Aglahad and the Dead City (In Tharbad: Volume Three)

9

Aglahad, Finduilas and the twins set off from Minas Belthil in good spirits but any hopes of making good headway were dashed by the terrain. The moorland to the north of the tower, purple with heather, undulated like the summer sea. But they had to ride slowly so as to avoid the pits and pools that dotted the land.

Finduilas led them ever northward, calling back to them now and then to watch their footing here and to veer left there. She assured them that the going would be swifter soon.

After day filled with this steady slog, the sun began to warm Aglahad's left cheek. The scrub to the west started to yellow as the sky became rosy. Bronweg wove between two large sink holes, deep and black. Beyond, the land seemed to be firmer, dense with vegetation. Up ahead, he saw a dark patch on the horizon.

"Is that it?" he called out.

"Yes," Finduilas said. "The road from Mithlond is a mile or so ahead. If we ride hard, we shall be drinking ale by sunset." As she said this, her horse flinched to the right. "Whoa," she murmured. "Easy, girl."

"What is it?" said Lofar.

"An adder, here on the left."

But it was too late. Lóni's pony danced a jig for a moment and the Dwarf's elbows rose up as he tried to control her. The pony's right hip dropped a foot or so and Lóni lurched with her. He geed her but she was already falling. Lóni cried out as Lofar grabbed him by the collar. The pony plunged into the pit and her scream was cut short by a sickening thud.

Lóni was on all fours at the edge of the pit. "Damn it!" There was gravel in his voice.

Lofar started to dismount. "She was a good steed, brother."

Lóni roared at the ground and tears glinted in his eyes.

His brother held out his hand. "Come. Lift yourself up." Lóni looked up and reached out. A moment later they were both on Lofar's pony. "There'll be no galloping today," he said.

Finduilas nodded. "We'll still be there by sunset."

* * *

The ruins glowed with torchlight. If there were those who remembered the name of this ancient town, they were few and far between. The Rangers named it Galedhraim for the remains of its moss-covered walls, one of which they rode alongside now. The surviving stone rose up towards a high corner abutment. The riders pulled on their reins as a green space opened up to their right. In the middle of what used to be the town square, a huge bonfire burned.

Surrounding it was a host of orcs.

Like a flock of sheep in whose field they might have just trespassed, their heads turned towards them. Aglahad resisted the urge to turn Bronweg and ride as fast as he could away from that place. A moment later, a bristle of arrows was levelled at them.

It was the first time Aglahad had encountered an orc and now he had the misfortune to come across a score, perhaps two dozen of the foul creatures. But against his better judgement, he wasn't as perturbed as he thought he should've been. For the most part, they were squat, sorry looking things, wearing whatever armour they had most recently stolen or looted. Their short bows seemed to be fashioned from some dark wood and their helms were either leather caps or rusty iron.

Presently, an orc in the midst of the crowd, larger than the rest, stepped forward. He stood dark against the bonfire with his sword drawn, his twisted face unreadable.

"Dismount," he said.

Aglahad searched the others for guidance. The Dwarves stared at Finduilas as though silently debating whether to obey the order. But she decided for them all. She raised her arms for a moment then climbed down. It seemed that she had been in this situation before. That she had survived the ordeal filled Aglahad with hope.