Flare in the Darkness: Holwena Talnrë of Rothalon

Chapter Three: Tidings From the North

The valley was a drift of dark green, the pines that filled it lapping in little inlets at the mountains' bony feet. They rose tall and broad on either side of the gap, Tiltor and Ilurintor, giants among mountains, whose mass was such that the mile's span between them appeared no more than a thin pass.

Dark was it, and faint and far-off the stars, as though they would remove themselves from the conflicts of man. Naught did their weary light truly illuminate, but only gave form to shadow and glinted traitorously off any steel thing. All seemed still; but a weak draft lifted lightly the black standard hanging over the sleeping camp, and a lone figure moved slowly through the trees, lithe and girt in light armour. His bright eyes hardened with hate as he caught the ensign through the arching branches.

Something stirred in the trees ahead, a blackness that moved upright against the other blackness. The man's eyes narrowed in eagerness and he crept towards his quarry, stooping low to the ground until he was nearly upon the dark shape. With a graceful leap he launched himself –

But it whirled even as he swung. Their swords collided with a ringing call.

Fiercely the man attacked, channeled anger directing every move of his blade. Then as their weapons countered yet another time, he forced them down by sheer strength and drove up shoulder to shoulder with his adversary, slipping out a knife and stabbing upwards toward the heart. He stepped back as it crumpled to the ground; a hissing cry escaped it, and it moved no more.

The young man bent over his fallen enemy. "Do not wander alone, raedega," he spat scornfully, and retrieving his knife he stood and turned away. The moon came out, lending an eerie dead light upon the scene.

Near to him but far overhead, a winged creature glided, coming nearer and nearer the treetops, until it at last dove down into a small hole in the canopy. It alighted on the ground with the brush of feathers against needles, and at the sound the man stiffened and pivoted cautiously, sliding as he did so into the shelter of a shaggy bole. There he waited.

The creature remained where it had landed, making soft hissing, glottal sounds as if to itself. It was a vulture, large as a man, black with light barring on its wings' underside and breast, and dark downy feathers covering its head. What it muttered was unintelligible, indeed nearly inaudible, save for the last few words. It hissed them out with passion: "...khhala-raik gississ whfeir nikorss!" Then in an instant, the vulture's form was gone, and where it had stood was a man, tall and cruel-faced, his dark hair gathered back with a thong, his face thin and the nose slightly hooked. Narrow, piercing black eyes glinted in the moonlight as he glanced grimly around from side to side.

The young man hiding by the pine was rigid, his lips pale with anger. His hand moved deliberately toward his knife as he silently mouthed the word "Madiz".

But the ugoth was already striding across the small glade, disappearing into the trees; he could not catch up to him before he reached the camp. With a swift, wrathful movement, the man whirled and ran lightly back through the wood, slowing at last as he approached his own lines again. He trod softly over the dead needles, his eyes on the pricks of fire in the distance.

Out of the night an arm came, closing across his chest and arresting his progress. He gripped his knife and twisted away, but remained firmly held. Torchlight neared them, and shone upon the struggling form of the young prince of Rothalon.

"Cease, Corhin!" said Lord Roharon sharply, maintaining his grip with difficulty.

The snorting of horses preceded the riders who materialized into the hazy torch-glow. The foremost dismounted and came forward; Corhin went still and his lips parted, his eyes filling with shame and dismay.