Camath-en-Aran, the King's hands, are Thranduil's special forces. 

Chapter 8. Winter battles.

“They are coming. Sixty-nine orcs. Ten armed men in the rearguard.”

“I want at least one of them alive.”

The scout nodded and disappeared as silently as he had arrived. Legolas tried to follow his dim silhouette as he carried the information to the rest of the patrol.

“Let us hope that we shall succeed this time,” he whispered to Geldoron, who was crouching at the other end of the trunk that hid them while they awaited their prey.

“We shall see…” his guard answered, shifting his weight and accommodating his quiver.

Legolas nodded and turned his attention to the track before them.

Let them come, he thought coldly, listening to the orc’s stomping feet as they ascended the small hill where he had set the ambush. He looked around one last time to make sure that all of his warriors -elves and men- were well out of sight behind fallen trunks.

A cold gust dispelled the clouds shadowing the waxing moon and Legolas could distinguish two short, stocky shapes that had just crowned the hill.

Scouts, he thought, tightening his grip on his bow.  

The Orc scouts checked their surroundings diligently, but in a quick manner. They surely had expected a trap at the rim of the hilltop. They gave now the signal that meant the road was safe and advanced slowly, allowing the rest of their troop to join them.  

Still too far away, let them come up closer.  

Legolas assented to Geldoron’s expressive glance. The Cam let escape a brief hiss as the whole band reached the hilltop, the taller forms of the men in the rearguard, one towering over the others. Legolas scowled and waited in the heavy silence that blanketed the burnt forest. They had been chasing orc patrols in the southern side of the Dark Mountains for two moons, and they had still to capture any of the men helping those repulsive creatures.

Fifty paces, he pondered. Half the orc patrol was now surrounded by his fifteen elven archers, who were posted in a wide perimeter around the trail. Thirty Forest Men armed with heavy battle-axes were crouched in a ring before them, closer to the path, ready to enter the fray as soon as the archers had done their job. Legolas peered from a creak in the log. He wanted the orcs well within the circle formed by his company before letting loose the first volley. They needed good shots.

Just thirty more paces and they would be nicely caught in the midst of their net.

“Bema!” The Orcs turned in instant alert at the hoarse human battle-call, and one of the stocky figures fell with a distinct gurgling noise, a knife stuck on his throat. A Forest Man had called the attack before time, and Legolas barely heard Geldoron’s colourful dwarven curse as mayhem ensued.

“Release!” he shouted frantically, rising and shooting at the Orcs in the vanguard. Alerted by the sudden assault, the creatures had turned against the closest attackers, those at their flank, and momentarily cutting Legolas and half of his patrol off the fight. The archers had trouble finding clear targets, since the Forest Men were already fighting the orcs and thus making the elven bows close to useless.

“Leave the bows!” Legolas shouted to make himself heard over the clash of iron and the hoarse cries, unsheathing his long knives and running forward to join in the heated fighting, closely followed by Geldoron. He stabbed and sliced with precise movements, stepping upon fallen enemies and keeping an alert eye on the rest of the battlefield.

“Legolas!” One of Geldoron’s daggers blew past his face and embedded itself in the eye of an orc that was wielding an axe over Legolas’ head. He pushed a knife through the creature’s chest and then cast a quick glance beyond the crumpling body. Last time he had checked the Orc had been engaged with one of the Forest Men, who now lay in a bloodied heap two paces away.

“Over there!” His guard was pointing at a small group of orcs that was managing a slow but steady retreat to the path that led downhill. There was a tall Man among them, keeping his attackers at bay with remarkable swordfight. Legolas leaned forth and grabbed the dead Forest Man’s axe, then ran to the retreating fighters, trusting his back to Geldoron.

“Cut off their escape route!” Recovered from their momentary disconcert, his warriors were regaining their ground when Legolas approached the fleeing group shouting commands. He buried his axe in the back of a massive Orc that was about to kill a Forest Man and then had to duck to avoid a vicious sweep of the tall man’s sword. He straightened up to face this new enemy, his long knives ready, but his human opponent looked briefly behind Legolas and then turned and ran away.

“Do not shoot him!” Legolas cried over his shoulder amidst the confusing clamour as he started after the fugitive. As he cleared his path away from the battlefield, the man slashed at the side of an elf who was fighting two orcs. Legolas lunged forward in time to divert a finishing blow from one of the orcs, as the wounded Elf staggered and fell to his knees. He lost sight of the man then, as he stood defiantly over his fallen comrade, moving his long knives in a protective circle around them.

“Go after him!” Geldoron reached him then, wielding another battle-axe with a sure hand. The two orcs decided to attack at the same time, and after a brief clash one lay dead and the other jumped back with a blood-curling growl, his left arm almost sliced off by one of Legolas’ knives. Leaving the wounded orc to Geldoron, Legolas searched for the tall man, who was now at some distance from him.

He stopped briefly to assess his surroundings with a quick glance. A number of partially burnt, dead trees stood scattered upon the field. Without thinking twice, he jumped up the closest one and held tightly to its dead trunk. The tree swung treacherously but resisted his weight. Emboldened by his luck, Legolas began a dangerous race across unsteady trees, shortening the gap between himself and the fleeing man.

“Elbereth!” With a deep, sorrowful creak, a tall pine tree began to fall down slowly, definitely uprooted by Legolas’ brusque landing. Casting nervous looks around, he braced himself against the trunk, awaiting the right moment to jump off the ruined tree as it fell.

It was sheer luck that the man’s path was leading him to the vicinity of the tumbling tree, for in his urgency to steer himself off the course of its fall he did not spot the Elf perched among its naked branches. In a daring move, Legolas managed to jump on the man and push him to the ground just before the trunk hit with a thunderous crash not far from them. They rolled away in a cloud of dust and flying splinters and branches and Legolas stood on his feet quickly, ready to fight his opponent into submission. Fortunately, he was stunned by the fall so Legolas kicked his long sword out of reach and bent over to disarm him, placing one of his long knives against the half-conscious man’s throat. Once disarmed, he grabbed the bewildered man by the front of his tunic and pulled him up.

“I am not going to kill you,” Legolas said in the Common Speech. “I just want to have a long conversation,” he added, pushing the man’s arms to his back roughly and turning him around.

Legolas perceived the soft sound of a bowstring played by deft fingers right before he heard the dull thuds that made his prisoner start twice and then slump heavily against him with a guttural groan.

“What on…” The man was suddenly a dead weight, and as he let go of him Legolas saw a couple of arrows protruding from his still chest.

“Drop that! Now down, on your knees!”

He looked around wildly, his bow instantly nocked as he faced the place whence the shots had parted. Geldoron was already there, fifty paces to Legolas’ right, the axe-blade reflecting the now brigth moonlight as it rested against one of their human allies’ throat. With a quick glance at the battlefield Legolas noticed that the fight was over, so he shouldered his bow and walked to them. He met Geldoron's gaze and caught the brief message that his guard sketched in their hand-language. The one who gave the wrong signal. Legolas nodded almost imperceptibly. He thought he had recognized him, even at that distance.  The man cast nervous looks from Geldoron to the axe to Legolas’ impassive face.

“Release me! You cannot kill me,” he demanded arrogantly. “I am an ally, and my men are all around!” he added frantically, unnerved by the silent, expressionless elves.

“Why do you think we would do such a thing?” Legolas asked with polite curiosity, coming to stand calmly before the kneeling man.

“Well…he has his axe against my throat...” The man sounded uncertain now, confronted with elven logic while in a less than inspiring position.

“You shot twice in my direction.” 

“That man was going…”

“Geldoron is in charge of my safety, and he doesn’t like that kind of thing,” Legolas continued in a soft voice. “That man was disarmed and he was my prisoner…”

“I did not know! I could not see clearly!” the man claimed anxiously.

“So you shot him through his heart twice without really seeing your target…” Legolas shook his head. “I am not sure whether to praise your aim or my fortune,” he added thoughtfully. “You could have shot me instead…” The man opened his mouth again, but the cold glitter in Legolas’ eyes made him reconsider his options. He bowed his head and waited.

“Belthôn!” Legolas’ second was inspecting the orc’s corpses not far from them.

“Captain.” He did not even glance at the kneeling man, and Legolas understood that he too had identified the responsible for the untimely battle call. “Four dead, Forest Men; six wounded, most minor,” he reported soberly. Legolas nodded.

“Disarm this one and set him to help dispose of the corpses. Keep him under custody,” he said, stepping back to allow the man to stand while his second relieved him of his quiver.

“You have no right!”

“You are a risk to my patrol.” At Legolas’ signal, Geldoron lifted the axe. The man was torn between exasperation and anger, but he had the good sense of surrendering his weapons to Belthôn. With a stern gesture, the elven officer urged him back to where the rest of the warriors were taking care of the wounded and the dead.

“Come, have a look at this,” Legolas waved to Geldoron, walking back to the fallen man. Geldoron squatted beside the corpse and searched it briefly. He looked up worriedly and Legolas nodded.

“I thought there was something familiar in him,” he sighed, unclasping the Lórien brooch and handing his cloak to his guard. “We are carrying him with us,” he said resignedly. Geldoron nodded, unfastening his own cloak and beginning to wrap up the dead body with sure, practiced movements.

Legolas watched as his guard found a pair of spare bowstrings in the dead man’s belt pouch and proceeded to fix the cloaks with them. As he knelt down to help Geldoron, he noticed that his own tunic was bloodstained and shredded in those places unprotected by his leather jerkin. He searched himself incredulously, only to find that he was covered in scratches and cuts.

“Did you fall from the tree?”

“The tree fell…and I was up,” Legolas corrected, glaring at his guard and noting the various different places where he hurt.

“Uh…I see…That is an interesting tale.” Geldoron was fighting to hold back his mirth. “Thranduil is going to love that. Give me a hand, will you? This fellow is quite heavy,” he groaned, lifting the men’s feet.

The day had come and was almost gone by the time Legolas and his patrol approached their camp. They had taken care of the corpses while their wounded rested and gathered their strength for the trek back. A thick column of smoke was still visible behind them as they trudged in dull silence across the irregular, dismal terrain in the southern skirts of the Dark Mountains.

“Let us hope that the rest have been more fortunate,” Geldoron grunted, bringing out his waterskin and giving a long draught.

“I would be very surprised to find out that they were not,” Legolas retorted dryly.

It was getting dark by the time they reached the already busy camp. Three of the patrols had arrived before them, and another one was yet to return. A group of rested warriors immediately took care of the wounded elves and their tired companions and, at Geldoron’s indication, of the wounded Men as well.

”I must see Mallereg,” Legolas told Gelirben, his nephew’s aide, as soon as he caught sight of him.  

“What happened to you, Legolas?” the officer asked teasingly. “You look as if you had fallen from a tree…You did!” he laughed at the dark look that Legolas shot his way. “Mallereg is in the Forest Men’s camp, but if it is so important…” he added, suddenly sobered by the sight of one of their human allies being led in custody. “Come.” He beckoned them to follow him.

They ran into Thalaûr right at the edge of the Forest Men’s camp. Mallereg’s keeper was leaning on a tree-trunk, looking distinctly displeased.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Geldoron inquired, raising his brows at the scene before them. Gelirben chuckled ironically.

“Where would be the fun, if it weren’t?” he observed. “I’ll go tell him that you are arrived,” he added quickly, catching the filthy look that Thalaûr shot his way.

They watched as Gelirben walked towards a torch lit circle in their allies’ camp where two warriors were exchanging powerful blows with their axes, encouraged by a noisy crowd. The dull sound of iron against the wooden shields could be heard over the cheers. One of the fighters -a tall and burly man- wielded a long battle axe with amazing easiness, dealing a series of heavy blows against his opponent, a slender shape Legolas soon recognized as his nephew’s.

“Not bad,” Geldoron observed approvingly as Mallereg withstood the assault as best as he could. “With some more practice he could be an entertaining sparring partner, what do you say, Thalaûr?” he joked, patting the obviously annoyed guard.

Gelirben waited among the throng until it was safe to interrupt the fight. Mallereg did not even look in their direction. He exchanged vigorous arm grips with his opponent and walked briskly to where they waited, clasping Legolas and Geldoron’s arms with apparent relief.

“Good to have you back,” he whispered as they all walked back to their own camp. “Is Megorlas returned?” he asked Gelirben.

“Not yet, but they are not expected until morning…”

Mallereg looked worried. “What news, Legolas?” he urged his uncle.

Legolas began to recount the eventful ambush as Geldoron led the way to the place were they had left the corpse. Mallereg listened intently but he did not make any questions until they reached a rough shelter made out of piled logs that was usually used to store supplies.

“What about the men fighting alongside the orcs?”

“There were ten,” Legolas said while Geldoron went down to remove the cloaks from the corpse. “Nine were the usual kind; short, sturdy men most probably from Rhûn, but the tenth…”

A chorus of amazed gasps cut his words as Geldoron stood back, allowing them to see the dead man’s face.

“He wore this,” Legolas added. Mallereg studied carefully the belt with the iron buckle, silver-inlaid with the emblem of the spiny circle; a symbol wore by the chieftain of one of their allied human hosts. The same that showed too on the dead man’s horn-hilted daggers and on the leather pouch containing his whetting stone. He frowned.

“Where is the man now?”

“Under custody. Demech and Maerlag are keeping him,” Gelirben informed, giving to Thalaûr the dead man’s possessions, which Mallereg had just passed onto him.

“Have him brought here, Gelirben.” Mallereg turned his attention to his uncle. “How many injured, Legolas?” he asked in a softer voice, trying to keep his anger under control.

“Four Forest Men dead. Three more injured, as well as three of our warriors,” he reported with a wince. It was a dreadful toll.

“I only hope that Megorlas’ patrol is safe,” his nephew confessed in a low voice. “They sent us out into another merry chase,” the younger prince continued in exasperation. “No orcs, not even traces of them...” Gelirben was back in that moment, followed by the two Camath and the prisoner, who walked between them. At a brief signal, they pushed the man into the circle formed by the elven officers.

“What is your name?” Mallereg wore the expressionless mask that so unnerved Men in their exchanges with Elves; and his voice was toneless.

“Ivor,” the man answered sullenly.

“You are one of Birger’s men.” Legolas studied the man’s face at the changing light of the nearby fires. He had been afraid, but now he looked slightly defiant.

“You already know that…”

“And you know that I am the commander of this army, and a prince of the Woodland Realm, so you could actually do with better manners, Ivor,” Mallereg said calmly, but in a voice that was colder than the sudden wind that was spreading snowflakes over the camp.

“I am one of Birger’s men, my lord,” the man answered reluctantly, after a quick glance around, crossing his arms over his chest insolently.

After such auspicious beginnings, the rest of the questioning went as it could be expected. The man refused to offer any information or to explain the presence of his own chieftain’s emblem on the dead man’s possessions.

“He was truly obliging,” Geldoron observed tartly, as the man was carried away by the other two Camath. But Mallereg was not in the mood for joking.

“Take an armed escort and go to the Men’s camps, Gelirben. Bring their leaders with you,” he said sternly. “Tell them that I demand to see them presently.” He lifted a hand to stem Legolas’ protests and continued to issue orders to his aide, who bowed and left amidst an uncomfortable silence.

“I would advise you to tread carefully, Mallereg,” Legolas said tightly as his nephew looked at him quizzically. “The Forest Men are our allies, and they are a proud people.”

“I shall keep that in mind, Uncle,” the younger prince answered seriously. “What happened to you?” he asked then with genuine curiosity, pointing at the cuts and scratches in Legolas’ tunic and face. “Did you fall from a tree?” Legolas rolled his eyes and Geldoron laughed out loud.

When the call signalling Gelirben’s return sounded, they were comfortably seated around a warm fire laughing at Legolas’ misadventures. After a quick glance, Legolas understood that Mallereg did not intend to stand up to greet the men. He plans to insult them thoroughly; he groaned inwardly, fighting back his indignation as Gelirben stood in attention before them.

“My lord, the chieftains of the Forest Men, as you ordered.”

Legolas winced. Behind Gelirben -and surrounded by four armed elven warriors- stood their allies, brought to their presence like prisoners.

“Master Esrren, Master Espen son of Esrren and Master Birger.” Mallereg’s voice was terribly cold as he studied them carefully.

The oldest of the three, Esrren, was a tall man not yet bent by age, although his long mane was snow-white. He carried himself with a dignity and an air of command that reminded Legolas of Théoden King. His son was the broad-shouldered warrior who had been exchanging axe blows with Mallereg earlier. His face was dark as he cast menacing looks at the armed guards at their sides. The third one, the one called Birger, was a bit shorter. He had a long black braid, small, intelligent eyes and a cruel smirk on his face.

He had been introduced by Esrren as a friend and ally, although the Elves could soon tell that there was no friendship lost between the two hosts of Men or their leaders. Birger’s men were as their chieftain; dark, silent, quarrelsome fellows with unfriendly faces and sullen moods. The boastful, easy-going men led by Esrren and Espen were tense and watchful in their presence. Fights were common between the two hosts, who also kept separate camps. The Elves had respected Esrren’s word and had made no inquiries about the situation, but had taken their own precautions around their human allies instead.

“I lost none of my warriors while we cleansed our side of the Mountains for a whole moon. Yet six elven warriors have fallen since we joined you in your territory.” Mallereg began in a restrained voice, addressing the chieftains of the Forest Men. “Your losses are more numerous, Master Esrren; twenty men, not counting the four you lost today.” The old man remained impassive, but his son could not hold back a start. “Master Birger’s troops have not been spared either, although his account is shorter. Eleven, I deem it to be his toll. We have not yet managed to make any prisoners, despite my precise commands, and many men fighting alongside the orcs have been spared and allowed to flee; or have been killed to avoid their being questioned, always by one or several of your warriors.” Mallereg’s voice had taken a sharp, insulting edge as he openly accused his allies. “Prince Legolas’ patrol was betrayed today by a warrior in its ranks, one Ivor, who not only ruined the ambush, causing the death of four of your warriors, Master Esrren, but also shot and killed a disarmed prisoner, risking Lord Legolas’ life at the same time. I demand an explanation,” he added brusquely. There was an uncomfortable silence, finally broken by Birger.

“What did you do with Ivor? I require that he is freed at once,” he claimed boldly.

“What do we have to do with this? This Ivor is one of his warriors!” Espen son of Esrren shouted angrily, despite his father’s calming hand upon his strong arm. “You have been a welcome guest in my father’s camp; is this how you elves honour the gift of hospitality?” the bear-like man snapped at Mallereg, twisting his powerful hands as if he planned to strangle someone. “Deal with this snake as he deserves, but do not insult my father or my warriors…”

“You spoke for this Man when we met two moons ago,” Mallereg silenced him with a reproving glare.  “You did not call him a snake then,” he added in a cold voice. “Your warrior is my prisoner,” he addressed then Birger, who stood there calmly with a cold, ironic smirk on his intelligent face. “And will be until I decide what punishment is appropriate for his offence. You can help me discern the extent of his wrongdoings though,” he continued almost casually, signalling to Thalaûr to bring forth the corpse. “Could you tell me who this man is and why would Ivor kill him?” he asked, casting a sharp look at the three surprised men as they bent forward to have a good look at the dead man’s face.

Legolas shifted uneasily upon his log, troubled by his nephew’s harsh words. He was studying intently the three human countenances, trying to discern the emotions behind them. Birger was clearly hiding something and Espen was angered by the insults, but the older man’s expression escaped Legolas’ examination. 

“He is Varkon son of Esvard,” Birger acknowledged finally, casting a last look at the corpse. “My brother.” Mallereg lifted his brows and Legolas exchanged a brief look with Geldoron. The man continued in a calm voice. “He and some of our people joined in the Dark Lord’s army, as did the Men of Rhûn. I had not seen him since the summons arrived, many moons ago.” He crossed his arms and looked defiantly at Mallereg. “Ivor killed a traitor, as our laws demand.”  Legolas caught the uncertain, nervous looks that Espen exchanged with his father.

“And pray, tell us, Master Birger, how many more traitors are out there?” Mallereg inquired, intentionally including the three men in a lazy wave of his hand.

“I will not take your insults!” the haughty man shot back fiercely, but Thalaûr’s warning glance reduced him to a grumbling silence. Mallereg studied them with a dark look upon his fair face.

“There will be no more Men in our patrols until this matter is satisfactorily resolved,” he said after a tense pause. “You are untrustworthy and disloyal. You will be escorted back,” he said harshly, pointing to Gelirben and the armed guards. “My warriors are keeping watch around your camps,” he warned the seething men.” You know their sight and their skill. Do not test them.”

“You cannot keep us prisoners!” Espen got rid of his father’s restraining hand and raised a fist in threat towards Mallereg. “I should have chopped your head off your shoulders when I had the chance!” the big man growled.

“Not that you did not try with commendable dedication,” Mallereg observed in a faint display of his dry humour. “This is for your own protection as well as for ours, Espen. You hid information from us and endangered my warriors. I would be remiss in my duty if I allowed this situation to go on unchecked. I would be honoured if you consented to spend the night in our camp, Master Esrren,” he added. Though worded as an invitation, it was clear that it was a command. The old man exchanged some quick words with his enraged son in a language that Legolas had soon related to the rolling tongue of the Rohirrim.

“As your hostage, Lord Mallereg?” the old man inquired ironically in his hoarse, heavily accented voice.

“As my guest, as are your wounded. I hope that you’ll have more information to share in the morning, Master Birger,” Mallereg said coldly to the dark-haired Man. “For your men’s sake as much as for your own.”

“You cannot threaten us, Elf,” the man spat viciously as Gelirben signalled to the elven escort. “See where it leads you, to ally yourselves with these creatures! They even despoil our dead! Where are my brother’s possessions? What shall I bring back to our old mother?” he shouted to an enraged Espen over the shoulder of an elven guard as they were gently but firmly forced to walk away.

“We shall return the body with all his belongings as soon as this matter is settled,” Mallereg promised softly, meeting Esrren’s gaze steadily. The man shrugged.

“Their mother died many winters ago,” he said with a dismissive wave.

“The gift of Men was never timelier, then. She was saved the shame,” Mallereg sentenced sharply, after pondering the information. “Escort Master Esrren to my hut, Cûthent,” he instructed in a low voice to a warrior who stood patiently by his side. “We shall join you shortly, Master Esrren,” he looked up to his guest and spoke in a respectful voice. “I must check on the wounded and Lord Legolas should better have those cuts and scratches cleaned,” he added with a brief flicker of his mischievous smile. The old man nodded stiffly and followed the guard without a word.

“Now I’ll hear what you have to say, Uncle,” Mallereg turned then to face him with a wan smile as soon as the Man was out of earshot. Legolas shook his head and shrugged.

“I offered my advice, as it is expected of me,” he said sagely. “And I shall follow your wise counsel and see to my scratches by your leave.”

“Have some dinner brought to you and to Master Esrren after that,” Mallereg said wearily. At Legolas’ quizzical look he gestured vaguely with his hand. “I do not think he will delight in my presence tonight. You, on the other side, are a better diplomat; I hope that he will open up to you if I am not present,” he admitted easily. “We need to know what is exactly going on between the two hosts, and I bet they are now willing to tell us what this all is about.” Legolas nodded.

“Take some rest, nephew, you look as if you could do with it,” he advised before walking away in search of his pack. He made short work of his superficial wounds, found a clean tunic and a spare cloak and went to one of the fires to pick a couple of bowls of whatever was swimming in tonight’s dismal stew.

“You are lucky, Legolas,” one of the warriors on cook duty smiled at him. “Fresh bread, recently baked!” he laughed, offering him a couple of plain loaves that were still warm form the cooking stone. He nodded to the guard posted before the makeshift cabin where Mallereg usually conferred with his captains until very late in the night, and entered it with a warning call.

Esrren was sitting at the rough plank that served as table and nodded courteously as Legolas placed the bowls and the bread upon the table.

“Am I to starve, then?” the old man said amusedly as Legolas studied his surroundings. Mallereg’s pack lay in a corner, beside the pile of twigs that served as mattress.

“Lord Mallereg apologizes. He will not be able to keep us company tonight, Master Esrren,” Legolas said evenly as he searched his nephew’s pack and found what he was looking for. He brought out a couple of plain wooden goblets and a waterskin. He smelt its contents and then smiled. “But he invites us to share his wine,” he added with a grin, taking seat at the other side of the table.

“If there’s no ale…” the man said resignedly. Legolas scowled minutely at this lack of appreciation. It was a well-known secret in Thranduil’s army that Lord Mallereg always managed to enjoy a generous supply of the king’s prized Dorwinion, no matter where he was posted. It was a mystery, though, how the resourceful Elf managed to talk Galion, the king’s butler, into it.

Two goblets later, Esrren was talking openly to Legolas about their conflict with Birger’s men.

“…they are descended from the Balchoth, whom we fought many generations ago. We are Sons of Eorl, the ones who remained behind, and these are the lands of our forefathers of old!” The old man gulped down the wine and Legolas refilled the goblet silently. “Some of them are good men; they keep to their side of the forest and do not meddle. But when the war began, Birger rose among them and made an alliance with the men of Rhûn and the Orc chieftains. He sent his brother, and many of his men, to guide them during the war and afterwards. He persuaded his own people with false promises and threats. They’ve been helping the orcs devastate our settlements, and so they have gained more power over us…We are a scattered, nomadic people, after all...”

“You did not talk to my father about that, when you met last spring…” Legolas stated softly.

“We thought it was over. The war was over. We thought we could deal with our own problems…but it was not so. They sheltered the surviving orcs, and sent them to raid our homes. Birger rallied more followers to his side, even among my people, claiming that you elves have confined us to a small stretch of our forest, what have right do you have, he says, and many agree, you dwindling people, to govern our forest…“

“We were here long before you arrived,” Legolas argued evenly. “But tell me, Esrren, how many of Birger’s men are out there with the orcs?”

“I do not know,” the man said thoughtfully. “They forced us to bring them to you as our allies. They are cheating you and the orcs, and they destroy our hamlets and camps if we do not play along. They allow their own men in the orc patrols escape your attacks, and when that's not possible, they shoot them to keep their machinations secret! But Birger hopes that you will sweep away the orcs, ridding him of them and leaving him free to govern us all. He has been trying to get me and my son killed, in the hopes that, leaderless, our people would then submit to them…. And some of them would, I fear…”

“What do you suggest that we should do?” Legolas asked, keeping an impassive front.

“We know where the main orc host is hiding,” the man admitted with a proud grin. “We have been leading you to the lesser bands, but their main den is still hidden. I will show you and, in exchange, you shall rid us of Birger and their people. You will be safer too…” he offered with a strange glitter in his blue, tired eyes.

Legolas sat back and studied the old man for a while, keeping his own face expressionless. “You mean kill them all?” he asked after a long silence. “How many orcs do you estimate are hiding in that den?”

“I see,” the man said with an approving nod. “We could use them to get rid of the orcs. Some of them are ashamed of their behaviour and might agree to fight with us… But not Birger and his closest friends. You should get rid of them presently,” he added with a wild grin.

“I cannot give you an answer right now,” Legolas said. “I must talk to Lord Mallereg first…” The man groaned and drank down.

“That commander of yours is rather young, isn’t he?” he asked. Legolas raised his brows slightly.

“Many times your years, I’d say,” he answered amusedly.

“Young for an Elf; I know that you people are older than what you look like…”

“Why do you say that?”

“He is so arrogant. If he had but asked. We were in trouble, we were forced to fight alongside those vermin, we expected that you powerful and wise elves would free us…We would have come to this arrangement from the very beginning…He needed not insult us. He needed not anger my son like that! Bah!” He spat to his side and wiped his mouth. “Youngsters. They think they know everything, they can judge everyone!”

Legolas sighed tiredly. He could have told the man that they had lied, and betrayed the elves’ trust. He could have told him that had Thranduil or Bôrgalas been in Mallereg’s place, they would have withdrawn their troops and cursed the unreliable men at the first sign. That the elves did not meddle in the affairs of men. He shrugged. The man was tired, and a bit drunk.

“At least Lord Mallereg offered his hut to you…” He said as he helped the man to the cot.

“As if he ever needed it,” the man said disdainfully. “It is said that you elves feel not the cold… I am old, Master Elf, and I shall accept it willingly when my road reaches its end. I am glad that I have lived to speak to you, but you are unnatural things… and you will not last long in the world of Men…” He slurred as Legolas helped him down. “You must accept your doom. You are not human, you do not belong here…” he sentenced, wrapping himself in his tattered cloak. A moment after he was snoring peacefully. Legolas shook his head. It took more than some shared goblets of wine to start down the path to understanding. It took the will and the need; and the Men had neither. And yet Middle-earth belonged to those hurried, short-lived, short-sighted creatures that struggled fiercely for a handful of sun-rounds only to see everything slip through their clenched fingers when their time arrived.

He walked out the hut. The camp was quiet, although he could see many silhouettes sitting around the fires. The dismal surroundings, the dead trees and the mourning rocks affected the Elves deeply. But strangely, that made the sea-longing calm down within him. He shook his head, discarding Esrren’s last words, and went to meet the officer in charge of the camp.

“Mallereg is checking the watch upon the men’s camps, Legolas. He’s quite edgy,” the Elf informed him, lowering his voice. Legolas took the hint and went in search of his pack. He extended his bedroll close to a bonfire and tried to find some needed rest.

He woke up in the grey hour before dawn and saw Geldoron crouching beside him.

“Come, one of Megorlas’ scouts is arrived,” his guard whispered hurriedly. Legolas jumped on his feet and followed him to a small knoll that stood in the northern limit of the camp. Mallereg was there, as well as Gelirben and Thalaûr. Demech and Maerlag were also arriving. Mallereg beckoned to them all to listen to the scout, who was pointing at the maps spread upon a rock.

“…and we found them hiding in a small dale within these ridges, as we suspected. We counted two hundred and thirty, between orcs and men; not all of them are in good shape. The Men bring them supplies from their settlements through this gorge here,” the scout was saying.  “We managed to cut this route with rocks and trunks, and Megorlas left a force lying in wait there.”

“We got them,” Thalaûr exclaimed with grim satisfaction. Mallereg nodded with a faint smile. Megorlas’ patrol had departed some days before the rest with the appointed mission of learning the exact layout of the orcs’ main den, whose location they had inferred studying the movements of the scattered bands and the places where their human scouts stubbornly refused to lead them.

“Are you sure that there is only one other way inside this dale, Olchaldir?” Geldoron asked the scout.

“I am, my lord. To the north, as well as the south, there are these tall cliffs dividing the ridges. No one could get up or down there…unless they got wings. We searched the area thoroughly. We caught three men who were heading for the orc camp. Megorlas brings them to you. They are from Birger’s people,” the scout added in a lower voice.

“They will not feel lonely here,” Gelirben commented dryly. Mallereg studied the map with a pensive look upon his tired face.

“Go and take some rest, Olchaldir, good job,” he sighed gratefully, nodding to the scout, who took his leave respectfully. As soon as the scout was out of earshot he turned to his uncle.

“Did Esrren tell you anything of interest, Legolas?” With a sigh, he offered them a succinct report of their conversation. Soon they were all laughing helplessly.

“Did they actually believe that we were that clueless?” Demech asked doubtfully. They shook their heads in disbelief. It had been plain to them from the beginning that at least one of the Men’s hosts was not reliable and that the main orc host was being hidden from them for some reason. After all, four of the Camath-en-Aran had combed the area for several moons and had managed to come up with an accurate estimation of the roaming forces.  Keeping the Men close to them had been a way of keeping track of their movements as well.

“So now he is willing to lead us to the orc’s den, and in return for the courtesy we should kill Birger and his men and rid him of the disturbance, forgetting that they betrayed us for two moons,” Mallereg summed up. “They actually expected that we would take care of their human enemies and settle their disputes?” he wondered in bemusement, still shaking his head. He shrugged and turned to his captains.

“Two hundred and thirty, my friends,” he said softly. “I shall gladly listen to what you have to suggest.”

***

Killing was a mechanical exercise, Legolas thought wearily as he walked the battlefield checking on wounded and dead with Geldoron at his back. He shook his head to dispel the sickening smell of blood. It had been a hard- fought battle, and a noisy one. The din would have chased away all birds, if there had been any left in that devastated forest, he thought sadly.

“A pity Birger was not here,” Geldoron said dryly, recognizing the face of another of the treacherous man’s warriors.

“I shall not forget Esrren’s face when Mallereg talked to him,” he answered, remembering with amusement the exchange that had taken place two days ago in their camp. Geldoron chuckled in assent.

Mallereg had sat before the leader of the Forest Men at dawn, after consulting with his captains.

“In two days we shall attack the orcs’ main camp, Master Esrren. You may either return to your settlements or fight with us,” he had informed the bewildered man calmly. Watching Man and Elf conferring, Legolas had wondered if both races had always been so different; if ever the Secondborn had actually been close to the Elves. The distance was painfully clear now, he had thought as the slender, composed, almost ethereal Elf discarded with a dismissive wave the shrewd, earth-bound, wrinkled man’s tricks, and cleverly and smoothly weaved the Forest Men’s future before Esrren’s incredulous stare.

Following the advice of his captains, Mallereg had decided to support Esrren while forcing him to take care of his own problems and making him responsible for the loyalty of all the human troops. He had escorted him to his camp and had set a guard of elven warriors to watch while Esrren’s people reduced and disarmed all of Birger’s men, from which Esrren had chosen those who would march to war with them. The rest, Birger included, had been left at camp -tied and blindfolded- under the custody of some Forest Men.

“You have forced me to do what I was fighting to avoid, Lord Mallereg,” the old man had said grudgingly.

“Times are changing for all of us; the oak may break while the reed still stands,” Mallereg had answered gravely, in a perfect imitation of Thranduil’s pompous steward. He had forced Esrren to make a move against his enemies, and that had turned the old man into a leader of his enemies’ people, too, and responsible for all of them; no longer an independent chieftain of a nomadic people.

“Your father would have packed them to their forest at the first sign,” Geldoron observed merrily, catching up with Legolas. “And I am not sure of what Oropher would have done….but this was a masterful blow, anyway.”

“Legolas!” They looked up to see Gelirben waving at them from the closer edge of the bloodied battlefield. Leaving their fellow warriors to continue that grim duty, Legolas and Geldoron walked to him.

“Come,” he urged them, a worried look on his face. “It is Mallereg.” They followed him hastily to one of the tents which had been occupied by men. Legolas put away the flap and entered hurriedly.

“What happened!” he demanded hoarsely. Mallereg was resting on the ground with a bloodied bandage across his right shoulder, eyes closed in an extremely pale face.

“They shot him down a tree,” Thalaûr groaned wildly. “He knocked himself out and has not regained consciousness since then, silly Elf...”

“He will be fine,” the healer said, checking the unconscious elf’s heartbeat once again. “Calm down, Thalaûr...he will awake shortly,” he added, nodding to them and walking out.

“I shall kill him, when he awakes,” the guard ranted, pacing the tent restlessly. Legolas knelt down beside his nephew while Geldoron tried his best to keep himself off Thalaûr’s enraged course.

“He has a thick head,” Legolas commented after a while, trying to break the tense silence.

“I know that, Legolas, I have known your family for some time,” the guard snapped.

“Well, yes, but I was remembering an occasion when Borgil was a young child and he pushed Mallereg from top of the Old Beech,” he explained with a fond smile. “We all feared that he had broken his neck, but he stood up fresh as a new leaf…” The tale made Thalaûr stop on his tracks and smile too.

“Really? Why would Borgil do such a thing?” he wondered aloud.

“Surely his elder brother managed to make him lose his patience?” Geldoron suggested with a teasing smile. A moan from the wounded elf caught their attention.

“Easy, easy, Mallereg, you are safe,” Legolas stilled him with a comforting arm on his uninjured shoulder. The wounded elf cast a tired but alert look around and nodded painfully, taking in his surroundings and the anxious faces over him.

“…Fly…” he groaned finally.

“What are you talking about? Mallereg, you foolish Elf, look at me!” Thalaûr sounded frantic. “You know where you are?”

“Borgil…He…wanted me to teach him to fly...” the wounded elf whispered exasperatedly. “He thought I could fly and he pushed me…” he breathed heavily, crying out in pain as he tried to change position. “He believed I could do anything,” he continued in a hoarse voice. “He… he trusted me wholly, Legolas,” he sighed, looking up to his uncle. “And I… I failed him,” he confessed in a broken voice, as tears began rolling along his temples. With a hopeless look around, Legolas pressed his nephew’s shoulder reassuringly as the tired elf finally let go of long-bottled guilt and pain. There was little that could be said, and they all remained there in silence, offering what comfort their presence could give to the anguished prince.

“You will not tell this to my adar, will you?” he asked hoarsely when he calmed down enough. Legolas smiled wickedly, offering some water to him and holding his head as he drank laboriously.

“What? That you fell from a tree or that you cried your eyes out all over me?” He smiled at the outraged look the wounded elf managed to throw at him. “He will have a fit of laughter at the first, and will feel greatly relieved by the second, and he is in sore need of both things,” he said softly, as he lay him down again. “So I think I shall leave the tale to you,” Legolas added teasingly, ignoring his nephew’s glare.

“Esrren and Espen are outside,” a worried Gelirben opened the flap at that moment.

“You go, Uncle, please,” Mallereg sighed. “I find that they do not like me much…”

“Make him shut up, Thalaûr,” Legolas grunted as he went out to meet the two Forest Men, who stood before the tent with an uncertain expression in their stern faces.

“Lord Mallereg is wounded, but he will recover,” he informed them. They exchanged a shy look and then Espen spoke.

“I know, he saved my life,” he said almost grudgingly. Legolas felt a cold shiver run down his spine. The silly Elf, indeed, he expected him to tell Bôrgalas that his son had died saving the life of a disloyal man? He shook his head and then blinked. The burly man was pushing his axe towards him.

“Give it to him. He is a brave warrior. I will not forget.” He turned around brusquely and walked away.

“We are leaving behind a group of our men to deal with the dead and the wounded, but we are departing now. There is much that needs to be taken care of… Are we in peace, Lord Legolas?” Esrren said in his hoarse voice.

“I think so,” he nodded. “You kept your word. That was all we asked for.”

“Then I’ll take my leave. It is said it is not good for us mortals to have deals with elves, and I now understand why. Times are changing, anyway, and only time will tell if it is for good or for bad, for your people or mine, although I surely will not see it.  Travel your path safely, Lord Legolas.” He bowed deeply and hurried after his son.

Legolas sighed and looked up. The night was drawing closer and Eärendil was sailing the late winter sky. The smells and noises, the grime and the gore of the battle, and the harsh campaign, all disappeared from his mind as he looked up to the stars.  

Suddenly, he found himself picturing Ithilien’s fragrant meadows as the upcoming spring began to pulse in the lands, brought under the wings of the sea winds. A feeling of immense joy and peace invaded him.

Times are changing indeed, he thought with a smile, looking south with renewed yearning.

TBC