Wingfeet: Racing across Ard-galen by Himring

Wingfeet: Racing across Ard-galen

Pengyl, the Sindarin archer, is a recurring OFC, here joined by two original characters not introduced before.

‘I fear I can run no more,’ gasped the dwarf. ‘I must halt although all Morgoth’s forces be after us.’

‘Not yet, brave friend, not yet,’ urged Imrach.

‘You have much the longer legs, Hadorian! I wish I had never left Belegost,’ groaned the dwarf.

‘What do your Sindarin eyes see, Pengyl?’ asked Imrach. ‘How much farther to the Ered Wethrin?’

‘Not much farther than your eyes, in this Angband-spawned mirk,’ replied Pengyl, ‘and not much nearer since the last time you asked.’

She kept her arrow on string, gazing anxiously backward and forward across the plain. There was every chance that they might be intercepted before they could reach Barad Eithel, as well as that their pursuers would catch up with them. As long as the dwarf could still complain, she thought he could not be entirely spent yet, but the relentless chase was telling on all of them. Her companions had already shown more endurance and speed than she could have anticipated.  Imrach was not complaining, but his worried questions betrayed his exhaustion. Pulling back scouts from the outposts had been a sensible move, under the circumstances, but now she selfishly regretted the distance between them and anyone who was not a foe.

They raced on. The dwarf had stopped grumbling; his breath was increasingly loud. Imrach had fallen silent, too. He looked haggard and hollow-eyed, under his bright blond thatch. Pengyl bit her lips, peering  ahead again.

‘Ah,’ she exclaimed, ‘riders!’

‘What, where?’

The dwarf, startled out of blind endurance, looked around wildly, clutching his axe.

‘No, no enemies, friends up ahead, coming for us!’

‘I cannot see them yet, Pengyl,’ said Imrach, but his voice was invigorated with hope.

‘They are quite some distance away yet,’ said Pengyl. ‘Don’t slow down! We don’t want to be caught just when help is in sight. Run!’

They put on a desperate burst of speed. Eventually even the others could hear the sound of hooves coming towards them.

A small troop of orcs rose from the grass before them but too late; already Pengyl could see the spear points of Fingon’s riders lowering. She shot one in the throat; the rest were trampled.

‘Well met, Pengyl!’ cried Fingon. ‘We brought spare mounts.’

‘And grateful we will be for them, we three,’ said Pengyl. ‘Except…’

She turned around, concerned.

‘Dwarf friend, can you ride?’

Chapter End Notes

At some point, I might come back and work out how the three of them got into this situation, but I strongly suspect I won't manage to write any of that before the challenge deadline.

I feel an impulse to apologize for making this race a flight, not a rescue. Even in the First Age, as we know, daring rescues do happen!