the tendon had been severed.

Looking around for a friendly face, he saw only the sneering, filthy countenance of his enemy. Grabbing Laikemuil from its sheath, the Prince thrust the long blade into the dwarf, but this merely angered the chain-mail clad warrior.

Trying to at least sit upon his knees, Marius winced. He was the same height as the dwarf now, giving him more of an advantage than he had had in the start of this particular fight. The dwarf threw his bulky frame against the injured Rohirrim, causing waves of pain to radiate from his heel. Marius nearly dropped his sword, but in the moment of hesitation, his enemy lashed out, cutting his side.

Crying out, though trying not to give the dwarf the pleasure of the kill, Marius clenched his teeth, bringing his sword back up, if nothing else, to protect him from the blows until one of the Mithril Knights came across the scene.

Yet the blood loss made him slower than his foe. The world was suddenly enveloped by an ebony sea as the dwarf came in for the kill.

Telta now faced the direction in which Tempest and Raghnildur had headed, Erinhue being their target. They were no where to be seen. The screams of the wounded and those fighting could not cover the fact that she no longer heard Hue?s howls. His silence was as unnerving as the howls from the raging berserker.

Dwarf bodies lay strewn about upon the mucky, red ground. The smell of blood permeated the air and her hands and arms were drenched in the blood of the enemy mixed with some of her own. She drove her sword into the oncoming dwarf but where he should have been impaled upon it, she struck only his arm. As her blade sliced through to the bone he yelled and pulled away dropping his sword his arm now useless. Unarmed and unable to fight he lost himself quickly in the confusion.

The stream of dwarves lessened around her and a few yards from where she was Fala was tending to a fallen knight his hand gripping hers tightly. Telta could see he was in great pain as his knuckles turned white with each breath. Fala spoke gently to him trying to comfort him. Telta knelt down beside her.

?Have you noticed the silence Telta??

?Yes.? she said knowing that Fala too had noticed the absence of Hue?s voice even among all the shouting and fighting. ?Do you think they were able to stop Master Erinhue?? ?There is only one way to find out,? Telta answered, indicating the path that Tempest and Raghnildur had taken.

?Go. I will follow as soon as I can.? urged Fala. The knight groaned. ?Be careful, mellon.?

Telta made her way through the mass of fallen bodies and came upon the trio. Raghnildur held his injured arm close to his body and Tempest now wore a bloodied cloth on her arm. They stood over the body of Hue. Was he wounded or....?

The rise and fall of his chest indicated that he was still among them. A wave of relief washed over Telta. Then the two of them wounded as they were picked Hue up between them and dragged him a few feet further dropping him when they were attacked fighting off the Red Hammer. Telta wasted no time in reaching them lending a hand turning the enemy away.

When the way was clear she took one side of Hue and waited for Raghnildur or Tempest to take the other.

The strange energies raging through the battlefield would at any other time have commanded all of Alandriel?s attention and interest. She would have thrown herself into the maelstrom of conflicting vibrations. Yet strangely, here, now, there seemed no need to do so, no inner prompting, no urgency to attempt to set matters right. As it was, she noted ? coolly - the transformation and emergence of the Beserker. She felt ? dispassionately - the tremendous power of the sickle in Lady Nienor?s hands. She sensed ? remotely - the individual powers of those around her she had come to hold in high regard. She knew she was not to interfere, that it all would have to be played out and this time without her meddling. Yet soon, as she fought her way towards the centre another ?feeling? crept up on her, and this time a jolt of concern flowed with it. Turning her head to survey the wider scene around her, she saw Jiyadan and Rho leave the battlefield. She yelled after them but to now avail. A thrown axe barely missed her shoulder and she wheeled around to answer in kind. Only her dagger did not miss its mark and the dwarf went down, the blade stuck to its hilt in his throat. Light-footedly she retrieved the weapon and as she wiped it clean she suddenly knew that her concern of just moments ago had nothing to do with either the shield-maiden or the Eastron. It was Marius ? the impetuous Rohirrim price. Moments later, her intuition was confirmed: a cry of anger and pain rang out not far from where the ranger stood.

?Follow me, quick ? over there!? The remaining warriors of her group followed immediately in her wake.

The sight of the young Rohirrim on his knees, sword raised high to deflect the blows of a ferocious dwarf intent only on his kill nearly made her heart stop. Had she come too late? Blood ran freely from a deep gash in his side. He swayed.

?Marius!!!!!? The cry had barely escaped her lips when suddenly the dwarf flayed his arms wildly. Not one, but three throwing knifes protruded from his back and he collapsed right onto Marius? sword-tip. A satisfied outcry from her companions left her in no doubt as to who had done the deed. She exhaled deeply, only then aware she had been holding her breath.

Moment?s later Alandriel came to a crouch next to the young Rohirrim who had been thrown onto the blood soaked ground by the weight of the skewered dwarf. Yet, despite being wounded and barely conscious he held a death grip on his sword.

Gently, Alandriel laid her hand onto his, and then started to pry his fingers off the hilt. His grip only tightened even further and she saw him blink.

?He?s dead, and you were lucky my friend,? she said with a smile, bringing her face closer to his. ?But if you want to keep your sword, you must let go of it, and then we need to get you out of here. You?re loosing too much blood too fast.?

Tallain felt as though he was caught in a maelstrom, a nightmare from which there was no escape. When the elven looking Knight ? Arwen_Sol - had directed him onto the battlefield, he had felt a momentary sense of panic ? Tallain was no swordsman, he could barely hold his own and against skilled fighters he would surely be no match and do more harm than good. But there was need, indeed there was much need for their skills, and the Easterling pulled himself together and focused his mind as much as possible through the skills he had learnt with Alandriel, into using the little swordsmanship he possessed and keep his companions alive, not to mention himself.

The battle was heavy and powerful ? their opponents were skilled but luckily for Tallain many were intent on reaching the sickle that Nienor-niniel held up before her ? the power of it almost disarmed him and for a moment his concentration wavered as he felt the tremendous force that emanated from the tiny knight and her elegant sickle of death. And death it dealt, as she cut the dwarven commander in half as though he was butter. Tallain felt a momentary queasiness at the destruction, but his common sense and training overcame the feeling, and he once again placed himself near Arwen_Sol to assist her in overcoming the now bewildered but no less dangerous dwarven attackers. Together they managed to defend their ground, cutting their assailants although Tallain knew not how given the number and ferocity of those same.

Out of the corner of his eye he kept a look out for the berserker ? Erinhue ? that Arwen_sol had warned him about, but he was a little way away, screaming his anger and hatred at the dwarves as he made short work of them.

Then as a lull in the fighting around them occurred, Tallain noticed one of the other knights ? the Lady Tempest he recalled ? and one of the Knights in Training, approach Erinhue in his current guise and suddenly, the tide of dwarves began to surge in their direction, as for some unexplained (to the Easterling) circumstance they managed to fell the berzerker. Slowly he watched in surprise as they began to drag the unconscious knight back to relative safety.

He saw the struggle and pulled Arwen_sol urgently ? pointing towards the pair as they made their way slowly out of the battlefield. ?They need assistance?, Tallain shouted over the din of battle, ?Long range if possible ..? he added, ?I will cover you ? the knight panted, her skills with the sword obviously superior to his own.

Nodding his thanks, the Easterling sheathed his sword and looked around for the other archer knights, calling to them and pointing at the retreating and beleaguered figures, he saw they understood. Soon he was on more familiar fighting ground as his hands once again held the fantastic longbow and his soul blended in with the pull, focus, release of the archer that he was so much happier with. ?let us hope that I can actually hit something in this light and with this smoke, ? he muttered as around him arrows began to hiss through the air, targeting the dwarves that rushed towards Tempest and her companions.

Around him he sensed that the battle was slowing, the dwarves were either focusing on other areas or were falling before the renewed attacks of Guru?s remaining troops and the support from Laketown. Tallain allowed his focus to become one with the arrows as he released them towards their prey, feeling the freedom of air as it rushed past his face and revelling in the skills that he felt so much more comfortable with.

It was slow going and each step they took carrying Erinhue became more and more difficult as Tempest and Raghnildur sought to clear their friend from the field. Tempest was beginning to feel a growing panic as she observed more and more Red Hammer headed in their direction until she looked up and saw Telta coming to their aid. She also breathed a sigh of relief when she noted a steady stream of arrows arching across the sky and falling with deadly precision on the approaching dwarves. She did not see Tallain himself, but she was grateful for the cover he provided.

It was not long before the three Mithril Knights stumbled wearily into the make-shift camp carrying their burden. Tempest refused to let anyone else take Erinhue until they arrived at the Healer's tent. The head Healer raised his eyebrows in surprise as Tempest breathlessly told him what had happened.

"I do not know if he is himself again, so do not try to wake him. I'm taking his sword with me just to be sure." She turned to Raghnilder who was trailing behind her. "Stay and get your arm tended to," she ordered, but he began to protest.

"The battle still rages on," he said.

"The day is ours. We have enough men on the field to scatter what's left of the Red Hammer. We will have need of you soon enough, so it is best you get treated now. Besides, she paused for a moment, "it's not a request. It's an order."

LŽan‘ was also inside tending to another patient and Tempest turned to her with questioning eyes. "Erinhue often traveled with a harp, a dragonharp. I think he left it behind in the camp somewhere when the battle began. Please, try to find it and bring it here. It may be of some help. I would go myself, but Agarak does not take kindly to me..."

Tempest suddenly faltered and put her hand to her forehead. Telta sprang forward, fearing that the lady would faint, but she regained her footing and smiled apologetically. "Forgive me, but I think I should remain here as well for the moment," she said. "Lady Telta, please send a message to Elbren for me and tell him that I await his presence here. Once the battle is over, he will probably want to assess the damage in Laketown before we move on to Dale. Tell him that I await his orders."

The red dawn had risen twice over the Misty Mountains since the sable-clad warrior crossed over into the cresent-shaped vale of Angmar. But now the sun was sinking once again into the northern plain of Eriador. The warrior rode at a walk, approaching the very mesa upon which was once built the fortress of the Witch-king, and once again contemplating his situation. Dirk was following his newly-sharpened intuition now: gambling with his life in order to head off the threat gathering at Carn-Džm. The dark elf's ghost had pointed him in that direction; and the young Dunadan trusted the word of Ešl blindly. But the closer he traveled to seat of power in the ruined realm of Angmar, the more he knew he was right to place that trust where he had; he was right to act upon it.

He was aware that many eyes were now upon him. However, he guessed that his foolhardy, borderline suicidal plan was working, since the creatures in the trees and caves and hollows did not attack. He turned his head toward the darkening eastern sky. The constellation still bled.

On the first night in the valley, when the Sickle first changed, the voice of Neleg Amlug, the Dragon's Fang, had become stronger, more sinister. Dirk's new attunement to his own senses, his subconscious and his surroundings allowed him to discipher the fell blade's words. However, the skills taught to him by the shade of Ešl allowed him to master the sword. He had carried the blade for over a year, but always it had been the stronger will once unsheathed. Dirk's 'over-eagerness' in battle was owed to the spirit of Kasak Kulkodar on several occasions. Dirk shifted in the saddle and sighed, shaking his head. Now that he understood the language of the blade, it was a wonder that Dirk hadn't gotten himself killed many times over.

But now he truly was master of the sword, and it was the strengthening of its deadly whispers that hatched the plot in Dirk's mind. The closer it got to its origin - not its place of forging, for it was forged by C’rdan and gifted to the King of Arnor and stolen by the Witch-king when he took Fornost - but to the place where it was given its terrible life, the more the voice spoke incantations of power, of Lordship. Dirk had tested his theory, leaving the smallest, weakest orc alive but mortally wounded to scurry off and tell the tale of the return of Angmar's heir.

Vana could feel the searing pain in her shoulder but everything around her was a blur. She had been moved she could tell and now she was being raised above the din of noise and the blood. As the moments passed the smell of blood swindled in her nostrils. The sounds faded away.

Several elves of the healing tent had rushed her into the tent and placed her gently on a cot set up for the casualties. She groaned with the pain but soon closed her eyes and felt nothing more.

A healer had come to her bedside and placed a cloth over her nose and mouth which sent her off to dream and escape the pain she was in. It also gave the healer the chance to check her over without having to struggle with her half conciousness.

Removing her leather jerkin and the chain mail that she wore they were able to see that her shoulder was badly bruised and her collar bone broken from the sudden strike of the blow. The skin was unbroken and the bone easily reset. Then the healers bound her shoulder and immobilized it so that the healing could begin.

What seemed like hours later Vana slowly regained conciousness and slowly opened her eyes. Blurred at first the tent finally came clear in her vision as she realized where she was. She jumped at the thought of the blow she had felt and her right hand shot to her left shoulder. Feeling the bandages there she knew that she had already been tended. Her left arm bound to her side and a clean gown over that. She tried to stand and found she was a bit wobbly still on her feet. An elf working in the tent saw her and came to her side where he got her settled back on her cot.

"Lay down now and rest for the healer has so prescribed!" He spoke softly as if not to disturb anyone around her.

"I am fine. I must get back to the others!" Vana stated but she knew he would not allow her to leave nor could she of her own accord. For her legs would not support her yet. "Just let me sit then, please I beg you!"

Checking her bandages once more the elf moved on to others crying out in pain and left Vana sitting on the cot looking at the tent flap and hearing the many who lay on the cots around her.

Tears started to roll softly down her cheeks as she thought of how she had failed her companions, the Mithril Knights. Here she lay and they were still in the thick of battle. Had she caused someone else to be hurt by her inability to remain in the battle and stave off the blow that sent her down? She made no sound just waited silently with her tears wishing she could go outside and breathe the fresh air. Were they winning the battle or were others fallen? How would they ever win over such a vast army as the Dwarves of the Red Hammer? Vana started praying to Eru for her companions safety and for a swift victory over the evil that they stood for. If only she had known that the battle was near over and the reign of the Red Hammer was falling rapidly. she had missed Erinhue being brought in by Raghnildur and Tempest. She did not know they were all being tended at that very moment.

Hue?s unconscious body was heavy but between the three of them they had managed to get him back to the camp. Tempest was now at his side helping her and they managed to get him into the healers tent where he was taken from them. Tempest explained to the healer not to awaken him, and he was settled onto one of the cots. She cautioned the healer that there was no telling if he was himself again. Telta could only hope that he was himself again. Should he still be possessed by the berserker it would not bode well for them. The wounded here would not be able to defend themselves.

The healer checked him over and satisfied that there was nothing more serious than the large bump on the head and several cuts from the battle, he moved on to the more seriously wounded after having another come tend to the cuts.

Once Hue was settled Raghnildur wanted to go back and fight but Tempest said that he was to stay and have his arm tended to. He protested but she was adamant and used her authority to insist that he remain. He grumbled but let himself be led away where he too was soon being administered to. Telta was sure that he would not be kept from the fighting for long and she understood that feeling well.

Many wounded occupied the tent filling it to capacity. The healers had their work cut out for them as they moved from one of the wounded to the next. One of those wounded was Vana. She lay pale and unconscious on one of the cots. She had made it to safety. Cries of pain echoed throughout the tent. and looking around Telta saw the extent of the injures from the battle. Many were minor but there were many more seriously wounded with missing fingers, hands or worse. Cries of pain echoed throughout the tent.

Tempest asked that Agarak be brought to the tent and as Telta watched her she swayed . She was there in an instant ready to catch her. But Tempest regained her composure and waved her off.

Forgive me, but I think I should remain here as well for the moment. Lady Telta, please send a message to Elbren for me and tell him that I await his presence here. Once the battle is over, he will probably want to assess the damage in Laketown before we move on to Dale. Tell him that I await his orders." ?Of course Lady Tempest. Right away.?

Leaving them in good hands she stopped to talk to one of the healers then left the tent to find someone to deliver the message. There was no sign of Fala yet. She was probably off helping one of the wounded. Her healing touch was needed here and Telta decided she would find her later.

She had done what Lady Tempest had asked of her and now she gathered a few things for herself, found a quiet spot, if indeed it could be called quiet, sat down and proceeded to clean her sword of the blood and gore as best she could. Next she dipped a clean cloth in the small basin of water she had managed to get hold of and tended to her own injury. It was tender but she wiped away the dried blood and dirt cleansing the thin gash running along her arm thoroughly then wrapped the bandage she had acquired from the healer around the now bleeding wound. He had argued with her a little wanting her to remain there also but she pointed out that there were many others more seriously wounded who needed their skilled hands. Relenting he had told her to come back should she need further help.

Satisfied with her own handiwork she sat back and chewed thoughtfully on an apple. There was still no sign of Fala and Telta was wondering where her friend was...

One of the healers clucked her tongue as she wrapped Tempest's arm, which she had cleaned and tended to as much as she could. "Try not to move so much!" the healer protested, and Tempest winced as she tightened the wrap even more. When the woman was done, Tempest inspected her work and nodded in satisfaction. It would hold, and it hadn't been too deep. It would heal nicely, though it would leave a slight scar behind to remind of Clarion's bite.

Tempest's eyes traveled over to the cot where Erinhue lay and she watched the steady rise and fall of his chest as he slept. He looked very peaceful, though he was still stained with blood and filth from the battle. The healer had not yet cleaned him since his need was not great.

She wanted to believe that he would be all right, but there was a shadow of fear in her mind that he may still be possessed. His body seemed relaxed, but she noted that his hand was still gripping his sword tightly.

"Perhaps, if I can get Clarion away from him..." she thought to herself. She reluctantly approached the sleeping bard and stood for several minutes trying to figure out the best way of going about it. Tempest had enough sense not to trust the sword, for she knew that such things of power should not be taken lightly. Her hand hestitated to actually try to pull it from his grasp.

"Yet, I cannot leave him with it. If I can't touch the sword, maybe I can make him drop it." With such thoughts she set about trying to get his hand to release Clarion. It was more difficult than she imagined. First she tried massaging his wrist to relax the muscles. Then she tried prying his fingers apart. When that didn't work, she resorted to sheer force. She slapped, hit, punched, pulled, and almost bit him.

But nothing worked.

"Confound you, Erinhue! Stop being so stubborn!" she hissed. "You are the most aggravating man I have ever met! If we didn't happen to be among the healers, I'd cut your hand off and throw it into Long Lake along with your infuriating sword!

She heard a cough behind her and swung around to find Raghnildur standing with a questioning look on his face. "What are you...." he started to say.

"I thought maybe if I separated him from Clarion that he'd...But as you can see, it's no use!"

"What about Agarak?"

"What about him?" she snapped. "I don't know where the harp is, and frankly, I'm in no mood to encounter it at the present time! The harp's libel to burn down this tent around our ears with his temper! He and I don't mix very well!

"I only meant that...maybe Agarak will have more luck," Raghnildur offered.

Tempest was about to reply when a friendly voice called from outside the tent and a familiar, welcome face appeared at the door."What's all the yelling about?" Elbren asked with a weary smile. "Not fighting with the dragonharp again, are we Tempest?"

"The precious dragonharp is thankfully absent at the moment, though I fear it will be joining us presently," Tempest said, regretting having spoken so harshly to Raghnildur a moment before. "In the mean time, I was trying to get Clarion away from Erinhue to ensure that the pleasant-spirited bard doesn't turn into a demon again and try to kill us all." Here she paused, for she was suddenly aware that Elbren was being carried in. From the position of his leg, she realized it must be broken.

"You have been injured!" she said in alarm.

Jiyadan kicked the mount and headed quickly for the rear camps where Rho's wound could be tended. He held her firmly in front of him until they reached the tents. "Healer!" he bellowed. "She's wounded!"

He slid off the horse and gently pulled her down into his arms. Carrying her, he entered one of the healing tents but no one was there. Kicking over a nearby cot to empty it, he then flipped it back upright and laid her down. "I need to find someone with more skill. I can only field dress," he said.

Still clutching her shoulder Rho looked up at him, the pain had subsided but her eyes held the evidence that some still remained. "Is there any water?" she whispered.

A quick look around revealed a jar of it, and he poured some into a glass. Then, kneeling beside the cot, he cradled her shoulders in his arm and elevated her head so she could sip at it. "Not too much," he cautioned.

Nodding in agreement Rho took several small sips, lowered her head back down onto the cot and closed her eyes. Then she spoke softly, "I'll be alright until you get back."

He nodded curtly and left the water near-by if she needed it again, but quickly left the tent in search of help. Returning a few minutes later, he knelt and spoke softly but clearly. "I could find no one; they must all be tending others." It was likely that the ferocity of the battle had sent many injured to the healers already, and Jiyadan knew he would have to at least extract the arrow alone.

"Do you trust me to help you?" he asked at last, knowing the final decision must rest with her.

"Yes." She whispered her reply. "Let's get this over with."

He nodded. Thankfully, there were some supplies left in the tent, and Jiyadan quickly collected them by the cot. "Not enough," he mused to himself, looking at what he had, but he had no choice. Pulling his bloodied tunic off, he washed his hands and prepared to remove the arrow.

Taking out a well-worn scrap of leather, he put it into Rho's mouth and told her to bite down and prepare herself. A moment later the shaft was snapped just a few inches from where it entered her shoulder and he threw the end out the flap of the tent. He wiped away the tears of pain that had fallen from her eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Jiyadan began to unfasten the clasps on Rho's tunic. They still glowed red with an eerie inner-light, but that was no longer at the forefront of his mind. Tossing it to one side, he saw no choice but to cut the leather jerkin beneath. Once that was also out of the way, he carefully twisted the arrow, which sent Rho into violent convulsions of pain.

He placed one arm across her chest to hold her down firmly. "I know it is painful, you must try to hold still," he said, as he continued to carefully twist the arrow back and out of the wound. The shirt had performed its task, wrapping around the arrow head, which came out without damaging more skin.

Once out, he sniffed the barb to see if any scent of poison was upon it but he noticed none. He placed the remaining arrow on the table so it could be tested later for hidden poisons and returned to Rho. "Time to patch you up," he said softly.

Rho removed the leather scrap from her mouth with her other hand and looked over at the shirt. "There is no hole..." she whispered between her still labored breathing. I

I didn't understand...what you meant..." Then a wave of nausea swept over her and instantly she laid her head back down, closed her eyes, and focused on breathing calm and deep.

Jiyadan soaked a cloth from the jug of water and placed it on her forehead. "There's a hole in your shoulder, sure enough," he replied with gentleness, "just not in the shirt. Relax now; the worst of it is over."

He unfastened the lacing of her shirt and pulled it off her shoulder to reveal the angry wound left by the arrow. Then taking what bandages he could find, he wrapped them about her shoulder and arm, then coaxed her to sit up so he could wrap the bandages around her chest to hold them in place. Her arm was now held tight to her side by the wrappings and he draped her shirt back over her shoulder and fastened it as much as he could to cover her.

At last, he made a type of sling for her arm to take pressure off the shoulder. "As soon as a healer is found, they'll need to put what skill they have to work, but I think this should hold you until then."

"Thank you." Rho replied quietly making sure the previous feelings of nausea had passed, which they had. She then looked down at the bandages wrapped around her shoulder and the sling that now carried her arm. "You do good work." She smiled and then grimaced just a little when she tried to stand up.

Helping her to her feet, he made sure she was steady before taking his hands away. "Not enough, I'm afraid. This is only a temporary fix. You will still need a healer."

Rho then began to sway a little and reached out need towards a nearby post to brace herself on.

"Whoa!" Jiyadan quickly caught her again. "Looks like you're not quite ready to walk yet. Best to sit back down for now," he said, easing her back down onto the cot and kneeling in front of her.

"You have been injured!" Tempest cried in alarm as she watched Elbren be helped into the room and onto a nearby cot.

"It is the price of battle," he answered mildly. "I see you have not escaped without a scratch either."

"This is nothing; it is not deep. But it was Clarion who did it," she gestured toward the sleeping bard.

"Do you think he..." Elbren began, but let the question linger unasked.

"I don't know, but something was wrong. I couldn't tell whether the spell had stopped working, or if something or someone was interfering with it. All I know is that the Berserker did NOT recognize me, or the others. He would have killed us. I saw it in his eyes," Tempest said gravely.

"Then we are fortunate that you were able to stop him."

"We have Raghnildur to thank for that."

She would have said more, but LŽan‘ appeared in the entrance holding something awkward wrapped in a blanket. For a moment she hesitated, for Elbren had not been there when she had left and she wondered if she had accidently entered the wrong tent. Then, when she saw Tempest she nodded and held the blanket out to her.

"As you requested," she said.

Tempest looked confused, for she had forgotten that she had sent her to search for the dragonharp. She recieved the object without much thought and slid the cloth off in one quick movement. A tiny jet of flame greeted her hand. Seeing immedietly that it was Agarak, she, in turn, threw the harp across the room with much distaste. It sailed briefly through the air playing a few jangled notes before it landed neatly at Elbren's feet.

...And return he had.

The road had gotten wider and it bore the signs of being constantly trodden by steel-shod feet. The prying eyes had become bolder the further north he traveled. First he saw them as shadows hiding in what every shelter could be found at the roadside: treelines, ridges, cave-mouths. Then, he noticed whole groups standing in the open, yet still at a distance. Presently, however, the road was lined with orcs of every shape, size and breed; and a large contingent had gathered to follow behind, with each step the crowd grew for they fell into line behind him as he passed. None moved to challenge Dirk, or bar his progress toward Carn-Džm.

The acrid pallor that hovered over the land grew thick. To Dirk, it tasted like the smoke of forge-fires.

Endl—m‘ tossed his mighty head proudly, his magnificent mane blowing in the wind. The great horse of Rohan seemed to understand Dirk's plan, for he did not break stride, nor did he lose composure. He knew that he must play along as the steed of a Lord return to his ruined lands.

The surrounding brush disappeared, and Dirk now rode across a barren desert. The following throng spread out far to either side of the track, the better for them all to get a veiw of the bold knight. In the distance, Dirk could now see the flat mountain-shoulder upon which once stood Carn-Džm, fortress-castle of Angmar. The fumes issued forth from the ruins themselves, and the ring of hammer against anvil rang out over the dusty plain below. Lowering his eyes, he beheld in a crook between arms of the mountain, what must have been the encampment of the orcs that had gathered from other lands - thousands upon thousands of tents, fires, makeshift shelters and black creatures moving in and around the camp like so many insects.

As he approached the camp, he drew Neleg Amlug, eliciting gasps from the following mob. Dirk beheld his blade, but when his eyes fell upon it, he saw a weapon very different than he had ever seen. The Dragon's Tooth had always glinted a dull crimson at its honed edges whenever the prospect of bloodshed presented itself. But now the gleeming black blade, as always perfect, without a dint or even a single fingerprint, was alight with blue flames that covered the sword from pommel to tip, engulfing Dirk's hand and arm up to the elbow. Where heat usually eminated from it, now the cold of death wafted upon Dirk's face as the enchanted blue flames burned ever brighter.

The voice that Dirk had grown to understand in the past weeks was no longer just in his own mind, but rather it spoke aloud. The menacing whisper hissed its own welcoming curses from the depths of the abyss to the ears of the gathered horde. And the horde understood.

Dirk stopped at the edge of the tents. The throng closed in around him and others filed out from the encampment. Dirk looked at the slope above and saw that squat shapes were scurrying down the twisting road from the ruined citadel above. Some of the stunted orcs knelt. Only the largest of the Uruks would attempt to hold his gaze. He guided the sable stallion to a knoll and dismounted at its foot. None of the orcs came within a dozen feet of the proud warhorse as Dirk climbed the knoll and raised his sword over his head.

The momentous events of the night left Anorast feeling tired and stunned. Yet he could not rest. In their tent Nin slept quietly. She had escaped physical harm completely during the battle, but her strength had been sorely taxed, and she had fallen asleep almost immediately. Anorast had sat beside her bed, tending to his many bruises. The chain mail he?d worn and the Mithril Knight cloak had saved his skin from being pierced but the axes of the dwarves had left him heavily bruised. Only his elvish agility had saved him from a direct, bone shattering strike, but enough blows had made it through to make Anorast very, very sore.

The elf was loath to leave Nin?s side, but he was restless, and wanted to know how the battle had gone. The Red Hammer had been defeated, but at what cost? Concerns for his fellow Mithril Knights finally drove Anorast to walk around a bit and learn their fate. Thoroughly padded Anorast stiffly rose to his feet.

?I shall return soon, my love,? Anorast whispered over Nin.

Picking up his sword and belting it on, Anorast also took up the beaten and chipped wooden shield he?d received in Esgaroth. Immensely useful, it had saved him from many a dire blow. Wearing only a comfortable shirt and pants over his bandaged bruises Anorast also had his Mithril Knight cloak slung over his shoulders. Leaving the tent he saw many elves and men around the camp. Guards patrolled everywhere, and others tended the many wounded. Clearly the victory had been costly.

Seeing him emerge one of the Mithril Knights sitting at a nearby campfire told Anorast that Lord Elbren had been taken to the House, or tent, of Healing that had been erected before the battle. Several other Mithril Knights were also there. Walking stiffly Anorast made his way to the tent. Inside he found Lord Elbren, Tempest, Raghnildur, Lord ?Hue, and Vanaladiel. The last two lay unconscious, and all but ?Hue were being tended for wounds. Approaching Lord Elbren Anorast saw that his leg had been broken. But the smile he gave Anorast conveyed to the old elf that they had indeed achieved victory, and with no significant loss.

The loathesome creatures gathered about Dirk looked upon him with bewilderment, confusion, hatred, fear, and reverence. Such is the legacy of one who commands evil. The Lord is not beloved, he is reviled, feared, and envied. Power to destroy alone grants such a one his realm. Dirk thrust the blue-flaming black sword into the frozen ground atop the little knoll with a heave, eliciting a sound like thunder from the earth below his feet. As the wave of sound and power washed over the mob, many of them genuflected, some threw themselves upon the dirt, grovelling. Dirk felt a sudden thrill. He could, at this very moment, claim lordship over this land and these creatures. Here was an army, at least six thousand strong. Here were workers to build his stronghold. His visage reflected a kind of twisted smirk, lit by the unearthly blue flames of Neleg Amlug. He looked like a wraith.

But, even as the sinister whisper of the Dragon's Tooth laughed aloud, rejoicing in its homecoming, Dirk, glancing down, caught sight of his midnight blue cloak. The corner of his eye was drawn to a glint of silver as the Mithril-thread embroidery reflected the dying light of the afternoon.

"Their swords and their councils shall have two edges," Dirk said aloud.

I understand now he continued in thought, and I know now what Ešl has taught me. I must not succumb to this lust for power. Else I am no better than these wretched creatures.

He stood stock still and his thoughts were silent for a few seconds, then he ended his deliberation, Else I am no better than my father. He would not use this power to become mighty. He would use it to stop the threat that was massing. To stop the threat to the fair peoples of Middle-earth.

He steeled himself using the techniques the dark elf had taught him. Dirk's face no longer bore the demented smile of a power-mad lunatic, but the solemn look of one resigned to duty. He knew exactly what must be done.

He had to address the masses, but there was no way his broken voice would even be heard by the foremost of the gathered orcs. Then he remembered his ring, Mithcharach, it could be used to project his voice, as it was before his throat had been cut, into the minds of others. Furthermore, It could be very persuasive if projected into the minds of lesser-brained creatures. Creatures such as those gathered round him now.

He drew forth the gleeming black blade from the tundra. Altering the inner voice so that it mimicked the serpentine drawl of his sword, Dirk began, "Vermin! Scum! Slaves! Who called you forth?!"

Abolute silence fell upon the gathered orcs. They were used to their masters speaking to them thus. But they did not expect the power the Dark Ring of the Voice. Dirk had spoken in the Black Speech. He knew the language perfectly, as if it were his native tongue. But he could never explain how or when he had learned it. (It was in fact, during the short time he spent with the denizens of Mordor, that he had acquired the language - and his scarred throat. But most of that experience is locked deep within his memory not to be relived any time soon.)

"I asked a question! You there," Dirk pointed the tip of the sword at one of the squat orcs that he had not encountered anywhere but in that valley, "Come forward and answer me."

The short orc rose and climbed the knoll to within three feet of the young Knight, his eyes were cast down. He feared the gaze of the heir of the Witch-king and dared not risk looking directly at him.

Dirk spoke aloud, his broken voice an icy, cruel hiss, "I do not know your breed. From whence do you come?"

"I....w,w,we are native to these lands, Zaugoth, we were your father's legions." He inched forward, his voice becoming more and more plaintive, "But ages living under the rock of the mountains has reduced us to the hunching things that you see."

"I see," Dirk spat, "Now answer my question. Who or what drew you from hiding?"

"Dwarves, my lord."

"Dwarves!" Dirk screamed into every creature's mind within a league. His anger over took him for the briefest of moments. But it was long enough for the orc to lose his life. Blue flames slashed at him like lightning. He stood for a long second, then crumpled to the ground. The top of the orc's cranium slowly slid off onto the ground with an oily splat.

"You, Uruk." Dirk pointed at the closest uruk-hai. The white hand was still visible under the grime on his jerkin. "What could a Dwarf do or say to summon the mighty uruk-hai from their scattered holes? You have not been drawn together thus since that fool, Saruman attacked the Rohirrim."

"Power," bellowed the uruk, "They promised us power."

"What power do they think that they will grant you?"

"The power of the Black Hammer."

"What?" Dirk chuckled both aloud and into the minds of the silent throng. "You insolent fools. You have been deceived. You thirst for war clouds your feeble minds. No dwarf could lay hands upon the Hammer of the Underworld! Just as no orc, goblin, or Uruk could ever hope to wield it. If it could be found, there are very few who could even touch Grond without losing their immortal soul. I know of only one other, in fact, save myself, and she is not in league with any Dwarves."

Dirk knew full well that not even he could wield Morgoth's legendary mace. Even with Ešl's training, the power of Grond would corrupt him absolutely. He would become the Black Lord that the orcs called him - and he would cease to exist as a man.

Dirk bore holes into the uruk's forehead with his eyes and spoke into the creature's mind, "How may of you impudent low-minded fools have come?"

"The Uruk-hai have two battalions of battle-hardened soldiers. We are one-thousand strong."

"The only Uruk-hai," Dirk spat upon the ground, "To ever be tested in battle perished at Helm's Deep. So you must be referring to the cowardly slaughter of women and children in the outlying villages of Rohan that occurred during that war."

The uruk growled. Dirk made a fluid motion with his sword arm, two arcs, one close to his right side and one on the left. Neleg Amlug was a blur of blue.

With consecutive thuds the uruk's arms fell to the ground - they had been severed at the shoulders; and the uruk's lifeblood was flowing in jets from the arteries that once supplied the massively muscled arms.

Dirk bent over as the uruk fell to his kness, and grabbed him by the filthy dreadlocked hair.

"How will you wield that Hammer now, Uruk-hai?" he taunted so that all could hear him within their own minds.

He let go of the uruk's hair and let him fall lifeless beside the orc with the gray matter oozing from his cloven skull.

"Listen to me now! You have all been decieved. The Dwarves of the Red Hammer are known to me. They are no more than a renegade band of power-mad brigands who have called you forth under false pretenses. They cannot deliver what they have been promised. What's more they had no right to call any one of you into their service."

A murmur rose throughout the mob. "Command us, Zaugoth, what would you have us do?" came a shout faintly to Dirk's ears.

"Oh, you would hear my wishes?" Dirk jeered, and assent rose amongst them; they did wish for Dirk to command them.

"Very well, I have two commands for you. First, disperse tonight. Go back to your holes and hide until you are summoned forth by your proper Lord and none other. After sunrise, I will slaughter wholesale any of you that I find. Secondly, if the dwarves come to offer you any more false promises of power and glory, slay them all."

The murmur rose to a dull roar.

"Now strike this camp, abandon your work here and scurry away before I summon my folk and we sweep this plain clean of your foul presence!"

It had worked. To Dirk's astonishment, every creature, three-hundred score of them, moved at once. It was chaos. They couldn't seem to gather their things fast enough. Many fled immediately, abandoning arms, food, tents, and ran wildly for the foothills of Hithaeglir.

"You there!" Dirk shouted at a sqat Angmar orc as the sheathed the blue-flaming sword, "What work were your fellows doing up on the plateau?"

"We were rebuiling the fortress, my lord."

"Really, and who is overseeing this?"

"No one really, my lord. We were given tools and the dwarves build the great forges and smelters so that we could rebuild the iron towers of Angmar, then they left. Off south."

"So there are no Dwarves upon the mountain, no one giving orders?"

"No my lord." He thought for a moment then he said, "but there are the elves."

"Elves?"

"Yes Zaugoth two elves with strange armour and weapons came a month ago and made themselves at home. They have a big pavillion up on the mountain."

Dirk was puzzled, what elves could possible gain asylum in Carn-Džm? And with an entire orc army camped at its foot? Dirk noticed that the orc was still standing there.

"Go, idiot, before I kill you." The orc seemed to contempate this. Would it be more glorious to die by the Zaugoth's blade, or run and hide to fight when they were called? In the end, the orc's cowardly nature and self-preservation instinct seemed to win out and a moment later he hurried off towards the hills.

"You, are you not a warg-rider? Were you and your kind not originally from Dol Guldur?"

"Yes my lord," answered a horribly scarred orc. "Me and a hundred others survived the elves of the Lorien witch when they came into Mirkwood. They slew our mounts, but we were able to run, hide, pretend to be dead."

"Gather as many of your kind as you can and meet me at the foot of the road that leads up to the fortress in a half hour."

Dirk walked back down to his horse, who held still in the face of the chaotic egress of the orcs. None had dared touched him. If the did accidentally bump into the great stallion, they crawled off howling mad with fear. Dirk took the reins and walked Endl—m‘ to the crest of the knoll that he had spoken from. He watched the hasty departure. The cacophony faded as he deepened his breathing and his concentration. He had come close to losing his composure and fleeing himself. He had to master his emotions and play his ruse to the end.

Finally, he mounted and trotted off through the hordes in the direction of the climbing road. When he arrived, he found thirty gnarled warg-riders all fully armed.

"Follow me and do as I say."

Endl—m‘ carried Dirk at a walk up to the mesa upon which the stronghold of Carn-Džm had once stood. Once he gained the flat ground at the top of the trail, he beheld in awe the giant iron smelter and the numerous forges at which the orcs had bee working. Scaffolds and bits of iron skeleton were all that stood as any structure. But then there was the pavillion. Away from the industrial workings of the construction, there stood a garishly-colored canvas pavillion. From its zenith flew a banner that he had only seen in murals.

The Knights of the Silmaril...

"Lord Anorast, I'm glad to see you survived the battle," Elbren said from the bench where he sat, his leg being tended. "Is Lady Nin free from harm?"

"Yes. I've got my share of bruises, but Nin is only exhausted. The events of the night, including the wielding of the Sickle, used much of her strength."

"I received word of the power of the Sickle. I am curious to see what other secrets hide in the blade."

Elbren grunted as his leg was set. "The battle was won, but the Red Hammer still have a heavy presence towards Erebor."

"The army will need time to recover, Lord Elbren," Anorast said, frowning slightly. "We also need to work out a more effective strategy to deal with the Red Hammer. Now that we've fought them, we know what we're up against."

"Yes. I've already ordered that the wounded be transferred to Laketown as soon as they are well enough to move. The state of the army needs to be assessed. Can you do that, Lord Anorast?"

"Yes, I'll get to it immediatly."

Bowing to Elbren, who nodded, Anorast turned and exited the tent, passing LŽan‘ who was entering, carrying a burden wrapped in a blanket. As he left the tent Anorast turned to one of the guards standing outside the tent.

"Send word to all commanders, with requests for assessment of effective forces. Also, instruct them to begin clearing up the battlefield. Pile the dwarves, and bring our dead to the lake shore. Any unusual objects, signs, or anything is to be reported to myself, Tempest, or Lord Elbren."

"Yes, my lord."

-----------------------

Several hours later Anorast stood on the low hill seperating the camp from the battlefield, watching the sun rise in the east. The blood red dawn spilled across the field. Trampled ground was all that remained of the night's event. The only other signs of battle was a great, dirt covered mound near the road to Esgaroth, and smoldering fires around it's base where the weapons of the dwarves burned, their smoke sliding about the grave of their former masters. Out of sight, on the other side of the bank seperating the field from the lake, the lake edge was lined with bodies wrapped in cloth, waiting for the boats to take them back to Esgaroth, back to Mirkwood, back to their homes.

Anorast turned with a sigh back towards the camp. It was much smaller now. The tents of the deceased had been taken down as the camp had constricted, now fitting only the healthy forces. The wounded had been carried into Laketown, where the houses left by the fleeing women and children now found use as houses of healing. The wounded Mithril Knights had been taken to an inn run by Drake, the adoptive father of their fellow knight, Dirk, now missing for some time.

Looking down into the camp Anorast knew that Nin would be sleeping peacefully in their tent, waiting for him to return to her side. Anorast had not planned to be gone long, but the night had been very busy, and the morning was little better. Grimacing Anorast caught sight of the large tent where the commanders would be meeting shortly, to assess the force, and to plan the campaign towards Dale. All the Mithril Knights who were not wounded had been called to attend, as well as Doric, captain of Esgaroth, Melithren, commander of the archers Anorast had led to Laketown, Lord Edlund, Battle Captain of Caras Galadhon, and the other captains.

Sighing again Anorast strode down the hill towards the tent. The future of their small force was in question. So little information, and at the meeting they would find out exactly how small a force they had to face the uncertain numbers to the north. Scouts had been sent out, but they were not expected back for some time. An uncertain future, but one that would need to be faced.

In the predawn hours, people still continued to work in an attempt to mediate the destruction left in the wake of their war with the Red Hammer. Within the healers? tent Arwen sad by Vanaladiel?s side, holding on to her cousin?s hand as they studied each other for injuries. Most marks of the war went deeper than flesh, and something glowed in both women?s eyes that hadn?t been there before, a change that would take longer to heal than their bodies. Vana had a broken collarbone that had been reset but would necessarily keep her immobilized for a few nights while she healed. Beneath her loose fitting chemise a stiff bandage wound around Arwen?s ribs, the result of her not dodging the blow from an axe?s butt fast enough.

?Thankfully, it wasn?t the other end of the axe,? she told Vana wryly, glad that she could bring an answering smile to her cousin?s lips no matter how briefly. The two elves spoke quietly about what had occurred since the blonde elf had been brought to the healers: Erinhue had mercifully been knocked unconscious by Raughnildur, releasing the beserker?s hold on their friend. The remaining dwarves had been re-routed with the archers who had previously retreated into the city managing to provide cover from the bridge. Nin had managed to kill the dwarf commander, thereby causing a small retreat from some of his soldiers and it had allowed the remaining Knights to sweep in and salvage an advantage.

?What of Lord Elbren?? Vana asked in a hushed voice, she had heard that he had broken a leg from one of the healers but nothing after that and frustratingly enough, no one had had time to provide her with more information. ?I believe he is doing fine, he is being tended to. But he has called a meeting for all the Mithril Commanders and Knights in his tent later this morning.? Their green eyes met, ?I?m coming as well? Vana stated stubbornly, ignoring the pain in her stiffening shoulder. Seeing the resolution in her cousin?s eyes, Arwen knew it would be pointless to argue with the blonde elfess. ?I?ll come back for you later, it isn?t too far so I think we should be all right.?

With that decision made, Vanaladiel agreed to rest until they were called upon. Wandering around the tent, Arwen provided a hand to the healers as best she could, fetching and finding things when they were too busy. Her steady hands proved useful when sewing up wounds and applying bandages, the most trying task when she had to hold down a knight as his wound was cleansed. In his delirium the man tossed and turned, the healer working as swiftly as she could, but he still managed to cuff Arwen near her wound. Gasping at the fiery pain coursing through her body the peredhel grit her teeth, refusing to cry out.

When he finally passed out from the pain, Arwen straightened slowly. ?Hannon le, Lady,? the healer spoke softly with gentle hand on the peredhel?s shoulder, ?Rest yourself now, before you collapse from exhaustion,? she suggested with a tired smile. Thankful for the reprieve, though she knew the other woman probably needed a respite more than she, Arwen ducked under the doorway of the tent. Moving a little stiffly, she passed by the stink of the burning pyres, and the lines of soldiers still clearing the blood drenched field, finding herself inexorably drawn toward the line of dead.

The sun rose blood red over the horizon, rippling across the waters of the Long-Lake so that it seemed to drip fire and blood. Along the gently soughing shore were laid out the bodies of the slain, their faces covered by milky, white shrouds that belied the inhumanity of their deaths. A bereaved silence reigned within the camps and in the hearts of all those who had survived. Arwen walked slowly past the dead, benumbed by the losses borne here. With staggering sadness she thought of all those who would not be going home, how many of them had friends? Families? Loved ones waiting for their return?

A cold breeze blew off the water, catching the tears trembling on her dusky eyelashes before they could fall. Her fingers sought the tight bandaging through her shirt; a broken rib was all the peredhel had suffered, paltry compared to those who had lost so much more. ?They died honorably,? a peaceful voice, whispered in her mind, and for once Arwen didn?t care if hearing her dead father was proof of her descent into madness because the words brought with them a measure of comfort. It allowed her to walk away from the sight of their dead; the time for grieving would come later, but the Knights still had plans to make this very hour and she would be with them.

But in silence she prayed that the spirits of her kindred find their way to the Halls of Mandos and the descendents of Men to whatever fate awaited them beyond even the sight of the Valar.

Vana had been visited by her cousin Arwen after the battle and time had allowed. Arwen held Vana's hand as she spoke softly with her. Having learned of Erinhue's battle using the Beserker, Tempest and Raughnildur's hand in getting the Beserker down. Her concern for the other knights well written upon her face. But the tired worn look passed once more upon her face.

?What of Lord Elbren?? Vana asked in a hushed voice, she had heard that he had broken a leg from one of the healers but nothing after that and frustratingly enough, no one had had time to provide her with more information. ?I believe he is doing fine, he is being tended to. But he has called a meeting for all the Mithril Commanders and Knights in his tent later this morning.? Their green eyes met.

?I?m coming as well? Vana stated stubbornly, ignoring the pain in her stiffening shoulder.

Arwen started to object and insist that Vana stay with the healers.

"No I will be fine!" She pressed her cousin, "I am coming." With that Vana started to get up but was halted by Arwens stern look and the resolution in her voice.

?I?ll come back for you later, it isn?t too far so I think we should be all right.? With that Vana settled back down onto the cot to rest till she had need to go to the meeting. Arwen wandered off to assist the healers as Vana laid down and turned from the movements within the house where she now lay. She could hear the healers working with the wounded but she shut her eyes and closed out the noises of the hurt being aided and drifted once more off to sleep where the pain would vanish and the green forest would come again to meet and soothe her. Her dreams were not settling but they helped her to escape what she had seen and the ache within her heart for failing her fellow knights.

The sound of water slipping over a waterfall and dancing down the rock face of the falls sang as the sun shown down bright and fresh. Butterflies and hummingbirds flitting about the meadow. The grass where her feet tread felt cool between her toes as she walked into the meadow and headed for the waterfall. The flowers scent wafting in the air. The pool at its base foaming where the water hit it and the peaceful scene that Vana had enjoyed many times brought her some peace within her soul. Here she could sit and enjoy the warmth fron the sun and the fresh air as she sat in silence with nature. She could feel the calm and the peace as if she were really there. Her dream was of an earlier time, a time before the pain of life had overtaken her.

Suddenly she felt as if some dark threat had entered the meadow with her but as she turned to face it she could not see it clearly. A cloud came over the meadow and the winds began to blow. Shadow took over the trees and faded them from her memory and replaced them with dread. The peaceful scene now more menacing and disturbing. Looking back at the soothing waters they seemed red now as if they were mingled with blood. Vana began to move about on her cot as the discomfort replaced her dreams with the pain of reality.

Vana suddenly opened her eyes. The shadows were vanishing as the coming mornings first rays of light cast chased the darkness from the room. She looked back around the room and then sat up. She grasped her shoulder that ached so but she grit her teeth and stood up and walked over to the window to look out to the streets of LakeTown. There the usual hustle and bustle was replaced by busy work at getting the town back in order after the assault of the army of the Red Hammer. Life would go on though things would never be totally as it had once been, some simulance would return of the normal life before the battle.

Vana sought out a healer to find her clothes so that she could redress and be ready for Arwens coming to accompany her to the meeting that soon would be gathering. The pain would be overcome and the next phase of the fight against the Red Hammer would be planned and followed through. Try as she might it took the help of the healer to finish dressing. Her left arm bound and pulsing with pain. The healer wanted Vana to return to her cot but with Vana's insisting she gave up and helped as she could to get the knight ready for the meeting.

Then Vana waited for Arwen to return.

It was the light from the blood red sunrise that Rho opened her eyes to in the early morning. Glancing around she saw Chirion sleeping soundly next to the cot and remembered asking Jiyadan to retrieve him just when the healer had entered the tent the evening before.

Reaching up she felt the bandages pressing firmly against the wound and was grateful that the pain had lessened significantly. After a few moments she sat up on the cot and then reached down giving Chirion an affectionate pat as the sound of muffled voices could be heard outside.

Ten minutes later Rho emerged from the tent just in time to catch the last of the breathtaking sunrise. Her wolf companion followed closely behind. Off in the distance, Rho noticed a few people walking around but for the most part the camp seemed still, a sight the shield-maiden knew wouldn't last long.

Looking around, Rho then noticed Jiyadan's standard leaning up against the tent next to hers and slowly made her way over to it. The sounds of conversation were coming from within so she called out his name and after a slight pause, Jiyadan replied, "Lady Rholarowyn, yes, please enter."

Rho and Chirion entered to see Jiyadan sitting on his cot. She politely greeted him and the elf nearby.

The elf, Edhesul, returned heir greeting and then cleared his throat before continuing. "Of the three-hundred cavalry that followed your banner, but one hundred and ten remain. Of the rest, those that followed you, Lady Rholarowyn," he said, "of the two-hundred fifty archers, two-hundred yet remain."

Sitting down on the cot next to Jiyadan, Rho nodded and then looked at the elf. "And what of the other divisions? Have you heard what their losses were?"

"No, but Lord Elbren has called a meeting among the Knights and commanders to asses the losses."

"When is that?" Rho asked.

"Within the hour."

***

All assembled in the meeting tent, and Elbren was helped in despite his broken leg. Rho had also refused to go to Laketown with the rest of the wounded and insisted her place was in the meeting.

One by one, those present gave a report of their force's numbers as well as wounded and total losses. The Red Hammer had managed to carve quite a chunk out before being defeated and those remaining were weary.

"We can not possibly attack the second forces at Dale and Erebor outright in this condition," one Knight protested. "We must re-supply and refresh - those we will face will be greater in number and no less ferocious in their desire for our destruction."

"We can not leave Erebor without aid," Elbren replied. "What rest we can get before the scouts return must suffice, for those in the Mountain surely receive none. In any case, we must retake it by Durin's Day. There is no time for delays."

With a few finalities, the meeting was ended and as Rho and Jiyadan turned to leave, Elbren called them over. "When we have more time, you must tell me what you two were up to that it took you so long to join us." He then dismissed the Knight and her trainee to their duties.

The armies were told to take what rest they could, for they would be leaving as soon as possible after the scouts returned. Jiyadan, who had taken no sleep after leaving Rho with the healer, now collapsed on his cot and slept soundly for a few brief hours until Edhelsur woke him to say the scouts had returned, and bore no good news.

Dale was under siege, though had not yet fallen, but the number of Dwarves was almost twice that of what they had faced here at Esgaroth. "It matters little," Jiyadan murmured. "Be they a hundred, or one hundred thousand, we must still do our duty."

The weary and wounded armies were mobilized within a few hours and began their trek towards the Lonely Mountain.

"You, you and you." Dirk growled in his broken whisper, "Enter the tent behind me and do not speak. The rest of you wait here. If you hear battle, or are called, come running ready to taste elf-flesh, if you hear nothing, then do not move from this spot."

Dirk dismounted and strode toward the pavillion with the three chosen goblins in tow. He stopped at the entrance and listened as the enhabitants conversed casually in Quenya. Dirk drew Neleg Amlug, blue flames more subdued now, so that it rang loudly. He threw back the flap of the tent and charged in.

"Please pardon my intrusion, my good elves." The two elves were startled to their feet, knocking over the table that held fresh fruit and rosted fowl as they fumbled to find their weapons.

"What?!" One shouted.

"A Mithril Knight! But how?!" screamed the other.

"No, no, DO NOT get up," Dirk lowered the point of the Dragon's Tooth to the throat of the closest warrior: a fair, blonde-haired elf. The other, equally as fair and as blonde, looked past Dirk to the hungry faces of the Warg-riders standing behind him at the ready. They stopped struggling and sat again with their hands raised; both sets of sky-blue elven eyes twitched between the young knight and the contingent of nasty-looking orcs.

"Hail to you. I am Dirk, foster son of Drake of Esgaroth, Dunadan of the North, Roquen of the Reunited Realm and Mithril Knight," Dirk hesitated a moment allowing his face to slowly twist into a sinister smirk, "And of course, the only heir to the Witch-king of Angmar, which should answer the question that burns behind your eyes. This is how I command the orcs you see here, and the thousands outside - I am their King - or could be if I chose to claim my father's legacy. One word from me and you could become the best meal any orc could ever hope for."

He shifted his sword into his left hand, reached down and plucked a grape from the ruined meal, "I do not need you to speak to have many of my questions answered." He popped the grape into his mouth and wheeled to the elves' right. "Say nothing, understand? Let me think on this a moment."

"Nearly got your hands on it, didn't you?" He said after several tense seconds with his face screwed up into feigned contortions of thought.

The elves looked at the young human Knight with further astonishment.

"Oh don't looked so surprised. Two Noldor, Knights of the Silmaril, no less, comfortably ensconced amongst a vast army of orcs, in a stronghold temporarily held by the Red Hammer dwarves - with the Star of èarendil missing for a few days? But now, thank the Valar, it is back in the sky where it belongs."

Dirk paced, waggling his sword in cadence with the thoughts flowing free-form from brain to tongue. "They made you promises, too, didn't they? Just like they did this scum." He indicated the orcs, who heard his words, but didn't seem to be offended in the least.

"And they nearly delivered on that promise, it seems. I wonder, did you see it? Did you touch it before some benevolent power snatched from your clutches the thing you yearn for more than all else on Middle-earth or in Valinor?" He wheeled to face the squriming elves, one of which open his mouth to speak, "Don't answer that. I don't have time for a discussion."

The elves were furious. Dirk only caught sight of their anger in their eyes. The less-astute observer would have missed the flames burning there. But Dirk, with the powers of observation afforded him by èol's techniques saw it plain as the perfect noses on their perfect faces.

"My dear Silmaril Knights." Dirk bowed low with a flourish, "I must take my leave of your hospitable company. Do not be angry. You must learn from your mistakes. You will have plenty of time during the rest of your infinite lives. But for me, my time is short. It seems your compatriots are burning the land in which I grew up, and I am anxious to return to aid my fellows in stopping that burning. Also, however, I am anxious to report to my Lord Elbren all that I have seen here." Dirk pointed the gleaming, blue-flaming blade toward a golden broach at the nearest elf's breast, "Your broaches please. Elbren will divine much from your rank insignia. Toss them at my feet."

The elves did so without looking away from Dirk or his escort. Dirk picked up the broaches and stuffed them into a small purse, which disappeared into the folds of his Mithril Cloak.

"See that you are far from this place by sunrise. The Warg-riders of Dol Guldur have my leave to kill and feed any living thing on this mountain or the plateau below to their mounts at dawn." The elves were again incredulous, "Yes, they have been rearing pups for some time now. Should be nearly full-grown now - and hungry."

The orcs in the tent nodded and smiled at one-another.

"I suggest, my friends, that you ride for Mithlond. Take a ship to Valinor and beg forgiveness for your fathers' sins. Your curse can only be lifted thus. Remain on the shores of Middle-earth and we will surely tangle again."

Dirk lifted a roasted bird from the spilled plates on the floor.

"Good evening, sirs."

He turned and began to walk slowly from the tent. With his back to the elves, he continued, "I will not be so accomodating as to let you remain living at the end of our next conversation, Silmaril Knights. Oh and in case you have any notion of following me, there are thirty of these orcs outside the pavillion, and seventy more below. They will ensure that this land is again barron of life by tomorrow morning - including yours."

Dirk handed the bird to the orcs, who began to tear it to shreds immediately, devouring it before the elves' eyes.

"Come on, boys, leave the Knights to their packing."

Once outside, Dirk heard in the pavillion, a hurried, hushed, and harsh conversation was taking place. He reached the rest of the orcs.

"Send one of you down to gather all of the rest of your kind. The thirty of you will guard this tent until the elves emerge. If it is dark, escort them to boundary of Angmar. They may take any direction but east. If the sun has risen when they show themselves, do your worst."

The orcs grinned evilly.

"As for the rest of your mates below, tell them that they are to scour the valley in the morning, nothing crawls, walks or breathes in Angmar without my leave - and tomorrow only you and your fellows have my leave. When your tasks here are done, get yourselves to the forests in the extreme south-eastern hills of this valley. Remain hidden there, raising and training your Warg whelps until I summon you. If you are found or venture out without my bidding, your kind and your animals will be wiped from the land."

With that Dirk mounted Endl—m‘, trotted down the path after the runner that the orcs had sent bearing his message, and turned east toward the pass of Gundabad. Soon he was at a full gallop. He couldn't waste any more time. He had to get to Dale, to fight for his home; but more importantly, he had to get his information to Lord Elbren.

?He sleeps now,? the healer assured Alandriel as she packed away her sewing kit. Marius? torn flesh had been carefully stitched and would heal well, as would the many other cuts and bruises he had received; all in good time.

Time ? the very fabric of the web of the great weaver.

She ran a fingertip slowly along his formidable sword. So much suffering, so much death! Noiselessly she re-sheathed the weapon and laid it beside the young sleeper.

Stepping outside, the Ranger tiredly raked her slender fingers through her tangled hair. For a moment she closed her eyes in the face of the blood red sunrise, shut them tight against the angry crimson light. When she opened them again, she saw the dark silhouette of Rho clearly outlined against the backdrop of the tents, warm air forming a small cloud of condensation that drifted towards Jiyadan?s standard resting against a pole close by. Alandriel?s lips curled into a small smile as the shield-maiden made to enter the Easterons tent. Their paths were irrevocably intertwined. Her path however

With a small sigh she made off too, in the opposite direction.

?Where are you going??

The soft spoken words, the accent in which they were uttered left her in no doubt as to whom the speaker was. Alandriel paused half-way between two tents. Readjusting the straps of her travel pack she had retrieved, she did not turn towards the voice but instead lowered her head only to bring it up high again with a long intake of breath. She heard him approach, felt his reaching out to her yet he stopped short. ?Still hesitant? she thought, ?still wise.?

?You are leaving.? It was not a question but a statement of fact.

The Ranger slowly nodded her eyes resting, unfocussed, on the horizon.

?But..?

?Yes, I know!? She interrupted, more forceful than she had meant to. Turning she looked into his dark eyes, studied his features, voluntarily opening herself fully to the twinges of agony that coursed through her.

?I have to.? There was nothing else she could offer in way of explanation that he would truly understand.

Confusion was clearly painted on Tallain?s face. After a long moment of silence he finally said: ?Why now? This campaign is not over yet. There is still much to do.?

Alandriel sighed. How to explain?

?There is still much to do,? she said softly, her eyes turning wistful, ?for you, for all of them.? She made a sweeping gesture across the field of tents. ?But not for me, not here

.. and not now.?

?Lord Elbren has called a meeting.?

The Ranger nodded again, her eyes still riveted on the Eastron. ?And he will understand, he will know ? for he is wise and can see beyond mere appearances.?

Again, Tallain frowned. Alandriel brought her hands up to the neckline of her tunic. Her fingers reached inside and unfastened the clasp she had carried all these years. Slowly her fingers uncurled and the small jewel rested in her palm, its light pulsating softly and in a steady rhythm.

?Please, Tallain, return this to the dwarves of Erebor after the final battle is over. I wish I could have done it myself ..but I am out of time.? Seeing Tallain?s eyes widen she smiled: ?They will be very grateful to have it back for they thought it lost. One day I hope I can journey back here to tell the tale...? Her voice trailed off.

?Then keep it and give it back when you return.?

Alandriel shook her head. ?No. That part of the tale must end here while mine must go on - elsewhere.?

Was it right to involve him in this? She swallowed. The threads had already been woven and interlinked. With this she was only re-enforcing the previously formed connection. Knowing gave her a sense of rightness, yet it did not make it any easier.

?Please??

Tallain nodded. The brooch exchanged hands. The knot was tied.

?Will we ever meet again??

?Of that you can be assured, Tallain.? Her voice was but an insubstantial breath, a whisper, yet the certainty it carried was solid as a rock.

********

Atop her mount, standing still beside the stark, leafless form of a skeleton-like tree she watched the exodus of the remaining army towards the Lonely Mountain.

?May the Valar protect you and guide you. And may they grant me the privilege to meet you all again.?

Tugging gently at the reigns she turned Ethalon and headed due south.

The rising sun colored the Lonely Mountain blood red. Anorast still thought of it by that name, regardless of what it was called now. He'd heard it once, and found it quite suitable. Dwarves lived there, but the mountain itself was lonely, a solitary peak standing above the vast flatlands east of Anduin.

Thinking of dwarves, Anorast remembered why he'd ridden out in front of the army, so close to Erebor. He was looking for dwarves. And he wasn't finding any. The countryside was desolate from the destructive march of the Red Hammer, but nothing could hide from his elvish eyes, and they saw nothing. It almost disappointed the old elf, who'd brought along his bow, hoping to amuse himself, shooting the enemy's sentries.

Anorast was bored. Dangerously so. And he was irritated. The army, smaller now, moved far too slowly for his taste. He'd come to realize that, surprisingly, he was impatient. An elf thousands of years old was impatient! He'd lived, and waited, through centuries, but now a day wasted was like a splinter under his thumbnail.

That impatience had brought him out here, on long rides, searching the countryside, scouting for the army. He needed an outlet, he needed to do something, and he needed to get away. The three were intertwined. He had to get away because he needed an outlet from the anger his inactivity was causing. He could not cause any pain for Nin, so he rode. Anorast knew that if he stayed with the army he would explode, and probably towards his lady. That wouldn't do, so he had assigned himself to scouting duty, hoping to kill dwarves, letting his aggression spill away like the blood he would shed. But there were no dwarves!

No dwarves whatsoever. It irritated Anorast even more, and at the same time, worried him. The smaller army could not take much combat. And the dwarves, in the Battle of Esgaroth, had shown themselves very adept at ambushes. The very lack of a presence worried Anorast. They could be sitting under the earth only a stone's throw away, and he wouldn't know. One reason he didn't ride alone.

"See anything?" Bryttar called out to Anorast, about fifty yards to the elf's left.

"Nothing."

Bryttar nodded. He'd learned the hard way not to speak to Anorast if the elf didn't feel like talking. Anorast felt bad for snapping at the young Rohirrim, one of the few decent one's he'd ever met, but at the time it had been very satisfying.

Turning his stallion, he rode back to Bryttar. Stopping nearby, he looked around.

"What do you say, another three days march for the army till they reach the mountain?"

"That's about right," Bryttar answered, staring at the mountain. "I hadn't realized it was so big."

"Oh, it's big alright," Anorast replied.

The elf wasn't joking. From where they sat it was an hour's ride to the closest edge of the mountain, but it already dominated the sky in front of them. They sat a bit to the west, and a leg of the mountain stretched out between them and Dale, and the front gate of Erebor. It had been decided to approach the Red Hammer from the west, taking a position upon the flank of Erebor, and, if they were given the time, fortifying a position from which to make their stand.

The other part of their scouting mission was to contact the Erebor dwarves, if they got the chance. Tucked into Anorast's belt was a map with directions to the hidden door of the dwarves. Bryttar and Anorast had no plans to ride that far, but they had both already been told of the plan to contact the dwarves through that entrance. And if any dwarves were scouting outside their mountain, the two Mithril Knights were prepared to contact them.

A wind came up from the east. As Bryttar pulled his cloak about him, the young man looked up. Anorast noticed him squint, looking up at something. He quickly looked up and saw a raven, flying high above the land.

"A raven."

"Is that good, or bad?"

"Good." Anorast watched a bit longer, then lowered his head. "Haven't you heard about the ravens of Erebor?"

"No."

"Some of them speak to the dwarves. They know we're here."

"That's good."

"And worthy of reporting. There's nothing out here. Lets check on the army."

"That's even better, I'm getting hungry."

Anorast smiled at Bryttar's attitude. Then they both turned and started back towards the encampment of the army.

Dirk truly hadn't cared what happened in the land of Angmar after his departure. He had loosened the Red Hammer's grip on that part of Middle-earth and dispersed an army. Whether or not the orcs went where they were told, or stayed out of Carn-Džm he cared not. The forges will have gone cold when they return and their numbers will have dwindled. And, Dirk thought, there will be no promise of power to entice the greedy orcish vermin into war-frenzy.

He had climbed down from Gundabad's pass three days earlier, passed the reconstruction site of the one-time home of Eorl, Framsburg. Ellessar had given to ƒomer the lands that once belonged to the Eorlingas in the north, and several vilages had now been built by emigrants from Rohan. Dirk met many, who were wary of him. No doubt due to strange comings and goings related to the Red Hammer and the Knights of the Silmaril. Nonetheless, he was able to provision himself and find a warm meal and good ale.

But the heart-fires of Rohan's new-come northerners were well behind the sable-clad warrior now. He had ridden through the snow at the desolate northern edge of the Greenwood; and he had seen the smoke from the seige-fires at Dale for more than a day now. He had turned south at midnight. He traveled through the night and as the ground became more hospitable, Endl—m‘ gathered speed. He had made the best time of his trip that day, crossing almost one hundred miles of northern grassland between the vales of the Withered Hills and the vale of Erebor in fourteen hours.

Presently, Dirk was dismounted beneath the northern slope of the Lonely Mountain, eating some bread and cheese from the Inn at Framsburg and pondering the past few days events. There hadn't been any events - he had not encountered any agent of the enemy since he left Angmar. All of their strength must be arrayed in the siege of Dale, Erebor and Esgaroth, he thought.

But he had seen increasing signs of them as he neared the Mountain. The pathways beneath that north slope were heavily trodden, over a week before by Dirk's estimation, but heavy steel-shod feet. Perhaps the Dwarves had thought to find a way to flank the well-defended Erebor position, but saw that any campaign from the rear of the Mountain would be futile as no entrance could be seen.

Dirk whistled and was immediately answered by a loud neigh. Endl—m‘ trotted fitfully into view and tossed his head as though he had rested for a day, not an hour. Dirk mounted the seemingly indefatigable warhorse and spurred him on with as much speed as he could muster. If he stumbled into a patrol, at least he would have the element of surpise, he thought.

***************************************

The sunset was almost complete when Dirk scrambled down from his vantage on the shoulder of Erebor known as Ravenhill. He had seen all he needed to and risked being seen with every moment he lingered. The Red Hammer occupied the whole space, on both sides of the Celduin between the spurs of the Lonely Mountain which cradled Dale and the Front Gate. But they had breeched neither, and there was no traffic heading south toward Esgaroth. Nothing moved in or out of the seige army, they had pulled all of their strength together.

Dirk had also seen a great pall of smoke rising from the direction of Esgaroth, as well. He gritted his teeth in anger momentarily, but composed himself quickly. He prayed that his foster father and brothers still lived and that the dwarves of the Red Hammer did not walk the streets of Laketown burning and pillaging.

Dirk continued south, just off the main road, well into the night before making camp.

He struck his little camp before dawn and retook the southbound route he had been travelling the night before. At midmorning he ventured up a small, oak-grove-crowned hill to scout the way ahead and espied the the combined army of Greenwoods' and Lothl—riens' elves, and the Mithril Knights, and still others he did not yet recognize from that distance. (Being bereft of elven sight.) They were still several hour's march from him, but he could easily close that gap by noon on horseback.

"Hold stranger, make no sudden moves," said a fair-sounding voice from behind, "A bow is bent and an elven arrow is aimed at you. Reach for your sword and you will fall before your hand touches the hilts."

Dirk turned slowly, but could not see the one who addressed him. He did not need to. The accent was strong enough for Dirk to know that this was no Sylvan elf of Thranduil's.

"Mae Govannen, Mellon. It has been a while, Anorast, but surely you recognize me?"

Tempest rode anxiously around the camp three times before she was certain it was well defended. They had left most of the wounded at Laketown, so she had expected the army to move faster, but it seemed determined to remain at a slow and steady pace. She had spoken to Elbren several times that they needed haste, but an aura of dread seemed to hang about the camp that shook even the stoutest of heart.

She had insisted that Erinhue accompany them, for she feared that the sleeping bard would awake a fiend again among the wounded in Laketown and that there would be terrible bloodshed. He had remained strangely quiet and peaceful, and Agarak hadn't sounded a single note since burning her hand. The harp seemed content to simply rest on the end of Erinhue's bed, which Tempest found increasingly irritating.

In the distance, she could see Bryttar returning from scouting ahead. She rode out to meet him. "Anything?" she said.

"Only a raven," he answered, and she noted the frustration in his voice.

"Are you certain it was a raven?" she asked quickly.

"Anorast does have elven eyes," he replied with humor.

"Right. But you saw nothing else, not even signs of other dwarves?"

"No, only desolation. There was nothing else."

"I fear...I fear we will arrive too late. We cannot move fast enough, and there is a certain gloom that hangs upon the camp. There are those who wish we will not fight again." She paused, as if she suddenly realized she had spoken aloud. She muttered an apology. "You should get some rest. We'll have need of you again soon."

She looked around suddenly. "Where's Anorast? Did he not go out with you?"

"Yes, but as we were returning, he decided to scout a little more. He seemed restless, and can't abide the slower pace."

"I know how he feels. Very well, go get something to eat. I'll keep watch for him..."

As Bryttar and Anorast rode back towards camp, the elf felt a strange sensation. It was like a pressure upon his body. Reining in his stallion, Anorast looked around the land. Bryttar had stopped several yards ahead of him, and was looking back over his shoulder at the elf. But Anorast wasn't paying attention to the young man. Instead he was concentrating on the sensation he was receiving. Only once Bryttar approached him did Anorast show any signs of knowledge of the Rohirrim's presence.

"Anorast, what's wrong?"

Anorast looked around a bit more before replying. "I'm not sure. But I don't want to return to camp right now. I'll look around a bit more. I'm sure I'll feel better soon."

Bryttar nodded. He'd been watching Anorast enough to know how the elf felt about the army, and the pace of it. "Take as long as you need, friend."

The elf watched Bryttar ride off towards the camp. He understood his feeling better, it was a sensation of being trapped, being caught, unable to move. The army made him feel that way. Nothing else kept him out. Anorast hadn't gotten his claustrophobia out of his system yet, and needed some more time. He'd felt it before, many times, and finally recognizing it, knew best how to cure it.

Smiling at last, Anorast let his stallion have his head and run free. Anorast glorified in the freedom, the exhilerating feeling of power and speed as he flew across the desolate plain. But soon, another strange sensation came to the old elf. This one was completely unfamiliar to him. The best way Anorast could have described it was anticipation, a waiting, and knowing that what was awaited was approaching.

Anorast halted his mount. Looking about again, his elvish eyes caught sight of a dark figure traveling towards the encampment, coming from the northwest. Now he knew what had caused the feeling of anticipation. Instantly suspicious, Anorast leaned forward and whispered to the stallion. The horse made no noise, but instantly leapt forward, galloping hard towards the figure, but a bit further back along the stranger's trail. In moments, they were behind the figure. The stallion instinctively started treading silently. Anorast drew out an arrow from the quiver riding behind his right thigh and set it to his bow string.

Once they were within only yards of the figure, and still seemingly unnoticed, Anorast drew his bow, pointing the arrow at the back of the figure.

"Hold stranger, make no sudden moves," Anorast called out towards the figure. He decided to play with the unseen figure. "There are two bows bent and two elven arrows aimed at you. Reach for your sword and you will fall before your hand touches the hilts."

The figure slowly turned. But Anorast did not ready himself to release his arrow.

"Mae Govannen, Mellon. It has been a while, Anorast, but surely you recognize me?"

Anorast was smiling. "I could not see your face, Dirk, but I recognized your horse. It's good to see you again, my friend."

Stowing his arrow and bow, Anorast guided his mount up to Dirk. "I couldn't resist catching you offguard."

"I'm surprised you did. I've kept an eye out, and seen nothing."

"You didn't count on elvish horses. When we saw you, we were too far away to be seen ourselves. You never had a chance, my friend."

Offering his hand, Anorast greeted Dirk properly with as big a hug as could be done between two individuals on horseback.

"You've got a lot to catch up on."

"As do you. We've both got stories."

"Yes, we do. But there's a better place to tell them then a trail in the midst of a shattered country."

"I must ask something first, before anything else." Anorast could tell that Dirk had something on his mind, and was quite worried about it. But Anorast felt that he already knew the answer to the unvoiced question.

"He's fine, Dirk. He didn't leave, but no harm found him."

The young knight was visibly relieved. Anorast set a hand on his shoulder.

"Drake is currently hosting the wounded Mithril Knights, from the Battle of Esgaroth. The town still stands, and you shall see it, and your father, soon."

Dirk nodded. Smiling, Anorast nodded towards the nearby camp. Dirk set off, Anorast following him. The elf no longer felt the feeling of being trapped as he approached the camp. Now instead he felt comfortable. At the very least, he knew that it would not be a boring morning in camp.

As the two Mithril Knights rode into camp, they found a pacing Tempest waiting for them. Anorast almost laughed at her expression as she saw Dirk.

"G'morning Tempest."

"Good morning, Anorast..."

"If you would, send word to Bryttar to meet us over at the main firepit."

"Yes, of course..."

Waving to one of the servants, Anorast gave another, special instruction. Then he called out to Dirk.

"You look like you could use a bit of breakfest."

"I already ate, Anorast."

"No matter. I'm hungry, and I'm sure you won't refuse some more food."

Anorast led the way towards the camp kitchens, where he knew Bryttar would be waiting. There was also strong drinks waiting.

"And we can start exchanging stories."

When Nienor-Niniel awoke that day, she was alone in the tent. Anorast must have gone somewhere, certainly another council, she thought, another discussion of strategy and battles to follow. She felt no urge to go there more than that: she was glad not to be there.

Slowly dressing, she touched one by one her used leather clothes. Each of them had a story, each of them had she made by her own hands, sometimes stitching her fingers, as she was not a good sewer, but somehow they had grown dear to her heart, despite their simpleness, the absence of any decoration. Done by her own hands? Now she looked at her hands. They were marked with the lines of the inscription now, sign of the burden that had been given to her. They had become the hands of a stranger. Suddenly, the fine lines on her hands began to be less and less sharp in front of her eyes. Tears were rising in her eyes, tears of which she did not know first where they were coming from, and then, inevitably, they ran over her face, watering her cheeks, letting with the dust of the battle field long grey strains on her face. She did not care. She took the sickle in her hands, and moved the fair and thin blade again and again around her wrists. Just a little bit too distant to cut herself deeply, but still leaving a fine line of blood on her skin. The teardrops falling from her cheeks mingled with the blood, and as she rubber her face with them, with the dirt on her features.

Yet, after a while, Nin calmed down. Her sword was missing, and even if she did not remember where and when she had lost it, she was decided to go and look for it. Alone? Yes, alone. In the light of the day after, no romantics was left on the battlefield of Esgaroth. The bodies of the dwarves lay, often in piles, one over the other; the smell of dried blood was filling the air. The faces of some of the dead were still torn, fixed in a horrid rictus of fear and doubt. The portrait of war was even more hideous and unbearable in the daylight.

Somewhere on the bridge, she found her sword, much to her own surprise. She had not thought that it was possible to find a single weapon in this apocalyptic field of destruction. The blade was dirty, slightly torn, and it would need to be in the hands of a smith again, before being taken to a fight. But she felt an utter relief: this was the only weapon she would ever call her own, regardless of all that had happened in her life. ?The only weapon?? she wondered silently, ?are you true about this? Not even the sickle?? But indeed, while her boots were slowly covered with the mud of the field, while she walked head bent down low and her floating in the wind, alone, breathing the cool air of the morning after, Nienor had all time to think about herself - the night of the battle, the weeks since she had become a Mithril Knight, and deep in her heart, it was the only answer she found: The only weapon.

The way back to the tent was not far, and to her relief, it was still empty. Nin longed for being alone. She was searching for silence, for calm, to time to think over what was the next step to take on this treacherous road to perdition or redemption, on this road of which she had thought that it would lead her finally to a goal in her life. Had she not found all that she wanted when she had joined the Mithril Knights? She had hoped that it would mean forgiveness for her crime, the murder she committed in her youth that had never ceased to haunt her. She had hoped for a goal, a sense of justice and knowledge finally of what was right and what was wrong. And all this had been given to her, and far more: love when she met Anorast, power, in the form of the sickle which lay now unguarded in their tent. But - and this she did not understand - none of all this had made her happy or just peaceful. She felt as restless as before.

Beware of what you ask - for it might be given to you.

Nin crouched herself together, like she used to do in those moments, when life was heavy like stone, balancing forth and back, like a child which did not find sleep, humming to suffocate her thoughts, trying to escape into her innermost self. How much time went by like this? She could not tell

But in the end, she got up and wiped her face clean. She could not go on like this, not in many ways. All that she owned was in this tent, since her horse had died. It would be easy and quickly done, and then she would just have to wait for Anorast. He, most of all deserved an explanation. Until then, she wanted to be ready.

And what would she say then? Another lie to herself or finally at last the truth? Her things were packed in a blink of time ? she owned so little, and as she would be by foot, anything that could be spared, would have to stay behind. She stopped for a while with her flute in her hands. How long had she not played? It was merely another proof that she had become a stranger to herself. Her hands were shaking, as she folded her blue Mithril Knights cloak and even more as she was folding the cloak of the Guardian Knights of the Sickle. She saw the stars shimmering on it, and for a moment, felt the lines on her hands almost burn. Neatly folded, she put first the midnight blue cloak on her sleeping place, then the leather wrapped sickle, which she covered with the shimmering garment. And she waited.

When she had talked to Radagast, already she had been afraid of this moment to come. ?What if I don?t want that burden any more? If I can?t carry it?? The wizard had looked at her with his dark and deep eyes. ?You always have the choice what to do with the time that has been given to you. On your choice may depend much, though?. But she was not ready to have anything, anybody depend on her, and she had never been. Why had she been chosen? What was it that the Valar told her by laying such an instrument of power in her small hands, which did not want to hold it? Radagast had not been able to tell her. But he had told her many times, how much he trusted her judgement. She was not the only Mithril Knight to have received a shimmering cloak ? there would be others to take her role, to pick up where she had left, in the long line of knights from the night of time.

Her thoughts were interrupted, when she heard some uproar from the army camp and for a moment thought that Anorast had come. But it was only Bryttar, alone. At least, the Rohirrim could tell where she would find the elf, and she could as well meet him on the road already. Just as she was ready to leave, more voices were heard from the outside and she recognised the elven voice among them. Nin took a deep breath. It would not be easy to take a leave after all they had promised to be, it would not be easy to make it understand. It would not be easy to hurt. But then, Nin thought over of what was the other way ? she was not yet gone, she could still just turn with a smile and stay and carry on. Because that was what it was, no, carry on, carry a burden, take care of every step, every word, always with the feeling somewhere to be at the wrong place, to be the wrong person, not to reach to height that was expected from her. It was like a nod in her throat already, after so little time, a grip growing on her, obsessing her mind night and day. She would break like reeds in the storm, ply and when the vague of despair overcame her, there was no escape from her deeds. It was only a question of time. She knew the signs.

Anorast was still talking, giving orders to the servants when he entered the tent, and lowering his head for the entry, probably thinking that she would still be sleeping. But she was up, turning her back to the entry of the tent, tensed, and yet inwardly entirely quiet.

? Dirk has come back. A breakfast is just being prepared, and you can join Tempest, Bryttar, Dirk and me

?

Nin turned around. Her face still showed some signs of having cried; she had no mirror to see where the dirt had let traces. Her eyes were almost closed; she was biting on her lips and looking down on the ground. Her hands were folded behind her back, her bag already fixed on her, ready to leave.

? I am not going to join you. I am leaving.?

?We are not yet leaving, the camp will only be lifted

?

Nienor interrupted the words of her knight at once: ?I have not said, we are leaving. I am leaving, and I am leaving now and I am leaving alone.? Now only she lifted her eyes, and looked straight into the grey glance of Anorast?s enigmatic eyes. ?And I will leave for good.?

His entire attitude, the way he looked at her, everything was only one question, so much in the air, that he didn?t even have to ask it. Why?

? All this? ? she stretched out her arms ? ?all this is too much for me. I cannot live like this, always on the edge of war, always in the heights among elves and kings, to watch over my words and behaviour, to worry over the fate of the world. I can feel it already, the fear rising in my mind, the fear of being at the wrong place, of being the wrong person ? and I know what fear made me do once.? Nin was looking for words ? it was hard to explain how much she felt that her life had changed since she had become a Mithril Knight. She thought of the days in the wild they had spent together, when she had felt found, not lost like she was. But then the hammer had smashed down on her and broken her belief into pieces- sometimes when she closed her eyes, she could still feel the visions and hear the echo of the hitting hideous sound. Had she been too close to death to co out of it unharmed? Or had she been further than death? Already in the battlefield, she had not cared for her life. It seemed all the more meaningless now. Why had she not cut deeper in the morning? Dying seemed easier than saying the truth.

?But all is different now. I have sworn to protect you and I will.?

Nin could only smile briefly, the words seemed so na•ve to her. Despite the long years of his life, Anorast would probably never understand the abyss of the human soul.

?You cannot protect me from myself. This is what I am, I may try to act like a Mithril Knight, and I may try to act as if I could bear the power given to me ? but it will all be lies. Anorast, let me leave. Even if I lived at your side, it would so brief and you would have forgotten me so quickly.? Nin did not let him the time to protest ? she was sure he would, if she let him. ?You don?t love me ? for I am not, what you think I am, and what you need. You make a sense in all this. I don?t. I am merely an impostor, trying to act as if I could hold a place in this guild. But I can?t ? it is too much for me. I want to hide in a little hole and be small again. I leave it all. I leave the sickle here in this tent. Take it if you want. It is not mine; it belongs to the Mithril Knights. But I don?t. I don?t belong here.?

Her last words, she spoke them almost in a whisper, and there were others that she left unsaid. Words of the rising despair in her thoughts, of fear what would come and of the hope she had indeed had for the, the hope to be happy, to be loved, to be able to stay with others and not to run away. It meant a great effort not to cry, when giving up all this hope for nothing but an uncertain road and the knowledge that she was only a human creature of the road. Forever. She looked straight in the elven?s eyes, not allowing her voice to shake as her hands did in her back, not allowing her words to stumble. If Nin could have seen her own expression now, she would have seen this emptiness in her glance, the absence of all feeling. All was shattered within her.

?Judge me harshly, if you want to. I know, I have lied to you. I have lied to myself?

Maybe Anorast had understood, or maybe just resigned to accept the unconceivable after so little time together and so much hope. Maybe he was just too surprised to say anything ? or did he also know that she was right and that his life would take a sense in this warrior guild. He let her step out of the tent.

It was still the morning, when Nienor-Niniel left Esgaroth, by foot, a small woman, walking alone, a flute peeking out of her backpack. She did not know if anybody watched her leaving. For she did not turn around. Not once.

For all the dark elf's shade had taught him, Dirk's heightened powers of perception did not approach those of the elves. Next to Anorast and those warrior-elves of his ilk, Dirk was a giant, bumbling child. He did possess great skill for a human in stealth; he had since childhood, and had once preferred it to open attack. But since he had gained Neleg Amlug and more recently, the armour and sensibility of èol, he had become much bolder - a brash blade of black in the silver sea of weapons against the doers of evil.

It was thus that the ancient elf got the drop on Dirk. The warrior ignored Endl—m‘'s nervous mane-tossing. In hindsight, surely the high-born stallion had heard or smelled the approach of the other beast. But Dirk had let his guard down after several days of inactivity and concentrated only on the survey of the land ahead and not the entire environment around as the dark elf had taught. If the ambush had been by one less friendly than Anorast, Dirk would be dead.

But he wasn't. He had found what he sought and was elated.

Dirk had thought that, in the past year, his emotional connection with Esgaroth and its people had waned. But now in seeing the smoke drifting from the town and in seeing the land between Dale and Laketown decimated by war and misuse, Dirk found that he still loved the land and was sorely anxious about the fate of his foster father and brothers. He had wanted to ask Anorast about the Golden Dragon and its innkeeper and his sons, but before he could find the words, the old elf consoled him.

"He's fine, Dirk. He didn't leave, but no harm found him."

Dirk nodded and smiled as he was told about Drake's opening of the inn to the Mithril Knight wounded. He was surprised after the events of the past few weeks to find so much comfort in the people and places of his childhood.

Dirk was led back to the camp by Anorast and found that most of the Mithril Knights had come through the battle relatively unscathed. None that he knew had lost their lives, though the bard was still unconscious. They met with an apparently restless Tempest and found their way to the main firepit. The elf insisted upon food being brought and starting the telling of tales. He began by relating the story of all that passed from the time Dirk and Arwen left L—rien up until when the Knights met with the elves of Thranduil and marched upon the beseiged Laketown. Dirk listened enthralled as Tempest and Anorast related the beginning of the battle from their two different perspectives. He pictured in his mind the lay of the land and what it all must have looked like.

Anorast stopped short of the sickle and the part it and Nienor-niniel had played, "I'll go fetch her. I'd be interested in hearing it from her lips myself." The elf disappeared into the maze of the camp to find the girl.

Dirk chewed fitfully and turned his head to find that he was being stared at very intently by Tempest. It made Dirk uneasy. It was as if she bore through his skull and read his thoughts. She knew. She knew who-what-he was and where he had been.

"What of you young Dirk. What is your tale?" she drawled as if her tonguewas made of silver.

Dirk wanted to shiver, but held firm. He had stood before legions of orcs. He would withstand Tempest's onslaught. In some ways, however, she was far more daunting that six thousand orcish warriors.

"If you'll indulge me a bit more silence, I will tell all when the time and place are more appropriate. My tale requires the ears of Lord Elbren and a place where unwanted ears can be kept from hearing. I pray that you and some of the others attend also, Lord Erinhue if he is able, and Mirdain, Anorast..."

She smiled, "Dirk, there are some things only I among all the others here will truly understand. I alone can help you with the struggles you are having."

She did know!

"I am not sure how or why, Tempest but I believe you. Perhaps there are roads only we two have tread." He put down his plate and drank deeply of the cold water he was brought. "Understand that I do invite your counsel. I fear I need your help, but also understand that I do not wish to tell of my deeds more than once. And for that, I must speak to Lord Elbren. Your guess about me will likely be proved right and I hope that I may be understood more readily amongst those that listen to where I have been and what I have done."

Tempest seemed satisfied for the time being and changed the subject.

"Where is Anorast? He should have been back by now." She drained her own cup. (Which held the deep red wine of the Golden Dragon.)

She then decided to relate the rest of the story of the battle, including the parts about the berserker, the sickle, how those they both knew well fared. Dirk listened for what seemed like hours, nodding and asking questions, until he heard the approach of another.

Vana had been restless since the company had left for Dale and the Lonely Mountain. She wandered about the camp trying to be busy with whatever she could help with.

Her shoulder was healing rapidly and she was wanting to practice her sword and archery skills once more. So she found her way to her things and gathered them up and was headed to find a place of solitude to practice and not look silly to the others who were not injured or felt that she shouldnt be there since her injury. Slowly she walked across the compound that was set up for the company when she noticed a horse that she knew well. A massive beast that was as black as midnight. Vana looked about trying to see if she could see a large man about. She walked over to the beautiful war horse and nudged his nose speaking elvish to him as she looked about for its rider.

Looking about the compound she finally saw the man sitting with his back to her at the fire of Tempest. A huge smile spread across her face and she knew she had to go see him. So with a gentle pat on the horses neck she made her way over to the fire.

"Dirk is that you?" Vana asked as she walked up to Tempest and Dirk sitting at the fire. "It is you!" Vana smiled as Dirk stood up, he smiled in return.

"Well it is good to see you again! I didnt know you would be with this group? I was under the impression that your uncle was dead set against your getting involved with any of us Mithril Knights or our many allies?"

"Oh he was but for some reason he changed his mind. He is the one who signed me up to become a Mithril Knight and I have been accepted into the group after completing my tasks."

"Well I am glad to see you!" Dirk added as he reached out to hug his friend.

"Ouch! Not too tight. I am still healing but I am doing very well." Vana stated as she winced from her shoulder.

"Were you injured?"

"It was just a shoulder wound and it is healing fast!" Vana nodded and blushed at having been over taken so easily at Laketown. "I am almost ready for the next fight! I will be, when I am needed and this time I will be wiser."

"Good we can always use good fighters!"

"I cant believe you are really here!" Vana looked into his eyes and realized there had been some changes in the man she once knew. Something was more aloof but it was still her friend.

"Well I better get going. I need to be practicing again so that I can be ready." Vana hugged him one more time then excused herself, nodding her head in respect to Tempest and headed off to the south of the encampment where it was quiet and fewer eyes would see her.

Mirdain returned from the leaders' meeting to Idril sitting quietly outside. "So many have been lost..." he said, half to her and half to himself. He noticed she was looking up at the sky, and the Star of Earendil, and then he added "but we have accomplished much. Still, there is much to do, and I expect Elbren will want us to play a big part before the end. You are not hurt are you?"

"No, for the most part. Just a few bruises and great deal of exhaustion. Looking up at the stars like this is good enough for me though."

"I am glad to hear it, and I think I will join you. Watching the stars always eases my fears and clears my mind. I had some close calls in the battle, closer than I realized at first. My armor is dented and my clothing slashed, but I have sustained only bruises as well. I will be ready to fight again in no time. The cloak of the Mithril Knights turned aside several axe blows that might have prove much worse."

"They are great gifts...I wonder Mirdain, will we ever have lasting peace? I am tired of fighting, but I will be ready when you are."

"I am not sure if we can have peace, at least, maybe not as long as we stay in this Middle Earth. But one day we will take our ship into the West, you and I, and then have peace forever. That time has not come yet though, and we must ready ourselves for the fight again soon."

For some time thereafter, the two of them sat silently together. Mirdain could tell that Anorast had left on his scouting mission. Eventually, Mirdain forced himself to get back to the business of war, and he fished around in the tent he and Idril were sitting by to find new wrist and shoulder guards to replace those that had been damaged in the battle. Once he had been moving around again for a few minutes, Mirdain found himself quite refreshed, and once he was newly equipped, he parted with Idril for the time being to walk around the camp and examine the condition of the rest of the army.

After some time, having made his way to the outer edge of the camp, Mirdain noticed a silent shadow heading into the camp, and it some became apparent that it rode a horse. He gripped for his sword, but felt no fear, and then he smiled as recognized Dirk in the dark, even from a distance. Then Lord Anorast, who Mirdain had not seen since his departure on the scouting mission, came riding out toward Dirk, and that was even more of a surprise. Mirdain had to put off finding out what they had to say however, as he saw Lord Edlund coming toward him from the direction of the camp, limping noticeably. Edlund waved his hand in greeting.

"Mirdain, you look well. I'm glad to see it, for I am not sure if I will be fully ready to help lead the forces of Lorien into the fight that is still to come."

"I am ready, but what has happened to you Edlund?"

"I took a bad blow from that Berserker just before you pulled me to safety. I had not noticed at first, because my leg armor and my movement prevented him from parting me with a limb, and also because we were in the heat of a battle, but I fear now my leg may be broken."

"Then you should heal and take some more rest and we will decide shortly what you can do. Tell me first though, did you notice that shadow passing into the camp?"

"No, should I be alarmed?"

Mirdain laughed, "No, not at all. I was just wondering who else had seen the young knight Dirk return, out of great peril I guess. There is a darkness about him, but still a good heart I perceive. I feel much better that we will have him for the upcoming battle, presumably. I will be interested to hear about his experiences."

"As will I. You may also be interested to know that Anorast has returned."

"I am, and thank you. I would also like to know what he has to report. It is likely that we will leave soon for Dale and after that...well let us worry about Dale first. Go get some rest quickly, the sun is coming up. Rest well, mellon, and I will give you a report of things when I see you again."

With that, Edlund parted with Mirdain and went back to his tent. Mirdain went back toward the camp in the direction he though Dirk and Anorast had gone, and he soon found the two of them sitting around a campfire with Tempest, Idril and other knights.

"Ah, all that food of yours has reminded me that I have only eaten a bit of lembas since the battle. I think I will join, unless you object?" The others just laughed and made room for him, then turned back to their stories. Mirdain smiled and ate silently as he listened to all that was told.

Idly Anorast turned the Sickle in his hands as he approached the fire where Dirk and Tempest sat. He'd stayed in the tent as Nin had left, thinking, pondering her action. But the ache of loss did not affect him. The pain of lost love had been with him long, and this merely added to it. But as he'd stood there, looking at the Sickle, at the Mithril Knight stuff Nin had left behind, he knew that, as he did not understand humans, Nin did not understand elves. They never forgot. Anorast would never forget the short time they'd had together. And in his heart Anorast did not forsake his oath, but knew that if he could, he would protect her, still.

"Ahh, Anorast, Tempest has been telling me about the battle, and Nin's amazing power. Sit down, grab a cup, and tell me your part." Dirk moved over, leaving room for Anorast to sit.

"Where is the Lady Nin?" Tempest asked. Then she caught sight of the Sickle in Anorast's hands, and a worried expression appeared on her face. "Anorast?"

"She is gone."

"Dead?!?" Dirk turned to him, surprised, shocked.

"Not dead, just gone. She left us, the Mithril Knights, and myself. And she left us this," Anorast finished, holding up the Sickle.

"But is she not the one destined to wield it?"

"No. She was given the choice to wield it or not. She chose not to. Now it will go to another."

Dirk looked at Anorast for a moment. "Perhaps strong drink is not best for you right now."

"No, I shall be fine. She would not wish me to mourn her, and she is not dead. I have many more years to deal with the loss of her, the loss of love. I shall not deal with it now."

Dirk shrugged, but Tempest spoke.

"I believe you already are, Anorast," she said, pointed to his vest.

Anorast looked down. The stars upon his vest, which had burned both white and red during the Battle of Esgaroth, and before that had appeared silver, were jet black. The darkness of his soul, too black to speak of, was reflected upon his chest.

"It is mine to bear, but I wish not to speak of it now."

Their conversation stopped for a bit as servants brought them a hearty breakfest, and several other knights, including Lady Idril, joined them. Apparently word of Nin's departure had begun to spread, for none of the new arrivals asked where she was, or spoke of the odd change of Anorast's vest. Tempest and Dirk had seen the change in Anorast, and were content to leave his troubles alone. After a short bit, they were joined by Mirdain, attracted by the food.

After a short bit, a sudden thought pierced the black cloud of Anorast's thoughts, which had been growing ever since Nin had left. For all his denials, he was affected far more than he'd known by her departure. But through the dark mood Anorast was reminded of the strange connection between the Sickle, the vests, and his sword.

Pulling out the blade, Anorast saw that his intuition had been right. The blade was no longer a steely shine. But it was not the jet black of the stars on his chest. Instead it was the very dark grey that Anorast had seen only once before, when the sword had been hanging in the armory of Eol. Anorast turned to sheath it, but noticed Dirk looking at him with a strange expression on his face.

After the pleasant but strange meeting with Vana, Dirk took a seat beside the fire. Soon others had gathered. When Anorast told them about Nin, sorrow leapt into his heart, but the feeling became strange, inquisitive, bewildered. Nin was not lost to Mandos' halls, but chose to turn over the sacred weapon and leave the Knights, the unfinished business of war, and her lover.

Anorast half unsheathed his sword and Dirk started when he caught sight of the blade's unusual, but distinctive hue. Dirk regarded the ancient elf quizzically.

"Is that..." Dirk started, but he hesitated, trying to remember the old histories he was taught in Thranduil's halls as a child by the sons of Elrond.

Midain looked up, as did Tempest, to Anorast held Dirk's gaze, beckoning with his eyes for Dirk to finish his question, and possible help the elf resolve at least one of his quandries.

"Is that blade one of the two famous swords that Ešl the dark forged?" Dirk shifted in his seat, drained his cup, and completed the query, "I am aware of the legendary Gurthang's fate, but not of Anguirel, its mate, beyond Maeglin's flight from Nan Elmoth to Gondolin with it."

Anorast sighed deeply, still looking at the stars on his chest, the sickle and the blade. But he did not answer.

"I do not wish to pry, my Lord," continued Dirk, suddenly far less menacing and briefly boy-like, "I only ask because I bear these."

Dirk extended his arms so that the galvorn vambraces forged by the Dark Elf emerged from the folds of his Mithril Cloak.

"And because the strange and difficult days that I have had since I last saw any of you have revolved around The Dark Elf and his master works. I must know all that you are willing to say. Perhaps my own questions might be answered as well. Your knowledge of Ešl's weaponry could be the insight that I traveled so far to find..." The boyish vulnerability faded from Dirk's visage and only the shadowy, steel-eyed countenance that had entered the camp remained, "...but found only more questions."

The young man and the old elf were face to face. The others turned to Anorast as well to see if he would answer.

The old elf drew a long, slow breath between his teeth.

"I am sorry, Dirk. I have few answers, and only more questions."

Anorast stood, and stared into the west. Then he turned and handed the Sickle to Dirk.

"Perhaps Tempest told you of what happened to my sword during the battle. As the power of the Sickle grew, so did that of my blade. The Sickle of the Stars and Anguirel, forged from the stars, have a bond to each other. I would surmise that, by the connection you have to Ešl you are also connected. But I know little else."

Dirk frowned. Anorast could tell he'd hoped for more, about Ešl, the forging of the blades, and their secrets. The elf knew he had to say more.

"I know little about the powers of the blade. When I visited Ešl during my travels, he did not speak of them, and indeed, spoke little. I saw both blades shortly after their forging, but it was not till after the fall of Gondolin that I received Anguirel."

Anorast paused. Then a thought came to him.

"Before it was reforged, it was merely a twisted, burnt piece of metal. Not even the guards of Angband deemed it worth noticing. During the reforging the smith gave it additional powers, but until now, I had never seen any of it's original power. But I recall a bit from the tale of Turin, and how Gurthang mourned for Beleg. Anguirel may have lain dorment till now."

Anorast looked down at Dirk with an apologetic look on his face.

"As I said, more questions. But I believe that together we can search for answers. More than chance is at work here, bringing us together, and the Sickle as well."

Anorast sat down, and turned to Dirk again.

"Enough about me, tell me your story, tell me your questions."

Jiyadan and Rholarowyn made their way quickly through the camp, answering the summons of Lord Elbren. When they arrived at his tent, Jiyadan pulled the flap back and allowed his mentor to enter, then stepped in behind and bowed to the Elven Lord.

"You both have a tale to tell me," Elbren said sternly, but with a hint of mirth in his eyes. "You almost did not arrive in time, and I believe an account of your journey may be in order, as it appears that ours was not the first battle you had encountered on your return."

Jiyadan looked at Rho with a slight surprise, then back to Elbren. "Milord sees much."

"Indeed," came the reply.

As some food was brought in, the knight and her trainee proceeded then to tell of how they had left East Lothlorien with two-hundred fifty mounted archers and followed the edge of the forest north. Eight days later, and thanks to the forward scouts, they had narrowly missed riding directly into the midst of an army of dwarves coming in from the south-east.

Rholarowyn spoke of how Jiyadan had commanded and won the respect of those that followed them, leading them to victory and greatly reducing the possible losses. Jiyadan was quick to point out that it was only the unlooked for yet welcomed arrival of three hundred elven cavalry that assured them victory.

This sparked Elbren's curiosity greatly. "They are from Ithilien, milord," Jiyadan said. "They had been informed of an army of Dwarves that journeyed north and the Lord Lindaiw‘ sent them out to intercept and destroy the Dwarves before they could reach whatever their destination had been. It is clear now that destination was Esgaroth."

"The Dwarves, where were they coming from?" Elbren pressed.

"We know not, milord." Rholarowyn said.

Elbren considered in silence the information they had given him for some time. At last he looked at the two. "Have you told me everything?"

Jiyadan looked at Rho a moment, then shook his head. "No." He reached into his tunic and withdrew a patch - a black sun on a crimson field - handing it to Elbren. "It is the insignia of an Eastern force. Not an army, in fact there is no word in Westron for it. They are among the most ruthless, proficient and feared of the forces of Rhžn. They are the Yatsri Ims'Daketh Ahi. Roughly, the name means 'Hunters of the Black Sun.'

"We encountered two of their scouts in our journey to the elven colony." He looked at Rho again, and took a deep breath.

"Tell me everything you know about them," Elbren said gravely. "Everything."

Jiyadan rubbed a hand over his face for a moment to order his thoughts, and at last sat down. "The Yatsri Ims'Daketh Ahi are an ancient military force, the oldest organized force in all of Rhžn. Those in their ranks are trained from the time they can walk to be the most deadly warriors in all Middle-earth. They move like the wind, the only evidence of their passing is the destruction left in their wake.

"Assassins, perhaps, would be what you would understand them as. If they are here, this far west, this bodes ill for all. But," he added, pausing for a few moments as he rubbed his eyes slowly, "I am more disturbed that those we found wearing this symbol were not Easterlings, and I do not know how they came to bear the mark.." Jiyadan trailed off to silence.

The three sat in a deep silence as Elbren contemplated all they had told him. The food had remained untouched as no one felt the desire to eat, even if the need was clear. After some time, Elbren nodded and dismissed them. "See to your companies, we must not delay our arrival at Erebor beyond what is necessary to ensure victory."

Rholarowyn and Jiyadan nodded and stood, but just before Jiyadan left, Elbren called to him. "Tell me, Jiyadan. In all your wars, have you ever faced so ruthless an enemy?"

The easterling nodded in silence.

"How do you face those who will only stop when either they are all dead.. or we are?"

He thought for a moment, then at last said, "You can discover what your enemy fears most by observing the means he uses to frighten you." Bowing slightly, he left the tent.

The brief rest they had been granted must suffice for the enemy suffered no rest for those with Erebor. The wounded were healed as much as they could be, and the weary had what rest they could, but now they must once again press onward.

Jiyadan pulled himself astride the mount the elves had provided him, strong and of great stamina. The man was impressed, though he missed the bond that he shared with Nothea who always seemed to know his will even as he thought it. But it would be some time yet before he was reunited with his horse. His standard, a sable phoenix emblazoned upon a crimson field and rising from flames of gold, fluttered in the slight breeze, and the bearer held it with great pride.

This meant more to Jiyadan perhaps than any honour - to be viewed not for his blood but for his loyalty, his integrity... his trustworthiness. He nodded to the standard bearer and they took position at the head of those elves that remained under his leadership. Rholarowyn had gathered her archers and now rode beside him, also.

"What do you know of the mountain, and the landscape surrounding?" he asked. It seemed most among the Mithril Knights were familiar at least in part with the geography in the area and the maps had shown little more detail than was contained in their minds, but Jiyadan was wholly unfamiliar with the destination to which they rode.

?I do not know much.? She replied glancing around. ?I have never been this far North before and what little I do know I?ve learned from maps or heard in stories.? Just then Chirion trotted on off ahead of the shield-maiden and the Easterling happily taking the lead, but he would stop every now and then to make sure they and the group was still following.

As she spoke, Jiyadan's eyes wandered over the columns ahead of them, knowing even less followed. 'Not enough,' he mused to himself; but within him, he also knew the strength that determined men had to fight for freedom.

He nodded at last at what Rho had said. "It is fortunate, perhaps, that so many of our archers are intact. They will no doubt be our greatest strength, as Lord Elbren has said...

"Rholarowyn," he interrupted himsef, "Your shoulder, it pains you?" He had noticed as they rode she seemed to be favoring her arm and the look of pain would briefly show on her face.

The tide of battle had turned against them and in that cause, Tempest gave the order they had all hoped would not be needed.

Erinhue slipped his sword, Clarion, back into its scabbard. The great blade remained silent; waiting, as if it knew its time was close at hand. It began a low whine as Erinhue let his mind wander to disturbing scenes.

He thought about the captives slaughtered by the Red Hand, their decapitated skulls catapulted at them in a bombardment of gruesome horror. He thought of the people of Laketown, the women, the elderly, the children chased out into a night of never ending fear. He thought of his friends and all those here upon the field that might be injured or even, Eru forbid, loose their lives here.

He let the anger and the rage build with every thought and then at the last, when his temples throbbed and his hands shook with righteous fury, he thought of Haliran, first to fall to Clarion?s taste for the blood of the bard?s friends.

The young face, smiling at a friend in shared victory, changed to express surprise and the slowly dawning horror of eminent death. The sea grey eyes displayed shock and then betrayal and then a desperate sort of plea

and then nothing.

A scream of triumph tore through his mind and Erinhue heard his own voice roaring in wordless threat. He was aware of Clarion?s hilt solid and warm in his hand as the red darkness closed around him.

?Dwarves and no other. Dwarves and no other.? Erinhue repeated the phrase like a mantra hoping against hope that he could cling to the thought and perhaps keep the berserker away from friends that fought by his side.

?Dwarves and no other? Erinhue repeated in his mind one last time before the sights and sounds of battle, his surroundings and all the world fell away.

In an eyeblink of time the battlefield was gone. Erinhue stood in the main taproom of the Splintered ChamberPot and the song house was decorated for Yuletide celebration. In place of the sounds of warfare, there was music and Aerin?s smiling face before him as they danced together in joyous bliss. They laughed and kissed and swirled around to music that Erinhue hoped dearly would last for all of time.

The music moved more quickly at times and at others it moved slow and there were times when something tried to intrude threatening to drown the music out entirely, but it went on and on and the happy bard kept dancing with the love of his life.

Then suddenly, but for a moment, everything seemed wrong. He felt that he was not supposed to be here, but where else would he be with Aerin?s soft arms wrapped around him as the dance music played on. He kept twirling around the floor but somehow not as happy as he had been. And then he saw Teltasarwen?s face.

It was confusing because Telta was here with him, in The ?Pot, dancing with his brother Beliran and yet her face was far away, strained and shouting at him. He moved towards her, but she disappeared, along with everything around him. Aerin, the music and the songhouse were all gone and there was only the dreaded but familiar red darkness all around him.

Deep in a valley between some of the hills that stretched towards Mirkwood from the Lonely Mountain, a small fire burned. It was well built, and no light escaped the small glade where it burned. Even in the clear night sky no trace could be found, for there was no smoke, and no sparks leapt up towards the stars.

Beside it sat a dark shape. Cloaked in shadow, Anorast waited. The messenger he'd sent through the ranks of the Mithril Knights had just returned. The old elf would soon have his companions on this dangerous mission, with none the wiser where any of them had gone. For amongst the Mithril Knights any secret was safe, but Anorast had begun to suspect that not all was well with their fellow warriors. Surely none of them could have betrayed the army to the Red Hammer, but they had suffered a disasterous, though victorious, battle before Laketown. The mission Anorast and his fellow volunteers would be embarking upon was too critical to let anyone know about it.

There was also another aspect. Every warrior in the small army marching towards Dale would stand and fight till they fell. Elbren had decided it prudent to not inform anyone except his fellow knights that there would be more to the upcoming battle than just their forces attacking the dwarves who beseiged Erebor. The Guild Master knew his army would fight with great valour if they believed that no others would help them.

Sighing, Anorast slid his hand down to his left hip. There, tied to his belt was the Sickle, formerly wielded by his beloved, and now vanished, Nienor-Niniel. During the day, after Sir Dirk's return, Anorast had returned to his tent to retrieve the deadly weapon. The Sickle and the old elf had entered into a strange conversation. It knew what had happened, and though sad to see such a perfect wielder leave, it would assist the next who bore it. But though Anorast carried the Sickle, he would not use it's power. The two ancient beings had agreed upon that; the Sickle would not interfere with the destiny of the old elf, who had been chosen to bear Anguirel. So for now Anorast let the Sickle dangle from his belt till it found a new bearer.

"Are you sure this isn't too good a hiding place, Anorast?"

The old elf looked up at Bryttar as the young man came striding out of the woods from where their horses were tethered.

"Those you told shall find it, have no fear. Did you have any trouble?"

"No," Bryttar answered dubiously.

"Trust me, all who have been summoned shall find this place."

Bryttar looked at Anorast sharply. Something in the elf's words had caught the young man's attention. "All? There are others besides our fellow Knights who volunteered for this mission?"

"Indeed. When I first learned from Lord Elbren of the plan to reach the Dwarves of Erebor, I took it upon myself to find other, useful allies." As Anorast finished speaking, there was a slight, whispering sound across the glade. The two knights looked up to see three hulking, dark figures emerge from the trees.

"The descendents of Beorn are good friends to have, Bryttar," Anorast said to his fellow knight. To the figures across the glade the elf called out. "Glad you could join us, Birand, and for bringing your brothers."

The three giant men nodded, and sensing the mood of waiting of the two knights, settled themselves down near the fire.

"Now, my good Bryttar, we wait for the rest to arrive."

Two eyes watched from the trees as three large figures moved through the woods. Softly without a sound she followed, for they were headed the very direction she was going. The large figures reached the clearing just as Bryttar had said. That was her reason for coming this way. She knew that Knights were needed for some mission that was not to be revealed till need be. Her shoulder was healing nicely and the pain was almost gone. Her practicing with her swords and bow had proved to her that she was ready for the fight. She was not going to let anyone get her off guard as they had before with the Red Hammer. She had been so reckless in her attentions but this time would be different for she was not going to let anyone get her guard down.

Cautiously she stepped up to the last line of trees. Hugging the tree she peered around to see a cloaked figure kneeling by the fire, Bryttar standing looking a bit shocked at the large figures that entered the clearing. Her elvish ears keen to hear all that was said.

"The descendents of Beorn are good friends to have, Bryttar," Anorast said to his fellow knight. To the figures across the glade the elf called out. "Glad you could join us, Birand, and for bringing your brothers."

Ah so these were decendants of Beorn. Vana had seen the Beorn decendants many times in her childhood but it had been many years and she could not be sure if she has met these three before. They moved around and sat near the fire with their backs to her.

"Now, my good Bryttar, we wait for the rest to arrive."

Vana suddenly noticed that the dark figure at the fire was looking straight at her. She knew he had seen her so she quietly stepped from the shadows, her quiver full on her shoulder, her bow in hand and her swords strapped to her side. Slowly she walked up to the fire gathering.

"I have come to answer the call for knights. I am offering my services to assist where I might." Vana swiftly and gracefully knelt and removed her sword, offering it to Anorast, hilt first.

"Welcome and yes you may join with us. I believe you are one of the new knights, arent you?. Relax and take a seat. You need not be so formal." Anorast motioned for her to take a seat around the fire. As she sat she noticed that there were many places for others to sit. Surely he is expecting several others to join them before he tells them of their business.

Vana sat quietly and listened as the Beorns and Anorast spoke in soft tones. Her ears heard it all but she knew it was not for her so she just sat and waited patiently looking to the sky and watching the stars.

Before conferring with Elbren again, Tempest stopped once more at the healer's tent and listened to the deep and even breathing of Erinhue as he lay sleeping on one of the simple cots. His face was still, but she wondered what dreams or nightmares lay beneath the surface of his calm exterior, and if she would ever see those familiar eyes open once again. There was a deep grief that burdened her heart, a sadness that she had rarely known, and a voice in her head told her that she had led the jovial bard to this state. Yes, they had won the battle, but at what cost?

The dragonharp stirred restlessly nearby, but there was no angry jangle of cords or blue streams of fire directed her way. It, too, seemed to be contemplating Erinhue's fate. Tempest rubbed her shoulder gently where Clarion had left its mark. The wound troubled her, and a dull numb seemed to spread along her arm from it. She would need to get a healer to look at it again before the battle. She sighed, and went in search of Elbren.

_____________________________________________________________

"Anorast is gone?" Elbren asked, and she nodded distractedly.

"He waits to enter by the secret entrance with a small band of Knights. The main force will move soon and hit the Red army head on. It...it will be a hard-won fight. They lost significant numbers at Laketown, but my instincts tell me that their main goal was the Lonely Mountain, and therefore the strength of their force may rest there. We are weakened, Elbren. I fear, if Anorast is unsuccessful..."

"Aye....I know," Elbren said softly.

"I have summoned the captains and spread the word through the camp. We march at dawn. Our pace will slower than Anorast's because of our numbers, but we will reach the Lonely Mountain soon enough."

Telta leaned back on the tree behind her. It was quiet here for the moment with only the occasional knight walking passed. None paid any attention to her as they went about whatever urgent task they were given. She felt she should be helping but her skills in healing were limited and she would only be in the way of those that were really needed. So for now she would remain here.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath letting it out slowly. The events of the day moving swiftly through her thoughts. Vana had fallen struck down by the Red Hammer and was now recovering in the healer?s tent. Her wound had been serious but not life threatening and for that Telta was thankful. Fala was, as far as she could find out, still tending the wounded.

Raghnildur also was in the healer?s tent his arm having been wounded by Hue. ?No? she thought sadly

it was the berserker who had wielded the sword. Hue had not been himself at the time. Her eyes looked in the direction of the healer?s tent where the Mithril Knight, her friend lay unconscious. Calling on the berserker had been needed but at what cost?

Telta pulled her legs up to her chest and leaned her head on them. ?I was just thinking of that day when you first slipped into the Lucky Fortune way back when. I saw something in ya then that made me want to help ya out. That?s when I asked you to stick around and I have never once regretted that. Telta?s head came up searching for the man behind the voice realizing that he was not there.

?I know a lot of people and a lot more people know me but there are not many that I count as friend not many that are still around any way. I wanted you ta know that you have always been one of the best.?

?Ya know there?s still time for ya to join one of the flanking assaults. They?re going to be cavalry actions so it might be a little safer than its gonna be down at the bottom of that box where Tempest?s squad is gonna be. I don?t want ya to get hurt.? She smiled. Hue?s worry over her welfare was appreciated more than he could know. But her own stubborn nature lead her where it would and she would not be denied the chance to help him and the others.

Hue worried more about them than he did about himself. He had led them to believe that he would not recognized them and yet when she had gone to help Raghnildur and faced the berserker?s wrath he had hesitated. For a moment before the bright light erupted on the battlefield she had seen recognition in his eyes when he looked at her.

Lady Tempest was wounded also trying to stop the berserker. Not many had escaped unscathed. Even she had been slightly wounded. Telta looked at her bandaged arm. The gash went from her shoulder to her elbow but it was not deep and would not hinder her though the enemy would see it as a weakness to use against her. She reached beside her and picked up her sword inspecting the cleaning job she had finished but a few minutes before. The blade had seen much action today and it would see more, of that she was sure. This battle was not over.

Telta looked up at the sky her thoughts wandering. She stood up suddenly searching the area for what she did not know. She headed in the direction of the healer?s tent . Walking into the tent she found that Vana and Tempest had gone and there was no sign of Raghnildur. The healers still moved about helping those in need paying little attention to her once they saw she was in no need of medical attention. She moved to the cot where Hue still lay unconscious.

He looked so peaceful now, the berserker at rest. She gently laid a hand on his arm. Would the berserker remain at rest? He had been stopped once, a second chance they may not get.

?Hue, we need you.? Telta whispered.

An occasional snap of a twig was all that revealed the small troop. Not even the high moon betrayed their passage, for the figures were cloaked, and passed beneath the shadow of trees. To the south the moon turned the snow atop Erebor into a mantle of cold fire; a beacon toward which the dark figures rode. Still before them were many hours till they reached their destination.

Anorast, riding at the rear, looked at the backs of his fellow knights. Up in the front Bryttar led the way, not knowing where they would finish their journey, but trusting in the directions of Anorast. Halfway down the column the new knight, Vanaladiel, rode stiffly. The olf elf chuckled. She was quite formal, yet he'd heard accounts of her actions in the Laketown battle. She would not be a weakness, and perhaps she might loosen up after the fight. If she was still alive.

The elf sighed. Too many knights had fallen at Laketown. They were not a large order. But though their losses had been terrible, Anorast knew the woodelves had suffered even greater casualties. He did not envy Lord Elbren the task of facing Thranduil. And things would be worse in a few days.

"A quiet night, elf."

Anorast looked over at the large man beside the path. Birand and his brothers had flanked the column since they set out.

"No entertainment?"

"You'd think the Red Hammer had never heard of sentries," replied the shapechanger in disgust. "The only one's we've caught were definitely not out here to watch for raiders."

Anorast laughed as Birand shuddered.

"I'll pass on the details. I am thankful though, it makes this journey easier."

"Anorast, your knights move as a breeze; a bee might notice, but none others. You have nothing to fear from dwarves."

"Let us hope that there are no other enemies out this night," said Anorast with a grim smile.

Suddenly the elf looked up. The column of knights had continued on as Anorast had talked with Birand, but now they had stopped. A figure stood before the first rider, but it was not a shapeshifter.

"...waiting in the valley leading to the door," said the figure as Anorast rode up.

"Well met, Legolas," said Anorast, nodding his head to the elvish prince.[/i]

"Greetings, Anorast. I was just telling the knight here that the valley leading to the secret door is impassable."

Anorast raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Beside him, Bryttar let a curse escape his lips as he turned to the old elf.

"Now what? We go back?"

"If I had to, I'd wade through those dwarves to reach that entrance," replied Anorast, still looking at Legolas. Behind him he heard a rustle of cloth as the knights reached for their weapons. Anorast raised a hand. "But no blade shall be drawn tonight, is that not so, Legolas?"

The young elf smiled wickedly. "Indeed. But we must leave this valley and follow another path to reach the caves of the Lonely Mountain."

After the exchange of words between Anorast and Legolas the elven prince, the column of fighters moved to another path that Legolas pointed out and they proceeded to leave and take another path to find the caves.

Still cloaked in the darkness of the forest they continued to move on. Unseen by untrained eyes. Soon the sun would be rising in the east and they would have to seek cover to remain undetected on the trek to the caves.

Legolas and Anorast finally halted the column moving them off the trail they were on and deeper into the woods.

"We will stop here for a rest!" Anorast spoke to the group. "Get your horses watered and take some victuals for yourselves while we have the time, for soon we move on!"

Vana thought that she saw Anorast nod in her direction as if he was acknowledging her. It made her blush but she liked that he was not cruel or distant from his men. She was beginning to feel that she was a part of the group and not just a hinderance. Her confidence was growing the farther they went on this journey.

What they would find in the end or how it would all transpire didnt scare Vana as she was willing to give her life for the cause, that was why she so wanted to be a Mithril Knight. She wanted to be able to feel like she had lived and had served the many peoples of Middle Earth. She would have died had she remained locked away in her duties as a maiden in the realm of her uncle.

Legolas finally came over to Vana, knelt down beside her as she ate some hard bread and sipped some water from her flask.

"Hail cousin!" He smiled at her, "I didnt believe it when I heard that you had been granted the honor of becoming a Mithril Knight! I would have loved to have been there for your ceremony of the cloaking."

"I know you would have been there if you could!" She smiled back.

"Are you sure you want to go all the way with us to the caves?"

"Of course I do! I am not about to back down now. I am a Mithril Knight and will die in my duties if so be it." She stated, "I dont go lightly but I have to know that my life means something to me not just as a pretty fixture in the palace of my uncle, your father!"

Vana thought she heard a sigh escape his lips but he did not reprimand her or try to convince her to stay back.

"Okay then, you will be treated as any other warrior in this battle and will be expected to do what ever you are told to do then."

"Yes, and that is how I want it to be! No special treatment for me, please. Don't let others know of my standing in the palace. I don't want them to think any less of me or that I need any special favors from them. Please let my abilities speak for me."

"As you wish, dear cousin!" Legolas stood and gave her a hug.

"Thank you!"

"But I am going to keep an eye on you anyways!" He added with a smile.

"I would have expected no less, I suppose!" She wiped the crumbs from her shirt and repacked her things.

Legolas excused himself and moved about the camp talking with other warriors and finally conversing with Anorast about their strategy from this point. They would be moving now more vulnerable in the daylight then they had been in the cover of darkness but they agreed that they could still make some good time within the woods at covering ground before they would be at a place where they would need the cover of darkness again.

------------------

A summary of the events following the mighty battle for Esgaroth, henceforth know in verse as the Battle of the Sickle:

As the column of Mithril Knights, led by Lord Anorast and Legolas set out to find another entrance to the fabled secret caverns, it was what they did not find that was far more perplexing: nearly no Red Hammer scouts, sentries, deserters, patrols, or strays. For two days they cautiously skirted the Lonely Mountain from the west, using the undulations in the foothills and dales that surround the mountain for cover, and yet they came upon no trace of the Red Hammer until they were nearly upon the rear lines of the siege army that held both Dale and the gates of Erebor. Finally, they rounded Ravenhill and approached from the southwest.

First espied by elven eyes, then confirmed by scouting shapeshifters, Anorast, Legolas, and the Beornlings found that the rear lines were full of empty tents, untended watch fires, and unmanned siege engines. After a full night of reconnoiter in animal form, the Beornlings reported that fewer than five hundred dwarves held the two kingdoms under siege with the use of deception. Only the forward-most ranks are filled out, and then only when raiding parties were not sent out far and wide to give the impression of a larger force. Further, the Beornlings reported, there was dissenting talk amongst the Red Hammer that they had given up their army for naught since they hadnÕt returned with the Hammer, and that the Òothers,Ó who were apparently supposed to be coming from the west, were now a week late.

ÒSo now we know where the waves of fresh Red Hammer were coming from in such large numbers,Ó said Anorast, ÒNot the caves, but from the ranks of the siege army. They must have known that the Sickle was coming long before Nin emerged with it on the battlefield.Ó

By noon of that day, a council had been held and a plan drawn up.

They executed their plan to perfection. At nightfall, the empty tents, supply-pavilions, siege towers, and catapults were set ablaze and the battalion of Red Hammer dwarves was set upon with such fury and speed by the Mithril Knights, that the battle was anti-climactic. It was over before the Dalemen and Erebor Dwarves realized that an attack had been launched upon their captors. Anorast, Legolas, the Beornlings and their troop of Mithril Knights were met by Thorin Stonehelm, King Under the Mountain, and Bard II upon the road that connected the gates of their two kingdoms.

Only a raiding party of fifty or so Red Hammer dwarves escaped from Dale. They ran east, only to be met head-on by 2500 dwarves from the Iron Hills, who had been summoned to aid their cousins at the Lonely Mountain by means of a winged, black messenger. Even against such insurmountable odds, they did not surrender and fought until the last of them were slain.

In the days that followed, it was learned that Òthe othersÓ that were awaited from the west referred to an army of some 6000 orcs, assembled at Carn-Džm and led by Rogue Silmaril-Knights. Scouts were dispatched and returned to report that, though the signs of such an army were there, apparently after terrible fighting between the various orc-breeds, the remainder had scattered back to their various holes and pits in the Hithaeglir.

Riders were sent to every corner of Middle Earth, searching for remnants of the Red Hammer.

Soon, the enemy dead were burnt in great, black mounds. The dwarves of Erebor and the Iron Hills refused to allow even the charred remains of a single Red Hammer to rest underground. Therefore, no mound was raised over the pyres, but rather they were kept ablaze with fresh fuel for weeks until only ash remained.

The fallen of the army of the People of the Light, were given every possible honor.

Deep within Erebor, a mausoleum was built and within it, those sons of Durin who had died defending their home were laid side-by-side in white marble tombs. Sir Dirk presented the King under the Mountain with the shards of the Arkenstone, which were placed where they belong: upon the breast of Stonehelm's grandfather, Thorin Oakenshield.

The men of Dale and Laketown were buried together in a meadow alongside Celduin at the halfway point between the cities. From the first bloom of spring, until the first frost of winter, wildflowers of every colour blossom in what has since been named Peacedale.

King Thranduil saw personally to the burial of every elf who found passage to the halls of Mandos, regardless of homeland.

For those Mithril Knights who fell, an honor guard was chosen to escort the Cloak-draped KnightÕs body to his or her home and family.

Lord Elbren, Prince Marius, the Knights in Training, and the remaining Riders of the Mark struck out for Edoras a week later. There, the apprentices would view the Giliath Londe and become Mithril Knights. Then they would celebrate with Eomer King the valour of the victorious dead and the courage of Marius and the Mithril Knights.

*****

So ended the (First?) War of the Red Hammer. The carnage spread from Tol Brandir to Helm's Deep, from Isengard to Laketown and Dale, and beyond to Carn-Džm. Legends of the past had been drawn into the fray: the Arkenstone, the Spear of Orom‘, The Sickle of Varda, the spirit of fallen Saruman, the Knights of the Silmaril, and Radagast the Brown. But in the end, though at many points hope seemed lost, the Mithril Knights prevailed through wits, superior skill, and above all, strength of will born of their Oaths and iron-clad bonds of Brother-and-Sisterhood.

Their Swords and their Councils shall have two edges.