DEATH IN THE CAVES
April 18, 3020
By Angmar
Keeping just ahead of the pursuing Southrons, Vardamir, Ceolwulf, Candon, Debanni and Adibe had hurried through the southern gorge in the White Mountains and then into the dread tunnel called the Paths of the Dead. Darkness surrounding them, they had lit torches to guide their way, and while they could find some comfort in the steadfast glow, nothing could prevent the fear of the pursuers behind them or the thoughts of what the paths had once held - the spirits of men of old who had denied their oath to Isildur, not aiding him in the War of the Last Alliance and thus incurring his curse.
Ceolwulf had been in a fell mood ever since they had camped within sight of the stone of Erech, the stone 'twas said had been brought by Isildur from Numenor and on which the Hill Men had once pledged their oath to him. Ceolwulf's Ring had tormented him unyieldingly throughout the long way and he could hear its voice in his mind. "Fool," it had said mockingly, "why do you trouble yourself with these weak ones when you know that what you want is the gold? Slay Vardamir and take his share of the booty! Abandon the women and boy. Do not take the Paths of the Dead. Go round yonder way to the three blighted trees and you will find safety. Take the paths and you will come to grief and blood shall be upon your sword."
In a fit of rage and fury, he had smashed his hand against a rock and cursed the Ring, but all he had gotten for his efforts was a vicious gnash across his fist, and an intense pain in his right forefinger.
The sound of the Southrons and the light from their torches behind him increased and Ceolwulf had urged the others to go ahead. Both packhorses had panicked and wrested their leadropes from his hand and rushed ahead into the darkness, following the light of Vardamir's torch with a great clattering of hooves and fear-crazed snorts.
Taking the bridle from his own mount, he slapped it across the flanks and urged it forward, and it had followed the other horses, glad to be away. Ceolwulf threw down his torch and turned to face the Southrons and drew his red sword, gleaming in his hand as soon as he clasped the hilt.
When the Southrons had come upon him, he had slain three of them, sending them into dismay at both him and the flashing red sword, and they drew back, looking at him. Determined to purchase more time for the others to escape and sell his life dearly if it came to that, he had rushed into the Southrons and driven them back again, but once more they had rushed him, and he had given way to their force. Then backing away from them, he turned suddenly and ran forward in the direction the others had gone and found himself in a large cavern with no walls on either side.
Blindly he groped until he found a wall, then by touching the rock, he felt his way forward, while the Southrons searched through the vast chamber. Behind him, he heard a tumult, the sounds of shouting and the running feet of the Southrons, and he turned saw their torches waving in the darkness. He judged that he was keeping well ahead of them.
Then through the rush of the noise of the pursuers, he sensed something beyond him in the gloom and heard a soft sound, a footstep, perhaps, but all was dark and he could not see ahead of him. Guiding himself by pawing along the rocks, he sensed something ahead of him, and thought he heard the sound of someone breathing.
Then someone lit a torch ahead, and he found himself facing shadowy forms and the bright glitter of mail and swords. Suddenly from behind, he felt strong hands seizing him. He growled and turned to one side, lashing with the sword, striking the soft flesh of his tormentor, one whom he thought was a Southron who had somehow slipped up upon him in the darkness. Then it seemed as if his sword laughed at him and spoke to him in mockery.
"Hail, man of Rohan! I am Helbrand, Steel of Morgul. Your doom was sealed when you did not take the way of the trees. Unjustly have I been wielded against one of your own land and drunk blood of the West which I ever crave."
Ceolwulf heard something falling beside him and then more hands on him from the front and the back, reaching for him, grabbing for him. He felt a piece of cloth thrust in his mouth and tied behind his head, and then he felt strong hands on his arm, hitting him, trying to break his grip upon the hilt of his sword. Yet his hand was clenched about the hilt and he would not yield it up, until he received a blow from a strong arm that nearly broke his wrist. Then he felt his hands being tied behind his back and he was dragged, struggling ahead.
More torches were lit and he saw many men rushing past him down through the large chamber towards the Southrons, and then he heard the sounds of fighting, of steel ringing, of men screaming in agony as they fell. On and on he was dragged, until his captors took him to a wooden gate and then opening it, he was dragged through and he heard the sound of the gate swinging shut behind him.
Then forward he was taken through six more gates, and then he found himself in an open glen; the air was fresh and crisp, and the night was dark around him. At last the gag was taken from his mouth by one of the dour, grim-faced man who had guarded him since he was taken prisoner. Two men carrying torches approached him.
"Let me get a look at you," one of the men said as he held a torch aloft."I have already seen your companions whom we have also taken prisoner and locked up safely. What is your name, stranger unknown, and why are you here?"
"I am Ceolwulf, son of Elfwine."
The man laughed at him. "Since when do the men of the Mark come leading a party of Southrons? You are a spy and a traitor, caught in your foul work."
At that time, coming from the direction of the Paths of the Dead, a young Rider came amongst them and saluted the man who had laughed at Ceolwulf. "What report do you have, Beorngar?"
"Captain Godwulf, all of the enemy save the ones who were captured in the first onslaught have been utterly destroyed, all of their accursed man hunting hounds have been slain and most of their horses have been caught. Our losses were few; some of the men were wounded. The bodies of the Southrons will be brought out shortly, but I have grave news to report, sir. This man," he pointed at Ceolwulf, "slew Oslaf son of Oswald the Isensmith of Grenefeld, when he set upon us in Baldor's Cavern."
Then Ceolwulf remembered what the sword had told him when he had first drawn it in the Paths of the Dead. The name "Oswald the Isensmith" was vaguely familiar to Ceolwulf, and then he remembered that Elfhild, when they had talked of the battle of Pelennor Fields so long ago, had asked him if he knew the fates of this Isensmith and his two sons, Osric and Oslaf.
He had told her that he did not know what had befallen them, for the only men he had known from the village of Grenefeld were her father and brother, and that was only by a chance meeting. She had sighed and nodded, and he had noticed that a wistful look had come over her face when she had said the name of Osric.
So Ceolwulf had slain by misadventure one whom Elfhild had known back in her village in the Eastfold, the brother of her first love, whom she had favored over the former King's Knight.
"Bloody hands have I, and evermore shall be my name. Blodenhand shall I call myself. Indeed, it is true that I am cursed," he said as his knees buckled and he fell into a swoon.
"Let death come to all who walk the Paths of the Dead and seek to invade the Riddermark by that way," said Captain Godwulf, and then he paused and a look of sorrow came over his face. "The news of Oslaf's death saddens me greatly. Put the spy of the Southrons in irons! He will be tried by the council when Wulfhelm comes back. May justice fall with a swift sword!"
***
When Lord Ashtum's men at arms had not returned, he sent more men to see what had been their fate. These men met with warriors of Lord Darnab's house and together they tracked the outlaws. When they came to the Stone of Erech, a great dread fell upon them and they remembered the tales that they had heard from the Gondorians who had not perished in the plague. Still, though, their combined forces moved into the Paths of the Dead and never a man returned alive to tell the tale of what they had seen there.
The old tales returned that the dead still dwelt there, and ever after no one would venture into the Paths of the Dead, for fear of what awaited them, and Rohan was safe.