Running softly, Asmalinde made her way through the Old Forest and over the escarpment that led into the bowl of Tyrn Gorthad, The Barrow Downs. The barrows were the ancient cemeteries of the Northern Kingdom of Cardolan. The surface was barren and covered with knee to chest high grasses. Timeless cenotaphs jutted from the earth like staggered teeth. Starlight pierced the low lying fog and cast intricate shadows upon the boulders and old gravestones. Like the wraiths who called this place their home, Asmalinde moved quieter still.
The numbers of the dourhands had lessened. She tracked several groups of them moving out of the forest and onto the main road, disguising themselves as merchants or wandering tinkers. She could only watch, and listen. She had to focus on the ones still bunched together. The orcs and the armored dwarrow. The groups split off again. One moved to cover the southern access to Bree-town another the northern. One stayed behind to guard the trail into the forest.
Once Asmalinde tracked each group to where they set up a camp she circled back around to the group guarding the route back into the Old Forest. Grimly, she pulled her shield with the yellow flower emblazoned on it and loosened Varyando in its sheath. The edges glowed a dull blue. She slowly and cautiously circled her way around the camp, slithering between boulders and the ruins of old trees. She could smell her foes before she could see them and heard the guttural voices of the orcs as she worked her way in.
The orcs had set no watch so she had no trouble spying out the camp. There were no dourhands within sight. They must have moved back into the Old Forest and out onto the road like the others. These were Tarkrip orcs out of the Lonelands. They were lean and hunched over at the waist. Their skin color was light green and many had livid red scars like lava running through their skin. They had fangs jutting up from the bottom of their mouths and their eyes were hidden deep inside their sockets. They were armored in primitive chainmail, greaves and huge shoulder guards. Each piece of armor had a red circle on it with three lines. Markings of Angmar.
There were six orcs standing in a semi-circle jeering at two smaller, servile ones attempting to start a fire. One, carried a blood dripping knapsack filled with Eru knew what. Obviously these beasts were hungry and their dinner was in the bag. Asmalinde faded back and stilled herself to be patient. Gradually, they all came together around the newly lit fire and began to tear into the sack for food. The largest of them slapped the smaller ones away, hogging the best parts for themselves.
Suddenly, like a blur, she was among them. Instantly three of them were down on the ground. Their grunts and viciousness stilled forever. Time stood still for Asmalinde as her shield bashed the others to the grass. Varyando flickered like a dream and as the last orc perished the blue light of her sword, forged in Gondolin, flickered out. Asmalinde arranged the bodies in a circle. She took the largest orc’s head and impaled it on one of the crude pieces of iron the fell creatures used for swords. She left the impaled head in the center of the circle as warning to any others. If the dourhands returned they were in for a rude, fearful awakening.
Before the end of the night Asmalinde repeated her efforts with the other groups guarding the northern and southern exit to the barrows. By dawn each orc that had entered Tyrn Gorthad had joined the thousands of dead in the ancient barrows of Cardolan.
