Part 23

“...and his puppet-master, MELKOR!”

As the Dark Lord’s name left the Warrior King’s lips, a stream of dust, like the sand that flows through an hourglass, began falling from the vault above him.

Legolas, still kneeling on the floor, turned to Sighard, “We must get out of here,” he whispered.

“I curse the men who goaded me to ruin,” shouted the Warrior King, shaking his fists skyward. “I curse this place,”—dust began trickling down the walls and pooling on the floor—“that has held me prisoner for so long!”

Unnoticed, Legolas and Sighard pulled back the heavy chairs that Sighard had used to barricade the door, and dragged it open. The Orc guards had disappeared, chased away by the rivers of dust that were running down the stonework, and filling the archways, and threatening to bury everyone alive.

“I curse—”

Eowyn screamed.

Legolas whirled round.

The Warrior King had pinned her to the throne, but her cry had been one of horror, not of fear, for dust was dropping from his hands, and pouring from his contorted features.

Legolas ran to her side.

The Warrior King’s knees had folded under him, and his curse had been abruptly silenced by dust, issuing in gasps from his mouth.

“Come melmenya,” Legolas cried, dragging her clear of the dying man.

He wrapped an arm about her shoulders and, protecting her with his own body, guided her to the door, leading Haldir—carrying Ayleth—and Sighard behind him, over and around the drifts and the sudden avalanches of dust.

As they ran across the gatehouse, the stone floor started to fall away beneath their feet. Just in time, they plunged through a curtain of dust that had once been a portcullis, and tumbled down a heap of dirt that had once been a flight of steps.

Legolas whistled for the horses. “Hurry,” he said, “we must get clear of this valley!”