Anor and Ithil by Haeron

Chapter 6

TA3018

The day of the Council returned to Erestor as he crawled through the thorny underbrush and over warm bodies of wildmen felled by Imladrian weapons. His hands were cut to ribbons scrambling over rocks and thorns and his feet were snatched at by cruel roots. The elves were shouting. The wildmen returned the call, chanting their own barbaric language. Blood and death. And he was to blame.

He should not have lent his voice to Elrond’s plan. His kin fell now as a result of ambush borne of intent of vengeance. All was lost. Erestor despaired.

But despair dissipated briefly as he crawled free from the undergrowth of the forest and into the clearing where elf fell upon man with violence and anger. Erestor barely managed to fumble for his own blade and set it against that of a lurking wildman, seeking to plunge sword into his back. With a cry of desperation the wildman’s stomach was cleaved, even as Erestor was upon his knees.

Erestor willed himself to his feet with help of a nearby tree to steady his shaking legs. Had he been this weak in theBattleof the Last Alliance? The trees towered impossibly high over his head. Where was the sun? Erestor’s palms were slick with sweat. The ruined braids of his dark hair stuck to his neck and forehead. He watched, for a moment, the decimation.

They were losing.

There was such death. Erestor tasted it in his mouth like a fruit turned bad and he retched, suddenly clutching his stomach. And then again. It seemed as though he would fall to his knees, cursing himself for his weakness; for he stood retching as his kin, friends and comrades, fought and died. The sword was heavy in his left hand, heavier still when rang out a cry of rage behind him.

The wildman fell upon Erestor with a clumsy swing and gnarled axe. His technique was laughable but his strength far more daunting, each blow of his, deflected by blade of elvish sword, threatened to sunder a shoulder bone or shatter a wrist. Erestor pressed his advantage of superior speed and reflex, but the exertion and despair weakened him.

Still the wildman fell by combined effort of bitter blade and archer support. Erestor ignored the ache in his forearms and suspected bruised rib to rejoin his kith. The ground was slick with blood and mud and fouler things and the faces of the elves were warped with sorrow. Shock lingered there, too, and would for some long time to come.

The wildmen fell but not quickly enough. More came forth from the dark places between the trees with ample energy and hatred enough to spur an army, heralded by the crowing of big, dark birds and shining eyes laying beyond reach of arrow or throwing knife. They were utterly surrounded, absent hope.

Erestor assisted the repelling attack upon a pocket of Men seeking foothold in the larger fray. The sword was heavy in his left hand, weighted with the lives struck asunder with haste and no grace. His father had often told him it would always be so, that it would be too much of a weight for his arm to bare. When the clutch of wildmen fell, so did Erestor with gasp. The grass was red beneath his hands and when he lifted his palm it was coated with lifeblood.

‘Counsellor!’ called a voice, crouching beside him and pushing back his hair with cool hands that shook. Erestor could not focus on the youthful face before him, though the voice was clear and piping. One of the young soldiers only yesterday practising manoeuvres outside his office. They had laughed, yesterday.

The wildmen cried out their victories. There were already fair elven heads severed from bodies.

‘Counsellor, can you hear me?’

Erestor’s stomach suddenly lurched.

He whispered Glorfindel’s name and something in the eyes of the young elf changed.

‘FIND THE SLAYER!’