[en] The Prancing Pony > The Lord of the Rings

The Thaw - Edain inspired story

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Trondheim9:
Chapter 5: The Wolf

   “You are back too soon, Helegwen.  What has—you appear shaken.”  Mornamarth brushed the hair from in front of Helegwen’s wide and frightened eyes to one side, gripping her shoulder with his other hand.  “Why have you failed?” he asked finally, and though Helegwen thought there was genuine concern in his voice, she couldn’t help but notice the edge of threat in it as well.
   “We were ambushed by the Arnorians, my lord.”  By Zaphragor.  “I was captured and tied to a tree.  They spoke of Hwaldar’s execution amongst themselves.  I managed to free myself and have returned as soon as I could.”  I was freed to lure you to your death.  Even if was a feasible lie, she couldn’t meet Mornamarth’s eyes. 
   “Surely you didn’t believe them?”  The pressure on her shoulder increased slightly.  “They were merely getting in your head.”  He was quickly becoming impatient. 
   “Drauglin, Morn.  He lied to us.  He cannot be trusted.”
   “Drauglin is merely a beast that serves whatever master has his hand on his collar.  You are clearly in need of rest.  Where is he?”  He studied her face closely, his own an unreadable mask. 
   “He ran off,” Helewen responded miserably.  Abruptly he turned to leave. 
   “Plans have changed, I must consult my maps.”  Helegwen reached out to grab his arm.  “Wait, my lord.  We must return to a ruined tower we found not far.  There is a shard of a palantir there,” she pleaded desperately.  Mornamarth heaved a sigh of exasperation.  “What has gotten into you, woman?  A palantir shard?”  Helegwen nodded furiously.
   “Oh very well, Helegwen.  I will go see this with you.  Now get a hold of yourself.  How far to the tower?”

   “Where is the shard?” Mornamarth asked, surveying the wreckage of the tower.  Snow had begun to fall, and the wind nipped at their exposed faces.  Helegwen pointed ahead, not trusting herself to speak.  A growing sense of dread had been haunting her as both the inevitable showdown and storm neared, and now that it was time, she could hardly keep one foot going in front of the other.  She didn’t have long to wait.  Zaphragor stepped out of the shadows in front of them.
   Too late Mornamarth realized he was in a trap already sprung.  With a curse he reached for his short sword at his belt, but Zaphragor had already begun his attack, his steel-studded gauntlet hurtling towards Mornamarth’s face with the full force of a charging snow troll.  Ambushed as he was, Mornamarth’s battle-honed reflexes threw his head back, saving his life from Zaphragor’s deadly punch.  That was just about all Mornamarth managed to save, however; with a sickening crack the mage-warrior caught the tip of Mornamarth’s chin, breaking his jaw and sending a few of his teeth clattering into the stone pillar next to where Helegwen crouched.  The dark knight staggered backward, a groan of agony echoing from his mouth.  A lesser man might have died anyway; Helegwen felt a thrill of horror and admiration course through her body in a terrifying combination.  Mornamarth may have chosen to fight battles he could win in his career, but that did not mean he shied away from this one, shattered already as he was.  Even now there was fire in his eyes, fueled by pain and fury, and yet the cold, calculating look he had about him when surveying a battlefield was there too.  Did he even know he was about to die?
   Zaphragor gave him no time to recover, leaping forward to drive his fist into Mornamarth’s skull.  The dark knight was expecting it this time, hurtling himself to the side and evading the frontal assault.  The short sword was in his hand now, and he drove it upwards hilt-deep into the outstretched arm of the hulking man as Zaphragor screamed.  He immediately dropped to the ground on all fours as Zaphragor’s other arm swung savagely towards him for revenge.  Zaphragor used his momentum to spin, arching his leg in the air for a kick.  Mornamarth threw up an arm but did not have the strength enough to resist the force of the blow.  His arm clattered into his head as we was sent sprawling, letting out another excruciating gasp.
   Zaphragor yanked the blade protruding from his arm in a spray of blood, throwing it disdainfully towards the fallen knight.  “A steward is not a king, Mornamarth,” said Zaphragor, a crazed zeal burning in his eyes.  His voice was rock steady.  “A steward is a care-taker,” he continued, now circling Mornamarth.  “A steward is a protector.  A steward is a servant.  A steward is faithful.”  Zaphragor’s voice rose in anger upon pronouncing the last word, bringing a fist down into his palm.  Blood flowed freely from his arm, but he didn’t seem to notice it. 

“Heregrehh!” rasped Mornamarth.  His cry snapped her to attention, and she drew back her bow.  This isn’t for you, Morn.  It’s for me. Her frost arrow streaked toward Zaphragor, puncturing his upraised hand.  The mage warrior bellowed in pain as frost shot through his arm, almost instantly freezing it to the elbow.  Her next arrow deflected off of his metal-plated boot as she sought to cripple him.  She didn’t have time for a third. 
   Zaphragor slammed the ground with his wounded hand.  A blast of his own frost suddenly sprung up towards Helegwen, launching her into the pillar.  Don’t fight frost with frost, she thought bitterly as she struggled to catch her breath.  The attack had cost Zaphragor, though.  His arm had broken into a hundred icy shards on impact.  Even as he roared, Mornamarth had somehow regained his feet and drawn his fearsome Blood Blade.  He plunged it into the mage-warrior’s exposed back with his final strength, sagging and leaning on him as he did so.  Zaphragor whirled and grabbed Mornamarth by the collar with his sword hand, lifting him off the ground and slamming him cruelly back into it.  His boot caught the dark knight squarely in the stomach, hurling him even further than Helegwen and into the snow. 
   Helegwen watched with horror as Zaphragor’s cry of victory became a gurgle.  Like a flash of lightning, a grizzled wolf suddenly appeared in their midst, ripping out Zaphragor’s throat with his vicious fangs in one fell motion.  Though he was all but dead, the mage-warrior’s body refused to believe it, launching into an instant counter-attack.  His hand closed on Drauglin’s neck, and the two toppled to the ground as they wrestled for the upper hand.  It was as she suspected; the will of the Witch-king no longer held sway over the twisted beorning.  He had played them all.  Helegwen turned and fled, not waiting to see who would emerge triumphant.  As she ran past Mornamarth, he reached out a bloodied hand to try to catch her ankle.  She kicked away his feeble attempt, only one thing on her mind: survive.
   In the end she did not need to see who won the deadly duel.  She had not gotten far when Drauglin’s howl of rage seemed to snap at her heels.  He was coming for her next.  One final loose end.

* * * * *

   Wheezing, Helegwen stumbled to her knees in the deep snow, her burning lungs and legs no longer able to maintain her desperate flight.  There was an old ruin of a burnt-out farm house just ahead, but she knew Drauglin was upon her already, just waiting for her accept her fate.  It is over, she thought.  I am going to die.
   “I...I made a mistake,” Helegwen breathed, a tear falling from the corner of her eye.  Her hands curled to fists on the snow, and her head fell to her chest.  The snow crunched behind her.  Drauglin stepped around Helegwen and squatted down in front of her.  His right eye was quickly swelling shut, and he was bleeding from his nose.  He also cradled an arm in his lap, most likely broken.  His icy gaze on her faltered and softened.  “Aye, girl, that you did,” he sighed.  “Now you understand.  But too late.”  He reached a clawed gauntlet under her chin, pressed gently but firmly, and withdrew.  He stood, and just as quickly as he had appeared, he loped off into the storm, never to be seen again by any race of Middle-earth. 
   Blood spluttered from Helegwen’s mouth and neck, staining the fresh layer of snow with crimson flecks.  She collapsed onto her side, eyelids fluttering.  The dilapidated farmhouse came into focus.  She finally realized where she was.  It was where she had grown up.  This had been her farm.  Her home.  Where her mother, father, and sister were murdered by the same people she then served.  Where she should have died years ago.  She couldn’t even remember their faces.  “I’m sorry, Nalagwen,” she whispered, and her heart beat no more. 
   Thus died Winter’s Arrow, the last survivor of the fell reign of the Witch-king and his dominion, the dreaded realm of Angmar. 

--END--

Watcher:
What a wonderful read!

The_Necromancer0:
A very nice read the second time around too  :D I took the liberty of moving it to what I think is a better location for this.

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