The Fall of Klonodor

Alasdair clutched the great sword tightly in his fists. Naurearnor. The Flame of Arnor. A most brilliant sight.

Klonodor's sword. His dear Klonodor.

"Why, my friend?" he said to himself. "Why have you left us?"

Alasdair sat in the corner and tended to his mead. Piss swill but that was to be expected from such a desolate place like the Forsaken Inn. Alasdair and his men had heard the rumblings from local folk about Klonodor's supposed sighting in the Lone-lands. Tales of a grey-haired man stained from battle passing by hurriedly were common talk around The Forsaken Inn. Alasdair was skeptical. His party had found no trace of Klonodor in the Trollshaws nor Bruinen.

Elrond of Rivendell had not seen him either. Nor had any ranger south or Eregion, where he had departed.

Klonodor's chilling last words had caused Alasdair to lose countless hours of sleep in the days since the battle.

"Elvellonwen!" the blood-soaked champion cried out. "Elvellonwen!"

Blades surrounded Klonodor. Orc blades. Daggers and blood. Alasdair could not see his friend through the thick of the fight. He could but hear his war cry.

Orc after orc encircled him, thrashing their poorly made steel and bronze. Their long pointy nails making contact with his skin. Yet Klonodor would not stay down.

An arrow had pierced his back. Klonodor dropped to one knee, exhausted. Alasdair tried to reach him.

"Too many damned orcs! Hang on, Klonodor," he remembered thinking.

Alasdair fought his way closer and closer, frantically cutting down any enemy in his path. It seemed all in vain. Elsewhere, Alec, previously preoccupied slaying a troll with Klonodor's son Hinandrith, glanced over at Klonodor's position.

"Father!" Hinandrith yelled, grabbing a dull Goblin's knife from the ground. Hinandrith attempted to charge but Alec tackled him.

"Easy, lad. Don't make a corpse of yourself too now."

Those were not easy words for Alec to say. He saw the fury in young Hinandrith's eyes. Even though he was born a bastard, Hinandrith had grown to love his father.

"Let me go, Alec!"

Alec said, "Don't be a fool, boy. We'll get him."

Alec reached into his breast plate and lifted out a horn. A Gondorian horn.

The horn sounded. Every ranger and sell sword in the company turned around and faced Alec. They were only five of them left and were greatly outnumbered by the swarm of Orc kind. Only five from the original twelve that had set out from Lothlorien on Lady Galadriel's orders to found ancient relics lost in Eregion.

None of that mattered now.

Alec shouted, "Men! Form ranks! TO KLONODOR!"

"TO KLONODOR!" the men shouted back.

A storm of bodies charged. Yards away, Alasdair took notice and charged.

"KLONODOR!" he cried out in anger.

The orcs pushed Klonodor down, dirt and blood caked into his face. He let out a puff of air. His eyes rolled back into his head but not before the face of dead Orc head impaled by a sword landed near his line of sight.

"It's over," he thought.

Alasdair raised his head abruptly from the bar top. He panted as sweat trickled down his brow.

"Everything all right there, sir? Anlaf the tavern keep asked him curiously.

"Yes," Alastair he said with resignation.

He went back to his corner and continued tending to his drink.