Heart of Flame: A Tale Of Sauron

Rumors of War

Her father had warned Iestiel that the air would grow fouler the closer they drew to the Iron Mountains. The three volcanic peaks of Thangorodrim had been smoking for years, blocking the sun. Even leagues from the epicenter of the Enemy's power in Endor, daylight was still hazy.

Iestiel awoke suddenly, her eyes blinking away sleep. The fire had died down, her father and his two apprentices sleeping across from her. She groaned. One of the apprentices should have been keeping watch. They had been taking turns each night, changing shifts at the midnight hour. 

It had been a day since they had left the company of the Noldor. Despite their arrogance and uncouth behavior, something about the wild Princes of the West had appealed to Iestiel. They were blunt, honest to the fault. The Sindar of Doriath were warm and hospitable, disagreements were often met with veiled insults and word play. Iestiel did not get the impression that was how the Noldor worked. And she found it refreshing, a little exciting even.

Sitting up from the hard ground in the barren valley where they'd camped on the outskirts of Hithlum, she scanned the short semi circle she'd made as a perimeter around them. The air was clear in their small camp, but outside the barrier of clean air was a wall of grainy mist, swirling silver and black. The poisonous fumes made those who breathed them grow ill. Plants caught in it's wake shriveled and died. 

Iestiel tried not to let the specter of fog intimidate her. She stirred the fire, listening hard for the winds overhead. Part of her schooling had been spent learning to interpret the scents and soft words caught in the drafts. At this moment, a southern wind brought hints of metal and forge smoke, faint commands for more stone or lumber being shouted in Quenyan. That wind had passed through the Noldor camps.

Breathing in deeply through her nose, Iestiel closed her eyes and tugged her blanket tighter around her shoulders, the stick she'd used as a poker for the fire clutched in her hand. Another current rushed down from the north, cutting through the evil smelling smog as it swept from the highest peaks of the Iron Mountains. A weak voice could be heard in it. Faint whispers in Quenyan. She didn't know the language well, but she knew the word for help.

Iestiel's eyes snapped open. She recalled what the Noldor had said of their lost friend. Missing for thirty years as a captive of Morgoth. Fingon seemed determined that they would either find him alive or at least recover his body. Perhaps, because of the enemy's tendency to dig deep into the earth, they had focused their energies on dark, cavernous spaces. 

She wondered if they had ever thought to look upwards to the heavens for the lost prince.

"Adar," she whispered, kneeling beside her father and patting his shoulder. "Adar, there is something on the wind. I think it might-"

Lalvon sprang up from his blanket, pressing a finger to his lips. His blue eyes were wide, eyebrows arching as he scanned the surrounding area, his body rigid. Iestiel suddenly sensed it as well.

Another presence lurked somewhere out in the dark smog.

"Wake the others. Quietly," he commanded, retrieving his sword. "Ready yourself, my daughter. We are not alone."

Iestiel did not have a chance to wake the apprentices. A band of orcs broke through the barrier into the clear air and made straight for them. A beast cleaved the head of a sleeping apprentice in half before Iestiel or Lalvon could do anything to stop it.

***

Morning sun slanted through the slender trunks of the pine barren on the southern end of Lake Mithrim. It shimmered along the water, banishing the heavy mist stinking of sulfur that settled there at dawn. A northern wind, fresh and clear, blew in from the distant mountains and banished the smog. Even so, it left black silt on the ground that stained feet and choked plants.