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

Chapter 8: Wights and Trolls

Smack! Gerithor slapped his neck as yet another mosquito landed on it, its thin legs tickling his skin. He was getting eaten alive, but he forced himself to move on. The mosquitoes seemed to follow him, a cloud of swarming, buzzing abominations that seemed to find his ears and nostrils particularly fascinating.

He trudged through the mud, and rolling his eyes as he felt the patter of rain on his hood. Could it get any gloomier?

He pulled his cloak tightly around him and pulled his scarf over his face to keep the mosquitos off. What do they eat when they can't get ranger? He thought to himself, letting out a sigh of pure misery. The rain poured onto his head and dripped down the front of his hood, making it difficult to see very far ahead. He thought he could make out a faint light in the distance, but he wasn't sure. The mind often played tricks on a desperate soul. He turned his head to the side.

"Well, what do you think little guy?" He asked Alif, wondering if the child was as miserable as he was. The baby merely laughed in response. Gerithor couldn't help but smile a little under his scarf, and felt a little less gloomy. He looked toward the light, observing it as it flickered slightly.

He started toward it, realizing he had no better option at his disposal. After several minutes, the fog cleared, and he saw what appeared to be the end of the swamp. Through the heavy rain he could make out small round hills dotting the landscape, almost uniform in their position, rising from the ground like a pile of turned soil. The ground near them appeared to be solid, and for now that was enough to encourage the ranger to press on. Near one hill was a single torch; It must have been the light he had seen earlier. Gerithor found the fact that there was a random torch in the middle of nowhere odd, but didn't object too much to the potential warmth of a fire. He drew near it and, much to his surprise, saw that the flame was still burning brightly despite the heavy rain.

And then, as if appearing out of thin air, a door materialized in the side of the hill. It was square, and made of thick cut stone. Perhaps it had been there all along; Perhaps the way the fire had flickered before it had obscured it from his sight. But something about it felt evil.

A shiver ran inexplicably down Gerithor's spine as he looked in. Nothing but darkness could be seen beyond the door, but a cold, thin air emanated from it that felt unnaturally lifeless.

Just then a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, accompanied by a long, deep peal of thunder that rumbled menacingly overhead. Gerithor knew he had to take shelter for little Alif's sake, but he didn't feel good about this place. It felt as if it belonged to a timeless evil, even though he had no logical reason to fear it. It was, after all, merely a door in the side of a hill. How far in could the path go?

With a deep breath, he forced his fears away and entered the dark door in the side of the hill.

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Eldahir's eyes flashed open, though the darkness that met him was little more than what he had seen behind closed eyes. He gave himself a moment to adjust to the night, the vague shapes of trees and rocks slowly becoming clearer to him. As he took in his surroundings, his eyes fell upon the elf, Caledorn, who was peering attentively into the night. His ebony bow was drawn, a black-feathered arrow fitted to the string.

"What is it?" Eldahir asked, sensing immediately that something was wrong. Just then, a distant roar rang through the night. It was far enough away that it wasn't an immediate threat, but was still far too close for comfort.

"Trolls." Caledorn looked at Eldahir without emotion. "Stay quiet, they draw near."

Eldahir pulled himself along the ground to Caledorn's side, looking out through the dense thicket. A short distance away, two large creatures with long white fur emerged from behind a clump of short evergreen trees. They wore iron helms upon their heads, and carried heavy iron swords. Each had small bucklers strapped to their left arms, crudely assembled and painted with a red eye.

"What are those?" Eldahir whispered, a mixture of awe and fear flowing through his veins. He had never seen creatures like these before.

"Snow trolls," Caledorn whispered quietly. "They haven't been seen this far south in a thousand years..." He looked on.

The trolls both began to speak. Their words were crude, spoken gutturally and in a language foreign to Eldahir. To his surprise, Caledorn seemed to be able to decipher what they were saying. He began to translate.

"They seem to have found the site of our battle," he began. "They're talking about how many wargs they each ate. They seem to be surprised to have found the dead wargs." He stopped for a moment. The trolls both spoke in deep voices, occasionally stopping to thump the other on the back or some other such gesture.

"From what I can gather, they seem to be brothers. They've come down from their homes to search for men and kill them. Their Black Speech is crude so that's all I've been able to decipher."

Eldahir looked in surprise at the elf. "You know the Black Speech?"

The elf answered with a simple "yes," which didn't satisfy Eldahir's curiosity. He decided to wait until later to figure out more. "Where do the trolls come from?" He hoped Caledorn would at least answer this.

Caledorn looked darkly over at Eldahir, and for the first time his face showed emotion. Anger. He said his next words slowly, and with hate. "They come from Angmar."

"The ancient kingdom of the Witch King?" Eldahir looked incredulous. He had heard stories about the place, but all of them ended in the death of every living creature in Angmar. "I thought that place was destroyed."

Caledorn went back to his emotionless self. "It was, but not completely. Many of the dark creatures of Angmar retreated back into their caves and foul dwellings. The fortress of Carn Dum was destroyed, and Angmar's armies were defeated. That does not mean that the darkness was banished completely." He paused. "But it is indeed strange that we see snow trolls in the forests at the same time Esteldin was destroyed. I do not think it is a coincidence. And that dark rider Aragorn saw in the forest... None of this bodes well. The sooner we reach Rivendell the better."

Caledorn suddenly looked behind Eldahir, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptively. On the other side of the thicket were two squat, thick-bearded men, wearing animal skins and wielding crude spears. They spoke gruffly to one another, every now and again motioning at their surroundings.

Caledorn motioned for Eldahir to stay still. The elf flattened himself to the ground, masterfully blending into the shadows. He was so still, in fact, that Eldahir himself couldn't quite tell where he had gone. As the two men drew closer, Eldahir realized that they were completely pinned down for the moment, and had no choice but to wait it out.

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The room smelled like death. That was the first thing that entered Gerithor's mind. The second was a feeling of impending doom, like a heavy cloak that had been cast over his shoulders.

Little Alif began crying softly from Gerithor's pack, his frail voice echoing hollowly off the stony walls. The young ranger set the bundle down, turning it so Alif could see him. At the sight of his young uncle Alif stopped crying. For the moment he'll be alright, Gerithor thought to himself. He tried to look around the room, but the darkness was so deep that he could barely see a couple feet in front of him. If only I had some light... He thought for a moment, before remembering the torch outside. He looked at Alif and made a face like he was letting the baby in on a secret.

"Don't tell anyone, but I'm going to go take that torch outside. You guard my things." He winked at Alif, and the baby giggled. He rustled the baby's short brown hair and went outside, trying to stifle his own fear and feelings of uneasiness.
He walked over to the torch, looking at it suspiciously. Gerithor wondered who placed it there, and why it was still burning despite a lack of occupants nearby. He grabbed it and went back inside, casting one last glance behind him into the rainy night.

What he saw when he entered made him drop the torch in terror.

Hovering over Alif was a shadow... No, a creature... That was as dark as the darkest night. It appeared to be shaped vaguely like a Man, but hovered a few inches from the ground. It looked up at Gerithor with flaming blue spheres that were where a Man's eyes would be. Gerithor felt a terror like he had never felt before, compelling him to step backward fearfully. The creature let out a dry hiss, like the last breath of a dying man, and began chanting an incantation:

Cold be hand and heart and bone,
and cold be sleep under stone:
never more to wake on stony bed,
never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead.
In the black wind the stars shall die,
and still on gold here let them lie,
till the dark lord lifts his hand
over dead sea and withered land.

Gerithor was filled with a deep despair. and suddenly, everything felt hopeless. I'm going to die, and there's nothing I can do about it. I should give up. Struggling is only a waste of time. Everything felt blurry, and he stumbled forward. He fell to his knees, but he didn't even care. He just wanted to die. His eyes closed slowly, and he knew no more...