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Chapter Two
A Tale in the Dark
After the last of the hot scones were handed out, fresh from the ovens of Fatty, cups of sipping chocolate for the little’uns, boch of course for the olds, then the pipes were lit and hushes to be quiet administered, for the Telling of the Show was to begin. Malrond settled himself in a great tufted leather chair near the hearth, center stage within the main room, and for a long moment there was quiet. Then, with little to no fanfare he began at once.
“I come none too late from the war in the south, my little friends…” began the old wizard. “To tell you the war that was coming, that we have felt in sky and stone, seen in omens and even bones… is over now. You may rest easy knowing this.”
A hush deeper than the one that began the affair fell over the main room of the Last Friendly Inn as Malrond spoke this and all that could be heard in that solemn and stunning moment was the murmur-crackle and an occasional snap of the fire turning to grey ash within the grand hearth of the main room.
The room was darker now. Only the struggling candles burned from behind Fatty McFarlane’s perch at the end of the lovingly and oft-polished red oak bar and in the occasional sconce along the alcoves across the swollen room. Some later would remark that the dark seemed unnatural and was perhaps part of the showing. At the time this passed unnoticed, and the Littles collectively leaned forward at the beginning of the telling, willing themselves to miss nothing, knowing a great magic of the showing would soon begin as the wizard wove his quiet storytelling spell over the room, and them all in turn.
The Littles, and others who were there that early spring night, in the back among the shadows, alone or keeping to their small traveling stranger clusters, all in the old pile of an inn were aware that war and death had been raging across the lands to the south around the great tower of Sirith Osildor itself and along the Black River that was the natural boundary for that southern region the Elves of Indolién referred to as The Undómë.
The Twilight.
Many travelers referred to those lost southern regions where the map seemed incomplete and even uncharted at times as… Ungondor.
Lands of Cloud and Shadow.
The quiet crowd in the normally merry old inn hovered over the old elven wizard’s next words for surely there was more to this than what had been said already. Malrond took a deep draw from his long-stemmed clay pipe, held the smoke, his eyes watching them all, and then with a delicate movement of his old mouth sent the first smoke ring out and into the dark rafters above them all.
“The crisis in the south… has been averted for now,” stated Malrond the Wise with a theatrical gravitas that bespoke a certain finality one must accept if the story were to go on.
The Littles being great lovers of any travelling show that happened along the back roads agreed to the terms of the deal and accepted what the wizard had said with an acquiescent silence. Indicating old Malrond should go on with the rest of it, and already quick if you please.
“The fell host of the Shadow Hordes has been turned back at the ancient Gates of Sirith Osildor itself. Just a few nights ago you may have seen lights of the terrible magics worked with much wroth in the crucial moments of that dire battle… just the other night in fact, a long night if you’ll remember so, that is if there ever was one such as that one. A night in which those of us standing the watch against the coming shadow on the walls of the great tower guessed perhaps all was lost, and we had seen our last day. And even the last of all days to be seen by such as those who walk the Gentle Lands.”
Yes, many of the Littles would later remark. The night had seeming restlessly long. There had been tossing and turning. Little’uns had nightmares and strange dreams that required attending and cold drinks of water to console. Some Littles even remarked that there had been the not unheard of, but not necessarily common, last meal of the several Littles generally consume per day.
Second Creepies. A light comforting snack of catch as catch can from the larders to see out the last hours until dawn and Bacon.
The wizard took a puff of his pipe, seemed to hold it for a moment as though wordlessly reciting a secret prayer, or a chant for good luck, good health, fair weather and a fast horse, and then finally let go with an almost melancholic exhale, sighing out the great weights that surely must rest on his narrow shoulders, the Littles assured themselves.
Angelic blue smoke floated out from the wizard, its tendrils reaching among them, falling to the floor. Rising into rafters, seeking the shadows.
The Littles breathed a sigh of relief and some even hoisted their mugs and took deeper draughts than unusual.
This was, indeed, good news. The hordes of the Shadow defeated.
“I was there…” announced the wizard to them all.
No one had asked that. But in hindsight of the statement, it seemed the most natural of questions to be asked by ones not just seeking information but dying for its full reveal, and the tidbits and morsels must surely fall like so many crumbs of the Inn’s famed Lavender Crumble Scones travelers from far and wide made detours just for. One of the younger little’uns, even more hot blooded and rash-tempered than quick with his fists Shane McFie, suddenly spoke from the dark floor where those of that age and stripe were gathered betwixt the main body and the old mage telling the show of what had happened there to the far and misty south.
And even as this young one spoke up, rudely interrupting the proceeding with something about the elves and their swords, Malrond’s continued smoke wafted through the room and over them all. Everywhere there were thin smoking tendrils like clever little garden snakes there in the stuffy atmosphere above the curly-haired Little heads who stared in rapture toward the wizard at the hearth, half lit by the simmering fire. Half in shadow by the darkness of the room.
His face looked old now, they would all agree. Older than the last time they’d seen him come this way.
And how long ago was that, some wondered.
Time’s a funny thing, answered others.
Careworn and weather-beaten by many years on the road was the cause agreed on by all in the conversations and dissections that followed the days of the Showing of the Tell. As though some greater work than had been guessed at, was behind the old elf now. Though Malrond was clearly Andaari, noted by the long pointed ears, he seemed the opposite of that fair and noble race with their smooth features and almost almond eyes. Where he aged, they, other elves, did not. Where the bright sun did not touch them, it had carved deep lines in Malrond’s long face, and brought bags to be under his baleful dark watching eyes. Time had bent the long nose that stared down upon them. Some old scar left barely visible ran down beneath one large eye. His eyes, they were dark. Dark like burning coals where the average Andaarian Elf tended toward blue and blue green eyes, and in this too he was different than those of his kind. And of course, his eyes were not like the royal green, burning like living fire in a fantastic jewel beyond price, reserved for those of the House of Eäron. Those Ancient Wayfaring Lords and founders of fair Indolién by the Sea. To have seen such eyes of the royal line, for a Little, even for a moment once in a lifetime, would have been considered a blessing to be noted and measured. A life event much talked about over field and farm and festival across the long years of the Littles which at best reached one hundred and thirty-seven. And even so special as to be noted when death came as it had been for Old Ori Farbanks, the former Mayor of Sheepshead who passed just five years back.
Even the elves, merchants who seemed something more, had come out for that burying, staying just the day, and gone with the night and mist from off the coast.
But those royal greens of the line of Eäron were not the eyes of Malrond the Wise. His were dark and glittering with tales, mischief, and yes jokes or at least funny stories for the most part. Sometimes they were sad and staring, seeing things only imagined when no one was watching him. Which was a mistake when in the company of Littles. Littles may be many things, silly, practical, laughing much, stuck in their ways constantly, angry about nothing just for the sake of it, faithful unto death, quiet like thieves when they meant to be, and occasionally mad, Littles were always watching. It was their nature to do so.
The Littles knew the old elf as Malrond the Wise. But they also knew he was known by many names in other quarters even beyond the lands of Elves. Greystaff by the rock dwarves for the gnarled old ironwood he carried wherever he went about on his travels. Whisperer Tallhat by the strange and silent Children of Men far to the north. Gothminion some said in the ancient Elvish, older than Indarri, that was all but forgotten these days by most. But that was an unconfirmed [NC1] rumor that had only been heard and handed about and it seemed a strange one, a strange name for one such as he. And there were many other names suspected, and even hinted at.
But as far as the Littles were concerned, Malrond was friendly when you thought about him and there was always a certain much needed excitement when he came about with his tales and spells and good talk.
He remembered your business though you might not talk with him for a year, or even five in a stretch of seasons. He knew what you were about and what mattered to you and could speak and question at length regarding your affairs. And of course, he always came around at Harvest, and when there was great news afoot in the lands. The things said during his visits would keep the villages and hamlets of the Littles going for weeks at least.
Malrond continued as the fire murmured and the smoke drifted heavy from his pipe though he had not puffed it and instead, wove it about with his long and crooked fingers, sparkling with many strange runic rings, and one… one that was uncommonly beautiful.
“The hordes came out of the Ash south of the river… beyond the Forgotten Districts where much lies in ruin now, but those great wrecks still can be seen from the heights of the Sirith Osildor itself…”
“Wot is the Ash?” some other impious young Little’un asked from the floor where the barefoot urchins had gathered with mugs of then[NC2] warm chocolate. The older Littles erupted with a hiss of shushes and explosions regarding the impetuousness of youth, the abundance of bad parenting, and common lack of manners these days when you took count and measure of the state of affairs and all.
A look crossed the old wizard’s face at this second interruption. Like some flashing brief summer storm coming across the waters when you liked it least. This was because Malrond did not like being interrupted when he was on about something. That was clear. But the look was queerly gone as soon as it had come and the wizard obliged the question from the floor, smiling briefly as he did so.
Some would say… it was not a warm smile. But that may have been due to the subject matter. The Southern Waystes where the map was shadowy, and things left botheringly unsaid.
“The Ash is a low and broken land, burnt by great and terrible magics from the days of Inthol the Bright. But that was long ago when great monsters [NC3] heaved about the land and caused much trouble. Now the silent place is little but wretched blight where the low shadow hordes hunker, avoiding the light when they can, preferring to move with the night and the moon to seek their mischiefs and murders. Goblin tribes coming out to raid and strike fear into the hearts of good people everywhere if they can violate the waters of the River and the Watch at the Tower. My order has long kept an eye on these lands, and it was a year ago this time we first heard the war drums rumbling from the deep ruin there even though we dared not tread that far south into the southern Waystes often. Rumors and tales that a new war leader, Khahuz Ulghûl of the Black Feather Orcs, had come to power over that land and was looking to make trouble farther north for his sleeping master. Binding the boiling tribes beyond the river itself into their ancient hordes, this new foe called for great war against our peoples and dear Indolién itself if such folly can be imagined.”
Now this was shocking, and the Littles gasped in horror at thought of what the wizard had just said. Orcs attacking Indolién.
That would be the very definition of dark times indeed.
For a long moment old Malrond mused over some matter just to himself, stoking his pipe with short breaths, smoothing his long grey beard with a long and gnarled old hand.
Then he began once again, oblivious that the Littles had exercised so much patience during this interminable pause and not just interrupted into a chaotic chorus of questions hurled like summer ‘maters when there’s too many to be had for anyone with sense.
“Long did the council work to forestall Khahuz Ulghûl’s efforts but it was soon clear enough what the black fiends’ [NC4] intentions were. The tribes were coming north across the Black River come Unqualë or high water. It was clear their desire was to smash into the Sirith Osildor itself. If they were successful, then Indolién’s southern port of trade toward the Lost Lands would be gone and he[NC5] who is not to be spoken of would grow even greater still in power as he slumbers. To lose the Tower would have been a mighty blow against the Emerald Throne itself, and, the doom of us all.”
Unqualë or High Water is a common expression among the Littles. Unqualë is an ancient elven word for an agonizing death. Malrond’s usage was in keeping with the Littles’ usage of it as a flooded farm was just about as bad as an agonizing death to a Little. They could not abide waste unless it was August ‘maters. By that time, they were giving them away, making midnight raids to deposit bushels of them on other neighbors’ steads, or ambushing small bands of rogue boys to ward them off the melons the rascals would cut the hearts out of to eat in the heat of the day, or the cool of the misty late nights when they went roving before it was time to marry and settle.
Seeking adventures to be had. Knowing the time for such things was short.
The Littles drew in a deep breath and all at once began to babble in fear as the wizard paused and surveyed the impact of his words on their terror-struck faces at the fact the Gentle Lands were in jeopardy.
“Was this known?”
“How did this happen?”
“We were almost done fer!”
And it was at this fearful moment, the Showing of the Tell… truly began.
Suddenly and much to their amazement, above their curly heads there in the smoke hanging amid the rafters with the hams and other lanterns, drifting charcoal images of some vast horde of foul orcs and lesser scheming goblins could be seen marching through the mists the smoke of Malrond’s pipe had created. Just barely as some light show of travelling players working in puppetry might, but this in an otherworldly ash, charcoal, and blackest dust, began to show the Littles and those in the inn that night, the ferocious anger as Orc and Gob carried torch and shield forward, silently chanting their marching songs and war cries. Axes and swords forward in battle, ready for mayhem and slaughter.
There were other beasts of the nether, dark among their host as shown in the image of darkness and smoke up there, the candlelight making it all seem more real, more alive. Terrible troll lords with demonic eyes and savage strength, dark beings of such wrath and terror marching above that Littles, some and not a few, hid their faces. The troll’s fiery glaring eyes alight with mischief and deviltry.[NC6] Ancient wraiths too, curst armored knights of the Old Age come back to slay once more, leading divisions of drum-beating, horn-blowing, snarling orcs as large as any savage north man and more. Powerfully built and wielding great cruel tree-cutting axes, or wide-bladed swords whose very metal seemed dirty and corrupted in evil. Broad and curved like the Corsairs of Ambar who sail far south beyond the Lost Lands into areas of myth and spice and tales beyond belief, or so some say.
The overwhelmed Littles gawped in amazement at the sudden imagery forming and marching over their heads in the Inn’s upper reaches of the main room. Muttering darkly, or even angrily at times, among themselves, for Littles hated orcs with a passion as they were the enemy of all growing, thriving things. Some averted their eyes, turning toward their simple prayers, mumbling words as if to sustain themselves in a swoon brought on by the relentless host above. In the smoke of the shadow show, the ghostly nether blue pipe rings of Malrond turned to a sea of black arrows filling the skies of the battle the shadow host was marching out to. Rising like some unclean squall of crows come from out of the east to pick the late summer fields clean of corn and ‘maters, as the Littles called tomatoes.
An unlucky thing and curse if there ever was one.
Then, as the Littles gasped in horror, the shadow arrows were falling now. Falling like flaming stars suddenly alight from the heavens above.
But these arrows were not alight with flame, but surely with witch-magic. The flames were necrotic purple in ghost-light, seething and smoking as they fell through the rings of Malrond’s smoke show and almost seemed to come down on the Littles themselves right there on the floor of the inn.
Children, the little’uns, cried out or screamed with such sudden terror that the tiny, round Little Mothers threw themselves and their shawls over the children as if that could protect them from the storm of deadly flights falling and exploding among them. The Little farmers stood quickly as though hoping to stand between their young and the strike and the covering mothers. Other younger Littles like Shane McFie and those in his band, roared in anger, hoisting their mugs like small swords or clubs, and made ready to answer any violence in kind.
In an instant the shadow arrows rained down on the mighty broken tower of Sirith Osildor itself, rising in image among the coals and torched logs of the hearth near the murmuring wizard. The Littles saw some of the smoke arrows, things of figment surely, smash into the floor of the inn after they’d fallen from the rafters, exploding on Fatty McFarlane’s polished boards like wraiths of smoke and nightmare that never were. But by then the Littles were staring into the images within the hearth conjured by the wizard and his pipe for they were far more fascinating and as though viewing the living thing itself with one’s own eyes.
It was… mesmerizing.
Few to none had ever seen the Tower. Sirith Osildor itself. An ancient place buried deep in the lore of the Andaar and some say… even far older into the Old Ages of long ago when things were different. Gleaming elven defenders were struck and fell from the high stone ramparts and crumbling parapets into the thronging masses of shadow invaders even now approaching the lower battlements with unquenchable flame and relentless spear. Around the main room of the inn, the thousand fires of the shadowy host seemed alive and more real than the candles that burned from their recesses. Shadow of imposing troll and goblin sneak marched like ghosts through the room toward the tower itself and if one could hear past the gasps and screams of the Littles, one might it seemed, hear terrible drums and ululating horns of war.
The hellish hearth of the inn, a place of gathering and tales listened to and told of, cast its steady orange glow along one side of the old wizard’s face, making him seem something stronger, stranger, older.
Murmuring as though in a dream, the wizard continued his telling.[NC7]
Within the hearth the flames leapt, the grey logs almost ash turning suddenly black, and a battle in minute detail broke out along the fabled Ivory Causeway within the consuming logs. The old, fabled road that once made itself over the Black River and into the districts of Sirith Osildor. The shadow of the host spread like a rot across summer’s best fruits as they raced for the tower through the flames and the images revealed along the burning wood. Soon they were at the very gates of the old fortress that guarded the good lands and the Littles crowded, not close, but tippy toed, and pressed to see what the wizard was showing them with the hearth.
The hoary face of a wraith, garbed in ancient almost translucent armor, appeared in a sudden burst of flames within the fire, and roared wordlessly in a sudden snap of a log and spray of flames, the thing’s breath a hiss as the dead thing waved a runed sword, dented and old, forward, leading more of the shadow host into battle against the Tower. The orcs, tiny scrambling ashen figures threw themselves onto the tower walls, working their ashen bows and shooting down the defenders above with fiery arrows as they crawled like a pestilence among mighty battlements of Sirith Osildor.
The crowd of Littles and others within the inn recoiled in horror at this spectacle of what seemed certain to be the sack of the mighty southern tower that defended the gateway to the Gentle Lands. Revealed within the images of the hearth and its flames were horrors and terrors never contemplated. Some began to whimper and cry, and parents who had brought their children, expecting some great wonder or reward from the travelling wizard, felt suddenly terrible at having arrived with their little’uns to such a tragedy witnessed in flame, fire, smoke, and shadow.
The wizard, silent, and musing his beard and pipe[NC8] , watched them all as they remained helpless to tear their eyes away from what he was showing them in the telling.
Then… he spoke. His voice old and creaking, and yet, something more. Words, some would say later, the words of Malrond were like the only things that existed in that moment.
But that was what some said, and others said nothing on the subject.
“All was lost in those first moments of the battle,” began Malrond once again and paused with such a sense of weight he seemed to have nothing more to add. That the loss of the defenders, the tower, and the certain arrival of the Shadow in the Gentle Lands was imminent. As though each Little should fly home at this very moment to their stead and take to the hills and mountains in the east with haste and everything on their back if only to save their lives right now.
“But then came Adoras himself, Champion of the Emerald Throne, riding the field of battle to the aid of the defenders of Sirith Osildor. Bringing with him a host of the Elven Horse just in time out of the North Lands where they had been rumored to be but mere months ago. And you may think this is where everything will be alright and the day, or rather night, saved. But my Little friends, this was where the battle truly became its most terrible, and defeat was as close as it would come to snuffing out the light of us all had the tides not turned.”
Silence fell over the whole inn.
“At dawn, just when all seemed lost, like a bright shining scythe sweeping the late harvest of wheat, Adoras and the Horse came out of the east, crossing into the outskirts of southern Osildor and sweeping into the armies of the Shadow with the sun at their backs. Making their attack between the gate and the bridge. Now… the battle was begun in full and both forces descended into the madness of battle as it was joined.”
Above their heads, the Littles and those in the inn gaped in amazement as the images of the Elven Horses, riders in armor shining like bright death itself, appeared with the weak grey dawn light and swept into the wide districts of that southern city beyond the tower. Districts buried under the forces of the shadow. Instantly great fights were begun within the streets. Orc and goblin carrying fire and spear were driven off the face of the mighty tower and slain as they fled back for the dark waters of the river and shadows of the south.
“Adoras’ wrath was indeed terrible,” Malrond stated solemnly. “The Champion of the Emerald Throne, true and faithful as he is known to be, wrought much wrath and destruction as his final charge carried straight into the shadow army’s line holding near the bridge. Even the trolls and wraiths who make their homes among the Broken Rock along the Forgotten Coast were carried away like so much flotsam in the spring flood that was Adoras’ triumph on the field that day I have just come from.”
Malrond made some gesture, suddenly with a deft movement tossing his drink into the fire, and the flames within the hearth exploded, sending showers of sparks and smoke rising into the inn. Within this choking miasma, a mighty demon of a troll rose up among the press of goblins in their leathers with bloody red silks and black masks of that command to stand against the charge. With their misshapen and ugly heads, twisted green creatures fled as the beautiful stallions and shining riders of the Horse came at them and the terrible rampaging troll. This foe, a tall and lean thing with long gangly arms ending in great dirty claws, turned to fight back the charge with the aid of an antique axe from the elder ages carried over one lumpen shoulder. The terrible scythe dripped with inky blood, notched and smoking along the charcoal blade. The ghost image of the troll’s eyes were desperate but still malevolent enough, as a winged helmed elven warrior atop a white steed, the perfection of the fabled Elven Horse of Indolién, swooped in with bright and shining spear, a sword on the belt, to do single combat in the street with the abomination of the troll.
This was a great spectacle to those gathered in the Inn for it surely seemed the valiant warrior was outmatched from the first by the towering height of the foe and the ferocity of its terrible rage. The bloody troll moved fast and swept the scythe of his vicious axe into the breast of the incoming mount of the rider, but the mount reared and the wounded horse, a beautiful and noble creature within the image of smoke in the Inn, cried out in sudden indignation and terror as it tried to back away, throwing its great hooves forward to attack the looming horror. In the same instant, the elven warrior fired his spear forward in a savage strike as though it was the merest shaft from off the meanest bow fired at ease. Except the power and speed with which it flew from the rider’s powerful arm told that the blow was something far more potent than at first expected. Something from the tales of the Great Bow of Aeostir the Hunter himself.
An unbelievable second later the spear landed amid the troll’s gaunt chest, planting itself with all the stern refusal of something that could never be shaken or moved again. No mortal thing would have survived its piercing. But the spear’s appearance within its body only seemed to outrage the beast even more. The troll dragged its axe over its devil’s head, intending to smite the dying horse and warrior as once again both horse and rider went down in the street near the tower. But the elf was as all elves are, quick and agile, spritely in battle. Literally walking off his dying and noble mount, surging suddenly forward into the close quarters fray with the evil troll, the warrior drew his blade for a swift stroke.
The shining warrior delivered the victorious slash against the guts of the troll with his quickly drawn blade. Green blood and pestilent ichor splashed out onto the wet stones of the ravaged street and the elf was at once wielding the blade against his foe again and again in angry fury. Striking wounds that would never heal for such is the fabled metal of the elven smiths of Indolién as everyone knows.
They do not heal.
In the smoke and fading ash within the hearth images, the Littles stared in amazement and horror at the battle revealed just for them as more of Malrond’s smoke rings plied the airs among them yet again.
“But the enemy was not finished yet,” crooned the wizard from the asides. “Within the hour of Adoras’ great victory, the enemy played their last tricky hand, and a new foe was come to put paid to the matter…”
The ground around the warrior began to shake all at once as more of Malrond’s blue smoke seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once across the Inn. For some, and they would discuss this later over all the meals the next day between Bacon and Creepies, it was hard to say whether you were in the Inn, or at the battle itself.
“Troll and elf strove on in deadly battle even as the goblin horde streamed past in full pell mell retreat, certain the battle for the Tower was truly lost to them now, their captains dead. The view within the smoke about them all changed to a circling raven’s eye view of the fields beneath the heights of the ancient tower itself. From those heights, those within the inn could see the individual melees taking place on the narrow and twisting streets below in and among the bright and glittering merchants’ houses who made their homes there along the southern edges. It was amazing to witness and again, something much discussed over cold draghts in the afternoon and nuts and cheese before supper. One could see the masses of both sides, Shadow and Elven Horse, colliding into one another at no less than three points beyond the tower.
“Within the tower, under the command of that fabled general who all the Gentle Lands trusted to never give up the southern watch, bowmen began to return fire and shoot down into the streets at the goblins and raging trolls to be found and targeted there for effective fire.
Surely all was not lost as day became real and of course the news must be most wonderful, thought every watching Little as they paid witness to the images of smoke and magic the wizard had manifested for their knowing right there in the Inn.
Then a great shadow cast itself across the battle and over every warrior on all sides. Even the Inn itself. Some looked around as though to see some great thing passing overhead through the rafters and curing meats there. The shadow come from the south was like some insect plague swarming a crust of cast bread. Warriors of both sides gazed skyward suddenly into the morning grey light to see the coming of the great dragon to the battle at Sirith Osildor.
“Out of the ancient mists of time the enemy had found our oldest of foes…” spoke the wizard softly, almost reverently. “An ancient drake from the brood of Gathmar herself. In an instant the dragon fell among the warriors under Adoras and did much damage with tooth and claw, choking smoke and black fire, as dragons are wont to do.”
Within the smoke of the images swallowing everyone within the Inn, the dragon settled into the thick of the battle before the old Port Gate on the west of the Citadel itself. Bright armored warriors of the Elven Horse and their mounts were scattered as the dragon swept its terrible claws across them all, sending shattered armor and broken weapons in shadowy smoke across the destruction of the orcs, even themselves fleeing from the terror of the beast. All was chaos and terror among those who’d fought for that street and not given an inch in the hours of deepest night and coming dawn that marked the battle.
“It was into this destruction and impending peril and loss that Adoras rode Telemnar against the dragon.”
If this was true, if the images the wizard conjured within the smoke were to be believed, then this was the stuff of tales and song and the Littles were seeing it here, above and among them. The mightiest of the elven scions of the Emerald Throne rode into the battle where it was thickest, as orcs, goblins, and even the troll rallied to protect the dragon’s flanks even though they were clearly in stark terror of the terrible and mighty thing at their sides. It was here, cutting and slaying, Adoras drove impossibly forward and struck a mighty blow against the dragon with his fabled sword Norsus.
“Long was this contest fought,” intoned Malrond solemnly as though in some trance. The smoke dragon reared high into the sky of the rafters and hams in the Inn’s darker recesses, towering over the mighty houses that had been broken and sundered in that noble district of Sirith Osildor, breathing green fire across the foes confronting it.
“The shields of Adoras’ vanguard held and once more the elven Horse charged into the dragon, wounding the wyrm sorely as the fight grew desperate. But…” spoke Malrond softly. “…Twas not without cost.
“All those who stood against the dragon save Adoras himself were felled by the piercing of the dragon’s fangs, the rending of its claws, and great buffets from off its mighty wings.
“Elves of greatness and renown fell in vain against its strength. The onslaught of the raging termagant was so awful even orcs and goblins were too afeared to draw near the wrath of its ancient evil, and instead withdrew into the wreckage and ruin to await the outcome of the contest between the champion and the dragon beneath the great tower.
“But Adoras would not relent though sorely wounded himself,” continued Malron. “And so at the last he raised his mighty sword and struck the dragon in its black heart, bringing the great beast down in sudden thunder and blood all at once.”
Within the Inn the image seen was incredible. All were filled with fear and wonder in the same instant. Light exploded, shadows reigned, and all that was seen was the silhouetted image of dragon and elf prince against the color of flame and ruin in the background. The mighty elf seemed slain to them and then, as if in final spite, he lashed out with the bite of the blade Norsus and found home, striking down and into the great and ancient wyrm.
Little ‘un, lone traveling man, sand elf, and those others of the Littles who found themselves in the Inn that night, rejoiced and gasped in horror at the mighty spectacle of the sight of the slaying of the dragon.
Indeed, it was a mighty thing to behold. A thing that made the tales of the Lost Ages seem trifles of the here, and the now. That what had just been witnessed was even something mightier and greater than any ever told round hearth or fire, or along the waysides where one passed nights with such wild fables and smoke.
The inn erupted as the dragon heaved its last and died, collapsing into the river.
And over this roar the voice of Malrond thundered for them all to hear once gain.
“The Shadow Host was broken and driven back beyond the river!” cried the old wizard to them all. “Adoras triumphed over foe and fiend and in the name of the Emerald Throne for the cause is just, and it is right. The Gentle Lands, and all other homes that lie under the Sway of Indolién… are safe once more.”
He paused as the smoke of the showing of the tell faded like dreams barely remembered… and for a moment the entire Inn was in darkness and not even the faintest glow of the hearth could be seen in its black emptiness.
There were just the fading whispers of the wizard.
Then Malrond added, “For now.”
Suddenly the Littles were swarming the broad oaken bar of Fatty and demanding frothy pints of the finest, celebrating the victory of Adoras himself and at the same moment recounting what they had just seen as though they and they only had been there amid the smoke and flame of the battle and its recounting needed immediately.
Those not engaged in such unmannerly drinking were swarming the legs of the wizard asking for more and other details, and to show them all once again the things of wonder they had seen within Malrond’s smoke and showing.
Malrond, who was known to be kind, and to have a special place within his heart for the Littles of the Gentle Lands, stayed for a while more, telling them more of how Adoras had put sword to the fell host and pursued them back to their caves and barrows beyond the river, and even to the very ruins of the Fallen Kingdom of Amnanor of the Old Age. A place of strange spirits many who went there never returned from. Malrond reminded the clustering Little farmers who seemed less inclined to wait for the next succulent detail that fell from the lips of the wizard, that all was safe now and some of the darker details were best left unsaid if one valued sleep. And there were sleepy-eyed little’uns about that needed carrying back to their beds.
“Ave yer been there, Malrond?” asked one.
“Tis true that time’s gone daft beyond the Black Gate?” asked another.
“Didja see any of the warewoofs of Lord Suth?”
Littles are always going on and on about werewolves from the south and are as likely to blame the myth of such creatures for any of their ills more than anything else they can quite name.
“I did accompany Adoras and the Bright Fist, his personal guard, into the south and there we fought at the very foundations of the Doom Gate, the Manarandon itself, forcing them to draw it closed once more and defend the unnamed one within. Then we turned back for needs must. Adoras is now to appear before the throne but bid me come and bring you this great news.”
“Will’ee stay Malrond?”
“Say more and we shall carry on and sing songs to dawn in celebration of the evil that almost befell our little farms and has been smashed now!”
But Malrond would not stay among them long. There were other communities and holdings within the Gentle Lands that knew him by other names and to these he told the Littles he must depart at once to and show the telling of once again.
Soon it was time for Malrond to be off, so with much sorrow, and not a few tears from the gathering Littles, Malrond made the old door of the aged inn and was gone just like that, off into the misty night as strangely as he’d appeared among them that morning.
Outside the inn all was quiet dark, and misty night. A few stood with pipes, waving farewell to the tall striding figure in the night, watching as the mist took him, and soon he was unseen once more.
The Tolkien Project Chapter Two