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The poor young man sat hunched like a beast in a cage, in a cold barnyard alongside all the other slaves. They were all captured from among his people, he guessed - tall and fair as his foster folk the woodland elves, of pale hair or of black, some may even be his kin. But here they were - the newest captives were all kept here, without water for days, and without food for more, obliged to sleep on a thin pile of hay and relieve themselves in a pail in one corner of their cramped quarters like horses in their stalls.

‘What was I thinking?’ thought the young man to himself. ‘I was not thinking. Would that I followed my foster father’s wisdom, and fled to bide my time to fight on a day of better odds, with the aid of more friends and more thought into a plan of attack.’

He felt quite foolish. He had dashed off alone, blind with rage, thinking he could subdue their attackers with ease alone, using naught but his woodman’s ax. He had indeed cut down very many of his attackers, but in the end there were just too many. An enemy whip had wound tight around his arms and body, and then they swarmed around him and grappled him to the ground. They had brought archers in plenty, and laid in wait, and his elf companions despite their quick hands and sure aim had spent their arrows before long and were driven away. Then suddenly he was alone, and he was captured.

Nearby were others, caught thralls who had tried to escape, fresh captures sold to their masters by the roving orcs who found hidden groups of refugees abroad. He turned to one of them caged up next to him. He was a boy with dark hair, not much younger than himself.

“Are you from near to here?” he asked, but the boy just stared at him in fear.

“Quiet!” said another in a whisper. An older man, in whom could be seen the marks of age with white strands salting his hair and lines beginning to appear on his face. “They will hear you!” But the young man was proud, and still unheeding of the danger. He saw that the man had the dark hair of his mother’s people. “Are you of the house of Bëor, good sir?” he asked easily.

But suddenly appeared in the entryway a short stocky man, who walked through the shelter with a bow-legged swagger and a whip in his hand. “Eh!” he barked. “Pipe down, if you know what’s good for you!” And he cast his whip, and struck the newcomer across the knuckles where his hands held the beams. “There’s more where that came from,” the driver growled, “if you care to keep at it.”

The young man glowered, wincing at the fresh blood on his fingers, but in his eyes smoldered the pride of his father’s house. The driver gave a gravelly laugh. “You’ll learn, yellow hair!” he said, “you’ll learn.”

Hours later in the still of the night the older man whispered to him. “You had best keep your head down, young lord,” he said, “unless you would be stuck in there and only ever let out with chain-linked cuffs on each limb.”

Now this new prisoner was not quite fully come of age, but was already quite tall and broad for his years. So between his size and the rage they could see simmering behind his eyes, his captors kept him in his cage for several days longer, and the master and his drivers looked down with gloating pleasure at him crouched in the pen in which they held him. They gave him food and water, but exceedingly little, and for want of it he did eventually simmer down.

And there he sat, already missing sorely with newfound appreciation the hard and wary living he had back in the caves. He thought of his foster people, and wondered how they fared, or if they had even survived the attack. He was willing to wager that they did, for they were keen to flee quickly, and were faster at the bow, while he sprang out and charged, his wrath having long simmered in his heart for the plight of his people and his elf friends. In those first days the early spring breezes of the northern plains of Hithlum kept his humiliating quarters cold, and the mist drifting in from the season’s rains dampened his clothes and made the barn even more miserable. He leaned against the back of his small cell, and rested his head against the wall in defeat.

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One day the rains stopped, and the wind slowed, and the early spring sun shone down onto the new shoots of grass. The miserable young man had been cramped in his tiny quarters for weeks, and was grown gaunt and pale, when they finally brought him out. But he had also taken thought within himself, and resolved to exercise the patience and restraint he should have had when he lost his foster folk, and bide his time.

Now they let him out under restraint, and set him to do the hardest jobs of lifting and digging under close supervision of the drivers. "Get on then, Mulost!" the ganger growled when he finally opened the cage door, "and let us see if you are worth the trouble it took to catch you." For so he had named himself, fearing his true name could swiftly earn him a trip to Angband directly to see the Lord of Darkness himself.

Mulost labored to dig planting rows and catch ponds and little canals. They had him fell trees and chop wood and cart bricks and stones and other loads here and there. It was a hard lot of toilsome labor, and it was not long before he grew very weary. Not a few times did he get the whip again, against the back, or the heels, or the hands again. Other times it was a shove, or kick to the back of the knee, causing him to fall into whatever filth he was shoveling for them. Still other times they would set their dogs to nip and bark and bare their teeth - and more than once he saw some poor soul take a grievous injury from the beasts the master’s men had trained to be as ruthless and savage as they. Punishments were for such crimes as pausing too long for breath, and others just for the pleasure of the master and his drivers. But the young man stayed quiet, and took the abuse, and he kept his head down and kept on working.

For a year he kept this up, laboring from dawn through dusk nearly every day, sometimes to the point of collapsing, taking the punishments in silence, and sleeping cramped and uncomfortable in that large cage. But he was fantastically strong, and despite his near constant weariness could complete a lot in one day. And he was careful not to speak to any of the others, though he often did what he could to cover the weaker and smaller folks among the slaves, to spare them the drivers’ cruelties. Finally one day he was told to report to the bunkhouses set aside for the slaves, rather than back to the cages in the barns.

That was a welcome change. It had doors, and wooden floors, and wooden cots with woolen blankets. After Mulost had got himself washed up in the evening as usual he lay down - finally able to lie fully stretched out after these many months. He cradled the back of his head in his hands and stared up at the ceiling as he waited for sleep to come, thinking of the things such experiences as the past year of his life will make you appreciate. His mind drifted back to his upbringing and his foster family. He wondered where they were, if they were even still alive, whether they had made it safely over the roads of Beleriand to the Havens or if they had been captured by Orcs and taken as slaves to the enemy's mines. In that moment of relative comfort and quiet he suddenly realized how deeply he missed them, and in that dark room as the deep night drew on outside he wept in silence, and finally fell asleep.

*.*.*

The next day to his surprise he received a lighter duty: construction and maintenance of the houses and other structures. Though still weary work it was far easier than all the digging and carrying (though his strength had grown much because of all that). And for this, work would often end earlier in the day, and when the heights of the gray mountains standing tall to the east glowed in soft pinks and lavenders in the waning sun at dusk Mulost often found himself gazing wistfully toward the land of his upbringing, wondering if any of his friends and foster folk had retreated back to that place after the attack.

For his diligent and obedient service he was now also rewarded with bigger meals, with better, more varied contents, an even more welcome change after those many long miserable months with bowls of cold thin gruel or small loaves of stale bread. He would often pocket bits of the meat, and began tossing pieces to the dogs when the masters and their gangers were not looking, at the time with only the thought of sparing himself the threat posed by the master’s beasts. But for the most part he was still kept under close supervision, and at this more privileged and relaxed position the other slaves were even more wary of speaking to each other. And so he continued on, keeping his head down as always, rendering his bows and courtesies to the drivers and gangers and their masters.

More days and weeks and months passed by, and it was a lonely existence, and only the dogs would give him any attention of friendship and affection. The Easterlings who now ran the region would collect more slaves now and then, other older ones were worked to the death, and workers who were defiant were cruelly injured or worse, and he saw that not a few of the women from his people had been taken to wife by force, and new captures of young men were obliged to endure the barn cages as he once had. Mulost would many times feel the anger rise back up in his heart, and it would take all the power of his will not to lash out and fight them all and burn down their master’s house. (Indeed he often wondered to whom this estate had originally belonged, for the other Easterlings would set up their own tents and huts nearby, and they were clearly not of the same craftsmanship.) But deep down he knew the time was not ripe, and he would push these thoughts and feelings to the back of his mind, and kept on laboring in silence and submission.

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Mulost had been working at the estate of Lorgan the Easterling chieftain for over two years now. Every so often his workload would lighten even further, and when minor tasks were within the grounds of the master’s estate such as repair or tending the animals, the now much grown young man found he had earned a place of enough trust that he would at times for short whiles be left alone or even in charge of some of the newer captives. For some of the gangers employed by Lorgan who managed the affairs of their master’s little realm were less cruel and more tolerable than others, and he worked so well and with such diligence and quiet that they were comfortable to take their eyes off him every so often. And so for a while the lot of Mulost grew somewhat more tolerable.

Still new slaves from among his people captured in battles or got in trade with the Orcs would be driven hither now and again, and he would watch their evil treatment by the cruelest of Lorgan’s captains. Many of the weaker or more defiant died from their labors, and the elders were starved and the maidens dishonored. And he never forgot that his father and kin and friends were once the lords of this land, which had been seized by the enemy in his conquests and handed in stolen gift to these wicked people. So even in times of the easiest labor in the fairest weather, the fiery pride in his heart still blazed bright as the unfailing lamps of the Noldor in their enduring radiance, never for a moment fading or faltering.

That third year wore on and was coming to a close, and winter was approaching again. So one day several of the able men were led out into the forest for the felling of trees for the stores of lumber and firewood. The slavers brought with them those whom they judged both the hardiest and the most subdued, to whom they felt safe handing over the hazardous tools for the chopping and cutting. The crew was roused and assembled well before dawn, and once out in the woods Mulost labored continuously with his ax, quiet and compliant, from the dark hour before first light until the sun was sinking large in deep burnished gold through the trees toward her rest for the day. All the while that he swung and sawed he kept a watchful eye on the others including those in charge (who numbered three for the lot of them), his hidden thoughts at work as he toiled. Through the early parts of the day their bosses were on guard: one stood with a bow and arrow ready, and another strolled around with a club and an exaggerated swagger among the slaves just to bark orders and abuses at them, with their leader in turn standing smug and serious amid all the gear and animals, keeping calm surveillance on the scene around him. But by late afternoon the laborers were much spread out in the woods, setting to the last of their chopping for the day, and Mulost saw that the three in charge were now resting unheeding, sitting together on a set of cut logs. The shadows were reaching and the light grew dim when Mulost drug up a great tree trunk to the scene, to set in the pile for the men to load for transport in the largest carts. But then for a moment he stood there over it, holding his ax, his gaze at the ground as his thoughts worked themselves up into a frenzy within his mind. Then he turned and stepped up to the drivers idling, joking and laughing at their ease. He looked down at them in expressionless silence, and after a few moments they noticed him. 

"Oy then, what's this?" said the archer crossly.

"Dare you approach without order, slave!" growled the comrade with the swagger. Their weapons were resting nearby against the logs on which they were sitting. 

The leader looked up, at first thinking little of it, but deep within him stirred a growing wariness. Then finally Mulost spoke. Cold and calm he said, “This is for the House of Hador." Then strong and swift he raised up his ax. That blink of a moment, thick with confusion then realization then anticipation then expectancy but in which there was naught to be done having no time to react, felt to have slowed to a crawl, as one might imagine the elves perceived the life of Middle-earth around them, so swift and yet so interminable at the same time. He swung. A moment later there was a great thud that came echoing in their ears like the slam of a battering ram against a mighty wooden door. The archer fell over into a heap onto the ground, as his head rolled away from where it had fallen after it flew, grumbling like the sound of threatening thunder as it went until stopped by the trunk of a tall oak nearby. 

His comrade by now had processed what was happening, and jumped to react in his alarm as the blood pooled by his feet. But his captive was too swift and too strong and too ready for him. Before the second driver could reach his club he too was slain, with a cleave swung straight down overtop. Then the leader, quicker and cleverer, took his moment and jumped away, pulling the large knife at his belt. "You'll pay for that, wretch!" he barked with a gravelly snarl, "when I lay hands on you!"

Then the young man laughed defiantly. Out in the woods the other slaves scattered here and there heard the strangest and most hopeful sound they had heard in many years, which lifted their spirits like the sound of elven chimes cutting through the dreary gloom of the enemy’s shadow as it lay heavy over the lands and hearts of Hithlum. 

"You rats of Morgoth need catch me, first!" he cried. "Never will you again, for I am Tuor son Huor! And I shall return to avenge my father, and take back the lands of my people!" Then the rebel leapt at his captor, who jumped away again just in time. The slaver’s confidence - so assured by the absolute power he wielded mercilessly over his charges - suddenly drained from him, giving way to the wellspring of fear that rose up within and swiftly conquered him. He cowered at the rage blazing like white fire in the wide mad eyes of his assailant, but as the ax swung again the driver sprang back stumbling, then scrambling to his feet he turned and fled. Tuor chased after him, but only a few paces, and stopped for a moment to watch his enemy dart away. Looking around he saw that the other slaves were still spread far out through the woods. Some of them had seen the incident, but they simply stood and stared in their astonishment, too fearful to either help or hinder him. So he turned back, and fetching his pack and coat from the pile of all their things he came to the scene of the crime, and filled his bag with as much food as he could find from the supplies of the drivers. Then he relieved the archer of his bow and arrows, and he ran. 

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Tuor shot away like a deer through the woods, away from the estate of Lorgan which had been his home for the past three years. The sun set as he raced along, and darkness fell over the woods. It was not long before he heard the barking of the master's hounds a ways behind, whom they had sent ahead in the hunt for him. He pushed himself even faster, speeding onward through the night. But the skies along the eastern mountains were beginning to lighten at the approaching dawn, when the dogs caught up to him. At that point he at last was growing weary of the chase, and stopped to catch his breath. The beasts finally reached him, but they gave no threat or aggression, for after the years of lavishing them with secret treats they favored him, and now sought only for the kindness and affection which they did not find in their masters. Tuor crouched down to greet them, and laughed softly as he fished a handful of dried meat from his pocket and distributed it to them.

"Off you go, my friends!” he said to them. “Go on now back to your masters." He gave a sharp whistle, gesturing the way they had come, and after a moment’s pause for their grief at parting, they darted away toward home.

With a smirk he stood back up, and continued on. He felt confident to slow his pace now, alternating between speedy walking and a good jog, through the rest of that day as he veered eastward toward his childhood home. Evening came again, and now he was growing very weary. But he feared to stop, and slowing his pace a bit more he kept walking at a fast pace, on through another night. He was approaching the foothills of the Mithrim Mountains when at last his exhaustion overtook him, and he cast himself into a bank of leaves and promptly into a sound sleep. 

Tuor had rested only a few hours when he woke again, stirred by the chill that set in at the coldest hour before dawn. He sat up in a start, looking warily from side to side for any signs of his enemies. But all was quiet, even the birds and other creatures that normally stirred at night. Even so, he jumped back up, and shortly resumed his flight. He kept on moving southeast through the woodlands for days, and when nightfall came he kept going, to cross the stretches of open fields by cover of night. When dawn approached he would find a thicket of brush in which to rest hidden, then resume his march again at sunset. In this manner he slowly made his way toward the range of mountains that ran alongside the lowlands of Hithlum to the east. Upon finally reaching the foothills, he followed the line of the mountains southward for a few nights more, until at last he came within sight of the fair lake tucked up into the broad valley between the Shadow Mountains and the Grey. It was a welcome and heartening sight, and he stopped to stare at it, stung with a flurry of bittersweet memories, and he sighed wistfully with relief at the joy of returning to it after three years of cruel captivity.

He came to the shores of the large lake, and stopped to wash himself up. He found that he felt quite at ease here, judging it in his heart to be safe, though he could not quite say why. Perhaps there were still elves left in these parts indeed, he thought to himself. Though it was still the bright of day, he decided to rest again, and found a little cove guarded by tall cliff walls, where he remembered his foster folk once taking him as a child. There was a little stone beach amid the boulders that could be reached only by scrambling along this precarious section of lake shore. No orc was likely to ever find him here, so at last he set down, gazing at the bright gleam of the water as he was warmed by the comfort of old memories, and finally he fell asleep.

Awakening in late afternoon, Tuor sat up and stared out at the pale purples and blues of the Gray Mountains reflected in the little rippling waves of the lake’s peaceful surface. He remembered when his foster folk would bring him here as a child, and taught him to fish and to swim, and they would tell him stories of when they lived at ease by its shores, when the high elf king Fingolfin still ruled the region from his seat off to the north, and kept these lands protected. Tuor wished deeply that he had the power that king had wielded, and the hope that it could give him to wrest from his enemies the lands of his father's people. But that king was gone, perished in single combat with the Dark Ruler of Angband himself. What a spectacle that fight must have been! Most of the other high elves of his kingdom were gone now too - lost in the great battle in which his own father had also perished as he fought to defend the retreat of King Turgon, the elf king not lost in hiding.

Turgon. The name echoed around in his mind once he recalled it. His foster father Annael had told him Turgon would still be alive, behind the high walls of his hidden kingdom. Tuor’s father gave his life to protect that elven king, surely King Turgon would hear his plea, and help retake these lands of his father’s people? Surely Turgon would desire to avenge the fall of his own kin, Fingolfin the fallen elf king?

Tuor’s thoughts continued to wander so as he got up from his little hiding spot and made his way back to his route along the shore. It had been a long time since he had last thought of Turgon, not since he was last with his foster folk. The years of toil in hopeless captivity had driven the name far from the front of his mind for a long time. But now it returned anew to occupy his thoughts, and his mind was filled with the question of where to find the lost elven king. 

At last he came close to what he sought, high up in the hills of the mountains that rose up to tower over the western end of the lake. He knew the way, and soon enough had found the entrance to the caves in a narrow dell between a pair of spurs stretching out through the foothills, where a view could be found over the plains of Dor-lómin, the lands of his people now overtaken by the enemy’s servants.

There was little hope to find anyone still here in the caves, but a part of him clung to it anyway, and he rushed up eagerly through the maze of boulders to the hidden entrance of his childhood home. The sun was waning in the western sky, and streamed in soft burnt orange rays through the opening in the stone walls of the hills. Finally passed through, and went inside.

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Within the cave was cool and very quiet. So quiet in face that Tuor soon found the silence quite unsettling. His nerves began to rise and his attention grew alert as his hands nervously clasped his axe, ready for some hidden foe to emerge, even if it be only some hunting beast of the forest. Carefully he crept in, keeping his steps short and light as he could manage, and continued down through the walkways of the caves which extended quite far. Every so often he let out a sharp and soft little whistle, but each time no sound of any kind sort returned in answer. He came to a very dark place where the sun couldn’t reach, and let out another whistle, then suddenly he heard a shuffling sound. His grip tightened around his ax handle as he stepped forward, when suddenly a deep tapping sound was in his ears, and some unknown thing was brushing against his face. One hand flew up to reach it, but it was gone, and then it was quiet again. He sighed and his shoulders slumped forward in relief. Bats. Just the ordinary little creatures who also made homes out of caves such as his.

Satisfied that no one was home, Tuor walked back out to the cave entrance, and set his things down just inside the door. Besides these few small critters now squatting in the space, no one at all was here, not even a lonely spirit tarrying in vain as it resisted call to the halls of Mandos. In his mind he always knew not to expect anyone to be here, but he still wished very deeply to see them again and his heart had held hope for it anyway. But now his heart fell, and he hung his head and sat in silence for a long while, wondering what could have become of his foster people. He did not know if they survived the battle in the woods those years ago, and could only hope that they had finally made it safely to the havens far south of here.

Tuor set up his things to make his camp here in his old empty home. Despite the empty quiet of these parts, he was comforted at least that after the years of cages and shackles and whips and barks by man and hound alike, he was finally free of the company of his captors. The westering sun had not set just yet, and he wandered back outside. He strayed back downhill a while, and looked out over the lowlands stretching out far before him as the sun set over them. He thought again of Turgon, and his old, long-held idea of seeking out the elven king for help in retaking the greater region of Hithlum. As the shadows of the bare trees steadily grew longer he gazed at the rolling fields gleaming in the pale flaxen color of the winter grass against the burnt orange sun, and remembered the words of his foster father Annael regarding the secret Gate of the Noldor. Tuor scanned the landscape, surveying the nooks and cracks and dells of the hills and ridges, wondering if it lay somewhere in reach of his sight. He had not yet forsaken hope for the deliverance of his homelands, and in his heart he resolved to do whatever it took to find the gate, and find the hidden realm of Turgon.

But it was late in the season, and he was very weary after many days in flight from his captors, not to mention the years of hard toil. So there in the caves he rested as his mood recovered and he sought to let the past few years fall behind him into a distant memory. He went out, foraging what he could in the chill of late autumn, feeling secure enough to collect fuel for a fire, and even fashioning a little broom with what he could find, to create some semblance of a lived-in home that was maintained and cared for. Then for a long while he would venture out simply to hunt and gather, and made for himself a lonely humble living up in the hills.

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The slopes of the hills grew gentler as he strayed from the heights back down toward the lowlands of Dor-lómin rolling away before him. Tuor went along weaving a path between the trees of the woods through the night, his full pack on his back and his weapons in his hand. He always left the caves with everything he still owned, or at least all the useful things that he had managed to carry with him when he fled his captors, should he suddenly chance to find the hidden gate, especially if he might be far from his old caves when he did. In the more remote corners of the mountain foothills he would continue on by day, investigating every little cave entrance and narrow crevasse that he came across, at times trekking for days in this manner before stopping to sleep. He climbed up and down the high hills hugging the mountain feet searching, for some sign or sight, unsure of even what it could be.

At times in the night he would chance to pass through a woodland glade or an open meadow. Then he would pause under the moonlight to gaze up at the stars, thinking of his foster folk, and of the Noldor and King Turgon. Sometimes he would even linger long enough to wonder wistfully about his people and his parents, on what they might have looked like and what their temperaments were, how lovely their homes might have been once upon a time and how well the land was tended and grazed contentedly by the herders and gatherers and farmers. Annael had told him somewhat of such descriptions of them, but words contained less knowledge than witnessed experience first hand, and in his lonesome wandering Tuor wondered if the spirits of Men might find each other with ease in whatever place they went after their bodies had died.

Another dawn was breaking when Tuor suddenly found he had discovered a hidden little ravine that cut deep between close-set mountains. It was narrow and quite hard to see unless you came close upon its entrance, and it seemed within it was nearly like a tunnel: bathed in shade almost the whole of the day except when the sun was directly above its opening. In hope he continued on, climbing down into it until he came to the stony bed of a weak little creek that barely flowed even in late spring when the melting snows filled the mountain streams with so much water they turned into rushing little rivers of dangerous rapids and swelled the lowland rivers to flooding. He followed the calm quiet stream along its rocky bed for a couple of days, deeper and deeper until it became a deep cleft in the mountains so narrow and shaded it was dim even at midday. Finally he found the source of the stream, where a little spring bubbled out of a fissure in the rocky broken feet of a cliff face, where it was joined by a trickle of a waterfall coming down from its glacier somewhere on the peaks high above. The warm and humid air allowed thick blankets of moss to grow over the boulders, and all manner of smaller critters from frogs and toads to beetles to voles took refuge here beneath the broad leaves of crawling vine plants to nurse their new young. Small birds of various kinds had their nests set up in the crags of the stone walls of the ravine, and they all made quite the symphony of song as they went about their little lives. It was a fair and enchanting spot to find, but, he soon realizedcit was another dead end, one of several he had now come across. He sighed, and turned around, making a good march back out of the little valley before stopping to rest for the night.

Tuor made no fires that night, indeed it was rare he ever made one when he was out and about and far from his lonely home in the caves. But he managed to find a small stretch of a mossy bank under an overhang of a cliff behind a wall of large boulders behind which to rest hidden. So he set down his things under the leaning stone wall, and put out his roll upon it, laying down his  pack as a pillow. It was a fine fair evening, and got himself comfortable, lying back to catch a narrow glimpse of the stars. He was just beginning to doze off to the sound of the crickets and the frogs giving their nightly performance when he smelled a fire burning from somewhere not very far away. It was mingled with the scents of meats roasting over it, he soon discerned. Tuor opened his eyes back up, scanning around the sky’s horizon as he could. Sure enough he soon saw a thin pillar of smoke rising up from somewhere outside the ravine where he lay. Unless by some fortuitous and unlikely chance it was elves, then enemies were close, he thought to himself, too close, and he should definitely go investigate it. So Tuor got back up, leaving his pack and sleeping gear but taking up his weapons, and crept up out of the little cleft gorge. Quietly in the night he stole through the woods that climbed up to the edge of its bank.

The smell led him along, as the skies grew darker and the stars emerged distant yet comforting, to the sight of soft glow lighting the way ahead. The sound of voices soon came to his ears. As he crept closer he could distinguish burley voices of the sort of huntsman from which he had recently fled, and the rough gravelly voices of another sort of enemy: orcs. Ahead he saw  a small clearing where there were several figures standing around the fire. There were Men, one hunched over the fire, tending to its size while getting the evening cooking along, another couple setting up their small bivy tents.

He had found an encampment of Easterlings. It was not unlikely they were out here tasked to hunt for him. They were in conference with a band of Orcs, conducting some sort of trade exchange, and the Orcs were getting ready to move off again. Tuor surveyed the camp. ‘Not too many,’ he thought to himself. Both groups were small - there were in total less than a dozen. Waiting until the Orcs moved off would give him a greater advantage over the other Men, but they might be alerted to his presence before they got too far from the firelight, and he would have to worry about dealing with Orcs and their keen sense of smell in the dark. As he was just one, better to take them all on now, he told himself, and thus begin his personal war for Hithlum. So he gathered himself up, setting his axe and his bow in positions most ready for use, and scanned his opponents to form his plan of attack. He waited until they were calmest, deep in the middle of a trade discussion while their comrades rested and ate. Finally he jumped out, crying “Hador!” with his axe swinging at the idlers sitting closest to the fire, and before their comrades could react he had unslung his bow and arrows were flying. In just a few moments all of his enemies were dead, and he stood over the pile of the slain. Not a small part of him was rather pleased with himself, as though he finally finished the battle that he started when he was captured three years ago. He looked at the array of enemies laying across the little clearing.

“This is just the beginning,” he said to them, and began his labors to relieve his enemies of useful items such as food and arrows and other tools, then lay them into two groups over which he constructed hasty cairns. The remainder of their things for which he found no use he piled up onto the fire pit and let the flames do the rest. Finally he went on his way back north, toward his home in the cave to rest.