Part IV: The War of the Crystal

 

Scene 1: The Wicked Woods

 

When the Fellowship approaches Galleth and Garad on the morning of June 25^th to seek their blessing for venturing into the woods to hunt the beast that stung Halgo, it is Finbor who speaks for the company.  Having spent quite a few days in this land, carefully listening to the native men speak to each other and to Vornmir and Frolin, the young Gondorian has endeavored to teach himself something of the language.  His words are broken, his speech is slow, and his accent is garbled, but he can communicate on his own somewhat intelligibly with Dorwinion-speakers.

 

By late morning the Fellowship has penetrated the periphery of the little forest south of Galleth’s hill and found a thin deer trail leading deeper toward the heart of the wood.  There is some brief discussion as to who should lead the way.  Rard hesitantly volunteers to track in the forefront, but Finbor decides that the rustic Northman Herubrand should lead the way.  Herubrand nods once and replies, “I have no small experience tracking, more often Orcs than Men or animals, but I shall do my best for you.”  The Northman strides to take the lead, bending low to study the path carefully as he moves forward.  Both Rard and Vornmir compete for the second position.  Whenever Rard Brandybuck gets too far forward, Vornmir pushes him back: "You'll not want to be too close once we find the beast, hobbit."  The animosity of last night’s argument lingers between them, and the two companions get in each other’s way rather than working together.  Frolin walks in the middle of the search line, ill-suited for tasks such as tracking and searching the wilds; he generally keeps quiet, leaving the tasks to those more skilled.  Finbor falls to the rear, making sure the company’s search-line stays together and nobody straggles behind and gets lost; the warriors keeps a slow, steady pace, so that time can be spent carefully searching the paths and clearings found in this small forest.  Finbor briefly considers lighting torches, but the forest would only be quite dark at night.  In the daytime, even on an overcast and rainy day, enough daylight penetrates the boughs to make torches unnecessary.  Furthermore, the rain is steadily increasing, and starting a fire with which to light pitch-tipped torches would be quite difficult, unless some covered shelter were found.

 

As the Fellowship moves through the wood, Vornmir carefully observes the surroundings for wildlife.  [Observe (Hear) skill test, superior success] The golden-haired warrior is struck by how quiet the forest is, for he hears very little sounds of life or movement.  Even with the falling rain the wood is too silent, too still.  He is certain that something is wrong with this place!  During pauses the warrior attempts to search for signs of wildlife and their nests or holes.  [Search skill test, failure] Unfortunately, Vornmir has no skill in searching and cannot find anything.  Perhaps animals once lived here but have left, or perhaps this wood has never had much resident fauna.

 

Carefully combing the woods is a demanding task, far slower and more straining that merely walking through it.  Most of the companions are caring their full gear, plus a small weight of rations and water.  Finbor and Vornmir bear their shields and spears, while Frolin carries his ax openly.  Rard walks with his bow strung, but he dares not put the added strain on his little muscles by walking with an arrow drawn and readied.  Only Herubrand walks completely unfettered, his long-hilted longsword sheathed at his side.  Rard keeps glancing up, fearful of his experience with venomous spiders that last time the Fellowship ventured into deep woods, but his friends calm his nerves and the tension in general with kinds, encouraging words.  Fortunately, no webs or bulbous bodies are spotted in the leafy boughs above.

 

Herubrand leads the search line.  He relies on his skill alone combined with the meager information provided by the woodsmen, for Rard and Vornmir neutralize each other and provide him no aid.  [Track (Men) skill test, +1 for information, complete success] After an hour or so of marching around the wood paths, going up and down little forest hills and into periodic clearings, Herubrand believes he has found the spot where Halgo once lay.  Though the events happened some ten days ago, he can still find a few tracks pressed into the soil and the impression of a prone body, with small traces of blood.  The rest of the companions gather around, carefully searching the clearing at Vornmir’s insistence.  None in the Fellowship is skilled in methods of searching,  Vornmir at least possesses sharp senses, and he takes the lead since he was the one most vocally urging a careful search; his companions assist him as they are able.  [Search skill test, +1 for Herubrand, Rard, and Frolin, failure] Unfortunately, after spending many minutes pressed low to the ground, searching the earth for signs of movement and activity, nothing more is located.  The tracks are old, faded, and jumbled, and nothing is found that helps piece them together.

 

The Fellowship now can only rely on intuition and inspiration for help. [Wisdom reaction tests, TN 10] Finbor, Frolin, and Vornmir stare at the ground in confusion, unable to perceive clearly anything that may have happened here.  But, as Rard and Herubrand contemplate the scene together, they begin to piece together a vague but possible account.

 

  “Look,” Rard points out, “not all the footprints are the same.”

  “Aye,” Herubrand replies, “some are larger than others.  Some are fresher, too.”

  “These over here are bigger,” the hobbit notes.

  “And more numerous, too, and fresher.  Fully grown men have been in this clearing in the past couple of weeks, and at least one of them has been through here again in recent days.”

  “The smaller footprints are very faint,” Rard comments, “and they only walk through the clearing once.”

  Herubrand states, “They could be the boy’s tracks.  None of us has seen Halgo or even knows his age, so we cannot know for sure the size of his feet.  But, here in the middle of the path is the impression of a slender torso from many days ago, with flecks of blood.  It would be my guess that a lad of no more than fifteen summers lain here.  Yet, I do not see signs of how he came to lie here.  If the boy dragged himself, there should be clear signs.  Of course, it is possible that we simply failed to uncover them in our search.  To my eyes, a still body was set down in this position and left.”

 

Unable to discern any more details or patterns, Herubrand waves for the column to press onward deeper into the heart of the wood.  He notes a faint trail of tracks moving down the trail, some of them fairly fresh.  The smallish footprints, presumably the boy’s, move down the path as well, but they are very old and light by this time.  Still, Herubrand’s skill is sufficient to follow their direction.  The Fellowship strides deeper into the middle of the wood, the thick trunks forming a veritable wall to the left and to the right, the heavy boughs obscuring the cloudy daytime sky above.  The air is cool yet thick with moisture, and droplets of rain continue to fall through the leaf cover and trickle down upon the hikers.  Up ahead the opening to another clearing can be seen, though the tree cover overhead is still very thick and obscuring.  As he walks along the forest trail Rard suddenly chirps, “Hullo, what a curious sound that is.”

 

Vornmir reaches out to grasp Herubrand’s shoulder, holding him back and stopping the marching line from progressing onward.  “I hear it, too,” he says.  “It sounds like nothing I have ever heard before, a low and droning hum.”

 

“Aye,” Finbor says, “but that is not the only sound ahead.  There is motion, too.”

 

The Fellowship proceeds cautiously, with Herubrand still in the lead and the others following in marching order.  Vornmir keeps a watch on the party’s flanks, making sure that no foe is advancing upon the group’s exposed sides.  Herubrand, direct and untrained in stealth, strides into the clearing ahead, eager to see what lies in the heart of the wood…

 

The clearing is a bowl in the forest floor, sloping down some ten feet from the general elevation of the woods.  The depression is some 50 feet in diameter, and ringed by old, tall trees, their canopies merging together to form a thick veil blocking out all sunlight and permitting only an ambient glow to light the forest floor.  Herubrand carefully leads his companions down the slope onto the base of the depression, toward the droning hum.  As the company walks deeper into the gulley, voices can be heard, low and guttural, speaking clumsy Westron in the unmistakable accent of the Black Speech!

 

  “Only three bones left, Bardo!”

  “Aye, and I be hungry.  Cast the lot, and luck be mine.”

The sound of clinking bone can be heard, following by a low, gruesome shout in the second voice.  “Cursed be you, Harold!  You have eaten too well this day, and another bone goes to you!”

  The first voice laughs gleefully and says, “I gets to suck the sweet marrow from another man bone.  It is a taste of the old days, when we gots to feast regular on the woodmen of the Mirk-Wood, ha!”

  “Ahh, the old days!  Would that the tower upon the Hill of Darkness still stood, and its Great Lord was again our captain!”

 

By now the Fellowship has entirely reached the base of the depression and can see what is going on in here.  About 9 yards up ahead (close to the opposite slope) and slightly to your right sit two enormous figures, each half again as tall of Finbor!  They are forest trolls!   The trolls sit upon broken stumps of once-mighty trees, and between them is a pile of shattered corpses, the bones torn apart, cracked open, and sucked dry.  The bodies can only be Galleth’s poor foresters who ventured into the wood to find whatever attacked Halgo.  Oversized cudgels, two big for any man to wield, lay on the ground beside them.  The trunks of the trees that provided the stumps upon which the trolls sit have been knocked off to the side, about 8 yards up ahead and to your left; it seems to be from the fallen and rotting trucks that the curious humming noise comes…

 

Suddenly, the two trolls stop their chattering and drop the disputed bone.  It seems the sound of Herubrand’s approaching footfall has caught their attention; the trolls sniff the air, and then leap up from their stumps to face you.  “Master Baldur be right, Bardo!” the first trolls hisses, “more men comes to feed us!”  The second troll laughs gleefully.  You have been spotted!

 

The companions have been engaged in demanding physical activity for not quite yet two hours.  [Weariness tests, TN 10, +2 TN for those will full hands] Vornmir is winded due to the awkwardness of hiking and searching with his hands full.  Herubrand is not fatigued.  Despite his full hands, Finbor is unaffected by weariness.  Little Rard has grown to become quite tireless during his travels and does not feel any fatigue, and the stout Dwarf Frolin is also unaffected by weariness.

 

Scene 2: Trolls!

 

On June 25^th the Fellowship ventures into the small forest south of Galleth’s hill.  They manage to locate what appears to be young Halgo’s trail, following a series of faint and somewhat confused tracks to a small clearing in the heart of the dense, dark wood.  The clearing is a bowl-shaped depression in the forest floor, the sky overhead shadowed by rain clouds and obscured by the leafy treetops.  It is around the noon hour as the company follows the forest trail down into the depression, only to discover two hulking forest trolls casting lots over who gets to eat the few remaining bones of their woodsmen victims!  Hearing your approach and sniffing out your presence, the ugly brutes rise from their tree stumps and regard you malevolently…

 

Finbor and the other fighting men are sure a battle is come, but before they can leap to attack the little hobbit Rard tries to fool the trolls with a bit of verbal trickery.  "Harold. Baldo.  Of course we were spotted.  How else do you talk to others?"  He begins moving to his right casually and adds, "Master Baldur sent us to you. Says you are late."  He then shoots a silent pleat to Frolin for help in speaking.

 

Frolin is initially startled at Rard's bold ploy, but he soon recovers his wits and speaks up: "Aye, he said there has been a change of plans.  He will be at the villa a while longer.  Have either of you seen his bird about?"

 

[Persuade (Fast Talk) skill test, TN 20, +1 for Frolin’s assistance, complete failure] The trolls reach down to pick up their bulky clubs while the Hobbit and Dwarf chatter, and lick their lips hungrily.  When Frolin mentions Baldur’s bird, Baldo looks to Harold and says, “Hmm, the little dwarf is asking ‘bout Morgalad.  Maybe Baldur did send ‘em here?”

 

Harold slaps Baldo upside his head and growls, “Fool!  Baldur tolds us a dwarf would comes, with a hobbit and three men.  Kills and eats ‘em, he says.  Now you goin’ to talk to ‘em…or eats ‘em?”  Harold grins foully, and Baldo joins him in a menacing chuckle.  The trolls amble forward in big, thunderous strides, their heavy clubs swinging ominously; within a few moments they have crossed perhaps a third of the distance between them and your company.

 

Meanwhile, Vornmir has fixed his gaze upon the fallen timbers, from whence the low buzz emanates.  [Observe (Spot), TN 15, failure] It is a good distance covered by shadows, so the warrior cannot see anything amongst the broken trunks.  When Vornmir tries to take a step closer, it only accelerates the trolls’ advance…

 

Rard begins to fall back slowly, holding a little hand out at the advancing giants.  Very quickly, though, he bumps up against the rear incline leading back out of the depression.  A tall tree grows along the slope behind him, but the little hobbit will have to do a bit of climbing to get to it.  Rard chirps back to the trolls, "Easy, lads!  You are much bigger than me, and Baldur told stories of how strong you are."

 

The trolls laugh foully.  Harold growls, “We be strong indeed, and you will feels it anon…”  Bardo licks his lips again and says, “I is hungry, let’s eats ‘em!”

 

Their cruel intentions now painfully clear, the comrades-in-arms do not wait any longer to act.  Preparing to leap into action, Finbor and Vornmir lift their spears, Herubrand draws his mighty sword, Frolin raises his heavy ax, and Rard grips his little bow.

 

The ever-wary Vornmir is first to react, jogging toward the fallen timbers.  As the warrior rushes forward, breathing hard as he steels himself for battle, he notes that the droning from the trunks crescendos into an angry buzz, but still nothing appears from behind or beneath the broken trees.  The warrior keeps his attention on the trolls, readying his spear to block them if they decide to advance on him or the trunks.

 

Rard, having succeeding too well in drawing the trolls’ attention, begins to scurry up the slope, going for cover behind the thick oak tree.  [Climb test, TN 5, -2 for local conditions, failure] However, the hobbit’s feet cannot seem to get sufficient traction on the slick leaves and grass, and he slides right back down, making no progress at all.  Desperately, he quick-draws an arrow from his quiver and attempts a called shot at the head of the troll named Harold.  [1 Courage spent, superior success] The troll is a big target, but his bony skull and thick skin makes for a difficult target to pierce; the arrow is dead-on, and sinks into his cheekbone.  The troll hisses, irritated but unfazed by the little prick.

 

Finbor moves next, summoning up the courage of a warrior-born (1 Courage spent).  The Gondorian lordling jogs forward, taking up a defensive stance closer to the massive enemies.  He braces his shield and levels his spear, holding to meet their charge.  Herubrand is but a moment behind Finbor, and gripping his sword with both hands he rushes forward to stand by his Dúnadan comrade’s left side, awaiting the coming of the trolls.

 

It is not a long wait.  Harold notes that Vornmir has come up along his right flank, his proximity arousing an even louder droning buzz from the fallen trees.  The ugly trolls stomps toward the warrior, his great club poised to strike.  Vornmir intercepts the troll with his stout spear, but his reach is no longer than the oversized foe’s club, and so gives him no special advantage.  The warrior lands a superior stroke against the troll already grazed by one of Rard’s arrows, but Harold seems barely to notice the spearhead scraping his thigh.  Though held back a couple yards by the spear, it is no effort for the troll to reach that length with his club.  Vornmir, the swift-striker, attempts to dodge the club by even he cannot readily avoid so massive an object swung with such strength and speed; the head clips his helm, rattling his body for a moment (5 damage).  The other troll rushes at Herubrand and Finbor, both of whom unleash their readied strokes upon the foe.  As with Vornmir, Finbor’s long-reaching spear gives him no advantage over the oversized troll; but still he skewers the leathery troll’s knee with his spear, an extraordinary stroke that at best irritates the giant.  Herubrand launches into a two-handed blow that seems remarkably feeble for his usual skill, but it is enough to hit the large opponent’s leg with force somewhat less than Finbor’s stroke; again, the blow is but an irritant to the troll.  Bardo replies by pounding Herubrand with his mighty cudgel, for the Northman’s double-handed stroke has made him somewhat more exposed to attack.  His momentum already spent, Herubrand has no hope of parrying the troll’s crushing attack; he troll lands a superior blow on his mail-clad torso, injuring the bones underneath (14 damage).

 

Frolin, seeing his friends’ plight, breaks into a run, hoping to wrap around Bardo’s left flank and pincer him along with Finbor.  [Run test, -2 untrained, -2 for local conditions]  No skilled runner, Frolin barely manages to clumsily close the distance, coming up on the troll’s exposed left side.

 

Vornmir regains the initiative against Harold.  His left arm bearing both shield and javelin, he delivers two swift spear-strokes against the troll using the heavy spear in his right hand.  The first blow cuts into his leg, this time actually managing to break his tough hide and draw a trickle of black blood.  Irritated by the dazing pain, Harold actually bothers to attempt to parry the second thrust; Vornmir’s stroke is true, but the troll just barely manages to push the spear-point aside with his sweep club.

 

Rard now quick-draws another arrow from his quiver, leaving 12 more inside.  The shoots the shaft into Bardo’s tall left shoulder, a puncture wound that draws a dazed groan from the troll.  Drawing another arrow from his quiver, the Hobbit lets fly a second shot, this time rushed.  It is about as terrible a shot as the halfling could ever make, but it is still enough to strike so massive a target: alas, it is but a scratch compared to his previous shots.

 

Despite being injured, Herubrand manages to regain the initiative before his antagonist.  Having felt his foe’s might, the Northman does not risk a power attack that leaves him more vulnerable, instead opting for a straightforward thrust.  Bardo, now dazed from spear and arrow wounds, sweeps his club to try to parry the attack.  Though Herubrand’s thrust is skillful, if hampered by his injury, the trolls effortlessly knocks it aside with his club.  Herubrand does not venture a second attack, holding back to parry in case he must face Bardo’s club once again.

 

Frolin, menacing Bardo’s left flank, risks a defensive ax-blow.  Distracted by Herubrand, the troll ignores the Dwarf and suffers the blow in return: the ax sinks into his left thigh, and black blood seeps from the fresh wound.  Frolin, too, holds back after his defensive stroke, ready to parry the giant’s fearsome club.

 

Harold grunts at Vornmir derisively, lashing out with his club as if he thinks he will swat the warrior like a fly.  Again, Vornmir attempts to dodge the blow, but he comes to realize that even his feet cannot move ever so quick as the giant’s deft cudgel.  The club strikes his left shoulder, bouncing off his dense Dwarven-mail, but the blow is enough to daze him (17 damage).  Bardo, somewhat more injured than his compatriot, growls madly at Frolin, he stung him with a skilled flank attack.  The troll drops his club to the ground and reaches out to grab the little Dwarf!  Frolin tries to block the troll with a defensive parry, but he fails to drive the long-reaching troll back.  Bardo just barely manages to get a hold of Frolin’s upper body, beginning to squeeze the Dwarf and lift him up off the ground!

 

Realizing the great strength of his opponent, Finbor drops his spear and draws his sword from its scabbard, deciding he needs every ounce of his maximum skill against so deadly a foe.  Now that Bardo is distracted by his fixation on Frolin, Finbor thrusts at the troll’s exposed flank.  Now his other thigh is bleeding, and the cursing troll is visibly injured.  Going all-out, Finbor now throws himself at the troll, wildly body-slamming his shield into Bardo’s leg wound.  Though badly overextended, Finbor manages to connect with his towering foe, adding a touch more pain to the giant’s injury.

 

After a quarter-minute of battle against the trolls, the Fellowship has landed a multitude little blows on them.  Harold is dazed from his scratches, while Bardo looks to be injured from his many cuts.  Harold, club in hand, is pressing down upon the isolated Vornmir.  Bardo has dropped his club – and grabbed a Dwarf instead!  Frolin can do little else but try to wrestle free against his much larger, much stronger captor.

 

NOTE: Due to certain out-of-game problems, this battle was concluded abruptly without much literary flourish.

 

Vornmir stabs at the troll Harold, but the trolls parries.  He stabs again, but the troll parries again.  Finbor attacks the troll Bardo at a penalty because he (presumably) would not want to risk hitting Frolin, and he misses.  Rard quick-draws an arrow and shoots, scoring an extraordinary success on a called shot to the trolls’ head (1 Courage spent); the troll is Wounded.  Rard draws another arrow and shoots at -5 plus -6 to avoid hitting Frolin, and he hits but his arrows fails to penetrate the troll’s hide.  Harold the troll tries to club Vornmir at -5, but Vornmir parries.  "Bardo!" Frolin cries out as he is lifted off the ground by the forest troll, "Dwarves taste much better roasted, not squashed to jelly!  And how will you deal with the others without your club?"  [Persuade (Fast Talk) skill test, TN 20, complete failure, 1 Courage spent to raise outcome to standard failure]  Bardo seems momentarily distracted, then decides that indeed the dwarf is an inconvenience and throws Frolin to the ground.  Frolin is not strong enough to resist effectively and is slammed into the ground (8 damage, Dazed), but he has been released and stumbles back to his feet.  Bardo then picks up his club and tries to sweep at -5 all his foes beginning with Frolin.  Frolin is missed, Finbor is missed, and Herubrand is missed.  Herubrand chops twice at the wounded troll, two solid hits that bring it near death.

 

Vornmir stabs at his troll twice, both hit and now the troll is Injured.  The troll bowls into Vornmir and tries to push him away: even Vornmir’s strength is no match for the trolls, and the extraordinary push sends him back 4 yards and knocks him prone.  Frolin chops at the badly mauled troll, but the hardy monster is able to parry the blow.  Rard quick-draws an arrow and shoots Bardo, barely piercing his hide; he draws a second arrow and shoots at -5, a superior hit that drops the troll (9 arrows left).  Finbor jogs to Harold the troll and lands an extraordinary hit, wounding him.  Herubrand jogs over and hit, bringing the troll to Incapacitated.

 

Vornmir gets up, jogs back over to the troll, and hits the troll, bringing in near death.  Rard quick-draws an arrow and shoots, an extraordinary hit that drops the troll.  The end.

 

The loud buzzing from the fallen timbers decreased back to its original droning level when the troll pushed Vornmir further away.  Rard walks over to examine the trees, and as he approaches the buzzing grows even louder.  He quickly spots a cluster of bright-colored winged insects filling a large hole in the logs.  The hornets are quite oversized, each as large as a grown man’s fist.  They are fluttering their wings rapidly, beating back the moisture in the air.  Your company’s approach seems to irritate them, although the trickling rain currently appears to be enough to discourage them from taking wing…although if Rard or anybody else draws any closer, that may change.

 

Scene 3: Bees!

 

The trolls Harold and Bardo lay slain in the heart of the wood south of Galleth’s estate.  The foul creatures had taken over the forest and devoured the handful of unfortunate foresters sent in to investigate.  The trolls’ camp also is infested with a swarm of gigantic hornets, filling a pair of tree-trunks that the trolls had felled and dragged to the far side of the forest depression.  The Fellowship is certain that these wicked insects are what so severely stung Galleth’s young son Halgo.  Rard and Vornmir especially are determined the exterminate the pests, whereas Herubrand and Finbor would rather chase them off or leave them be altogether.  Herubrand, whose people have some experience with bee swarms, has a healthy respect for what they can do, and he warns his companions not to provoke the swarm to attack.  There is much discussion as to what the Fellowship can do to contain and destroy the swarm, but no proposal is wholly convincing.  Suggestions are made to try to trap the swarm with wet cloaks or a mail coat on a pole, but such plans are simply not feasible – the tree trunks are too large with too many holes, and the hive entrance is much broader than the width of any mail corslet.

 

As the afternoon hours slowly pass, Vornmir grows impatient with the delay.  The golden-haired warrior recruits the hobbit Rard to help him.  Rard, a skilled woodsman, easily lights up a fire at the north edge of the depression where the Fellowship sits, many yards from the quietly droning swarm.  The sky is still damp, cool, and misty, but the forest canopy overhead blocks much of the rainfall and prevents the small fire from being immediately squelched.  Vornmir lights up his last torch, and he guards the flickering flame as he and the hobbit cautiously approach the swarm.  Vornmir grips his shield and javelin, ready to try to cast the light spear at any large hornet that dares to hover within reach.  Rard readies bow and arrow, creeping around to the south ridge of the depression into a position to try to fell a hovering wasp.  As man and hobbit draw nearer again, the swarm once more buzzes angrily.  This time a few hornets begin to take flight, buzzing menacingly in the air above the hive-hole.  However, when Vornmir holds out the torch and the damp air carries the smoke over to the swarm, the insects suddenly grow docile again.  Despite their great size, nearly ten-times the size of any mundane bee, the creatures behave like animals of nature, and the smoke compels them to cluster together and ignore Vornmir and Rard.

 

Vornmir, sensing his best opportunity, hurls the torch into the crux between the two fallen timbers.  Though the day has been modestly rainy, there are still patches of dry grass and bark that catch light.  The flames quickly smolder out, of course, as the sky continues to drizzle lightly, but for a time the open flame approaches the hive-hole and a great quantity of smoke billows forth.  Vornmir scurries back toward Finbor, Frolin, and Herubrand, and all four companions cover their faces with cloaks or shields in case the swarm tries to descend upon them.  Rard lays low several yards south of the hive and some distance higher in elevation along the depression ridge.  The hornets no longer pay the companions any mind, for the cloud of smoke and sparks triggers their natural instincts to escape.  Like a gold-and-black cloud of their own, the horde of bees rises from the tree-trunks and masses in the air above, swirling higher and higher in an attempt to get away from the smoke and flame.  The individual insects in the swarm are not numerous compared to a hive of bees, for they number only in the scores rather than in the thousands, but due to their great size they still take up quite a bit of space in the open air and generate a great roar of buzzing.  Not surprisingly, a few of the insects drift to the periphery of the rising swarm, either as stragglers or sentries.  Vornmir cautiously steps forward and casts his javelin at one that strays far to the north, but the target is too swift and too small and quickly buzzes skyward to rejoin the mass.  Rard, on the other hand, is able to strike with an arrow one hornet that strays to the south too close to him; the shaft slices through its main bulk, piercing one wing and plummeting to the ground below with the bee skewered upon it.  Rard then dives to the ground, hoping the rest of the swarm will ignore him.  Fortunately for the cocky hobbit, the mass of bees is still too concerned with escaping the smoke and sparks of Vornmir’s torch to take notice of him.  Within a few moment the swarm has risen up to the canopy above, flying along the tree line to shelter from the drizzling rain as the bees make their way to the south, searching for a new home as far from here as they can get.

 

There is some disappointment that the swarm could not be destroyed, but at least one insect has been felled and taken.  Rard picks up his spent arrow, displaying the slain hornet triumphantly.  Finbor and Herubrand, wise men both, note that the swarm did not behave menacingly or unnaturally aggressively, even when Vornmir and Rard launched their fiery assault on their hive.  If, much as any other breed of bee, they sought escape first and foremost, what could have driven them to attack young Halgo?  Did the lad foolishly stumble on top of their hive, disregarding their angry droning?  It seems unlikely he would do so intentionally or even accidentally, for even the mighty trolls kept their distance from the swarm and did not draw close to it while fighting you.  Though you now possess a hornet’s carcass, you do not seem any closer to answering your many questions…

 

As the discussion about a spy at the villa progresses, Frolin can no longer hold his tongue.  "If the information we have received thus far is accurate, then the situation is quite simple.  Baldur - a man - is in league with goblins and trolls.  He must be a figure of great strength of will to be able to command such creatures.  And perhaps he has some unusual ability to earn their friendship."  The sage puts a subtle emphasis on this last word.  "Baldur is also attempting to acquire fragments of the Angril.  This stands to reason because he is aware that one of the purported powers of the Angril is the ability to turn day into night, allowing goblins freedom to cross the lands with impunity.  Thus his attention was drawn towards Galleth's villa where a shard has long been kept.  Because his goblins cannot yet assemble a great force, and the villa is well-defended he must use guile to acquire the shard, much as he did with the shard taken from Golaric's folk.  Baldur's plan was simple: save Halgo's life in return for the crystal, for he knew that Galleth values his son's life above all else.  So the boy was waylaid in these very woods.  These bees were used to poison him, and he was placed where he would most certainly be found.  These trolls that serve Baldur were brought here to safeguard the bees, ensuring that none would discover what had befallen young Halgo.  Once we arrived, Baldur's plans were put in jeopardy.  His preferred result would have been for us to leave this place immediately.  But when it became obvious that would not happen, Baldur's best hope was that we would come to this forest and be slain by the trolls.  The trolls were warned of our coming, but we prevailed.  It would not surprise me if when we return to the villa, Halgo has been healed.  Baldur will not need the venom from the bee in order to cure him.  In fact the healing has only been delayed this long because Galleth only last night agreed to trade the crystal shard for the cure."  Frolin pauses a moment before concluding.  "There can be no doubt.  Belemir is Baldur.  Now we must decide what to do when we return to Galleth's villa.  It will be dangerous for us because Baldur has clearly beguiled Galleth with the aid of the Ring of Friendship, much as he did the Elves of Thranduil's court and the Men of Golaric's tribe."

 

Vornmir looks at Frolin and says, "Your idea is plausible only in that Belemir could have done all of this himself, but why would he?  We know from King Elessar he is an honorable man and justly trusted.  It seems just as plausable to me that a spy resides in the villa and this Baldur is simply a well informed orc captain."

 

Finbor states, "I don't think Baldur would be an orc-chieftain, they are not known to take names in the noble Elven-tongue. But it could very well be that the villa is watched, day and night. Galleth refuses to send out his men on surveillance, so who knows what's hiding in the surrounding countryside? Besides, the woodmen warned us about the Great Raven as well, saying that it had circled high above the villa for some time."

 

"It is plausible in the sense that we have no evidence to dismiss it, however that does not mean it is true," ponders Herubrand, looking at Frolin.  "You cannot dispute we only know very little of Baldur and his actions or plans and although we found Belemir it's unknown to us what the 'good' loremaster has been up to the past months"

 

Finbor continues, "Master Frolin, you know my position on Belemir's trustworthiness; King Elessar is not a king easily betrayed. But, for the sake of argument, suppose you are right, why did Belemir sent us into the forest? He might as well sent us to Dunburg, it is at a greater distance, and it is troubled by Easterlings so we could have been stuck there for months. By the time we would have gotten back to the villa he could have long been gone. No, instead, because we insisted to help him, he sent us to a forest, less than half a days walk from the villa, in order to face two dumb trolls and a hive of huge, but sleepy hornets!

 

"He did not send us here, Finbor.  It was our idea.  He also knew he would have had no success in sending us away, although that is what he clearly wished.  When it became clear that we would not do his bidding, he encouraged us to come here, hoping that the trolls would kill us," Frolin responds.

 

Finbor counters, “A second part of your story I find very thin is this Ring of Friendship, why didn't he use it on us when we proved resolute in our quest to find and help him? And as for beguiling the Wood-Elves, I know the animosity between the Elves and Dwarves is legendary, but a powerful artifact it must be indeed, if it can bewitch such a fair and magical people."

 

"Perhaps he did use it on us, Finbor.  How would we know?  Perhaps he did, and it was more effective on some than others."  It is obvious Frolin is less than pleased with his companions.  "The rest of you may be content to allow Belemir to take the shard, but I am not!"

 

Scene 4: Confrontation in Galleth’s Villa

 

It is now the height of the afternoon, and with the forest depression cleared of menace the Fellowship decides to make its way back to Galleth’s villa.  The light rain lets up, but the sky only grows darker and cloudier, as if premature night is setting in.  Vornmir and Herubrand, both men possessed of some weather-sense, exchange knowing looks, and they caution their companions that such weather is most unnatural for summer.  Storms come and go every summer, it is true, but the clouds over this land seem to linger as if it were never summer at all, growing progressively thick and dark without ever giving up their store of rain and then dispersing.  It takes the Fellowship some couple hours to make their way back out of the damp, muddy forest and up onto Galleth’s hill, and by the time they near the villa-house it is nearly dusk.  However, neither sun nor moon nor stars can be seen because the sky is so overcast, and it is as if midnight is already upon the land.

 

Garad, some of the other armed retainers, and a portion of the fighting militia are gathered upon the flat of the hill, gazing in wonder at the ominous sky overhead.  Word of your return seems to have reached the hill before you, as your coming must have been looked-for; Galleth emerges from the manor house, and he and Garad hurry over to greet the Fellowship as the companions walk onto the hilltop field.  “Hail, friends!” Galleth calls out, “We are glad to see you well.  How fared your hunt?”  Rard grins broadly as he offers up the wasp skewered upon the arrow, and Galleth studies the prize with repulsed curiosity.  “I have never before seen a bee so large or so fierce,” he says, “though we hear such beasts dwell wild in the plains south of the Inland Sea.  Never before have they come so far north and west as my land!  An ill-omen indeed that these creatures would choose my wood as their new home at the time that my son would enter upon his first hunt alone!”  Galleth then smiles faintly, obviously more cheerful than when you left him this morning.  “Verily,” he adds, “I am glad the bees are dealt with, for this dark chapter is closed.  I have happy tidings, Friends from the West: my beloved son Halgo has woken from his deep sleep!  Goodly Belemir cared for him all through the morning after you departed, and some two hours ago the lad opened his eyes and murmured sound to me.  He is still weary and incoherent, but Belemir assures me he will strengthen with each passing day and recover fully within the week.”  The companions pause to express their joy at Galleth’s good news, but the tidings come as some surprise to them.  The hunt to bring back one of the hornets seem to have been unnecessary, as Belemir’s treatments apparently enjoyed rapid success this day after so many days without effect.

 

Furthermore, there are other concerns that trouble the Fellowship.  Both Rard and Vornmir worry that there may be a spy present in Galleth’s villa.  They relate the tale of what happened to them in the wood, and Frolin adds his suspicion that the trolls were led to expect their arrival.  Have any other travelers come through the estate in recent weeks?  Has anyone been seen going into the woods?  Garad answers, “We have had no other visitors besides Belemir and your company.  Neither have we seen any lurkers in the wilderness, nor have any been reported by the farmers, woodsmen, or vine-tenders.”

 

Galleth adds, “And I have forbidden any of my folk from entering the wood since the disappearance of the foresters sent in to investigate my son’s fate.”

 

At this point the companions inform Galleth of the bones of the foresters found in the trolls’ possession, and both he and Garad dourly lament their gruesome fate.  “We have heard of giant goblins twice the height of the tallest man,” Garad mutters, “and had I known that a pair of them invaded our forest I would have battled them myself.  I apologize for making you risk your lives in a fight that was more rightly mine.”  He bows his head low and says, “I am ever in your debt.”

 

Galleth nods deeply and continues, “Until this day when your company bravely risked the wood, only Belemir had ventured into the forest.  He entered every night, in order to scavenge for herbs and roots to treat my son.  I do not know how deep he went into the wood, but I daresay he kept close to the edge or else he would have fallen victim to the giants that attacked you.”

 

“Tell us,” Herubrand asks as casually as he can, “from whence did Belemir first arrive in your estate?”

 

Galleth answers, “From the south, I am told by the forester-folk, who greeted him as he emerged from the wood.  That he came through unscathed encouraged the foresters to investigate the wood, for Belemir told us he saw nothing in there.  Alas, the giants must have entered the forest after him, and my poor foresters had no hope of warning.  Truly, I am glad Belemir made it through that cursed wood unharmed, but I mourn the deaths of those sad folk devoured by the wretched giants.”

 

“I mourn their deaths, too,” a low, gentle voice suddenly calls out.  It is the sage Belemir, who has come out of the manor-house and walked over to stand by Galleth and Garad.  “I wish I had known of the dangers infesting the wood, but it is a large place and I did not pass them.”  He turns to face the Fellowship, nodding to them once in a mildly polite greeting.  “There was some commotion in the villa that you had returned,” he says to the companions, “and I left Halgo’s side as soon as I could.”  He looks at the arrow in Rard’s hand and says, “I see you have brought back a prize from your hunt.  I think it is a giant bee called the ‘dumbledor’ in our land.  In the West they are legendary, though perhaps at one time they roamed as far as the Upper Anduin.  Their lore is preserved in stories told by hobbits, and at least in their tales a hobbit once even claimed to have killed one.”  He looks at Rard dubiously and adds, “I always thought it made-up.”

 

The members of the Fellowship ask about Halgo’s condition, and whether the venom of the ‘dumbledor’ bee is even needed.  Belemir answers, “Young Halgo woke some hours earlier, though he is still very weak and unable to speak.  He rests in a natural sleep now, and his strength will return on the morrow and each passing day in greater proportion.”  As to the second point he says, “Treating a venomous sting is tricky work, and no healer can ever know when his patient will pass through the gauntlet of death safely.  It seems your hunt into the wood was unnecessary, for no longer is the bee’s venom needed, but I did not know such would be the case this morning.”

 

Garad stands aside coolly, his voice silent but his posture stern.  Galleth, however, shows no such irritation.  He smiles broadly at the sage, offering a deep bow.  “Master Belemir,” he says in a cheerful voice, “I will permit no faulting of your healing art.  As many days as it took, you were true to your word.  My son lives, and I thank you!”

 

Belemir, his expression as stony as ever, merely returns the bow.  “Your son lives indeed, Master Galleth,” he says, “and now I must claim my boon.  You promised me the shard of the Black Crystal that has been an heirloom of this house.  Now that my duty to your son is discharged, I must needs claim it and prepare to move on from this place.  With your leave, I will depart in the morning…”

 

Though silent, Garad regards Belemir with a hostile gaze only thinly veiled.  It is an expression that Galleth does not observe, and Belemir either does not observe it or ignores it.  Nonetheless, there is little doubt what Galleth’s reaction will be to Belemir’s request…

 

Scene 5: Heated Debate

 

On the evening of June 25^th, the Fellowship returns to Galleth’s villa and learns that during their absence Belemir had managed to rouse young Halgo from his coma and secure his hold on life.  Galleth and his retainers are gathered on the field atop the hill, wondering at the premature, unnatural darkness of the sky above, yet the master of the villa is more overjoyed about his son than he is fearful of the celestial portent.  Belemir emerges from the manor-house and joins the gathering outside.  Though Galleth and Garad lament the dangers the Fellowship had to face venturing into the wood, Belemir is as taciturn and inscrutable as ever.  The well-traveled loremaster reminds Galleth of the promised boon for healing his son, claiming the promised shard of the Black Crystal and asking leave to depart in the morning.

 

Upon hearing this, Finbor once more shoots a quick glance toward Frolin. Then he asks Belemir in Westron, "Master Belemir, have you thought upon our offer of aid and cooperation in this matter?"

 

Belemir regards Finbor in silence for several moments before replying in a listless tone, “I have, and I still say you would do well to return to the West.  But, I see now that you will not be dissuaded from interfering, so come with me if you will.  If truly you can stand against trolls then you are powerful warriors indeed.  I travel far and fast, and I will not pause for you or any other.  I suggest you sleep long and well tonight, and ready yourself to depart at first light upon the morrow.”

 

Vornmir seems to be wavering in his certainties, perhaps beginning to see some merit in Frolin’s charges.  "With the approach of this dark storm," he says motioning to the gathering clouds, "it would be unwise to allow friends to travel under these doors of night with the foul orcs abroad."  He looks at Belemir with a doubtful look, "Will you stay for another day or two and help us investigate what we have found?  We do not wish to let you travel alone while the conditions are so dangerous for any man, even one so skilled as yourself."

 

“I cannot and will tarry here any longer,” Belemir replies curtly.  “I have stayed here too many days already, tending to the injured lad.  But, now his life is saved, and I lay claim to the promised reward.”

 

Belemir turns back to Galleth, expecting the man to grant his request.  Yet it is Frolin the Dwarf who speaks next: "You seem to be blessed by fortune, Belemir.  How fortuitous it is that you came to this land searching for crystal shards, and you arrived here just as young Halgo was attacked."  Frolin pauses and turns to Galleth.  "Were you aware of this, Master Galleth?  Did Belemir tell you that he travelled to this land, all the way from Rivendell for the sole purpose of acquiring crystal shards, like the one you possess?  Did he tell you this?"

 

It is a rare moment, for Belemir betrays a hint of his emotions as his lips twist into sharp frown.  Galleth stares at Frolin wide-eyed, shaking his head.  “No, he did not tell me this,” the man says.  “He told me he was but a wandering healer.”

 

“And that I am,” Belemir says coolly, all hint of emotion now gone from his face.  “What I did not tell you was why I wander, and it was for your own safety.”

 

The dwarf then turns back to Belemir and says, "Indeed, you passed through the very woods in which he was attacked by creatures that have never before been seen in these parts.  It is also a strange coincidence, but most fortuitous for you that Halgo was finally healed the very day after Galleth had agreed to your request for the shard of the Angril.”

 

Belemir directs his response to Galleth.  “As you now know, thanks to this company of travelers, the shard of the Black Crystal is a fragment of an ancient evil, and the fewer who know of its existence the better.  I did not even tell others in my own homeland about it, for fear that they would come to this land to seek it out and be ensnared by its evil.  But now, thanks to these meddlesome travelers from my own benighted homeland, news of the Black Crystal is being trumpeted from the Gulf of Lune to the Inland Sea!  Nothing this Dwarf or his companions tells you changes anything – it is for the best if the shard is in my keeping.”

 

Frolin counters, "Master Galleth, someone bought these great bees to your wood.  Someone caused Halgo to be stung and then placed him where he would surely be found.  Someone also commanded the trolls to protect the hive.  We know all of this from our investigation of the wood.  It would be unwise of you to give away your shard until you understand why this all happened.  Have you had the chance to speak with Halgo about what happened to him in the woods?"

 

The blonde warrior finally nods in agreement with Frolin, "Indeed.  Perhaps with Halgo and Belemir's help, we could remove the threat that seems to haunt this estate.  These dumbledors, while dangerous, were just animals with little reason to attack Halgo without provocation; we must speak with the young man about his time in the wood."  He asks Galleth, "May we wait at his bedside and speak with him when he is able?"

 

Herubrand adds his voice: "Lord Galleth, it is of utmost importance that we know the details of what happened to Halgo in the woods. It must not bear delay, as the safety of your estate and its people may very well depend on it!"

 

Galleth appears somewhat bewildered, at a loss for words.  He mumbles, “I have heard Halgo’s voice, but he had not the strength to speak true words.  I do not know if he is well enough to answer question…”  His eyes naturally drift to Belemir.

 

“He is not strong enough,” the sage states flatly, “and if you let these men interrogate your boy I will not vouch for his safety.  Better to wait a day or two, until the young man is well enough to speak without coercion.”

 

[Opposed Debate (Parley) skill tests, Belemir against Frolin assisted by Vornmir and Herubrand; Belemir = 19]  Herubrand is practiced in the arts of debate, but even his urgent words hold no sway with Galleth, who feels he owes so much to Belemir.  Vornmir, unpracticed in such speech, initially provokes an angry reaction from Galleth, who at first takes Vornmir’s words as more of a threat, but Vornmir’s courageous spirit shines through and Galleth ignores the affrontery [1 Courage spent to avoid a disastrous failure].  Frolin must rely on his own verbal force [test result =14].  In the end Galleth shakes his head and says, “I must yield to the healer’s advice.  He has brought my son from the threshold of death, and I will not challenge his judgment now.  My son cannot be disturbed.  We will speak with him in a day or two, when his strength is fully returned.”

 

“You are a wise father,” Belemir says with only a hint of flattery.  “You are also a man of honor, and I know you will not break your word.  You will grant me the shard of the Black Crystal.”

 

Galleth nods once and replies, “My word is as a bond, and I will not break it.  Though the shard is a family heirloom, and I am loath to part with it now that it comes down to the matter…I must follow the dictates of honor.”  He turns to two of his retainers and orders them to go to the manor hall, remove the shard from its casing, and give to Belemir.  The men nod obediently and make their way back to the manor-house to fetch the crystal.  Galleth says to the gathered companions, “Again I thank you for braving the cursed wood on our behalf, and you are most welcome to stay with us as long as you like.  Truly, the goblin menace is still upon us, and we would be glad to have you stand with us when they come in force.  But, if you must set off with Belemir in the morning, you have my leave and blessing.”  The master of the villa then heads back to the house with his men.  Without another word to you, Belemir turns away and follows them.

 

Finbor halts Belemir, asking about the sage’s planned journey on the morrow.  "Where are we heading? We will have to prepare rations and supplies."

 

"We are heading to recover the next shard," Belemir answers plainly, without even looking back at Finbor.  "Bring whatever rations and supplies you need to live off the land."

 

Vornmir says, a bit surprised, "You know where another shard lies?  Then please tell us so that we can aid in the travel preparations and planning."

 

Belemir gives Vornmir only a brief, vague answer: “I do not know the destination, but I sense the path.  The shards exude a force that can be followed by those who possess the art to sense it.”

 

Frolin listens to Belemir’s words and thinks on them carefully.  [Insight (Sages) skill test, superior success] The Dwarf stands at Vornmir’s side and murmurs in a low voice to his companions, “Belemir may have once been known merely as a loremaster among the Rangers of the North, but I think in the years since the War of the Ring he has become a skilled magician, too.  I would be surprised if Belemir had not learned a great many spells and incantations during his many travels…”

 

Finbor asks the loremaster privately, in Sindarin, "Master Belemir, what are your plans with the shard?  How and where are you going to destroy it?"

 

Belemir replies in Sindarin, "It is pointless to destroy one shard.  Once all shards have been recovered, only then is there profit in seeking the destroy the entire Black Crystal."

 

Finbor then speaks again in the Dorwinion-speech.  "Oh, Lord Galleth, master Belemir, one more question if you please?" Finbor says as the men turn around. "How do you think it is possible that the trolls were expecting us?"

 

Galleth immediately stops and stares at Finbor agape.  He stammers in a profusely apologetic tone, "Lord Finbor, I did not know the giant goblins had invaded my wood, or never would I have permitted your company to venture under its boughs!  Please, I beg your forgiveness for the dangers you faced on my behalf.  I cannot imagine how the trolls knew of your coming, for none of my people have gone into the woods since the poor foresters who sought to learn what befell my son."

 

Belemir shows no such emotion.  He says mainly to Galleth, "These travelers from the West are young and inexperienced.  They see shadows and plots in every direction.  Think not on it any more, Master Galleth.  It was they who insisted on going into the woods, neither you nor I.  It is lamentable that they put so much stock in the addled words of a pair of deluded trolls."

 

As Galleth and Belemir depart, Finbor calls Garad aside to speak with the Fellowship privately.  Looking up toward the dark sky, he says in his heavily accented Dorwinion: "It is dark night tonight. Good night for Orc-attack, I hope your men are ready?”

 

Herubrand adds, "I'm not from these lands but these skies predict no good. I think we would do good to be vigilant and have a double watch tonight. And maybe the people sleeping in the outer buildings should sleep elsewhere tonight."

 

Garad nods solemnly and replies, “I hope your words will not come to pass, my friends, but we shall be as prepared as we can be.  I have ordered bonfires to be lit atop the hill, so that we may see anyone advancing toward it.  I concur, all the farming folk will be brought into the nearest buildings so they may flee onto the hill if danger comes.  I will double the watch, and send out patrols bearing torches so that the enemy can be spotted when they first violate our soil.”

 

Finbor presses Garad on a different matter: “You did not seem pleased when Belemir claimed his reward. What has happened?"

 

Vornmir adds, "Once again have we proven our trust to your villa, good Garad.  You told us earlier of young Halgo's injury, but you did not speak of your opinion of his healer.  Tell us, what is your opinion of Belemir?  Did Galleth's weariness prior to our arrival begin before or after the sage appeared?  When Belemir returned from his trips to the forest, did he have any herbs or possible remedies with him?"

 

Garad still seems loath to speak out of place, unwilling to challenge the word of his master.  He replies grimly, “It is not my place to grant our deny Belemir his boon.  If my master wishes to give away his family’s heirloom to this mysterious healer, it is his right to do so.  My opinion of the man means nothing, only the opinion of Master Galleth.  As for my master’s weariness, it coincided with young Halgo’s injury.  When it seems sure the lad would perish, he sank into unshakable despair – until your company arrived.  Belemir did nothing to cause or contribute to the despondency…unless he kept the boy lingering on the verge of death to persuade my master to grant his request.  As for Belemir’s trips into the wood, I am not certain with what he returned.  He moves stealthily, and rarely are his comings or goings observed.”

 

"Don't hesitate to wake me at the first sign of trouble," Finbor says to Galleth's captain.

 

"I will," he answers glumly, "but I do not expect trouble tonight.  If the enemy knows so much of the affairs of this estate, he will surely wait until after tomorrow, when the number of defenders will be greatly reduced, to say nothing of their skill.  You will leave us, and we will once again be reduced to my band of retainers and troop of levied militia.  That would be the best time to strike, and then they surely will.  Farewell to you all."  He bows curtly, a man clearly disappointed.

 

Later, Herubrand grabs the shoulder of Rard and speaks with him privately: "I thought I saw you go in the direction of the kitchen before and I doubt you went there for rations. Did you learn anything? Did Belemir prepare anything for anyone else besides Halgo?"

 

The hobbit holds up his hands in protest and says, “Maybe you Big People can live on trail rations all your lives, but we hobbits are accustomed to better eating!  The kitchen servants are happy to share their spices with me, and top off my pack with some better victuals.  But, I cannot learn anything from them, for I cannot even understand their speech!  Not that they talk much to me, they mostly stare and point.  I think they are not used to looking at hobbits…”

 

Night has now fallen upon Galleth’s estate.  The bonfires are lit, the armed militia sets up its double watch, and the fighting retainers take shifts leading the patrols.

 

Scene 6: The Dawnless Day

 

As a very dark night falls on June 25^th, the Fellowship is uncertain of its future course.  Frolin is convinced that Belemir has succumbed to corruption, a suspicion that Vornmir and Herubrand are willing to contemplate.

 

"I agree with you that he may seem suspicious, but all the evidence we have is circumstantial," Finbor persists.  “Before I accuse a man, trusted and honoured by both King Elessar and the Elven-King Thranduil, of treason, murder and whatever more, I need evidence that is fullproof!”  Finbor adds, “Besides, he has a point about us blundering through Wilderland, questioning everyone we see about this powerful artifact of evil.”

 

Vornmir says, “You are, of course, right, Finbor, that we have no right to judge him given what we have learned yet.  However, it seems if we leave before speaking with the boy, we may be just turning our backs on the evidence we so desperately need...and if we wait for the boy to speak with us and he confirms our dwarf's suspicions, then our task becomes so much more difficult finding Belemir again.”

 

Herubrand rues, "We cannot afford to leave without talking to the boy and we cannot afford to stay and let Belemir leave alone.  Damn!  Bah, even the task of rebuilding Framsburg was a simple one compared to this mess here!"

 

"We should accompany Belemir tomorrow, or at least some of us should,” says Finbor.  “We have journeyed for a long time to find him, now that we have found him we should not let him venture on alone. He won't be so easy to track next time, I'm afraid.”  He adds, "Although it saddens me to leave before a fight once more."

 

“Well, it seems to me that we left behind a great many battles in our homelands to come here, battles that were ours to fight!  So why should we tarry here for this villa?" the Northman replies with sharp tone and a grim look.  "I would welcome any chance to create a few more Orc corpses, though…”

 

The Fellowship briefly considers if someone from Galleth’s estate could bring word to them when Halgo comes around.  "I do not think Garad has the men to send a rider or messenger once the information is found," Vornmir comments, "but if we can find out where we are headed next, perhaps some of us can remain here and catch up with the others later, though I hate to split up our group in such a dangerous situation…”

 

Herubrand replies, "Garad wont send anyone after us, he will not risk one of his men even if Galleth would allow it. And you saw him, he was not pleased with our possible departure. I doubt he will be inclined to risk much for our benefit if we indeed do leave.  Finbor is right, though, tracking Belemir after he leaves alone will likely be very difficult. He knows of us now if he didn’t before, and while an uncooperative ranger can be hard to follow, tracking a hostile ranger commanding the service of trolls and other fouls is outright dangerous."

 

Ultimately, the Fellowship decides that most companions should set off on the morrow with Belemir, while at least Frolin should remain behind to speak with young Halgo.  Once Belemir is gone, the companions speculate, Galleth may be more readily convinced to permit Halgo to be questioned when he awakens, even if he has not yet fully regained his strength.  So resolved, the Fellowship returns to the villa.  Herubrand and Finbor both agree it might be a good idea if the estate patrols keep a watch on Belemir, to note if he persists in his nocturnal wanderings.  When the men approach Garad with the request, the chief retainer nods in agreement.  “It is well that we keep watch on the comings and goings of all who dwell in this estate,” he says, “given the dangers facing us in the countryside.  Truly, Master Galleth would wish us to make certain Belemir is kept safe.  I will instruct the house guard to watch him if he departs his bedchamber, and I will alert the estate patrols to note if he wanders away from the villa.”  Garad bows curtly to the men and walks away to finish his rounds in the manor-house.

 

The companions gather together in the manor-house for late supper prepared by the servants, and together they finalize their plans.  Packs are readied again for travel, and supplies checked and packed away carefully.  They then head into their separate bedchambers for the night, sleeping one more time on soft, comfortable beds before contemplating another long trek across the open countryside.  However, given the presence of goblins in the region, weapons are kept at the ready by their beds, and Herubrand even goes so far as to sleep in his armor.

 

*   *   *

 

Yet, the night passes without attack.  The watch-horns are never sounded, and the marauding goblins continue to keep away from the territory of this villa.  However, the companions are roused quite early, perhaps an hour before dawn on June 26^th.  Garad comes around to their bedchambers, rapping on their doors and calling them out.  As the Fellowship gathers in the hallway outside, Garad relates a strange tale.  “Belemir is gone,” he says breathlessly.  “A short while ago he emerged from his chamber, his satchel upon his back and walking-staff in his hand.  While leaving the manor, the house guard observed and followed him, trying keep him from departing.  But, then, Belemir passed his hand through the air between him and the guardsmen, and spoke strange words they did not know.  Suddenly, a great shadow descended upon the room, obscuring all sight.  It lasted for many moments, and when it cleared Belemir was gone from the manor-house.”

 

The Fellowship gathers its armaments before joining Garad in a thorough search of the premises, confirming that indeed Belemir is nowhere to be found.  Garad and the companions venture out of the doors, seeking out the villa patrols that kept a torchlight watch on the hilltop throughout the night.  One of the retainers rode among them on horseback, bearing the torch, and he relates to Garad what his patrol has seen.  “A short time ago a man was spotted departing the manor-house,” he says, “but he was shrouded in a veil of shadow, and we could not see him clearly.  We attempted to pursue him as best we could, and we have only now returned to the hilltop.”

 

“Were you able to follow him, or to discover in truth who he was?” Garad asks.

 

“No, we did not,” the retainer answers, “for as we neared the wood south of the hill, a shrill kree rang out in the sky above, and an ominous shadow flew overhead, even darker than the black clouds that blot out the moon and stars.  A panic broke out among the militia-men, who fell back in fear.  I steadied them as best I could, but even my heart quailed.  Surely, it must have been the great black raven, whose wings span a length greater than the height of even the tallest man!”  The man goes on to explain that the winged shadow circled for a while, landing in the distance, then took wing again and flew off to the south.  The patrol, badly shaken, made its way back onto the hilltop, where the men soon encountered Garad and the Fellowship.

 

Garad insists on leading the company back into the manor-house to report to Galleth, whose has been roused by the commotion.  The master of the villa is distressed to learn that Belemir has disappeared so suddenly, and in such a strange manner.  He is further alarmed about the news of the ‘winged shadow’ that menaced the night patrol.  “It is a bad omen,” Galleth says in a weak voice, “and I fear it means something evil may have befallen the goodly Belemir.  I would that he had stayed among us rather than sneaking away alone, when so many dangers plague the countryside!”

 

It takes some time to console Galleth, and to help the older man regain his wits.  By now dawn has come, and the servants are awakened by the consternation affecting the household.  They begin to go about their chores, and to prepare a morning meal.  The day seems to be off to a normal start, but it soon becomes clear it is not a normal day.  The sun is not rising.  As the early morning hours slowly pass, and meager light emerges outside, it can be seen that the skies are filled for many miles in every direction with a thick, impenetrable blanket of black storm clouds.  Not a single ray of sunlight breaches the dark shroud, and day is separated from night only by the faint glow of the sun utterly masked by the cloud cover.  The air is cool, dreadfully cold for a summer day in late June, yet it is choking thick with moisture, and the rumbling thunder of approaching storms can be heard.

 

“A dawnless day,” Garad bemoans to the Fellowship, “this is truly an unhappy sign.”  He adds somberly, “If you wish to try to follow your friend Belemir, you had better leave us soon and quickly, though I cannot guess how you can hope to find him given how he vanished before my watchmen.  Verily, I urge you to stay with us and shelter from the coming storm.”

 

Suddenly, sounds of rejoicing emanate from inside the manor-house, coming from Halgo’s hallway.  Garad rushes inside, gesturing for the Fellowship to follow him.  Coming upon Halgo’s bedchamber, they find Galleth inside with a gaggle of servants, all of them chattering happily.  Lying on the bed is a young man not dissimilar from Barion of Dale, who journeyed with the Fellowship for a time, though this lad is slightly younger than Barion and not as strongly built or lithe.  Young Halgo is awake and sitting up in his bed; his countenance is pale but not utterly wan, and he appears to be alert and conversant.  His old father is embracing him happily, and the servants are fussing over him protectively.  Garad turns to the companions and whispers, “One bright spot of happiness in this bleak and hopeless day.”

 

Though it takes some time for Galleth and the servants to calm down and give Halgo some peace and space, eventually order is restored and Halgo is introduced to the five travelers in his midst.  He wonders at Frolin and Rariadoc, for he has only heard of Dwarves and has never seen anything like a Hobbit before.  Shortly, though, the lad is convinced to relate the tale of what befell him in the forest, as best he can remember.  Halgo’s voice is weary but not weak, and his mind is rendered only slightly hazy by the many days spent in a deep sleep.  The youth begins his story by explaining how he had ventured into the wood in the morning with his father’s bow, hunting for a hart; having just reached the age of manhood, hunting a hart in the wood on his own was a traditional rite of passage.  “I found a deer-path in the forest, and followed it as best I could,” he says.  “It led to a large, deep bowl in the heart of the wood, and I thought to turn back for fear of becoming lost.  From inside the bowl I heard a strange noise, a low droning sound.  Curious, I sneaked closer to observe what could make so strange a noise.  It was then that, I think, I heard a voice chanting strange words.  But, before I could think any further on it, a great cloud of black and gold arose from the bowl in the forest floor, and a terrifying swarm descended upon me!  I turned and tried to flee, but blocking the path behind me was a pair of giants, gruesome and horrible to behold!  I feel to the ground gripped by fear, and then I felt a great many sharp barbs pierce my breast, and shocks of pain stung my heart.  Blackness fell upon my eyes, and I saw no more.  The next moment that I remember was waking in this bed some hours ago, with a man unknown to me tending my wounds.”  Halgo points to the Dúnadan Finbor and says, “The man looked something like him, though not quite so tall and much older.”  The lad concludes, “I was so tired and weak, very quickly I fell back asleep.  But, some minutes ago I awakened when I heard some noise in the house, and now I feel alert and stronger.  Where is the tall stranger who tended me?  I wish to thank him.”

 

“He was a wandering healer named Belemir,” Galleth answers his son, smiling warming as he wipes a tear from his eye.  “Alas, he left us suddenly in the night, and I fear we will not see him again.”

 

“Oh, I am saddened that I could not thank him, father,” Halgo says in a quiet voice.  “I hope that you rewarded him on my behalf for his kind services?”

 

Galleth nods and says, “He asked not for treasure or honors, but only for one old relic.  The crystal shard that rested upon the mantle in the great hall.  I gave it to him last night, shortly after you first woke for a brief time.”

 

Halgo nods once and smiles faintly.  “It was a strange old relic that I never understood, father,” he says, “and I will miss it not, even though it was to be my heirloom.  The bow of my father is a better heirloom, and one I am proud to have kept in my hands even as I fell in the wood.”  Galleth embraces the young man, sharing private words that reflect a similar sentiment.

 

Garad gestures for the Fellowship to leave the chamber, so that Galleth and Halgo can speak in private.  Garad says in a weary voice, “I do not understand the events that have troubled this estate, but perhaps I misjudged Belemir.  I feared that he would not heal Halgo, that he would claim his boon and young Halgo would expire after he left.  Yet, Belemir is gone and Halgo regains the bloom of health.  I am most happy to trade the presence of that strange foreigner for the return of my young master.”  He looks among all of the companions of the Fellowship and says, “I do not know where your paths will take you from here, but I wish you success and safety.  I fear the goblin menace is increasing, and this day I will risk sending out riders to the south, east, and west to reconnoiter goblin movements.  If what I suspect is true, you would do well to stay here with us.  If you travel alone in the countryside, then you will fight and die alone against the gathering host.  If you stay here with us, then at least you will die in good and honorable company, and perhaps we may slow the vile army before it descends upon the Dorwinion towns.”

 

>With a stern look upon his face Finbor stands before Galleth, "A bad omen

>it is indeed, Lord Galleth, though it has a good side. Since Belemir has

>left without us, and it appears to be impossible to track him, we might as

>well stay here, and help you fight the goblin raiders."

 

Galleth is clearly overjoyed to hear this.  "I am sorry that the man whom you traveled so far to find has evaded you," he says, "but you may yet do good work among us.  I am no king, and I cannot honor you as your liege may, but your names will echo in the memories of the Dorwinions."

 

>"Garad, I still have a few questions about the defence of this villa. When

>the orcs approach, everyone falls back to the villa, right? Including the

>men near the woods? And I saw the milita were mostly armed with pikes and

>spears, do you have any archers? We could use them when the orcs arrive,

>this hills creates a fine killing ground they will have to charge up

>through."

 

Garad answers Finbor, "Yes, the field-folk and woodmen have been commanded to run to the top of this hill upon the sounding of the horn of battle.  They will shelter in the winery and warehouse, while those who can fight will do battle in the restricted spaces between the buildings.  The militia-men we have gathered are armed with pitchforks-turned-spears and pruning-hooks turned pikes, but they are not archers.  Halgo has a bow, and a good one at that.  Several of the woodmen also possess bows, and they will be certain to stand with us.  However, this villa is not an armory, and we do not produce arrows in any large quantity, nor can we."

 

>"Perhaps a quick palisade could be constructed?"

 

Garad nods thoughtfully and says, "It depends on how much time we have.  It would take the better part of a day for the woodmen to return to the forest, fell a sufficient number of trees, and drag them to the top of the hill.  It would take us another day to construct even a humble barrier out of them."

 

Frolin says, "I mistrust wooden walls myself.  Earthen works are more to my liking.  Dig a ditch across the most vulnerable areas between buildings.  Pile the earth behind it, and you have an effective barrier.  Anyone can dig... women... children.  Add some sharpened wood stakes, and the barrier will be most formidable.  It will be much faster than sutting down wood and dragging it all the way up here."

 

>"Spare no concern for Belemir, Master Galleth," Frolin says in a slightly harsh tone.  "He >does not deserve it.  It was Belemir who caused your son to be injured so that he might heal >him in return for your crystal.  It is Belemir who commands the goblins who will likely >attack your villa soon.  You would do well to take your folk and flee to the nearest walled >town immediately."

 

Galleth grows angry at these words.  He replies sharply, "Belemir healed my son, and it is only your vague suspicion that suggests he did anything to harm him or my estate.  That he disappeared so strangely is sign of nothing more than his desire to escape your pursuit, a matter between him and you."  When abandoning the villa is recommended, he snaps back, "We are the greatest estate in the land west of Dunburg, and we will not flee!  We will defend our homes, or die trying.  There are numerous women and children among us, and they would lag behind if we attempted to run ten leagues overland to Dunburg--it would be a sentence of death upon them.  No, we will stand here and fight.  True, it would be better if our numbers were greater.  Alas that the Men of Dunburg cannot join with us and together turn back that goblin tide, for now they will strike us piecemeal."

 

Scene 7: Storm Clouds of War

 

The Fellowship is roused just before dawn on June 26^th by Garad, who informs the companions that Belemir slipped out of the villa during the night, carrying the shard of the Black Crystal with him.  A veil of shadow masked his escape from the manor-house, and the reappearance of the ominous raven-lord scared away the watchmen that tried to follow him.  There are no further signs of the loremaster, a quick search for tracks leading to a dead-end on the open sward between the hill and the wood.  It is if Belemir vanished into the air above.  Unwelcome news, but not surprising to some of the companions.  "Are we all now in agreement that Belemir is in fact Baldur?" Frolin asks cantankerously.  Finbor looks hard at Frolin as he asks the question, but as the dwarf keeps looking at him, as if waiting for an answer, the Dúnadan warrior simply shrugs his shoulders and looks the other way.

 

"Come, we must hasten after Belemir immediately," Frolin says to the others.  But, the Dwarf is flabbergasted to find that Finbor, Vornmir and Rard all wish to linger at Galleth’s villa.  Finbor even says as much to Master Galleth, agreeing to stay and fight alongside his men.

 

Vornmir shares with Frolin the desire to pursue Belemir, but both he and the Dwarf admit they have no way to track the man now, at least until he again reveals himself in this land.  Vornmir adds his voice to Finbor’s call to remain and fight.  "Since Garad has already told us we cannot reach a walled city of safety within a day, I think it is wisest for us to remain here for the time being.  We will need protection from the orcs just as these people," he says.  "It is best if we face the menace together in what defenses we can muster instead of scattering ourselves on the blades of these goblins."

 

Herubrand stares in wonder at Vornmir and then replies in a sarcastic tone, "I see pity has again won your hearts.  But, what are you going to do – die here?  We have a task we set out to do, and protecting villas from Orcs is not part of it!  They chose to stay here while they could have long been in Dunburg.  So they want to stand and fight?  I commend them for it, but it is not my business here, nor is it yours!  Frolin is right, Belemir and the crystal is what should occupy us.  This estate will inevitably be overrun and there's nothing Galleth or Garad can do about that.  Our presence might postpone the end, but it will not prevent it.”

 

Rard protests, "I am not willing to go off and allow these people to die."  He insists on staying for at least the next few days, to see if the goblin threat waxes or wanes. [+1 Courage point returned to Rard for playing his Guiding Virtue]  Besides, the hobbit points out, “I do not know where to begin in our hunt for Belemir. Or even what to do when we find him.”

 

"Belemir is even more crafty than I had anticipated," Frolin admits.  "It seems pursuit is pointless.  Then we shall stay and defend these folk against the goblin attack which is sure to come." 

 

Herubrand eventually relents: “I will agree that while we are here and deliberate how to proceed, we should help Garad and his men the best we can."

 

The company returns to Garad and Galleth, who have already been sending out orders for the day to the people of the villa, readying them for the likely goblin attack.  The companions report that all have agreed to stay for now, and they join in the deliberations.  Frolin’s recommendation of digging a line of defensive trenches atop the hill is well-received, and the Dwarf craftmaster’s stonecrafting and affinity with fortifications are suited to the task, for working earth is but an aspect of crafting stoneworks.  Galleth and Garad readily agree to let the Dwarf take charge of the affair.  Rariadoc volunteers to escort woodmen down to the forest to fell trees for ramps, embankments, and stakes to put in the ditches.  Herubrand agrees to lead the digging of the trenches, organizing all the able-bodied people who can lift a shovel.

 

"How is the morale of the militia?” asks Finbor.  “Can they stand against an Orc-charge? If not, they will need a firm and brave captain when the Orcs attack."

 

Garad shakes his head sadly and says, “They are goodly men, but farmers rather than warriors.  They number two-dozen men whom I have trained to bear arms.  The able-bodied woodmen who can fight alongside us with hatchets and hunting-bows number another dozen men, though some are rightly too young or too old for such a task.  To bolster their ranks we have a dozen fighting retainers, including myself.  The total size of our force is not quite fifty, plus the number of your company.  I do not reckon this is enough to hold off a goblin army, if such a horde masses in the countryside around us.  And, I fear, we have no true captain among our numbers.  I am a man of the sword, and chief of the retainers, but I have no skill in commanding troops in war.”

 

Galleth looks at Finbor and Herubrand pleadingly.  “My friends, will you not lead us in this coming battle?” he says in a plaintive voice.  “Lord Finbor, I beg you to take command of the fight.  We have no skill at such a task, and you are our best hope.  Lord Herubrand, I beg you to take leadership of my people whilst the goblin threat is upon us.  You possess a noble bearing and know something of our tongue, and my frightened folk will obey you in the direst hour.”

 

Garad adds his voice: “Say you will accept my master’s plea, friends?”

 

*   *   *

 

It is a busy day at Galleth’s estate, though the daylight is sparse under the darkened sky filled with brewing storm clouds.  Garad mounts up and rides into the countryside in the early morning to reconnoiter the movement of the goblins; he is joined by Vornmir and Finbor, who volunteer to ride with him and are gladly lent horses in return.  While the three men are gone, Galleth and the remainder of the Fellowship see to the preparation of the defenses, centered on the hilltop villa.  Galleth rides down into the field villages and calls his folk to shelter on the top of the hill; scores of women, children, and old men tromp up the hill and huddle inside the warehouse and winery, bearing as many humble possessions as they can carry.  The master of the villa then returns to the manor-house, to stay at the side of young Halgo while his son slowly heals from his injuries.

 

The retainers, militia-men, foresters, and all healthy adult women and adolescent boys are then called to service by Herubrand, who organizes them to take up pick and shovel.  Frolin strides among the workers, directing them to dig an outer network of trenches, each some five feet wide and deep, running between the exterior corners of all the outlying buildings; the exhumed earth is piled up on the interior side as embankments upon which the spear-and-pike men can stand.  Later in the day, after the outer trench network is dug, Frolin directs the workers to dig an inner ring-ditch at the heart of the hilltop, surrounding the warehouse and winery in which the peaceable folk will shelter.  It is a last line of defense, a position to which defenders can fall back when the outer trenches are overrun.  Rard, meanwhile, has escorted foresters down to the wood south of the hill, and the men have returned with a few fallen timbers.  The oaks are chopped up into planks and stakes; the former are used to reinforce the earthen breastworks and to place across the interior ring as removable bridges, while the latter are sharpened and stuck into the soil inside the trenches.  The foliage of the trees is harvested to serve as a make-shift covering over the spikes, though this is not enough leaves to fully cover a network of ditches running well over a hundred yards in length total.

 

Though Rard does not tire himself with the digging (nor does anyone seem to expect the little person to do so), the hobbit busies himself by making sure the hill will be properly provisioned.  Every scrap of edible food is gleaned from the villages below and carried up to the hill, so that the warehouse and manor-house are overflowing with provender; every barrel and cask is carried down to the wells and filled with water.  By the end of the day Galleth is well-pleased with Rard’s efforts, estimating that enough water, wine, and imperishable foodstuffs have been gathered atop the hill to last the people (some two hundred in sum) several weeks.

 

*   *   *

 

While work is underway atop Galleth’s hill, Vornmir and Finbor ride with Garad through the surrounding countryside.  They are mounted on swift, sturdy horses trained for war, the equal of those bred by the Northmen of Rhovanion (if not the Riders of Rohan themselves).  The perimeter of Galleth’s estate is a progress of some three leagues total, and it takes the party several hours to ride the distance at a steady run.  The troop maintains such a rapid pace to avoid being overtaken by gangs of goblins, who characteristically march on foot and lack cavalry altogether.  The men are distressed, though hardly surprised, to see the countryside crawling with goblins!  Clustered in bands of perhaps a dozen (much like the patrol the Fellowship battled on the way to Galleth’s villa), the wretched little Orcs are slowly coalescing into a mass numbering in the hundreds.  The individual bands were previously scattered in every direction around the estate – north, west, east, and south – hiding in every gulley and grove until the sun grew dark.  Now, with the sun masked utterly by the lingering storm clouds, the bands of goblins are rushing to gather together beyond the cursed wood south of the hill.  Soon, the countryside west and north of the estate are emptied of goblins, and they wicked army completely dominates the land to the east and south.

 

Finbor, knowledgeable in the art of war, observes the goblin movements carefully.  [Siegecraft skill test, complete success] He notes how the goblin bands are moving independently, chaotically, without any definite coordination.  They seem to be gathering together to the south not because of some guiding leadership, but rather because there is a lack of it.  Rather than attempting to confront the riders, most goblin bands simply redouble their pace to reach the safety of the goblin army.  It is possible that the goblin movements are occurring on some pre-arranged schedule, and this is too complicated for the stupid Orcs to manage, but Finbor is still struck by how chaotic the whole affair appears to be.  Of course, even when goblins mass and attack on whim without shrewder leadership, they can still be very nasty and very dangerous.  Though the individual bands seem to be somewhat confused and uncertain, the massed host to the south does not look like it intends to retreat.

 

“Primitive brutes they may be,” Garad comments dryly, “but they are clever in causing suffering.  By blocking the land routes east of the hill, they cut us off from Dunburg.  They leave the west and north open, for they know that it is much farther to the walled towns in that direction, and if we try to flee they can overtake us in the open countryside.”

 

Finbor nods, concurring with Garad’s judgment.  “Orcs are very swift of foot,” he states, “and only cavalry can be counted to outrun them.  Few in number are Men, Elves, or Dwarves can keep pace on foot with even little Orcs like these, and surely your women and children would have no hope.  Galleth’s people must remain together atop the hill while this goblin host is present.”

 

“The goblins are too numerous!” Garad states glumly.  “At the rate they are gathering, they will outnumber us ten-to-one!  Even Dwarven-made breastworks cannot avail us against such grim odds…”  Finbor and Vornmir look at each other somberly, aware of the reality.  Vornmir is no grand tactician, but he is a skilled fighter and even he could not long stand alone against ten Orcs.

 

Garad halts his horse, gazing at the two men and their silent exchange.  “You can offer me no words, I understand,” he says, with a new air of determination.  “There is but one hope, I see that now.  I must reach Dunburg and convince the town militia to join forces with us and break the goblin host against our hill.  Dunburg faces great peril, it is true, but the peril will only be worse if the goblins seize this rich villa and mass in even greater numbers.”

 

“It is a dangerous ride,” Vornmir cautions the man, “for you have seen the eastern countryside occupied by goblin patrols.”

 

“I know,” Garad replies in a level tone of voice, “but I must succeed if we are to survive.  I am a fast rider, and skilled, and I know well the routes to Dunburg.  My name and reputation are known there among the town leaders, and I have good hope that I can persuade them to dispatch the militia to our rescue.  At a gallop, I can reach Dunburg from here in no more than five hours.”

 

“It is too dangerous to ride alone,” Finbor protests.  “Let one of us ride with you, or at least take along some of your fellow retainers.”

 

Garad shakes his head and replies, “It is too dangerous to risk anyone else.  The both of you, as well as my fellow retainers, are needed to defend the hill.  And there is no time to waste: I must ride to Dunburg now, I am decided.”  He wheels his horse about, pointing the steed to the east.  “If you honor my friendship, do not dissuade me or follow – return to the hill, and lead my people in battle!  I hope to reach Dunburg before dusk tonight.  Even if I convince the town leaders to muster the militia this very night, the host cannot set out until dawn on the morrow.  It will take an army some twelve hours to march from Dunburg to the villa, so you cannot expect us any earlier than dusk tomorrow.  With luck, the goblins will not attack until then.”  Before either Finbor or Vornmir can say aught else, Garad raises his hand in a farewell salute and pushes his horse eastward at a gallop.  Vornmir and Finbor, who watch the brave Garad disappear over the eastern horizon, are left to complete the progress around the perimeter of the estate alone.  As they ride, the men share a personal exchange of words.

 

"How I long to return home," Vornmir says with a sigh.  Then looks at Finbor with a smile and adds, "I cannot help but think our quest is but a sign that my time draws near – whither it is time for my valor to be restored or my life to end, I am uncertain.  Still, facing the old enemies of the Mark's first King for a just cause is as great an honor as a warrior could have.  Regardless of what my fate brings, my soul may soon be at peace for the first time in many years."

 

Finbor responds, "My father's captain, Borthor, once told me a valuable lesson in leadership. He told me that when one is leading a company of men who trust you and respect you, it is a great burden for a man. They will stand with you to the end, or run with you when you flee. You no longer are one man, you become responsible for the entire company. 'I am the Calembel Guard' he said. 'And father?' I asked. 'He ìs Lamedon, and so will you be one day.'  Think about it, and be prepared to bear that responsibility, for when we get back we will be Galleth's Villa."

 

He looks hard at Finbor, still smiling, and says, "If I am unable to return to Rohan when our travels have passed, I hope you will speak well of," he sits tall and proud in his saddle, "Eogar, the son of Garbald..." [+1 Courage point returned to Vornmir for playing his Inner Struggle]

 

"I will, my brother...” Finbor answers.  “I will tell them how he shrewdly taunted the great spiders of Mirkwood with a riddle. I will tell them how he mightlily fought the bandits of Rhûn. I will tell them how he bravely fought a troll on his own. And I will them many more tales of your vigor and bravery."  Then, smiling back, he adds, "But, why don't you just come with me and tell them yourself when this is over?"

 

*   *   *

 

Vornmir and Finbor return to Galleth’s hill in the late afternoon, and they are well-pleased at the progress of the work underway.  They report to their companions, and to Galleth, about the goblin host gather over a mile to the south beyond the forest.  The men also relate how Garad insisting on riding alone to Dunburg to try to bring the town militia out to help fight the goblins.  Galleth nods solemnly, holding his hand to the side of his head in grief.  “Garad is the noblest retainer ever to serve any Dorwinion House,” he says in a weak voice.  “He risks his very life to give us hope.  If he reckons truly that the goblins could number five hundred by the morrow, then our only chance to survive is if the Dunburg militia marches to join us.  I only pray that we can last until they arrive, if Garad makes it to Dunburg and convinces the townsmen to come to our aid.”

 

Even comes shortly thereafter, though there is hardly any change in the heavens above.  The sky has been dark all day, and the air frightfully cool.  When the little daylight that made it past the clouds completely fades with the setting of the veiled sun, storm winds begin to howl and cold rain begins to pour.  Lightning bolts flash in the distance, and thunder rumbles.  Galleth’s folk retreat into the secure buildings to shelter for the night, and fair shares of water, wine, and rations are distributed among the people.  The Fellowship gathers in the manor-house with Galleth, to consume their meal in what little cheer can be mustered.  Meanwhile, rotating night-watches are established to watch the terrain south of the hill in case the goblins attempt to advance under the cover of night and storm.  The watchmen bear torches dipped in pitch, enough to burn in all but the heaviest torrents.  Bundles of such torches are prepared and kept by the door of every building, ready to rush to the trenches should a night battle come.  When the windy rain and thunder let up, drums can be heard in the night distance to the south, deep and cruel rumblings.  But, do the goblin drums signal an imminent attack, or naught but the passing of the minutes and hours?

 

Dawn comes on June 27^th much as it did the day before: dark, cloudy, and sunless.  The rain and thunder have subsided, and the air is not quite so wet and chill as the night before, giving some cheer to the hearts of the people.  When a small degree of light returns to the sky, though the sun is still utterly masked by storm clouds, the people emerge from the buildings to fetch water from the barrels and prepare the meals for the day; Rard stays close at hand, overseeing the cooking and the consumption of the provisions.  Able-bodied folk are gathered by Herubrand and led back to the trenches to bilge out the pooling water; Frolin directs the workers to repair the stakes and embankments damaged by last night’s storm.  Vornmir and Finbor join the armed retainers in the stables, making sure that the horses are foddered and readied for battle.  Vornmir inspects the retainers’ arms and armor, helping them dress for battle if it comes this day.  Finbor, meanwhile, inspects villa’s volunteer fighters, the farmers who have taken up spear and pike and the woodmen bearing hatchet and bow.  They are ill-trained and unarmored, the Dúnadan warrior laments, but they possess serviceable arms and at least seem to be in good spirits.

 

Galleth spends the hours of the day in his manor-house at Halgo’s side.  However, during the late afternoon the people are cheered by a happy sight: Galleth emerges from the house, with Halgo walking by his side!  The young man is still somewhat unsteady, and his pallor is still slightly wan, but he can walk under his own power.  In his hands he carries his gift-bow, a quiver of arrows slung upon his back.  Halgo strides (however wobbly) over to the companions of the Fellowship, greeting them with a grateful bow of his head.  “I have come to join the defenders of the hill,” he says proudly.  Holding up his bow, he looks down at Rard and says with a smile, “Let me test the skill of Dorwinion archery against the little bowman of the West.”  Galleth is pleased by his son’s spirit, though he is also distracted.  Galleth’s gaze is pulled ever to the east, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon for sight of Garad and the Dunburg militia.  Alas, they are not to be seen…

 

The woodmen archers are greeting Halgo warmly, expressing their happiness to see him walking again.  The workers repairing the trenches have completed the task and are now preparing the evening meal.  Wine is poured and water, too, and bread and bowls of stew served to hungry mouths.  Despite the darkness of a second dawnless day, the people of Galleth’s estate are holding up well.  Rumors are spreading among the people that Garad should appear on the horizon soon, that dusk is only an hour away and he will arrive with rescuers from Dunburg.  There is much spirited chatter, distracting the people from their troubles.  Suddenly, the cheer is silence by an explosion of drumbeats!  From a distance to the south, heavy drumming erupts and carries loudly through the cold air.  It is much more than the pattering heard last night – this is a concerted, steady, ominous rhythm.

 

“The goblins are advancing!” Finbor cries out.  “To arms!”

 

“People, hear me!” Herubrand shouts in response.  “Women, children, and elders, go to the shelter buildings!  Fasten the doors and stay out of sight.  All those who can fight, to the outer trenches!”

 

There is only a brief wave of panic, and Finbor and Herubrand’s authoritative voices calm the people.  Within a few moments the people are obeying the instructions: those who cannot fight flee into the warehouse and winery.  The militia-men gather up their spears and pikes, the woodmen take up their bows, and the retainers mount upon their war steeds.  Finbor leads the fighting men to the outer trench network, positioning the spearmen behind the embankments to the left and right of the manor house.  The archers are positioned atop the roofs and the embankments to rain arrows down upon the goblins should they charge the hill.  The cavalry are positioned in the rear, ready to fill any gaps or to rush to defend any breach opened up by goblin attack.  Torches are lit and placed at the inner edges of the trenches, giving the defenders light enough to see the whole of the hilltop.

 

Within a few minutes the first goblin ranks can be seen, pouring through the little forest south of the hill.  Most of the creatures are squat, somewhat larger than a Dwarf but not as tall as a Man, and as swart as mud.  Many carry primitive wooden shields and bone-studded maces, but others are armed with crude iron scimitars, and some even bear wicked black-lacquered bows.  Howling like wild beasts, they fan out in a wide line of battle the completely wraps the east, south, and west flanks of the hill, and even the north flank is within a short striking distance.  As soon as the first clumsy ranks are in position, additional waves of goblins pour out of the wood and form up behind them.  As they advance to attack, they sing a battle-song in their cruel, horrid tongue.  Frolin and Herubrand shudder to hear it, translating as best they can:

 

Yo-ho, to war!

Ya-ha, advance!

When Blood-fangs attack,

No foeman stands.

 

One gnarled goblin-sergeant sings out a special line to encourage the ranks:

 

We don’t need no Man commander,

We don’t need no Black Star bird!

Now we gets all of the plunder,

Now our battle-cry gets heard!

 

The whole wretched host now joins the refrain:

 

Blood-fangs, Blood-fangs, to the fore!

Ya-ha, advance!

Yo-ho, to war!

 

The Dorwinion defenders of the hill quake at the sound of the fearsome chanty, and tearful wailing can be heard from inside the warehouse and winery buildings.  Yet, the goblin song proves not to be the worst thing to fear.  “Look!” the observant hobbit Rard shouts to his Fellowship companions, “Uruk-hai and Olog-hai!  Like straight out of the stories of Cousin Merry!”  Sure enough, emerging out of the forest to bolster the center rear of the goblin host is a cadre of Great Orcs and Black Trolls, hated remnants of the shattered army of Mordor!  These evil foes will surely march at the heart of the enemy attack, driving the lesser goblins before them and preventing the craven wretches from fleeing.  Whereas the gaggle of goblins scurries toward the hill like a chaotic wave, the Uruk-hai and their Olog-hai flank guards march in good order, their unending malice visible in their eyes even from this distance.  Goblin drummers suddenly pound out a heavy, thundering cadence, signaling the attack!  The first wave of shrieking goblins breaks into a charge, rushing madly up the eastern, southern, and western slopes of the hill, heading straight toward the entrenched gaps between the buildings.  The Uruk and Troll cohort marches up the center, pressing the heart of the attack!

 

Scene 8: The Battle for Galleth’s Villa

 

As sundown approaches on June 27^th (if the sun can even be said to set on so dark and cloudy a day), the wretched goblins finally make their move.  Mustering a full strength of nearly five hundred, the goblins march through the wood to the south and launch an assault on Galleth’s hill!  The bulk of the horde consists of a primitive local clan of scrawny lesser goblins, but the army appears to be held together by a cohort of mannish Uruk-hai along with a handful of Olog-hai, surely survivors of the fall of Mordor.  It is only the Uruk-hai and their black-troll shock troops that keep in good order, providing leadership to an otherwise disorderly gaggle.  Nonetheless, the goblin horde is drilled well enough to launch simultaneous attacks on three sides of the hill – east, south, and west.  Not possessing any kind of siege engines, the goblin waves turns aside from the buildings and march toward the open spaces between the structures, where the defenders wait them behind trenches and earthen embankments…

 

The Fellowship, having taken command of the villa’s defense, readies Galleth’s folk to receive the enemy charge.  Herubrand has already led the women, children, and old men into the winery and warehouse buildings behind the inner trench, the last line of defense.  Finbor urges Galleth to join them: “Lord Galleth, please stay with your people, look after them, and don't let panic overtake them!”

 

Galleth nods grimly and says, “I will stand with my people to the very end, if you will stand with my fighters.  If your company and I hold true, my people will not panic.”  He offers Finbor a brave salute, and then rushes to join his people in the winery.

 

Young Halgo, though still weak from his injuries, insists on joining the fight with his bow.  Finbor positions Galleth’s son next to Rariadoc Brandybuck, who stands with the other bowmen on the outskirts of battle, atop embankments or the roofs of buildings.  "Rard, you keep an eye on the boy, make sure he lives!" Finbor whispers pointedly to the hobbit.

 

Finbor, Herubrand, and Vornmir mount up on fine war-steeds borrowed from Galleth’s stables.  Vornmir joins the squadron of mounted retainers, replacing the missing Garad and bringing their number up to a gallant dozen.  Finbor rides up and down the battle lines to shout encouragement and simple orders to the fighting men in his broken Dorwinion, sufficient to be understood.  Herubrand rides close to Finbor, watching the safety of the Gondorian captain as well as the flanks of the villa’s little army.

 

*   *   *

 

Chanting their clan name “Blood-fangs” over and over in their guttural Orkish speech, the first wave of goblins crests the hill and charges toward the trenches.  Rard opens the villa’s defense at close range, signaling the bowmen to shoot their arrows at the goblins only when they are close enough to make every shot count.  “The ugly one with the big hatchet is mine!" he shouts gleefully, loosing his first shaft.  “Now the one with the red shirt!” he cries out, blissfully unaware that none of the other bowmen can understand a word he is saying.  The villa does not have many bowmen defending it, nor do they possess a great quantity of arrows, but the initial volley is enough to trouble the advancing wave and slacken its resolve as it nears the trenches.  Shrieking and waving their primitive weapons wildly, the first goblin wave pours up the hill and stumbles into the trenches, falling upon the sharpened stakes at the bottom!  Despite the howls of pain and visible losses, the second and third waves continue to push forward, filling up the trenches and scrambling over the bodies of their fallen comrades.

 

Mounted high on his horse, Captain Finbor gestures with his sword for the spear-and-pike militia to block the goblins from crossing the trench.  “LISTEN TO ME, FOLK OF GALLETH!” he shouts, “Do not despair!  They may seem warriors, but cowardly slaves they are!  Don't let their numbers frighten you! There are ten goblins out there just for you!  Cut them down, one at the time.  As for me, I am an experienced warrior, I will take fifty!”  He urges his horse forward to the fray, Vornmir and the rest of the cavalry following him.  The captain cries out, “Fight now and carve out a legend that both East and West will remember!  Fight for your homes, fight for your wives, fight for your children!”  The men of the villa raise a shout and level their spears at the advancing Orcs, pushing the charging wave back into the trenches.  The horsemen ride up and down the line, hammering any band of goblins that manages to make it across the trench and through the wall of spearmen.  Arrows continue to fall down upon the goblins like a sprinkling rain, the bowmen on the higher-ground outskirts trying to make their arrows last as long as they can.  Meanwhile, the squadron of Uruk-hai and Olog-hai brings up the center, the pin that holds the goblin horde together.  After the gaggle of lesser goblins fill the trenches and pin down the defending line, the Great Orcs and Black Trolls press into the heart of the battle!  The first hour of the fight is intense, as both sides test the other for weaknesses and resolve.

 

Rariadoc Brandbuck keeps to the outskirts of the battle, patiently taking aim and then shooting a well-placed arrow each time.  Of course, this does not leave him much spare momentum for dodging.  [Attack test: 10 roll + 3 aiming + 13 skill – 4 outskirts = 22, extraordinary success, +3 bonus to army’s test]  Rard’s aim is true time and again, and many lead goblins are shot through the neck before they can even reach the trenches.  As an inspiration to the other bowmen, Rard makes an extraordinary contribution to the fight.  During the hour of battle, the goblin archers frequently try to shoot back at him.  One shaft comes close to targeting him, but the little hobbit is too nimble and hard to hit.

 

Frolin stands in the heart of the battle, fighting alongside the militia-men and calling for them to stand their ground.  He invokes an incantation against fear that he has been trying to master, powering it with his courage [1 Courage spent].  "This is your land, Men of Dorwinion!" he calls out to those around him.  "Let us show these wretches what happens to those who come here with murder in their hearts!"  [Inspire test: 5 roll + 8 spell – 2 untrained + 2 heart = 13, failure, +0 to the army’s test] His words are bold, and he leads by example, but even augmented with newly mastered magic the little Dwarf’s voice is not grand enough to register in the minds of the frightened spearmen.  During the hour of battle, while he stands in the heart of the fight Frolin is assaulted by various and sundry foes.  One of the troll’s swings his great mace at the Dwarf, he tries but fails to block the blow as it slams into his torso [18 damage, Injured].  One of the Uruk-hai also chops at Frolin, and his skill is clearly greater than the small Dwarf’s, but through sheer luck Frolin manages to parry the blow and escape.  Alas, he is so overextended that he cannot adequately defend himself from one of the lesser goblin’s clubs, and he suffers another body blow adding to his wounds [5 damage, Wounded].

 

Herubrand fights in the thick of the battle, mounted upon a war steed.  He keeps in between Finbor and the rest of the cavalry, shouting out warnings whenever the defenders’ flanks are threatened.  [Attack test: 10 roll + 10 skill + 0 thick = 20, superior success, +2 bonus to army’s test] Herubrand’s noble sword flashes in the dim light of the dusk, slicing through numerous goblins that try to get around the sides of the defenses, a great contribution to the battle.  During the hour of battle, he faces numerous foes.  One Uruk manages to close with him and slash at him with his wicked blade, but the Northman skillfully parries the strike.  A lesser goblin also swings his bony mace at Herubrand, but the feeble blow fails to connect.

 

Vornmir fights in the heart of the battle, his burnished Dwarven-mail glistening, his Dwarven-made Dart of Elessar gliding through the air and felling the first Orc to make it past the wall of spearmen.  [Attack test: 7 roll + 11 skill + 2 heart = 20, superior success, +2 bonus to the army’s test] Vornmir leads the cavalry in the fore, ever pressing his mount to carry him faster into the fray.  He calls out to the ancient Vala of his people, "Béma, grant this steed the strength and swiftness of your own Nahar!"  His mighty spear pierces many goblins, a superior contribution to the fight.  During the hour of battle, Vornmir faces attacks from nearly every quarter.  The most dangerous strike comes from the Olog-hai, but Vornmir succeeds is blocking the vicious spiked mace with his spear-and-shield parry.  One of the Uruks comes at him with his sword, and Vornmir tries to dodge.  Alas, the blade slices across side, bruising the flesh beneath his scale corslet [7 damage, Dazed].  A lesser goblin takes advantage of Vornmir’s position and slams his club into the warrior’s other side, rattling the scales against his torso [5 damage, Dazed].

 

Finbor leads his men from the heart of the battle, his own ability to command augmented by the contributions of his friends.  During the hour of battle, he faces numerous enemy strikes.  One of the trolls tries to knock him off his horse with his spiked mace, but the Gondorian warrior easily blocks the heavy blow with his shield.  An Uruk slashes at him, but against the masterful warrior is able to parry the attack with his shield.  A lesser goblin also tries to hammer Finbor with his club, but the swift-striking warrior still manages to block the clumsy blow with his shield.

 

[Goblin army battle test: 8 roll + 7 Siegecraft + 3 troll bonus + 3 Courage = 21]

[Galleth army battle test: 6 roll + 6 Siegecraft + 2 heart + 7 bonuses – 2 losing situation + 3 Courage = 22]

 

The first hour of battle is hard-fought: scores of goblins now lay dead or dying in the trenches guarding the hill, and scores of others have fallen back in panic, wounded.  Your side has faired better despite the uneven numbers, availing yourselves of your advantageous position to turn back the initial tide.  Still, some two dozen of your men have been wounded, several of the fatally.  Among your personal company, Vornmir has been dazed by a couple Orc blows and Frolin has been wounded by enemy attacks.  The first hour of battle goes to you, but fatigue is beginning to set in…

 

[Weariness tests, TN 10]

Frolin: 11 roll + 8 – 3 Wounded = 16, Hale

Finbor [TN 15]: 9 roll + 6 = 15, Hale

Vornmir: 6 roll + 7 + 4 Warrior’s Heart = 17, Hale

Herubrand [TN 15]: 7 roll + 3 – 1 Dazed + 6 Courage = 15, Hale [2 Courage spent]

Rard: 8 roll + 6 = 14 Hale

 

The Fellowship shrugs off weariness, bearing the burdens of the battle with tireless resolve.  That is well, for though the first goblin wave was repulse the enemy army is not quitting the field.  On the sward between the hill and the wood, the broken goblin ranks regroup and a fresh wave advances up the hill, the remaining Uruks and trolls pushing them forward from behind their center.  Finbor rallies the spearmen back to the trenches, while Rard gestures for the bowmen to ready what arrows they have left or else to join the frontline with their hatchets.  The wounded Frolin rushes to fight in the heart of the battle, despite not having any armor, a shield, or the weapons-training of the warriors.  A brave loremaster indeed, though one whose inner struggle seems to be between rashness and wisdom! [+1 Courage point restored for Frolin’s roleplaying his inner struggle.]  Vornmir and Herubrand guide their horses back to the front, ready to again resume their positions with the surviving cavalry.  Frightened but not panicked, the little army of Galleth’s villa holds the line and receives the next goblin onslaught.  The second hour of battle is bloody work, as both sides have been tested and now lay into each other with sheer brute force and rage.

 

Rariadoc Brandbuck keeps to the outskirts of the battle, taking aimed shots as he may while his arrows last – or they arrows he recovers from the quivers of the fallen.  [Attack test: 7 roll + 3 aiming + 13 skill – 4 outskirts = 19, superior success, +2 bonus to army’s test]  During the second hour of battle, one Orc hour grazes his shoulder and, as he fails to dodge aside, slices past his neck, a little painful but nothing too serious yet [9 damage, Dazed].

 

Frolin stands in the heart of the battle, holding the line with the militia-men despite his serious wounds.  [Attack test: 6 roll + 6 skill – 3 Wounded + 2 heart = 11, complete success, +1 bonus to army’s test]  The heart of the battle proves to be a very dangerous place for the loremaster.  Another trolls comes at him with a spiked mace, and only the Dwarf’s courage allows him to parry the dangerous blow [last Courage spent].  When an Uruk hacks at him, Frolin has little hope of parrying the dangerous stroke: the blade rips into his gut [13 damage, Incapacitated].  It is only sheer luck that a lesser goblin’s stray club-blow does not finish him off, and only because the Dwarf makes for such a little target.

 

Herubrand fights in the thick of the battle, continuing the guard the flanks of the cavalry squad.  [Attack test: 5 roll + 10 skill + 0 thick = 15, superior success, +2 bonus to army’s test]  During the second hour of battle, one of the Uruks closed with Herubrand and thrust up at him, but summoning up his courage Herubrand manages to push back the swashing blow [1 Courage spent].  Now overextended, one of the lesser goblins hammers at his leg with a club, but again his courage is sufficient to knocked aside the blow [last Courage spent].

 

Vornmir fights in the heart of the battle, leading the cavalry in charge after charge against the goblins that manage to break through the trench line.  [Attack test: 9 roll + 11 skill + 2 heart = 22, extraordinary success, +3 bonus to the army’s test]  During the second hour of battle, Vornmir again finds himself assaulted by the cohort of Uruks and trolls.  He is able to drive off the troll’s heavy mace with his spear and shield.  When an Uruk hacks at him, only a great feat of courage enables Vornmir to dodge the skillful blow [last 2 Courage spent].  A lesser goblin also comes after Vornmir with his club, but the creature cannot even land a blow on the nimble warrior.

 

Finbor continues to lead from the heart of the battle, risking his life to better inspire the fighting men.  One of the trolls comes at him, but Finbor is able to deflect the heavy mace-blow with his shield.  Likewise, the swift-striking captain is able to parry a stroke from one of the charging Uruks.  Furthermore, even overextended he is able to block a club-blow from one of the lesser goblins with his stout Gondorian shield.

 

[Goblin army battle test: 11 roll + 7 Siegecraft + 3 troll bonus = 21]

[Galleth army battle test: 3 roll + 6 Siegecraft + 2 heart + 8 bonuses – 1 losing situation + 6 Courage = 24]

 

Only the courage of Finbor’s leadership manages to hold the line for another hour, keeping the goblins from exploiting any breach in the defenses [last 2 Courage spent].  The goblin army has suffered tremendous casualties after the second hour of battle, perhaps half of their number are dead, dying, or driven away.  Though the goblins still hold the ground at the base of the hill to the west, south, and east, they have not been able to make it to the top of the hill.  At this point, your desperate situation seems to be holding, and the fight now seems to be even.  Galleth’s forces have suffered loss, of course: most of the woodmen have shot away their arrows and were cut down in the melee, several of the retainers have had horses killed underneath them and are badly wounded themselves, and many of the spearman have been hurt, some of them killed.  Among the Fellowship, Finbor, Vornmir, Herubrand, and Frolin have exhausted their share of courage in this fight, and only Rard still possesses most of his energetic spirit.  But, most distressing is Frolin’s plight.  Stuck in the heart of the battle, he has received numerous serious wounds and is incapacitated – his movement is greatly hindered, and only his Dwarven hardiness permits him to function much at all.  The second hour of battle is even more tiring than the first…

 

[Weariness tests, 2 per additional hour, TN 10]

Frolin: 7 roll + 8 – 5 Incapacitated = 10, Hale; 13 roll + 8 – 5 Incapacitated = 16, Hale

Finbor [TN 15]: 9 roll + 8 = 17, Hale; 7 roll + 8 = 15, Hale

Vornmir: (I’m not even rolling…he has only 1 in 46,656 chance of suffering Weariness in battle unencumbered)

Herubrand [TN 15]: 10 roll + 3 – 1 Dazed = 12, WINDED; 6 roll + 3 – 2 Dazed/Winded = 7, TIRED

Rard: 6 roll + 6 = 12, Hale; 5 roll + 6 = 11, Hale

 

The morale of the defenders of the hill is also shaken.  Many of them are looking desperately to the eastern horizon, though now the sky is so dark that nothing can be seen.  With the last traces of lingering light gone, Finbor orders the torches by the trenches to be lit up, an extended bonfire that gives the men of the villa light enough to continue the fight.  But, desperate voices can be heard up and down the line…

 

“Where is Garad?  We cannot last if he does not come with the Men of Dunburg!”

“We were told Garad would return at dusk this day, yet evening has come and he still has not come.”

“Garad is not coming, and we are doomed.”

 

Though their forces are badly mauled, and though the core of Uruk-hai and Olog-hai has been weakened, the goblin army is not in retreat.  They can see the fight is even, and they have as good odds of carrying the hill if they persist as being driven from it. 

 

Scene 9: Sacrifice and Struggle

 

At dusk on June 27^th, the horde of “Blood-fang” goblins led by surviving remnants of Mordor’s Uruks and Olog-hai launched their assault on Galleth’s villa.  With Belemir and the shard of the Angril gone without a trace, the Fellowship decided not to chase blindly after the missing loremaster but instead to stay and lead Galleth’s folk in battle.  For two hours the fight has raged back and forth along the western, southern, and eastern slopes of the hill, and more than two hundred Orcs lay dead and dying along the line of hastily dug defensive trenches running between the villa’s stout hilltop buildings.  The defenders have suffered in the heavy fighting: virtually every one of the militia-men and Galleth’s retainers has been wounded, many seriously, and nearly a score lay dead or dying.  The weary survivors look desperately to the east, bemoaning that Garad has not yet come with rescuers from Dunburg and may not ever come.

 

The goblins below the hill are regrouping for another assault, still more than two hundred strong, with a handful of Great Orcs and Olog-hai left to lead them.  The defenders of the villa quail, and their morale is breaking.  Sensing that the men are about to give way, and knowing that the goblins will renew their attack at any moment, Herubrand rides into the heart of the line to rally the men.  He harangues them in his boom voice, his jarring demeanor commanding their deference.  "LISTEN TO ME!” he hollers, “Garad may come in five minutes, or in five hours, or five days. It does not matter! What does matter is that you are the only thing between your wives, children and parents and those foul weasels over there! Think about that when the next assault comes!”  [Inspire skill test, TN 15, 10 roll + 4 skill + 1 Deference + 3 situational bonus – 2 Weariness = 16, complete success]  Though exhausted and afraid, all of the men heed Herubrand’s words and grimly resume their positions along the trench line.  It is just in time, too, for the goblin drums sound again as the regroup horde charges up the hill for another merciless attack!

 

Rariadoc Brandybuck desperately scrounges around for anything that can be thrown at the advancing goblins.  Every arrow has been shot away, and some of them have been salvaged and shot twice, but now none can be found.  The resourceful hobbit gathers a great quantity of sharp rocks and heavy stone slabs.  "I'm not good in a close fight against these larger creatures, and we are not armed for it.  We should remain here and help to cover our companions!" he says, more to himself than to anyone around him, since they cannot understand him.  Alas, there are precious few left around him: just Halgo and a couple wounded men.  The other woodmen had since dropped their bows, taken up their hatches, and rushed to join the desperate melee, where they all were struck down.  The little hobbit sighs ruefully, understanding why old Bilbo grew so sick of war.

 

Frolin the Dwarven loremaster has stood in the fore of the fight for two hours, wielding his axe with tremendous bravery.  However, as the goblins renew their assault his position is quickly overrun.  "Six of your friends have I slain this day," he cries out defiantly to an approaching Uruk.  "Come and make it seven!"  But Frolin's skill with his axe is not the equal of his skill with words, and the Uruk easily bats aside Frolin's axe blow.  The surviving servant of Mordor then cuts Frolin down with his scimitar.  The dwarf tumbles down the embankment once again, incapacitated but not quite yet killed.

 

"Master Frolin, come back here, we will cover you!" little Rard shouts out to his friend, witnessing the incident from his elevated position atop the roof of one wing of the manor-house.

 

When he hears Rard's voice calling out for Frolin, Finbor the Captain beckons for Vornmir and Herubrand to follow him back into the fray.  Seeing their leaders move into action, the defenders of the hill let loose and spirited shout and prepare to receive the goblin charge.  The remaining cavalry gathers around Vornmir and Herubrand, and the mass of horsemen slam into the first block of goblins crossing a gap in the trenches.  Finbor, meanwhile, wheels his horse about and charges toward the embattled Frolin, crawling as best he can up the embankment, with goblins swarming about him menacingly.  "Lamedon to Frolin!" Finbor shouts loudly, drawing the attention of the goblins.  Driving them away with his sword and horse, Finbor shields Frolin’s withdrawal from the heart of battle.  He lifts the Dwarf up from the ground, rides back from the trench line, and sets the hobbled Dwarf onto his feet in a safe spot.  Frolin looks up into Finbor’s majestic face in gratitude, but there is no time for words.  Already the goblins Finbor drove back have rallied and are charging after their blooded quarry.  Finbor raises his straight-bladed sword in a salute to the brave Dwarf, then turns about on his steed and charges back into the heart of battle, his soaring spirit and erect posture harkening back to the ancient Dúnedain, the true Kings of Men.  Frolin, having acquitted himself in war as well as any Dwarf and better than most humble sages, limps away to the inner trench line.  Several women rush over to help him across one of the wooden planks, leading him into the warehouse building where the injured are being sheltered and tended.  Frolin slumps down upon the floor, succumbing to his incapacitating injuries.  For the irascible Dwarf, the fight is over.

 

As the renewed combat rages, Finbor, Vornmir, and Herubrand join together in the heart of the battle, the other surviving cavalrymen swirling around them in a desperate attempt to strike down every goblin that breaches the trench line.  Finbor finds himself looking to the eastern horizon.  He says to his comrades-in-arms, "Garad is taking his time, isn't he? We won't be able to hold out for much longer. We need a way to take care of those black trolls over there. Eogar, how many riders do you still have?"

 

Vornmir shakes his head and replies, "Not enough of them remain in good shape.  We need Garad, for even if we drive off these beasts of the fallen Shadow tonight, our losses will surely prevent adequate defense on the morrow."  He looks at the trolls, "But, if we can break their ranks perhaps that will give Garad the time he needs to arrive here.  Say the word, and the retainers and I shall charge with you in what strength we have left."

 

Finbor states, "I say we charge at the heart of their army.  If we can take out their center, they will flee, I am sure of that. Let's make this a charge worthy of a song, even if we might not be there to hear it!”  Rallying the remaining mounted retainers to their side, Finbor and Vornmir and Herubrand lead them in a charge against the Uruks and trolls pushing their way through the center of the wall of defenders.  Every time he strikes a foe, Finbor recites Hurin's battlecry from his favorite tale of the Elder Days: "Aurë entuluva! Day shall come again!"

 

Rard keeps to the outskirts of the battle along with Halgo, and together they pelt the goblin ranks from above with rocks, branches, stone slabs, and anything else they can find to throw.  Alas, Rard is not so skilled with these improvised projectiles as he is with a bow, but it is enough of a distraction to make a contribution to the fight.  [Attack test: 9 roll + 1 aiming + 6 skill – 4 outskirts = 12, complete success, +1 bonus to army’s test]  During the hour of battle, one of the primitive goblins gets close enough to train his black-lacquered bow on the hobbit, sending a wicked shaft right at him.  Rard cannot hope to dodge the lucky shot, and the little hobbit yelps in pain as the shaft slices past his arm [9 damage, Injured].

 

Vornmir rides into the heart of the battle with the mounted retainers.  He waves his bloody spear at the wretched foe and roars, “Fear the arm of the Son of Garbald, foul beasts!”  Though they cannot understand his words, the craven enemies are intimidated by his tone and imagery as the Rohirric horseman charges down upon them.  [Attack test: 8 roll + 11 skill + 2 heart + 1 Intimidation affinity = 22, extraordinary success, +3 bonus to the army’s test]  During the hour of battle, Vornmir is again assaulted by many foes.  A troll’s mace lands on his shield, but the man called Vornmir easily parries the attack.  An Uruk comes at him with a sword, but the swift-striking horseman readily blocks the stroke.  A lesser goblin leaps at him with  his bony club, but the tireless warrior drive back the feeble blow with a stroke of his spear.

 

Herubrand rides into the heart of battle as well, fighting like a man possessed.  He slashes madly with his great longsword, driving his horse to overrun and trample every goblin in reach.  [Attack test: 8 roll + 10 skill + 2 heart – 3 Dazed/Tired = 17, superior success, +2 bonus to army’s test]  When a troll comes at Herubrand, the Northman squarely deflects the mace-blow with a mighty two-handed counterstroke.  However, this leaves him ill-prepared to deflect a sword-blow from one of the nearby Great Orcs; the blade slides down his sturdy mail coat and cuts into his upper thigh [6 damage, Injured].  A lesser goblin rushes him with his primitive club, and the blooded noble cannot rebound in time to parry the blow; the bony head slams into his chest, bouncing off his scale armor but cracking a rib beneath [7 damage, Wounded].

 

Finbor once again leads from the heart of the battle, even though most of his energies have been expended rescuing Frolin and commanding the troops.  The swift-striking warrior still has enough momentum left to block a troll-mace swung against his shield but a battered Olog-hai.  However, he cannot recover quickly enough to parry the stroke of an advancing Uruk; the blade slams into his armored shoulder, bruising the flesh beneath the heavy steel coat [12 damage, Dazed].  The dazing pain is just enough to distract the warrior when he needs to parry the blow of a lesser goblin: the weighted club bounces off his armored lower back, but underneath his muscles tear and his ribcage is rattled by the impact [7 damage, Injured].

 

[Goblin army battle test: 7 roll + 7 Siegecraft + 2 troll bonus = 16]

[Galleth army battle test: 4 roll + 6 Siegecraft + 2 heart + 6 bonuses = 18]

 

Back and forth the battle rages for another hour, as scores more goblins are cut down trying to push past the trenches and overrun the hill.  Most of the Uruk-hai have been cut down, too, and all but one of the Olog-hai have finally been destroyed by the resolute cavalrymen.  It is a decisive moment when at last the goblins are sent scurrying back down the hill, for now they appear to be in a truly losing position for the first time.  They have no more fresh reserves, every wave having been thrown against the hill at least once.  Every attacking wave has lost at least half its number, some of them even more.  Less than two hundred goblins remain standing, and many of them are already injured.  Nonetheless, the defenders of the hill have also taken tremendous punishment.  All of the woodmen have been killed.  Half of the spearman have been killed or incapacitated from wounds, and the remaining half of the men are injured and weary.  Several of the mounted retainers have been killed, and the rest have had at least one horse killed from underneath them; the survivors now fight on foot with the spearmen.  Finbor, Vornmir, and Herubrand remain mounted, but their horses are tired and bloodied.  As for the riders, Finbor is visibly injured and Herubrand is seriously wounded; only Vornmir remains unhindered by wounds, despite facing numerous blows over the past three hours of battle.  Furthermore, the long hours of battle begin to take their toll on stamina of the heroes of the Fellowship…

 

[Weariness tests, 2 per additional hour, TN 10]

Finbor [TN 15]: 6 roll + 8 – 3 Injured = 11, WINDED; 3 roll + 8 – 4 Injured/Winded = 7, TIRED

Vornmir: Yeah, right.

Herubrand [TN 15]: 6 roll + 3 – 7 Wounded/Tired = 2, WEARY; 8 roll + 3 – 9 Wounded/Weary = 2, SPENT

Rard: 8 roll + 6 – 1 Injured = 13, Hale; 4 roll + 6 – 1 Injured = 9, WINDED

 

Night has fully descended upon the land, and the billowing torch bonfires flicker in the wind.  They cast the only light by which the defenders of the hill can see, for the sky is hopelessly overcast.  With Vornmir and Herubrand riding at his side, Finbor gallops over to the last platoon of men holding the trench.  They number only a score, all of the tired and injured.  The captain looks down at the teeming horde regrouping on the open sward between the hill and the wood, knowing that they soon will press another attack.  The Dúnadan warrior looks into the eyes of his comrades, nodding once in decision.  “Fall back!” he shouts in Dorwinion-speech.  “Fall back to the inner trench.  It is a smaller area, and we can better hold it against their next charge.  Rard, Halgo, come down from the manor-house.  You can climb atop the winery and cast rocks down upon the foe from there.”  Rard and Halgo scurry down and rush as fast as they can to the inner defenses, Rard rubbing his sore and bleeding arm.  The footmen limps back behind them, with the three riders covering the retreat.  Normally this would be a sight of joy for the enemy host, but they are too badly mauled to make light of the situation.  It is clear that they have one more good charge left in them, and they must carry the hill.  If they are driven back one more time, they will surely be routed!  As the drums of war sound again, they beat with a sense of urgent desperation.  Over one hundred pairs of Orc-feet stomp loudly in time to the rhythm, marching up the hill…

 

The last defenders of the hill regroup behind the inner trench line running in a restricted circle between the winery and the warehouse, the sanctuary buildings that must be defended at all cost.  The spearmen and retainers form up in a tight line, pulling the plank-bridges away from the ditches.  Finbor, Vornmir, and Herubrand anchor the center, mounted upon the last of the war-horses.  Rard and Halgo climb on top of the winery, each with an armful of rocks and slabs to throw.  Frolin, meanwhile, sits up on the floor of the warehouse and looks out of the door, which has been opened to allow some more injured men to be carried inside.  He gazes at his three friends manning the inner trench; Finbor and Vornmir, who have traveled with the Dwarf since the start of their great quest, give him a knowing nod.  Then, the sound of marching feet grows louder as the goblin ranks approach the crest of the hill.  “Close the door!” Frolin growls, gritting his teeth in pain.  “Close and bar it, for the enemy are upon us.”

 

Rard hears his friend’s cantankerous growl, and he smiles in found remembrance of their many talks together since meeting in Rivendell in mid-May.  Less than two months ago.  Could it truly be so short a time?  Aye, the little hobbit’s Fellowship has traveled far and experienced much in such a little space of time.  “You wanted adventure, Mr. Brandybuck!” the hobbit thinks to himself.  “You always wished you could have been in the Fellowship of the Ring.  Now, I reckon, you got your wish, a questing Fellowship of your own, a mission started in Rivendell by the king himself.”  He sighs quietly and thinks, “But, could it all come to an end here?  Could we really have come so far only to die at the hands of Orcs?”  He lets his eyes drift toward the sky, as if there could yet be some hope contained above.  He thinks to himself, “They say old cousin Frodo believed in the ancient spirits who watched over Middle-earth, with names we Shire-folk have long forgot.  Cousin Bilbo taught him, the names he learned from the Elves.  I wish I knew them now, and I wish they could help us out of this pinch, that’s for certain.”  Suddenly, the dense mass of black clouds in the sky above parts ever so slightly, and a sliver of moonlight shines through in the east.  Rard smiles, cheered by the hint of natural light in this unnaturally dark night.  His sharp eyes, trained by so many years of shooting at far targets, notices a glint on the eastern horizon, followed by another, and then another.  “Bless me!” Rard gasps

 

The hobbit jumps up to his feet atop the winery, waving his arms and hollering at the top if his little high-pitched lungs.  “They’re here, they’re here!” he chirps.  “Look to the east, they’re here!”

 

Finbor hears Rard’s cry, turning to face the eastern horizon.  “O, would that we had our Elven friend Belegil with us now,” he says, “for his eyes could see ten leagues as if the space were ten yards.”  He sighs quietly, the only voice he gives to his fatigue.

 

Herubrand retorts, “But, on so dark a night as this, even ten yards is a murky expanse.”  The Northman can barely manage to stay in his saddle, his vision blurred by pain and extreme weariness.  He adds weakly, “What do you see to the east?”

 

Vornmir looks long and hard to the east, and lets a small smile play upon his sullied countenance.  “Our happy hobbit speaks truly,” he announces.  “The eastern horizon sparkles with hope – I see the glint of weapons in the small beam of moonlight.  Garad returns, and with him comes a host from Dunburg!”

 

Finbor quickly spreads the word in his broken Dorwinion-speech, but this happy message needs no translation.  The battered defenders cry out in elation, and their cheer spreads into the winery and warehouse, where the wounded and the defenseless weep in utter joy.  Frolin chuckles to himself, “Such timing can only be fate,” and lies back on the floor, clutching his wound.  Atop the winery, Rard and Halgo leap up and down in joyfulness, cheering Garad’s name.

 

However, the celebration is short-lived.  The goblins, too, have seen the glint in the distance, and they wail in rage and despair.  The few remaining goblin-sergeants bark out gruff commands in their wretched tongue.  Herubrand’s head sinks down to his chest.  Finbor and Vornmir grab his shoulders, rousing the Northman and asking him what the foemen are saying.

 

He sighs unhappily, “I hear them say, ‘Charge the hill and slay the Men!  Only there will we be able to stand against the coming army!’  They hope to carry the hill and turn our own defenses against the Army of Dunburg.”

 

“We cannot let them!” Finbor states resolutely.  “We must hold our ground at all costs, or die trying!”  Then, from out of the warehouse and winery, come twenty elder men, gray-haired or bald.  They have each seen perhaps three-score years, and none has held in weapon in many long years, but without hesitation they take up discarded pikes and join the last line of defense.  At their head is Galleth himself, dressed in a coat of iron scales.  Finbor nods to the men, understanding that they would prefer to die fighting than to die unarmed and pleading for mercy from a merciless foe.

 

That merciless foe now comes like a raging torrent, a hundred wild and wounded goblins pouring up the hill with hate in their gimlet eyes.  They pass over the outer trenches filled with the corpses of their compatriots, filing through the gaps between the manor-house and the other outlying buildings in disorganized ranks.  The surviving Great Orcs and Black Troll cannot be seen among them, for good or for ill.  Howling madly, the lesser goblins rush the inner trench line running between the winery and the warehouse, ready to club to death every man, woman, and child.  In this narrow last-ditch defense, there is no distinction between outskirts and heart of battle – everyone everywhere now fights in the thick.

 

Rard, keeping Halgo safely behind him, pelts his remaining rocks and stones at the goblins swarming around only a few feet below his position.  [Attack test: 5 roll + 1 aiming + 6 skill – 2 Injured/Winded = 10, complete success, +1 bonus to army’s test]  During the wild skirmish, a couple of the last few goblin-archers lob arrows up at Rard.  One flies well past the little hobbit, but the second sinks into his torso just below his ribs; Rard yelps in pain, and Halgo quickly pulls the offending shaft out of the bloody wound [5 damage, Wounded].

 

Vornmir, reclaiming his true name Eogar Garbald’s son, fights boldly in the center of the line.  Alone among all combatants, he seems unfazed by injury or weariness.  [Attack test: 9 roll + 11 skill = 20, extraordinary success, +3 bonus to the army’s test]  The swift-striking warrior is all but impervious to the attacks of the lesser goblins, brushing aside their clubs with his spear and buckler.

 

Herubrand fights at the side of Vornmir and Finbor, though the spent Northman can barely keep himself mounted or swing his sword.  Yet, the stiff-necked noble would rather die than quit the field at such a moment.  [Attack test: 10 roll + 10 skill – 13 Wounded/Spent = 7, failure, +0 bonus to army’s test]  Herubrand is too exhausted to put up an effective defense against even these lesser goblins; one bony club slams into the metal scales covering his gut, smashing his pelvis [4 damage, Incapacitated].  Other goblins swarm around his horse, shattering the animal’s legs and bludgeoning the poor beast to death.  Herubrand sinks to the earth below, buried in the mound of corpses piling around him.

 

Finbor commands the little line of defenders from the center, fighting alongside his men.  He brings his sword down upon countless goblins, desperately doing everything in his power to prevent the trench from being overrun.  During the fray two goblins manage to get close enough to seriously threaten him.  Even injured and tired, the Dúnadan captain is skilled enough to defend himself with his shield.  He readily blocks one goblin club, but the second bony mace slips just past his defenses: the weighted head sinks into his mail corslet, further bruising one of his painful injuries [6 damage].

 

[Goblin army battle test: 7 roll + 7 Siegecraft – 1 Losing = 13]

[Galleth army battle test: 7 roll + 6 Siegecraft + 4 bonuses = 17]

 

For an hour the battle rages at the trenches around the warehouse and the winery.  Perhaps a hundred and fifty goblins rampage atop the hill, trampling Galleth’s gentle villa under their filthy boots.  And though they throw themselves against the last two guarded buildings, upon which everything hinges, they cannot break the defenders.  Again and again the goblins form up and attempt to overrun the narrow line between the buildings, but each time the wall of spears and swords drives them back.  Dozens more goblins are slain, quickly filling up the ditch.  The defenders spill much blood, too: Herubrand has been incapacitated from his wounds, many of the elderly volunteers have been struck down, half of Galleth’s dismounted retainers have perished, and several more spearmen have succumbed to their injuries.  Barely a dozen men, including the Fellowship, are left standing when, at long last, a new wall of spears is seen marching up the southern slope of the hill…

 

It is the militia of Dunburg, some three hundred strong.  At their head rides Garad, fighting his way up the slope, waving for the Dunburg pikemen to charge the goblin horde swarming around the hill between the two trench positions.  As the Men of Dunburg advance, they do battle with the goblin rearguard, in which the last Uruks and Black Troll have positioned themselves.  At long last the Men of Galleth’s villa can hold their ground in safety, for the goblins that had been hurling themselves against the inner trench line are now madly trying to flee the hill.  However, every passage down the hill is blocked by the Dunburg pikemen, who have fanned out to completely encircle the hilltop.  Among the three hundred is a brigade of archers, and they strike down with arrows any goblin that manages to break through – for now the clouds have parted widely, and the moon shines down upon the earth in full.  The Dunburg pikemen are stymied only by the Uruks and last troll, who manage to slay a full score of men before they are finally laid low themselves.  Within an hour the battle is decided, finished, and utterly won.  The Men of Dunburg destroy the last of the Great Orcs and Olog-hai, slaughter all the goblins on the hill, and hunt down most of those trying to escape.  Of the five hundred goblins that assaulted the hill at the start of the battle, surely fewer than a tenth have managed to flee to the south – and only those who fled early in the battle.  The “Blood-fang” goblin tribe has suffered a tremendous defeat!

 

*   *   *

 

In the aftermath of the battle, Finbor and Vornmir search desperately for their friend Herubrand.  They find the Northman unconscious next to his slaughtered horse, covered by goblin bodies.  Finbor shakes him gently, fearfully calling his name, and thankfully Herubrand opens his blood-caked eyes.  Finbor and Vornmir carry their incapacitated friend into the warehouse, laying him next to Frolin.  The mangled Dwarf opens his eyes, looking sadly upon the severely hurt Herubrand.  He gazes up and Finbor and Vornmir and murmurs, “We won?”

 

Finbor can only manage a weak nod.  When he and Vornmir re-emerge, they find Rard waiting for them along with Halgo, perfectly safe.  Halgo looks around desperately for his father, calling out his name.  Garad suddenly appears, carrying Galleth’s body in his arms.  “I found him lying on the ground next to the inner trench,” he says in a solemn voice, “where he fought alongside his people.”

 

“Is he dead?” Halgo asks fearfully.

 

Garad smiles faintly and replies, “He still draws breath, though faintly.”  Together, he and Halgo carry the Master of the Villa into the warehouse; they lay him upon the floor next to Frolin and Herubrand, and the women of the villa rush to his side to wash and bind his wounds, as best they can.

 

Meanwhile, the Men of Dunburg secure the hill and the surroundings fields.  They begin to haul away the hundreds of goblin corpses, piling them up on the ruined sward between the hill and the wood.  A great bonfire is lit, consuming the remains of the defeated horde.  Their foul smoke rises up to the sky, but even that is not enough to conceal the moon that now shines brightly and proudly in the nocturnal heavens.  Garad steps out of the warehouse-turned-infirmary, coming over to Finbor, Vornmir, and Rard.  “I returned none too soon,” he says.  “Of our fifty-some defenders, I count a full forty have been struck down, and many are dead.  It is a grim reckoning, but still unbelievable they could have held out for so long against so numerous a foe.”

 

Finbor nods slowly and says, “They fought bravely for their homes against a darkness that has too-long plagued all of Middle-earth.  Yet here today we have, together, won a victory in the larger war against this menace.”  The captain smiles faintly at Garad and adds, “At the height of the battle we despaired of your coming, but our hope was never entirely forlorn.  You are a man of your word, Garad, and that I never doubted.”

 

Garad reaches out to claps Finbor’s hand, shaking it firmly.  He grasps Vornmir’s shoulder with his other hand, and then reaches down to touch little Rard’s hair.  He says, “The folk of this place, indeed all of Dorwinion, owes you much thanks, fair travelers.  We are not your kith or kin, yet you were willing to fight and die at our side.  When I told the Master of Dunburg and his captains about you, it persuaded them to join with us.  If strangers from the West were willing to join us in battle against the goblins, then surely all the Dorwinions should band together.  Word of this day will spread across the land, from Dunburg to Marsburg to Winburg.  Those who have been dispossessed from their homes in the countryside may now return, for the goblin pillagers have been completely destroyed.  For your bravery and leadership, your names will be long remembered in Dorwinion!”

 

*   *   *

 

The rest of the night is a blur to the Fellowship, especially the gravely injured Frolin and Herubrand.  Their three standing companions join them, bringing them food and water.  Fortunately, among the Men of Dunburg are several goodly sergeants skilled in the art of dressing wounds.  All of the Fellowship, as well as all the other defenders of the hill, are treated and bandaged.  After a well-earned night’s sleep, the five companions awaken on June 28^th, happy to be safe and alive.  Herubrand is still quite injured [23 total damage], and Frolin is still seriously wounded [39 damage], but Finbor is only dazed [19 total damage], Rard is only injured [21 total damage], and Eogar is mostly healthy [13 total damage].  With time, all of the Fellowship will make a full recovery – although several weeks of rest might be needed.  Of course, the companions are invited to stay in Galleth’s villa for as long as they would like.

 

Herubrand now moves about as readily as Rard, most of his trouble last night being due to extreme fatigue.  Frolin is still somewhat hobbled, but with a little help from his friends he comes outdoors to feel the warm summer sun upon his skin.  The five comrades gaze out over the estate, happy to see it basking in the golden glow of a bright day.  The goblin did some damage to the buildings, even more to the land, but all that will be readily repaired.  The greater loss was to the people.  More than half of those who took up arms to defend the villa were killed, and the Fellowship looks with sadness upon the rows of wooden coffins laying out holding the bodies, as is the custom of the Dorwinions; they will be interred in the earth of this estate later this day, buried with their ancestors who came before them.  The remainder of the defenders were all wounded, many of them seriously, and they now convalesce in the manor-house, where every room has been turned into an infirmary.  Galleth has been carried into his bedchamber, where Halgo keeps a vigil at his side as he did for the lad but a few days before.

 

Garad finds the Fellowship gathered outside atop the hill, enjoying the beautiful morning, lovelier than any that has ever come before in their eyes.  Garad brings them bread and mead for breakfast, encouraging them to eat to strengthen their bodies.  The Men of Dunburg can be seen mustering in the fields below, having lost no more than a tenth of their number in the battle.  They have cleared away the Orc and troll bodies, now nothing more than a heap of ash south of the hill, and soon they will depart back to their town.  “I have given the Men of Dunburg our thanks,” Garad tells you.  “They cannot tarry here.  Although the goblin raiders have been subdued for now, all the towns still face the threat of Golaric’s clan, whose war-barges control the river and northwestern shoreline of the Inland Sea.”

 

His comment resonates with the Five Companions of the Fellowship.  It reminds them that the Quest of the Black Crystal is not over.  There are still missing shards to be found, and stolen shards to be recovered.  Golaric’s clan remains unmollified.  Belemir is once again missing, and with him Galleth’s shard.  And is Belemir truly the ominous ‘Baldur’ who appears to be behind both the goblin war and the provocation of Golaric’s Easterlings?  Or is Belemir merely a misunderstood man with his own mysterious ways and purposes?  Will Belemir be able to find more of the missing shards, and if so what will he do with them?  Can the Fellowship find Belemir again by finding other shards, and can Dáma, Wogan’s old mentor from Marsburg, help the Fellowship?

 

Rard looks up at his friends with a smile and says, “The road goes ever on, eh?”

 

And so concludes this chronicle.  Thank you for reading, and we hope you enjoyed our story.  The story continues in The Lord of Darkness: The Second Chronicle.