Thargelion. FA 455.
Lost.
He had run with
Finnbarr from the council chamber at
Caranthir’s command, leading the way to the exit that would take them closest to their destination, the highest observation platform from which the mustered pikes would launch their attack. But as they crossed the threshold of the ballroom on their way, a mass of orcs exploded into it in a cacophony of shattered glass and gibbering howls.
Herugon slew one even as he drew the heavy short sword from his hip, and took in the sight of three dozen elves, led by
Verco who lingered within the ballroom.
Finnbarr shouted for him to get help, and sped off into the ballroom.
Herugon split another orc from groin to gizzard and surged forward along the same path he had been pursuing. Free of the ballroom’s entanglements, he lunged at the wall and depressed the stone which opened before him one of the manse’s many hidden stairs, and threw himself inside.
Herugon sealed the door behind himself and destroyed the locking mechanism with two crushing blows of his sword hilt, before turning and pounding off up the stairs. What seemed only a moment later, they disgorged him beneath the eaves of the house’s highest end, rising up onto the slop of the mountain. He leapt into the hand tram that was stationed there and bent all his strength upon the rope, pulling himself across the gap between house and trees with blistering speed. Once in the trees, he gained the footpaths of Thargelion, the bridges that criss-crossed from here to there, a swift road for those that knew them, and
Herugon knew them all. As he ran towards his goal, he saw the last stragglers evacuating, those fighters who had remained behind to help them now turning their faces upwards the the mountain, and he saw too the many orcs below, swarming their way upwards. There was no help to send back to
Finnbarr.
Herugon increased his speed.
When he gained the observation platform,
Þando was already there, as expected. What was not expected was the heat with which the fighting was already underway, and
Herugon listened raptly to the strategist’s precise, clipped report, delivered as if the sounds of the approaching army were nothing more than gnats, and the persistent rumbles of the oncoming dragon’s footfalls mere uncanny tremors. Like
Caranthir,
Herugon trusted
Þando’s judgement without question, and his estimation of their chances was grave indeed. The burly nér looked at the strategist grimly.
“But there is a chance?”
Þando hesitated.
“Yes,” he said, with care, “There is a chance. And there is a greater chance still that if we do
not stay and fight, there will have been no point in evacuating those who cannot.”
Herugon stared. Of course, allowing the citizens of Thargelion, the city and the countryside, to escape was of paramount importance. Of course, his duty of care extended far beyond the martial. But this was the first time he had ever been in a battle where he had been baldly told that the point might not be to win, but to buy time.
“I see,” was all he said, before turning away to address the massed pike-elves, gathered on the far side of the platform. Each had drawn their weapons, and
Herugon set about organizing them, rapping out commands and deploying them to the lower platforms he felt would be most strategic, based on the dragon’s trajectory, and
Þando’s advice. They were to harry the monster’s underbelly, its eyes if they got the chance, any softer part of the beast that might be damaged or at least cause it to slow down. Their reach was less than arrows, but their points larger and more fierce, and if by their positions in the trees they could reach
Glaurung, they might do him harm. It was not the winning pre-battle talk of
let us route the enemy and send them home wailing or dead that he was rather wont to give, but
Herugon’s pikes understood the situation from his word, and departed to their posts with a grim determination. And perhaps, he thought, help might come. Perhaps
Maedhros would send his legions, and fall on the dragon’s horde from behind. Before taking up his own pike,
Herugon turned and strode back to the rail at the front of the platform, and looked out over the mountainside below.
Glaurung was coming. The great, golden fire-drake whom he had fought at Ard-galen two centuries before. The dragon had then been in his youth, and still the most terrifying thing
Herugon had ever seen. Massive and deadly even then, capable of destruction on a level as yet unseen by a single being, he had laid waste to the plain until
Fingolfin’s forces had arrived. The young dragon had suffered from both inexperience and an incompleteness in its armor. Now, as
Herugon watched the approaching monster, he could tell that
Glaurung had no such weaknesses. His scales shone thick and gold, his body bulked even more massively than it had then, and even at this distance, the Champion of Thargelion could see the matchless menace burning in his enemy’s eyes.
Caranthir arrived then, and they exchanged brief words about
Finnbarr, but these thoughts were cut off as
Glaurung inhaled, and then scorched a broad swath of the mountainside to flaming pillars of trees with his exhalation of fire. The heatwave buffeted
Herugon, and he watched his king’s face.
Caranthir was afraid, and so was he. There was no shame in fear of this thing. “I told you,”
Herugon said quietly, “I told you it was the worst thing I had ever seen. Of all the things we’ve seen, that thing is the worst. We turned it back once, but nothing can stop it.”
Caranthir’s reply was much like
Þando’s, that they could try, and that they could delay what might be the inevitable. Not for the first time,
Herugon was glad his friend was king and not he. He felt his bravado returning, and his barking laugh rang out as they embraced and parted.
Herugon ran after his soldier, pausing only to catch up a bundle of pikes to carry with him, and race off across the rope bridges that led away from the observation platform. He distributed spare pikes where needed, barking orders and encouragement in equal measure at each platform. Frequently he paused to join the action of the pike-elves at a given platform for a time, but and when his bundle had dwindled down to one,
Herugon took hold of his own pike and took up a position at a platform midway down the mountainside. They fought downwards against the orcs of
Glaurung’s army attempting to climb the trees, spearing and peeling and pushing them off into space.
Archers began to harass them, forcing the pikes to hug back against the trunk of the tree and duck out to take their chances against the hail of arrows. Elves began to fall along with the orcs, and fire arrows to speed upwards.
Herugon narrowly missed one by throwing himself flat, and it impaled itself in the pine boughs above him. Leaping to his feet he snatched it from the branches and threw it off the edge of the platform with a curse. As he looked up, he saw, across the path the
Glaurung had burned through the trees,
Caranthir at a platform full of pike-elves, slightly further down the slope than he was. They were all joined together in thrusting up at the flesh behind the joint of one of the dragon’s front legs.
Glaurung retaliated: he raised one foot and brought it down upon the platform in a rending of wood and bone and screams.
“Carnistir!!”
Herugon bellowed, the pit dropping out of his stomach even as he dodged another fire arrow.
Glaurung shifted, and to his utmost relief, he saw
Caranthir edging around the far side of the tree to escape the platform.
Herugon punched the air, but his celebration was short lived.
Glaurung came for them next, intent on destroying the irritating spikes that thrust up at him from below. “Run!”
Herugon barked, thrusting his arm towards the bridge that led back up the mountainside towards the next platform, even as the fiery sky was blocked out by the shadow of the dragon’s claws. His pikes ran, sprinting out onto the bridge, and
Herugon followed at their rear. They only just made it before the claws came down, ripping the platform from the tree; but not only did they tear the platform away, they caught and sheared through the ropes that had bound the bridge to it. Abruptly the footing dropped away from beneath the elves on the bridge, and their yells of shock and fear rang out.
Herugon threw out his arms as he fell, dropping his pike and managing to take hold of the rope railings with both hands, winding his arms about them. Some of the yells turned to despairing screams as two of his company plummeted by on their way to the ground. In what seemed that same instant, a great crunching
WHUMPF announced their arrival at the next tree over as the bridge slammed into it. Another wail, another body flew by, as the owner of the voice was dislodged.
Herugon looked up, and saw that three others had managed to grab hold and stay there. “Keep moving!” he shouted, “We’re no use to anyone here!”
Painfully they began to climb, hauling their bruised bodies up the ropes and slats of the wrecked bridge, onto the platform of this tree. No one was there to greet them, but the charred and twisted corpse of an elf, surrounded by the bodies of five orcs. They all paused. All of them had seen death before, but this felt like an omen. The body was ruined beyond recognition, and might have been anyone they knew- might have been any of them, had they been in in the wrong place at the wrong time. “I must speak with Þando,”
Herugon growled, “Let us make our way back up! Those who can fight, find places along the way! Those who cannot, come with me.” They set off again, a weaponless but determined group. All but one fell off as they traveled, falling in with other groups that had space and arms to spare. A single nér traveled with
Herugon all the way, cradling a badly broken arm. The bones had been pulverized when they crashed into the far tree, his arm extended at the wrong time, and several ends jutted up through the skin, blood scattering about him with every step. At the edge of the final bridge that would take them back to the observation platform he staggered, halting, leaning against the tree.
Herugon turned back to him. “Come on! We’re almost there!”
“I can’t,” the nér gasped, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated, as if his voice were stuck, “But I can’t, I can’t…”
Herugon looked at him, taking in his trembling legs, his shaking body, his wide-stretched eyes, his gasping breaths, and knew there was nothing else to be done.
“I’m sorry,” he echoed, “but this is going to hurt.”
Herugon seized the nér’s undamaged arm and wrenched it away from the broken one, ignoring his screams of pain. He bent down, threaded his free arm between the nér’s legs, and with a mighty heave hoisted him bodily onto his back. His burden secure,
Herugon charged out onto the bridge, narrowly avoiding several arrows as he ran, until at last his feet found the deck of the observation platform. It was a mass of rushing bodies running hither and thither, but a pair of healers managed to shoulder their way through to him.
Herugon shrugged his way from underneath the nér, setting his feet to the ground, and transferring his arms to the healers, who whisked him away.
“Þando!”
Herugon yelled, spotting the strategist, almost where he had left him, at the center of the platform. “What’s going on here?”
Þando’s face was tight and grim as he turned.
“I’m evacuating the platform and everyone else I can reach. It’s over, Herugon. There’s nothing more we can do.”
Herugon stared at him, flabbergasted, then his face flushed and he started forward angrily.
“What do you mean, nothing more we can do?”
“I said what I meant!”
Þando bellowed, stopping
Herugon in his tracks. The strategist, a pillar of efficiency and cool analytical reason, never raised his voice, not in the heat of battle or the most vociferous of council meetings. “There is
no more we can do. We must get everyone out of here, now, or we will all die. Thargelion is lost, and all her people will be too if we don’t leave
now!” All around them elves were streaming off the platform, until only
Herugon and
Þando remained at the front of it. “Put away your pride, Herugon, and-“ before
Þando could finish his sentence, three barbed arrows whizzed up from below and struck him, burying themselves deep in the strategists chest and belly. He jerked and crumpled, and
Herugon dashed forward to catch him as he fell. The Champion of Thargelion sank to his knees, gaping down at
Þando’s contorted face.
“I’m sorry,”
Þando gasped, and his eyes were rolling as his body convulsed in
Herugon’s arms, “My son- tell my son- tell him- tell him-“
“I’ll tell him,”
Herugon croaked, tightening his grip on
Þando, “I’ll tell him, Þando. I’ll tell him.” With a final lurch, the strategist’s body went still, slumping across
Herugon’s knees, his eyes staring sightlessly at the smoke-choked sky overhead.
Herugon could scarcely breathe. How would he tell his friend’s son?
Cándo, son of
Þando, who also was
Herugon’s friend, who had been captain of Ost-bellas and taught the burly nér all he knew of pike fighting. How would he tell him? Was
Cándo even alive, after the explosion from Thangorodrim? Would he himself live to fulfil his promise? Automatically,
Herugon raised his hand to close
Þando’s staring eyes. Someone was calling his name, it seemed from far away. Then there was a pull upon his arm, and one word broke through his daze:
retreat.
Þando’s body thudded to the ground as
Herugon surged to his feet, following the pull on his arm, and ripped himself free of
Caranthir’s grasp even as he turned to face his king. “No!” he roared, “No! We have to stay and fight! We have to stay! You don’t understand, we have to stay-“ he didn’t even register the pain of the blow as
Caranthir’s fist collided with his face. But it staggered him and cut off his voice, and then
Caranthir was there, gripping him by the shoulders and repeating
Þando’s words.
Thargelion is lost. Much as he hadn’t felt the pain of the blow, he was scarcely aware of the tears carving tracks through the filth on his face. The only sensation he felt was that in his chest, a pain more deep than any physical hurt, the howling void and wrenching agony that was the loss of Thargelion. The only place that had ever really felt like home, the only people he had ever really loved, the happiness he thought he had found, the freedom of this life beyond the Gelion. All lost.
“You are Champion of Thargelion. No matter what happens, you will always be Champion of Thargelion. Now go and do your duty to her, and get my people out of here. I will follow.”
Caranthir’s words broke through
Herugon’s stupor, and he looked up to meet the eyes of his friend, who never lied. He could see his same pain reflected there, but also determination and duty above all. Duty to those over whom he ruled, who lived under his protection, and who were now forced to flee for their lives. Duty to this ravaged land that would never be the same again.
I will follow. Was this the first lie
Herugon had ever heard
Caranthir tell? Why would he not come now? What could he do against
Glaurung alone? But
Herugon had never doubted
Caranthir before. He began to feel his breath again, and the world came back into focus, and the noise all around returned to his ears, as he raised his hand to grasp
Caranthir’s wrist.
“Yes, my King,” he rasped. Then he strode away without looking back. He stepped into the basket at the edge of the platform and allowed it to take him to the ground. Sword in hand he stepped out onto the mountain forest floor. The orcs had not yet breached this section, but it would not be long, and with every second the dragon himself drew nearer.
Herugon inflated his lungs and began delivering orders in his trademark bawl; but these were orders of
retreat, fall back, fly to the southern slope, get everyone out, orders such as he had never given before. Those who remained rallied to his cries and did as they were bidden, until none remained but he. Again,
Herugon did not look back, but followed in their wake. Halfway back to the manse, rather than diverting to the south, he took to the trees, following the path he had taken away from the house on his way to the battle. He scoured the paths and homes along it, but found no stragglers. Again he diverted, circling around to come to the northern slope that plummeted suddenly below the face of the manse above Helevorn, where a great bank of windows from the library overlooked the lake.
Herugon came to a halt there on the edge of the cliff, taking in what might be his last sight of that view, corrupted though it was. Then, a movement attracted his attention: someone had moved inside those windows- someone was still in the library! He squinted, a cloud shifted, and he was able to make out two distinctive figures behind the glass:
Finnbarr and
Verco. Elation was immediately followed by exasperation and consternation as
Herugon’s mind raced. He stood across a corner of space from the windows, unable to leap the distance, or have confidence of breaking the glass even if he could have. But about his torso were looped two coils of strong rope
Herugon had acquired in his search on the way here, and just there, on edge of the roof above the windows, was a jutting piece of stone carved in the figure of an auroch, some stonemason’s fancy hidden on this corner of the house. Cursing and blessing the mason in equal measure,
Herugon unlimbered one of the coils from about himself and freed its end, fashioning a loop in the rope. He whirled the loop in his hand until it fairly hummed, and then cast it with the confidence of both practice and desperation. The loop sailed through the air and, miracle of miracles, settled about the neck of the auroch on the first try.
Herugon pulled the free end of the rope to cinch it tight behind the bulging jowls and horns of the stone auroch, then took a firm hold of it in both his hands. They were red and raw from their earlier encounter with the bridge that had nearly killed him, but it didn’t seem to matter. Taking a deep breath.
Herugon backed up a few paces. Digging his feet into the ground, he sprinted forward, legs pistoning with all the strength they possessed, until he reached the edge of the cliff and hurled himself into space. For a moment the rope was slack, and then his weight taughtened it, sending him whipping through the air, directly for the bank of windows.
Herugon yelled as he swung, and at the last second scrunched his body up as tight as it would go, shoulders hunched, knees to chest, face tucked down. With an enormous
SMASH his body shattered the glass of the library windows behind
Finnbarr and
Verco, and he hit the ground in a bloody roll, unable to escape all the shards.
Herugon came to a halt with a crash against a bookcase and at once hauled himself to his knees, flinging his head up and shaking the bits of glass from his black hair, his face scattered with small cuts and ruddy with aggravation.
“Galedeep!” he bellowed, “I’m going to kill you when we get out of here!”
It was at that moment that
Herugon noticed the crowd of civilians gathered among the stacks.
“Oh, f-“
Roars from beyond the barricaded door drowned out his voice.
