The twin sisters marched through the darkness, their leather shoes sinking into the carpet of dried grass. They feared they would stumble and fall in the heavy gloom, for the ground was uneven and they could not use their arms to steady themselves. Elfhild's mind was a battlefield where sorrow vied with anger and fear vied with bravery, and she reeled from the intensity of her troubled thoughts which came at her like arrow fire. Her mother had been slain; her sister had been wounded; their dog had been killed; and their home had been sacked and destroyed. For the first time, she had felt the fury of the fight; her blade had tasted blood and the lust of battle had seized her senses. But now she felt helpless and alone, a young girl who mourned for a whole world laid to ruin in a single night.

Soon she saw the flames of another burning house and smelled the reek of burning straw and wood. Her heart sank further into despair and she winced at the sight; that was where her Uncle Athelwine and Aunt Leofgifu lived. She cast a fearful glance to her sister, but Elffled only stared ahead into the darkness. No comfort could be found in that impassive face, and Elfhild wondered if she was silently suffering, or if the blow upon her head had rendered her insensible. Soon several orcs approached their guards and Barzkhûral ordered his lads to hasten to meet the newcomers. These orcs fell in with Barzkhûral's band, and Elfhild and Elffled were soon joined by more captives, their aunt Leofgifu and her daughter Hunig, who was sobbing and clinging to her mother's skirts.

"Elfhild! Elffled!" Leofgifu cried, fear and worry upon her face. "What--"

"Silence!" one of the orcs bellowed. "Keep your legs moving and your mouths quiet!"

Elfhild looked at her aunt sadly and began to trudge forward. Dread was in Leofgifu's eyes as they met Elfhild’s sorrowful gaze and saw the bound brow and strange stare of indifference upon Elffled’s face. In that moment, she perceived all that had befallen them, or at least a part of it, and great was the anguish in her heart. Athelthryth's absence was painfully obvious and her daughters' faces told the whole tale. Though no words were spoken, the grievous tidings were conveyed. Leofgifu closed her eyes tightly and moaned softly in dismay.

"She was slain," Elfhild whispered and turned her head. “The orcs killed her.”

"So I guessed," Leofgifu replied quietly. "This night is most evil."

"All is lost," Elfhild choked out. "There is no hope. All is as dark as the night, and the sun shall never rise again."

Elffled looked down at the earth as it sped by her feet, a blur of gray in the gloom. Her sense of time had been distorted and the fight was a dim memory of chaos and fear, more like something that had happened in years past rather than a few hours before. She could not remember how her mother had been killed, and whenever she tried to recall it to mind, her head throbbed all the more. Her mind was floundering in a sea of pain and confusion, and she felt as though she were drowning. Yet at other times everything felt dreadfully clear, and it was as though her heart had been turned to ice, for she could reflect upon all that had happened without weeping. Guilt chipped away at her benumbed senses, but she knew that the tears would come soon enough. They always did; it was only a matter of time.

Yet the four were not allowed to mourn or to give solace to one another, for the orcs began to march again, and dragging footsteps were encouraged into swiftness by the points of spears. Behind them they heard the frantic, guttural moos of their cattle as the orcs strained to pull the frightened, stubborn animals ahead. Soon the small group reached the Great West Road and there they were joined by a great procession traveling eastward. There was a large number of orcs, many of whom were as tall as men, and this bewildered Elfhild and Elffled, for in all the songs and tales they had ever heard, orcs were described as being short and small. Some of the large creatures were carrying ill-gotten goods while others dragged reluctant beasts. The long arms of a few were laden with blankets, clothing and other supplies piled into great stacks so high that the bearers could only guess at where they were going. Occasionally some heavy object would slip and fall and come crashing down upon an unsuspecting foot, and then there would be a yelp of pain followed by curses and threats.

Other orcs herded the women and children along, guarding them closely and prodding them forward with spears. The hands of the women and girls were bound behind their backs, save for those who had to carry babies or small children. The hands of the children, too, were left unbound, for they would stay close to their mothers and kinsfolk and were too small and scared to cause the orcs much trouble. Some of the captives were frightened and cringing, but others were defiant and struggled against their captors, vexing them in any way they could. Elfhild recognized all of the faces, whether they were kin, close friend or distant acquaintance, and her heart was filled with sorrow and worry.

She looked away from this wretched sight and her eyes beheld one even worse. To the west, she saw the orange glow of many different fires scattered along the landscape; burning houses and outbuildings which the raiders had torched. All of Grenefeld was burning and those who had not escaped had been taken captive or killed. What had happened to the scouts who patrolled the borders? Why had no one been warned of this attack? Elfhild bit her lip and tears stung her eyes. They must have been worsted, either utterly destroyed or driven far away to the north! But still the big orc, the one called Barzkhûral, had been concerned that if he and his band did not hurry back to the Black Army, that the Riders would come and catch them unawares.

Hope surged in Elfhild's heart. Maybe the Riders would indeed return in greater strength and deliver the captives from their enemies. Her heart skipped a beat as she imagined valiant warriors galloping on their great war steeds, screaming mighty battle cries and charging at the orcs. The raiders would be driven away in fear, and the captives could then flee into the mountains, or to Dunharrow, or maybe even further west and there wait out the war. What would happen then? She prayed that the West would prove the victor and that her father, brother and uncles would return safely, and, of course, dear Osric, and all the other fellows of Grenefeld. Then, perhaps, life would resume some semblance of what it had been before, though she knew nothing would ever really be the same again. But maybe--

"Hai! Hai! Gus thak! Maubûr frapog!" an orc bellowed and the orcs began to march once again, prodding their captives along. There must have been over two hundred of the monsters, all carrying sharp spears and wearing thick armor of metal rings or fishes' scales. Elfhild plunged from lofty hopes and giddy fantasies back into deep despair. She had been daydreaming again and ignoring the reality of her plight. All was lost and the end of the free world had come. She felt a stabbing, searing pain in her heart, and she tried to stifle a sob as the tears flowed freely down her face once again.

But though her mother was dead, she still had her sister, aunt and cousin, and she felt closer to them now than she ever had before, though few words had been said and no embraces had been shared. She wondered how fared poor Elffled, for the orcs had not allowed them to talk. Now she would have to shout to make her voice heard over the sound of foul orc-speech, raucous laughter and snatches of bawdy songs which were sung off-key, and she did not really want these brutes to be party to her conversation. At least the draught their captors had given her sister seemed to have helped, but Elfhild highly doubted that the healing powers of these creatures had any lasting effect. Maybe when the orcs allowed them to rest, she would be able to speak with her sister.

They marched on and on at a slow yet constant pace with frequent stops to rest, for the raiders had to humor the young and the old. The weeping of the captives blended with the songs and laughter of the orcs, creating a discordant melody of sorrow and strife, malice and mourning: the song of a world marred in its making. After about five miles, Elffled fell in a heap upon the dusty road. Sobbing and wailing, she refused to get back up. Elfhild feared that she was dying or had gone mad in her grief, but her desperate cries were drowned out by the cruel laughter of their captors. An orc had to throw Elffled over his shoulder and carry her for a good distance. Though her weary legs were saved from walking, the blood rushed to her head and made it throb and spin. To make matters worse, the brute who was carrying her kept pinching her rump or slapping it to the lively tune of ribald songs, much to the amusement of the rest of the orcs.

Onward they marched on the Great West Road. As they traveled eastward, they were met by more orcs and more captives. Great was the spoil, for the lands west of the Mering Stream were poorly guarded. 'Twas true that the eastern border along the Entwash and Mering Stream from the Falls of the Rauros to the White Mountains was easy to defend, for the only path between swamp-lands to the north and forests and mountains to the south was where the Road went through Everholt over the Mering Stream. However, war waged in the northern marches, and there was the strength of the Mark as forces from Dol Guldur beleaguered the Wold and East Emnet. Yet another army of the Dark Land traveled upon the Road, and the first feelers of that mighty strength had struck the lands of the Horse-lords while the Riders were striving with the enemy in the South or fighting in the northern marches.

The rest of the night dragged by in dreary misery and the hours seemed to last for long ages of the earth. The silent forest of Everholt to the right loomed above them with ominous foreboding, and even the vile voices of the orcs were stilled. The Firien Wood this place was also called; the Whispering Wood in the Common Speech, for a great silence lay under those dense branches and few could withstand it. The raiders and their captives passed row after row of oaks and birches with long, sparsely covered branches that reached out to the heavens like the bony hands of starving men begging for release from their hunger. The air was heavy with a sense of baleful condemnation, as though the stern, dour shade of Elendil had returned to stand upon his old mound upon the hill of Halfirien and look down upon the enemy with reproach and rebuke. Yet in truth his shade was to be counted impotent and utterly defeated, for the realm of his descendants had perished, and soon, it seemed, would also fall their old ally.

Dawn came and the sun rose but she was merely a faint pale glow in the shadowy sky, like the icy radiance of the moon covered by veils of billowy clouds. A few hours after the dim dawn, the orcs called another halt to the march and left the Road, retreating once again into the uncomfortable sanctuary of the hallowed forest. After a short distance, they allowed their captives to take a brief rest in the deep shade that lay beneath the trees. All was dark in the camp and not even the flickering glow of a single campfire pierced the shadows cast by the thick web of branches overhead and the unnatural twilight brought about by the suffocating clouds. Orcs were everywhere, some sitting down to rest, others standing around in clustered groups or milling about. Vigilant guards patrolled the perimeter of the camp, and others were posted along the road and to the west. The captives had not one bit of privacy, and the women and children were even guarded when they had to answer a call of nature. So it would be for the rest of the journey.

Beneath a large oak, Elfhild and Elffled sat down and stretched out their tired legs upon the dry, sandy ground. They were a short distance away from the rest of the prisoners, but still within the hearing range of a loud whisper. Leofgifu sat down near the twins, and they took what ease they could with their hands tied behind their backs. Hunig sat down beside her mother, seeking comfort and protection, her small arms clutching at her mother's form. The orcs gave little heed to them, for they, too, were weary from the march and the frightened speech of captives had become tedious to their ears. So for a time the prisoners had a moment of solace amid the trees of the still forest.

"How are you two faring?" whispered Leofgifu, the sorrowful wails of the other captives muffling her quiet voice. "Especially you, Elffled," she added, looking up with concern to the strip of material bound around the girl's brow.

"Yes, Elffled - how is your head?" asked Elfhild, turning to her sister. "You have been very quiet this whole night. You were bleeding when the journey began, but in this darkness I cannot see how badly you were hurt."

"I do not think the blow was that evil," Elffled said with a weak smile of reassurance. "My head still feels a bit queer: like I am besotted upon too much mead and have the sickness that comes afterwards at the same time."

"But that is what you said earlier, Elffled. Mayhaps you should lie back and rest a while," Leofgifu suggested. Hunig looked over to her cousins with unspoken worry.

"Maybe," said Elffled. "The orcs treated the wound, though, and I guess it will heal soon enough." Though her words were meant to ease the fears of her family, in truth she worried about the blow which she had been dealt. Never before had her head hurt so badly, nor had her senses been so bewildered, even when she had taken one too many sips from the drinking horn.

"How were you wounded anyway?" asked Leofgifu, for they had been given little time to talk, even during rests. The orcs seemed at last to have lost interest in the conversation of their prisoners, and for that the captives were glad.

“I – I do not remember,” Elffled stammered. She looked to her sister, her eyes pleading with hers.

"It all happened so quickly," Elfhild explained. "The orcs barged into our home, but we tried to hold them off. Poor Brúwann tried to protect us, but one of the monsters struck him down. We were all fighting and then Mother was thrown against the wall by one of those accursed demons, and he ran her through with his knife. Then Elffled rushed to her side, and the foul devil hit her atop the head with the hilt of his sword. I was so worried that those fiends had killed her."

"So that was how it happened," thought Elffled as she sat there, her leaden limbs feeling like heavy logs. She had the wits, too, of a piece of wood: impassive, indifferent and uncaring. This lack of concern terrified her, and she twisted her hands painfully against her bonds, both to punish herself for this strange attitude, and so she could feel something besides numbness. She wondered if her mother had felt so confused and heartless when her own mother had died, though she had died in childbirth and not at the hands of her enemies.

"You two and your mother were very brave and fought just as fiercely as any Rider of the Mark. War is indeed a most horrible thing," Leofgifu shook her head sadly. "I had no chance to fight. The orcs rushed at us while we were yet bemused from heavy sleep. They grabbed Hunig before I could protest, and they said if I did not surrender peacefully, they would kill her. She, however, put up a good struggle and fought like a wild beast." Leofgifu smiled at Hunig, who looked up and nodded, a proud grin upon her face.

“At least I killed the monster who took my mother’s life,” Elfhild proclaimed, her eyes glittering with angry tears as rage boiled up inside her heart. “My blade drank of his blood many times ere his fellows laid hands upon me and dragged me out of the house.” No remorse or sorrow did she feel for having slain the orc; in fact, she wished she had killed the rest of them in her fury.

"Your mother died a warrior's death," Leofgifu said quietly, "the death of a true Shieldmaiden. I believe she would have been proud - and proud of you, too, for you both fought well and proved yourselves just as battle-worthy as your father and brother."

"But I never wanted to be a shieldmaiden!" cried Elfhild. "I never wanted to be a warrior like Father and Eadfrid. But what does it matter? The end has come. There is nothing left but death, and for that I am glad! Death would bring freedom from this crushing sorrow, this cruel torment, this accursed darkness. O, would that I had fallen beside my mother!" Her voice trailed off into anguished wails and her body shook with her sobbing.

An uneasy silence descended upon the four. The night was still and quiet, save for the murmuring of the captives and the harsh voices of the orcs. Hunig squeezed her mother tightly and buried her face into the crook of her bound arm. Elfhild sank to the ground and lay there, her shoulder throbbing from her weight and from the small pebbles and clods of dirt which dug into her flesh. The air was chill and the dampness of the captives' sweat-drenched hair and clothing made them shiver and tremble, for they sat in the shade and there was little light to warm their weary bones. The silence in the forest seemed to hum and reverberate off the boles of the trees, creating a somber feeling of foreboding. The sorrowful sounds of weeping and wailing slowly dulled to a soft murmur of lamentation, a whisper in the silent woods where few dared to tread.

Elffled looked up. Though her head felt like a devil was drumming on it, she was able to perceive that something had upset the orcs and there was a great stir in the camp. "Rûkal! Rûkal!" several orcs cried, turning and pointing back towards the west. "Skaatug taalan-ghaara, gus maubûr ash!" The orc-chieftains who held the highest ranks in the lot were alarmed, and many of the orcs who had been sitting down and taking their ease rose to their feet and listened intently. The camp quickly became a swarm of about two hundred orcs whose foul voices buzzed angrily like the flies of the Dark Land.

Orders were barked and weapons were hastily picked up from where they had been propped against tree trunks or cast carelessly upon the ground. A tall orc with a broad chest and heavy armor stormed into the midst of the captives and bellowed out the order: "All right, you strawhead sows and your squealing little runts, on your feet NOW! Your accursed horse-boys have returned, and we've got to leg it ere they catch us. Don't try to scream or struggle, for our orders are to slay all captives rather than allow them to be rescued by our enemies."

Elfhild's heart skipped a beat. A chance of rescue! Her thoughts became wild and her hopes unruly. In her mind she saw clouds of dust stirred up by the pounding hooves of the horses as the Riders charged the orcs, their swords swinging as they slew, singing the songs of war. She would shout and cry and tears of joy would flow down her face, and though her hands were bond, she would find herself dancing in the madness of the moment. But then her vision was tainted by darkness and doubt, and she saw herself falling to the ground, pierced through the heart by the spear of an orc. How cruel was fate! That the only hope of the captives could also end in their deaths. Her spirit had soared like an eagle, but quickly plummeted back down to the earth as though shot by an arrow.

Soon after plowing through the forest, the orcs and their prisoners were marching once again upon the Road through the dusky haze of blighted morning. Impatient, cursing orcs pulled upon the lead ropes of unwilling animals, and as iron boots beat upon the dusty road, stolen loot tumbled from heavy laden arms. Tools, cooking utensils and articles of clothing lay forgotten upon the ground, for there was little time to be spent retrieving what had fallen. Cross from weariness and lack of sleep, young children began to cry and sob anew, either frightened or resentful of their captors. Babies wailed from the sudden and abrupt movements and mothers desperately tried give what comfort they could.

The orcs were not as lenient as they were when the eastward journey began, and the captives were ordered to march ever faster, encouraged onward by the sharp pricks of spears and the bitter stings of the lash. Fear and desperation filled their hearts, for they were constrained to flee from their own people and the only hope of rescue. Yet if they slowed their pace, they were punished for their lack of haste, and they knew that they would surely be slain if the Riders were to catch up with them. The morning air was filled with the sounds of anguish and suffering as each step the captives were forced to take took them further and further away from the place of their birth and into an uncertain future.

NOTES

"Hai! Hai! Gus thak! Maubûr frapog!" - "About face! Company march!"
"Rûkal! Rûkal! Skaatug taalan-ghaara, gus maubûr ash." - "Riders Riders! Coming from the north, about one company."