(PTII)Defenders of Middle Earth: A Middle Earth Story(Book 4)

Act 4: Prologue

The desert sun beat down upon Caledorn as he spurred his horse onward, willing it to gallop as fast as its legs could carry it. Hot sand kicked up behind its hooves, though the blowing winds soon covered up any trace of their passage.

He had passed by the enemy without incident so far, though he had been forced to sneak by several groups of Haradrim hurrying up from the southern road. They were armed for war, and it was obvious to Caledorn that they were moving to reinforce the Easterling army in the north.

After several days of riding without rest, a combination of heat and exhaustion caused his steed to collapse, but still Caledorn pressed on. He stole another mount from a small farm that he came across, and this one was far more accustomed to long desert journeys. It carried him swiftly across the dunes, which rose and fell like the waves of a great sandy sea. He rode day and night, soon passing through the hostile lands of the Balchoth and into the Dorgeshi highlands. The sand gave way to rocky outcroppings and short, stubbly grass, and aside from the occasional crow the land was devoid of life.

Two days into his journey he began to feel as if he was being watched. He would occasionally hear the echo of hooves that were not of his own steed, but when he searched for their source he came upon nothing. He pulled his hood a little closer at these times, as if somehow it concealed him from watchful eyes. The cloth of his mask grew damp with sweat, for although he was accustomed to travel in faraway lands he was unused to the dry heat of the desert.

That night, he knew that he must stop. He did not know how much further the Prince of Rhun's tribe was, as they were nomads and could have been anywhere in the vast barrenness of the highlands. His horse was exhausted, and here there would be no hope of finding another. If his horse died, he would die.

The ever-vigilant elf set up camp between two large boulders, risking only a small fire that would mostly be hidden by the rocks. As he sat hunched over the fire, his senses were even more alert than usual, for he knew that lone travelers were easy targets for the many bandits and thieves that inhabited Rhun.

For a moment, however, his thoughts wandered to Taliel. He pulled the necklace she had given him out from under his undershirt and gazed at it intently.

Promise me you'll come back. The words went through his mind over and over, and he wished for nothing more than to hold the one who had spoken them again. He closed his eyes as he pictured her in his mind. Elvish love was not like that or mortals... It was a bonding of two hearts, a union that could not be broken by distance or time. His heart ached with longing, and he renewed in his mind his promise to her. He would come back. He had to.

Unfortunately, he was so deep in his thoughts that he did not notice his visitor until the man was already upon him. He did not speak a word, but rather cleared his throat to get the attention of the elf.

With the reflexes of a leopard Caledorn spun to face the newcomer, his daggers flying into his hands as he prepared to attack. His blades were met by the curved blade of the visitor, who seemed to expect the attack beforehand.

"You are the elf called Caledorn, no?" The stranger said, his voice carrying the characteristically harsh accent of a Balchoth tribesman. He wore a mask over his face and black paint surrounded his eyes, making him look intimidating and inhuman somehow. His outstretched hand, however, made it clear that he did not wish to fight.

"Who wishes to know?" Caledorn replied, sheathing his blades. He still did not trust the man, but he wanted to goad him into attacking if his intentions were evil.

"I am asking the questions," the man said, his voice taking on an authoritative tone. "Three dozen warriors surround your camp. You will come with us, willingly or otherwise. But know this: we are not your enemy. Our leader wishes only to speak with you."

"I do not have any say in the matter, it would seem," Caledorn replied wryly, raising an eyebrow. Part of him felt that the man spoke the truth, but a nagging thought in the back of his mind made him uneasy.

"You do not," the man said. He raised a hand and suddenly several warriors appeared, dressed in full battle attire and carrying weapons of war. Two horsemen emerged from behind the rocks, shirtless and covered with tattoos whose origin Caledorn did not recognize. Their dark hair was shaved on the sides of their heads, but the hair on the top of their heads was long and drawn into a ponytail in the back. Caledorn wondered if they came from an unfamiliar tribe, but his musings were cut short when the man who had first spoken with Caledorn pointed to his ebony daggers with his scimitar. "Relinquish your weapons, and we shall be on our way."