In the Shadow of Erebor
From Library of the Randirim
((The Quest of Erebor was over half a century ago by the reckoning of time in Middle-Earth, but that's really nothing at all to an elf. I thought it would be interesting to relay, if only for my own enjoyment in the telling of such, the story of Garaf's (rather limited) involvement in the events detailed in the Hobbit.))
Contents |
Chapter One
Autumn, 2941 TA
In the dark places of the Mirkwood, the sounds of a lute seemed strangely out of place. He had long accepted that the music of a skilled minstrel could hold some magic to it but Garaf had never considered his pluckings as mystical. While he did enjoy it well enough, as all wood-elves found it hard to not enjoy a well-played tune, it was a hard thing to find mirth within the shadow. Indeed, on rangings such as these the lute was more a practicality than a pleasure. Spiders were at their hearts cowardly creatures and had long learned to avoid any place from which elven music flowed. It was true that they would at times gather in large numbers to siege such a place, and there was ever that risk, but the dagger rising from the forest floor would warn him before they were upon him. For now the blue glow emanating from the steel was as yet dim and dull, for it would be a rare thing indeed for it to fade completely, and he deemed his camp, such as it was, safe enough by it's dim light. There was never a time when any were truly safe this far off the path. His tune complete he broke down the jet black lute, packing it away into a satchel, and taking his dagger in hand he climbed up into the boughs of the tree at his back. There he slumbered lightly, waking frequently to eye the blade held in a nook before his resting place.
There was no sky to mark the passage of time in this place but eventually what light as could force its way through the canopy slowly faded and the woods sank back into the deepest of murks and only then did the hunter rouse himself from his arboreal bed. Night was the time of the worst inhabitants of the woods, and the time of the daepedain that kept them in check. Breaking the camp consisted of nothing more than consuming a single piece of waybread, checking his equipment, and moving from the area. The night would be spent on the move and he had little use for things of comfort. He carried his weapons, sufficient rations and water for his ranging, tools for the crafting of new arrows and the mending of arms and armor, the black lute, an enchanted flint to start a fire with just a single strike (seldom used), and precious little else. Anything else would likely have been a hindrance.
It was near midnight when he found a quarry. He stopped in place and watched for a small second as the glow from the dagger grew ever stronger and then he slipped it into the sheath on his shoulder to shield its light. After that it was a simple matter to make himself a part of the forest, hidden by a tree and aided by his simple grey cloak. Some short time later his elven ears detected whispers in the silence. A cadre of spiders approached and as fortune would have it, they would pass around him. The spiders, speeding across the ground in search of prey, went straight past him never noticing his presence. When he separated from the tree and broke his camouflage they continued to remain unawares. It wasn't until a brightly shining arrow sped through the air to bury itself in one of their number that they knew of their danger. The struck spider fell dead and the others screamed and scattered, some across the forest floor and others up into the trees. In the breif light he had counted three more but the light the Gilcarch set into the arrows fired from it faded once the missile met its mark and in the blackness again he could not tell where his prey lay.
He moved silently through the shadows until he heard a scuffling to his left. He drew and released smoothly and though the first shot flew wild it illuminated the target and the second followed soon after. A spider beating a black trunk with it's death throes while a dark-shafted arrow held it close to the tree was all he could see as the light faded again. He pulled another arrow from the quiver at his hip, nocked, and resumed stalking. By now the quarry would be enraged. He could hear their whispers, faint on the wind but filled with malice. A whisper above and the rustle of a branch was all the warning he would receive or need. The Gilcarch pointed straight up and the arrow flew from it as a blazing silver flash banishing the darkness as it climbed ever upwards. The spider had meant to drop on him from above, as was sometimes their way, and instead met with broadhead and shaft as the arrow carried it back into the canopy. Where the two would land he could not say but the hunter had more pressing matters.
As he had released the shot the final prey had leapt at him, not from above but from the front. As an eight-legged weapon collided with him the Gilcarch fell from his hands and his gauntlets grasped at the mandibles to protect his face. He could feel the creature's stinger bury itself into the ground fearfully close to his stomach. As the stinger pulled itself out for another strike he released a mandible and grabbed at the dagger on his shoulder. Once unsheathed the blade shone brightly, a single blue flame in the dark, and the spider who was unaccustomed to such light screamed even as the blade slid up through it's mouth and out the top of its hardened head. Garaf jerked the hilt to twist the blade with an unmistakable cracking sound and then thrust the corpse from him and wrenched the dagger free. After wiping the ichor on the forest floor he noted with some satisfaction that the blade was again dim. That satisfaction faded at the sound of a trickle though and upon inspecting he found the stinger had pierced his water skin. With no safe source of water left in the wood he would now have to end the ranging and return to the Elvenking's realm. All the same, it was not with a heavy heart that he retrieved the enchanted bow and set his feet back towards Thranduil's Halls. If nothing else it meant he would once again meet with his brother.
Chapter Two
After months spent in the shadows of the Mirkwood the Realm of the Elvenking seemed dazzling and bright by comparison. Here the enchantment of the realm kept the shadow at bay, if just for a small space, and the light that filtered through the treetops was plentiful, if not direct. He had made a fire while still a day's travel from the bounds of the realm and burned the waterskin there. Above all he would not chance despoiling the realm by carrying even a trace of the spider's venom within it.
The Realm was stirring upon his arrival but to what end he did not know and did not seek to ask. He was given water and offered food, as was custom for a returning warden but other than that he was left largely alone. For those that knew him he was Mithfaron, the Grey Hunter, and he was best left to his purpose. For those that did not his simple garb (for a wood-elf), tall stature, and grim face was enough to earn their respect but not their joy. Within a people known for festivities and delights, he and the others like him were an all too somber exception.
And so it was that he came without incident or ceremony to an unassuming door of a simple lodging (again, for an elf) and lifting the latch, he passed inside. The entry room was thick with paper. Books and letters and parchments sat high along the walls and where the walls did show they were often covered by a scrap of map or tabard depicting some long-ago battle. He set the Gilcarch and the other implements of war over the mantle in the place that had been made for them, and perhaps the only place free from implements of learning. The Gilcarch was an artifact of older days when the crafts of the Sindar had been higher than they were now. It had been a gift made to him to mark the accomplishment of some long ago deed worthy of such a reward.
And as though thought bade matter, his brother came round a corner suddenly with his nose in a soft leather-bound journal until it jolted rather suddenly against Garaf's shoulder. "Mae govannen, brother." Esslar looked much like Garaf, albeit fairer of hair and eye and far slimmer, but the two were of a height uncommon among their folk and that made them easy to spot from afar.
Esslar looked at his brother for a whole moment as though wondering what it was that stood before him, blinked, looked another moment, blinked again and then the light of recognition came to his eyes. "Garaf! I have looked for you this morning but could not find you, and now I have not looked for you and here you are! Do you have time for some tea?"
"So far as I am aware I have time for as much tea as we should please."
"Oh, well that is rather surprising... I thought you must be returned for the marshaling. Did your ranging go fair?"
Garaf waved off the question, preferring not to recall the rangings within the sanctity of their home. "As fair as any such things must go. What is this marshaling you speak of?" In times long past there had been raids against Dol Guldur but for long years the Elvenking had seemed content to sit in his enchanted hall and leave the rest of the wood to the Shadow.
"To be true, I'm not sure. There was some commotion sometime ago about disappearing dwarves and then the King ordered his forces marshaled. I tell you the whole affair has the Realm in quite a buzz. One might think we were set to march to some far off war such as in the long ago days of Beleriand, or Arnor. Do you suppose we might march on Dol Guldur and end the Shadow there?"
Memories came to the warden of that dark hill and it's darker sentinels. "No, I don't believe that we shall ever again return to that place to make war on it. The foe within is unknown to me but he is greater than all our arms."
"Yes, I suppose that is so..." The room seemed to darken for a moment of silence. Dol Guldur had been the doom of their father, and that doom had sent their mother chasing him into the west. It was the younger of the brothers who broke the silence. "Not even a single cup of tea?"
Garaf shook his head. "If there is a marshaling then I am to report to the Captain of the Guard and receive my duty, if any duty is to be given. It was good to see you again, brother. I pray this campaign, if indeed there is a campaign, does not part us for overlong."
"That is my wish as well. I will not say for you to remain safe, for I know you won't, but I do hope you return sooner than later and behind a sheild rather than on it, as the naugrim would say." Garaf grinned at that. The sheer queerness of a dwarven idiom being said within this Realm was enough to illustrate the bizzareness of his younger sibling. Garaf agreed and promised to do as he could and then took up his gear once again, though it had just been freshly set aside, and turned his feet towards Thranduil's Halls where he would find the Captain and receive his orders.
Chapter Three
Thranduil's Halls were the only truly fortified place within the Elvenking's Realm. A great cave bound by enchanted doors that could only be opened by the King's wish. It was his fortress, his palace, his armory and his vault. While the rest of his people lived amongst the wood and air, Thranduil lived within the stone and roots. Garaf saw the need for a place of such fortification but he had always considered that somewhat ironic. In either case, he was marked on the bridge and hailed by the guard and sent on his purpose once he declared it. He was often gone for months at a time on the rangings, but his feet were among the many that had worn the floors of the Hall smooth and he well remembered the Captain's quarters.
In a stroke of luck, as he considered it, the officer was present when he arrived, and he found him adjusting a fine hauberk and selecting the contents of a war chest. The Captain saw him quickly, for he made no effort to hide his arrival, and beckoned him in. "I was wondering when we could expect the return of Mithfaron. I don't suppose you've brought some boon from your ranging?"
"Only the deaths of many foes, and no more than one should look for in a ranging deprived of it's full length."
"I am surprised that word reached you so far from the Realm."
"Indeed it did not. It was ill chance that bid me return so soon, and then only for a fresh waterskin as my previous one was peirced by a spider and therefore ruined. I would consider it good chance however were I to learn that I might be of some aid to the Realm on this campaign." The last was as much a question as a statement. Garaf desired a duty, desired to serve and protect. Such was his purpose, the craft for which he was built, and it was as simple as that in his mind.
The Captain, being of sound years and well-versed in his trade and the utilization of men of war, did not miss the inquisition in the warden's voice. "There will always be a purpose for the Mithfaron and his bow so long as I am Captain, though I fear I do not know just where this 'campaign' will spend its force, if spend it at all it does. The King has had news from the east, from the Men of the Lake it would seem, of a band of dwarves once held within his vaults. These dwarves disappeared quite unexpectedly during the Feast of Autumn some weeks past and there was no word of them for some time. Now we hear from two of our tradesmen that the naugrim, led by one known as Thorin, are taking a respite in Lake-Town. It would appear they have made the claim of retaking the Mountain and all the treasures within. How they expect to best the dragon remains to be seen however."
"Did they bring no engines or weapons against the dragon?"
"If they did we've not heard of them. I believe the King suspects them of some secret, particularly given the sudden nature of their disappearance, but I would not hazard to guess on the business of naugrim. The King orders his forces marshaled and I shall see them marshaled. For you though, as well as for your peers, I have a separate duty than the rank and file. The King wishes eyes to be set upon Lake-town. I know you may travel fast and secretly as you wish and you set this task upon you and others so capable."
"And I will take it gladly. Is there anything in particular I should mark?"
"I will leave that to your determination. Personally I believe the naugrim foolish for their claim and that they will either be shown as such and tossed in the Lake, or they will be brash enough to make good on it and consumed by the wurm's breath. But whichever doom they fall to, the King has taken an interest and so too shall we."
"Indeed." Garaf saluted the Captain, who returned the salute respectfully, and then set off to the provisioner. Once he had fresh provisions, a full quiver, and a new waterskin he returned once more to the abode he shared with his brother. There he retrieved a great spear should it truly come to war. Long and slender it had been passed to him by his father who had received it from the father before him and so on back through the ages of Arda. The runes graven upon the blade read Fanaur and from time to time in the midst of battle it would crackle with lightning. More runes there were along the haft and though they could at times glow with their own light they were in a far older elven tongue than his own and he had not yet found it in him to decipher them. He did not carry it on his rangings (for a spear would do seldom good where the trees pressed in close together and the spark of it would be seen from far off), he counted it as his most valued possession. And so armed he departed Thranduil's Halls and headed east along the Forest River.
Chapter Four
With a long and steady, sure stride Garaf passed the leagues between the Halls of Thranduil and the lake of Esgaroth. With many centuries of woodlore and experience he managed to do so without incident. And so it was that he set his watch from a far hill among the grasses and did so without the notice of the men of the area. At times his sharp elven-sight would catch a quick glimpse of a cloak or piece of leather at some distance and knew these to be his comrades, such as they were. Many would have arrived long before him, either by coming more swiftly or by having sooner received their duty. He would on occasion even mark one as a fellow he knew by the color of cloak or manner of arms should he catch a glimpse of such. The warriors and wardens of the wood-elves, and true as well for their southern neighbors in Lothlorien or so he had heard, were prone to prefer the spear and the sword, or sometimes the spear and the shield, and the spears were often decorated and marked individually so that they may be somewhat distinctive. For his sake he had wrapped the Fanaur in his own cloak to keep it's glint hidden.
Some days passed rather uneventfully as he watched the town from afar and to his mind there was nothing to note of its inhabitants. They may have seemed more cheerful and glad, but to Garaf's mind this was not worthy of report to his superiors. And so he watched during the day and often into the night. His back was turned to the mountain of Erebor and often his thoughts would turn to such. All knew of the creature that dwelled within and he could see the reek from it fading into the sky even from where he stayed. He cared not for it at all but so long as the dragon was far to the north he kept his attentions on the town.
Days and nights alike passed uneventfully. Eventually one of the other spies, this one wearing an embroidered green cloak whom he knew to be Lehman, came by to establish what order they should go in should anything occur that would require one to run back to the king. Traditionally a bird may have sufficed in this role, but alas they had none about them in these grassy hills with sparse trees. A swift bird call would indicate when one would depart and a low bird's call would indicate they should rally for any purpose. Garaf would be the sixth to depart, though he did not know how many, if any, would follow after him.
As it happened, two nights later was the first occasion for a swift bird's call to float through the hills. It was proceeded by a clamor and a clash in the dark of night coming from the Lonely Mountain. Turning their eyes to the north they saw great gushes of flame against the side of the mountain. Even with elven-eyes they could see no more than the dragon beating his anger out against the mountain, but there was no mistaking that much. They had no way to know the cause of the dragon's anger, but Garaf and many of his fellows guessed (correctly as it happened) that the very dwarves they sought were away on the Mountain rather than resting comfortably in the town before them. Still, they had their orders and the first spy left as soon as it was clear the display of rage was complete.
The day after was peaceful again and Garaf spent it largely gazing at the sky and dozing in the sun whose light he was, as yet, still not fully accustomed to. He recalled old adventures when he and his father had ranged the width and breadth of Rhovanion and done as much to curb the threat of orc and shadow alike as any of the elven were able to do. With bow and spear and sword and stealth they had earned the safety of their fellows and the confidence of knowing one's own purpose without doubt. There was no movement from the wooden town on the lake all that day, or at least none out of the ordinary and as evening fell he took to the maintenance of his gear. The stars were out and the town seemed just as quiet as any other night. A cold wind was blowing from the east and the warden guessed that it had driven most of them indoors at the late hour.
It started as a great roar from a greater distance, as though only an imagining, and it heralded a dread that crept upon Garaf like a chill up his spine. Turning towards the north he saw flashes of flame against the mountain once more. The dragon was fully roused and for reasons he could not quite fathom, the elf gripped the Gilcarth in his hands all the tighter. The flames lasted a few moments and then they were gone. He would have dared to hope that the wurm had been quayed save for the sobriety of his thought and the dread of his heart. A cheer had gone up from the town at the sight of the lights, for they could not guess their true nature without the gift of elven-sight but forsaking the watch of the town, Garaf kept his eyes on the north.
Before long he spied what appeared as a spark flying across the hills and speeding along the Running River that ran from the gates of Erebor. And it was then that he knew. Smaug was come. It was not something he had anticipated and for a moment he just stood straight on the side of the hill, eyes fixed on the spark and grew resolute in the knowledge that his death flew on swift wings. That the men behind should cheer in the same moment he deemed ill-fitting but soon their cheers turned to cries. He spared them a glance and saw the bridge connecting the town to the shore was being tossed aside. And none too soon for no sooner was Garaf turning his gaze back towards the north than a shadow shot over him and the glitter and shine of the great dragon Smaug lit his hill with it's glow for just a moment.
He couldn't recall dropping to the ground but in either case he was hidden as the dragon made the first pass of the town. From it's movements he guessed it had meant to crawl over the bridge and consume the town, and being so foiled it would alight to a higher place in the air and sweep low to attack the wooden town with its flame. And dragon proved it was so as, heedless of the swarms of darts that flew at him in vain, he swept down and over the town and beleaguered it with his dragon's flame. The men of the town attacked the flames with vessels of water but still they lost buildings. Flame spread faster than wet, and all the faster still for being sourced of a dragon. And it was not many of the dragon-swoops before boats began departing the town in all directions across the lake.
If Garaf gave any thought for aiding the men of Lake-town, it was a fleeting one. Among his peers he may have been counted as mighty as any warden, but still this foe would be beyond him. He bore no ill will against the men, but neither did he bear them love and though it did pain him some to see their town cindered, he would not risk the task of secrecy to which he had been given. And so all he could do was watch from the shadows and from afar.
And then the guards of the town itself were failing, either to flame or to fear. But whether consumed by fire or fled with dread, their situation seemed utterly hopeless. And then the most bizarre thing happened. Garaf would ever recall it as a moment of bewilderment and awe and ever after would he regard men with a mote more of respect. For amidst scorching ruin of the town stood a lone archer and even from a distance (for the light of the flames was great) Garaf spied a bird on his shoulder and a black arrow in his hand. When the arrow was loosed from the bow it sped true to his mark, though from his vantage Garaf could not see the nature of the mark. Later he would learn that the archer was named Bard and that he was long ago descended from the men of Dale to the north. The arrow was the last remaining to him from the halls of the Lonely Mountain and with it he had aimed at a small patch under the dragon's left breast, for there no gold or gems had pressed upon the dragon's soft underbelly and there the missile sunk deep into the ancient wurm. What Garaf saw was the black arrow fly through the night and then the dragon's scream as it suddenly recoiled amidst it's dive. From there it tumbled, no longer a master of flight, and fell screaming and thrashing into the midst of Lake-town. As the entire town, dragon and all, sank into the Esgaroth. A vapor thick and white rose from the lake as it touched the dragon's flesh and soon the entire lake was covered in a thick mist.
It seemed to Garaf that he waited years for the eastern wind to clear away the mist, but when it did he saw the survivors of the town gathering about on the shore. And after a slight but stunned silent moment, a swift bird's call could be heard on his hill.
Chapter Five
For five days after the death of Smaug and the destruction of Lake-town, Garaf lay in the hills beneath his grey cloak and watched as the men of the lake began the arduous task of beginning to rebuild. To his eyes there was more despair than construction, for many were lost and all were homeless, but they came to realize that their lands and fields and cattle were left unharmed and they would only need to provide structures to shelter them during the winter.
And on the fifth day, silvery trumpets blasted through the air and along the banks of the river appeared the Elvenking's host. Over a thousand wardens and bowmen in the finest battle raiment of the Elvenking's armory, sparkling in the sun as their trumpets were met with the awe and scattered cheers of the men below. The elven host halted short of the ramshackle settlement of men and there was a mingling between as King Thranduil and his staff met with the representatives of the men-folk. Garaf watched from his solitary post, far from sight until two nights had gone past and then, as the elven craftsmen aided the men in rebuilding their town, he slipped into the ranks of the war host.
He found the Captain in the tent marked for his rank and offered his report, though there was little he had seen that other messengers had not also reported. The Captain thanked him for his service and sent him to join the rank and file of the spearmen. There his Fanaur might inspire his fellows to feats with their own spears, should battle truly be joined. He soon found though that there was little expectation for war however. If it was the dwarves who had roused the dragon it seemed clear that they were no longer and all expected to find Erebor empty but for the gold rumored to be within. And that was the aim. The King ever desired gems and riches if he could justly acquire them, and the men sought to find funds to rebuild their town as well as the old city of Dale that once nestled beneath the Lonely Mountain itself.
Four days after he had rejoined the ranks of his kinsmen, the host of the Elvenking marched yet again, short a good many craftsmen but with the addition of near 200 hearty men of the Lake. They marched north for several days before coming upon the desolation of Smaug. For many leagues all around there was nary a blade of grass much less bird or beast save those that came with the host. All had long fled from the dragon's lair and even Garaf's grim heart was touched by the barrenness of the land. The Lonely Mountain ever dominated the land but as this was their destination he found it apt. Even the stumbling, plodding men of the lake would be able to find such a place. They were ever trailed by a great murder of crows and of this Garaf took ill omen. That such crafty and cowardly vermin should follow so great a host did not bode well with him in the least.
The host moved quickly, spurred on by the prospect of riches unclaimed and when the foot of the mountain was before them they would not wait till dawn but instead, under the cover of night, they occupied the ruins that Garaf surmised must once have been the town of Dale. Two great spurs of the mountain cornered them to the east and west so that their camp was nestled as if by great stone arms. In the morning an envoy was sent up, for it was seen from afar that the great gate from which the Running River sprang, had been walled up. They soon returned with news that the dwarves, or at least their leader Thorin, remained within the mountain and would not come out.
The camp was then moved further into the mountain's embrace, which was but a small matter seeing as it had not yet had time to properly settle, and when evening came upon them the harps and singers sent up a chorus to the stars. Even Garaf played a tune on a borrowed lute and once or twice on the flute of a bowman to set the tone for tales about a fire. The next morning another envoy was sent to the gate and this time it was attended by the King and the leader of the men, a man named Bard. They spoke with Thorin for a brief time and then returned. Near midday a third envoy was sent up with the sound of trumpets to herald his coming. That one returned with an arrow in his shield. That was the end of envoys for a time and Garaf settled amongst his elven companions, content to be at the service of his kin and in their company.
Some days later a runner was sent up to inquire something of the new King Under the Mountain whom must have consented as then a fourth envoy was sent forth to his wall. Garaf was never quite sure of the nature of these meetings but after the latest it quickly became known that Mithrandir had come with the Elvenking. Many took this as a sign of the justness of King Thranduil's cause though Garaf seldom gave it much mind. Gold had little favor to him and he would have been quite content to leave dwarves to their own business. And the next morning it became known that a new host was soon to join the field. A full 500 dwarves from the Iron Hills far to the east, rumored to be veterans of the great war of dwarves and orcs and lead by none other than Dain Ironfoot, a hero of that war of some repute. At this tiding some of the bowmen and spearmen of the elven host were sent up the eastern spur to await in ambush should the worst come to pass. Garaf was among these and he chose a place where he could be hidden by boulders and harry the foes below with arrows from his bow.
Not two days later the dwarven host appeared, rounding the eastern spur of the mountain and coming forth up to the eastern banks of the Running River. By then the elves and men had achieved their arms and expected battle with such a fearsome force, if only half their number. There was a parley between the parties just on the western shore, the outcome of which was the dwarven envoys returned to their camp and the envoys of men and elves rejoined their own. Neither camp moved though Garaf could guess their intents. If the Dwarves of the Iron Hills could enter the Mountain then long could they be sieged without harm. He knew his King would not wage war for sake of gold alone but all they had to do was stay as they were and they would block Dain's path. Without reinforcements the dwarves within the mountain would soon find they must be the dwarves without the mountain, for their stocks of provisions could not have been great. All of this Garaf guessed, but in vain, for while Bard and Thranduil debated their course of action, the dwarves sprang forth. Arrows and darts took flight as if so bidden the sky quickly darkened until the sun was beyond sight. Garaf pulled back his bow and readied an arrow to pierce the armor of a chosen dwarven warrior and then there was a flash of light, like a thunder crack, and wizened old man in grey robes stood in the midst of the three armies. "HALT!" he cried, and dwarves and men and elves alike were ceased. The old man, whom Garaf guessed to be the fabled Mithrandir, pointed to the North and cried that goblins had come, lead by their leader Bolg.
Garaf released the draw of his bow and marked that Dain and his envoy was swept with the Istari to council with the King and Bard of Dale. Garaf came down from his perch to sooner receive his orders and ignored the glances of the dwarves as he passed them by. With the coming of goblins all enmities between the free peoples were forgotten. Garaf was soon sent with the rest of his kin to man the slopes of the Southern spur and there to hold the way and clash the orcs against the eastern spur where the men and dwarves would make their own stand. They had only just taken their posts, swift as they were, when the first vanguard rounded the spur and entered the valley. And then, finally, battle was joined.
Chapter Six
A shining arrow was loosed from Gilcarch as hundreds of elven-crafted arrows took to the air in flight at the warg-riders just now rounding the spurs into the valley. Warg and rider alike toppled and fell, stricken by shafts from on high, in such numbers that those behind stumbled and toppled over a sudden wall of corpses. But there were ever more behind them and they flooded into the valley before the mountain like a great black tide. As bats fluttered in a thick cloud over the heads of the free peoples the goblins screamed murder as they filled the valley and the elven and dwarven bows thrummed their own dooms that rained down upon them. Many of the elven missiles sparked and lit as they flew through the air and those loosed from the Gilcarch were no less. As the valley swelled with black goblin filth, the elven spearmen dropped their bows, picked up their spears and charged forth. With cries of "Ed Sindarin!" and "Thranduil!" their blades glowed with a cold gleam as they bore down on the goblins. The goblins, for themselves, proved poorly suited for such ferocity and fell by the hundreds in the first charge. They began to move as one swarm towards the eastern spur and there they met the dwarves. With cries of "Dain!" and "Moria!" the dwarves of the Iron Hills threw into the fray and made terrible work of the goblins with their great mattocks.
Garaf avoided the charge, for he felt it was not yet time for Fanaur's spark to be felt upon goblin flesh, and he rained death down from on high. Be-lighted shaft after shaft sped through the air to punch through armor and flesh alike. Indeed, it was not long before his first quiver was exhausted, but fortunately he had a stock of them nearby. By the time the lines of elven spearmen and dwarven warriors met, the kills of the Gilcarch could only be counted by the pile of empty quivers. It would not be much longer before it was time to take up spear and sword himself.
For indeed, just as victory seemed to have been granted them, the bulk of the goblin forces surmounted the mountain and came on them from above. Though they had to claw their way over the corpses of their fellows, a second black wave surged into the valley, and the goblins above began to rain rocks down on the free peoples. Now the goblins had gained a purchase on the slopes and began to press in earnest on the defenders. Though piles of goblin corpses littered the slopes and the valley there did not seem to be an end to them. Garaf continued his archery, a grim turret loosing death upon its foe, until the goblins were mere paces away. Then, stooping down, he brought forth Fanaur and in the same motion thrust it forward with strength such that it pierced the neck of a charging goblin and sent it toppling into the attacker behind it. And in his hand gleamed one of the swords of his people, bright and cold with the fury of ages of enmity. Garaf forsook his perch and fell back with his kin, closer and closer to the base of the mountain itself. Once nigh there, he felt some small unseen thing brush past and though he turned and looked, expecting some foul goblin, he found nothing but blood splattered stone. At that moment such a stone came from the air and landed near to him, sending stone and grit flying through the air and Garaf was toppled.
Down the slope he rolled and his grey cloak was rent upon the rocks, though it did save him from the brunt of the edges. With a feat of elven agility he managed to gain his feet and loose the tattered cloak to the air as he slid down the slope toward an isolated outcrop. There he came to a stop and was able to gain a moment's respite. He heard the klaxon call of a dwarf's horn and then a great clamor came from the mountain and drowned out the cacophony of battle. A great shout boomed in the valley though Garaf could not see its source. "To me! To me! Elves and Men! To me! O my kinsfolk!"
Alas that this warden could not join his folk as they rallied to the unseen captain. Before the call's end Garaf found himself surrounded by a pack of wargs, snarling and growling in their own tongue. One among them was larger and darker than the others and bore many burns on his face and flank. He barked a challenge to the elf. To the warg's surprise Garaf responded in the guttural language of wargs and wolves. "You seek to challenge me? Pups I name you! Too young and scraggly to be my equal! Whelps! Come now, whelps, for my cloak is rent and I will need your skins to mend it. Come and meet your ends on my fang!" Garaf brandished the Fanaur which sent sparks arching into the air and set hair on end. The warg leader leapt into the air in rage and was met with sword blade. But Garaf did not strike a killing blow, or at least not yet, for he felt the rage himself and instead robbed the leader of his tail, knowing that this was the gravest of insults and injuries among wargs. The leader whelped as tail and rump separated midair and howled when he landed, but Garaf could no longer pay him mind for the pack was upon him.
The first warg was met with Fanaur's blade through its breast and turning, Garaf threw the corpse against its fellows and shoved the blade of his sword through the gaping maw of another, until the hilt clacked upon the fore-fangs. And so a dance ensued in which warg and elf wrought doom in blood upon the stones. Garaf spun, leapt, charged, thrust and ducked. With every blow he killed, for wargs were among the first of the enemy he had ever hunted and he knew their methods and ways-of-war well. He was wounded as well however, for the number of his foes was great. A swift warg with white fur managed to slap its jaws around his forearm but released when the sword blade slid up from below its jaw, through the mouth, and into the skull. Another worried for a short moment on his leg and met a similar fate as the spear split its skull. Other warg's charged in and planting the butt of his spear into the eye of the nearest, Garaf used it to vault out of the trap even as he blinded an attacker.
Another warg leapt at him from up high on the slope and succeeded only in falling on the sword. Still, the steel became lodged amidst bone and gristle and Garaf was forced to abandon it. The ground was growing crowded with warg flesh and blood soaking into the loose soil but Garaf used the full brunt of his skill and Fanaur was as live lightning. Here it split a warg down the mid-section and there it spun in an arc, opening throats and gaping maws and closing eyes. The sparks of the spear littered the air like stars and it was a grim and terrible thing for any who may have beheld it. In time, Garaf stood alone amidst mounds of flesh that was dying or dead. Behind it all, trying to leap up the slope and stumbling without its tail for balance, the warg-leader whined for pity. For warg's, Garaf had none and as he stalked back towards the warg, retrieving his sword blade along the way from the corpse that held it, the warg-leader beheld the rage in the elf's eyes and despaired. Garaf looked down at the black-furred and maimed beast and said "You are not fit even for a cloak." Then the spear struck and the warg's head fell and it lay dead.
Only then did Garaf's attention return the valley not far below and the war that waged there. Eagles had come and a great bear that he recognized from the western lands beyond the wood. Though he was wounded some, Garaf descended fully into the battle and joined the fray but as the sky darkened in earnest and stars could be glimpsed (for the cloud of bats had since dispersed) the goblins finally broke and bands of elves and dwarves chased them down. Garaf longed to follow after them, for the battle-fury still raged in him, but sober thought held him back in light of his wounds and he made his way towards Thranduil's green banner when the way was clear. As he drew closer, he was among others of the wounded coming for treatment, some gravely wounded indeed, and tents were being erected to tend to them. A straggling goblin sprang from a boulder and charged at a dwarf whom clutched at his head as if he had been struck there. Despite the wounds in arm and leg, and exhaustion besides, Garaf wound and sprung in long-practiced motion and Fanaur flew through the air. It smote the goblin with such force that it carried it in its flight until it rent a sheath upon a boulder. And then Garaf found that the strength was leaving his legs and he stumbled in his stride, but a man was there and he was caught and his arm looped around broad shoulders to bear his weight. "Pardon m'lord, but I thought you might prefer some 'elp over the ground."
Garaf lifted an eyebrow and looked down at an honest if humble looking face. "Very well, but my mending must be quick, and you must fetch my spear back for I will not be parted from it."
The man consented, though it took several tugs before he wrestled the spear from the stone, and even then he had to kick the dead goblin from the blade. With the spear again in his hand, Garaf felt some of his strength return but he consented to the man's aid and they made their way back. "Pardon, m'lord," and Garaf guessed the man was accustomed to beseeching pardons, "but why your haste? The day is won and now we are all rich and the goblins are done!"
"The battle might have been won, and goblins done for today, but the sun will come on the morrow and furs must be collected before they are spoiled."
