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| Part 1 The attack had come fast and unexpected. For days he had walked the barren territories of the North where, long ago, the Witch Realm of Angmar had been. Now these forlorn regions stretching out from the back of the North Downs were a forsaken land again. Evil creatures had returned and found a home under the shadow of the mountains. The sun stood low in the West already when he passed the long-abandoned ruins of Carn Dûm. Once, proud warriors in shining armour had made their last stand here, bravely defending their land against the invaders from the North. These days the streets were empty and the pavements broken; only the wind sang its sad song in the high halls. Tall elm trees grew on top of fallen ramparts, their leaves drifting down on the lonesome wanderer, tiny fragments of yellow against the fading sky. They must have discovered him long before he had seen them, lurking behind crumbling stone walls and fallen pillars, waiting for the right moment to assault him. And then they had come upon him. All of a sudden they had dashed through the derelict buildings, their wild cries reverberating in the still of the forest. Swinging swords above their heads they broke forth, their ugly, black faces distorted by the atrocious lust to kill. They were six and he was only one, but he fought with the desperate courage and unwavering bravery of the kings of old. Who knew where his path would once lead him. One thing was sure, though, it could not end here. Not yet. Surprised by such a fierce resistance the Orcs drew back one by one. They had thought this lonely traveller would be an easy prey. When faced with a fearless warrior instead their courage faltered quickly and they began to falter. This hesitation was enough that the man could overpower them. With swift skill he decapitated one, cut off the sword arm of another and stab a third right through his fiendish heart. That was all it took to discourage the remaining three. They fled, swearing revenge, knowing they’d soon find the other members of their scattered band. And then they’d bring down this pest of mortal man who would dare to fight them. No, this attack hadn’t gone as planned. While hastily retreating to the forest one of the Orcs fired off arrows to keep away their irksome pursuer. After that they fled, head over heals, not casting a glance backwards. What a fortune for their victim! For if the Orcs had looked back in that moment they would have noticed that one of their arrows had not gone astray. They would have seen how the wanderer fell down on his knees and how the sword slipped from his hand as he grasped for his shoulder where a long black arrow stuck. The man’s face was twisted in pain, his eyes narrow slits. He was swaying precariously, struggling hard not to fall over. At last he managed to drag himself to one of the ruined buildings, hoping to find some shelter there, be it only for a short while. Caught in a torrent of pain the man staggered over the doorstep of a once marvellous town hall. Eyeless stone statues, ancient and awe-inspiring, loomed above him in the twilight and their blank, once beautiful faces were the last thing he saw before oblivion claimed him. *** At some time or other he awoke to the sound of light footsteps. Had his attackers returned and finally found him? In the dim light he saw a shadow approaching. Someone stretched out a hand to touch him, but this movement was abruptly cut short. With all his remaining strength the wounded man reached out and drew the assailant down to him. “Don’t move,” he hissed, pressing a sharp knife to the other man’s neck, “Or I’ll cut your throat instantly!” “Hold on,” the other man gasped. “I swear, I meant you no harm!” With great effort the injured man tried to keep his eyes open, desperately trying to fend off the blackness that threatened to reclaim him. The only thing he could see in the dim light of the waning moon was the golden hair flowing down the other man’s shoulders. Whoever this creature was it was hardly likely he belonged to the band of Orc attackers. Loosing up his grip a bit the wanderer enquired breathlessly. “Who are you?” “A messenger from Mirkwood, my brave man.” Quickly he seized the wanderer’s arm to support him. “I want to help you. That is, if this cold steel does not prevent it.” The wanderer couldn’t reply anymore. Violent twinges shot through his body again and made him drop the knife. He almost convulsed, his hand grasping at his wounded shoulder again. “I was hit ... when they fled,” he uttered. “By Luthién!” the stranger exclaimed. “An Orc-arrow. And a poisoned one, I fear. It must be removed immediately or you won’t see another morning!” Quickly, he dug a small bottle from his coat and opened it. “Here, drink this,” he said, holding the bottle to the wounded man’s lips. “It will ease the pain." What a peculiar beverage, the wanderer mused. Clear like mountain water, but with a taste of honey and sunshine. He sensed warmth spreading through his aching limbs and felt instantly refreshed. But before he could keep wondering about the strange drink he flinched again, closing his eyes in agony as pain ripped through his shoulder. His senses almost faded when the arrow was pulled out with one swift movement and he cried out in shock. “Shhhh,” a hand closed over his lips to silence him. “Be quiet, it’s over now. I even recovered the arrow head. Here, look!” But while the fair-haired stranger was speaking the black, blood-stained arrow on the floor began to smoulder from within. Suddenly a strange blaze flared up, illuminating the twilight of the great hall for a short moment. Within seconds the arrow was consumed in flames and in the end only a thin trace of ashes remained on the ground. “I owe you my life, Elven stranger” the wanderer said. “It’s clear that there was something evil in that arrow. Also, I owe you an excuse for attacking you so rudely and finally, I owe you a name.” He nodded. “Strider is what my friends call me.” While skilfully working on a make-shift bandage to cover the wound the other man looked up in surprise. “What a strange way to meet you, Strider,” he replied, bowing his head slightly. “Legolas is my name. These days the Fair Folk rarely travels forlorn places like this. But my father, King Thranduil of Mirkwood, sent me and others of our kind to summon the Rangers of the North. He’s seeking their counsel as the shadow grows again.” “It is an honour for me to meet King Thranduil’s son,” Strider answered, taking the Elf’s hands in his. “How can I thank you for saving my life, Legolas?” The Elf smiled faintly. “Save your gratitude for now, Strider. We have to leave this place as quickly as possible. The Orcs may return any minute. And this time I’m afraid they will outnumber us by far. Now let me dress the wound and apply some ointment that will quicken its healing. You were lucky the arrow didn’t go deeper or I wouldn’t have been able to remove it so easily.” “Yes, of course,” Strider answered. “Tend to the wound, please. We want to be far from here before our enemies come back.” A little while later two pale shadows silently moved through the dark ruins and into the forest, leaving no traces behind. Then silence fell again on the ruins of Carn Dûm like a soft blanket of night, and the wind that blew through the deserted passages carried strange whispers with it; eerie sounds like the wailings of lost souls. |
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