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“I read the official account at the time,” I say, and I recall it, not needing to close my eyes to bring the page up in my mind – it is a useful talent, though not one that makes friends, “a small party of British soldiers – led, I suppose by you – became lost. Trapped over winter in a village up in the hills – snow cut you off. It seemed unlikely, but – the exigencies of territory are hard to predict from maps.”
“Particularly in that part of the world,” Elrond puts in, always keen to show his local knowledge – though it is many years since he was out there. Many years that he has been playing the happily married country gentleman, and glad I am of it.
I incline my head, accepting the comment.
“Particularly in that part of the world,” I agree, and then, “however, finding yourselves in such a place for a number of months – and it was not entirely clear why you were trapped, against orders you – consolidated – your position.”
He smiles.
“Made friends, became part of the scenery. Built the damn road. Do you really want the full version?”
He narrows those blue eyes,
“And am I speaking to friends – or to an official inquiry?”
I shrug.
“Statute of limitations,” I say, “decades ago now. Back in the last century even. This is the modern age, the Edwardian era. We do not ask difficult questions like that – after all – few mortals even survive. Besides,” I add, quietly, the shades of an old argument haunting me, “I do not now work – and I am not like to report to others.”
He nods, an uncharacteristic grimness on his face.
“Plenty of elves did not survive either, not that Whitehall would notice,” then sighs, and begins.
It would have been late in the year – winter draws in early up there, you know – but the orders had come through – the road was to be built by spring, and, of course, the locals were now friendly.
Yes.
Very friendly.
All the time there was enough in it for them, enough wine – there are Silvans up there you know, and living surrounded by the – whatever sect it is – mortals who do not drink – they are willing to promise much.
Still. Silvans are as they are – and do not repeat this to Oropher, or his prickly young son – I know they keep up the old ties, especially now he is laird of so many highland acres, so many desolate moors and rain-drenched trees – but – you cannot trust a Silvan once the wine is gone. They are not – not malicious – they simply – do not think ahead, they do not mean anything by their words.
So.
Winter closing in, the Silvans less than useful allies – and still a pocket of orcs on one side, a nest we could not seem to finish – and two packs of Men to deal with. One – what is it – Malots, one Khyee-Kheens. I don’t pretend to know the difference – you know how it is with Men – one thing one day, another the next, easy come, easy go – but still. There were differences alright – about the only thing they could agree on, far as I could find out, was that they had no time for us – us British, us elves – seems the Silvans had been so ready to throw in with us because that too was a – what do they call it – blood-feud.
Barbaric creatures, Silvans.
Comes of living out in such wild country – so many of them barely make it to a century – they don’t grow into wisdom.
“More dangerous, less wise,” Elrond interjects, and I sigh, silently.
Yes, thank you. An aphorism.
So.
There we were. Snow falling, stuck in this – fort – they called it. Remains of a fort would have been closer, perched on a bluff – visible for miles. Could see for miles as well – but not with the weather we were having, even my Silvans were no use.
They don’t like snow, Silvans. Well, what elf does, truly, but – they like trees, they like to blend in with the plants, and stones, and – I don’t know – some weird backwoods stuff – they talk to them.
Or claim to.
So – snow falling – it worries them.
As for my Men – well. They were just – cold, and worried the food was running short. Don’t like cold and hunger, Men – well, you’d know that, with your blood.
Normally, of course, I’d’ve sent my Silvans out – one thing they are good for, is sneaking around – finding supplies where you’d swear there was nothing fit to eat – they know how to cook up all kinds of things – and they aren’t too fussy about thine and mine, if you know what I mean. But with the snow coming down – they were no use to me.
Neither use nor ornament, in weather like that.
Things were starting to look a bit – tight – Malots, I think it was, close on one side, Khyee-Kheens watching on the other – Silvans rapidly heading into a blue funk – don’t tell Oropher I said that, and the Men – just plain blue with cold.
Still, I thought, just sit it out, we’ve been in tighter spots before – no damn silly Lords here to order suicidal attacks, so – just sit it out.
Only I’d forgotten the damn orcs, hadn’t I?
There’s me, thinking – only a couple of days, I know the relief’s behind us, one of the old Highland regiments. I know they have more Men, more proper elves – fighting Noldor – food, ammo, all that – just wait it out.
Bloody orcs.
Set on them – ambushed – they didn’t stand a chance.
Some of them made it – that, whatsisname – Gildor’s son – he was one of them – captain, or something. Highest ranking left – this was before he’d gone off wandering – when that family still knew the meaning of the word duty. Anyway. So, there I am, and now – not just my lot to look after, but these stragglers as well – and no more damn backup to expect. Not for months.
Well.
No good expecting – what is that lad’s name – no good expecting him to come up with any ideas – still wet behind his little pointy ears, he was. Nice enough, but – no use.
Not that I’ve a lot of time for his father, for that matter.
Anyway.
His sergeant starts on at me, about how now they’re here, shouldn’t his captain be in charge like – being as how he is regular Army, not the – Specials – shouldn’t he be making the decisions?
Be fair to the lad, he didn’t like that any more than my boys did – he could see he was out of his bloody depth.
Still. Butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth – probably bloody wouldn’t have neither, way the mercury was dropping – and, oh yes, sir, now you say, of course, sir, what would your orders be sir?
Look on the poor lad’s face.
Fortunately – just about then, bloody Malots started attacking once more. Among all the fuss, the protocol got a bit – forgotten, as you might say. Once they’d been repelled – and for all their oddities, Silvans are damn good in a fight – I took the lad – damn’d if I can remember his name though – off to the corner tower. Show him the well – that was my excuse, that and pay his respects to young Rupert. Poor bugger’d been cut up something horrid – and with the ground like it was we couldn’t bury him.
Still, we’d done well that he was the only one we’d lost from our company – shame it was one that young – Gildorion – knew.
Lad went pale as cheese when he saw him.
Been through a couple of battles by that time, but it’s never the same as when they’ve laid there a day or so.
We stood there by the body, and he – I’ll give him his due – he desperately trying not to chuck, or to let on his teeth were chattering – and I say,
“You’re in command then, sir. What would you say were the main objectives – what the lads need most?”
He shivered a bit more, and then – doing his best, I’ll say that for him,
“Food – warmth – a way out of this mess, I don’t know, Glorfindel – sir, I shouldn’t be in charge here, and you know it, and I know it – and all your lads know it too.”
I could hear the fighting starting up again, so I just grinned at him, and he – poor little lad – went awfully pink – don’t know what he’d heard about me, but at the time it made me smile, and then,
“Very good, sir, food and warmth and a way out,” I say, and salute, and – and then a lucky shot comes a bit close, and the lantern’s dropped.
Course, in all the confusion, and darkness, it was a while before they missed me, I suppose.
We exchange looks. Elrond asks,
“Maybe we are being obtuse, but – what did you do?”
He sighs.
What do you think I bloody did?
Lord Tulkas help me. Let a ploughman plough, but choose an otter for swimming, a Silvan for running light over grass and leaf – and for being – what is the admirable word Men use – stalky – me.
One thing I had learnt – those bloody Men – they have no honour, no honour at all – the worst of them are like orcs in this – they marked their kills.
Rupert – poor little sod – was doing sterling work, in his own fashion – under his body was the stairs down to the back door of the tower – built for some – ahem – extra-curricular comfort for a long-gone commander, I daresay. Well – you know what superstitious fools Men and Silvans are – I knew with him there, they wouldn’t think to investigate. So, off I go, sneaking, one might call it.
Malots used a horrid sickle mark to the chest – that was what Rupert had, I remember. Khyee-Kheens – for the life of me, I don’t recall. Still, I knew then – and it was easy enough to bring down a few of each, and mark ‘em.
Gutted a couple more as well.
Just to be sure they didn’t get too blasé about the orcs.
Then back to the tower, hello Rupert, and report to Gildorion – who had missed me by then, and was, frankly, shitting himself, wondering how he was going to explain to the Service – and I suppose, to his Ada – how he had managed to lose a commander of the Specials. Not to mention someone his precious Ada owes a blood-debt to – no, I know, we don’t talk about that anymore.
Poor Gildorion.
I remember just – grinning at him – and saying – your orders, sir, were to obtain food and warmth, and start planning a way out of this Valar-deserted mess.
Look on his face.
Poor little sod.
Anyway, those – Men – found what I’d done soon enough.
We could hear the howling from inside the fort – loosed on each other they were.
Pretty clear they weren’t going to be in any state to notice a few elves sneaking about, as only elves can sneak.
Took some of the Silvans – my Silvans – oh they’re superstitious little sods, but – show them a bit of leadership and they’re not so bad. Besides, they respect anyone who can drink them under the table – and by then they knew that about me, if nothing else.
So, namarie Rupert, and off we go.
Stalking.
Came back with enough liberated grain and sheep to feed the Men, and reprovision them all.
Malots and Khyee-Kheens – well, they got too worked up, too busy with each other.
We heard the orcs come out, take advantage of it – and a more gruesome sound I don’t wish to hear.
Almost felt guilty – then I looked at Rupert, thought of the letter I was going to have to write – looked at Gildorion, imagined having to write to his rod-up-the-arse of an Ada – and – well.
They only got what they’d have loosed on us, if they’d had the wit to think of it.
He shrugs.
Long and short of it – three days later, all was pretty quiet. Men had cleared off, orcs were – busy.
Gildorion led his lads, and my Men, out of there. Back to regions civilised – or near enough – and my Silvans and I – well.
It was a long winter. Not so many Malots and Khye-Kheens left by the end – and those as were – were glad enough to lick the hand of friendship next time it was offered.
We finished off the orcs, in the end.
Didn’t tell the tribes that, of course. Let them think we were the only thing keeping them safe. Needed them to build that damn road, y’see.
Elves don’t do that sort of thing – least, Silvans don’t. They can’t. Don’t have the minds for it. Ask a Silvan to lay a couple of slabs in a line – and they’ll wander off, singing, after they’ve done one. Good fighters, trackers, but civilised arts – no. They just don’t have the brains for it.
Like elflings really.
Mind, some of them are – pleasant company.
He takes a mouthful of whisky, and winks at Elrond. I suppose I am not meant to understand the implication.
Anyway. That's about all of it.
But next time I hear from the Politicals, that the native tribes are ready to work with me – well. I shan’t be so fast to believe it, that's all.
Shame you aren’t still in with the Service, Celebrian, he adds. Put in a word or two in the right ear – make some of them think a bit.
I smile, slow, and thoughtful.
I know the elf who runs that branch now, I say. Took over from – did you know him – ‘Pussy’ Abanazar. Erestor, his name is.
I’ll introduce you.
He nods.
Remember ‘Pussy’, he says, he was not so bad, as those types go. What’s this one called then – Erestor’s too much of a mouthful for every day.
I shake my head,
He’s not the type for nicknames, I say, grammar school boy, I think.
Glorfindel grins.
Well, if he’s the successor to ‘Pussy’, then – I shall have to call him ‘Kitten’, he says.
I look forward to that.