Saga of Vaenomar Ch5- Hot Soup

For Beruthiel that night passed like a waking nightmare. She could barely convince herself of her situation’s reality or even of her being conscious. Gone for good from her home? It couldn't be possible. What on earth could this rough, secretive race want with her, alive. She almost preferred they had killed her. What really were they going to do to her, she wondered in a daze. Though the thought of escape crossed her mind vividly at least every other minute, it seemed perfectly impossible; at least now. Her hands were bound so tight they were turning purple and she had no strength to move, even less run miles at top speed.
Why was she weak! She cursed and set her jaw, frustrated. Oh...Because she hadn't eaten for two days.
Just then a viscose, meaty smell wafted in the tent and into her nostrils. Her stomach gave a tremendous growl and she groaned, “Why did I have to think of food...” Shivering, she curled up as best she may, elbows holding her empty stomach to comfort its pain. The early sun peeped over the far horizon and through the dense trees to dispel some of the morning chill. Short, stocky shadows began to move about across the Eastern walls of the tent.


By the time noon arrived the camp outside, from what she could hear, was full of commotion and bodies bustling hurriedly about. She sat, stupefied, her head hanging limply on her chest; dreaded thoughts and hopeless plans racing before her eyes. Her stomach roared like the Wailing Hills, but she had ceased paying attention. “Maybe I’ll just die of hunger”, she had told herself with disinterest.

The tent flap being slapped open scared her into a sitting position and she shrunk back against the pole that she was bound to. At first, blinded by the light, she couldn't see who entered, but her sense of smell and aching stomach were bombarded by a siege force of the same odour that had earlier disturbed her. Meaty, brothy and rich: maybe at one time it would have been deemed too coarse, but now she craved it more than her freedom.
The ageing Dwarf walked in a comical waddle over to her and bent down, peering at her while his eyes adjusted to the dark. She noticed a beautifully carved wooden-stump in place of his left leg and a giant iron ladle dangled from his belt.
He poked her with a massive finger, trying not to spill the bowl of now intoxicatingly scented soup. “You alive?” he asked in a low, husky voice.
She shrunk back a bit, but faced him with wide pearly blue eyes.
“Now don’t look so frightened, young one,” he said, the many wrinkles at his eyes creased in a kindly smile, “I’ve not come to hurt you. Here, sit you up, now, that’s a good lass. You’ve not eaten for two mornings and nights and that’s not a bit good for a growing lass like yourself.”
As he spoke he helped her into a more comfortable sitting position and began to spoon-feed her the hot stew, as gently as his big calloused hands could manage.
“Lord Thorin’s never had a child- he’s much too young. But the lad doesn't even remember when he was in your years. You’ve got to eat a lot in order to grow strong and wise.”

She made quick work of the succulent stew and her stomach ceased to rumble. He smiled warmly on seeing her satisfaction and chuckled softly to himself. It had appeared that all her senses had been engaged by the soup and that his ramblings had been lost on her. But she surprised him by her renewed spirit in asking him, “Lord Thorin? Is that his-…my captor’s name?”
“Ai, lass,” replied the cook, “And a noble, much loved lord he is. Though he has yet to acquire his birthright…” his voiced trailed off, seemingly into deeper, gloomy thoughts. He shook his head kindly, “I’m sure he frightened you, dear, as he does all who cross him. But you’ll find he’s as good and loyal a soul as any. If not better.”
The old Dwarf was obviously proud of this Thorin, whoever he was. She snorted, “He was a bit more than frightening.” She squirmed uncomfortably.
He knew that look, “Set your mind at ease, lass. He’ll not harm you. He has a temper….but you’ll soon learn to work around it.”
Being reminded that she was about to lose everything she had once held dear brought tears to the girl’s eyes. She looked away, “Thank you for the soup…sir.”
Seeing the beautiful creature so torn up by sorrow nearly brought tears to the old, weathered Dwarf himself. He cleared his throat, “Now, now! Don’t you start that! Keep up your courage, lass! For I know you possess a lot of it!” He patted her cheek and made her look at him in the eyes. On looking up she saw a tear fall on his white-grey beard, a diamond on a nest of silk.
“It will all turn out alright, dear. It’ll all turn out alright.”
She nodded and bit her lip to hold back the waterfall in her eyes.
His broad smile creased his wisened face once more and, with a soft pat on the girl’s head he turned to go.
“Wait!” she called, in a cracking voice, “What is your name?”
“I am called Voltarag, or Vostroll some use. I am one with doors always open and ever happy to fill a friend’s belly.” He winked at her, incurring a blush, and left the tent.


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As soon as Tairiel, on her stumbling into the camp, had regained enough of her senses and breath to spill the tale of Beruthiel’s absence, the lady Belrien arranged a massive search party of Elves to comb through the huge forest. They knew which way Tairiel had come from but the words ‘Beruthiel’, ‘enemies’, and ‘forest’, were all they could get out of the terrified Elf-maid before she collapsed. A messenger was sent in utmost haste to Tauremith and alerted the city to the girl’s disappearance. From there Belegren sent out as many scouts as he could spare from their posts. They searched far and wide, until eventually many met up with the searchers sent by Belrien from her camp in the woods. No answers to her name, no sound of her footsteps. No sign of any passage of anything but wildlife through the vast forest. Many traversed miles past their borders and a few came even to the edge of the tree line. There was no trace of her. The girls were too good of hunters to leave any trail for anything to track and whatever it was that had snatched her away seemed a keen forester as well. Lady Belrien, on the arrival of the sad news, went out herself, a queen among trackers, and had the same luck.
Once, as she neared the Northernmost edge of the forest she thought she smelled a foreign scent. Belrien scoured the area for anything and everything. Her keen eyes spotted a long, black hair, wiry and coarse, caught on a low branch. After examining it carefully she knew it was no animal’s despite its proximity to the ground. She made her way to the edge of the tree line and stepped into the light. It’s intensity, unveiled by the canopy of trees, hurt her eyes and after a moment of painful squinting into the calm distance she turned back into the shade. Beruthiel was no where to be found. She had vanished. No body, no blood, no broken branches, nothing.


“Dwarves! They were Dwarves. I’m telling you!” cried Tairiel perplexed.
“There are no Dwarves in this area, my dear. You were very, very disturbed when you returned to us. At night orcs or goblins could have looked like the Naugrim.” put forward Belrien as she questioned the young Elf.
Tairiel shook her head, “I know they were Dwarves! I saw them in the light!”
Belrien sighed, “You will have to talk to my brother. He knows more about these things than I. And in the meantime, you are to go home and live with your father. The wild is no place for you now, my dear.”
Tairiel would not argue this. The empty pangs of her heart at missing her friend left her sullen and aimless. If Belrien could not find her, then no one could. She held back the tears as best she may and made to pack her knapsack. She knew what had taken Beruthiel and she knew they were no goblins. They wanted her for a reason, what that was she had no idea. There were no Dwarves here, said Belrien. But there were because she had seen them, been spoken to by them...touched by them! Maybe they were wild Dwarves, she thought. No fortress, no bars to lock her friend up. Her heart almost raised. Beruthiel could escape! If she was very, very careful. And she was smart and strong. Tairiel begged her friend in her heart, “Escape them Beruthiel! Come back to us! I’ll be waiting for you until you arrive…”

Despite the great effort put out by the whole city of Tauremith to find the missing Beruthiel and of Belegren’s far and wide questioning about the existence of Dwarves in these parts, nothing was found: no girl, no traces, no Dwarves. A mourning went up from the city after five weeks of fruitless searching and, though, those closest to her would never cease to grieve, Beruthiel was proclaimed lost to them and prayers offered for her.  

But Tairiel swore she would never give up on her friend. “I will see you again, Beruthiel,” she said softly, with tears in her eyes, as she sat quietly in one of her friend’s favourite haunts.


Belegren, Captain of the Guard, surveyed the forest in his towering perch in the Mallorn tree. Though beset by many cares and worries, his thoughts dwelt on the fate of the young woman who had departed into danger by his assent. He knew it was not his fault, yet he regretted it sorely. “A great power has gone from our lands,” he said grimly to his sister as she joined him in silence. “I have felt it draw farther and farther away. The same power that I felt when Silmarien arrived almost 17 years ago.” Belrien nodded, “I felt it too. We will never see her again…” Belegren peered darkly into the distance, as if searching for an answer on the horizon, “Oh, but we may yet. I do not think she is lost to us forever.” He could not explain why he felt it, nor did his sister ask him to. Belrien said softly, “Where ever she is, I hope she is treated well…”


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A few hours after her served meal Beruthiel was startled out of a much needed sleep by a forceful shake on the shoulder.
“Time to wake up, volkaon!” came the sneering voice of the red haired Bridi. “I see you’ve rested up well for the nice long journey ahead of you!”
She cut the rope from the post and pulled the girl to her feet. Beruthiel followed, as she was commanded. The Dwarf woman had a hold of Beruthiel's rope, and as they exited the tent the change outside struck her.
All the tents, but the one she had just left, were gone and the fires scattered into the dust. She glanced behind her. Her late prison was already pulled down and being rolled up for carrying. The Dwarf-host was readying to depart. The setting sun blazed gold and peach in the West and her guard’s hair looked like fire in the sunset. The Dwarves fell into loose, spread out lines and began to plod off Northwards. She sighed sadly. This was to be her march also, it seemed. Amid those farther ahead she could see the one called Thorin. His long raven hair thrown over his shoulders as he marched onward with the air of a king.
“You,” grunted the Dwarf-woman breaking the girl’s thoughts. “What are you?”
Beruthiel looked down, surprised, “What- what am I?”
“You heard me.”
The girl was confused, “I- I don’t know what you mean.”
Bridi rolled her eyes, “What devilry do you possess that you can summon the elements and nature with a word?!”
Beruthiel was flabbergasted, “I do what??”
Bridi grit her teeth in frustration, “You really have no idea what I’m talking about, stupid child?”
The girl looked about her as if frantically trying to recall something that had slipped her memory. “I…I swear I have no memory of what you’re talking about!”
Bridi sighed, “When Thorin,…when he…”
Beruthiel tagged slowly behind her captor so that Bridi yanked on the rope, “When he was about to take advantage of you!” She turned around and glared at the girl imposingly.
Beruthiel halted in her steps. There was honesty in her wide blue eyes. She shook her head. “I- I remember nothing.”
After a long look at the vulnerable creature before her, Bridi decided she was telling the truth, however odd it seemed, and decided she was sick of holding conversation with the simpering little rat. “Forget it,” she muttered and resumed walking.

Beruthiel’s confusion was soon overrun by the overwhelming realization that she was leaving the woods she had known ever since she could remember, possibly for good. She set her jaw and took a last glance to the South. The image of the fair city and its people she was about to leave behind reared its head like a angry ghost. She could see Tairiel weeping, “Goodbye forever, dear friend.”

Then one last flicker of rebellion sparked in her heart. She glanced at Bridi who, as she walked and intently tried to loosen some knotted strings on her garb, had relinquished her grip on the prisoner’s rope. Without a second thought the tall girl gave one big shove to the unsuspecting Dwarf-woman, sending her sprawling, and took off running into the forest at the breakneck speed of a hart being chased by a pack of wolves.

Behind her she heard Bridi shouting curses and soon the quick tramping of many heavy boots. Beruthiel’s legs were twice as long as theirs, she encouraged herself, and she was used to beating the Elf-youths in sprinting and long distance races.

She didn’t look behind her but pushed forward in blind haste. The pursuing footsteps grew fainter and the forest darker. Her energy well nigh spent, she began to slacken her pace. At a jog she breathlessly worked off the rope on her wrists that impaired her running considerably. Even the light crunching of leaves could give her away, she thought nervously. Halting and holding her breath she listened and peered about. No sound. The forest was silent…and black. She couldn’t see anyone, but she knew that Dwarves had keener eyesight in the dark than any race- besides goblins.

Still trying to catch her breath, and not daring to believe her good luck, she resumed her lope as quietly as possible. The farther she got the better. She’d run till she collapsed and maybe farther, she pushed herself. Every now and then she paused and listened. Still no sound. She had no idea where she was going, or even if she was headed in anywhere close to the right way. That thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Lost in the forest was better than a prisoner. Then she held her breath, still moving.
She thought she heard a twig snap.
Looking behind her she saw nothing. Then 'SMACK!' she collided head-on with something short, solid and heavy. Both fell to the ground from the impact and the girl, though stunned slightly, struggled wildly to rid herself of it. It had hands, strong ones, she soon found out, and grunted and grappled with her fiercely. In a moment she found herself face down on the ground with the weighty body sitting on her back, holding her arms behind her in an inescapable hold. An age-old wrestling trick.
She roared out in frustration and exhaustion as her second-time captor breathed hot air down her neck.
“Caught you!” hissed the familiar gravelly voice.
His coarse beard scratched her soft skin and her arms ached from his grasp of steel. At last she laid her head limply on the ground. In the distance they heard the short footsteps of the rest of the company drawing nearer.
“Almost, child, almost!” he growled.
Her anger lent her newfound courage. “Your short legs move faster than I thought,” she said mockingly.
“They might. But you didn't get very far. They taught you your directions well,” he snorted sarcastically. “You ran in a big circle!”
She swallowed hard.
He felt a tear drop from her cheek onto his arm. He clenched his jaw.
In a low whisper, softly into her ear he said, “You are going to live with us now, duzka. We are your people and you...one of us.” His words carried so much weight that the girl stopped weeping and closed her eyes.
“Whatever your name may have been to the Elves, here, among your new clan, you will be called Vaenomar.”
He pronounced the word so beautifully.
She sniffed and whispered, faltering with soft tears, “What does it mean?”
His voice caressed her. “Beautiful weapon.” He paused, “Someday you’ll understand.”

Thorin’s people soon found them and they bound her, but gentler than before, by order of their lord. He hurried off to the vanguard of the march and Vaenomar, as she was henceforth called, found herself in an escort of two fierce looking Dwarf men bristling with weapons, and in sight of the resentful Bridi at all times.