Hytorax Part 2

[Arat-Falathion]

They soon realized that this underground passage was a maze of corridors, perhaps a labyrint. Iriana could not leave the thought that perhaps only one of these corridors lead to the exit. All the others could lead to a certain doom.

"Footsteps." Fimbren whispered. Again, he had taken the lead, running a few feet in fron of the others. They decided to follow them, certainly they would not lead right into a trap, or... hopefully they wouldn't...

[Mathron]

"How long will it take?" Bearcore's eyes were hard and maddened with blood-rage and anger... but also, on the edges, filled with a desperate hope.

"Long? Not long at all. Not compared to the ages bound to the curse. The centuries of imprisonment, the aeons of hatred. No, not long at all."

Harnauro's thoughts held their own fill of suffering, remembering how long he had paid the price his curse demanded, in blood and in pain. How long before he found the will to resist it, to force the curse to stand as part of him, not as master.

He saw Bearcore eying him warily, and continued explaining. "Your curse, like mine, cannot be broken by mortal means. But what you can do is learn to fight it - to be free of its mastery, and the mastery of those who placed it upon you.' He paused, and then looked back at Malagar, who nodded wearily.

"How long? Maybe merely minutes. Maybe days. I can show you how to begin, but the rest shall be up to you, and the strength of your spirit. It will be painful. It will be agony. It will feel like passing through the fires of death. But you will be free."

Bearcore let loose a low growl, and Malagar and Harnauro drew themselves back, ready for danger. Bearcore's reply blazed out them, filled with all the anger that held it together. "Then join your spirit to mine, and show me my freedom! But should you try to trick me, little dog, I shall rend the life from you!"

Harnauro growled back, and paced closer once again. "Then we begin now."

---

Malagar let himself fall to a rest against the building's wall. His breath was harsh and deep, and blood freely ran down his side. Not far away, he could feel the spirits of Harnauro and Bearcore, with Harnauro showing the other accursed figure how to fight against the Shadowland's curse - and fight against the hatred and anger that bound him.

The 'instruction' was a terrible thing to sense, a spiritual combat between the figures and themselves. Yet Malagar knew that Harnauro, more than any, could help Bearcore find the way.

Malagar smiled to himself. He hadn't know, when he had headed here, whether his plan would work. Whether Harnauro would know what Malagar wanted him to do. Whether Harnauro would be willing.

He never should have doubted. A single glance, a single word, and Harnauro had shown his willingness to aid Malagar. To aid his friend.

"Friendship..." thought Mal, "Such a strange thing. It has been... difficult to understand. To know how to attach oneself to others. Others that may die, and fade away, and leave an immortal alone once more. I had sworn off friendship long ago, and only rediscovered it. And now..."

His thoughts were shattered as he broke into a coughing fit. He held one hand against his mouth until it passed, and drew it away, wet with blood. His breath struggled, raggedly, from his throat, and grew shallower. Every gasp of air was more difficult than the last.

Slowly Mal closed his eyes. The spirits of Harnauro and Bearcore continued to wage their internal battle, and Mal felt Bearcore slowly breaking free of the terrible darkness that cloaked his soul. "That's good," thought Mal. "Another soul free from darkness. Free to choose its own path. Free to find its way in life."

A smile slowly spread across Malagar's face as he sank against the wall, his thoughts spiraling down into darkness. Though his form grew still and silent, the smile remained upon his face long after.


---

Aasinav stood in his chamber, putting on his finest outfit. Like the rest of his outfits, it was not much more than a simple robe of grey. But the material was elven made, and fine as silk. He did not wear it often - but with the battle coming, after all, he should look his best.

He glanced at the side of the room. His Shadow emerged through the wall and rejoined with him, and he felt its memories transferring into his own. There was a brief disorientation - and then he smiled.

It looked like his old companions had come at last.

[Lief Erikson]

The massive Great Orc general, General Hankra, was mounted on his massive warg. He was covered from head to toe in heavy plated battle armor, jagged with ripping spikes built into the edges of the plates. A large broadsword was clasped in his gauntleted right fist.

His men and orcs were all about him. The human servants would fight and die first. The orcs would suffer fewer casualties. The forces were arranged as they were because the humans were all expendable, while the orcs would remain loyal, no matter what.

Hankra glanced at Dagankor, feeling pride and a great burst of pleasure filling his heart. Soon the blood of humans would fill his mouth, cover his armor and sword.

The black robed Shadowhand leader was sitting quite calmly on a gray horse. He was staring ahead of himself, at the banners of the enemy leaders. At the banner of the king of Enedwaith.

"I'll hang his head from my warg, after eating the rest," Hankra assured Dagankor, his voice rasping out from beneath his helmet.

His long, black tongue slithered over his yellow, powerful fangs.

Dagankor glanced up at him, briefly, as though hardly noticing. "What? Will you? Oh yes, yes. Well . . ." he said, a slight smile flickering across his face. "Maybe."





The armies were facing each other. The human lines of the Shadowhand's army were beginning to advance, their feet tramping across the parched, ash strewn earth.

Vahatres was seated on his charger several paces ahead of Athalt, watching the approaching line, considering the range of his archers.

Athalt watched the same thing. He saw the steel helmets, the broad, thick woolen tunics that covered coarse chain mail ring shirts.

Athalt watched them sharply, tensely. Then he stopped.

A shiver of fear coursed down his back, as he felt a pair of unfriendly eyes staring intently at his back.

He twisted around in the saddle, looking behind him, into the ranks. The feeling was gone. Everything was as it should be. Behind him were several knots of waiting soldiers. Among them several servants, boys running up and down the lines with quivers of arrows. A few wagons being drawn by horses, moving toward the line. A patch of dark elms, and two more knots of soldiers, standing with their battle axes held loosely, leaning against them. Four more men at arms, hurrying up toward the front.

There were the faces of the soldiers. Rough faces with grizzled hair. Sharp hazel eyes. Anxious bodies, tense with adrenaline and fear.

Nothing unusual. Nothing unusual in this scene.

Athalt turned slowly back, rotating in the saddle again toward the front lines.

Yet something was wrong.

Athalt felt his hair standing on end as he twisted hastily around, a feeling of cold fear beginning to course through his insides.

"Your majesty," he said, quickly. "Sire . . ."

Vahatres was ignoring him, all his attention focused upon the archers' range.

Something was deadly wrong. It was coming. Athalt sensed it, sensed it in his bones. He turned his head desperately from one direction to the next, seeking it out.

Several knots of waiting soldiers. About twenty servants, boys running up and down the lines holding quivers of arrows. A few wagons a dozen yards from him. A patch of dark elms, and two more knots of soldiers, standing with their battle axes held loosely . . .

What were wagons from the baggage train doing in the front line?

Athalt looked more keenly. He saw the face of the driver, difficult to perceive because he was hunched over in his seat. The man's hand was drifting down to grip the canvas cover over the wagon's interior . . .

"STOP THERE!" he shouted, reaching down to whip his sword from his sheath.

"FIRE!" Vahatres bellowed.

Athalt heard a sound like a might wind rushing up about him, as arrows hurtled out, speeding toward the throats and heads of their deceived countrymen.

Then a more ruthless sound.

The wagon driver's face turned up to Athalt, and his eyes locked with his. The driver's eyes were dark, and within them was a fathomless hatred.

"Dagankor's plan is complete," the man told him, quietly.

He ripped back the canvas covering.

[Mathron]

Try as they could, the party could not catch up to the footsteps ahead of them. Indeed, for many moments the sounds would cease, leaving them to wonder if they were alone again, before they returned, echoing down the dismal corridors of the catacombs.

The corridors continued to branch, leading off in all directions, some pathways towards the depths of the earth, others ending in dead ends.

Abruptly, a different area is reached. The walls were of smooth marble, though the same brand of torches were ensconced upon the walls, letting off the same foul smoke.

Worse than the smoke, though, was the fog ahead of them. Murky, shadowy fog that light filtered through ever so faintly. And within the fog, the mind could almost imagine they saw shapes moving, writhing, struggling forth - though the rest of their senses screamed that nothing was there.

Nothing save the strange, unnatural fog, and whatever corridors lay beyond it - and, beyond that, the now muffled but still audible sounds of the footsteps ahead of them.

[Arat-Falathion]

"Is that fog natural?" Iriana whispered, mostly directing her question towards Elise.

[Tessar]

“No,” Elise’s voice was pitched low, and could barely be heard over the sound of the footsteps they followed. It was a trap, she believed, but with any luck not a fatal one. There was no real option now but to continue following the footsteps. As she had thought many times before, if her time here in Middle Earth was through, then that was that.

Stopping suddenly, Elise raised her voice and said “This fog is strange, I do hope it’s nothing to worry about.”

Through the stifling mist, her voice was thin and reedy, but it carried well. The footsteps ahead of them halted for a moment.

Summoning her strength, Elise raised her staff and let out a cry of command, the words lost as a high pitched humming sound filled the air and the mist parted around them, clearing the way ahead with a suddenness that was startling. Light flickered at the top of Elise’s staff, and in an instant the entire corridor was illuminated with an ethereal white light.

‘I will not be lead blindly to my death.’ Elise thought, preparing herself for whatever her actions might bring.

[Mathron]

The light spreads forth, illuminating the corridor - and revealing plain walls of marble. No creatures are in sight, save for themselves. The light remains strong and solid - and the footsteps ahead immediately stop.

A few moments pass, and then the footsteps resume, this time at a rapid pace, fleeing from the party down the single corridor ahead of them.

The fog continued to lurk at the edges of the light, still seemingly filled with shadowy, spectral shapes... waiting for the light to go out. Waiting for someone to enter the fog.

[Yodaman]

Theodur turned around and saw about five men dressed in black cloaks coming towards them. They were riding on black horses, which were covered in blood and looked like they had been mutilated by a troll. He didn't know what to think of them, but fear then came into his mind as he remembered the tales King Aragorn told young children.

"THE NAZGUL!" yelled Theodur. "THE NAZGUL HAVE RETURNED!"

"Don't be silly", said Linden. "The Nazgul don't have any heads. These are just riders wearing black cloaks. Let's approach them."

"NO!" yelled Theodur. "Don't be a fool!" However, Linden didn't heed his advice and walked towards the riders in black.

"Hello travelers!" yelled Linden. "What brings you to this land?" The Riders then stopped their horses and stared at her for a second. Linden then seemed to whisper a word, and one of the riders took out something that looked like a cross between a stick and a sword. He then pointed it at Linden, muttered a few words, and within seconds she dissapeared.

"NO!" yelled Theodur. He then charged at the horsemen with all his might, but the horsemen pointed the sword-thing at him and, within secons, he was gone.

[Finrod Felagund]

Fimbren stopped suddenly and tensed. "I sense evil very nearby" he whispered, "a very great evil."

[Arat-Falathion]

"I sence it too." Iriana whispered, the song was building up inside of her again. "I feel as though we should follow, as though we should stop those footsteps before they reach too far!"

[Tessar]

Young people. So indecisive. Elise thought to herself, charging after the footsteps. Her staff's light held the fog at bay, and her courage kept fear of the evil locked down tightly within her heart.

They sensed a great evil? She wasn't sure what they'd expected. Still, she had many life times of experience to draw upon, where as most of them had less than one. Her clearing the mist had been unexpected by whatever they were chasing, but it was still a trap.

If they could catch the footsteps there was a chance of survival, if not they were likely dead anyways.

"You who are swifter than I, catch that thing!" Elise cried in annoyance to the men and women behind her.

Young people.

[Finrod Felagund]

Fimbren suddenly burst ahead and dissapeared in the fog. They heard nothing for a moment, then a thud and a groan. They ran forward to see Fimbren holding a figure to the ground. Elise held her staff up to the figure and gasped.

[Mathron]

As the fog around Fimbren is cleared by Elise's light, they are able to make out the figure in his grasp - a young, sickly boy in thread-bare robes.

His form is not moving, and his neck lies at an unnatural angle - Fimbren's sudden assault seems to have slain the boy instantly...

[Arat-Falathion]

Iriana halted abruptly as she escaped the fog, her gaze following that of Elise and Fimbren. She staggerd, her legs nearly tumbling underneath her at the sight of the dead boy on the floor. The silence lasted longer, and had become uncomfortable before it had begun...

Iriana had to remind herself of the importance of their mission, and how important it had been to stop this person, regardless of age. Although the outcome wasn't justifiable, they could not wait any longer, they had imediate business to attend to.

[Finrod Felagund]

"Wait" Fimbren said, and put two fingers to the boys neck. "He is still alive!" he exclaimed, "Quickly! I am a healer, we must get this boy out of the fog!"

[Arat-Falathion]

"We have no time!" Iriana protested. "Perhaps if you took care of him alone?" Iriana looked from Elise to Tareod to Fimbren. She had to wonder how wise it would be to thin out the already small group of warriors here. "It is your choise, me, I'll stick to my mission."

[Tessar]

"No," Elise snapped coldly, "The boy is as good as dead, and he serves the enemy. He made his choice to act as bait for us. Stay if you wish, but you and the boy will die together."

Moving on swiftly, Elise prayed that they wouldn't let their hearts get in the way of their heads. It hurt her to see the child die so, but the girl Iriana was right; there was no time.

[Lief Erikson]

From under the canvas, three large creatures were already springing. They were on them in a hearbeat.

Athalt slashed with his sword and the blade caught one of them by its bat-like wing. The creature howled and went down, and Athalt noticed barely in time that it had a rider.

The man was dressed in black chainmail armor. The man swung a heavy mace, in a swiping blow at Athalt.

The man was off balance, and the blow missed. Flecks of dust and charred rock rose from the earth, as the weapon smashed into the ground.

He was riding a gargoyle, Athalt saw. The enemy of the griffins, taken in to serve the Shadowhand.

Athalt's sword moved upward, the point jabbing upward into the hostile rider's brain, through his chin.

He yanked the sword out, his mighty stallion's legs already kicking at the next monster.

Yet one of them moved forward. It accepted the blow of the hooves, crushing its head. The rider accepted the loss of his mount, as he spread his arms wide. There was a jagged edged dagger in each of his gloved fists.

It was too late to bring the sword to bear. It was knocked away as the rider leapt into the air, and smashed into the captain.

The rider's arms clasped around Athalt in a tight embrace as his weight smashed into him, driving him over the back end of his horse.

The earth smashed into him like an iron fist. He heard in his ears the scraping of metal on metal immediately after, as the man sought out the joints between his armor plates, that would serve to push the knives through.

Athalt reached out with both arms. He was a trained fighter, and knew what to do. His thumbs went into the attacker's eyes, and the man was immediately forced to jolt away, slashing.

Athalt felt a bitter pain as one of the blades hacked into his right hand. Then the weapon was dropped, and Athalt felt it clunk onto his chest.

Something screamed from behind him, and he turned his head for an instant. His jaw dropped in horror, as he saw the last gargoyle. Its jaws were locked on Vahatres, as it held him on the ground. The rider was stabbing at his body repeatedly, with an extended sword.

Athalt had not time. Reaching across his body, he snatched the dagger off of his chest and looked up.

The rider was looking at him from nearby, his eyes red. In his right hand, he held his last dagger.

The rider plunged forward, and Athalt met his attack.

[Finrod Felagund]

Fimbren glared at Elise, "A child like this is not given a choice, can you not see he is a slave? I am a healer, it is my job to heal. And this boy is not beyond saving. Maia you may be, but I think you have not seen the things I have seen, felt the pain I have felt, as my kinsman fell around me. I too saw the trees fail, and I was there a the kinslaying, and yes, I killed other elves, though I did not know why at the time, and I am ashamed beyond words for my part. For three ages I have watched my people dwindle. You do not know Middle-Earth as I do. But there is always hope, even for the hopeless. Take that from someone who has nearly fallen to darkness himself."
Fimbren cradled the boy in his arms. He spoke softly in elvish and quickly bound up the boys neck so it wouldn't move and lifted him up on his back.
"I can move just as quickly and silently with him as otherwise!" Then he bolted forward to scout what was ahead.

[Tessar]

Ignoring the elf, Elise pushed forward. He spoke of the Maia as if they were just another race, but then what could the mortal, or even immortal, people of Middle Earth know of her and her kind?

Frowning in annoyance as the elf darted past her, Elise continued at her normal pace. When were these young ones going to learn not to go running around when they couldn't see?

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Just as an OOC note Finrod, I believe Mathron's post stated that the boy WAS dead. When your neck is broken and there's blood coming out, you usually aren't still alive .