Naciel’s Run
’Twas the huntsman of the Blessed who found us in the shadowed dells before we knew the West. The Star-Kindler we love best but to Orolim we are grateful; to swift-hunting Uellar, the One Who Rides, we owe great honor. He would not rest until he had gathered what he could of our wandering folk, patient even as we fled him. We were afraid of horn and hoofbeats, for in those twilit days the Enemy hunted us as well, to kill or to enslave…
—The Song of Waking
The sagas tell of what Taeron’s daughter did that night. Some say she was half-insane with grief, others that a vision of the Blessed had laid a divine geas upon her. Still others contend she heard her husband’s voice upon the wind, and meant to seek him out.
All agree, however, that she called upon Orolim the Hunter; all agree there was a light upon her, sparking in the necklace at her throat. A glow rose from its colorless gem, perhaps reflecting the conflagration of Laeliquaende—for the city was utterly wracked with flame now, even the stone of its buildings consumed by unwholesome haugr-fire. Like and unlike the balls of illumination gathering in a swamp was the luminescence from her jewelry, and it bobbed over her head as she ran before bands of orukhar.
The light seemed to entrance them, or maybe they thought her a prize worthy of being taken to the Black Land. For the troops of the Enemy gave chase, legs pumping, their armor creaking with hollow noises as they jogged.
Most of the lich, haugr, and other fell things were still inside the burning city, completing its ruin. Those of the Enemy’s forces net-spread through the valley were stealthier and weaker than their commanders, meant to catch fleeing refugees terrified by sudden betrayal.
A dancing glow was before the Enemy’s thralls, and a sweet voice calling. They forgot their tasks, giving chase, and though it seems near impossible every survivor of Laeliquaende will swear they glimpsed her that night.
Naciel was upon the hills of Kaen-em-Anlas, flitting before a dish-faced, sniffing monstrosity and the detachment of orukhar it guided between hiding-places. Orolim, Orolim, she called, and those hiding nearby took heart, for no thing of the Enemy’s would name the hunter of the Blessed, him they feared almost more than daylight. She drew away the filth, and those fleeing found strength to carry on a little farther.
She was seen in the vast burning vineyards of Tahn Emael, her hair a banner and her feet flashing as mounted ash-pale orukhar sought to trap her. Yet she knew the hills, glades, smaller valleys, and streamlets better than any spy, and stayed just out of reach, mocking them in clear ringing tones.
Along the river Egeril also named Naricie where her lover had won just that morn she was seen, and those who had the presence of mind to slip away in boats felt new strength fill them. They made haste to land where their princess called to them, avoiding the rapids, and found the beaches empty of enemies, the way of escape clear.
The shadowed vale of Tarithin, the rocky moor-expanse of Gilbrannaeth to Laeliquaende’s east, the westron hall of Coraquaende where Taeron oft retreated when the hazy red star of Oroduel rose to mark short midsummer nights—the building now burning, but its light strengthening the glow over her head as she called to defenders and fleeing Elder alike—and yes, even unto the precipice of the Leap she was seen, crying her father’s name over the sound of the whirlpool, dodging aside at the last minute as a group of pursuers mounted upon scaled, vaguely canine horrors could not turn in time and fell from that high place to their doom in the maelstrom-deep below.
Those hiding in the evergreens of Selaan, survivors of the fierce battle to the north of the city where the hardy folk of Anricil the Winemaker stood fast at Tahn Jaelin and refused to retreat even as their sheds and presses burned, numberless Elder fleeing along the white-paved roads, hiding in bushes and mourning burning copses full of trees they had planted, the people of Maedenna in the extreme westron end of the valley—archers of renown, and few indeed survived for even their children took up bows that night—all glimpsed the daughter of Taeron as she mazed their attackers, flickering before stunned orukhar and leading them astray.
The night was long, and lurid with fire. Thrice the princess of the burning city circled its ruin, and ever she called the names of the great huntsman, the god we Secondborn call Uellar. In the dead watches after midnight when the shadow from the north was thickest her voice did not falter; it seemed to the wounded, despairing survivors that hoofbeats answered her call and the gold of her hair gleamed like Vardhra the Star-Kindler’s.
I speak truth when I say the sagas are right, and whoever escaped the fall of Waterstone owes it to Naciel Silverfoot. The orukhar chased her, the sniffing excrescences confused by her appearance or struck with a following madness, refusing to turn aside even as she led them to ruinous plummeting from promontories or miring in riverside mud. Their mounts were unable to run her down, behaving like maddened horses, straying with their helpless riders or galloping until they collapsed, heart-burst.
There was time to use secret ways from the valley, not merely the Hidden Passage but threadlike passes between knife-sharp peaks, well-hidden waterways that Taeron’s foresight—or his daughter’s—had stocked with boats and provisions, stairs cut into rock or tunnels bored into stone. Deep in the counsel of the High-helm was the Watchful, but even he did not know everything, and the Silverfoot ensured a remnant could flee.
Of course many of those given the hope of escape stumbled, or fell to mischance. And there were no few dark things stationed at likely points to forestall their flight—but such was not her concern. The princess did her duty that night, and more.
As the grey of dawn rose she faltered, having circled the entire valley nearly thrice. Amid the rolling hills she slowed, just south of the bleeding, burning city turned to a ruddy glare in silver mist. The name of the Blessed’s horsemaster was husky upon her lips, and a ragged group of mounted orukhar brought her to bay.
The sagas sing of Naciel turning, ready to face her death, tearing the gem from her throat and cursing her pursuers so foully in the Old Tongue the stones of the great road from the Hidden Passage to the gates of the city cracked and blackened. I do not know about that, but I do know what happened next.
Black shadows burst from the rising fog, shaggy forms with mad-glittering, feverish eyes. They closed upon her, and Naciel flung the necklace—the first gift Maedroth the Traitor ever made for his fair cousin, presented upon a day of celebration—past them, its gem giving a final agonized glitter.
But the orukhar were not to have her, for the shadows were neither lich nor haugr, nor any other of the Enemy’s creatures. The wolves of Naras had been busy that night as well, leaping from darkness upon stray ash-pale attackers, foxing the sniffing things with false trails, leading small groups of Elder to safety. They were swift and deadly, for desperation was upon them and their captain perhaps mistook the gleam in the distance for some other woman singing pursuers into thornbrakes and mire.
They took the princess up and bore her away, vanishing into thickening fog as the valley wept for the loss of its inhabitants. Dawn arrived, and the fall was complete.
Laeliquaende was no more.