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They left the yard, and Curufin, for one, was glad for it. He had not wanted to stay there, choking on smoke and the closeness of their so-called kin, building alliances out of the blood of other men. They could not trust Finrod, or Beren, or the others forever.
When he ran with Celegorm and Huan, even hunting in dangerous shadows instead of the thickets and hills of the wilderness, he could breathe and think more clearly.
The same surreptitious path they had taken earlier called them now. These attackers, in their rancid furs, were fierce but foolish. They had come around the fort from only one direction, aiming for the northwest side. They had not so much as trampled Caranthir’s vegetable garden, or explored the forge, both of which lay silent to the south. It was apparent to Curuifn that they had all been sidetracked on the southeast side by the stable.
This had its own risks, of course: Maglor was in the stable.
Privately, Curufin had long since accepted that brothers were as liable to die as anyone. That did not mean he should not fight where fighting was possible, or press on where an advantage might be gained. It meant only that he must be the first to predict; the first to reason.
Even in sneaking, hunched low, Celegorm’s shoulders were a great shadow against the paler dark, dark that was beginning to be leavened by the torchlight at the gates, and by a remote greyness growing in the eastern sky. Huan drew up short ahead, and Celegorm stopped with him. Curufin halted too. The gun was warm and heavy in his hands. He had reloaded its spent bullets.
“What is it, boy?” Celegorm said, and then, “Go on.” Over his shoulder he murmured, “He must hear the fighting at the gate.”
That was a signal to veer as far from the fort as possible, while still approaching the stables. In the lower fields, Athair rested. Nobody would disturb him there. To settle himself and satisfy another curiosity, Curufin glanced backwards. The fighting was thick at the high, close wall, but in the torches’ glare, it did not appear that Mithrim had been truly breached.
Fighting had gone well at the backdoor, too.
We’re winning, he thought, smiling and tasting a little blood in his mouth. It might be his; it might be someone else’s.
They were almost to the stable now.
Celegorm’s gun switched to his left hand—his right arm cocked and threw with unrelenting swiftness. A man down. A man who had been sneaking himself, away from the throng at the gate, nearly crawling so as not to be seen.
The star had taken him in the eye.
“Fast now,” said Celegorm. He used to talk to Maedhros like that, or Maedhros would to him. Curufin had been thinking of Maedhros all night. He was shooting to kill, after all, with his brother’s gun.
Athair made it, he reminded himself, hurrying. That makes it mine.
The stables were dark. No lamp or candle burned within. No sound rang out from the hollow orifices of the high windows above the stalls.
Celegorm paused at the doors, considering. Then he whistled like a whippoorwill, and Curufin was dragged back to Formenos despite himself. It was an old joke of theirs. A folktale, first, and then a joke. Whippoorwills were cross-beaked nightjars, known for their plaintive little tunes, and the story was that they could sense a soul leaving the body and capture it with their calls.
Celegorm had said as much of Maglor’s singing, once upon a time. He had called it purgatory in melody.
Maglor would not forget the sound of such a whistle now.
At least, he would not if he lived—
“Celegorm?” Low, but recognizable, spoken from within the walls.
“Yes,” Celegorm hissed. “We’re coming in.”
The stable, its doors drawn carefully open, smelled of hay and its usual inhabitants—and blood. Curufin grew a little weary of smelling blood everywhere, even in the midst of battle. It was an element of killing he could never quite enjoy.
It is only iron, he told himself. Only iron, in another form.
(Outside the mine, such words could not come in Athair’s voice.)
His eyes adjusted to the light as Maglor stepped out of the shadows of the stalls. There were bodies—hard to make out the number of them—on the floor. And Maglor was not alone on his feet; one other was with him. A Mithrim man.
“We’ve had mostly quiet,” said Maglor. “A party of half a dozen broke off from the main assault on the gate and—”
“They’re finished,” said the Mithrim man. “Lost Ricketts, though.”
Celegorm ignored him. Curufin did the same. Curufin remembered Ricketts as a name on a charter; nothing more.
“Maglor,” said Celegorm, impatient and itching, no doubt, to have his hand on a driving weapon again, “Why did you stay here?”
Maglor shifted from one foot to the other. He was panting a little, as if he had been running up a hill. That was strange, in itself, for Maglor had doubtless been keeping very still. Then again, it was Maglor. He had fought beside them hours ago, and fought well, but one did not expect such things from Maglor, as a general rule.
“Alexander,” Maglor said by way of explanation, jerking his arm in the direction of the stalls.
“What?” Celegorm’s voice changed.
“He hasn’t even seen him yet. I couldn’t…they couldn’t have that, bastards. Couldn’t have him, before Maitimo—” His voice was snuffed out, perhaps by a rising sob.
Curufin almost scoffed, but held back just long enough to let Celegorm lead.
Celegorm didn’t scoff. He said, “Right you are,” in his gruffest, most sincere tone, and moved towards Maglor, his empty right hand outstretched. “You fighting fit? Not hurt anywhere?” Without waiting for permission, he began patting Maglor’s chest and shoulders, feeling him for wounds.
“I’m all right,” Maglor said. “How goes it up the hill?”
“They could use our help from behind, I think,” said Celegorm, with a grim chuckle. “Will you come with us, Maglor? And you?” This he directed at last, to the friend of Ricketts.
“We’ll come,” Maglor said. “It has been some time now. I do not think another force is coming.”
“Maedhros will be glad you did not leave his horse,” Celegorm said. “He’s always been so precious about that one.”
Curufin’s chest was stiff and tight, now. He was ready to be out in the clear, cold air again.
“Do you hear that?” Maglor said, stepping back to the stalls. “You shall see him again soon. Goodbye for now, good lad.”
“It’s subsiding,” said the friend of Ricketts, who had gone to stand by the door.
Celegorm swore. “They must not end it without us,” he said. “Let us take our share. Together!”