For the Tenth Day of Spooky
Title: Still No Title Guarding the Heedless Folk
Author: Branwyn
Characters: Breefolk, Rangers
Rating: G to PG
Note: For the Six Days of Spooky Challenge over at spooky_arda. Just borrowing Tolkien's universe; I'll put it back when I'm through.
The horses called in shrill answer, but the pony galloped past them without halting. The rangers hurried onward, the sound of their footsteps falling dully into the mist.
They heard distant shouting, and as they drew nearer, a slow murmuring rose and echoed in the hollow places. Brandir caught a few words-cold and heart and stone. Never had he heard anything so hateful or forlorn.
Ahead, they saw the Breelanders, huddled together, their backs against a great stone. The smith, using the long pruning hook, fended off the black figures. Beside him, the two shepherds drew their sturdy hobbit bows again and again. The others stood ready, armed with long knives and clubs. The wights snarled as they pulled the arrows from their crumbling flesh. Surrounded by their gaunt and tattered forms, a pale man with a shock of black hair raised a sword in his fist. His white lips moved in the slow chant.
Though he still felt somewhat lightheaded, Brandir swung down from the saddle, for someone would need to hold the horses during the fight. Halbarad handed him several sets of reins. “Stay back,” he ordered in a whisper.
Silent, the rangers advanced with swords drawn, while Brandir waited with their mounts. These were well-trained horses, steady and proven in battle, yet they sidled and tossed their heads at the stench of ancient decay. They sensed an unknown terror in this place. “Steady, steady,” Brandir whispered to them, praying they would not bolt. The dreary murmuring rose until he could hear a strange song, and he deemed it was hopeless to fight the dead. Why had he not seen this before? Soon the lord Aragorn would give them the order to retreat.
One of the horses quickly swung its head to one side and stared between two barrows; then it whinnied loudly and pulled against the reins. The barrow-wights turned at the sound, and Brandir felt the malice of their gaze, and the light of the moon and stars seemed suddenly distant and far-away. He longed to drop the reins and flee.
Then Lord Aragorn’s voice rang out above the chanting. “Let us teach these dry reeds a new tune!” he cried in the Common Speech, and the moment of doubt was past. Shouting, the little band of rangers charged at the enemy. For a moment, the Breelanders stood amazed, until the blacksmith shouted, “Friends! To us!” With a mighty swing of the pruning hook, he lopped off the head of a wight.
Assailed from both sides, the wights fell back. Some of the creatures fought with skill, and Brandir guessed that these had once been soldiers of Arnor. Yet others could scarcely hold a sword and no doubt had been farmers and tradesmen when they had walked under the sun.
Bringing his sword down in an arc, the lord swiftly dispatched an enemy then beheaded a second on the back stroke. He pushed his way through their ranks until he reached the stricken Breelander. Laughing, Tom slashed at Lord Aragorn’s face. Stepping aside, the lord easily parried the blow. He caught the man’s tunic with one hand and, with the other, brought the pommel of the sword down on his skull. The Breelander dropped to the ground and did not rise.
Brandir started as a horse bumped him sharply with its muzzle. Halbarad’s great bay rolled his eyes and snorted. The young ranger glanced over the horse’s neck, and then he espied the dark figures, outlined against the stars as they silently hurried between the barrows. They were going to fall on the lord and his kinsmen unawares, yet any warning shout would go unheeded in the midst of the fight.
Dropping the reins of the other horses, Brandir hauled himself onto the bay and untied the sword from behind the saddle. A spear would have been better, but as Halbarad had said, this weapon would serve at need. The young ranger had counted only four of the enemy. If he were lucky, they would scatter and flee before a galloping horseman. Certainly that was how most men would respond to such an attack; only a highly-trained soldier would stand and fight a mounted opponent.
The bay whinnied in protest as Brandir urged him toward the dark shapes, yet the great-hearted beast did not refuse as the ranger gave the signal to trot. Now Brandir saw that there were six of the creatures, not four. He swerved the horse to the left just as he reached the enemy, striking off a head as he passed. Then he wheeled the horse about to make another pass. Three of the barrow-wights fled, and as he rode by, he slew another. That left only one, but as he closed with the creature, it seized the bay’s bridle and swung a sword at his leg, slicing into his boot. Brandir realized with horror that he had just had the misfortune to meet with a long-dead armsmaster.
Author: Branwyn
Characters: Breefolk, Rangers
Rating: G to PG
Note: For the Six Days of Spooky Challenge over at spooky_arda. Just borrowing Tolkien's universe; I'll put it back when I'm through.
The horses called in shrill answer, but the pony galloped past them without halting. The rangers hurried onward, the sound of their footsteps falling dully into the mist.
They heard distant shouting, and as they drew nearer, a slow murmuring rose and echoed in the hollow places. Brandir caught a few words-cold and heart and stone. Never had he heard anything so hateful or forlorn.
Ahead, they saw the Breelanders, huddled together, their backs against a great stone. The smith, using the long pruning hook, fended off the black figures. Beside him, the two shepherds drew their sturdy hobbit bows again and again. The others stood ready, armed with long knives and clubs. The wights snarled as they pulled the arrows from their crumbling flesh. Surrounded by their gaunt and tattered forms, a pale man with a shock of black hair raised a sword in his fist. His white lips moved in the slow chant.
Though he still felt somewhat lightheaded, Brandir swung down from the saddle, for someone would need to hold the horses during the fight. Halbarad handed him several sets of reins. “Stay back,” he ordered in a whisper.
Silent, the rangers advanced with swords drawn, while Brandir waited with their mounts. These were well-trained horses, steady and proven in battle, yet they sidled and tossed their heads at the stench of ancient decay. They sensed an unknown terror in this place. “Steady, steady,” Brandir whispered to them, praying they would not bolt. The dreary murmuring rose until he could hear a strange song, and he deemed it was hopeless to fight the dead. Why had he not seen this before? Soon the lord Aragorn would give them the order to retreat.
One of the horses quickly swung its head to one side and stared between two barrows; then it whinnied loudly and pulled against the reins. The barrow-wights turned at the sound, and Brandir felt the malice of their gaze, and the light of the moon and stars seemed suddenly distant and far-away. He longed to drop the reins and flee.
Then Lord Aragorn’s voice rang out above the chanting. “Let us teach these dry reeds a new tune!” he cried in the Common Speech, and the moment of doubt was past. Shouting, the little band of rangers charged at the enemy. For a moment, the Breelanders stood amazed, until the blacksmith shouted, “Friends! To us!” With a mighty swing of the pruning hook, he lopped off the head of a wight.
Assailed from both sides, the wights fell back. Some of the creatures fought with skill, and Brandir guessed that these had once been soldiers of Arnor. Yet others could scarcely hold a sword and no doubt had been farmers and tradesmen when they had walked under the sun.
Bringing his sword down in an arc, the lord swiftly dispatched an enemy then beheaded a second on the back stroke. He pushed his way through their ranks until he reached the stricken Breelander. Laughing, Tom slashed at Lord Aragorn’s face. Stepping aside, the lord easily parried the blow. He caught the man’s tunic with one hand and, with the other, brought the pommel of the sword down on his skull. The Breelander dropped to the ground and did not rise.
Brandir started as a horse bumped him sharply with its muzzle. Halbarad’s great bay rolled his eyes and snorted. The young ranger glanced over the horse’s neck, and then he espied the dark figures, outlined against the stars as they silently hurried between the barrows. They were going to fall on the lord and his kinsmen unawares, yet any warning shout would go unheeded in the midst of the fight.
Dropping the reins of the other horses, Brandir hauled himself onto the bay and untied the sword from behind the saddle. A spear would have been better, but as Halbarad had said, this weapon would serve at need. The young ranger had counted only four of the enemy. If he were lucky, they would scatter and flee before a galloping horseman. Certainly that was how most men would respond to such an attack; only a highly-trained soldier would stand and fight a mounted opponent.
The bay whinnied in protest as Brandir urged him toward the dark shapes, yet the great-hearted beast did not refuse as the ranger gave the signal to trot. Now Brandir saw that there were six of the creatures, not four. He swerved the horse to the left just as he reached the enemy, striking off a head as he passed. Then he wheeled the horse about to make another pass. Three of the barrow-wights fled, and as he rode by, he slew another. That left only one, but as he closed with the creature, it seized the bay’s bridle and swung a sword at his leg, slicing into his boot. Brandir realized with horror that he had just had the misfortune to meet with a long-dead armsmaster.