Dancing In The Dark by Grundy

Come Tumbling Down

It was past midday when a frightened messenger summoned Curufinwë from the library with word that his brother urgently wanted him up on the battlements.

A glance out the window made it plain what was on Tyelko’s mind.

Curufinwë took the stairs two at time, three when he dared.

He found Tyelko pacing like a furious cat, Huan at his side growling with hackles raised, and a knot of worried officers gathered by the opposite staircase.

“Curvo, there you are. You must have seen the flames by now, but you may not have spotted that.”

Tyelko pointed into the distance, and from this height Curufinwë could spot what hadn’t been apparent from the library. The hosts of Morgoth were on the move.

He swore as he got a look at the numbers of them.

“Tulkas’ balls, look at them!” Tyelko hissed, quietly enough that their men would not hear.

It was the first time that Curufinwë could ever remember hearing his older brother sound frightened. Under the circumstances, it was less than no comfort. He was thankful Tyelpë wasn’t up here to hear it.

Not that he could truly blame Tyelko. The vista before them would strike fear in the heart of anyone who wasn’t an utter fool.

The northern horizon was fire as far as the eye could see, and the smoke rising beyond the mountains in the west had him seriously worried for his cousins and their people in Dorthonion. To the east, still more smoke and darkness was pouring out of Lothlann to obscure Himring.

Unless the oncoming hordes were the main brunt of Morgoth’s forces – and Curufinwë honestly wasn’t sure what was more terrifying, if they were or if they weren’t – Kano would be in serious difficulty, and caught in a far worse position than they were. Assuming he survived the initial blow, of course. If the assault on his positions was sudden enough, he might not.

All that flashed through his mind before Curufinwë considered the problem he and Tyelko were about to face. The sheer numbers of orc coming toward them according to his minimum estimate – the absolute least number, and almost certainly too low – would have been cause for serious worry at any time. In the current situation, with no realistic prospect of aid arriving from their brothers or cousins to bolster them, it was catastrophic.

What’s more, that smoke and darkness could hide more than just the fate of Himring. For all they knew, more orcs could be creeping through the mountains to either side of them. If that happened and they were taken unawares…

“We can’t hold against so many,” he said grimly.

Tyelko gaped at him in shock, and he saw nervous looks on their captains’ faces, for he hadn’t spoken as quietly as his brother.

“As you said, look at them!” Curufinwë snapped. Turning to the others, he added, “All of you! Take a good look!”

He had no time to coddle anyone. If they were important enough in the structure of Aglon to be up here, they might as well hear the hard truth now.

“Just on what I can see – and given all that smoke, I’m certain there’s more that I can’t – I make us to be outnumbered fifteen to one at the least! And that’s just for us – there are enemies we can’t see engaging our brothers and cousins. There is no relief coming. Even using every defense and trick we have, we stand to be overwhelmed, by sheer numbers if nothing else. It’s a question of when, not if.”

It was going to be bloody, that much was certain. There was a determination to those columns. They came to conquer or die.

“You can’t be thinking about retreat?” Tyelko challenged him.

“Of course I am!” Curufinwë retorted. “I have a son, and I don’t mean him to perish here. We also have a good many followers who aren’t warriors, people we are pledged to protect. As heroic as fighting to the last man may sound in songs, I don’t imagine it’s much practical use to any of them. Nor would dying here fulfill our Oath!”

Tyelko frowned.

“I’ll look to the defenses,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “Outnumbered or not, we can’t yield the pass without a fight. That would be disaster – they’d be hard on our heels no matter where we attempted to run. This is the best place to hold them. They’ll have to bottle up, and you’ve laid a good many traps and surprises for them over the years. I’ll handle the fighting. You look to the retreat.”

There was sense in that. Their lieutenants, the ones they worked with on the administration and running of Himlad, have long had orders to maintain a protocol for evacuation on short notice. They have even drilled several times, but this would be the true test of their preparations. It would help if they could begin moving people out well before they were overrun, while there was still some prayer of keeping things orderly.

“Who determines when it’s time for the fighters to join the retreat?” Curufinwë demanded, knowing perfectly well that Tyelko might get too caught up in battle to recognize when it was time to go.

“You do,” Tyelko snorted. “I just said the retreat was yours to coordinate, didn’t I? Get going! Even with your advance planning, I’d say you’ve got a lot to do, and not much time to do it in. I’ll slow them down as best as I can, but if you’re right, the most I’ll be able to do is buy you some extra time.”

“How long can you hold?” Curufinwë asked, please with how even he managed to keep his voice. He wouldn’t coddle anyone, but he also couldn’t have those they must depend on to fight lose their nerve.

“I expect we can manage comfortably until midnight or so, perhaps dawn tomorrow if luck is with us. But anything beyond that is up to chance, fortune, or fate, however you prefer to term it,” Tyelko replied with a pensive frown. “You have time enough to organize the exodus and make sure we don’t leave anything needful behind, at least.”

Curufinwë frowned. Sunset – not that term was truly applicable, not with so much obscuring the sun – was in four hours. Orcs generally had the advantage at night, but that also meant they wouldn’t expect elves to trust the cover of darkness…

“I’ll get the evacuation in motion. We begin the retreat at the twentieth hour,” he announced. “Do as much damage to them as you can before then, but don’t argue with me when I tell you it’s time to go – and I warn you now that will be well before midnight. I’ll want everyone out by then.”

“Everyone who’s going,” his brother corrected grimly. “A few of us will have to remain behind to cover the retreat and make it look like we’re still fighting until the last possible minute. I’ll ask for volunteers. They’ll understand the score, and have instructions to make sure they don’t get dragged to Angband alive.”

“You are not to be one of them,” Curufinwë told him fiercely. “You hear me?”

Tyelko pulled him into one of his bear hugs.

“My silly little brother! Stop fussing about me and go take care of our people. You’re better at it than you think.”

“Don’t talk like you don’t expect to come with us,” Curufinwë ordered shortly. “Be safe, brother.”

Tyelko laughed as he released him.

“This is Beleriand, Curvo. None of us are safe, not even Artanis tucked away in Thingol’s snug little cave with his wife guarding her. That’s when all the forces of Angband aren’t streaming down onto our heads! That you think ‘safe’ is even remotely applicable now is the funniest thing I’ve heard in years.”

“You have the worst sense of humor,” Curufinwë muttered as he turned to go.

“Not true, just imagine if you had to listen to Maitimo right now.”

Tyelko’s chuckle followed Curufinwë down the stairs as he raced for his son’s workshop. First things first.

“Tyelpë!” he bellowed.

His son jumped in surprise at his precipitous entrance, spilling the contents of the beaker he’d been holding. Fortunately, it proved to be nothing hazardous to elven bodies.

“Father?” he asked. “What under the stars-”

“We will be under attack shortly, and must prepare our retreat before the fortress falls,” Curufinwë cut him off. “There is no time for protest, much less argument. With Handelon away, I am placing you in charge of all the workshops. Make sure you coordinate with the leather workers and tailors in particular. Pack what can be readied for transport within six hours. Anything that can’t be ready for transport by then is to be rendered unusable, or preferably destroyed completely. All must be ready for departure no later than the twentieth hour!”

“But –”

“Did you not hear me, my son? There is no time to waste, not even a minute. This fortress will fall, by morning if not sooner. When it does, the Enemy’s creatures will sweep through here and into Himlad like a noxious flood, killing and despoiling all they touch.”

Tyelpë visibly pulled himself together.

“Yes, Father. I’ll see to it at once. But what-”

“I need to organize the healers, and those who will lead the head of the convoy south. We can’t wait for the warriors to be in dire straits before we begin moving those who do not fight.”

“Yes, yes of course,” his son replied nervously. “I understand. Destroyed, though?”

He looked longingly at the warehouse across the yard, where Curufinwë knew a fresh shipment of ores from the dwarves had arrived but three days ago.

“Whatever we cannot take with us will fall into the hands of the Enemy, Tyelperinquar,” he said gently. “Better we destroy those things ourselves and know them of no use to our enemies than have that which we wrought turned against us or our allies. You do not want to spend the rest of your life wondering if something you made killed your people, much less your uncles or your cousins.”

Tyelpë nodded, still looking slightly nervous, but trying for determined.

“Bring some of the ore if you can,” Curufinwë added, hoping he would not come to regret this moment of generosity – if he could call it that. It was probably more like weakness. “But there is much here in the workshops that would be far more difficult to replace. That must be your guide now – base your priorities on how easy a thing will be to transport and how difficult to replace. You will likely be called on to justify your decisions later, and not only by me or your Uncle Tyelko. Speak to your fellow craftmasters immediately. You will have more details as soon as I have informed the other department heads.”

He regretted Handelon’s absence, but it had seemed safe enough at the time to approve the master tailor – the current representative of the senior craftsmen of Himlad – visiting his younger sister at Amon Ereb. Tyelpë perhaps lacked adequate seasoning to be handed such a heavy task as this, but it couldn’t be helped. Other craft masters might quibble or indulge in silly disputes about precedence and seniority if he unilaterally named one of them to step into Handelon’s role, wasting valuable time. None would argue with Prince Tyelperinquar.

“Yes, Father,” Tyelpë nodded.

He didn’t look happy, but then, who would this day? All that they had built was about to go up in flames, and there was precious little they could do about it. They could only grab what they could from the incipient wreckage and flee.

As he headed for the infirmary, Curufinwë was pleased to hear his son giving orders in an authoritative voice, no trace of doubt to be heard. He must remember to tell the boy later how proud he was of him.

But as he warned the head healer to prepare for casualties and for an evacuation simultaneously, Curufinwë suddenly wondered where it was they were evacuating to.  

All his planned scenarios had envisioned the Enemy attacking one or two Noldorin positions, leaving them plenty of obvious choices for where to regroup. But from what he had seen up above, they were the center of an unbroken assault from Dorthonion to the Gap, and while it might not be dangerous to count on Hithlum remaining untroubled, it was certainly foolish.

“Prince Curufinwë, if we are expecting so many wounded, and we’re to retreat…”

He refocused on the head healer, to find the woman looking extremely distressed.

“Yes?” he asked briskly. “I understand your task will be difficult, but we have not a moment to lose, Terenë.”

“My prince, with so many casualties as we must predict from what you describe, and the expectation of imminent retreat, we won’t be able to bring them all with us,” she said quietly. “There simply won’t be enough wagons or horses to assure transport for any whose wounds leave them unable to walk or ride.”

Whether she realized it or not, even what wagons and horses there were would be claimed in part for other duties. The armory, for example, would require some of them, as would Tyelpë for whatever he hoped to salvage. Some would be needed for the granary and food stores, and that was simply non-negotiable – they couldn’t count on forage and hunting alone to feed their entire convoy.

His next stop had better be to the steward, lest it come to quarrels between him and Tyelpë about what was more needful… In hindsight, there had been an obvious flaw in their drills – he had always had known in advance what was available for transport. There had been no need to consider how to allocate anything. Why hadn’t he thought before now to keep an accurate tally of wagons on hand, and to have determined the breakdown in advance? So much for his planning skills!

He hesitated as he returned to the immediate problem. He knew what he would do in Terenë’s position, for he would leave none to the Enemy’s twisted idea of mercy. But what one once dedicated to Nienna and Estë might do was another question – one he did not know how to answer.

“I recognize the difficulty,” he told her gravely. “Save as many as you can. You need not trouble yourself that you will be reproached later for not achieving the impossible, by me or anyone else. I shall make sure you are informed how many wagons and horses are available for your needs before the end of the hour. But beyond a certain point in the battle, I doubt all of the wounded will come to you in any case. Most of our fighters understand only too well what is upon us.”

She nodded, looking not at all cheered, and got on with preparing for the inevitable. His last sight of the infirmary was one of triage stations and stretchers being readied.

Fortune smiled on him for a change, for he found the steward and the stable master together, and had it out immediately how many wagons and horses were at his disposal for the evacuation. What’s more, he was able to rule at once how many were to be allotted for food, to Tyelpë, to the healers, and to other departments, and to send runners to all who needed that information.

The kennel master and livestock master were next, and if they were unhappy at how few wagons they had to work with, they at least understood the logic that most of the animals could be moved out on foot. The livestock master hadn’t waited to hear even that much - he already had his apprentices moving the animals kept in the fortress proper, those in its immediate environs, as well as writing furiously, composing warnings to send to the pastures further down the pass. He meant to send the ones for the furthest outpost with birds, the nearer ones with some of his younger apprentices – which had the happy side effect of getting them safely away before the fighting began.

Then Curufinwë was off to the master of the armory, who unsurprisingly was already organizing.

“I don’t have more than a few wagons for you,” Curufinwë warned. “And you’ll have to pull them with oxen, the draft horses are all spoken for.”

“I don’t have much call for wagons, my prince,” the harried captain replied, his hands busy even as they spoke. “Everyone that leaves can carry something, even if it’s just a knife or two – and I imagine the steward feels the same, so I’ll send to him to work out between us what each evacuee should carry so as not to overload them. If I can borrow a wagon or two from him or the kitchens for the early stages, to ferry some of what’s here further south to distribute among our people on the farms and hunting lodges, that would ease things considerably – granary or kitchens could have them back after that, and will probably want them more than I will by then anyway.”

“Very good,” Curufinwë replied. “Send a runner to me should you need any assistance or arbitration.”

“Who should I speak to about how best to spoil what can’t be moved out?”

“Prince Tyelperinquar,” Curufinwë advised. “I don’t dare give you any particular smith, lest he already have assigned them a more urgent task. He will know who has the necessary skills.”

Then he left before he could get in the way.

The kitchens were next, and he was pleased to find he had once again been anticipated. In addition to huge kettles of fortifying drinks and broths being readied to support those fighting and the infirmary, every cook, range, and oven that could be pressed into service was busy turning out waybread and other foods that would keep on the road as fast as they could.

The head cook confirmed she had everything in hand, vowed that nothing useful would be left for the filth of Morgoth, and suggested that any wounded in the initial waves of fighting who had to be kept back from further fighting but still had their wits and the use of their hands could be put to work preparing or packing food.

“Send a runner to Terenë with the idea, but if she is agreeable make certain that you work out between you who will see to it that the wounded sent here are evacuated in good order,” Curufinwë ordered. “I will not have anyone left behind by oversight or miscommunication because it was unclear who was responsible for them when the time comes to go!”

He also borrowed a runner to send a note to the library. There was but one small wagon for the librarian and archivist to work with, and it would be up to them to salvage what they could, with the priority being the maps, records unique to the fortress, and the few volumes they had that were the sole copy in Beleriand. The sooner that wagon left, the better, for they’d be the lowest priority once the situation became dire. Little as Curufinwë might like the prospect, they could survive without books or archives if need be. Food, medicine, arms, tools, and the means of making more of all of the above were rather more important.

He took himself to the map room before its contents could be packed or destroyed. It was all well and good to set the evacuation preparations in motion, but he needed to figure out where they were going. Amon Ereb would be the logical place, and the preferred retreat most of his set plans had figured on. But with Morgoth sweeping down from the north with more strength than they had dreamed he possessed, there was a serious possibility Kano and his people would be wiped from the face of Beleriand, leaving the Enemy an unopposed path down the vale of Gelion.  

Should that come to pass, Moryo might be still able to safely move his people south using the mountains as cover, or flee east through the mountains if that seemed more prudent. Pityo, assuming his staff could keep him focused, ought to be able to withdraw his people to Amon Ereb and put the fortress onto siege footing in time.

But for him and Tyelko, getting caught out short of Amon Ereb with all their people would be utter disaster. There were a good many leagues of broad plains between Celon and the Ramdal with little if anything to conceal their column, and still less to aid them in a defense if they were assaulted.

Fleeing through Nan Dungortheb was no better. Not only was it not a pleasant road even at the best of times, they could not count on the east-west road that skirted Doriath remaining passable, not when Ard-Galen was aflame and he suspected battle would shortly be raging in Dorthonion if it wasn’t already. If Dorthonion fell, the road would be lost entirely, and Thingol’s maia wife might well find her protection of their forest put to the test.

No, they needed to be less predictable. The sons of Fëanor and their cousins have long kept to opposite sides of Beleriand. Perhaps it was time to shake things up a bit. And possibly serve as reinforcements…

West Beleriand might be in less danger at first blush, but depending on how broad Morgoth’s assault was, the situation might well turn on a knife’s edge. Finno would no doubt bring what he could to bear from the mountain strongholds, but much would depend on where Ingo happened to be at the moment. If he were caught unawares at Tol Sirion or Manwë forbid out in Ard-galen itself, there would be no word but disaster for the outcome. (Better not to think on that.)

But if he hadn’t, if Ingo was even now tucked away in his hidden halls, he would march north from Nargothrond. That would leave his kingdom badly undermanned should the fighting sweep down Sirion south of the mountains...

Curufinwë briefly considered what might happen with Doriath, but he suspected it would be a rock in a flood – the water would flow all around it in the initial gush, and they would think themselves safe. Doriath would give way only when it was utterly surrounded and there was no longer anything left to keep the waters away from them. But while they held, they could be helpful, even if Thingol the Useless kept within his borders.

Curufinwë scrabbled for the map he’d made on his way back all those years ago.

Yes, that was it. If they followed the Aros down and around, and cut south as far west as they dared, where there was still firm ground to reach the Andram instead of trying to pick the safe path through those bloody marshes, which might well have shifted by now and probably couldn’t bear so many anyway… They could come to Nargothrond by a far less exposed route. A safe route.

Ingo wouldn’t turn them away. Curufinwë knew that. He also knew his people and his brother’s would be safer there than anywhere in East Beleriand. Tyelpë would be safe there.

If Amon Ereb wasn’t taken, there would be time enough for him and his brother and their surviving fighters to make their way there when the dust settled and the maps were redrawn. And perhaps some of his followers, the craftsmen and support personnel who had no business in battle, might take the opportunity to change lords. It would be for the best.

He didn’t delude himself by now. It was plain that he and his brothers were going to come to no good end. He couldn’t very well insult his liegemen and -women by openly trying to shuffle them off to the Arafinwions. But he was not only duty- but also conscience-bound to see his people provided for as best he could. As far as he was concerned, Nargothrond was the best they could hope for. Ingo was a good leader and his people adored him.

Curufinwë just had to see to it that they got there.

He could do that.

He had to.