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The Thaw - Edain inspired story

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Trondheim9:
Hello,

It has been a while since I've been on Modding Union.  I recently completed an Edain-related little story I wrote just for fun.  It is called "The Thaw" and follows the fate of Helegwen in the aftermath of the Witch-king's defeat at Fornost.  It has been in the works for a long time, but I recently decided to push and try to finish it.  There are 5 mini-chapters.  It lacks a lot of description in parts, but I didn't want to bog it down and make it longer.  At Necro's suggestion, I'm posting it here in case anyone else finds it interesting.  Hope you enjoy!

Trondheim9:
Chapter 1: The Archer

   Helegwen groaned, forcing herself to lift her head from the rubble which surrounded her.  She blinked out the dust from her eyes and pushed herself up onto her knees.  The sound of battle now seemed distant, replaced by the high-pitched ringing in her ears.  Her hand found her bow, miraculously still in one piece, and she staggered to her feet.  Everything around her immediately began reeling, and she fell back to the ground again.  She took a deep breath and tried to collect her thoughts.
   She had been stationed on the wall near the front gate of the mighty fortress of Fornost, under the control of Angmar, fighting with a squad of veteran rangers, some of her best soldiers.  To her surprise, the siege had been brief, the Arnorians and elves descending upon the city with a fell fury that quickly overran the preliminary defenses.  She was soon stranded in a wall tower with no escape, desperately trying to open up a path to retreat.  Her squad did not disappoint, even obliterating an entire regiment of hobbit archers, of all things, before running out of ammunition.  Just when the door had nearly been knocked down, she had been saved by a charge of Black Knights and Shadow Guards, which threw the Arnorians into chaos long enough for her and her men to escape. 
   From there it had been hit-and-run, scavenging arrows where they could.  The terrible and unstoppable might of Angmar, now being brought to its knees, Helegwen had thought bitterly.  But she was a survivor.  It was time to leave.  She had already seen Karsh fall; he had been devastating the Arnorian infantry until those elves arrived.  She had heard of them, the powerful Glorfindel of Rivendell and Cirdan the Shipwright of Lindon.  With their elven magic they had subdued Karsh, lifting his curse of undeath and finally putting the Captain of Arnor to rest.  She had always been afraid to die, but the thought of what Karsh was scared her even more. 
   Dûrmarth had also been slain, brought down in a vicious duel by elf twins.  Dûrmarth was a formidable enemy to face in one-on-one combat, but he could not prevail against the skilled and nimble warriors, masters of taking down tough opponents in unison.
   Drauglin had been out with the scout teams, most likely one of the first casualties if he had not run off, and Hwaldar had been captured.  Of Mornamarth there was no sign; Helegwen suspected he might have one (if not several) of his plans in motion to take advantage of the situation.  She always knew where Zaphragor was; the blue explosions from his dark magic flared up occasionally in different spots as he blew away countless unlucky enemies.  But even these flashes ceased, and Helegwen had found herself in a tower opposite to where she had started, Fornost all but taken.  That was when a trebuchet stone had shattered her tower, and where she now found herself in its ruins on the ground just outside the walls.  The battle was lost, and Angmar was broken. 
   Helegwen rose shakily to her feet once more, clutching her side which now cried out for attention.  Probably some broken ribs.  She sighed in frustration upon finding her men strewn all about her, killed from the impact or fall.  It was no small wonder she was alive herself.  She peered into the forest in front of her, barely visible in the twilight sky, and without a backward glance, limped away from Fornost into the darkness. 

Trondheim9:
Chapter 2: The Sorcerer

   Helegwen awoke abruptly to find herself wrapped in furs and lying next to a fire.  An old man sat tending it, his face obscured by a hood.  He had a distinctly unpleasant smell that seemed entrenched in his black robes.  He must have heard her stir, for at that moment he turned. 
   He appeared very grandfatherly; a short white beard poked out from his chin, framing a crooked smile accentuated by a sharp nose.  But the eyes...the eyes were all wrong.  They would have chilled any other person’s soul, but she knew them.  She was looking into the eyes of a man who had engineered a devastating plague that had killed thousands across the northern realms, a man who had broken a beornling and raised the wight Karsh, a man who had an uncanny grasp on the dark arts straight from the Witch-king himself:  she was looking at Gulzár.
   “Ah, I see you have not frozen as some of my sorcerers believed.  They placed bets on it, you know,” he continued casually, “and now the losers will have to sacrifice their acolytes for the healing ritual.  What magnificent stakes, are they not?” he asked the frigid morning sky, his sickly smile now spreading to cover half of his face as he grinned in near ecstasy.   
   Helegwen fought down the initial repulsion (and fear, she had to admit) she always felt when around sorcerers, which she now realized were camped all around her in a small clearing, cooking and talking quietly.  She actually got along quite well with Gulzár (as long as she avoided the eyes).  If he hadn’t been a crazy black magic-wielding necromancer and mass murderer, they might have been something like friends.  She pushed the thought away and herself up onto her elbows.  “Healing ritual?” she inquired.  Her body in that moment began to protest her feigned ignorance, pulsing with pain up and down the whole length of her.
   “Oh, yes, my dear, you had quite a tumble back there at the tower.  Broken wrist, two broken ribs, broken toe, and only Melkor knows how many scratches and bruises.  And that was with Zimeun cushioning your fall!” he exclaimed heartily, slapping his thigh with a chuckle.  “Of course, he only had one acolyte left at the time, so it’s quite remarkable that you weren’t injured more.  Zimeun may burn through his acolytes, but he sure does know how to make the most of each one.”
   A sorcerer at a nearby fire answered haughtily.  “Of course, Gulzár.  My servants are weak, but I am strong.”  Gulzár chuckled again.  “That you are, that you are.  Now, Tuxir, I believe you lost the bet.  Come heal the young Helegwen.”
   Another sorcerer rose and bowed.  “I accept my loss and have made preparations.  The scouts we just captured will do nicely.”  At these words four Arnorian soldiers, gagged and bound to pallets dragged along the floor, were brought over to Helegwen’s fire.  She watched in horrid fascination as Tuxir began his chant, the eyes of the prisoners bulging in terror.  With a shriek, three hooded figures around Tuxir’s fire slumped to the ground and simply disappeared, leaving behind only their black garments.  The Arnorians shriveled to husks, their armor imploding violently and their silent screams borne away by the cold wind.  Helegwen slammed into the ground as ice seemed to rush through her veins, her body convulsing as the magic flooded her and reshaped her.  And just like that it was done. 
   Helegwen gasped for breath, rolling onto her stomach and lurching to her feet.  The pain was gone, but she still felt the icy tingling sensation left in the aftermath of the healing.  And she felt incredibly strong.  “I feel like...I could arm wrestle...a hill troll,” she managed between ragged breaths.  Tuxir stared at her with a blank expression.  “I would not recommend it,” he said.  “Now, my debt is paid.”  With that he turned and sat by his fire again, as if nothing had ever happened. 
   Helegwen had learned enough of acolytes to know not to pity them.  They were simply vessels, barely even alive, and completely tied to their sorcerer; as long as he lived, his magic would bring them back after he rested, ready to be used again.  Such pathetic things were beneath her.  The Arnorians, however, were different.  Theirs had been a horrifying death.
   “What has happened, Gulzár?  Has Angmar fallen?” she asked, suddenly feeling exhausted as she plopped back onto the ground.  His expression hardened.
   “Fornost is now in the hands of Eärnur.  Our Lord has fallen back to either Dol Guldur or Mordor, but all is not lost.  Mornamarth lives, and with him a small army that could no doubt help him carve out some little kingdom in the mountains to feed his vain ambition.  He did not answer the summons, as you are well aware.  His betrayal is unforgivable, but perhaps he can be of use before he is put down.  There are certain...artifacts...th at I was forced to leave behind in Fornost.  If we could recover those, we could surely get our revenge.”  He brought his fist down on his knee to emphasize his feelings for the Arnorians, a maniacal flame burning in his eyes.  Helegwen noted his selective choice of words and decided she didn’t want to know. 
    Gulzár stood suddenly, his gaze drawn to somewhere in the forest.  His entire demeanor shifted instantly, and Helegwen knew the look.   Gulzár always became excited when death was near.  He clapped his hands gleefully, licking his lips as if in anticipation of a delicious meal. 
   “Well, it seems we will be able to dish out a little appetizer to our so-called conquerors.  Here they come now to seek their missing scouts.”  Though Helegwen could not see or hear any enemies, she stretched her arms and reached for her bow.  To her delight, she found a replenished supply not just of her steel arrows, but also her frost and ice arrows, courtesy of the Sorcerer of Arms, Pilak. 
   “Give them a hail of frost arrows, my dear,” said Gulzár, magic already coursing through him.     Helegwen fired, her frost arrow flying high above the treetops in the direction Gulzár had indicated.  The sorcerers reached out their hands.  Immediately the arrow shattered in mid-flight, branching out into hundreds of shards that then rained down upon the surprised Arnorian force, still obscured by the elevation and the forest.  Their cries of alarm lit Gulzár’s face up with a tremendous smile.  “And now for my favorite part.  My hidden acolytes will fulfill their purpose.”  He closed his eyes and nodded his head.  The forest exploded with green flames and mist, men screamed as burning acid rotted away their armor and flesh, and horns brayed as secrecy was abandoned in favor of a charge. 
   The first few enemies to emerge from the forest were taken down by a sweeping multishot from Helegwen, again aided by sorcery as Zimeun came to stand beside her.  They had often fought together thus, weaving her unprecedented archery skills and his dark magic into a deadly weapon to decimate the battlefield.  The second wave comprised of elven infantry, pushing through the chaos of the ambush to engage the sorcerers.  A few of the sorcerers fell, pierced by the swan-feathered arrows of Lindon Guardians as they fired on the run.  Even when their charge was blasted by the corpses of the dead as flaming fireballs, the disciplined warriors quickly filled in their gaps and came on.  Just as they drew near, Helegwen called out “Ice barrier!” Zimeun placed his hands on the ground, and the elves went cascading back as a wall of ice whipped up into the sky.  Helegwen began picking them off through gaps in the barrier, disrupting their reorganization effort as they retreated back into the cover of the forest. 
   Another explosion went off behind them, and Gulzár waved her over.  “They are trying to flank us, cover our backs!”  As the sorcerers paused in uncertainty, an elf in grey robes and a spectacularly long beard sprang from the trees, leading a third charge of men and elves.  “Cirdan!” growled Gulzár, his hand curling as he turned to face him.   The grey elf was upon them in a matter of seconds, sword flashing towards Gulzár in an underhanded swing meant to take the high sorcerer’s arms off on the way up to the neck.  But Gulzár was gone, vanishing into nothing, leaving behind his black robe in the hands of the frustrated elf.  Just then a volley of arrows blindsided the elven lines, and swordsmen bearing black armor and the insignia of Carn Dum topped a nearby hill to join the fray.  Mornamarth had come.  The grey elf knew he could not match this new foe, and a full retreat was sounded.  Angmar may have lost the war, but this battle was theirs. 

Trondheim9:
Chapter 3: The Steward

   Mornamarth sauntered through the ranks of his soldiers, his scarred face twisted into wry a smile which he wore after battle.  He had swept down into the formations of Arnorians and elves at the front of his army with almost reckless zeal, though Helegwen knew how carefully planned his intervention had been.  She begrudgingly had to admit, despite his betrayal of the Witch-king, that Mornamarth was a brilliant tactician, and when he lead an assault his confidence was contagious.  That was, after all, the reason he and his army were still alive and much of the Witch-king’s forces were not.  He had no doubt scouted the large army that had besieged Carn Dum, known it would fall, perhaps even welcomed it, and he was ready in a heartbeat to step in to fill his former master’s role.  His smile slipped when he saw Gulzár heading towards him, but he quickly recovered upon spying Helegwen nearby.  He gave her a wink before turning to the High Sorcerer, his face transforming into that of a child eager to appease an angry parent, raising his hands in surrender.
   “Mornamarth, I ought to destroy you in this very moment!” exclaimed Gulzár, poking an accusing finger into the broad man’s chest.
   “Oh, come now,  Gulzár, I just saved your life and the lives of these fine sorcerers, not to mention the beautiful Helegwen over yonder.”  He bowed mockingly, signaling with his hand in her direction.  She wrinkled her nose at him and shooed him from a distance.   Gulzár remained unamused.
   “Where have you been!  You were summoned for the defense of Fornost!” he insisted.
   “Why, of course, we are on our way now to the fortress to repel the Arnorian scum now.  But why am I meeting you here in the woods?” he asked, his face now a mask of concern.  Nobody bought it.
   “Spare me your lies, Mornamarth, I’m sure you know already that the fortress is fallen and the Witch-king defeated,” said Gulzár in disgust.
   Now a streak of shock and bewilderment.  “Fallen?  Defeated?  How can this be!” his voice rising in perfect alarm.  Helegwen almost laughed.   Gulzár was fuming.  “Away with you, goblin-brained power monger!  We will speak more of this later.  For now let us regroup and consider our options for taking back Fornost.”
   “Yes, an excellent idea,” Mornamarth agreed, retreating from Gulzár a few steps and turning before the sorcerer could berate him further.  He began barking orders, his men rushing to obey their commander’s instruction.  Gulzár sighed, rubbing his bald head in frustration.  He came over to where Helegwen sat inspecting her arrows.  “The fool!” he muttered.  “Helegwen, there is no helping it.  The man has betrayed our lord the Witch-king and has the gall to pretend otherwise, but we need him.  His treachery has been long in the works, and it is obvious these men are loyal to him and no other.  However, once we have gained access to Fornost’s main citadel, I will be able to recover an artifact I was forced to leave behind.  One of great power and destruction.  One that could eliminate our enemies...and perhaps accidentally a few...allies...as well.”  His eyes burned with grim determination.  “Of course, Mornamarth need not know the details.  Once I mention a powerful artifact he will be itching to get his dirty fingers on it.  This poison’s aroma will be so sweet to him he won’t be able to resist it.  So it is with power-hungry bastards such as he.  He will pay for his betrayal, mark my words.  The Witch-king shall return!” he proclaimed triumphantly, causing Helegwen to shudder involuntarily.  Her interaction with her former lord had been limited, but she would never forget the fear she had felt in his presence.  Fortunately, Gulzár interpreted her shiver as a reaction to the cold. 
   “All in good time, we will hold council tonight.  You must be tired from the fight.  Get warm by the fire and rest yourself.  We have some long and intense days ahead.”

   Helegwen awoke to find the sun setting and rubbed her eyes.  Had she really been that tired?  Suddenly she remembered the council meeting and rose hastily, slinging her bow onto her back and grabbing her quiver.  She froze.  Something was watching her from the forest.  She slowly retrieved her bow and readied an arrow.  A wolf materialized before her, baring its ferocious teeth in a blood-curling growl.  Helegwen sighed, unnotching her arrow.  "You stink much worse than any creature in Arda for me not to know it is you, Drauglin."  The snarl turned into a wicked smile, and suddenly a man stood before her.  "Helegwen the Perceptive!" he mocked, sneering at her.  His face was crisscrossed with scars, remnants from battles with both humans and beasts.  The fresh gash just above his left eyebrow meant he could now add elves to the list.  Though he had attempted to wipe it away, there was also still blood on his hands.  Or blood on his paws that had now become hands.  Beornings were weird.  "So you aren’t dead.” 
   “I could say the same to you, Archer,” Drauglin retorted.  “Come, we will meet Mornamarth now.  Follow me.”
   “Good boy,” she murmured.  A dangerous glint entered the wolf man’s eyes, something Helegwen noted with curiosity.  Before she could provoke him further, he turned abruptly and stormed away in the direction of Mornamarth’s command tent.  Helegwen was close behind. 
   Mornamarth looked up expectantly when they entered, giving Helegwen a wave. 
   “I didn’t have a chance to speak with you much yet, Helegwen.  Forgive me, there were many things to tend to.”
   “Don’t worry, I needed to rest anyway,” she replied. 
   Theirs had always been a complicated relationship.  When she had first been captured by Angmar, Mornamarth had given her a chance.  They had even become lovers for a short while, though it was soon clear there was no real love from either.  It had probably kept Helegwen alive, though; it was no secret Hwaldar had wanted to execute her instead of bringing her on board.  She was a threat to his leadership over the hillmen, especially as she gained power and favor with Angmar.  It ensured Hwaldar remained loyal to Mornamarth in a secret arrangement unknown to the other generals.  He was a sly fox, that Mornamarth, always looking to turn any situation to his advantage.  However manipulative he might be, she respected him.  He was a survivor, and she had learned much from him. 
   “Mornamarth looked to Drauglin.  “Is it done?”  Drauglin nodded.
   “Is what done?” asked Helegwen, a tiny prick of anxiety in her heart. Mornamarth considered for a moment. 
   “Helegwen,  Gulzár is dead.”
   Helegwen’s mouth fell open.  “Dead?!  What do you mean?  How?”
   “Drauglin killed him,” answered Mornamarth calmly.
   “Drauglin?” she gasped, not understanding this new twist of events.  “But why?”
   “Well, it’s simple,” continued Mornamarth, “because I told him to.”  What are you up to, Morn?
“I know it is unfortunate, Helegwen, but it had to be done.  That man would have been the death of us.  Did he tell you his great plan?  Hah!” he turned and began pacing, his tone now of a lecturer before his pupils. 
   “Gulzár believed he could tempt me with promises of powerful weapons hidden in the catacombs of Fornost, waiting for his magic touch to kickstart our reconquest of Arnor.  I’m sure I would have met an accident along the way anyway.  Fornost is lost.  His was a foolish mission that would have have gotten us all killed, and for what?  No, Helegwen.  We must regroup.  I have intel that Hwaldar still lives, though he has been captured.  I will need him to rally the forces of Rhudaur.  They are demoralized after the defeat at Fornost and scattered, but if we can free him and show them our strength, they will surely return to our cause.”
   “You know I have no love for Hwaldar.  How do you know about his fate?” Helegwen asked.
   “I have sent Drauglin to scout out the enemy’s positions.  He is not under heavy guard.  They are still drunk on victory,” Mornamarth confidently continued, “and a stealth operation would be ideal to free him under the cover of night and celebration.  You are perfect for the task.  Leave at dawn and you shall be upon their camp when darkness falls.  Drauglin will show you the way.”
   The wolf-man, who had been just staring off into the distance for some time, jumped at the mention of his name.  He wrinkled his nose subconsciously.
   “Yes, of course, my lord.  I will take her to Hwaldar.  But I hunger and have caught scent of my...prey.  I must take my leave.”  He glanced uneasily back at the nearby treeline. 
   Mornamarth snorted.  “I swear you are more beast than man sometimes.  Your appetite makes you forget yourself.  Go on then, dog, have your hunt.”  Drauglin growled before leaping to the ground and bounding off, transforming in mid-step.  “The gall of that mut,” Mornamarth sighed.  “I have been working him hard though.  You had better prepare for tomorrow now, too.  I am confident in your success.”

Trondheim9:
Chapter 4: The Zealot

   It had been a long night for Helegwen, tired as she was.  She did not relish saving her rival.  Perhaps she could just fail the mission and say she tried...she was instantly reminded why it could not be so.
   “Come, Helegwen, we must leave now for the Arnorian camp.”  The shapeshifter who had now arrived at her bedroll would be watching her to ensure she did a good job. 
   “Yes, yes, let’s get on with this,” she groaned, pushing herself up. 
   
   It had been a quiet hour or so of travel when the two unlikely companions came upon the remains of a watchtower, no doubt destroyed by the forces of Angmar in some forgotten battle.  Drauglin suddenly burst away, heading into the debris.
   “Slow down, damn you!” she shouted, but the wolf had already disappeared into the ruins.  Helegwen hurried after him, passing through crumbling arches and over strewn bits of rubble.  The wolf had vanished.
   “Drauglin?”   
   “Hello, Helegwen.” She whirled, raising her bow to take aim in the direction of the voice, but just then something struck her. Her bow went spinning uselessly out of her grasp, and she crumpled against a nearby tree. Dazed, she rolled over onto her knees, desperately seeking out her assailant. A huge man now crouched over her. He wore black armor which seemed to absorb the day itself; the sun’s light was almost diminished around her as she looked at it. One hand bore a mail gauntlet, and the other a simple leather glove. One arm for the sword, the other for...magic. Helegwen felt an icicle of fear form in her heart, even as the man’s face came into focus as her disorientation subsided. It was the warrior-mage, the right hand of the Witch-king of Angmar, the zealot High Priest of his dark lord who only grew stronger the closer he was to death. It was whispered that there were actually two that no man could kill: the Witch-king and Zaphragor.  He had survived the battle too.  He smiled as he saw the recognition dawn on Helegwen’s face.
   “Helegwen, Helegwen, Helegwen. So quickly do you dump your master the moment he is not here? You would just fall in line with that wretched traitor, curse his bones, and be happy to do his bidding?” He did not move, but his eyes glinted dangerously. Helegwen fought to regain control over her terror.
   “I-I had no choice,” she stammered. “I would have been surely killed, otherwise.” She swallowed hard. Zaphragor did not let up.
   “Then perhaps that is the choice you should have made, Helegwen. Better to die for the Witch-king than betray him.” Finally he stood, sighing. “But weakness does abound everywhere. You fought at Fornost at least, and for that I will give you a chance at redemption.” His tone of voice made it clear it was also a second chance at living. Helegwen did her best not to heave a sigh of relief.
   “Thank you, Zaphragor,” she managed, “I would gladly serve y—the Witch-king again.”
   “Hmmm, very good,” responded Zaphragor, amused. “Tell me what assignment that devil Mornamarth has given you.” Helegwen looked to the ground, racing to come up with something. He was next to her in a flash, a massive hand dragging her up in the air by her neck. She kicked and squirmed, fighting for breath in a grip that just got tighter and tighter.
   “Don’t test my patience, girl,” growled Zaphragor. “Tell me the truth now!”
   “Hwaldar!” gasped Helegwen, “must...free...Hwaldar!” Zaphragor dropped her, leaving her doubled over in a coughing fit as she gratefully gulped in oxygen.
   “So he wants another henchman for his plans, does he?” Zaphragor hooted boisterously. “Hwaldar was executed by the Arnorians the very day after the battle. Surely he would have joined Mornamarth’s insurrection, so it is good that he die before his betrayal. He will be remembered as a faithful servant instead. Is that not the way it should be, Helegwen?” He cast a sly look at her, his eyes boring holes into her soul. She was still curled up in a ball on the ground, rubbing her neck and hoping not to cough anymore. She thought her head would explode if she did. Her heartbeat resounding though her entire body, she feebly nodded, not daring to speak nor leave his question unanswered, even if it was rhetorical. Hwaldar was dead, then.
   “Drauglin lied to us then,” managed Helegwen.  “He is dangerous, Zaphragor.  He is changing.  There is a new fire in his eyes he didn’t have before.”
   “Drauglin lied to you because Mornamarth, and you by association, have betrayed the Witch-king,” retorted Zaphragor.
   “Drauglin killed Gulzár on Mornamarth’s command,” she insisted.  “Gulzar was one of the lord’s most dedicated servants.” 
   Zaphragor waved his hand.  “He could not defy a direct order, but his deceiving you shows he is still bound to the Witch-king.”  And the Witch-king is where? Helegwen thought to herself, though she dared not open her mouth.  “He came to me last night and told me you would be here.”  That explains Drauglin’s odd behavior at the camp.
   “Come now, the time of reckoning is upon Mornamarth.  I will know if you betray me, Helegwen.  You don’t want that.  Play your part and I will spare your life.  Mornamarth, however...will die.  Tonight.”

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