((Meanwhile...))
Wulf rode through the Lone Lands, his thoughts conflicting, as usual. Leaving his horse at the Forsaken Inn, it took little questioning to verify that Phindor was still standing vigil over the destroyed watchtower on Weathertop.
Quite the reputation your "father" is accruing for himself, far away from the real battle, isn't it? came the sneering tones of Feondwulf.
Speak not of that which you do not understand, Wulf snapped back in the privacy of his head. Advances cannot be made without a formidable rearguard... and few and far between are the orcs that could hope to stand against my father. The Lone Lands are all the safer for his efforts.
Wulf continued to make his way cautiously over the scrub-covered hills, avoiding the orc camps with ease. Before long, he stood at the foot of mighty Amon Sûl. His eyes darting about warily, Wulf began the ascent.
It was quiet... too quiet.
In a flurry of movement next to him, a murder of crows flashed into the air, a blur of darkness against the stone of the mountain. Wulf swore and pulled his weapons from his belt. Now any evil hiding on the hill would know of his presence.
It didn't take long for them to arrive.
With fell cries that quickly turned to screams of pain and panic, a pack of goblins rounded a bend in the path. Wulf leapt to meet them, his axe scything red streaks of death through their ranks, his mace a whirling blur of light and agony, splintering bones and strewing broken corpses to each side of the path. In a heartbeat, the first four were slain. The last living goblin, having avoided the first onslaught, threw aside his weapons and ran for it. Wulf dropped his mace to the ground and buried the gore-spattered blade of his axe in the earth at his feet, struggling to free his bow... but too late.
Cursing his lack of speed, Wulf knelt and retrieved his weapons, running after the goblin. Rounding the bend, he found himself suddenly face to face with a pack of orcs, the goblin hiding behind the largest. The leader, a huge war-captain wielding a hideous lochaber axe, grinned unpleasantly. Wulf narrowed his eyes.
Suddenly the captain thrust out the arm wielding the ghastly weapon. "ATTACK, WORMS!!!"
As Wulf braced himself for the collision, a new voice rang out.
"Thy days are done, filth of Mordor! Come, face thy deaths!"
The charge faltered, the warcaptain spinning about to look back up the mountain. Standing in the middle of the path, the starlight glinting off his armour, a mighty shield in his left hand, a faintly glowing battlehammer in his right, stood Phindor. His eyes were narrowed, the icy blue sparkle now a cold gleam.
The warcaptain's face became instantly suffused with rage and hatred. "KILL HIM!! FORGET THE OTHER, I WANT ICE-EYES' HEAD!!!"
Wulf leapt to aid his father, but there was little need. With mighty blows of his hammer and shield, Phindor smote the orcs as they came at him, his weapon punching holes through armour and bone with equal facility. The warcaptain grew ever more incensed as his followers were hewn down with little difficulty, and when he could take no more, raised his axe above his head and charged at Phindor with a howl of rage.
Phindor stepped in under the blow, and, kneeling, raised his shield over his head and shoulder. As the warcaptain fell over him, Phindor stood, flipping the massive orc over himself. The flailing captain lost his grip on the axe, which went pinwheeling over the side of the mountain, and landed hard on his back with all the wind knocked out of him.
With practiced ease, Phindor spun, and with a smooth motion, flattened the warcaptain's skull against the unyielding rock of the path.
Grinning, Wulf walked over and clapped his father on the shoulder. "Your timing remains impeccable as ever, father."
Phindor looked back at him, the twinkle back in his eyes. "Perhaps thine will improve with time... though if thou continuest to charge ahead with little concern for thy surroundings, I fear thou mayest have but little time left at all!"
Wulf chuckles ruefully. "As a matter of fact, father, I nearly had less time than you realize."
Phindor raised an eyebrow inquiringly. "Oh?"
Wulf nodded. "Aye. We were attacked by an assassin... of fearful prowess. He chose to spare us, for some reason... but he's after Sayvara. He calls himself the Shadow of the White City, and signs himself Gwann Orgha - what?"
Phindor's face had become very serious. "Thou art mistaken."
Wulf shook his head in confusion. "No... it was very clear. And he says we have until the Day of Two Trees... Tuesday... til she dies."
"There is no way thou facest Gwann-Orgaladhad."
"You know of him?" Wulf's eyes narrowed in interest.
Phindor nodded, his eyes still serious. "When I served with the guard of the White City, there was an assassin... renowned for accepting marks at any level of society, and never failing to make his kill. Always on a Tuesday... His reputation was vast, for despite his predictability, it seemed that none could bring him down..."
"But this is him! It must be! It all fits!" Wulf began to clamber to his feet. "Now, how do we stop him?"
Phindor shook his head. "Nay, son of mine. It cannot be him... for ultimately he WAS captured... captured and hung til death."
Wulf sat back down, his face stunned. "A...a copycat, then?"
Phindor reached out and patted Wulf's shoulder sympathetically. "Aye, perhaps."
Wulf shook his head and stood up. "I must return with this news... thank you, father. For the information, and the aid on the mountain."
Phindor smiled, with a touch of sadness. "It is a father's pleasure to aid his son."
As Wulf vanished into the night, Phindor shook his head, his eyes concerned.
"Fear not the dead, my son... but be wary, lest ye join them."
Wulf's mind leapt back to that fateful night in Chetwood, and his words on finding Terlion's signature.
"I do not fear ghosts."
Perhaps because until now, you haven't found one that could best you...
There was no stilling the voice in his head... for it was himself.