Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this for me.

*******

8. Setting Plans in Motion

“What have you managed to arrange?” Thranduil asked.

His steward consulted the list he held in his hand. “As I expected, I have managed to replace the flour quite easily. Many merchants in Esgaroth sell it, and there was a good harvest this year. It will arrive tomorrow.  I have purchased more wine, although it will not be here for two more weeks. The wine-merchant is waiting for a shipment from the south and will send our share to us as soon as it arrives. We have enough wine on hand that I do not believe the delay will be a problem.”

Thranduil nodded, at the same time wondering why his steward was bothering him with these details when he usually ran the royal household quite efficiently on his own. “What of the cloth?”

Nyndir grimaced. “That is a little more difficult and is really what I wanted to talk to you about.” Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “Just as I feared, I cannot get the cloth from the merchant with whom we usually deal. His stock is exhausted. There will be no more wool until next year, and he imports the silk from the south and is not expecting more for at least three months. I can get both the wool and the silk from the other merchant, the one we no longer deal with. It turns out he has exactly what we need. I am doubtful of the quality, but even more of a concern, he is charging three times what we originally paid.”

Thranduil stared at him incredulously. “He is trying to take advantage of us.”

“Yes.” Nyndir nodded unhappily. “He evidently heard about the attack on the raft and decided he could gain from it. He sent me a message offering the cloth for sale within hours after our loss became widely known in Esgaroth.”

“I will not be robbed twice,” Thranduil said emphatically. “We will do without before we allow that.”

Nyndir hesitated. “We can probably do without the silk, my lord, assuming you and your older sons continue to use the same formal robes you have been using. Legolas has grown enough that he needs new ones, but he could probably wait three months until the new supply of silk arrives. The wool is another matter, however. It was to be made into cloaks and other warm clothing for this winter. A number of your people will go cold if we do not replace it.”

Thranduil drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Men!” he snorted. He stared at a tapestry that hung on the opposite wall, depicting the gardens of Menegroth with nightingales trilling in the trees. Mortals will do almost anything for gold and jewels, he thought bitterly. Suddenly he narrowed his eyes as a thought occurred to him. He turned back to Nyndir.

“What is this merchant’s name?”

“Cudry.” The steward tensed, evidently seeing that Thranduil had some purpose in mind but unable to guess what it was.

“Summon him,” Thranduil ordered. “Tell him I wish to speak to him about our purchases.”

Nyndir blinked. “Of course, my lord.” He opened his mouth as if to ask a question and then thought better of it. “With your permission, I will do it now.” Thranduil nodded, and the steward took his leave. For another moment, Thranduil sat, frowning down at his desk. What would his people do this winter if they could not obtain a sufficient supply of usable wool cloth?

A knock sounded at the door, and a servant opened it. “The mid-day meal is ready, my lord.” Thranduil rose and made his way to the small dining room, where he found Ithilden, Legolas, and Mithrandir waiting for him. Legolas was just stowing his quiver of crested arrows in one corner of the room. Today was the day he was supposed to use the arrows he had made in his archery class, and he had evidently gotten home late and had no time to put his gear away before he ate. He had been admonished about being late for meals before and no doubt did not wish to be scolded again, especially with Mithrandir present.

“How did you do with your arrows, Legolas?” Thranduil asked, when they had all seated themselves and the servants had placed the food on the table and withdrawn.

Legolas scowled. “We did not have an archery class today. Penntalion had to do something with the novices, so we had an arrow hunt instead.”

Thranduil could not suppress a smile. “I thought you enjoyed arrow hunts.” All of his sons had enjoyed the days when the weapons’ masters hid arrows and sent the students to find them with a series of clues.

“I do, but I wanted to use my arrows, and now we will not have archery again until the day after tomorrow.”

“They will keep,” Thranduil said peaceably. He looked at Ithilden. “Has something happened with the novices to draw Penntalion away?”

Ithiliden smiled. “I believe the oldest group had what Penntalion considered an unsatisfactory lesson yesterday. They were learning the error of their ways today.” Thranduil nodded. The masters who taught the elflings also worked with the novice warriors, and the novices’ needs usually took precedence.

“I gather you have weapons training in the mornings and lessons in the afternoon, Legolas,” Mithrandir said.

“Yes,” said Legolas, spooning up stew with a gusto that suggested that the treasure hunt had at least sharpened his appetite. “I am studying Elu Thingol.”

“Ah,” said Mithrandir. “A complicated king.” Thranduil toyed with his bread. His own memories of Doriath were such a mixture of wonder and pain that he had always found it difficult when his sons studied it.

“I learned about Thingol before when I was small,” Legolas said, “but now I am reading about him again, and really, I do not think he was very nice to Beren.”

“He loved his daughter,” Mithrandir said, “and did not wish to lose her.”

“Yes, but she loved Beren,” said Legolas, “and also my book says that Thingol wanted the Silmaril with him day and night. That seems greedy to me.”

Thranduil frowned. “Thingol was not a Dwarf or a Man, Legolas. He did not covet the Silmaril for its worth; he loved it for its beauty and the light of trees within it.” Really, what was Legolas’s tutor letting him read?

Legolas looked as if he would say more but contented himself by scooping up his last spoonful of stew and looking longingly at the tureen of it that sat in the center of the table. Thranduil beckoned for him to pass his bowl to the head of the table and gave him another serving.

“Is there really such a difference between becoming too attached to gold and too attached to a beautiful jewel?” asked Mithrandir thoughtfully. “Elu Thingol’s love of the Silmaril was certainly disastrous for his realm.”

Thranduil pressed his mouth closed. He had no wish to argue with a guest, and he never talked about the ruin of Doriath if he could help it. For a few moments, they all ate in silence, before Ithilden spoke, in what was, to Thranduil, an obvious attempt to change the subject.

“Did you see any of the Woodmen when you were on the western side of the forest, Mithrandir?”

“I visited one village,” Mithrandir said. “All the talk was of the departure of the Éothéod for the grasslands to the south.”

Legolas looked up from his meal. “What are the Woodmen like? Are they kind people?”

Mithrandir smiled at him. “They are much like your neighbors in Esgaroth, and I would say they are kind when they can afford to be.” Legolas frowned slightly.

“They are fierce fighters when they need to be too,” Ithilden said. “Living that close to the Misty Mountains, they have had to defend themselves with increasing frequency. And like the Men of Esgaroth, they are friendly to us.”

“Down through the Ages, Men and Elves have often been allies,” Mithrandir said approvingly.

Thranduil suddenly recalled Elrond’s prophecy that a Man would play an important role in the last events of the Age. He sighed. Men were a puzzle sometimes. One always had to judge them each separately, for they were a far more mixed lot than Elves. Suddenly, he thought of Doriath again and grimaced. In all truth, he supposed that Elves were not always so straightforwardly noble either.

***

Legolas trotted down the path toward Turgon’s cottage, clutching the skin of cider and the loaf of bread he had been able to beg from the cooks after his lessons. They had joked about how hungry he was these days, and he did not know how much longer he was going to be able to keep up the pretense that he was eating all this food himself. As he emerged into the small clearing where Turgon’s cottage stood, he saw Amdir running around in front of the cottage on the opposite side from the empty one, the cottage in which the wounded raft Elf lived. The Elf sat on a bench near his front door listening to Amdir’s chatter.

“This is my sword,” Amdir said. “A boy lives next door to me. He is a warrior, and I am too. We are going to fight Orcs together.”

“That will be nice,” said the raft Elf, dodging the stick as Amdir waved it too close to him.

Concealing his dismay, Legolas waved to the Elf and darted around behind Turgon’s cottage to find his friend just emerging from his back door. Legolas skidded to a halt. “I thought you would be with Rodda,” he murmured, keeping his voice low.

“I was working on my arrows,” Turgon scowled, “but I have decided I do not care if they are finished or not.”

“You have two more days,” Legolas offered.

“I do not care,” Turgon said emphatically.

Legolas sighed, once again feeling a stab of pity for Turgon. “Have you given Rodda any food at all today? I was so late getting home after the arrow hunt that I did not have time to bring him any then.”

“No, I have not been to see him yet today either.”

Legolas bit his lip. Rodda must very hungry. They hurried through the trees to the cottage where the boy hid and entered to find Annael and Rodda in the sleeping chamber. Legolas immediately handed over the food and the cider, and the boy’s face lit up.

“I am sorry I did not bring it sooner,” Legolas apologized. He dropped to the floor next to Annael and watched Rodda tear into the bread.

Annael turned to Turgon. “Did you finish your arrows?”

“No! Stop talking about them!”

Annael and Legolas exchanged looks and then both of them shrugged. “Turgon, on my way here, I heard Amdir telling your neighbor that a boy lived next to him,” Legolas said.

They all turned startled faces toward him. “No,” Rodda breathed.

“The neighbor was not listening to him,” Legolas assured him, “but I am getting worried. I do not think we can hide you forever, Rodda.”

“I can’t go back to Esgaroth,” Rodda protested.

“But today, my brother was talking about Men who live on the western side of the forest,” Legolas said. “And I thought that maybe you could go and live with them.”

There was a moment’s silence while they all considered that suggestion. “How far is it?” Rodda asked.

“Pretty far,” Legolas admitted. “I looked at the map during my lessons, and it is at least fifty leagues to the forest edge and then you would have to find a village.”

They all thought about that. “The forest is dangerous,” Annael ventured, his brow puckered in worry.

Rodda drew a deep breath. “I can do it,” he said stoutly. “I have a knife and my bow.” Legolas looked sideways at the quiver with its three lonely arrows. Rodda chewed his lower lip. “I think it would be better, though, if I did not wear my uniform.” He looked at them hopefully.

“I have extra clothes,” Legolas said slowly. He had many more clothes than his friends did. If he gave a few of them to Rodda, he did not think they would be missed. “I can bring them tomorrow morning. I will try to come before training if I can, although you probably should not leave until it gets dark.”

“He will need food for the trip too,” Annael said.

Legolas and Turgon both nodded. “I will bring extra when I come,” Turgon said.

“Me too,” said Legolas. For a wild second, he wondered if it would be possible to steal a horse, but he knew immediately that that would cause a great deal of trouble, and a horse would be hard to hide if Rodda had to conceal himself in the forest. He tried not to think about everything that could happen to Rodda, alone in the forest. Rodda had to leave. What else could he do?

***

From behind a boulder, Eilian watched the mouth of the cave in which the Orcs had taken shelter from the sun. Elladan crouched at his elbow. “It will be dark soon,” he murmured.

“I know,” Eilian said. He had gone over his plan with Maltanaur, the twins, and the three Men, and he knew that they all understood what they were to do. It was time for everyone to get into position. He started to slip further away from the edge of the ravine to where the others waited, but Elladan stopped him.

“Remember that the Men’s eyes will become more easily confused in the dark,” he warned Eilian. “I know you want us to begin the battle with our bows, but they may have an easier time with swords, which allow them to be close to their enemy.”

“There will be time for sword work,” Eilian said grimly. “But we will reduce the odds against us as much as possible first.” Elladan shrugged but said nothing further, so Eilian assumed he had made his point.

They reached the little group hidden among the trees, standing with their bows in hand. One of the Men was pacing a little. They had all rested as much as they could during the day, but they were alert now, their postures tense, their minds on what was to come. “It is time,” Eilian announced. “Lared, you take Arend and go that way. Elladan, you and Elrohir go the other way. Be sure to keep far enough down the ravine that you will be ahead of the Orcs that emerge first.” They were all on the move before he had finished speaking.

Eilian motioned to Maltanaur and Drecan, and they spread out to either side of him and stationed themselves, sheltered behind rocks on the edge of the ravine, a little way down it, but still within sight of the cave. With his bow in hand and arrow fitted to the string, Eilian settled down to wait. Suddenly aware of tension in his shoulder and diaphragm, he deliberately loosened his muscles. He would shoot better if his body was relaxed.

He scanned the ravine but could see no one moving. That was good, he supposed. The absence of trees in the ravine had made one decision easy at any rate: They would all fight from the ground, but he hoped that the elevated position of the ravine’s edge would still give him and his warriors an advantage. The Orcs would have to shoot them or come charging up the side of the ravine, and that would be slow. They would be easy targets if he and the others had enough arrows.

The evening light gradually faded, until it reached a point that Eilian recognized as dark enough. His fingers twitched on his bow string, as he concentrated on the cave mouth, willing the Orcs to emerge. And as if he had caused it, an Orc lumbered out into the open, scratching at his side. Then a second and a third followed. Eilian controlled his slightly quick breathing and counted. He wanted all of them out of the cave and a little away from the entrance before his warriors attacked. He did not want to have to order anyone to go into the cave to dig out an Orc, and he certainly did not want to have to do it himself.

The Orcs milled around in front of the cave entrance, kicking at stones and speaking gruffly to one another. One of them laughed, and a chill ran down Eilian’s spine, even though he had not been able to make out what the Orc’s companions had been saying. Then a larger Orc emerged, barked an order, and waved his hand to send them off to Eilian’s right, on their way to their night’s work.

From the corner of his eye, Eilian could see Drecan shift his weight, apparently eager to use his bow lest these creatures escape. Eilian fervently hoped that the Men and the twins would hold their positions as they had been told to do. He continued counting. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. He all but crowed with relief. Now! He sounded a piercing bird cry and rose to his feet with his bow already drawn and his arrow aimed at one of the Orc archers. The shaft flew through the air to land in the creature’s neck. For a second, the Orc stood, as if too surprised to acknowledge that he was dead, and then he crumpled to the ground. The Orc leader shouted, and the rest of the seemingly paralyzed band dove for cover.

Eilian took a second shot and then dropped back from the edge and ran to his right to take up another position. Even Orcs were capable of shooting an archer who shot from the same place time after time. He slid behind another rock to see a second Orc’s body draped over a rock with Maltanaur’s arrow in his chest. An unfamiliar arrow missed an Orc who was sheltering behind the same rock. Drecan’s, Eilian thought, and wondered fleetingly if Elladan had been right and the Men were going to have real problems shooting in this light. Already, the scene in the ravine was confused by the dark, the Orcs’ unpredictable movements, and the dust they had kicked up.

Now he could hear the Orc captain’s orders. “Go! Up the hill! After them!”

To Eilian’s great satisfaction, the Orcs hesitated for only a second before they came roaring up the side of the ravine, zigzagging to make themselves more difficult targets and seeking whatever cover they could find as they came. Eilian sounded a second signal, and then shot another Orc archer, watching all the while for movement to either side in the ravine.  And then, he heard rather than saw Lared and Arend charging in behind the Orcs from the left, cutting off any retreat to the cave. Three Orcs jerked around toward them, only to fall to the arrows of the sons of Elrond, who had approached in deadly silence from the right.

Eilian’s heart leapt in a moment of vicious joy. The Orcs were caught among three sets of archers, and no matter which way they turned, they were leaving their backs exposed. He shot again.

The scene below became even more chaotic as the Orc leader shouted frantically, trying to group his warriors with their bows all turned outward, but panic had already seized them in its gut-wrenching grip. For an instant, they wavered, torn between fear of their captain and terror at the death they saw sailing toward them from the bows of their enemies.

Then one of them made a break for it, running toward the exit from the ravine, which unfortunately for him, lay behind Elladan and Elrohir. The twins sent a pair of arrows into his face. The other Orcs were apparently too frightened to care. Despite the shouts of their captain, they began to run after the first one and simply ran faster when he fell.

Suddenly, Eilian paused in his rapid loosing of arrows, for an unexpected sound had reached him: the clank of swords. He turned his head and to his dismay saw that the sons of Elrond had charged headlong to meet the fleeing Orcs. For a second, he stared, fascinated by their whirling, lethal movements. They were so fast that their swords were only a blur.

Then he swore, shouldered his bow, and sounded the signal that would send them all into the Orcs with swords drawn. They could not risk using their bows with the twins in the middle of the band. He drew his sword and scrambled down the hillside to run its tip into the back of the nearest Orc, jerking it free when the Orc fell. The stench of black blood filled his nostrils. Beneath the raised arm of another Orc warrior, he caught a glimpse of Elladan and Elrohir, standing back to back and echoing one another’s movements in a cold, eerie, fatal dance. A sudden spurt of gleeful rage erupted in his gut, and he ducked under the Orc’s arm, wrestled him close, and shoved the tip of his sword into the Orc’s belly.

He had been aware of Maltanaur moving like a shadow beside him, watching his back, and now he saw the three Men sprinting into the fray. Lared nearly collided with an Orc but whirled aside at the last minute and slashed his sword across the Orc’s throat with a ferocity that surprised Eilian. Good, he thought grimly and then brought all his concentration to bear on his enemy.

Within minutes, the battle was over. Eilian stood for a moment, panting, with his sword arm hanging in exhaustion and his heart still pounding with the fever of battle. He drew a quavery breath. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed a battle that much, he realized a little uneasily.

He turned to find Maltanaur nearby, watching him. “Are you all right?” his keeper asked.

“Yes,” Eilian breathed. Then he took another deep breath and marched across the blood soaked ground to where Elladan was wiping his sword in the grass, with Elrohir standing beside him. “What was that about?” he snapped.

They turned to him, their faces impassive. Elladan raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Do you not care if you live or die?” Eilian demanded. “Because even if you are willing to meet Namo now, I am not. My little brother would be most unhappy if I were to go home dead, and I would not be pleased about it myself!”

“Are you suggesting that we somehow endangered you?” Elrohir asked.

“You engaged with swords when we could have continued using bows!”

Elladan glanced at Eilian’s quiver. “You have two arrows left,” he said dryly.

“Exactly!” cried Eilian. “I could have killed two more Orcs before any of us had to go near them.”

“You are very sure of yourself,” Elladan observed, “but the Orcs were escaping, and the Men were having trouble seeing their targets. There were not so many of them left that engaging was foolish, and surely Elrohir and I were the only ones in any danger.”

“The Orcs were going nowhere that we could not find them,” Eilian cried, “and I am sure of myself for a reason. Moreover, let me tell you something else: I have been where you are now, and, in the long run, it occurred to me that I was being a selfish ass. Is your family ready for more loss? I assure you that mine was not! Your naneth has chosen to try to heal, to be happy again. You might consider doing the same.”

His eyes flashing, Elladan took a single step toward him, and Elrohir grabbed his brother’s arm. “You are presumptuous,” Elladan said coldly.

Someone touched Eilian’s arm lightly, and he glanced aside to see Maltanaur. “What is it?” Eilian snarled.

“The Men are ready to explore the cave,” Maltanaur said.

Eilian suddenly realized that he was shaking. He looked over Maltanaur’s shoulder to see Lared, Drecan, and Arend watching him. Arend was bleeding from a wound to his left arm. “Is anyone else hurt?” Eilian asked, trying to steady himself. Maltanaur shook his head. “Then we will go in,” Eilian said and led the way to the cave without a backward glance at the twins.

Although he was sure that all the Orcs had come out of the cave, Eilian flattened himself on one side of the entrance while Maltanaur did the same on the other, and they both went in with drawn bows. We might as well make use of our remaining arrows, Eilian thought grimly.

The cave stank of Orc but it was empty, just as he had expected. At least, it was empty of living Orcs, but the signs of their presence were scattered around the den. Eilian immediately saw the remains of the deer the Orcs had killed the previous night, and other bones, too, had been kicked into corners. The Men immediately began searching through them, and Eilian was happy to leave them to it. He was still shaken by his reaction to the twins, who now moved to help the Men. They had frightened him, but in truth, he had to admit that even more, he had frightened himself. He had thought he had left the deepest degree of battle frenzy behind him. I am not like that any more, he vowed fiercely. I will not be.

Lared stooped to pick up a belt, with a sheathed sword still attached. “This is Jossa’s,” he said sadly. “The attack was so sudden that the poor fool never even had time to draw his sword.” He sighed. “His wife will be grateful for it, I suppose, although it’s a poor substitute for a living husband.” He nudged a scattering of bones with the toe of his boot. “I think she will be better off without these,” he said soberly.

“I see no sign of the boy,” Drecan said.

Eilian blinked. “Boy?”

Lared nodded. “Yes. The lad had just turned twelve and was finally old enough to squire for his father.”

Eilian’s stomach lurched as he suddenly realized that one of the missing Esgaroth “soldiers” was a child. What in Arda were Men thinking to allow such a thing? And then another thought froze him in place. How would he feel if it were Legolas’s body lost to a band of Orcs? If he had not understood the Men’s preoccupation with finding the missing bodies, he thought he understood it now.

“His poor parents,” Maltanaur murmured.

Lared shook his head. “His mother died last winter, and his father was one of those killed in the attack. There’s no one waiting for him, and I suppose that’s a kind of blessing anyway.”

“Do you have what you need?” Eilian asked, and Lared nodded. “Then we should retrieve what arrows we can and be on our way,” Eilian said and led the way from the cave. He was sick of grieving families and sick too for this child who had no one to grieve for him. He wanted to go home.

As he began gleaning arrows, Maltanaur came up beside him. “The attack went well,” he murmured. “We have what we came for, and the Orcs are dead.” He glanced over at the sons of Elrond, who were searching for their own arrows. “Let them be, Eilian. They are old enough to work this out for themselves. And even if it takes them a while, that does not change the fact that you have chosen to go on with your life.”

Eilian nodded but said nothing. Perhaps the fury of the twins belonged to them and not to him, but he had felt its alluring embrace. Maltanaur was right. He needed to leave them alone.