Song of Souls by Raiyana

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Chapter 3

In the end, Narví went ahead with one gangbuh, while Durin remained on the road with the other, too worried to stay behind though he had asked her to. The last five hundred soldiers had yet to arrive from further inside the Dwarrowdelf, but something in her told her that time was running out swiftly.

 

When they finally reached Eregion, Elves were milling around everywhere, the air heavy with fear. It was chaos. Instead of happy laughter and song – Narví had had trouble sleeping at times with all the singing – the air was thick and silent; no birds calling in the low light, and no voices raised in song. No elflings were running around in play, which made her sad. Khalebrimbur had been so proud that he had managed to create a Realm where his people were procreating; Narví hadn’t quite understood why, but the wee tykes were adorable, she had to admit; all pointy ears and eyes too large for their faces, wanting to explore everything around them.

Making up her mind, she began heading towards Khalebrimbur’s house, the largest building in Ost-in-Edhil, larger than the hall of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, which Master Curumaiton had not liked, but Narví had insisted on building herself a proper workshop and Khalebrimbur had simply laughed and let her. Looking at the building, she could almost convince herself that the sounds of hammer blows coming from the forge off to the side were him, almost envision the way he would come running to greet her, ask her about all the things that had happened in the Dwarrowdelf since his last visit.

 

“Lady Narví!”

Narví turned, recognising Councilman Erestor, one of the staidest Elves in Khalebrimbur’s court, but also among the most efficient organizers she had ever met. Beside him strode an elf with hair of gold, armoured in gilded plate with a golden flower as his sigil, one arm casually wrapped around a full-faced helmet decorated with the same sigil.

“Lord Erestor,” she greeted, striving for calm. “I have an urgent question for you.”

“Lord Commander!” An Elf ran up; Narví did not recognise him, but he bore the sigil of Eregion’s Guard. She cleared her throat, annoyed by the interruption. “Princess!” the Elf exclaimed, turning to face her with a quick bow. Narví stared. It couldn’t be young Haldir all grown up, could it? It was. “The Orcs, Lord Commander, they’re coming closer!”

“Orcs…” Narví murmured. “Khalebrimbur was right…” Shaking her head, she turned back to Erestor and the golden elf who seemed far more likely to be the ‘Lord Commander’ of whatever forces the Elves could muster than Erestor.

“How many and how far away?” the Lord Commander replied.

“Less than a day’s march, my lord,” the blonde scout said, seemingly pale, “and we counted at least two thousand Orcs; but Rusc said he counted double that further out.” Narví frowned. A day was enough to build some earthworks, but not enough to construct defences that would repel that many.

“Where is your perimeter?” she asked brusquely. “I’ve five hundred soldiers with me, and another thousand in reserve.”

“Forgive me, Princess Narví; this is Lord Glorfindel. He commands our defences.” Erestor said faintly. The name rang a bell.

“You’re the Balrog guy,” she murmured, running her eyes over his slender form. Not as good looking as my Khalebrimbur, a small voice whispered in the back of her head, but Narví ignored it with the ease of long practice. “Aye, Khalebrimbur told me the story,” she continued, when he nodded. “Didn’t you die?” Erestor winced, but Narví wasn’t going to waste time with idle politeness.

“I was returned to Middle-Earth, my lady,” he bowed. Neither was the Elf, apparently. “We have set up defences along the south and western borders of Ost-in-Edhil.”

Narví nodded, silently pleased. Practical Elves; they were few and far between, their race altogether too given to whimsy in her opinion, but when you found one, they were usually worth their weight in gold. Khalebrimbur had been practical… most of the time, at least. And when he was kept well away from Narví’s stash of uisge. He had only challenged her to a drinking contest once; she had had to carry him to bed amidst silly elven singing – though he often sang random little tunes that then tended to get stuck in her head for days. That one had been about gold, which was a surprisingly dwarven topic, but she hadn’t understood more than half of it; something about coiling gold. He had not mentioned it the next day, and Narví had never thought to ask why Khalebrimbur, who favoured silver and mithril, would be singing about gold when he was in his cups.

“Geira!” she snapped, shaking off the wave of memories. “Follow Haldir and begin creating fortifications if you can. Use whatever you can find; if it’ll give an Orc pause, I want it.” The fabarâl nodded silently.

“Move out!” Geira called, turning south. Narví had gone over the maps of the region with her already, pointing out where she remembered the weaknesses in the defences had been. Celebrimbor might have spent a lot of his life at war, but he had not expected to be fighting another one when he founded his realm, she knew. “Quick-March, double-time! I wanted to reach the perimeter yesterday, you lousy sons of petty-dwarves! Let’s go, let’s go!” she shouted, the gangbuh obediently speeding up, following the young elf back to the lines. Narví smirked. Geira was one of the best generals they had; competition to belong to one of her ten maznakkâ was fiercer than any other gangbuh under the mountain. Narví’s personal guard remained behind her.

“Miri!” Narví called next, her personal 'Udshankhuzd[1] snapping to attention immediately. Miri wasn’t quite ready to join the battle, but they were more than capable of carrying a message back to Durin and the mountain; Narví wasn’t likely to need their services with her armour any time soon.

“Narví Zabad,” Miri replied respectfully.

“Send word to Durin, he’ll want to begin fortifying the road,” Narví commanded, “if we are to evacuate as many as can be spared from the defences, they’ll need safe passage.”

“Yes, Zabad.” Miri bowed.

“Wait!” Glorfindel interrupted, making Miri stop in her tracks. “One of our riding messengers would be faster.”

“Very well,” Narví nodded; the Elf had a point. Elven horses could outrun practically anything, she knew, and Miri couldn’t ride anything larger than a pony. “Tell your messenger to say ‘barath'adad’ to prove they bear word from me if they need to pass any guard-posts.”

 

 

“My Lady… how did you know to come?” Erestor caught her by the arm, the gesture proving how shaken his calm façade really was; Elves never initiated physical contact unless they were with someone very close to them. “We had not thought… to send word to you, I mean,” he hesitated, a light glow appearing in his ears.

Narví could not keep the sadness from her face. “Khalebrimbur spoke to me,” she mumbled, “though he was not with me, I heard his voice beg me; ‘save them’.” The two Elves reared back as though struck, staring at her with more surprise than she had ever before seen in the face of an Elf. She scowled. “I’m not mad!”

“No, my lady,” the golden elf replied, “you’re not mad… it was always said that the House of Fëanor were blessed with many skills beyond the kenning of even the wisest among us… you saw his spirit, I guess?” Narví shook her head.

“Only his voice; faint and far away, but I would know Khalebrimbur’s voice among all Elves,” she said. The Elf muttered something unfamiliar to her ears in a low voice; Narví did not need to know the words to recognise it as a curse, however. “Do we know what is coming?” she asked, trying to get back on track.

“The armies of Sauron,” Glorfindel replied grimly, “he wants the Rings of Power, the ones Celebrimbor made.”

“But they were sent away,” Narví replied, frowning, “Khalebrimbur told me he sent them away; he was going to visit your Gil-Galad, he said, to discuss how to keep them safe.” It seemed so long ago, now; Narví purposely did not count how long it had really been since she had seen ‘her’ elf, watched his eyes crinkle when he smiled at her. “It was the last time I saw him.”

“The Rings had already been spirited away,” Glorfindel replied, “and Celebrimbor never made it to Lindon…” Narví blanched, but she rallied herself almost immediately, pushing away the certainty that filled her at the elf’s words. Glorfindel did not continue, but she thought she saw compassion in his blue eyes.

“Your civilians,” she said, getting control of her voice through sheer stubbornness, “send them to the Dwarrowdelf. They can escape through the Mountains, reach the Golden Wood on the other side.” Glorfindel nodded once, glancing at Erestor in a way that Narví did her best to ignore; it was the look of someone who knows they will soon be parted from a loved one by duty – someone who knew that they might not see each other again in this world. Private grief best left unspoken; she knew it well. “We can save your people only if you abandon your home.”

“I thank you, my lady,” Erestor said, forcing calm into his voice with great effort before striding off; his spine ramrod straight in a way she recognised from countless wives and husbands separated by duty. Interesting.

“Let’s talk defences,” Glorfindel said, though he, too, was staring after the dark-haired elf. “I’ve sent for reinforcements, but we must give them as much time as can be gained before we abandon this land.”

 



[1] Squire/errand-runner, not yet battle-ready, though close; a valued position usually leading to a promotion as an officer upon coming of age if the young dwarf has proven skilled enough.

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