Guarding the Heedless Folk--Part 11
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. Please note that the barrow-wight's chant is a direct quote from Tolkien.
As he leaned forward, trying to strike at the creature, the bay screamed in terror and reared, throwing him from the saddle. The ancient sword went flying from his hand as he fell and landed on the soft turf. The horse turned and fled, as he scrabbled in the grass for the hilt. The wight drew near with measured steps, a dark shape against the night sky. Brandir closed his hand around cold metal and stumbled to his feet. The creature’s eyes gleamed with the glow of decay, and it moved with the cold rustle of iron rings. As it struck at him, the ranger brought up his sword. The enemy’s blade was turned aside, but the force of the blow knocked the sword from Brandir’s grasp.
Though he was left unarmed, he had seen how brittle the ancient corpses were. Hoping to break the barrow-wight’s neck, he drove the heel of his palm under its chin. The jawbone shattered in a cloud of dust, but he did no other hurt. The ranger screamed in pain as the creature caught his arm and broke the bones with a sharp twist; then it seized him by the back of the tunic and started to drag him away. He swung out a leg and tripped the creature, throwing them both to the ground.
Shaking, he tried to crawl away, but the wight flung itself on his back, trapping him under its weight. Though its body was shriveled and light, it still wore mail and a heavy coat of plates. With his uninjured arm, he swung over his shoulder at its wizened face. With a laugh, the creature turned aside the attack and, driving a dagger through the flesh of his hand, pinned it to the ground. The young ranger gave a choked cry.
“Arnor is fallen so low that it sends its children against us,” the creature rasped in Sindarin. It seized a handful of his hair and dragged his head back. He felt a steel edge slide against his throat.
“Cold be hand and heart and bone,” it whispered beside his ear, breathing out the stench of the grave. “And cold be sleep under stone.”
The fog seemed to rise around them, blurring his sight. Heedless of the agony, he tried to pull his hand free, but he had too little strength left.
“Never more to wake on stony bed.“ The knife pressed against his throat, and he could feel the throbbing of the great vein against the steel’s edge, and he thought he would go mad from fear.
Then something hurtled out of the darkness with a shout, and the whistle of steel was followed by a sharp crack. The barrow-wight was flung forward, its body falling heavily across his shoulders. His face pressed into the turf, he struggled to breathe.
The weight was quickly lifted away, and as if from a far distance, he heard Halbarad cursing. He groaned weakly as the blade of the dagger was drawn from his hand.
“Stay with us now, lad. We will soon get you away from here,” Halbarad told him. From the darkness, Lord Aragorn said, “I can bear him on my back; you watch for any others.” When they took his arms and began to lift him from the ground, the fog rolled up and he knew no more.
He slowly became aware of quiet voices nearby.
“How did you find him?” the rumbling voice of the blacksmith asked.
Lord Aragorn replied, “We had left him to guard the horses, but when I looked back, they were running loose.”
“And the trail of bodies led us right to him,” Halbarad added.
The blacksmith gave a short laugh.
Brandir opened his eyes and saw Lord Aragorn kneeling beside him in the early morning light. They were on the long slope between the Greenway and the Barrow-downs, where Brandir had ordered the frightened men to stay behind and build a fire. Around them, rangers and Breefolk were cooking breakfast and feeding the horses.
The lord felt his brow and smiled at him gravely. “You have taken no lasting hurt, though no doubt that broken arm will ache each time it rains until the end of your days.” He drew aside the blankets, and Brandir saw that his injured hand had been swathed in linen and the broken arm had been neatly splinted.
Leaning over Lord Aragorn’s shoulder, the blacksmith grinned down at him. “I am glad to see you are still with us, ranger. When they brought you back, we feared the worst.”
“What happened to the others?” Brandir managed to whisper.
In Sindarin, the lord replied, “Three of the Breefolk are wounded, and one may be left a cripple. I have done what I can for Tom Heathrow, but I have little skill against the spells of Angmar, It may be too late to save his life. ” With a sad shake of his head, the lord rose and went to where the stricken Breelander lay. They had wrapped him in blankets warmed by the fire, but his skin was so pale that Brandir would have thought him dead save for the slow rise and fall of his breast. Lord Aragorn laid a hand on his brow and spoke quietly to him, but the Breelander did not stir. Sitting cross-legged beside him, sword resting on his knees, the lord watched the ailing man closely.
As the first rays of sunlight slid over the ridge and gilded the empty lands below, Tom opened his eyes and stared at Lord Aragorn.
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. Please note that the barrow-wight's chant is a direct quote from Tolkien.
As he leaned forward, trying to strike at the creature, the bay screamed in terror and reared, throwing him from the saddle. The ancient sword went flying from his hand as he fell and landed on the soft turf. The horse turned and fled, as he scrabbled in the grass for the hilt. The wight drew near with measured steps, a dark shape against the night sky. Brandir closed his hand around cold metal and stumbled to his feet. The creature’s eyes gleamed with the glow of decay, and it moved with the cold rustle of iron rings. As it struck at him, the ranger brought up his sword. The enemy’s blade was turned aside, but the force of the blow knocked the sword from Brandir’s grasp.
Though he was left unarmed, he had seen how brittle the ancient corpses were. Hoping to break the barrow-wight’s neck, he drove the heel of his palm under its chin. The jawbone shattered in a cloud of dust, but he did no other hurt. The ranger screamed in pain as the creature caught his arm and broke the bones with a sharp twist; then it seized him by the back of the tunic and started to drag him away. He swung out a leg and tripped the creature, throwing them both to the ground.
Shaking, he tried to crawl away, but the wight flung itself on his back, trapping him under its weight. Though its body was shriveled and light, it still wore mail and a heavy coat of plates. With his uninjured arm, he swung over his shoulder at its wizened face. With a laugh, the creature turned aside the attack and, driving a dagger through the flesh of his hand, pinned it to the ground. The young ranger gave a choked cry.
“Arnor is fallen so low that it sends its children against us,” the creature rasped in Sindarin. It seized a handful of his hair and dragged his head back. He felt a steel edge slide against his throat.
“Cold be hand and heart and bone,” it whispered beside his ear, breathing out the stench of the grave. “And cold be sleep under stone.”
The fog seemed to rise around them, blurring his sight. Heedless of the agony, he tried to pull his hand free, but he had too little strength left.
“Never more to wake on stony bed.“ The knife pressed against his throat, and he could feel the throbbing of the great vein against the steel’s edge, and he thought he would go mad from fear.
Then something hurtled out of the darkness with a shout, and the whistle of steel was followed by a sharp crack. The barrow-wight was flung forward, its body falling heavily across his shoulders. His face pressed into the turf, he struggled to breathe.
The weight was quickly lifted away, and as if from a far distance, he heard Halbarad cursing. He groaned weakly as the blade of the dagger was drawn from his hand.
“Stay with us now, lad. We will soon get you away from here,” Halbarad told him. From the darkness, Lord Aragorn said, “I can bear him on my back; you watch for any others.” When they took his arms and began to lift him from the ground, the fog rolled up and he knew no more.
He slowly became aware of quiet voices nearby.
“How did you find him?” the rumbling voice of the blacksmith asked.
Lord Aragorn replied, “We had left him to guard the horses, but when I looked back, they were running loose.”
“And the trail of bodies led us right to him,” Halbarad added.
The blacksmith gave a short laugh.
Brandir opened his eyes and saw Lord Aragorn kneeling beside him in the early morning light. They were on the long slope between the Greenway and the Barrow-downs, where Brandir had ordered the frightened men to stay behind and build a fire. Around them, rangers and Breefolk were cooking breakfast and feeding the horses.
The lord felt his brow and smiled at him gravely. “You have taken no lasting hurt, though no doubt that broken arm will ache each time it rains until the end of your days.” He drew aside the blankets, and Brandir saw that his injured hand had been swathed in linen and the broken arm had been neatly splinted.
Leaning over Lord Aragorn’s shoulder, the blacksmith grinned down at him. “I am glad to see you are still with us, ranger. When they brought you back, we feared the worst.”
“What happened to the others?” Brandir managed to whisper.
In Sindarin, the lord replied, “Three of the Breefolk are wounded, and one may be left a cripple. I have done what I can for Tom Heathrow, but I have little skill against the spells of Angmar, It may be too late to save his life. ” With a sad shake of his head, the lord rose and went to where the stricken Breelander lay. They had wrapped him in blankets warmed by the fire, but his skin was so pale that Brandir would have thought him dead save for the slow rise and fall of his breast. Lord Aragorn laid a hand on his brow and spoke quietly to him, but the Breelander did not stir. Sitting cross-legged beside him, sword resting on his knees, the lord watched the ailing man closely.
As the first rays of sunlight slid over the ridge and gilded the empty lands below, Tom opened his eyes and stared at Lord Aragorn.