Blood and Fire by Clodia

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Hero

 

Blood and Fire

6. Hero

 

 

The darkness of Menegroth unlit was a thing of depth and silence.

Some noises came down to them from the square above, where Dior the King was fighting the son of Fëanor. Some few noises, trickling through the velvet dark. They could hear as well the more distant sounds from the site of that first battle, the vast cavern now occupied by the Noldor forces. The echoes blurred and faded into uncertain whispers. A twist of smoke crept through the stifling air.

“... mother’s eyes, child...”

Dior’s voice, distorted: “And... father’s hand...”

The clash of sword against sword rang through the stone passages. Down below, deep in the dark beyond archways honeycombing a stone glade of sculpted trees, it resonated like a distant bell.

A hint of torchlight appeared in the distance.

 

 

“How nearly I killed your father, child-king,” said the Noldo, circling on predatory feet. His shield glittered with a dazzling array of white crystals in the lantern light. A spray of blood had cut a dark path across the gleaming central star. “How nearly I stopped your mother’s whoring after thieving mortals –”

Around the square, a hiss of outrage stirred. The Noldo’s smile was wolfish.

“Kinslayer,” said Dior softly. “Even your hound would not obey you then. How nearly my father killed your brother Curufin!”

That wolfish smile vanished. The Noldo lunged.

 

 

Stone leaves trembled in the flickering torchlight. Here and there gleamed jewels that caught the flame like watching eyes.

“The faster this ends, the better,” the Lord Celegorm had said curtly. “We may have to fight our way out through the woods, if Maedhros and my brothers can’t deal with the Sindar out there. Canyator, take twenty men and go that way; Voraman, take twenty men and the other tunnel. Secure the area and find another way up through this labyrinth to that cave. And be quiet about it. Caranthir holds the command in my absence.”

Lord Caranthir himself had come hurrying across the cave. “Brother, where –”

Lord Celegorm had adjusted his battered helm. “I’m going to deal with that Dark Elf,” he had replied and strode away to the archway beyond which lay light and movement and that calm, clear voice that claimed to be Dior Eluchíl, the Sindarin child-king.

Twenty men. They knew better now than to rush fearlessly into the dark.

The path was broad and straight. They advanced cautiously, almost in silence. Amid the flame-edged shadows, the tree-carved walls of this underground forest seemed real enough to rustle in an imagined breeze. Other than the odd splash of blood on the ground, there was no sign of the Elves who had fled from the fight in the main square. Odd echoes of the duel reached them, distorted, through the stone.

“... fighting Dragons... before you were born...”

A glade of shadows and half-hidden furnishings awaited them. Pillars rose up like stone beeches, a latticework of boughs arching overhead. The scant torchlight hinted at benches and a clear pool and countless yawning tunnel-mouths, the blackness beyond almost total, delving into the labyrinth of Menegroth.

They emerged –

 

 

“And you have nothing to show for it,” said Dior, parrying effortlessly, “other than lost kingdoms and bloody hands.”

 

 

– into arrows and a flurry of action, Elves arising from the silent shadows.

Surprised, the Noldor struggled, momentarily. One of the torchbearers fell in a cascade of sparks and then a hiss of smoke, the fire doused in the churning water. Now only two torches remained alight and in the confusion of the sudden ambush it was impossible to tell how many Sindar they faced. They fought there in the spreading dark, a chaos of limbs and blood and promised death.

The brawl was brief. Soon the Sindar began to give way, falling back a step at a time towards one end of the stone glade, until they were fighting beneath an archway twined with wild roses. A white hint of lamplight could be seen in the far distance. As the Noldor pressed forwards, the Sindar line broke and they fled up the tunnel. Flushed with triumph, the Noldor gave chase.

Behind them, a handful of shadowy figures crept out into the stone glade.

 

 

The Noldo was breathing hard now, from exertion or anger. “How nearly your sluttish mother was my bride, child! I shall tell you how well I knew her in Nargothrond –”

Dior leapt nimbly aside and slid a glancing blow beneath the Noldo’s guard that made him stagger. “Have you learned nothing?” His voice was a little weary. “You waste your breath on lies. I am not so easily riled.”

 

 

The tunnel was shorter than it had seemed, perspective skewed by shadows and smoke and violence. A single lantern swung in a tapestry-hung chamber. Five exits opened into dim passageways. The Sindar had vanished.

One of the men spotted a flicker of distant movement. “Down there! Look –”

“Hold!” roared Canyator, too late.

Into the dark.

 

 

“Will you not defend your mother’s honour?” demanded the Noldo, sounding slightly incredulous. He hefted his sword.

 

 

Canyator was cursing as he loped down the twisting passage. The darkness wrapped around him, strangely pressing in this frozen forest hacked out of stone. Already more than half of his men had disappeared into the labyrinth ahead.

“Keep together!” he threw over his shoulder. “We’re looking for –”

His feet tangled with something that sent him hurtling towards the ground. Only fast reactions turned his fall into a tumble. Someone cried out behind him. The ground was wet beneath his hands. When he came to his feet again, he found that his fingers were red with blood. Nearby lay one of the makeshift torches, smouldering on the verge of extinction.

Canyator snatched it up and whirled around in search of the enemy. Green eyes glittered in the dark. Instinct took him by the throat; he launched himself into the shadows, overcome by unthinking fury, and hacked wildly until the jarring impact of hammering his sword into the wall shook him out of his madness. Amid the shards of marble leaves, a stone thrush lay slain.

An ornament. No more than an ornament.

For a moment he stood there gasping, recovering himself. The torchbearer’s still-warm body lay slumped across the passageway, a trickle of blood creeping down the nightingales inlaid in the patterned floor.

“Keep together,” he repeated when at last he could speak again, his voice cracking. The torch was beginning to gutter dangerously, giving off more smoke than light. “We need to find a way out of here.”

 

 

“From you, kinslayer?” said Dior. “Your own hound did that.”

 

 

Now they moved slowly, rediscovering caution.

Darkness lay heavy underground, between the sculpted pillars and the odd stone glade in which a lantern swung, still lit, suspended from a golden chain. Eyes glared out among unmoving leaves, watching them pass.

They had found no more of their companions alive. Their attempt to retrace their steps had somehow taken them deeper into the caves. Only luck or guidance from some captured Sinda would get them out of this labyrinth. And there were fewer of them now than there had been before. Keep together. Easier said than done. This had become a hunt through Menegroth’s stone forests.

Strange echoes still came down to them from above:

“... faithless beast...”

“... wiser than you...”

Ahead a sliver of light split the gloom just where the tunnel took a leftwards turn into darkness. A floor-length tapestry of a sunlit meadow hung askew, revealing a wooden door standing slightly ajar behind it. Canyator raised the smoking torch to command silence. His sense of danger was suddenly acute. He crept up the passage, the other Noldor a few steps behind, and kicked the door open so violently that it bounced on its hinges.

A well-lit cave lay beyond. The brief impression reached him of a cosy sitting room, elegantly furnished and apparently deserted. Then a blow from behind sent him staggering. Before Canyator could steady himself, another shove knocked him to the ground. He landed on his elbows, the carpet inches from his nose and the heat from the flaming torch searing against his face, hearing the door slam shut. Indistinct sounds of fighting could be heard from the passage outside.

The sword was kicked out of his hand. Canyator thrust the torch away and reached for his dagger, trapped beneath his body. There was no time for thought now, only for reaction. A knee between his shoulders pressed him inexorably towards the carpet. He struggled desperately, arching his back and flailing until the pressure slackened. As he broke free and scrambled to his feet, a blade flashed past his eyes and stuck quivering in a blue flower blooming against the scarlet carpet.

Smoke was drifting through the clear light. Canyator had time to see that a tablecloth had caught fire, and that the flames were reaching for the tassles of a nearby cushion. Then a flicker of movement caught his eye and he swung sideways, so that the chair brought smashing down only caught his shoulder a glancing blow. The Sinda was coming at him again, soundless, a long knife shining in each hand.

Canyator’s sword lay a little way off. He risked a lunge for it –

 

 

Light flashed on blood and steel. The Noldo fell.

That single, perfect thrust recalled Beren Camlost, laughing among the trees on Tol Galen and teaching a child to fight with willow stems. For all that Dior Aranel had inherited his mother’s starlit eyes and nightingale voice, his swiftness and elegant precision with a sword had come from his mortal father. Oropher had sparred with the one-handed Beren often enough to recognise his son’s killing blow.

The sound as the Noldo hit the ground could have levelled cities.

“I may now be held to have proven myself a king,” said Dior calmly and sheathed his sword. At his feet the lifeless face of Fëanor’s son stared up, surprised, all light and colour draining slowly from the unmarred skin. “Someone kindly remove the body to somewhere a little more appropriate. Celeborn, Oropher – what news?”

Oropher shrugged. “As expected. They wanted to outflank us on both sides.”

“And this has been prevented?”

“For now,” said Celeborn. He was a little out of breath, having taken longer and returned more hastily from inspecting his guard post, and he had removed his helm so that his hair lay fair and slick against his head. A fresh gash glistened across his cheek. “They are overconfident, as they have always been. They were easily lured into the deeper caves.”

“And are being dealt with?”

“And are being dealt with.”

Dior nodded. “Good. We must then expect a direct attack – yes, what is it?”

A Sinda stood there. Oropher could not remember his name. “The Noldo’s arms, lord – should they be placed with the body?”

“Of course,” said Dior. “We are not Bauglir’s beasts or Naugrim. We are Elves. We do not rob the dead.”

 

 

A rabbit’s glassy stare brought him back to himself.

They had fallen together into a basket of toys. The wickerwork creaked beneath the weight of two bodies, only one of which was dead. All around on the wet carpet lay the china fragments of a smashed doll’s head, spattered with blood.

He came slowly to his feet.

The dead Elf’s mouth gaped open. The helm had come away and what remained of the Elf’s face was meat and bloody bone, mutilated beyond recognition. He had struck repeatedly even after the Elf’s death, maddened by rage and animal instinct. The killing blow had almost severed the neck.

It had been so easy.

That might be the worst part, if there was ever time for regrets. So easy to lure them into the familiar tangled passageways of Menegroth. To confuse them with feigned flight and switched lanterns. To pick them off as they ran lost and heedless through the caves. It had been nothing like the earlier fighting. They had died swiftly and without warning in the dark. And that had been easy too. Nothing had held his hand from murdering other Elves.

So easy. They had died so easily. He had killed like a wolf, without qualms.

There was smoke everywhere now. The tapestries were burning.

The door swung open. “Erestor?”

“Yes.” The word came out as a whisper. “Still alive. Are they –?”

“Dead, yes. So is Ivaeron. Gwingalad may lose a hand.” Her voice was abnormally steady. She seemed oddly insubstantial in the hazy smoke. “Come on. We need to get back to Dior.”

 

 

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