Dreams of Power [ Lord of the Rings x Silmarillion ]

A Fateful Mission

To Círeth’s disappointment, the rain did not die down the next morning, nor for several days. She spent her time speaking with her rangers, gathering what information she could outside their written reports. For while it was customary to write an entry in the log after each patrol, Círeth often found she learned more from their spoken accounts.

When she finally felt comfortably caught up on the status of Rhûn's border security, she started leading patrols again. She focused her efforts on watching the Rhûnic village and the surrounding areas, keeping an eye out for anything strange. She heard from the patrols to the east that orc activity was increasing and Círeth, though not particularly fond of Rhûn, did not want to see a peaceful village slaughtered by spawn of Morgoth.

A week had passed since her return northeast when she got word of the attack. Círeth, sitting in the cave entrance talking to a woman named Caranel, caught a young ranger as he ran panting into their hideout.

“Speak, Nimion,” she said calmly as she held his arms. “What has happened?!”

“Orcs, Captain.” He looked around as the lounging rangers stood up and gathered. “Alagos sent me here. The orcs are heading to the village!”

Círeth muttered a curse and nodded. She turned around to face her companions. Her face, drawn in concentration, betrayed no fear. She nodded. “Get your weapons. We may not be allies of Rhûn, but the village is innocent. We have watched them for many years and they have never raised up against us. We leave in ten.”

The rangers broke, hustling to their sleeping places to dress for battle. Once ready, their sharp weapons glinted in the sunlight as they issued forth in silence. All thirty of her rangers followed Círeth without hesitation. The village wasn't particularly far, and it sat all but directly on top of the border with the Reunited Kingdom. A great clearing had been made in the trees, which Círeth knew would aid their attack on the orcs.

She met with Alagos and his five companions just outside the village clearing. He crouched behind a great set of boulders and nodded when she approached.

“The orcs will be here soon,” he hissed. “We should prepare.”

But shouts went up from the nearby village. Círeth cursed under her breath again. “No time! Follow me.”

She and Alagos led the charge out into the village. A quarter of her company remained in the trees wielding bows, but the rest drew swords and attacked their enemy head on.

Four dozen orcs spilled into the clearing trampling root, twig, and stem. Some of their curved swords dripped with poison. Círeth gave a great shout and descended upon the closest one. The Easterling men and women did their best to assist the rangers. At first they fled from the sight of the Dúnedain, but after realizing the rangers were their salvation, they helped as best they could.

“Protect the children!” Alagos shouted the order to several of their men. “Get them inside!”

Círeth drove forward, ignoring a sharp pain in her arm as a sword met its mark. With a parry and slash, she killed the offending orc. She glanced up at her rangers and smiled. The battle went well. They drove back the orcs with minimal casualties.

But just as she thought the battle to be won, a piercing hornblast sounded. She turned, her red hair whipping across her face. She knew that horn, and she hated it.

“Fall back!” She screamed to her warriors. “Fall back!”

It was too late. The Easterling force swarmed into the village. They caught the Dúnedain off guard, and she watched in horror as her company was surrounded. With a growl in her throat she adjusted her sword and charged the Easterling commander. The Easterlings rode on horseback, and Círeth knew that made it only so much more difficult.

A scream to her left caused Círeth to glance that way. She shouted in anger as three of her men fell dead, Easterling arrows in their chests. She focused her attention now on the man in front of her. Círeth’s swing sword clashed with his, and he spun out of the hit. But she knew that move and met him with her own blow, drawing first blood. He stammered back and grabbed his side, shouting orders to his men in their Eastern tongue.

All around her, Círeth saw her rangers’ bodies splayed at odd angles, bleeding out until all life was gone. She knew tears streamed down her face. With a scream, she rushed forward and attacked the commander again, this time sparing no effort. He fell back at her ferocity. But the battle was lost.

“Alagos!” She screamed furiously for him to join her. “Caranel!’

The two rangers near her bolted over. Círeth, holding the reins of two Easterling steeds, gritted her teeth. “Ride.”

“We're not leaving you to die, Captain,” Caranel objected immediately.

“You will take these horses and you will ride for Minas Tirith,” Círeth ordered angrily. “One of you must reach the city. Let them know what happened.”

Alagos nodded curtly and clasped arms with his captain. He pushed Caranel forward and the two of them mounted up. The horses pranced around.

“Ride hard,” Círeth said.

Alagos nodded. “Like the wind.” They took off at a speed to rival the Mearas.

She didn't notice right away but moments later the fiery pain of her newest wound hit her like a punch in the face. She looked down and saw an arrow protruding from her left shoulder. Moments later the world went blank as she was slammed into by a man in black.

When she came to, Círeth’s first observation was internal. She realized that she was alive, and that itself was a miracle. Her eyes remained closed, but she could hear foreign voices around her speaking softly. Pain shot through her as she did a quick scan of her body. Memories flooded back and her eyes opened.

Círeth recognized that she lay in a cave of some kind. The room was dark, lit by a few torches and candles. She realized her clothes had been removed and bandages wrapped her wounds. That comforted her only slightly. Turning her head towards the voices ever so slightly, she saw her captors.

Three black rangers stood talking quietly in the Easterling language. One, shorter than the others, had a feminine voice. Círeth felt entirely confused. She pretended to still sleep until suddenly a tremendous amount of pain flooded her body and she hissed.

“You are awake,” said the first of the three, coming over to her. A half-face mask covered up to his nose, but it did not hinder his speech much. “Good.”

“Where am I?” Círeth asked calmly. “Who are you? And did anyone else survive?”

“You know who we are,” the man replied. “You are the one who took my dagger.”

She nodded slowly. “Coven of Vultur.”

He inclined his head. “Correct. As for where you are, you are in Rhûn. That is all we will say.” He paused. “You are the sole survivor.”

Círeth’s breath caught in her throat. The only survivor. That wasn't possible. “Why am I alive?”

“We came to your aid, Círeth of the House of Fëanoriel. Our people watch yours closely and reported the battle.” He looked at her. “We guessed you do not fully understand the threat you face if you were foolish enough to lead a company into Rhûn, even on a rescue mission.”

Círeth bristled and sat up. A nearby woman, clothed in blacks also but without a mask, brought her her clothes. She dressed carefully, knowing full well that the arrow wound in her shoulder would hinder movement. Once fully clothes again, she turned her gaze to the man. “You know my name. What is yours?”

“I am Kir, Master of the Coven.” He took off his mask and hood. “We have much to discuss.”