The Lastborn: A Middle Earth Story(Book 1)(EDITING)

Chapter 7: Shadow Rises

Angmar. The land had been a great kingdom once. Led by the Witch King, it had singlehandedly destroyed the Dunedain kingdom of Arnor in the early Third Age, before it was destroyed by a Gondorian King, and its evil ruler was defeated. It had laid in ruin for a thousand years... Until now.
   A dark cloaked man rode through the wilderness that was once this kingdom, atop a jet black warg. He shielded his face from the blowing snow as he pressed onward. In silence he rode until he saw it. Jagged black walls stood stark against the snowy landscape, and an evil red glow came from a tall spire behind the walls.
The man spurred his warg onward and shortly reached the gate. The huge walls towered over the man, enveloping him in shadow. A deep voice called down from the wall.
"Who goes there?"
The man looked up, bright blue eyes piercing the darkness. "It is your King, Arnakhor. Open the gate." His voice held power and authority.
The gates groaned open slowly, as if in reverence of their new master. Arnakhor rode in slowly and the gates creaked shut behind him, closing out the raging blizzard outside. A large Orc ran up and took the warg's leash as Arnakhor slid off its back and strode toward the tower at the center of the fortress. When he reached its base, two dark armored men opened the doors and saluted, ushering him in.
He entered a large room. It had once been the main hall of the Witch King, and from here he had ordered every attack upon Arnor. In homage to this stood two lines of statues, each statue depicting an Arnorian king who had been defeated by the Witch King. They were all connected by a thick chain, and at the end of the chain sat a throne of iron, elevated above everything else. Iron spikes protruded from the top of it, and a black cushion was upon the seat. Two more men armed with long spears stood at either side of it, standing silent sentinel over the evil throne. They bowed as Arnakhor approached. He sat down in the throne, and both guards snapped back to attention in unison.
Just then a shadow at the far end of the room moved. It took the shape of a cloaked man and walked toward the throne, casting darkness upon the entire room. Arnakhor knew who it was. The Witch King. Even Arnakhor himself was afraid of this ancient ruler. The Witch King drew himself up to his full height, and a crown of iron formed itself onto his head.
"Arnakhor..." He drew out the name and hissed. "Our time has come... I go now to Mordor. Make haste, and wipe out the Dunedain. We must make sure there are none of Numenorean blood left to reclaim the throne of Gondor. Nor any heirs of Isildur." He emphasized this last point.
"I will bathe the north in the blood of Numenor." Arnakhor said the words quietly, but had anyone else been around to hear it, the way he had said it would have sent a chill down their spine.
The Witch King let out a piercing cry and flew from the building, into the cold night of Angmar... Which would soon cover all the north in darkness.
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It was dawn when Gerithor awoke. He lazily opened his eyes and looked around. A mist lay over the forest floor, and the wind lightly blew the fall leaves around on the ground. A mourning dove cooed somewhere nearby and the sound of rustling leaves filled the forest.
Gerithor looked down at Alif and saw that he was awake and was looking back up at him.
"Hey there," he said, putting a finger on the baby's nose. Alif giggled and reached for Gerithor's finger, wrapping his tiny little hand around it. Gerithor smiled for a moment, then turned serious. I have to get him to Rivendell, and soon. The thought made him resolute, and gave him a feeling of purpose. He knew now that if he didn't have a purpose, the pain of losing the rest of his family and friends would break him.
He stood up and placed Alif in the backpack, and picked the pack up, as well as his weapons. His arm was still unusable and hung limp at his side, but it didn't hurt as much. He felt the gash in his head and winced a little, but knew that it was healing.
He pressed onward into the forest. As the sun got higher the mist began to clear and he could see more clearly. After several hours of walking he came upon a small stream. He stopped and bent down next to it, cleaning his face with the cold water. He suddenly stopped. He felt like someone, or something, was watching him. He slowly stood up, trying to look nonchalant. He stretched his arms and yawned, and looked around with half closed eyes. He couldn't see anyone around...
He decided it was nothing, and started off again. But he still felt like he was being watched as he moved, and it made him feel uneasy. He tried to ignore the feeling and focus on the task at hand.
It was about evening when he reached a swamp. He looked in despair. Instead of west, he had evidently travelled south, for he recognized the smelly marshes of Midgewater. He inwardly kicked himself for being so careless. He knew he was a good navigator, so this was completely out of character for him. He supposed that the stress of what had happened in the past couple of days had kept his mind too distracted to make a clear path.
This meant that he would have to travel through to the other side of the Midgewater, for he was on the western edge of it. He prepared himself. He still felt like someone was watching him, and the thought filled him with apprehension as he pushed into the swamp.
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Eldahir ran stealthily through the trees, careful not to make a sound. He ran for hours, only stopping every now and then to take a drink from his water bottle. He reached a tall hill and looked out over the surrounding lands.
He knew he was somewhere between the Weather Hills and the Hoarwell, but he didn't know exactly where. To the south he saw plains, and he could just barely make out the faint outline of Amon Sul(also called Weathertop). To the east was a vast expanse of trees, and what appeared to be a drop off that must've been a valley.
Then he looked to the north. He drew in a sharp breath when he saw fifteen small black dots moving quickly in his direction. Wargs. He said the word in his mind with a shudder, and began running quickly in the opposite direction. He heard howls and the distant thunder of their feet as they slowly gained on him. He began to panic. He couldn't outrun them and there was nowhere to hide in the sparse forest. They would be on top of him in any moment.
He kept running anyway, and looked back quickly to see the wargs running down the hill he had been standing on moments before. They had seen him now and were picking up the pace, howling loudly as they came toward him.
He stopped. There was no point in running. You'll only die tired, he thought to himself. He quickly fitted an arrow to his bow and fired, bringing down the lead warg. He took down another before the rest had reached him. One knocked him over as it ran past. Eldahir struggled to get back on his feet, and swung his sword at a warg that was about to pounce on him. The warg jumped back and roared in pain. This only angered the other wargs, and one of them jumped on Eldahir from behind. He fell to the ground, the wind knocked out of him. He began shaking in terror but rolled around and slashed at the warg that was on top of him. It jumped back just as another warg bit into his leg. He cried out in pain, and realized the truth. I am going to die.
He mustered what little courage he had and yelled as he cut down one of the wargs. The one who had his leg began pulling him, and another warg bit deep into his side. Eldahir screamed as the pain made him drop his sword. He knew it was over now...
Suddenly, the warg who was biting his leg fell back. A black feathered arrow had pierced its neck. Another arrow imbedded itself into the warg that was biting Eldahir's side. It too fell to the ground. A black clothed elf charged into the warg pack, taking out warg after warg with his bow. When he was close enough he drew two curved daggers and began cutting the wargs down with them. He fought ruthlessly and with great skill, and soon the wargs were in retreat. He jumped on top of one of the stragglers and stabbed it in the neck, making it fall to the ground. The elf executed a combat roll off the warg's back and drew his bow again, quickly and methodically shooting at the rest of the retreating wargs one at a time. None survived.
The elf quickly looked around, then went over to Eldahir. The elf's face was covered with a scarf, but he could see bright green eyes looking down at him.
The elf didn't speak but pulled out a flask full of blue liquid. He put a little on his finger, then put his finger to Eldahir's side. A burning pain went through his side for a second, and he fought the urge to scream. The pain almost immediately went away though, and his side now felt numb.
The elf continued applying the liquid to all of Eldahir's wounds, until Eldahir was almost completely numb. That's when the elf spoke.
"It's foolish of you to travel alone, ranger." The elf pulled down his mask and looked, almost glared, at Eldahir. "My name is Caledorn, and I know of your task. I will help you see it through, since you clearly cannot see it through yourself." Eldahir winced. Caledorn hadn't said it arrogantly, just matter of factly. And the worst part was, Eldahir knew he was completely right. He knew that he wasn't cut out for this life. He was too reckless, too fun loving. He couldn't complete any task of importance. But he hadn't realized it until now. He sighed and didn't say anything.
Caledorn lightly picked Eldahir up and carried him to a more sheltered place. He set him down in a thicket and crouched down, keeping watch over the area. The last thing Eldahir saw before he fell asleep was the elf pulling out a locket and looking at it with sad eyes, then quickly putting it away again when he saw that Eldahir was looking.