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The Redemption of The Noldor
1. Swords in Shadow
Minas Tirith met springtime with fervor.
The crops of wheat, corn, barley and flax went in early, sown deep beneath the plow blades. The farmers shouted at their mules and oxen and dogs and it was one sound. The birds swooped in colorful clouds for the seeds and worms left atop the rich soil. Many of the rows were crooked, but the grains sprang up quickly and hid every cheerful plow-hand’s course.
Each shaggy sheep and goat was sheared and bales of wool were piled six high at every turn. The dyers put a whole host of color barrels out and the paddles ran all day to get the wool evenly tinted. The cycle of older women teaching the younger girls how to card and spin and weave made every blind alley a whirl of conversation and wheels. Men only went into a spinning group by accident, for they were outnumbered and sporting fun was had of them.
Faramir knew.
He took a turn by mistake, but only once. He held dye samples and wool markers aloft for the women to study until he realized they were having a giddy time at his expense.
The streets were swept and the gutters damaged by snow mended. The great millstone on the Fifth Tier was chiseled apart by teams of ten men and removed. It took five days to set the new millstone into place. Three caskets of wine were liberated celebrating the event and the Houses of Healing were overrun in the morning tending headaches.
The guards laughed and shoved and tossed dice for the positions of duty when the shifts changed. The cobbler and smiths worked in steady shifts to get every horse ready, be it courier steeds from Osgiliath or the old mule on the Third Tier that pulled a cart of blankets.
Groundhens laid clutches at every cranny and the people minded where they stepped, for once they hatched, little yellow puffs overwhelmed the sidewalks and were too confused to know to get out of the way. The hitherto tame geese hatched their young and became fierce protectors for several weeks and no one patted them idly.
Two swans were discovered paddling in the Place of the Fountain and Legolas laughed and reminded them that they could not stay. Once their four very homely chicks were hatched and led away, every Tier coaxed at them for they believed them of good luck. They had been birthed in the reflection pool of the White Tree.
The Hanging Gardens around the Houses of Healing burst into bloom in a single day and the scent was intoxicating from the Fourth Tier clear to the King’s balcony. The Circle of Ioreth came alive with deep blue periwinkles, pastel iris swords, ruby red mums and one white fern that crept until it shrouded her grave completely. It was delicate and beautiful and tumbled in intricate cascades like a cloak.
Arwen came when it was only a tiny curling tendril and it took her nearly an hour of contemplation to identify it. She had seen one only once before in her lifetime, growing wild in Galadriel’s kingdom. Legolas had never seen one at all; he marveled and spoke to it every time he passed the Houses.
I stood and contemplated it today, for I had been studying this rare plant since the Master Gardener of Minas Tirith had brought it to our attention. He was buoyant and enthusiastic over his craft within the gardens and talked endlessly, even to himself, but was quick to dispel any myths about the mysterious fern.
“The wizard planted it, yup, sure he did, yup,” he stuttered, twisting his misshapen hat around and around in his hands upon seeing me. “It’s his doing an’ I named it because he done it.”
He was deficient in capacity, but in managing the glory of the Gardens there was no equal his talent. The people of the White City took care of his food and housing and saw to his clothing and grooming just so he could pursue his singular gift of flora.
“I didna’ see him put it—but it’s there just where he put it! I give it water and a fish every week and it’s growing bigger’n they is supposed to, but there’ll be nobody trimmin’ the Wizard’s Fern.”
I smiled and took his hand, though the dirt was so firmly crusted around his nails that it was likely from last season.
“Gandalf had no doubts that you could see to this plant,” I said. “Whether you trim it or not, the White Wizard would not have placed it here if he did not have confidence that you would care perfectly for it.”
I left him bowing and beaming and took myself back through the Main Hall of the Houses of Healing. No one accosted me, though many smiled and I smiled back. I walked through as many as forty people of all ages … and not one reached a hand or spoke a word to halt me and well did I know why.
Eldarion was nearly four months old and bright as a new button. I carried him in a sling around my shoulders so my right hand was free, something every Elf and wise woman did as well.
Arwen could barely make it through a single length of the street with the Watch Basket without being halted innumerable times, but Faramir knew my time with him was curtailed by my duty as King. The Steward gave no edict to the citizens, but his counsel was heeded throughout the Guarded City; when I had Eldarion in my company I was left undisturbed.
How I loved these happy hours!
Every sound and sigh and smile of Eldarion captured my heart. Even the rare moments when he fussed and was unhappy were a treasure, for I discovered I could quickly divert and humor him. He listened to my voice and watched my face with his quick eyes, pulled my beard and fingered my lips while I spoke.
The hours with him were fleet as timid deer. It was usually a shock when Arwen appeared after two or three sunturns to receive him back and I confess I was often petulant to see her. She would be amused at my pouting and frequently lingered with me to nurse him and then let me keep him longer.
So I strode through the busy bustle of the Guarded City and found myself the target of nods and laughter as any doting father is. I showed him the busy spinning wheels with wool and let him grasp the bright strands hung out drying. I showed him the hard labor of men levering the millstone and felt him startle when it fell into place with a bang. He listened to the hiss of wary geese and the peep of concerned chicks and the irritated bleat of sheep being sheared. He watched the farmers plow and heard the oxen low and dogs bark at birds. The old mule on the Third sniffed him and then turned away disinterestedly—the next time I passed, I hid an apple slice in Eldarion’s blanket. His squeal at being searched by the whiskery beast was worth the scolding by Arwen at the slobbery blanket.
I was an indecorous King when Eldarion was with me, though Faramir did not laugh once. He was as guilty as I of being completely charmed by a newborn.
I took him to the Tombs of the Kings and spoke of every great Man there. I spoke of the Stewards and their troubled years and of Faramir, whom I loved and Boramir, whom I had lost. I spoke of Elves and hobbits and Istari, of the Gods who Watch the World and all of their names. I spoke of my fragile beginning and my troubled path to manhood and of all the friends who had helped me become what I was today.
I told him of the War of the Ring and the gentle hobbits that had aided us in a task no one else was capable of doing, how all the races had joined forces against overwhelming odds to surmount evil. I spoke of dreams and eagles and ghost white horses, wargs and Balrogs and flying dragons, the march of the Ents that brought all speech to an end before the marvel of their strength and courage.
I spoke of a treasonous wizard and one who sacrificed himself in order to save us. I spoke of mortals who gave their lives so that others might live. I told him how every act of a King was to preserve the people even at the cost of himself or his troops.
I talked, sadly, until I looked down and noticed that Eldarion had fallen fast asleep—then I sighed and watched his slumber. The faces atop the sepulchers regarded us and I considered their expressions.
“Did you marvel and spend all your effort on the son someday to become King as well?” I asked them.
I waited until he woke and then came to stand outside the marvelously curved gate leading to the High Grove while Legolas and Arwen took him inside the first time. They did not linger long, for they both sensed that I practically was hopping foot to foot in eagerness outside the wall for them to return.
Eldarion had looked about with quiet grave eyes within the Garden and was not afraid, not even when the single Mallorn tree reached down and wrapped his tiny wrist with a tendril. The black wattle next to it fastened a circlet of seven leaves together and placed it upon his head and Eldarion did not even blink. Legolas trickled the droplets of the spring over his forehead and all the waters murmured and then laughed. So the Hallowed Grove met something wonderfully new and blessed him.
I took him down the winding road on horseback for I wanted Talemon to see him. I was not sure if the mearas would understand that this child was my own son, but I needed to show him Eldarion anyway.
Talemon and Ashra both came eagerly to greet me, but when they noticed that I held something protectively in my arms their curiosity nearly made their ears cross at the tips. I was humored by their inquisitiveness. They whuffled at him and lipped at his rogue hair, let him catch at their nostrils with his chubby hands. My caution made them both careful and I had no fear Eldarion would be harmed.
But what moved me most was when the proud stallions drew away together with a snort, wheeled as one spirit to face me again … and then both reared. I was struck by how they matched; identical ivory horses on the chessboard. Every eye watching us saw that tribute and heard their whistling call.
He does know! My heart was pounding and I kissed Talemon on the muzzle. Ashra blew loudly and I kissed him too, then laughed, wild with delight.
Legolas was waiting by the Great Gate and I took his arm in greeting for the archer was the one person I was most content to share my son with, though Faramir was a close second. Eldarion peered alertly out from his sling and the Elf put a finger into his grip in welcome.
“They greeted him as was his due,” said the archer. “I was certain Talemon would know your child.”
“How? No one has spoken to Talemon,” I answered.
“Do you believe him deaf or blind? The streams of visitors, the shouting from rooftops? How could he not know a son is born! And what infant have you ever carried to this plain and showed to your stallion?” Legolas eyed me very seriously. “He is as intelligent as most men, Aragorn, and he’d better pick which mare to carry Eldarion’s foal soon, because Ashra is trying to lay claim on all the rest that Galadriel sent!”
“Are they quibbling over the mares? We will have to move them to a different stable!” I said, amused.
“No, not really,” laughed the archer. “Talemon will pick the right one. And Ashra is not jealous; he understands the heritage Talemon is steward of. There may be a whole herd of mearas bloodline running wild in the land of Gondor, but only one will be destined from birth to bear the next King.”
“Faramir would love a foal out of Ashra and his favorite mare,” I said. “He’s been waiting for the opportune time to ask if you were permit it.”
“Of course I permit. Arwen will have a fast horse in another year as well if the fillies Galadriel sent are from Glorfindal’s fleet bloodlines.”
We tarried the hours together, Legolas and I. He, to dote upon the chubby child who was learning the art of sitting up, and I to simply delight in my companion’s happiness. The archer was more content than I had ever seen him and his singing to greet every sunrise held more joy than any songbird could muster.
“He knows more than you believe,” said the archer, standing Eldarion on the top of his feet. “He is half-Elven and will grow fast physically as well as mentally. He knows when you have him that something marvelous will happen for you take him well past the confines of home and hearth.”
“Arwen takes him out as well,” I pointed out.
“Yes, and he is passed about from person to person, all of whom shower him with affection.” He looked up from the infant clinging to his knees. “He adores his mother with every fiber of his being, but you speak to him of other things than the women speak. There is always some new thing for him to hear and see and taste. Arwen cares for his body right now; you care for his mind.” Legolas picked Eldarion up and tucked him beneath an arm. The child was busy trying to catch the wisp end of one of the archer’s braids while he continued to speak. “When his body requires less care, then Arwen and I both will pour the knowledge into him, for he will be fully ready to learn. Until that day, he only has room for what you teach him.”
“Am I doing something wrong?” I asked, for his words evoked concern. I had given no thought to the mix in Eldarion’s bloodline and that his abilities would be vastly different.
“May that thought never be!” Legolas returned. “You are exactly what he needs—enthusiastic and curious over all goings on within the White City. He will learn the love of the people and of their crafts from you—that is the basis for a good ruler.”
I was content with his words and then chuckled at my companion, for Eldarion had successfully trapped one golden braid and stuffed it in his mouth with a chubby hand.
“Just like Arwen used to do,” said Legolas mischievously. “He’ll be peeling off my fletches and filching through all my pockets in no time.”
Eldarion was crawling before anyone was prepared for the event and I worried about every staircase. Arwen laughed at me and took a mere quarter of sunturn to teach him how to crawl down them backwards as all children learn to do. The stairs became his favorite playground, though my worries lingered another week.
Once the child learned to walk, more curious mischief ensued. I wondered how other fathers faired when I was in danger of my heart failing me at every turn.
Legolas found him creeping over the edge of the reflecting pool at the White Tree and spent an hour teaching him to stand in water when he fell, and how to float. They were both submerged to their eyes, blowing bubbles underwater when I spotted them.
“Once he learns to swim, your fears will be allayed,” reminded Arwen.
My fears were slow to be allayed, but eventually they submitted. Eldarion had skilled teachers to manage his curiosity and I learned to trust them.
Thus our months were content and full and happy and Eldarion grew like some wild thing, both on the outside and inside our hearts.
I was in the Tower of Ecthelion when an errand rider galloped from Osgiliath. He came quickly and I spotted him by chance when I glanced out the window. His horse would be lathered clear to the belly if he kept that pace up the winding street of Minas Tirith.
But no trumpet of alarm summoned me, so I stayed in the Tower Hall considering the prices to be set for all the produce that year; what would be fair within our city walls for the poor and wealthy alike, and what would be offered to neighboring nations. The rains were kind and the crops swelled rapidly. Rôthatur, Keeper of the Storehouses, had already stridden amongst the crops, even to the far west along the forsaken land of Ithilien, and pronounced a bountiful harvest was to be gleaned this year.
“And perhaps a second after the first has been reaped, for the snows were heavy and all the moisture has seeped into the ground,” I said to myself. “Minas Tirith has not pulled two crops off in a single season for many years. We have been truly blessed this year.”
“King Elessar!” called a voice from below. “You are needed in the courtyard, Sir!”
“Coming,” I answered and I left the parchments curling up amongst themselves upon the desk. The staircase was a run of three hundred steps and I was so accustomed to climbing and descending that my legs did not even ache when I took them two at a time.
“Aragorn,” said Faramir, standing with a sweating outrider. “Gandalf the White is on the outer rim of the Causeway Forts and with him, a rider dressed in black. He will not enter Osgiliath, nor will he enter Minas Tirith, but he bids you and the archer come to him on the open field. He explicitly stated just you and Legolas meet with him; not myself or your wife or your son.”
“Strange news,” I said, perplexed. “And the rider with him?”
“We know nothing, save that Gandalf would not let any of us linger in long conversation. And the companion with him hung back as if unwelcome,” offered the courier rider. “But this I will say; our horses were distressed and uneasy. I cannot say if it was because of the White Wizard, or his attendant.”
“Even more puzzling,” said Faramir. “No creature of good is disturbed by Gandalf the White.”
Then I remembered the mysterious quest that he had ventured on and was both eager and wary. Some voice within reminded me that often hardship came with the wizard, though frequently it was just a stony pathway to greater peace and safety.
I had been on many troubling paths with Gandalf; I would chance any others he saw fit to set me upon.
“Send word to the archer that I need him and fetch two fresh horses to carry us to the Great Gate, from there we will sit Ashra and Talemon.”
We met the wizard in the open, amidst stalks of corn belly high to our left and wheat knee high to our right. It was exactly as the courier spoke; Gandalf in his worn grey cloak astride the Great Stallion … and a quiet rider in dark cloak and hood hanging back a good hundred yards. I could discern nothing of their features and they made no movement to join us.
My wariness was not dispelled by the sight of Shadowfax standing sidelong enough that he could watch the dark horse behind him … nor that Talemon and Ashra also snorted and swiveled their ears upon approach. Something here made all three animals uneasy and they communicated it quickly.
“Hold there! Come no farther. I will come to you,” called Gandalf and he slid down from Shadowfax and clutched the white mane for balance when he lighted. He stroked the face of the mearas a moment. “Stay, old friend. Be calm, in everything, be calm.”
To my eyes, Gandalf was as he should be, erect and lithe, the long, light hair pulled back from a magnificent, vivid face, the eyes as clear as water. His strength and unconscious dignity were daunting, and yet his delight upon seeing us was irrepressible. He looked up at me and every greeting through our years of friendship was in his gaze and I smiled back in answer.
Then Gandalf set his eyes upon Legolas and his demeanor changed. He beheld the archer as if he gazed upon a precious trove that had been lost and then found. A wild hope rose in my heart.
Then that moment was gone and the lights dimmed in the wizard’s eyes and his face fell.
“I bring ill news,” he said, striding to us.
“Ill news?” I answered, surprised. “Speak freely, for we come at your summons as we have ever come.”
I slid down the shoulder of Talemon, who danced nervously aside and I let him go. The archer was only a moment and he was at my shoulder. We met the wizard face to face and only then could I discern the weight of long days in his demeanor.
“It is as I wondered and feared since Sauron was destroyed,” said Gandalf. “Nothing has been rebuilt in the Black Land of Mordor, but the forces that fled away with the Dark Lord’s passing have begun to gather themselves together. They have grown tired of living in the darkness and will attempt to take posession of the land.” He looked only at me as he spoke and I felt the weight of his words keenly. “They have driven every beast and creature out of the brown lands clear to the Sea of Rhún. The copper rims of wine barrels from Dorwinion are scattered along the Ash Mountains and along every trade route. I do not know if the city still lives beside the sea.”
I took a breath I had been unconsciously holding, calling to mind every warning through history of how evil lingered long after the dictator inspiring it was thrown down. With it came the sinking of my heart for my little son, who would face these evils as King if I could not find a way to end it before his time. My hand was on the handle of the Great Sword.
“Evil loitered on after Melkor’s lust for power corrupted the World,” I said. “You and I suspected that after Sauron, there might be another creature of his making that would take up his foul mantle.”
“Sadly, it appears my suspicions are true,” grumbled the wizard. He leaned heavily upon the staff.
“How large of a force will we need?” I answered. “Rohan has pledged herself to us, as well as the Dwarves of Aglarond. We can muster six thousand within a week.”
But Gandalf shook his head and glanced behind him, where the mysterious rider lingered.
“I did not come for a large force; I need only one or two and they carefully chosen. We cannot win a battle against this host without removing that which leads them first, for he is cunning and can protect his troops from harm. This is a mission of stealth, not might, and every art of cunning and tracking will be put to test.” A flash of humor quirked his serious mouth. “After their ruler is vanquished, the forces you speak of will march to destroy the remainder. Éomer will be joyful to draw swords with you once more, Aragorn.”
I was poised to comment, but Legolas spoke and his voice was suspicious.
“Who is your ally?” asked the archer, who watched the black rider with a furrowed brow.
I looked down the lane myself, abruptly aware that Ashra and Talemon had both moved away from us and as I watched, Shadowfax the Great wheeled and turned into the field despite Gandalf’s parting words to him. Wariness caught at my mind more strongly than before.
“Let the horses go,” said the wizard. “They will linger at a distance.” He looked over his shoulder. “Leave the gelding and approach us.”
The black steed was neither beautiful to behold, nor bred for speed. He was built for hard labor, with a wide chest and heavy hooves. His mane was a straggling thing and his tail thin. He laid his ears back and snapped at the air as the rider dismounted, though it was not for his rider that he nipped.
“Who is this, Gandalf?” I asked softly.
“What do you hear, Legolas?” asked the wizard, instead.
“The whisper of corn. Ashra and Talemon who worry just out of our view. Shadowfax wends his way through the field away from us,” replied the archer. His tone was edgy. “I do not like this black steed your companion rides. His heart is dark and mutters hatful thoughts.” He looked directly at the wizard. “What ill thing have you brought, Mithrandir?”
“A quiet one with no name or place,” he countered sharply. “And you will give no injury, for I do not know the design of this trap.”
His words and tone alarmed me further. My grip was tight upon the hilt of Andúril, but the figure garbed in black extended no malice, nor any word. They drew close enough for plain speech and no farther. The dark cloak hid their form except for soft breeches and boots; even their face was obscured save for the harsh gash of a mouth.
And Gandalf was uneasy; I saw it in the way he shifted the hand upon his staff and how he moved so he could see all three of us. He studied both the dark rider and ourselves with his eyes.
The wizard was guarded—though for what enemy, I could not discipher.
“What do you hear, Legolas?” asked Gandalf again.
“What does—” began Legolas, but the wizard cut him off mid-sentence.
“—Just listen and tell me what you hear,” he commanded.
Legolas half closed his eyes and furrowed his brows, concentrating. I watched his taut body language, the way his elegant hands closed as he dropped out of the obvious sense of the world and into the realm where Elves had discernment, below my sight and vision. Today I did not envy his perceptions.
“Nothing,” he eventually returned and though his voice was its usual tone, there was a quality of agitation therein. “Nothing that I do not ordinarily perceive.”
Gandalf sighed and he looked from beneath is brushy eyebrows at the mysterious companion. “Remove your hood,” he said and he put both his hands upon the staff.
Unmistakably a woman’s face, neither plain nor beautiful and it was an instant before I placed the cheekbones and the nose and the slope of jaw—she was an Elf. She did not wear woman’s garb, nor did she bear any weapon that I could see. Her gaze was as guarded toward us as ours was for her.
Then a gust of wind through the corn brushed her dark hair aside and I nearly stepped back in shock. She had no ears! They had been hacked from her and the butchery left the same misshapen cartilage as I had seen on battle veterans who survived nearly deadly sword strokes.
In a blink, the archer drew an arrow to his bow with the same speed that Éomer had faced on the Plain of Rohan and I had no swiftness to counter such an act. But the wizard did and the Great Staff answered with power that stayed the arrow before he loosed it.
“She is Forsaken!” cried Legolas, and there was a fury in his voice that I had not heard since the Great War. “The judgment of Elves is against such a one and their edict clear!”
“You will not shed her blood!” countered Gandalf. The staff did not waver, though the archer’s bow trembled as he fought for its control. “Even I will not kill her—a curse has been bound to her spirit and I have not the full measure of it!”
“A curse was laid at the beginning of their treachery and it cannot be overthrown. It was placed by those who gave their souls for it—stand aside, Mithrandir!” He had not once glanced at the wizard; he stared only at the silent figure and the tension of his jaw belied his wrath.
“I will not!” barked the wizard and then his voice lost its rebuke and took on something else. “White are the Founders Plains and white are the leaves of the trees, gathering in the empty waste like far sheeting streams. All the birds sorrow and circle high and slow, like wounds awing. Silence is in every thing.” He tilted the staff and forced the arrow point down. “Do you remember the trees, Laegolas?”
“Trees?” he said through clenched teeth, “This is not about—” And then he stopped and his chest heaved a breath as if he was winded or had taken some unseen arrow. I put a calming hand upon his bow arm. The strength holding the deadly bow was as powerful as any stallion pulling upon the reins when unruly. His eyes were dazed and far away. “The trees had leaves of white even in spring…”
“Put down the arrow and rest your wrath. There is enough anger in the world,” commanded the wizard.
The archer did not readily comply, though he let the sinew grow lax. I reached in over the top of his hand and lifted the deadly missile off the Galadhrim bow and he spared no glance for me.
“I need your help, for your skill as an archer is finest upon the land and a full measure of it will be needed,” petitioned Gandalf. He looked directly into my eyes. “And I need Aragorn’s cleverness as a tracker, for his ability is legendary above all others save Oromë himself.”
“My bow is always at your call, to serve at the behest of whatever wild winds call you to war,” Legolas replied. His voice was absolutely sure. “But I will not ride with a Forsaken One.”
“She must go, for she knows their Captain’s will and ways. We cannot find the one we seek without her—”
“Then I wish you every blessing of the Valar, but I will not go! My will is my own and you cannot compel me in this.” He pointed at the silent Elf. “The blood of her kin cries unceasingly from the beyond and every word is ‘betrayal, betrayal.’ I will not ride with the Forsaken; she is an abomination!”
I did not comprehend the mystery shot in a welter of words between my two companions, nor did I understand the menace that both of them seemed to understand and also ignore. There was much here I did not perceive and tension was a rope about to snap betwixt all three of us.
But one thing I did fathom clearly, for my moral fiber had been trained to this.
Gandalf came for our aid and support: the archer for his skill and myself for my woodsman lore. In all my years, the wizard was one who need exercise no coercion to receive my help. Memory returned of the last day I had seen him and of my request that he was to be bold in asking for help and I would be patient until he asked. His assurance had come true. Mine would be no less true.
And in the instant before I spoke, I contemplated what this might mean for my wife and son, for Minas Tirith that I had guided patiently these past years. I had cheated death in many hardships. Would I survive the next?
Every act of a King was to preserve the people even at the cost of himself.
“I will come with you, Gandalf.” I said it with the King’s voice. “I will journey where you lead and make war upon the foe we seek. If I fall in the fray, you will go on and if you fall, I will remain true to the goal.”
“No!” cried the archer. “He does not know the truth of this!”
“I need no truth save the one I already have.” I faced Legolas and saw his anger and fear. My heart was full; I knew his abiding affection for me was speaking. “I have been led into fray and war and evil with this wizard before and if any man can be trusted to fight for the right goal, it is he. Every act of a King is to preserve the peace of the land.” I paused and softened my tone. “He is my dear friend and I cannot let him go unaided when I know he needs help. Gandalf is not meant to do his tasks alone. He cannot carry the World—we must all help in whatever way we can, from the smallest hobbit to the Chief of Eagles.”
He grit his teeth at my words and I watched the steadiness of his gaze upon me. I had no doubt of his next words and Gandalf, to his credit, remained silent.
“I cannot let you go into the unknown alone either, my brother and King,” the archer eventually said. “And you will not heed any warning I might give you about the evil company you shall journey with. I will go with the wizard, but there is no joy in my heart for this task.”
I put a hand upon the green clad shoulder near me, felt again the thrill of his uncanny strength. “I am grateful that you will come with me, for every battle grows more deadly and I oft need your eyes and skill and ferocity. I do not want to die just yet.”
“There are worse evils than dying,” said the archer, and then he turned away from me and faced the silent wizard. His sulkiness was a startling thing, but Gandalf did not rebuke him—not even in his gaze. “Our steeds will not bear her presence, nor am I willing to ride in close company.”
“Have no concerns,” said the wizard very solemnly. “She rides at a distance, though it is not she that disturbs the stallions. The animal she rides is Mordor born and bred. Long ago, the minions of Sauron stole black horses from Rohan and the Dark Lord gave them unnatural life and stamina. He is an evil spawn, but serves her without swerving.”
Then Gandalf turned his head and fastened his eyes upon the silent woman. “Have you nothing to say?”
“Whether these go or abide changes nothing, wizard. My path does not amend, though only you take it with me or a hundred.” He voice was neither kind nor unkind. “We cannot tarry; they are moving.”
“I know the urgency,” curtly said Gandalf, then he turned to us and sighed. “I do not know the measure of our journey, nor can I see the outcome. But take it, I must, though I am comforted that I do not go alone.”
“You are not alone,” and I put a friendly clasp upon his shoulder. He was all tendons and bone and muscle beneath my hand, the wiry strength of the White Wizard. “Give me a sunturn and I will be ready. I must set the leadership of Minas Tirith into order and bid my wife and son goodbye.”
“Do not bring your son to this plain to see me,” suddenly warned Gandalf and his words chilled me. “The archer does not mislead about a curse laid here and your child is innocent. If evil seeks a new host, it searches for a soul perfectly lit. Do not bring him from the Guarded City.”
“Can you come to him?” I asked, for I longed to have the wizard behold Eldarion.
“Not this time, Aragorn. I do not know of my own circumstances,” he replied seriously. “The curse placed upon her bears the markings of Sauron—a final act of vengeance set for a foe his equal. His dark lieutenant may have had a hand in it as well, for long has the enmity of the Witch King rested upon the forces that opposed him. ” He sighed and his eyes slipped from mine. “I fear this trap is for me.”
“Then she is doubly cursed and no good can come from letting her live,” said Legolas darkly.
Legolas’ ire finally sparked the wizard’s and I saw the flash of it before he spoke.
“If I do not raise my staff against her even when she provokes, how much more should you forbear? I will not spill her blood and neither shall you!” said Gandalf irritably. “Have I not said this twice in your hearing? Do not make me cross, for my staff is anxious for a target and an Elven one will do!”
I took Legolas away, for it seemed the wiser course, and hurried on my way to the Citadel and my Beloved. My heart was both heavy and humming with excitement, for though the wizard was wary and watchful, beneath that exterior I could sense his satisfaction. His search had not been in vain this past year, though it remained a mystery as to what exactly he had found.
And I could not ask. I remembered his warning and told my mouth to be silent on the matter. Legolas was sound of mind and soul, and so was my Queen—I would have them remain at ease.
I burst into the King’s room at a trot and halted, smitten with sudden regret. Arwen sat with Eldarion across her lap, nursing, and the decision I had made out amidst spring corn overwhelmed me. I helplessly drew near them and knelt, listened to the quiet melody she sang as he suckled. He patted a hand upon her other breast in time with her words and I smiled at the happy sight. Contentment was a haven in this room and I was loath to shatter it. Something in me began to weep, though my eyes remained dry.
How can I leave them? How can I risk my life, when my son needs me? How can I leave behind Arwen, who has waited her lifetime for the blessing of me and I need her like breathing?
“You come quickly with a turmoil of thoughts to this room, my Heart,” Arwen said perceptively. “And down the distant corridor, Legolas rolls arrows up into blankets and his spirit is sharp enough to cut me.”
I met her with honesty, though my voice was quieter than usual. “The White Wizard is upon the plain and his staff ready for war. The scattered forces of Mordor’s last army are gathering their might beneath a solitary leader. He has requested our help and we will give it, to find this Dark Captain and slay him. It is not a war, with many men riding into danger, but a sortie into uncertain places after a single foe. We ride light and swift and, hopefully, with stealth and secrecy.”
She pondered my words an instant. “Legolas is deeply disturbed and his thoughts dart panic. Such is hard to accomplish in the calm sea of his soul. If your son was not certain he was starving, I would be down the hallway to accost him whom I also love.”
“Gandalf has someone with him that disturbs Legolas. They will ride with us on this quest, for they have knowledge which will help us find this opponent,” I said.
Her eyes were quick to reflect the leap of her thoughts. I watched as her rocking ceased and her face changed from mother to wife to Queen. “Who is this ally with knowledge of Mordor’s black hands?”
“Gandalf did not name her,” I said slowly, chagrined that I had not even asked. “But Legolas called her a Forsaken One.”
“Oh!” and she slipped a finger in Eldarion’s mouth and broke him from her breast with a little pop of sound. He did not cry, but he looked up at her with his blue eyes and she looked back an instant. Some quick thought sped between mother and child and then she took him up in her arms and patted his back soundly.
“Tab’thea?” Arwen called. “Come and mind Eldarion for me.”
“Wait!” I said, alarmed. “You cannot take him to the Pelennor. Gandalf specifically said for you not to bring him.”
“I am not bringing him,” she said and she handed the child to the matronly woman who appeared at her summons and waved her away. “I will go alone.”
“What if some malevolence should befall you?” I said. I was embarrassed by how my voice rose in pitch. “Gandalf spoke of evil and he warned to keep our son away—I will not risk you!”
She spun to face me and I paused my next torrent of words, for I confronted neither Queen, nor wife, nor mother, but the Lady of Imladris. The power of that presence halted me and I knew every word was lost. My panicky emotions never won any conflicts with the Evenstar of Elves.
“Legolas is not willing for this task and I sense it within him. He is loath to ride beside this cursed one. He only goes because you go, because his heart belongs to you as well as me. If you are to tread towards danger, he will go to protect you as he can for his devotion is true. And you knew this before you gave your word to Mithrandir—you knew he would go if you were determined to go.”
Her eyes were sharp, though her words were not. “You say you will not risk me, yet you will risk the archer fair? You will not risk me … but you will risk yourself, whom I love more than life? Have you considered the risk to Gandalf, a Maia robbed of his true power while here in Middle Earth? A querulous old man whom I have called friend nearly two thousand years? You will risk everyone I love, but I am not to be risked, nor I am to lay eyes upon your doom, nor bid the wizard goodbye?”
“It is because I love you!” I said, and the desperation in my voice made her come to my arms as I reached for her. I held her tight and drank in her perfume, felt the softness of her hair. “I am afraid, because Legolas is angry and wary. When would he ever deny Gandalf assistance when he asks? He is so upset that he is not himself! And the wizard is uneasy and unsure as well; he believes there is a curse placed upon her that is a trap meant for himself—a last stab of the sword from Sauron or his foul lieutenant.”
“Murazor,” murmured Arwen and the name made me instinctively flinch. I was reminded of her long years and knowledge of the history of Middle Earth. “The dread servant of the Dark Lord. Even in death, they strike. What did Legolas say to this?”
“He said that she was doubly cursed and should be destroyed.”
“Did he?” and the Queen’s voice was clever as a dragon’s. “When Fëanor defied the Valar over the Silmarils, he convinced a host of the Deep Elves to come in exile to Middle Earth with him to wage a hopeless war against Melkor who stole the jewels. They committed a treacherous act to accomplish this … the First Kinslaying, for they slew many of the Teleri Elves and seized their ships to carry them across the sea.
“Galadriel was one of those rebellious Noldor who left with Fëanor, though she was innocent of the kinslaying. She was exiled from the Undying Lands for her disobedience. Then, after the War of Wrath, she refused a summons by the Valar to return and for the second time she was insubordinate.” She paused and studied my face. “My Grandmother has labored thousands of years here in Middle Earth to overthrow evil in the land. But some would say she is cursed because she rebelled against the Gods and cursed again for refusing to obey their directive a second time. Some would say she is forsaken and her banishment from Valinor is fitting.”
I had no words for this. I could not imagine Galadriel being shunned from her eternal home. Not she who had aided us and given us rest and comfort and hope. Frodo Baggins had spoken of her part in his journey, and Gandalf had spoken of her comfort to him. The love of Gimli for the Lady of the Golden Wood was founded in the certainty of her goodness.
“Has her labor and sacrifice here not been repentant enough? She warned the ring makers of the evil before they made the rings of power; she aided us in the Great War. Is there no forgiveness in the heart of the Valar?” I finally asked.
“There is, but not for all.” She looked into my eyes. “Some in this land are cursed and unforgiven and it shall never be undone should they spend ten thousand ages making recompense. Some sins have no redemption. I will look upon this forsaken one, to find the judgment and justice of her troubles.”
I was silent, pondering her words.
“Make no foolish fight and take no alarm, my Heart. I would not risk our son,” whispered Arwen. “I am not an open soul as Eldarion is and my boundaries are warded twice; both my myself and by the archer who wove strength in every seam so I would not falter. If it will please you, I will see Mithrandir first and if he warns me away, then I will turn back.”
“Thank you,” I whispered back and then added, “I need your help.
“Ask, for my hands are always open to you.”
“Gandalf is in haste to leave. Will you pack for my journey in my place? I must speak to Faramir.”
The model of leadership I had kept active in Minas Tirith was already in place. It took mere minutes for the trumpets to call the leaders of every Tier into the counsel chamber and only a sentence or two to put each level of command in operation. As expected, there was a murmur of discord that I would leave the Guarded City for this task and twenty-two hands shot into the air to volunteer in my place. It took nearly two sunturns for them to understand that it was not for King Elessar that the White Wizard had come; it was for Strider, the Ranger. They grudgingly acknowledged their understanding. Not a single one was my equal as a woodsman.
“The King is not the heart of Minas Tirith,” I solemnly said. “The heart of Minas Tirith is in the people—the King is only the symbol of your peace and duty and commitment to the welfare of the Guarded City. Have I not shown this to you since the crown was placed upon my brow? That I am but one laborer amidst a thousand, neither above you or better?” I looked over them all fondly. “And the heir to the throne is come. Even if some fate awaits me, your King is still with you and the Citadel will wait for his years to catch him.”
Faramir took the mantle of my duty easily, for he was well practiced. The Lords of each Tier, who knew every family of their ring, accepted not only their accustomed roles as mediators, but made a day free every week to see to anything Faramir might need in my absence. I smiled at them, for I left a strong city in capable hands and I was proud. When I bowed to those I left in power, there were tears in their eyes when I rose.
Arwen went to the Pelennor with us and the bay she rode whickered and shied when Gandalf came within sight, for the raven steed was near. My Queen was an experienced rider and the unruliness of the animal did not alarm her. Though he threw his head and pitched, she pulled his muzzle up tight until he ceased trying to escape or throw her off. It was the first time I had ever witnessed Arwen astride an uncooperative horse and it was the first time I ever witnessed her swat one—she cuffed him on the ear for not heeding her command and he settled like a scolded child.
Gandalf smiled at the sight, however, and I wondered that he laughed. Arwen alit from her mount and wrapped the reins tight about one wrist so the horse could not bolt, then she reached for the hands of the wizard and he took them.
“Arwen,” said the wizard. “I suspected you would come despite any word to the contrary I would give.”
“You know me well, but I will give ear to your guidance.” She searched his gaze. “What has been spoken and left unsaid?”
“I have said nothing,” he said with a sigh. “I worry at a knot tied most tightly and until a thread of it is loose, I have nothing to speak.”
Riddles, I thought. Now even my Beloved speaks in riddles! I was caught smiling and shaking my head by Gandalf, who eyed me crossly.
“Why do you wag your head at us?” he said irritably.
“Ahh,” I said immediately. “Do not set your anger upon me for merely smiling! Save it for something truly worthy of being annoyed about!”
So I avoided my own doom for the moment. Gandalf’s quick temper when under pressure was as familiar to me as the seasons. And familiar was the archer sitting boneless and yet utterly alert upon Ashra a hundred score yards away. The handles of the white knives shimmered in sunlight.
Two companions whom I have known many years. Surely we can untangle this mystery and see it to the finish.
Wizard and Queen lingered only a moment together; then Arwen strode away through the green wheat to speak to the stranger. I watched her go, wondering if anything I attempted would save my Beloved should this meeting go wrong. And it was not comforting to have Gandalf come to stand beside me to watch as well … especially when he said no word for my worry.
It was a quiet meeting there in the thriving fields, though one could never tell with the tranquil posture of the Firstborn. I had seen Legolas perfectly calm in the midst of slaughter. The two women, nearly equal in height, walked as they spoke and then they parted and Arwen returned. Her face was tranquil, but her eyes were far away and Gandalf asked nothing and I held my tongue.
My Beloved did not ask me how long we would be gone, for she was wise to warfare. She did not plead with me to reconsider, nor did she weep. She kissed the archer and then me, held us both close a moment. I was certain my grip left bruises upon her, though she did not complain, and I whispered my heart to her ear. I yearned for my son and I had only been parted from him less than an hour.
“Be swift and bold, when boldness is the wiser part,” she whispered to us. “Be hale and hearty; be fleet of foot and vigorous. Every arrow blessed, every sword stroke mighty. Trust not in your own perceptions, but question everything. The Valar keep you and watch over you and hold you in the palm of their hands.”
Gandalf took Arwen’s hands as I had seen him take them before, bowing over her palms in some gesture that escaped me.
“Mithrandir,” she said simply and kissed the top of his white head.
“Daughter of the Twilight,” he replied.
Then we were away and riding to the unknown and I did not look back, for if I did, I would not be able to keep from returning to my Beloved and my laughing little child. Gandalf seemed to understand, for he set Shadowfax upon a swift gallop and the Sons of Thunder were pressed to follow. The horsemanship required my concentration and before the pace slacked and I could cast a look back, Minas Tirith was out of sight.
But though the Lord of Horses was fleet, the black rider behind us did not fall behind. They followed grimly, like some speck in my vision.
2. The Doom of The Noldor
We made for the Mountains of Shadow, the boundary that lies between Ithilien and Mordor. The Anduin was deep and fierce with all the snowmelt unfrozen and running. Boulders cracked and groaned beneath the dark surface as they were rolled ponderously downstream.
Cutting sidelong down the crumbling embankment, I watched the Great Stallion eerily lengthen his stride along the shore and leap his full length and a half out into the river. Talemon watched his Greatsire and did the same, thus we started nearly a quarter of the way across before we hit the water with a prodigious splash that nearly unhorsed me.
I considered my travels with Gandalf and Shadowfax and abruptly realized that with his offspring nearly capable of his own stamina, the Great Stallion could set a harsher pace. I laughed wildly, wondering if I would survive the energy of the mearas. Talemon swiveled an ear and then ignored me. He blew water with a snort and I wadded up my trailing cloak so it would reduce the drag upon him.
Shadowfax swam upstream from us, for he was strongest and he broke the grip of current for Ashra and Talemon. Still, at the savagely boiling center of the Anduin, Ashra struggled with the cold and the might of the river and Talemon whinnied despite my encouragement. The Lord of Horses turned his elegant head and answered them with a shriek of stallion call and the Sons of Thunder responded with more vigor to the force of the rushing water.
I cast a glance back as our steeds lunged up the far bank and shook themselves. The Elf and her dark gelding were still negotiating the harsh incline down to the swollen river. He did not pick an easy path; he mulishly went over the edge of the rim and came straight down through mud and rocks and brush.
Gandalf wheeled on Shadowfax, discerning my anxiety. His cloak streamed water as did mine. The archer had tucked himself completely up on the back of Ashra and only his feet and calves were damp.
“She will cross the river without hardship,” said the wizard curtly. “This close to the Black Lands, her steed’s enchantment is powerful.”
“We should wait to be certain,” I called back. “The current is strong and harsh.”
“Your worry is misplaced. Did you fear for the archer in that swim?” Gandalf gestured with his chin towards Legolas. “When you fear for him, then you are at liberty to fear for her—she is an Elf!”
And with that, Shadowfax was away with his tireless gait and we were pressed to keep him in sight. Through the abandoned land of Ithilien we raced and the Mountains of Ephel Dúath skirted the edge of my vision whenever we sprang into a clearing.
Legolas, to my left, gradually faded out of the guarded expression he had worn since we departed upon this task. His brow smoothed to the bright, alert face I knew from countless journeys and I smiled to see it. The forest, the swift race of our horses, the ghostly flicker of the White Rider ahead of us all served to bestir his dark mood. My spirit took wing right along with his, despite the empty place where my son and Beloved should dwell.
Away, away, the ground rushing both bright and dark beneath the thunder of hooves, we sped past the lingering trees and came within sight of the craggy rim of mountains that fenced Mordor in. I stared up at the ruined peaks when we pulled up and wondered if Men would ever conquer the dread of the Dark Lands. Certainly not in my time. And though I had never entered the bleak lands, Frodo had spoken of the harshness and toil of the landscape, barren of all living things.
“We ride North along the mountains until the crossroads,” said Gandalf. “Then we make for the Tower of Cirith Ungol, through the Pass of the Spider.”
“Minas Morgul lies directly in our path,” I returned, though I was sure the wizard needed no warning; he had cautioned me himself of the black sorcery that dwelled within that citadel. Talemon was champing at his bit and foam flecked about the corners of his mouth.
“We will not pass too near the Tower of the Moon,” replied Gandalf and his words comforted. “I will take you around it, though you will see the ruined fortress from afar. Another two sunturns, perhaps less, and we will be outside of its reach.”
“Its reach?” questioned Legolas, the first he had spoken since our departure. He frowned at Gandalf. Ashra, more fleet than Talemon, was not foam flecked at all.
“Minas Morgul casts a wide net,” said the wizard, seriously, “You perhaps will be more resistant to it, but both of us must protect and come to the aid of Aragorn, lest he be overtaken.”
His statement straightened the archer’s spine and his expression became sterner still.
“And our companion?” I inquired, keenly aware that I seemed to be the only person considering her.
The wizard answered patiently. “Do not fear. The Moon Tower holds no sway upon her.”
Legolas’ frown and concern showed no sign of abating as we started off again and my worries would have dwelled heavier did I not trust Gandalf so thoroughly.
The grass grew poorly in the lee of the mountains and great bald patches became plentiful. The peaks moved jaggedly against the skyline and we pulled back to a canter amidst the rugged foothills. A half league back, a dark horse moved against the backdrop of trees and I wondered at this companion that Legolas was so wroth with and Gandalf seemingly ignored.
I had little time to ponder the question, for the abrupt aperture of the Pass of the Spider appeared and the thin road threading towards Minas Ithil spun like silvery thread beneath the afternoon sun. Shadowfax faced the road alertly, but Talemon snorted and tossed his bridle, wary.
“Single file and mind the edges of the road. Pits have been laid for the unwary,” commanded Gandalf.
He took the Great Staff from its rest upon the stallion’s withers and put the heel of it atop his right boot; the unmistakable action of a guardian. I was grateful to fall beneath his mantle of protection.
I needed no warnings about the edge of the road, for I could see with my eyes the bones and ruined swords scattered like debris. The War of the Ring was a year behind us, yet some foul odor lingered.
Talemon, who had not tasted anything of battle, swiveled his ears forward and back and I spoke to calm him. Legolas crowded Ashra up beside me, for we oft rode so close that our stallions brushed and the Sons of Thunder fell into pace like the wagon horses on the Second Tier during Festival.
“They are brothers,” explained the archer to the backward glance Gandalf shot at us. “They will tread close without harm or putting each other off the road and thereby calm each other.”
“So they do,” Gandalf agreed after we had trotted a quarter league with his watchful eye returning again and again. “But pull Ashra back and place him to the right of his brother, for the Tower of the Rising Moon passes on that side.”
“Talemon is stronger than Ashra,” I said. I had no fears that the archer would be jealous of the statement. Their differences were their strengths, as were ours. “I always ride to his right.”
“It is not Legolas I am protecting—it is you,” patiently replied the wizard. “Must you question every request? This journey is arduous already and we have barely started!”
“Aragorn is a King these days, Mithrandir,” said Legolas and humor was a streak of light through his words. “You will have to retrain him to taking direction.”
“Ha!” said I, but something loosened in my chest when I heard Gandalf laugh. I did not realize how unsettled my heart was at the discord between wizard and Elf. The archer’s humor, even at my expense, was faint dawn over dark lands.
It was odd having Legolas within the swing of my sword hand and I contemplated my ability to defend myself. It troubled me until I considered that any evil that befell me would have to get through the archer first. A difficult task at best.
And the White Wizard, I reminded myself when I looked ahead. Gandalf rode with eyes in the back of his skull; something I remembered from being a boy into mischief on some of our treks together.
Shadowfax halted without preamble.
Far ahead, dark amidst even greater darkness, squatting a mighty fortress. It rose out of solid rock and the battlements were high and heavy and uneven as torn teeth. It was bleak and silent and cold and my bones felt the same upon seeing it. Streaks of brown and rust ran irregularly down the walls and lent it a sinister aura. Both Talemon and Ashra snorted and sniffed.
How many agonies has the second tower of Elendil witnessed? my heart asked.
The desecrated city was a terrible sight, but most disturbing of all was an eerie flickering of crimson that lit the uppermost tower apertures. It deepened in hue until almost black, then flared bold and rich as blood again and some shadow passed before the window … as if some creature paced in that lonely peak. I wished to avert my eyes and was unable to shake the transfixion. My blood chilled.
“Hearken to me!” commanded Gandalf and the snap of that voice brought my eyes to his face instantly. “Do not look at the tower. Look only at me.”
I answered as if compelled, though I knew no charisma had been placed on me. “I see you and only you.”
“And I see you and only you,” echoed the archer. His voice was steadier than mine and I was proud of his fortitude in the face of my faltering.
“The fire is still burning in the soul of the stone … the blackened heart dies slowly,” whispered the wizard as he gazed upon the malevolent tower. Then his voice strengthened and I felt weak before its potency. “Resist as you will, but I have opened a door that can never be shut!”
Shadowfax shifted beneath him restively and Gandalf shook from contemplation and heaved a sigh. He looked back at the two of us.
“Do not look at the ruined Moontower as we pass nearer. Aragorn, take the edge of your cloak and hold it aside Talemon’s right eye, and you, Legolas, do so for Ashra. Keep the pinnacle from their vision and calm them with your words. I will take you off the road and they must watch the path with their other eye or they shall stumble.” Then he leaned and stroked the white neck of his steed. “You remember this. Turn your gaze away, old friend. There is nothing there to save or fight. Trust me as you have ever trusted, and I, you.”
I used my cloak, but Legolas, sitting so lightly, merely reached and put a hand over Ashra’s right eye. Both our steeds jostled and flicked their ears, but the archer spoke along with my own murmuring and I smiled to see our mounts become calm and steady. They followed Shadowfax meekly off the road and into wiry brush and strewn boulders.
So unnatural was this riding, covering one eye of my stallion and jolting through rough terrain as Gandalf picked through the countryside, that I shamefully forgot his instruction. When I chanced to raise my gaze, we were directly opposite Minas Morgul and only the uppermost tower was visible … and the malignant light from that lonely spire smote my soul as if I was struck. I do not know if I cried out, but Gandalf turned instantly.
“Do not look at the tower!” he stridently called. “Look at me!” He lifted the Great Staff and the tip glowed, became a swirl of white light strong enough to turn my wayward gaze. “Keep him astride, Legolas!”
There was unsteadiness within my frame, as if every bone had turned to water and damp clay. Legolas took my shoulder and his fist gathered itself into my garments right down to the skin, keeping me horsed. Shadowfax snorted explosively and if a stallion could give an order; that was one. Talemon came straight to his sire without a glance to either side and the Great Stallion led us away. All I could discern was the white muzzles of the Sons of Thunder flanking the back of the Lord of Horses, for they followed closely enough to nearly tread upon his heels.
How much time passed with our stallions crowded so tightly in formation, I do not know. I only know that my throat refused to swallow the sip of water Legolas poured and my lungs rejected most of the air I took. A curtain of grey and black slowly swept every sight from my eyes. The reins fell from my fingers.
The wizard murmured some litany that pierced through that darkness and made me blink and come back from some bleak landscape. He had turned Shadowfax amidst a narrow cleft of rock that pressed us on all sides and put a hand upon my face. The heat from it chased the chill from my cheek.
“Ahh, there you are,” he said without preamble. “Come now, the struggle for you is over and we must search a place of shelter to sleep. It will be difficult in these bleak lands, but more pleasant than the marshes.”
Shadowfax led us away through torturous passages, the rocks nearly scraping our knees.
“What happened?” I asked sidelong of Legolas, for I was quite disordered of mind. “What overcame me?”
“The Tower of the Rising Moon calls all free souls to it to enslave them and it snared you when you glanced at it. It tugged at the weave of my mind as well, but my concern was higher for you and I resisted,” said the archer. He glanced about at the twisted landscape and the gloom of it made him whisper. “The city is dying and desperate. The White Wizard set a mage fire ablaze in the Kingstone and the evil is being consumed from the inside out. The iniquity is so strong that it will take many years for the potency of the Istari to destroy the summoning spell and free the Heartstone.”
“Gandalf said it would take a hundred years.”
“It might take longer.” The archer spoke nothing more.
We found pitiful shelter in the Black Lands, but none of us complained. We had traveled onerous paths together before, we three. Legolas and I made camp quickly, for we were accustomed to each other’s skill. The wizard stood staring into the falling darkness and I did not approach him with my questions, though they circled my mind like swift birds.
He will reveal what he can, when he can, I reminded myself. I was accustomed to Gandalf speaking in riddles and hiding parts of the truth, but here, at the end of war and strife, I had hoped that all mysteries would be revealed and the wizard would be free with his mind. I was disappointed that it was not so.
I was also shaken at the callous disregard of the Elf who followed us and I searched my memory wondering if she carried any weapon at all. I did not recall a bow, or knives.
And the evil of the Moontower! She negotiated that pathway alone!
I wrestled with myself for some time before I sighed and went to Gandalf and stood silently at his right hand. It was many minutes before he turned his head and his eyes were distant: the far-seeing gaze of a Maia.
“What can you tell me of our companion?” I asked.
“She fell behind at the Tower of Black Sorcery,” he said.
“Is she captured?” I said, aghast. Twenty rebukes for leaving her on her own rose clamorous in my head.
“No, Minas Morgul cannot hold her. Did I not tell you this before?” His tone was slightly vexed.
“You did,” I replied, “but when I do not comprehend why, then I do not have confidence in your words. I remember the terrible eye of that tower and how helpless I was in the grip of it. We travel a perilous path and give little thought to the companion traveling less than a league behind us. She carries no weapon that I have seen; yet you spare no concern. I am not accustomed to such neglect of a companion in the face of evil; it is unlike you.”
“She chose this pathway,” he replied sternly. “I was to convey the two of you past the spell-infested Moontower and await her. We will confer as to our next stop, for she is the hunter leading us.”
“How would we know if she needed aid if we do not even keep her in sight?” I demanded.
He gazed at me as if I had grown a third ear. “Why do you have difficulty trusting my words when I have proven my trustworthiness your entire life?”
My ire rose but I knew him capable of bearing it. “The War of the Ring I understood. Armies marching against free people, I understood. Guarding Gollum, warning Theoden, demanding an oath fulfilled from ages past, marching into certain destruction to buy a hobbit time—all things I understood.” I gestured back towards the fire. “But now I am on a quest for someone I know nothing about, in the companionship of one who disturbs Legolas greatly; a woman that every warrior here disregards, though she is unarmed! You are more secretive than I have ever known and you dismiss my questions and concerns out rightly. I don’t—”
“What do you need from me?” he interrupted, piercing my words.
I blinked at him and my thoughts failed. He waited as patiently as a stone amidst rain.
“Give me something to stand upon,” I said.
Gandalf’s irritation cooled. Memory took him back where I wished, to a boy only eight who needed to be tall enough to spar against a stronger, faster Elf with play swords. It was a simple thing, if not a prideful thing, and I wanted to win.
But the shaggy old wizard saw beyond the simple issue of boys growing up and testing themselves against each other. Beneath the obvious fact of my height and clumsiness lurked the reality of being weak compared to children even two winters younger than I.
I was a Man and frail. My spirit was being crushed, though no one intended me harm.
Gandalf the Grey dismissed every method I was being taught for sword fighting by my Elven teachers.
“You are not an Elf, nor will some magic turn you into an Elf! You are a Man and the graceful routines Elves learn for fighting must not hold you,” he had said gruffly. “Be liberated from their behavior and ways. You are freer than they shall every be—so fight like it!”
The Istari taught me every style he had witnessed throughout the land; from scuffling hobbits, rowdy tavern brawls amongst men, the fast jousts of the Rohan army, to the irritable willow trees crowding and quarreling for room beside the rivers.
He was murderous with the long staff and quicker by far than I judged him to be and he put me atop any likely object to deal with my boyish height—even if it moved beneath my feet like a rock in the creek. By the time I was nine, I could swordfight from trees, from horseback, dangling from a rope, from halfway up the jasmine vine climbing the wall of my mother’s cottage. I fought riotously and stridently, like some wild animal without grace or rhythm or any predictable pattern, a chaotic whirl of knife and sword or any other weapon handy, including rocks and sticks or a handful of sand … and earned the respect of Rivendell.
The wizard spoke directly to my fears. “I do not seek her death; I preserve her from death. I am watching out for her even as we ride, though she is ungrateful for my aid. I dismiss what you believe is harm because I know what is and is not harm for her. I barely can keep my attention on the two of you with my senses straining after her and it is well that Shadowfax has run harsh lands with me and is wise, or we would fall into a snare with my awareness so divided!
“She is not vulnerable; she is armed with a potent curse left by the Dark Lord,” grumbled the wizard. “Any creature that attempts her life, places himself within the workings of that foul magic. Even the Sorcery of the Moontower recognized the mantle that covers her! If that fails, she carries a dagger nearly the length of my forearm.
“I cannot speak of her while Legolas is still so wroth, it will only make his rage unbearable,” he continued. “He does not lie—she is cursed by Elves and Valar alike. But the spells placed by Sauron’s ilk are set as clever traps. I cannot permit him to kill her and unleash something upon Middle Earth in his haste to execute justice. I will speak her tale when I can, but not when it will provoke more of his fury.”
Then he stepped closer to me, he whom I had known since childhood, and put a hand upon my shoulder. The half moon was tilted sideways in his eyes.
“Rest your fretful mind upon our long friendship, Aragorn. The miles we have journeyed, the battles we have fought. Remember the fight in the Ravine of Rad’gidthe? How many times you came back for me and I came back for you in that perilous battle amidst rocks and burnt pines? If you had not returned for me, I would have been slain there in the cleft—and had I not turned during the retreat, you would have died trapped against the windfall.
“Have we not learned reliance in the harshest of trials? Have I not set you upon several crucial tasks and not looked back, knowing that of any Man that walked in Arda—you were the one who could accomplish it? Could any Mortal have shepherded the Ringbearer through the wilderness and fought off the Nine on Weathertop, save you?
“And when hope was a dying bird crashing out of the sky at Helm’s Deep, was I not there as promised? Even if I had failed to find the Rohirrim, I would have been on that hillside for you—for just you—be it my death.”
My heart turned over. His voice was soothing, his expression familiar as my own face.
“You have a million questions, and I, a million heartaches,” he said gently, “but the trust between us is not one of them. I depend on your allegiance as you depend on my vision—do not swerve when you walk in the darkness, for I am right ahead of you. Reach forth your hand and find me there.”
I did something I had never done upon hearing those final words; I put my hand above his on the Great Staff, so close that our skin touched. Some mystery of that rod did not permit my fingers to actually grip it—as if the wood shifted like water from beneath my mortal hand—but the power of the White Wizard hummed through all of my bones at once the instant I touched it.
“I will trust and follow,” I said softly, contritely. “I have been so close to giving up many times in my life, but you have never given up on me. Forgive my faltering heart and spirit.”
“Always,” he said kindly. I felt the torrent racing through the staff lessen, as if he withheld a portion to protect me and I released my grip. “You are the strongest Man I have ever known, Aragorn Elessar, and I forget that you need encouragement as all Men do. Remind me when you falter, just as you have done, that you need me to lift you higher.”
“I wish I was strong of faith all the time,” I grumbled. “I keep learning the same lessons I should know by now!”
“You were made exactly according to Illuvator’s will and the Most High God does not make mistakes.”
I was silent, contemplating his words, willing my soul to grasp them firmly.
“Our companion has left Minas Morgul and is a league, perhaps more, from our camp. She will leave her horse and come to the fire briefly, but not stay. She abides apart, for neither of your steeds will tolerate hers and she will not abandon him,” he observed, looking out upon the darkness that rolled in upon the mountains.
“Legolas and I can speak to our horses and make them be docile,” I offered.
“Even Shadowfax will not suffer her mount, though he is gelded and not a competitor.” Gandalf looked me in the eyes. “They need more time before we attempt to force them in closer company. And Legolas needs more time, for his anger is a dry forest amidst violent storms and I would let him cool before allowing that lightning to strike.”
There was no arguing that particular point. The history of the Elves was fraught with bloodshed and terrible deeds just as the years of Men. I was disheartened that Legolas was so far from his usual demeanor that it even interfered with friendships such as ours, for we three had faced numerous hardships together.
This journey will be faced more easily if we are sound.
“What is her name?” I asked after we stood for a time in silence.
Gandalf looked dispirited. “I have inquired, but she does not answer. Whether it is because she has forgotten or refuses to tell me, I do not know. And though as Maia I know her true name, it is forbidden for me to reveal it.” He looked away and seemed to shrink in upon himself. “The Valar speak nothing to me, for I have undertaken this task without their counsel or blessing.”
“They watch over you,” I said, my voice full of conviction. “How could they not watch their most faithful servant?”
“I have not always been dutiful,” he returned. “Sometimes I smoked my pipe and drank wine and fished instead of was about my task!”
I laughed and saw the archer turn his face to us where he nursed the stew along.
“I was to blame for some of those moments!”
“Never was a moment wasted upon you,” the wizard said fondly and he put his thumb against my forehead and drew it down the center. It was an old blessing of some fashion, he once told me and I smiled at the odd gesture. The warmth from his touch lingered as we returned to the fire.
I did not prod my two companions to restore themselves to friendship. Legolas was pure honesty even when vexed, and Gandalf cared for all of us with unswerving devotion—I knew their peace would reinstate itself without any intervention on my part. I suspected the wizard would let the archer busy himself with tasks until his mind settled and then catch him off alone to talk.
I gathered meager wood, for the forest failed here in the shadow of the mountains and brushed down the horses and worked the tangles from their manes. Shadowfax would not let me approach him though I spoke softly to the Chieftain of Stallions.
As I predicted, Legolas left the firelight to scout for mischief and the wizard sought him out on the second lap of his pattern of search. They met at ruined column that formerly was a marker for Men in the wilderness. The archer was guarded and full of emotions and his stance resolute. But he was up against the patience and wisdom of Gandalf and the wizard calmed and placated and cajoled, eventually reaching and putting a hand upon Legolas’ shoulder.
That seemingly was all it took, for the archer leaned into the gesture fully and they stood, heads bowed, and talked low and earnest for a time. Then the wizard patted the Elf upon the chest and left him. Legolas watched him retreat and then resumed his inspection of our territory.
“All is well?” I softly inquired, handing the wizard a tin of stew.
“As well as expected,” he returned, juggling the hot tin hand to hand. “He does not trust her and remains full of anger, but he has promised to stay his bow hand until our quest is finished. It was the best I could draw from him.” He sipped the broth from the top of his bowl. “It will have to be enough.”
Our companion came in at twilight and Legolas chirruped a call merely a moment before she arrived. Her black garb was noiseless and her boots were the same soft footgear that all Elves were wont to wear. Her hair was unbraided and windblown, tousled in snarls. I studied her face and found little there to read.
I was disturbed by conflicting urges; to greet her with gladness for surviving the harrowing Tower of the Rising Moon—and to shrink back because of the dread and dire warnings surrounding her. To my credit, I did neither.
“We have hot stew,” I offered instead, ladling a washed tin.
“No,” she replied, watching Gandalf stride to meet her.
“It is to the King of Gondor you speak and courtesy is required,” demanded Legolas. “Your answer is ‘no, thank you’.”
“Legolas,” I interceded.
“She will give you the respect as is your due!”
“Cease!” said Gandalf and he waved a whim of gesture at the fire and it sprang up vigorously. “There is nothing more vexing than fools with honor than other fools defending someone’s honor when they do not ask for defense!”
Even firelight could not illuminate the slits of the archer’s eyes, but Gandalf paid him no more mind than he did me. He faced the garbed woman standing just within the added light of the fire.
“Aragorn is the King of the West,” he said calmly. “And though you owe him no allegiance, politeness is in order. Disregard the harsh words of Legolas, he forgets to be a cordial host.”
“A cordial host?” protested the archer.
“You will cease!” barked the wizard. The fire turned black at the edges and the heat increased strangely. “Peace with me you have sworn to keep and I need to speak with her in order to discover our quarry’s path. You will not argue and harass every time she comes to counsel when we are on a hunt! A warrior would know better!”
Legolas spoke nothing, but the energy pouring off of him made me wince. Gandalf did not look at him; he faced our silent comrade and the outright dismissal was harsh. I considered the ruthlessness of it—but the archer seemed to respond to the words and decisiveness of the wizard’s correction. He took a deep breath and relaxed his angry stance. The close air loosened.
The White Wizard studied our strange companion in silence, waiting.
“No, thank you, Aragorn,” said the dark Elf.
She offered nothing more and I did not ask. Legolas looked surprised and then smoothed his face.
“You stopped at Minas Morgul?” questioned Gandalf. “What did you seek there?”
“You conjured a balefire atop the foundation stone,” she said instead of answering. Her voice had none of the musical quality that I knew from Elves. “It has climbed up the hanging stairs and through the belly of the Great Hall even to the Absolute Tower and there it circles, chasing the Final Spell around and around. They are like wolves consuming each other, muzzle and belly and tail.”
“I conjured a mage fire,” corrected Gandalf. “It will wrest the ancient stronghold back from the evil that imprisons it.”
She gazed steadily at him and her voice was flat. “The spells that wage war against other spells look no different. The fire you have invoked burns blistering and foul just as his did.”
“The blood is the same color to the grasses of the field, though it is spilled from the veins of both Good and Evil,” countered Gandalf in a mild tone.
She pondered this a moment before replying, “Your words are true. The heart of the Absolute Tower is bleeding into the pit at the foundation. It will be many years, but the City will eventually be free.” Her gaze was curious. “You were bold to make such an attempt.”
“I was looking for something, but did not find it. After such hardship getting in,” the wizard sighed, remembering, “I thought setting the spell would aid my escape. Sadly, it seemed to make no difference at all.”
“Yet you survived the descent and returned,” she observed. “No other creature has beheld the Heartstone since it fell beneath the Captain of Despair’s rule and escaped unscathed.”
He did not escape entirely unscathed, I thought, but spoke nothing to disrupt the conversation unwinding before me. Observation seemed to be my only key to the puzzle represented in this cursed Elf.
“What were you seeking?” Gandalf asked again.
“Answers, but none were to be found there. What did you seek in the Tower of the Rising Moon, wizard?”
“You,” he said in his same mild voice. “I came too late.”
“You are 4000 winters too late.” Her dry and even tone did not change. “The Powers of the World abandoned us to our fate and closed the doorway ages past—why do you search for us now?”
“Because there is always a path of redemption left behind.”
“There is no path,” she replied sharply, the first of emotions I had witnessed. “You must stand aside, lest tragedy draw you into similar doom.”
“There is always a path,” Gandalf return with his self-same quietness. His eyes did not stray from her face. “It may be hard to see, but there is always a pathway. The foolish and proud do not search for it, refusing to tread the severity and misery that shape it.”
“Some are foolish and others are proud.” Her voice was completely tranquil once more. “But some are only weary, for the bitterness of the path was made by their own hands and they have walked its course many years.” She looked westward with a raking glance. “We will come to the guard-tower by afternoon light if we depart early. I will lead, for the passage is precarious on horseback and ambushes have been laid.”
Gandalf said nothing as she turned from the firelight and drew her dark hood over her hair. He stood silently and watched long after my eyes lost her figure in the shadows.
“She will not take food, nor will she shelter with us?” I asked as I drew abreast of the silent wizard. “Is this how you have traveled together?”
“It is,” he said. He rested both hands on the staff and put his brow against it and closed his eyes—an expression of weariness I recalled from hard journeys. “She holds herself apart, though I have made effort to draw her closer. She is wary of me and as untrusting as the old Dwarves.” He did not open his eyes, but his voice grew deliberately stronger for the archer’s hearing. “It does not help my cause when she is vehemently rejected on approach, though I have bidden her come and speak.”
“I will work to hold my tongue,” said Legolas, “but no charm will change my attitude. This I spoke freely to you.”
“Yes,” said Gandalf wearily. “And your wrath is justified, even if it does not apply to her.”
“In what way does it not apply? Does she deny what she is? Has she explained why the judgment does not fall upon her?” Legolas’ words were soft, but every one was a sword. “What vindication would be adequate to atone for the crime of the Forsaken?”
“Legolas,” I said, caught between the somber wizard and the Elf. “Do any of your accusations belong in the hands of Gandalf?”
“No, they do not,” he replied. “But I would be curious to know what she has spoken that would change the mind of an Istari as to her fate. Do you challenge the will of the Valar as well?”
“Enough!” said Gandalf and he raised his head and gazed sternly at the archer. “You will hold your judgment and speak it not for as long as we travel in her company. And one day, when your soul is strong and calm and your mind desires to know the truth, you must ask her for her story. But this I demand of you; you must ask without malice or harboring of vengeance. Your question must be from a genuine heart or she will feed you lies upon which you will choke and I may be of mind to assist!”
“An Elf who lies?” Legolas retorted. “And I have told one in my thousands of years?”
“Peace, peace!” I interjected before Gandalf could respond. “Have we not enough hardship in an inhospitable land? Do I not love you both and you tear me with this volley of words? Why do you make me suffer for the cause of a stranger?”
Wizard and Elf were silent, considering as if seeing me for the first time. Then Gandalf stirred from his pose and stalked to the fire to warm his hands over it.
“I need to sleep this night, for I have rested poorly for the last seven days. Tomorrow, I will take my share of the watch,” he eventually murmured.
“I will share the watch with you,” I said to Legolas.
“Nay, you will not,” he said grimly. “I will keep the watch alone, for I will not sleep with a Forsaken somewhere amongst these mountains with us. Take your rest.”
I sighed, my irritation with both companions rising to the brim. If ever I wanted to throttle the Elf and clout Gandalf with his own staff, it was now. Surprisingly, they both perceived the end of my forbearance, but it was only Legolas who looked contrite.
“Take your rest tonight, Aragorn, for perhaps tomorrow I will be more at ease and you may share the duty with me,” placated the archer. “I will mind my words, for I swore it to Mithrandir and I honor my oaths. It is not the wizard wherein fault lies.”
“And I will care for your troubled feelings with more thought,” offered Gandalf directly to the Elf. “Your vehemence on behalf your kin is justified and I must respect that.” He rubbed a hand down his face and through the white beard. “I am weary after the struggle with her for the past nine-day, and then wrestling with the Moontower’s lure.”
“I will find a soft place for you,” I said, searching the inhospitable ground with my eyes.
“Do not trouble yourself,” said the wizard. “I will care for Shadowfax and sleep at his side, for he is distressed.”
I looked at the Lord of Horses and could detect nothing in his behavior that was amiss. He was more placid than either of our other steeds and I wondered at Gandalf’s comment.
The stallion greeted the wizard eagerly and nuzzled about in his cape for a treat and received one. Their affection was palpable and I leaned my hip against a towering stratum of rock to watch them a moment.
Gandalf put off his cloak and laid aside the Great Staff and Glamdring. He combed the stallion’s mane and tail free of tangles and took a dagger to his hooves to release the cloying mud. Then, as Shadowfax cropped the meager grass more contentedly, he brushed and brushed with a bristled comb until the steed glistened. And all the while, the wizard hummed some low melody beneath his breath as he worked.
“Will you smoke with me before sleeping?” I asked Gandalf when he was finished.
“I will,” he said and sat upon an outcropping of my rock.
He had to search through several pockets of his cape before discovering his long pipe. We puffed quietly and the air was still, for not even the cheerful night crickets sang in the desolate land. The moon stealthily crept higher in the sky and the shadows of the twisted ridges and rocks shifted with it.
I asked the wizard nothing, but eventually he spoke of his own accord.
“Do you remember the history of the lost Elves of Eregion?” he asked around his pipe stem.
“You know that I was taught the ancient histories, but a retelling will bestir my mind.”
As I suspected, the wizard was not too weary for telling stories and I smiled while shifting to see him better. I eventually ended up cross-legged upon the ground, keenly aware that my pose was identical to numerous other story sessions with this wizard. When Gandalf’s lips quirked in a small smile, I knew he remembered as well.
“The Elves of Eregion were comprised of the Noldor who forsook the Undying Lands and came with Fëanor, the creator of the Silmarils, to wage war with Melkor who stole his Great Jewels.” He cupped the bowl of the pipe in his hand and shook his head sadly. “It was a terrible and hopeless cause, for Melkor was Vala and more potent than Manwë himself and the Noldor were merely Firstborn. One of the sons of Fëanor was named Curufin, and he sired a son named Celebrimbor some time in the First Age during their exile in Middle Earth.
“Galadriel and Celeborn first lived in Eregion, but it was Celebrimbor who brought the host of Noldor to the region. When the Lady of the Wood took up residency in Lothlórien, Celebrimbor became the ruler of the Elves of Eregion and they became renowned for their skilled smithwork. So talented and marvelous was their craft that it caught the attention of the Dwarves dwelling East in Khazad-dûm and a lively and friendly rapport developed between those two races.”
“I remember this,” I said. “The enchanted West-gate of Moria was made by Celebrimbor and so deep was the friendship between the Dwarves and the Smiths of Eregion that they gave one of the Rings of Power to the King of Khazad-dûm before they understood that Sauron had done them treachery.” I paused and wrestled my memory. “I do not remember the name of the King, however.”
“Durin III was that King and it was called the Ring of Thrór. Sauron’s spies captured it thousands of years later during the Quest of Erebor when they seized the Dwarf descendant who carried it, Thráin II.”
I smiled around my pipe stem, amused. “How you keep all these names and histories straight in your head, I shall never understand!”
Gandalf chuckled and drew upon his pipe. His smoky exhale was square as a book. “I am always scribbling notes, Aragorn. The writing and retelling helps keep it all straight.”
“Ha,” said I. “I think it is the intelligence of a Maia.”
“Perhaps Mithrandir keeps it within his mind, wound upon a great scroll, and you and I are only a line or two in the Great History of the World,” said Legolas. He stood atop the echelon of black rock Gandalf had perched upon and we both looked up to see him there, slim and alert against a star filled sky.
“Forgive my keen hearing,” the archer added. “You mentioned Dwarves and I thought upon Gimli, whom I had not even the moment to sent word to. Without a doubt, he would be riding with me had he known a quest was before us.”
“We depend upon your keen hearing,” returned Gandalf. “And you are certainly correct about the Son of Glóin! He would surely have come and then complained of the hard riding and then the evil of the land … and the whole while he would be sharpening his axe for bloodshed with a merry heart!”
“And he would be smoking with us just as avidly, though you would make faces and complain about the smell of his beard all the morrow,” I cheerfully added. The respite of humor was fresh as snowmelt and Legolas laughed in agreement.
The wizard returned to the archer’s earlier words in one stroke. “A great scroll and the both of you merely a line upon it?” he murmured, quizzically. “I am certain the word ‘stubborn’ and ‘argumentative’ are in that line!”
“Surely ‘brave, yet foolhardy’ are there as well,” I laughed.
“Bravery and foolhardiness seem to go hand in hand, though we have been extraordinarily lucky for our years,” added Legolas more seriously. “May our good fortune keep us company on this present course.”
He looked away over the inhospitable land, but found nothing that caught his gaze alarmingly.
“Tarry with us, for you know the history I speak of as well,” quietly said Gandalf. “And add to it as you see fit, for your perspective perhaps differs from mine.”
Whereupon, the archer sprang down from his lofty perch and landed agile as a cat and just as noiseless. He squatted a reach away from me and dangled his long fingers off his knees. The moonlight painted his hair with silver light nearly as much as the wizard’s.
“The Jewel-smiths of Eregion were called the Mírdain,” continued the wizard, “and they perfected their skill for nearly 500 years and became the greatest craftsmen in Arda. Chief amongst them was Celebrimbor, who had the same marvelous talent for working metal and jewels as his Grandfather Fëanor. Then, somewhere around 1200 of the Second Age, they began to receive visitors from a distant land. The rings and bracelets and ornate necklaces worn by these emissaries were of a knowledge they could not fathom.” The wizard paused. “And the Elves coveted the expertise and wanted it for their own.”
“The pride of the Noldor is legendary,” interjected Legolas softly and Gandalf paused for his words. “It was pride that drove Fëanor to create the Silmarils, capturing the holy light of the Two Trees in jewels of such surpassing finery that they compelled him to rebel against the Powers of the West. He left the keeping of the Gods and rejected their authority and took after the thief Melkor who seized his creation, for he was in thrall to the Silmarils. He swore the terrible Oath of Fëanor that cruelly held his sons throughout their lives—to recover the jewels and wage war against anyone who held them, including Elves themselves. So Firstborn slaughtered Firstborn.” The archer twisted his fingers uncharacteristically. “And Mandos rose from His Great Hall and judged the Noldor and pronounced their irrevocable Doom and it has turned as a great wheel and ground their souls into ruin. Hardship and sorrow and betrayal have haunted the exiles since their expulsion from the Blessed Realm.”
“And it was that same root of pride and envy that drove the Jewel-smiths to question their guests about the works of metal they wore, and from whence they had learned the craft,” continued Gandalf. “The emissaries were sly and cunning. They offhandedly dismissed the crudity of their decorations, which only made the Mírdain hungrier for the knowledge of forging such astonishing works. Eventually, they learned the name of the Master Craftsman, Annatar, and beseeched him to come and teach them his great skill … and he agreed.
“Galadrial and Elrond, even Gil-galad, were suspicious of Annatar and warned the Noldor of treachery. They were mistrustful of such a rare skill shared freely. They were constantly aware that wickedness remained in Arda, for Sauron had not been vanquished. But the Jewel-smiths were confidant that such works of astounding beauty could not be created by evil.” Gandalf sighed heavily. “Annatar said he was the Lord of Gifts and an emissary of the Valar. He offered to teach them the skills such as were common in the Undying Lands, bringing the beauty of Aman to the banished Elves.”
“The lure was set and the Noldor willingly followed,” said Legolas. “They thought they could once again have the beauty of the Blessed Realm without the sanction of the Valar.”
“Chief amongst them was Celebrimbor, who desired the same lofty respect as Fëanor had received before he was treacherous. He wanted to be greater than his Grandfather and more renowned as a jewel-smith,” said Gandalf.
“For the next 300 years, the House of Mírdain was guided by Annatar and he insinuated himself into their camaraderie until they no longer thought of him as an outsider and not of their own kind. He taught them wondrous arts, but always hinted at more skilled knowledge that they were not quite ready for.” The wizard glowered beneath his brushy brows and blew a smoke ring with what appeared to be teeth. “The temptation of even greater knowledge kept the Mírdain laboring to win Annatar’s complete blessing until the Lord of Gifts had all of them within the grasp of his will.
“Then Annatar revealed the highest expertise and the Mírdain learned the art of creating magic rings—rings that harnessed the deep magic of Arda and bound it to the will of the wearer, enabling them to govern their people with formidable strength. They were exceedingly potent, for the Elves of Eregion had great understanding of Earth Power and their living souls were tied to it. Sometime around 1500 of the Second Age, the first Ring of Power was forged and the Elves triumphantly made fifteen more Rings in the ensuing decades. Their Master was pleased with their workmanship and praised them and they were arrogant and proud.”
The wizard drew a deep draught upon his pipe and the ring he exhaled had writing along the edges. My blood chilled to behold it and the archer blew a breath to dissipate it.
“Annatar was Sauron in disguise,” I said darkly. “He tricked them and deceived them, then went away to Amon Amath and crafted the Ruling Ring to enslave all the rest of the Rings and those who bore them. He craved power over the whole of Middle Earth and would bring it under his dominion.”
“But he did not count on the deception of the Elves, for their pride extended past his dominion over them,” offered Legolas. “Though it took a hundred years, Celebrimbor made three Rings of Power in secret and these held more authority than the others. He named them Narya, Nenya, and Vilya.”
“The Ring of Fire, of Water, and of Air,” I said. “Gandalf wears the red ring, Narya. I think you told me after the war ended that Elrond’s ring, Vilya, is the mightiest of the Elven Rings.”
“Yes, it is mightiest and set with a sapphire stone,” agreed Gandalf. “Do you know why it is the most potent?”
I was at a loss, for this long history was beginning to overwhelm my thoughts.
“It is most powerful because it gives homage to Manwë Súlimo, the Elder King of Arda,” said Legolas. “He rules the winds and his scepter is set with sapphires the color of every sky over Middle Earth.”
“Yes,” said the wizard. His voice sounded far away and sad and it was a moment before he shook from some reverie. “Thus it was, when Sauron donned the One Ring, the Elves of Eregion, through the power of their own three Master Rings, recognised the true guise of Annatar and realized their danger. They quickly removed their Rings of Power and sent them out of Eregion to safety. Ninty three years later, Sauron marched out of Mordor in fury and he slaughtered the Elves of Eregion to the very last, including Celebrimbor, who died under agonizing torture, but would not reveal the location of the Elven Rings.”
“The Dark Lord seized the remainder of the forged rings and dispersed them amongst the Kings of Men and Dwarves, though the Dwarves proved immune to the power of the One Ring’s thrall,” I added into the story. “The nine Kings became the Ringwraiths and when Isildur cut the Ruling Ring from Sauron’s hand during the War of the Last Alliance and it was lost, they became its searchers. And Sauron lingered on as a shadow of his former glory, waiting and biding his time, until he was powerful enough to try to overcome Middle Earth again.”
“The rest of the story, we know,” whispered Legolas. His eyes were haunted and I shifted where I sat to bring him from dark thoughts.
The wizard took his pipe from his mouth and waved the stem as he spoke. “The Noldor were condemned because of the Oath of Fëanor and his rebellion. Their killing of the Firstborn bloodied their souls with a stain that cannot be erased by time. Generations of Elves have been born in Middle Earth, but the pride and arrogance of their heritage lived on and snared them into the forging of the Great Rings that have savaged the land for centuries.
“But,” and Gandalf’s tone became grave, “there was a deeper betrayal in the creating of the Rings and without this treachery, Sauron would not have gained the ability to craft a magic Ring of such immense potency as the One Ring and survive it. But it is a long tale and I grow weary. I will speak of it another day.”
The wizard stretched and tapped out the coals of his pipe and both Legolas and I watched him, incredulous.
When he rose and shook out his long cloak, I looked up at him and said, “Gandalf the White needs no magic ring to hold us in thrall—he only tells part of a great tale and then hints at the remainder to keep us bound to it!”
“Ha!” said the wizard, but he did not turn aside. He went straight to the ghostly Shadowfax who stood like vapor amidst the rocks and patted him. The stallion lay down and Gandalf curled against his back and stuffed his crooked hat beneath his head. I could hear his sigh from where I still sat, thinking.
The archer’s laugh was soft and musical and he took my hand and hoisted me stiffly to my feet. His smile and friendly clasp was comforting after the tension filled day and my heart took hope for the morrow.
I stirred the fire and set branches to keep it lit, for spring nights were cold. I curled up in my cloak to keep the chill at bay, but then Talemon meandered to where I had made my bed and laid down. I was amused at his seeming mimic of his Greatsire and curled against his warm back just as Gandalf had.
The last thing I saw was Legolas standing upon the uppermost pinnacle of rocks, his outline sharp as any tower against the sky.
3. The Shadowed Lands
Dawn had not touched the ground with silver light when Shadowfax rose and searched amongst the rugged land for grass. The Steed of The King joined him and Ashra as well and the trio of ghostly steeds cast their own illumination as they wandered. The archer watched them from where he stood atop the monoliths of stone.
Aragorn awakened with the rising of his stallion, but the wizard curled more tightly beneath his cloak and put an arm across his ear. The King took note of this and became quieter with the morning task of rousing the fire. He cast no branches amongst the coals to pop and snap; he shaved thin strips of wood with his hunting knife to stir it into flame. He poured a tin of water from a flash without a gurgle and sat it carefully to heat.
From his vantage, Legolas gestured and then tossed, one by one, a handful of roots he had discovered during the night. His aim was true and Aragorn dropped none of them. The King secreted them away in his pack and drew out strips of dried meat. He sucked on one idly while the water heated and listened to the silent land.
A birdcall caught his attention instantly, for larks did not inhabit the Black Lands. Legolas pointed and Aragorn turned just as their mysterious companion stepped around the sheltering strata of rocks. The archer made no move to join them and his expression was wary; he leapt to the nearest column of rock and watched her approach.
She needed no gesture for silence as she drew near the fire, for she moved as stealthily as any Elf, but she looked curiously toward the quiescent wizard.
“I have never seen him slumber past first light,” she said softly. She halted just out of arm’s reach and Aragorn was unsurprised.
“Only when injured or pushed past his endurance,” replied the King just as softly. He kept his expression open. “He is nearly as tireless as Legolas.”
“He spoke of no wound and we have fought no battles.” She sounded mystified.
“He protected us past the boundary of the Moontower, where I was spell-bound.”
“Ahh,” she said, then gauged the measure of the morning. “You should wake him, for the journey will be long today. You must eat quickly both this morning and at noontide or the twilight will catch us in the crevasse of the mountain.”
“The Tower of Cirith Ungol will wait for us,” returned the King, but then he added for clarification, “We will not tarry for breakfast, nor stop midday. We are accustomed to difficult journeys and will eat as we ride if need be. We will keep whatever pace you set for us without complaint.”
She nodded, accepting without question, but her eyes considered him. He was used to the scrutiny of Elves and did not chafe beneath her steady regard. He stirred the tin of water, found it finally steaming.
“Will you eat something while we wait?” he asked.
“I will not take your food.” She looked away at the wilderness, took in the torturous trees and broken rocks. “I carry my own.”
“We have tea,” offered the King, amused by her stubbornness.
“Tea?” Her voice lingered upon the word as if it was mysterious.
Aragorn poured her a tin and silently handed it up. She handed it back and forth in her palms and blew to cool it.
“I remember this…” she eventually said. “The heat and the steam, the smell. The cup was silver with a carved handle. I dropped it once and burnt my toes.”
“I dropped it once as well and never did that again with hot tea. I also broke a favorite cup and was chastised,” admitted the King. He shrugged in dismissal. “I was only a small boy.”
She blinked from her study of the tea and looked at him. “I do not remember if I was disciplined, but I remember the scald. I had to stay indoors until I was healed.”
Aragorn sipped his tea. “I was confined inside as punishment … but I crept out the window and scrambled down a tree anyway. Sadly, I was not very quiet.”
“A disobedient boy.” Amusement was a flicker of light in her eyes … but to Aragorn it was a scrap of progress.
“Disobedient boys grow up to be slightly … willful Men.” He sipped his steaming brew. “I suspect disobedient Elven children grow up much the same.”
Gandalf abruptly stirred. He turned and searched with his right hand, found his staff exactly where he had placed it. Both King and Elf were silent, watching, as the wizard heaved himself to his feet. He looked suspiciously at them as he approached.
“Why are you two whispering together?” he inquired. His expression was surprised and a bit guarded. “And why did you not wake me when I tarried?”
Aragorn looked up mildly. “Did you not admit you were weary in my hearing?”
“That does not stop you from tossing a pine comb at me,” the wizard pointedly said.
“There are no pine combs,” offered Aragorn. He smiled into his teacup. “And everyone knows not to throw rocks at a wizard.”
“Do they?” said she and the barest flicker of humor crossed her face. “I will remember.”
Gandalf turned to eye her. “You came to the fire even when I was not here? I am astonished, for it took me seven days to get you to approach my fire to speak with only me. Now I rise and find you whispering with one of my companions?”
“Tea,” interrupted the King. “All manners of hardship are managed over tea.” He sipped from his cup. “Unless you are a hobbit, and then it is ale and pipeweed.”
“I offered tea,” complained the wizard. He took the cup Aragorn handed to him.
“I do not trust you,” she said and the wariness resurrected in her brittle tone. “I would not be in your company had you not seized me with a spell and prevented my escape.” She put the tea down as if it betrayed her.
“I only held you long enough for you to listen to my offer of aid,” grumbled Gandalf. “I thought you wise enough to accept it—but I had to get you to stop fleeing and listen to me!”
“And if I had refused your help, would you have released me or would you have bound me to you with sorcery?” she said cuttingly.
The wizard sighed guiltily and switched his hot cup to the other hand.
“I thought as much,” she said curtly. “The Maiar are not to be trusted.”
“I am not Sauron!” protested Gandalf. The flickering fire sprang higher with his passionate reply. “Must you judge my every act by his?”
“What other measure have I? The Elf and Man built this camp and tended the fire and prepared the food while you did nothing, just as the servants of the Dark Lord did for him. I judge by what I know and see,” she said just as sternly. She pointed to the obelisk of stone where the archer stood tense and vigilant. “He measures and condemns exactly as you accuse me of measuring. And lest you forget, there have been many more Maiar than Aulendil to weigh you against. I need not name them all.”
“You will have respect for Gandalf the White,” interjected Aragorn. It was the King’s voice and even she heard it. “The Lord of Mordor is vanquished because of his patient help. We aid him by doing the trivial tasks because he can do more than we are able when it comes to mighty tasks!”
He gloomily considered that the quarrels in attendance the evening before were long in being dispelled. Verily, they sprang up faster than Foxtattles in spring.
“Mithrandir is no kindred to the corrupted Maia that you have known,” added the archer from above. “He did not forsake his duty to Middle Earth. He sought neither power nor praise, nor did he gather wealth or followers. You are free of the Sorcerer’s thrall because of his potency for the cause of Free People.”
“His thrall?” she said and gazed critically at the wizard. “You have told these two nothing.”
“It is your story to tell,” said the wizard, but he lifted a hand pleadingly to halt further antagonism. “We have argued this subject since we met and there is no help for it. You must judge as you judge and I must stay the course as I ever have. No avalanche of words as to my trustworthiness will change your mind. Truly, the only people more stubborn than the Dwarves are the Elves! It is no surprise that you could be best of friends and most terrible of foes!”
This seemed to astonish her. “The Elves forsook friendship with the Dwarves?”
“Many changes have been wrought upon the World,” said the wizard heavily. “You have lived in darkest, but Arda did not go happily on in sunlight while evil consumed you.” He glanced at the sky. “We must not tarry. The Pass of the Spider is deadly enough during daylight; let us not face it in twilight!”
“Shadowfax and my steed will negotiate the difficult path, but we may have to leave the other horses behind,” said she. “What shall happen to these two you have brought, wizard? The Elf may run along with us, but the Man can not.”
Neither Gandalf nor Aragorn had a single instant to speak before the archer’s voice came from above.
“We shall not abandon our steeds,” he corrected sternly. He sprang down from his high perch without effort and looked across the fire at her. “Our stallions were sired by the Lord of Horses and birthed together from the same dam. They are as intrepid as he and will go wither he goes.” He strode away and whistled to the trio of horses to bring them in.
“Then we shall ride hard until the road forces caution,” she said. “I will lead, for this path is familiar.”
“Keep us in your vision,” said Gandalf. “I cannot ward the three of us and mind the trail.”
“I do not forget. Push your white stallion as close as he will come.”
“We need a name to call you by,” said the King as she turned away. He was unsurprised at her set countenance with his words. “I do not wish to yell to get your attention.”
“I have been called many things,” she said without inflection. “None were my name and all were my name. Call me anything you wish.”
“You must give us a name,” said Aragorn. “It is a custom when Men share tea that trust is at least extended to the giving of names. I am Aragorn Elessar.”
Gandalf said nothing to this exchange, but he looked away into the sunrise, blinking. The dark clad Elf puzzled with Aragorn’s words a moment.
“Then if you must have a word, call me Hecilë.”
“No, not that,” abruptly said the wizard. “I will not call you that. I have not abandoned you.”
“Not yet.” She shrugged indifferently. “I was also often called Nyérë.”
“Sorrow? I like it not,” said Aragorn, rising and pouring out the rest of his cooling tea. “Surely something less harsh?”
“Less harsh?” Her tone turned bitter. “My list is thin of such terms.” She threw a glance at Gandalf. “You have most of the tale, what would you call me?”
“Oh my child,” the wizard said gently, “I have always known your name.” He looked over his steaming cup and his face was benevolent. “But you would reject my truth in the matter this day, so I will give you another. You are a wandering and straying soul; I shall call you Ránë until you find your true form.”
And then the wizard opened his left hand towards the heavens and spoke something unfamiliar in a great stern voice. Every word was long and swift, like swirls of leaves in wind or the glitter of swords. Aragorn found the language impossible to grasp or even imitate, though the wizard used little effort to render the subtleties of it.
The Elf standing with him jerked, alarmed.
“Do not spell-speak me!” she cried.
The wizard looked at her, saw her panic and imminent flight.
“No, no,” he chided, sounding like a father soothing a small child. “I have cast no snare for you—I renamed you.”
“You … renamed me?” she said, somewhat aghast.
“Have no worries.” Gandalf waved a dismissive hand and took a sip of his tea. “It is only a temporary name until you find the path laid for you and then I will restore your true name.”
Aragorn chuckled upon seeing her irritable expression at the wizard’s explanation. He spread his hands serenely when she whipped her head to look at him.
“Peace,” he said calmly. “I laugh because I have heard similar words aimed at myself—from my youth even through manhood. Perhaps I should warn you that Gandalf not only sees the path you should take … but that he will scheme and persuade and argue until you are upon it yourself in a desperate attempt to have him cease troubling you!”
“I am a most troublesome wizard,” solemnly said Gandalf, “So Men have called me Stormcrow and Láthspell and various other things. But you, Ránë, you already call me ‘wizard’ with the same annoyed inflection as they, so I am content.”
She was slow to answer and they waited upon her patiently. It was to Aragorn that she finally spoke. “Is he often this infuriating?”
“Often enough,” admitted the King. His eyes twinkled. “But he is also handy to have about during a conflict.”
“My one saving grace,” said Gandalf. Then more seriously, “Legolas returns and we must be away, but remember our gentle truce of words, Ránë.”
“I will try,” she said. Her look was meaningful. “Despite friendly expressions, I still do not trust you, wizard.”
“Trust, like all things of value, must be earned,” softly interjected the King. “You must earn mine, as well as I earn yours.”
“Trust is not something I give or receive anymore, Aragorn Elessar. I will have to relearn it.” And with that, her face was closed to them and she vanished back into the twisted landscape after her gelding.
Aragorn caught the eye of the wizard just as Legolas drew within earshot.
“She was a prisoner of the Dark Lord,” he said. It was not a question.
“Somewhat,” said Gandalf. “It is only the middle of her story, but it is, sadly, the longest part.”
“A riddle within a riddle,” chuckled Aragorn, and he clapped the wizard upon a shoulder. “If you ever speak forthrightly, I will suspect your body has been inhabited by another.”
“Who would want such a shabby temple as this?” postulated the wizard, but his eyes smiled. “And when did tea earn such a ritual of revealing names? I had to struggle to not laugh out loud at your lie!”
Aragorn shrugged dismissively. “It was the best I could do without much thought.” Then he turned to Legolas and took Talemon’s bridle. “We will call her Ránë, though the White Wizard says it is not her true name.”
“That is not a name,” said Legolas. “It is only a word. You might as well call her Vanwa.”
“She is not lost, nor is she departed or dead.” Aragorn put a friendly hand upon his friend, found him tense as a bent spring.
“She is. You just do not understand,” said the archer.
“Do not be hasty in believing that you fully understand,” gruffly said the wizard. “We must be ready when she rides past, for she will not tarry for any of us.”
The fire was doused and all the tea consumed. Every rider was astride before Shadowfax snorted irritably and the somber Ránë rode by upon her gelding. Her dark beast pinned his ears back at them, but did not deter from the path she set him upon. The three white horses swung into a swift pace to stay within sight.
The pathway towards the ancient watchtower was crumbling from ill use. Aragorn grimly realized that no maintenance had been done on the road since it fell from Gondor’s rule. There were pits and cracks, avalanches of boulders that spilled across the road. Some of the path had sunken as the bedrock shifted. Chunks of the edge had fallen into the precipice bordering it and twice Aragorn looked over the rim at bleached bones tangled in a riot off the cliff. At one stretch, which seemed a placid part of the corridor, there was nearly a full ravine of bones.
“What battle was fought here?” queried Aragorn to Gandalf, who led their trio of white horses. “Is this from the taking of Minas Ithil?”
“They are too fresh for the downfall of Minas Ithil,” offered Legolas. “And those are Orc bones.”
The wizard called ahead, “What happened in this place?”
Ránë turned her head to look and then answered. “Six bands of Goblins marched through here and two bands of smaller Orc were culled out. They were deemed too weak for the Watchtower’s defenses and Ufthak threw them over the side to languish.” After a few more moments of riding, she added, “Shagrat was angry that they had been killed here. They could have been fed to the spider instead of calling a thousand carrion birds to the roadway. The Uruk do not like the birds.”
“Eh-h,” said the wizard. “I am sure the sentiment is shared!”
Up and up they climbed and the surface of the passage became choppier and more crumbled. Vines and grasses encroached upon the roadway and one plant snaked a tendril after Talamon as he passed, making him snort and spin away. The King called a strident warning and Ashra put on speed and leapt it. The archer clung like a burr and sent a whistling arrow back over his shoulder.
The scream of the plant sounded eerie and high and bounced about the strata of rock that surrounded them. The rider in the lead wheeled.
“Do not slay the RoadWatchers,” she called. “You will only rouse the ire of the rest and we cannot fight them all! We must run, for these have been alerted!”
Away they galloped and the black horse in the lead swerved and zigzagged to dodge the terrible creatures that grasped for them. Shadowfax drew close enough to watch the uneven route and the ghostly steed matched it, leading the Sons of Thunder in a torturous race along the broken roadway. They threaded through progressively narrowing cliffs until the whip of rock in passing made each rider flinch, thinking it would hit him. But the stallions were alert to their masters and no outcropping of stone scraped them off. They sped along the roadway one after the other, fleet and swift.
When two leagues passed, they were able to slow and they trotted until their horses cooled, then walked. A tumble of water fell by the road, but it was the color of yellow mud and the horses would not go near it. Ránë did not tarry and none complained.
Aragorn dismounted without pulling up and poured water in a leather pouch for Talemon, for he was foam-flecked with the arduous run. He walked alongside while the white steed gulped. Ashra looked as bright and lively as ever, as did Shadowfax. The wizard was murmuring some litany and the Lord of Horses shook his head as if answering.
Then the road started to climb more severely and it cut back and forth ever higher. The short scrub brushes failed and abruptly there were no green things at all. Every rock edge was sharp and some glistened bright as dragonglass. The land bristled. Even the air seemed more sinister. A patch of fog upon the roadway swallowed the rider who entered it completely, but the wizard continued speaking and every keen mount followed his voice until they emerged on the other side.
A strange warm wind billowed up, but the odor upon it was dank and disturbing and acrid. Aragorn covered his nose and mouth with his cape as did his companions. The big boned gelding hung his head and went on as if it did not bother him, though his rider covered her face.
“Orodruin has sent a shaft to the surface a league from here,” she called back. “It is tearing a hole through the mountain in two places as if to raise offspring.”
“We don’t need more Mount Dooms,” said Legolas. “One is enough trouble.”
Aragorn chuckled, but mirth was short lived amidst the harsh incline. The foul air grew worse; as if they breathed the terrible exhale from the maw of the volcano itself. Talamon began to sweat and even Shadowfax put his head down doggedly in the climb. The light Windsteed fell behind very slowly, for the archer did not vex him amidst the steep terrain. Eventually Legolas dismounted and trotted along beside his horse and they regained the distance.
Their leader pulled up when the trail sharply descended into gloomy cracks between narrow cliffs. Shadowfax was within two fathoms before he realized his proximity and halted. He laid his ears back warningly and the black gelding snapped his teeth in answer.
“Hold, hold my friend,” soothed the wizard. He slid down the sweat-slicked side of the stallion and walked ahead, stopping well away from the other horse. “How much farther before the Tower?”
“A league, but this final passageway is most deadly. We must hold together and be silent,” she returned.
“Shelob will hear us regardless. She will come from her dark labyrinth with every silken net she can muster,” grimly said the wizard.
“She will, but she has no love for snaring horses. During one harsh winter, she foolishly accosted one of the Nazgûl steeds and they are trained for battle. Sadly, the war mount did not injure her fatally.” She looked him over critically. “The spider will ignore me; she will come for one of you.”
“The Windsteed must lead our three, for he is light and swift. I will ride center with the white staff and Talemon bring up the rear. If she comes for Aragorn, Talamon will fight and he has the strength.”
She regarded him quizzically. “You will place the King of Gondor last in the line?”
“He is no ordinary King.” The wizard’s expression was cunning. “He is the Heir of Isildur and wields Andúril, the sword reforged from the shards of Narsil. If his steed spares the spider, the Flame of the West will not.”
“He is the one?” she said wonderingly. She blinked, astonished. “Why did you keep this hidden from me?”
The wizard shrugged indifferently. “You hold secrets from me … shall I not hold my own?”
She turned her gelding away irritably, but Gandalf returned smiling to his own steed. He quickly advised his companions and sent Legolas ahead on the narrow pathway … then Gandalf took the Great Staff and raised it as if before a darkened doorway and it sprang alit. The shadows fled away on every side.
Ashra willingly followed the horse in the lead, but Legolas sang very softly for both the black gelding and the evil surroundings stirred his steed’s anxiety. The light of Gandalf’s wand made every shadow move alarmingly and Shadowfax stayed close upon the heels of the Windsteed; thus both horses watched nearly the same place of the path.
Talemon brought up the rear and his alertness failed not, for the Sword of the King was in his master’s hand. If this was the moment for his mettle to be proven, Aragorn was confident he was ready. The young stallion had been battle trained against Gondor’s finest even though there was peace throughout the land. Andúril glimmered with the White Wizard’s bewitching light like pale fire.
They caught no glimpse of the dreadful spider of the pass, though evidence of her domain lurked everywhere. There was a foul sickly breath upon the air and lines and lines of silvery thread strung along the passageways leading off the trail. Bones littered the landscape. Most chillingly, there was not a single sign of any living thing—not bird or bug or slithering snake.
“Watch overhead,” whispered Gandalf. “She is a spider. Up or down has no bearing on her craft.”
The tension was as severe as the terrain and the odor was overwhelming. There was a husk of a body beside the pathway and Ashra blew a breath and then ignored it. A curtain of spider silk covered the top of one narrow cleft as if to seal them in. Every rider shrank while passing beneath. The wizard gripped the staff tightly and it flared more luminous in response; he lifted it higher overhead to keep it from blinding Aragorn behind him.
On and on, with pounding hearts and grim expressions, they traveled. Yet despite the ample evidence of the monster of the pass, they rode through undisturbed with the Great Staff burning sunfire and the Sword of the King thirsting.
Eventually Ránë dismounted and thrust open a wide door into a rock face. They trotted through the dark portal and it closed on its own and the Pass of the Spider was left behind. Every rider pulled up and the horses blew. Even Shadowfax shook out his mane as if ridding himself of cobwebs.
“I would have liked to send an arrow into one of her eyes,” muttered the archer.
“You would not have missed,” said Aragorn, but he breathed a sigh as if he had been holding his breath. He sheathed the Great Sword and wiped his palm upon his trousers.
“I am glad we did not see her,” said the wizard. “She is very old and spawned from Ungoliant, the evil accomplice of Melkor who destroyed the Two Trees in the First Age. Though my rage is kindled against her ilk, I would not wish to fight her in her own territory for she is faster and stronger than any of us.”
The wizard’s words brought them all to silence. They had passed into a dark chamber, carved by a thousand picks. Beyond the wizard’s pale light, all was silent. Aragorn puzzled at his surroundings.
“I do not remember this in the descriptions of the watchtowers of Men.”
“The pathway through the final peak takes us directly past the watchtower in plain view. This is the tunnel of the Undergate,” solemnly said Ránë. “When the Nazgûl took Minas Ithil, they set the Craven to their picks for fifty years to carve this back entrance.” She looked back at the closed stone door. “Now and then, they opened the Black Door and fed an underling to the spider for entertainment. It reminded the Goblins to work hard and faithfully for their masters.”
“The Craven?” inquired Gandalf. “Explain this term to me.”
“The ones inept in training and terrified in battle. There are a great many born that way amongst the common Orcs, for their breeding is done carelessly. A taskmaster and a whip put them to better use.”
“How long were you held here?” asked Aragorn.
“I was not held here, but I have been here before.” Then she added warningly, “The watchtower is beyond us and may not be abandoned. If it is well housed, we have no hope of conquering it and must turn back and find another way. If the Goblins are lax, there may be only a handful of scouts here instead of a full march.”
“How many in a full march?” asked Gandalf. The light of the staff moved and slid as Shadowfax shifted his weight, eager to be out of the dark tunnel.
“Fifty.”
“We must discover how many are there, lest we be overcome,” said the King. “I do not wish to be driven back into the spider’s lair against overwhelming forces. If there are only a few here, then favor is with us. The tower cannot be taken from the outside—this I remember from the old records of Gondor. The outer wall is thirty feet high with outcroppings to prevent climbers from scaling the walls.”
Then the archer spoke, for schemes of battle overcame all his reluctance.
“Where would these scouts escape to?” he asked. “If they flee, we must intercept their course or all secrecy vanishes.”
“Not to Barad-dûr,” said Gandalf. “Even the foundation of the Dark Tower was destroyed. There is nothing left upon the dark heel of the Ered Lithui where the iron towers once dwelled in mist and shadows.”
“Unless they are rebuilding it,” said Aragorn. “It has been done before after destruction.”
“It will not be rebuilt,” said Ránë. “The power of Ring laid its foundation stones and even they were shriven with its downfall. The ill-spawn left from Sauron’s breeding pits do not have the knowledge required to raise it and the Wraiths fell with the Ring.”
“You know much,” said Legolas.
She eyed him warily. “Sometimes I do not know enough. I cannot say where the scouts will run if they flee.”
“Why did you say Shelob would ignore you, Ránë?” abruptly asked Gandalf.
It was the first expression of fear they had seen, though it vanished quickly. Her black gelding chafed at the bit and pawed a hoof upon the ground and she patted his shoulder as any competent rider did.
“I have watched her suck the life out of creatures before. It is slow and painful,” she quietly said. “Once, just to prove his power, the Lord of Barad-dûr gave me to her with dire warning to not harm me. They are not accomplices … but neither wishes to make a foe of the other. She granted his demand and he paid her with sixteen Men taken along the road to Khand. It was an evil night even if I was not injured.” Then she shook from dread memory. “We will have to spread ourselves thinly and watch both the mountain behind the watchtower and the pass itself lest one escape.
“The Goblins do not like to climb to save themselves … in a panic, they will chose the easy path,” added Aragorn. “They will likely flee through the main gate and take the road either towards Minas Morgul or back into Mordor.”
“There is nothing in the Tower of Black Sorcery to aid them, but if they enter Mordor, they will rouse the alarm,” offered the wizard.
“None will escape,” said Legolas. “Once inside, I will make for the highest tower and watch from above.”
Ránë looked directly at Legolas. “Turn right once we enter the fortress and find the spiral staircase leading to the top court. The uppermost tower lies to the West. Access to the turret is through a trapdoor in the ceiling.” Then she added warningly, “Mind below, for the shaft is open and any creature standing underneath can fire a bolt at you.”
“I will run. They will not hit me,” he said without a hint of arrogance.
“We will busy their time if they spot you,” said the King.
They pressed on, though at a slower pace and more stealthily. The wizard stuffed his hat in a travel bag and tied his old grey cloak tightly to hide his raiment. He let the light of the staff wane and held it low for only the horses to see their footing.
Legolas restrung the great Galadhrim bow, searched through his quiver for three arrows that met his approval for distance, ran a finger along the edges of his lethal knives, and retied his soft boots—all of which he did while riding in darkness.
The King only drew forth his blade, for though he carried a bow, he knew his skill was pale before the archer’s. Anduril gleamed when the light of the wand brushed it and all the runes writhed. He prayed as all Men pray before battle and kissed the tang.
Eventually the tunnel narrowed and the ceiling dropped. Every rider dismounted and let their horse free, though none strayed. The black gelding kept himself apart and Shadowfax, wisest of all horses, refrained from quarreling.
Cautiously they cracked open the final door and Legolas stood at the narrow aperture and listened. From within emanated the guttural and harsh speech of Goblins; some high and some low and some grunting replies angrily. He counted as he heard voices, for his ears were keen enough to discern each speaker. And with each dissimilar one, he bobbed the point of his hungering arrow and both Gandalf and Aragorn kept the tally. When he finally ceased listening and turned his head, his smile was pleased.
“Twenty-one,” he said so softly that Aragorn, pressed close, had to strain to hear.
“Same,” said the King.
“Twenty-one,” whispered the wizard in agreement. “You don’t even need my help.”
“You would stay behind and pet the horses instead?” said Aragorn. Gandalf’s amused smile greeted him.
Quietly, the four slipped through the door and the archer turned along the black wall of stone and found the staircase. Not a sound was heard as he sped away and Aragorn waited a ten-count before waving a hand to disperse them. No cry of alarm sounded as they scattered through hallways.
The floor was littered with rock and dried dirt, bones and pieces of metal. The walls were black and uncared for, with jagged cracks top to bottom. No torches lit the walls and everything was shadowy in the wan sun that came through narrow slits of windows. It was a poor and downtrodden watchtower and the glory of its former days were completely erased by the ill that had overcome it.
Aragorn took a sentry who leaned in doorway. His bright knife flashed when it flew and he lifted the body around the corner, for he was small. Another Orc paced away down the hallway and the King let him go until he turned into a room, then he quickly trotted after and hid beside the door. There was no cry of alarm with the second either, though he grunted his last exhale when he slid down the wall. Aragorn’s knife was untidy and he wiped it upon the rough garb of his fallen foe.
Legolas, speeding up the circular stairs, surprised one on his way up. He killed him in a flash of knives and had to lean to catch the falling helmet before it bounced noisily down the open staircase. Three more were upon the roof. One arrow took two through the throat where they stood speaking together and the third gaped at him until the next bolt nailed his head to the wall. The archer caught the two before they fell and turned their heads with a jerk, completing their demise. Dark blood frothed around the shaft that split their throats and only a wet gasp of air was heard.
“Three I did not hear brings the count to twenty-four,” the Elf said softly, looking out upon the roof. “Perhaps I should return to aid my companions.”
But he glanced up at the final turret with its two slits of windows looking out upon the pass. Torchlight glowed through them balefully and he dashed across the distance and took the tight staircase quickly, lest there be more hiding in the uppermost tower. He sprang lightly through the trapdoor with both white knives at the ready and sadly found the tower empty. There were murder holes all around his feet.
Aragorn returned down the narrow corridor he had cleared and found the wizard standing at the corner. He appeared as dignified as his status, but his right sleeve dripped with Orc filth. Turgon’s formidable blade was still sheathed, however, and the King did not ask. Gandalf held up three fingers and Aragorn held up five.
“Young thing,” whispered Gandalf and Aragorn smiled, humored. There was a spell glowing like fired blood upon the arch of a dead end hall beyond them. The King knew no creature could pass it until the wizard unfastened the words he had drawn there.
They found bodies in the adjacent hall, some so fresh that blood still beat from throats that could not speak. One was attempting to lift a weapon and the King put down a foot that broke fingers. The wizard put the butt of his staff through the eye of another who attempted to feebly seize them in passing.
Two more hallways appeared, spidering off from the one they were upon. These were wider than the previous, permitting swords to be drawn. Gandalf took the left, Aragorn the right. It took more exertion to bring down the two he found, for they were together and one cried out before he could fell him. He dodged beneath the curved blade slung at him and cut upwards across the blunt jaw. The sword sang as it passed and sheared his head completely off. Orc blood splatted in an arc across the wall and dripped down in a macabre pattern.
No soul in the Tower could have missed the noise now and Aragorn raced back the way he had come and nearly tumbled over the wizard. This time the Glamdring glowed brightly in Gandalf’s hand and blood dripped the full length of the blade and besmirched the runes.
But there were no shouting voices or cries of alarm. Instead, a clamor of voices hid every sound from above and they rose and fell in guttural tones somewhere below their position. It sounded like the entire rest of the company and Aragorn swiftly plotted how to lure some away and freshen the odds in their favor.
“Look,” whispered the wizard.
He pointed down through a murder hole to the second level of the watchtower. Below them they could make out Ránë standing amidst a group of Goblins, gesturing as she spoke.
“They have come seeking your downfall, for they hate all things with Sauron’s mark. You are free of the Master, but not free of the Men of Middle Earth,” she said stridently. “There are only three, but one is Istari—you must take him with a mighty force, for he carries a magic staff.”
For an instant, the King felt the keen edge of betrayal, but Gandalf put a calming hand upon his forearm.
“Quickly! Before they know you have been roused! Out the gate and look to the South. They have dismounted and ponder how to overcome you!” she cried, and then she handed the nearest Orc her great knife. “Slay one for me, for you know I am compelled to lift no hand in bloodshed.”
And with that action, seven great creatures threw open the main gate and ran into the courtyard. Their picks were long with serrated edges and their helms black as Shelob’s tunnel. As quickly as they were away, Ránë pulled the door shut upon the rest and put her back to it.
“Now!” she cried, and flung herself at the nearest Orc. So sudden was her lunge and so strong her grip, that she jerked his curved knife from his hand and had it through the side of his visor before he moved.
“Now!” shouted Aragorn and he came down the stairs three at a time, leaped the last four and sailed into the melee at the bottom of the staircase.
The Great Sword cut through leather and chain mail and bit through bones, so powerfully did he drive through those in his path to where Ránë fought. He escaped a blow from the side that would have cleaved his arm off, and then dodged another from a downed Orc upon the floor. Desperation gave his sword arm speed, for Ránë fought in the thick of the group, a slim shadow amidst stocky opponents.
A blow glanced off his shoulder as he rolled beneath it. He kicked an opponent in the kneecap, heard it crunch a breath before the howl of agony. He could not waste an instant, for the next Orc was bearing down with a two hand sword—Aragorn raked the hilt of Andúril across the exposed throat of the one he had just downed and felt the soft tissue give way before the steel crosspiece. It was a harsh method to slay, but there was no time for mercy. He barely kept the sword descending on him from pressing him flat to the floor and skidded sidelong to regain his feet. But then an arrow shot through the eye of his opponent and the King recognized the fletch instantly.
“Legolas! Seven flee through the courtyard!” he shouted over the sound of fighting and death.
The melee of bodies before him was breaking up as the first attack reached a predictable pause. Aragorn struck straight for the center, stumbling with his foes over bodies already downed and thrashing. Ránë fought fluid as water, never lingering in once place, and the King recognized the elegant skill of Elves he had witnessed all his years. He halted his drive for the heart of the fray and circled the edge picking off those that backed away from their first assault. Andúril sang sweetly off steel.
To his left, the wizard cleared a space of over ten feet with the staff in one hand and the great Blade of Turgon in the other. Aragorn made certain to keep his distance from that whirl of death. Overhead, word upon word in red fire took form across the dark walls of the room and over doorways. Three attempted to flee down one corridor and the spell flung them back as if kicked by a steed. Glamdring, blazing silver blue, ended their futile escape.
The archer turned like lightning with Aragorn’s strident call and was up the staircase. He paused at the third wall and his arrows sprang into the grey day unerringly; four fell and the fifth grappled a comrade for aid and his doom was in lingering. The sixth fell likewise, but the seventh raced around an outcropping of rock alongside the road and was lost to sight. Legolas stood watching to see if he would reappear.
“Is there another branch off the pathway to bring him back around behind us?” asked the archer when his companions arrived sticky with gore. “One vanished around the corner—I will get Ashra and run him down if needed.”
The wizard looked out over the parapet. “There is nothing but the Moontower beyond him. He will find no aid there, nor any to warn.”
“He believes there is a wizard beyond him,” said Ránë. “A wizard and two companions, but it is the Istari he will fear the most.”
Gandalf looked at her, surprised. “Do you not think he realizes your deceit?”
“The Goblins left at watchtowers are not the most intelligent; witness how easily I sent seven out the gate? No compulsion to avoid bloodshed set by the Dark Lord would remain with him destroyed, yet they did not consider that,” she replied. “And they trust me, for long have I dwelled within their company. I am one creature who does not usurp their ranking; I stand apart from them, yet a part of them.”
The wizard looked out over the rocky landscape, then he extended his hand and spoke soft and fierce. “My staff is in my hand. Come!”
Ránë looked at him, mystified, but Aragorn smiled and Legolas drew an arrow longer than the others and set it upon the Great Bow. He drew and held, watching the road … and when the last Goblin peered fearfully about the corner of the rocks, the arrow vanished. The hum of the string was the only sound, so quickly did it fly.
“What did you do?” asked Ránë as they watched the last one stagger into the open and fall. “He came back more quickly than even I would expect his stupidity to be capable of.”
“Mithrandir spoke here,” said the archer, “but that creature heard him speak ahead of him down there and turned back.”
Gandalf looked pleased with himself, though the gore upon his sleeves made him sigh and shake his head.
“The Man did not deceive, you are handy to have in a fight,” she said solemnly.
“Yes, I am, but now we must bring our horses into the Tower,” he said, happy but not lingering on her unexpected praise. “Look for fodder for them while we make a hasty search here. We haven’t much time, for perhaps more of Sauron’s cruel ilk are on their way.”
“Legolas and I will bring the horses, for we do not know what you search for,” said Aragorn. He looked at Ránë. “Will your steed come?”
“He will, but do not cajole him. You are strangers and he will bite. Leave the door ajar and he will find his way.”
So Aragorn and Legolas descended down to the long corridor and spilled light from a torch into the dark tunnel beyond the door. Shadowfax came readily to the King’s soft call and Talemon followed, but Ashra required coaxing. Then they propped the heavy door open with a helmet and took their horses away.
They had trained their steeds upon staircases and it was well that they did, for it was two they had to descend and each of them were foul with blood. Shadowfax simply stepped over the bodies, but Aragorn kicked corpses off into the center drop for the Sons of Thunder. The archer pulled open doors all along the lower level and finally found some forage, though it was moldering. He pulled the thatches of hay apart and pulled out the fresher middle to feed them.
“Ránë’s mount has indeed followed,” said Aragorn. “He is negotiating the stairs.”
Legolas put out fodder for him as well, and leapt aside when snapped at. He scowled at the onerous creature and the horse glared back and refused to eat until the King and Elf withdrew.
High overhead in the uppermost turret, Gandalf searched amongst the items secreted there. The torches billowed smoke that gathered upon the ceiling and every item was covered with smudge and untidy. There were chains and armor and tins of smaller items, tattered books that looked as if something had chewed upon them … nothing of value or brightness.
“Neither the Black Hand, nor Khamul would leave it here,” said Ránë. “This was only a sentry post and not a place of particular power—it would be in Minas Morgul if it remained intact anywhere, and both you and I searched the Moontower.”
“A small thing; he may have hidden it anyplace,” the wizard muttered almost to himself. “Sauron is fond of power and lofty over his underlings, but he would not be so bold as to leave it easily within reach, nor where you would expect him to.”
“He was shrewd,” she said tiredly. “But it was also long ago. I do not understand why you seek for it. It is only a symbol and has no power of itself.”
The White Wizard turned at her words. “Many small and unimportant things are overlooked in the World. The wise know they are valuable simply because every other soul ignores them. The best way to hide treasure is to give it a simple form and leave it in plain sight.”
“Time and years have failed it, wizard,” she said. “Sauron stripped it from me and gave it to Cerediron and he wore it for years as a mockery of my honor and pledge before giving it to his Master. And when Narsil cut down the Lord of Barad-dûr, it was lost along with the Ring.”
“And a wiser Elf would quit quibbling with me when I am trying to think!” he sternly said. “Off with you and eat and rest. I will be along when I am satisfied, for we dare not linger here.”
She scowled at him before turning away. “Did you not hear me when I said it is not a thing of power, only meaning? And that meaning was lost thousands of years ago! We waste time here.”
“Yes, yes, and we will be off soon,” he muttered, looking into another half rusted through tin. “Go and wash and rest.”
So Ránë descended from the uttermost peak and discovered the King and archer amongst the dead. Aragorn chewed hard bread and meat and the archer sipped from a leather flask. Both spotted her instantly, hands upon their weapons.
“You risked yourself,” said the King. “We could have lured them aside or waited until they strayed. You need not simply walk into the midst of such a company and attempt such a trick.”
“The common Orc are not wise. They did not even question my arrival and the noise of my words covered your last sortie above,” she answered. “It is my life to risk, even when there is little risk.”
“If it had failed, no power could have saved you,” said the archer.
“That would be no loss in your eyes,” she said curtly.
Legolas was slow in answering, but his expression was grim. “You would have alerted them that someone had entered the watchtower unseen and thereby made our cause more dire.”
“The three of you saw no hardship against a force of twenty-one. Why would it be different against a smaller group even if they had been alerted?”
“Peace, peace,” said Aragorn. “Our outcome was favorable. I only wish you to have a care in your risk taking. You ride with us now and the welfare of the whole must be considered.”
“I do not ride with you,” Ránë said sternly. “The wizard follows my course and you follow him. If you stay or abide, it matters not, for my path is fixed.”
The archer stirred, irritated, but the King put a hand out calmingly.
“Gandalf has petitioned me for aid and I have willingly lent it,” said Aragorn softly. “He finds your cause worthy and that is enough for me. Let us have peace between us, for the goal is common.”
The wizard spoke truly that they would be off soon. He came down within the hour and they rode out through the main gate with Gandalf’s staff burning brilliantly to blind the Two Watchers at the gate. The enchanted carvings raised no alarm and the four rode quickly around the turn of the Tower of Cirith Ungol and it was lost from view.
The silence of the mountains settled like a weight and none of their voices disturbed it. All was barren and lifeless, as if the ground had been destroyed by the evil seeping through the country beyond it. Not even a bird was seen, nor a creeping thing beside the road.
The horses were refreshed after the long trek having had a short rest and some food. But though their eyes were bright, Ránë halted at the last rim of the Mountains of Epel Dúath.
“We should seek shelter and face the open tomorrow. There is water hidden here and the rocks will give us advantage if any come upon us during the night.”
“Our horses are eager,” said the King, judging the remaining daylight, “and there are usable hours left in this day.”
“No,” said Gandalf. “We will tarry here. We have ridden hard and endured the hardship of the spider and fought in the Tower.”
“I am rested enough to go on,” said Legolas. “Did you not say time was pressing?”
“You are rested because you are an Elf—I am not!” said the wizard. “And Aragorn has not lived with the sword as he did before the Great War. We will rest, because it is wise. Tomorrow will be a hard run across broken and harsh terrain and every steed here will be put to test!”
It was useless to argue with an Istari and thus the companions camped overlooking Mordor. The water was tasteless, but it still refreshed. The stallions heaved a sigh and grazed what grass they could find. Legolas bathed the filth of their fighting away gratefully and so did Aragorn. They refilled their water flasks and groomed the horses. Ránë took herself and her sullen steed away and the King gazed after her.
“Will she not tarry with us, even after these days of riding and drawing arms together?”
“Not yet,” said Gandalf. “She has spent too much time in the marriage of death and fear. Trust comes reluctantly, if at all.”
The wizard scrubbed his soiled sleeves until they were nearly white again and hung them over a rock near the fire, and then he sat and puffed his long pipe. Aragorn and Legolas scouted for wood and found little; it was a sorry camp with only enough fire to heat water for a quick meal and then it was out. All three men prepared for a harsh night and bleak dawn.
“We have camped in poorer conditions,” observed Aragorn.
“Indeed,” added Legolas, who had found a lofty perch to view the terrain. “We have gone on long treks in dreadful weather without any fire at all for days in a row.”
“And we’re not after a creature like Sauron or the Witch King,” said the wizard. “They were terrible foes to face. Ours is a lesser evil.”
“Just who are we tracking, Gandalf?” asked Aragorn. “Did you not appeal to me to be your woodsman and Legolas to extend his strong bow arm? Do not keep our quarry hidden from our minds!”
“Your words do not deceive me, Aragorn. You just want the rest of the story I began last evening,” chuckled the wizard. “Enough of the scowling at me! Get your pipe lit and I shall tell you of the Elves of Eregion!”
4. Eregion's Broken Heart
Darkness enveloped them, save for the glowing coals of two pipes. Legolas was shadow and soft breath until the crescent moon rose, painting him with ghostly light. The King was grateful for his cloak, for the elevation of the final course of Ephel Dúath made the chill come quickly after the sun fell. He pulled the hood over his head and turned the throat piece up around his chin.
“I can conjure a fire upon bare ground,” quietly said Gandalf. His raiment glowed of its own light.
“You will not,” replied Legolas. “We will shelter close to our steeds beneath our Elven capes and endure, for you are weary.”
“I am weary,” admitted the wizard. His draw upon the pipe was especially long and he closed his eyes, savoring the pipeweed.
“But not too weary to speak to us of this quarry we hunt,” said Aragorn.
Gandalf coughed, amused. “I need no reminders, my friends. I am ordering my words.”
Aragorn smiled around his pipestem, but then a thought struck him and he spoke it aloud.
“Our companion, Ránë … how will she fare the chilly night?”
“She is an Elf,” reminded Legolas. “The cold will not bother her anymore than it bothers me. Have you forgotten those winter nights when Arwen stood upon the King’s Balcony with only a light shift on?”
“I have not,” replied Aragorn. He was comforted somewhat by the archer’s calm tone in regards to their mysterious companion. The edge of animosity was missing. “I am unused to an encampment being so divided. Especially here, at the boundary of the Black Land, when all manner of evils might linger.”
“I am not so weary as to not give us some defense,” grumbled Gandalf. “Allay your fears.”
“And my keen ears have not failed,” said Legolas. He drifted a hand down the ornate bow. “I think the fighting after so many months of peace has invigorated me.”
Aragorn nodded in agreement. “I had energy to spare for the fighting, but now feel the weight of the day somewhere dimly. Gandalf was wise to order us to halt.”
“And you are wise to keep us informed of how you fare,” murmured the archer. “It will take seven days to harden you to the rigor of warfare once more.”
“Less than seven,” said Aragorn. “I did not give up my practice once Eldarion was born.”
Silence took them over once more and they waited upon the White Wizard.
“The rest of the tale of the Elves of Eregion is a sad trial,” he eventually said. “My heart grieves to contemplate it. And there is no respite, for all is deceit and treachery and sorrows.”
Aragorn nodded and spoke around his pipestem. “You began to tell me this story once, but then ceased. It was in the tombs of the Kings when we shared a flagon of Dwarf rum. Even then I perceived it was a tragic tale.”
“Dwarf rum?” said Legolas. He smiled in darkness, humored. “Gimli said it was the most fierce drink made in Middle Earth.”
“I will vouch for that,” said Aragorn. “But Ioreth tended me with a draught that sped my recovery.”
“Ioreth,” said the wizard and nothing more. When his companions looked upon him, he added, “I only wished to say her name. It is not spoken anymore and that causes a most curious pain.”
“I am sorry,” said Aragorn. “We do not speak it for perhaps it would grieve those who loved her.”
“Has no one told Men that they cause more anguish by never speaking of the departed again? You must speak of the dead and let the pain pass out of you instead of allowing it to sit forever in the corners of your soul.”
“Wise words,” said the archer.
“I am known to be wise,” reminded the wizard.
“You travel with a Forsaken One. Your wisdom is in question,” returned Legolas, but his light voice teased.
Gandalf sighed and blew a gust of smoky air. “My wisdom is oft in question amongst you denizens of Middle Earth, but I shall tell you of one of the ends of wisdom now, and it will make your hearts sore and dark before I am done.”
“Part of this tale, I know,” said Legolas. He shifted from where he sat and knelt closer to the wizard in the loose black soil. One of the arrows he had retrieved from the Orcs fallen at the Tower of Cirith Ungol had snapped off when it was withdrawn. He drew in the loose silt with it idly. “Speak your tale and when you falter, I will speak what I was taught as a child.”
The White Wizard considered the archer a moment and the King wondered at the depth of his steady regard, but then he seemed to shake from thought and tapped out and refilled his pipe.
“Of old, Melkor lured Sauron the Maia away from Truth and seduced him to dark purposes. I will not speak of Melkor, treacherous Valar, for though he is banished from the World, I fear him. But this you must know, every dark art and deceit and capacity for evil that Melkor exercised he taught also to Sauron. And Sauron, base lieutenant of treachery, became the greatest of the First Dark Lord’s followers powered in part by Melkor’s wicked magic. Only Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, was as mighty.”
Aragorn shivered within his cloak as a chill passed down his spine.
“Was Sauron a powerful Maia in the beginning?” asked the King.
Gandalf paused, distracted.
“He was,” he said eventually. “He was the most potent servant of Aulë, Builder and Inventor of the Valar. Sauron learned much lore of forging and making and there was craving for orderliness in his mind. No one suspected he would exert that kind of will towards the sprawling tumult of life in Middle Earth. When Melkor lured him away with promises of greater authority, Sauron turned not away from sin—he embraced it. So he fell and the heart of the Valar wept for him.
“After Melkor was defeated in the War of Wrath, Sauron repented his evil ways in fear. He took on his fair form and came pleading for mercy to Eönwë, Herald of Manwë, who led the Host of the Valar. He was humiliated and ashamed, but instead of returning to the Uttermost West and placing himself before the High King of Arda for judgment, Sauron fled and hid himself in Middle Earth to escape punishment.”
“What would have happened had he gone to Aman?” asked Aragorn.
The wizard looked at the King, blinking, for he sat nearly close enough to touch.
“You ask many questions interrupting this story,” he solemnly said.
“I ask because if you stay on a straight course though this tale, you will be unwilling to turn back to answer questions. The grief will deter you,” replied Aragorn. He pulled back his hood to be seen more clearly. “Why would I turn you again into pain with the simple questions of a Man? You are my friend.”
“So I am,” chuckled the wizard. “And so I will answer as I can.” Then he pondered, puffing at the long pipe and chewing upon the stem. “I do not know if he would be forgiven, for his dark deeds were immense by that age. He waged war against the Elves and commanded werewolves and vampires against them, slaying many until Lúthien, Morning Star of the Elves, along with Huan, the Hound of Valinor, defeated him in the rescue of Beren.
“It is said that Sauron did not take part in the War of Wrath,” offered Legolas. He ceased drawing in the silt and looked up at the wizard, ghostly in moonlight. “Is this so?”
“He did not.” Gandalf took the pipe from his teeth, waved it as he spoke. “Sauron was unwilling to face open war. He would rather compel and deceive and orchestrate his dominion from the sidelines. Every time he went openly into battle, a greater army eventually defeated him. Sadly, he was not destroyed completely in the First Age and Middle Earth spared his woes!”
They sat silent a moment, hearts downcast. But then the wizard’s voice went on and he settled to his cadence of storyweaving and they listened intently, for Gandalf was known to not give his words idly.
“Did you never wonder why Sauron did not craft Rings of Power before the Second Age?” asked the wizard. “He learned skill of Making from his Vala and dwelled sullenly for ten thousand years desiring power and control. Of strength and cunning and treachery toward the peoples of Middle Earth, he had much. And of will to dominate, there was none his equal … yet the Lord of Barad-dûr did not craft any device to suborn the will of the races until 1200 of the Second Age.”
Aragorn studied his hands, thinking. “If he had the skill, then there is a dark thought. If he had crafted it when Elves and Men were in their youth…?” He did not finish his thought.
“He lacked something in the art,” said the archer. “All Rings of Power were made by Elves, save the Ruling Ring.”
“Indeed,” said the White Wizard. “The Valar never plainly revealed how Fëanor, greatest of Eldar’s Smiths, made the Silmarils. And no one crafted another, nor did any try. Not even Aulë set his skill to the task. Fëanor himself could not make any more, for he poured his own essence into them and drew upon the magic of the Undying Lands to consecrate and give them energy. The creation of them exhausted his fëa and thus they were the glory of his heart, for the Great Jewels became more than just beautiful stones holding the unmarred light of the Two Trees … they were alive and sacred, imperishable, the greatest treasure amongst all the Eldar. And Varda hallowed them so that no mortal hand, or anyone unclean or intending evil could touch them without their flesh becoming marred and blackened and withered.
“Here we understand the mystery of such works, that the maker of them must sacrifice part of his spirit in order to craft a sentient and commanding entity. Part of their fëa must be poured into the object along with the magic of the land. So it was with the Rings of Power: the essence of a soul, with its free will and determination, must be transferred into them or they remain a simple bauble. And magic is required, the enchantment dwelling in abundance in the Blessed Realm.
“Celebrimbor, grandson of Fëanor, understood this and yet, by being exiled, he was cut off from the holy magic of Aman. He had only the latent magic dwelling within Arda itself, the Old Powers residing in the bones of Middle Earth—the Ainulindalë itself, the mighty theme given to the Valar by Eru in the beginning. From the Song of Creation’s anthem springs every other melody that dwells within the living things in Middle Earth.
“So within the trees and grasses and running beasts and flying birds is a measure of enchantment, derived from the Ainulindalë and empowered by its magic. Elves and Men and hobbits; each has their own song and piece.” He gestured with his pipestem. “The Eldar have a greater measure of ability with the Spirit of the World, the Edain a lesser. No creature exists without a portion of it, for it sustains life and when such as you die, that portion is not lost—it finds its way to the beyond of Elves and Men, for it is imperishable. As the Valar and Maiar were each a portion of Eru’s thoughts, so each living thing in Middle Earth has a fraction of magic springing from the Old Power.”
“It is Earth power,” interjected Legolas. “All Elves can draw upon it in small measure and the most potent of Elves for even greater works of power … but we can be harmed if drawing too much, too quickly. We are in accord with the song of Arda’s soul and can hear the forests and grasses, all the living things harnessed into the magic of the land.” He turned his head, looked directly at Aragorn. “I drew upon my own essence and Earth power to plant the High Grove in Minas Tirith.”
“I know,” returned Aragorn. “And you drew too much.”
The archer shrugged. “My fëa is mine to spend as I will. Will you dare say the Evenstar is unworthy a choice?”
“You and I both know she is not, yet neither of us wish your harm. Not in your body, nor your soul,” said Aragorn.
Gandalf listened to the exchange without comment, but his face was thoughtful.
“The House of Mírdain,” he continued at last, “understood it took more than skill to create mighty works—they needed to harness Earth power and draw it potently into their Making. For this, they turned to the Singers of the Noldor and their story is of great beauty and ultimately, tragedy.”
The wizard paused, for his pipe had faded and he tapped it out and blew on the hot bowl until he could clean it with a thumb.
“The Keepers of the Songs,” said Aragorn. “Lord Elrond said they had the entire repertoire of the Elves within their souls and none of them were lost. There must have been thousands of songs, going back to the awakening at Cuiviénen.” His words became soft and sad. “And when Eregion was destroyed by Sauron, the great treasury of their music died with them. The Elves who remain in Middle Earth have many, many songs, but they also remember snatches of music that has been forgotten—like the annals of Men are lost when the books that house them eventually crumble.”
“More than thousands,” said the archer. His voice was dull and unhappy. “Oromë named the Elves the People of The Stars, for even the sun and moon had not been raised in the Years of the Trees when they awoke. They could hear the Great Song of the Ainur singing within them and learned music before speech, for the world was full of birds and crickets and singing things. Speech came later and it was natural to put melody to everything. But it was in the music itself that the power lay.”
“Yes,” said Gandalf. “Music is always the first voice and might dwells in melody and lyrics. It was song that created Arda. It was song that came naturally to the Eldar and they sang for the joy of life. It was a battle of power through songs that pitted Sauron against Finrod in the First Age. And it was song that lured the werewolves to Lúthien Tinúviel on the Isle of Werewolves, and it was magic through the power of song that enabled her to lull the Dark Lord Morgoth to sleep and permit Beren to cut a Silmaril from his iron crown. It was the sorrow of her singing in the Halls of Mandos that moved Námo to pity, for the tragedy of Beren and Lúthien is of legend. With the approval of the Elder King, he released them from death for a time. All of these, because of songs.
“The Noldor were accounted the greatest in lore and craft amongst the three kindred that made the journey to Valinor, partly because of their studies with Aulë and partly because a group of them took it upon themselves to be the Keepers of the Songs, for they recognized that the music of the Firstborn would be forgotten if a branch of the Elves did not take on the duty of preserving it. Thus the Noldor became renowned in song as well as wise in craft. Only the most devoted singers were chosen, those to whom music was the fabric of life and without it, living was bereft of hope and pleasure.
“These were the bards and poets of all Noldor and they drew on the magic of Aman to weave their ability with music inside their fëa. None thought it harmful, nor swayed them from their oaths to preserve the songs within their lives. Who could have foreseen the terrible exile to come and all the woe to fall upon the Deep Elves? And so there was a lineage of the Eldar whose souls were tied to the Great Song that entwined through all creation and, through this, the deep power of the World. The Ainulindalë whispered to them more clearly than any living thing besides the Ainur. Their souls sang unceasingly, unable to be mute.”
“And then they followed Fëanor,” said Aragorn, thoughtfully. “And were banished from the Undying Lands?”
“Yes. And their songs became tragic and lamenting, too terrible to be sung by the Elves remaining in Middle Earth,” said the archer. “Their grief in song made Arda groan because they were bound into the Old Power of Earth. Eventually, they quelled their pain and found new things to take the place of what they had lost.”
“And they built their own House,” picked up the wizard, “just as the House of Mírdain, and named it for the second son of Fëanor, Maglor, known as the greatest minstrel and singer of the Noldor.” Gandalf relit his pipe with a wave of a finger. “Maglor never dwelled in Eregion as a bard, but his music recorded the terrible events after the Silmarils were stolen and what came after. His was a lamenting heart.”
“Noldolantë,” whispered Legolas. “The Fall of the Noldor. He wrote it after the Kinslaying at Alqualondë by his father, Fëanor.”
The White Wizard sighed heavily and wiped the back of his hand across his brushy eyebrows. “I am tired and this tale is not partway,” he said.
But Shadowfax chanced to drift by and his great hooves made no sound. He was nearly invisible, shifting with the shadows, and he came to his master and hung his forelock in Gandalf’s face to be petted. He blew softly at the smell of the pipe, chastising, and the wizard chuckled.
“You have a companion who knows your heart,” said Aragorn, admiring.
“Yes, he does.” Gandalf got to his feet with effort, stiff and cramped from sitting, and the Lord of Horses lay down in the soft dirt. “He knows my bones are cold and my heart is sore and that he can only aid my chill!”
The wizard sat and leaned against the stallion and scratched beneath his thick mane.
Aragorn was humored to see Shadowfax made a face of pleasure the same as Talemon did.
“Celebrimbor called upon the House of Maglor to aid him in the crafting of the Rings of Power,” continued Gandalf, “for Annatar had led the Smiths of Eregion to the brink of creation, pressing them to give the rings life and consciousness. Sauron suspected they knew the secret of Fëanor’s great Silmarils and he would have the power in kind for himself.
“And the Singers listened to the charming words of the Deceiver and looked upon his beauty and were lulled of all trepidation. After all, the House of Mírdain trusted him … why would they not? They summoned a stronger portion of the magic of Arda and set it within the first Ring as the Elven Smith crafted it, for the Singers had a greater portion of Earth power than any other Eldar in the world.
“It was only a minute bit of Earth power and the Smith was weary, but unharmed, after pouring a portion of his essence into that first ring. And Celebrimbor observed, considering. Like his grandsire, Fëanor, he was finding his way toward a greater thing.” Gandalf sighed sadly. “Annatar was crestfallen when the ring had such limited potency, but Celebrimbor did not notice … or he refused to notice.”
“From there, the marriage of Smiths and Singers grew strong and Annatar witnessed the Songkeepers harnessing the power dwelling in all living things through their fëa and consecrating the Rings as they were crafted. He heard the whispering of the Ainulindalë through the deep magic and then understood how he could outstrip even the rule of Melkor, who sought dominion over the land itself. Sauron envied not the lands and seas; he would know the thoughts and control the will of the inhabitants of Middle Earth. For always he had the dark magic to hold the minds of werewolves and Balrogs and Dragons and other dark things … but of the free people, he had little power if they refused him.”
Legolas shivered and Aragorn turned his head, concerned, for the archer was generally immune to the harshness of elements. He stretched a hand to touch his sleeve.
“Sauron was Maia and not Elf—he was not birthed here from the Great Song as we were. He required a sacrifice,” said the Elf and his voice was flint and steel. “He was willing to pour his malice and hatred into a ring of his own making, but he needed the fëa of one who could draw the Earth power into it and harness every other ring to it through the sacred Song of Creation. He required a soul to spend, a conspirator to make a Ruling Ring with him.”
Gandalf sighed and dumped his pipe coals out, plunging his aged face into darkness. Against the flaxen stallion, he nearly disappeared.
“He did not want merely a conspirator … he wanted a betrayer, for that was what he himself became when he took all the holy lore of Aulë, the Smith, and used it for evil. And,” the wizard’s voice grew sinister, “he found one.”
Aragorn’s jaws ached. He was biting upon the pipestem too fiercely and he then understood why Gandalf had put aside his pipe. He dumped the glowing coals in the dirt as well and stared at them as they died.
“You warned of this tale being full of tragedy,” he said.
“Yes, I did,” solemnly answered the wizard, and he took a breath and went on. “There were five brothers birthed into the House of Maglor. Máfortion, the Son of the Right Hand; Meldarion, He is Beloved; Bercalion, Bright Pledge; Tegalad, Light Bringer and Cerediron, The Maker. And though all of them were learned and skilled, taught from their earliest years the duty of the Songhouse, and that their individual will was forfeit before the obligation to the lore of songs, it was Cerediron who had the finest understanding of the power wielded through music.
“He spent long years perfecting his voice and pitch and learning the nuances of each song until he became the greatest Songkeeper of the House. When he sang of joy, every soul danced. When he sang of lament, every bird fell silent. When he sang power, the ground trembled for he conjured the strength of the melodies lying near the heart of the world. His was a terrible potency and his brothers envied and were jealous, for he was also young and beautiful and arrogant. And the House of Maglor came to fear his natural and unconscious ability that made all of them seemingly mute.
“Annatar preyed upon the four brother’s resentments, but he lavished Cerediron with praises and singled him out for special favor. The House of Mírdain was perplexed by his growing interest outside their order of Smiths and enmity between the two great Houses sprang up. Rumors abounded and petty jealousies sprang up.”
“Sauron did the same with Ar-Pharazôn, last King of Númenor,” interjected Aragorn with a terrible voice. “He said, “Hast thou been told you shall die and all your mighty works lost? Sail to Valinor and make conquest, for those who dwell in the Blessed Realm become as Gods, immortal and wise.’ And Ar-Pharazôn set sail with a mighty host, but as he set foot upon sacred Aman, Eru extended His power and drove them out to sea and into the abyss. The island of Númenor was overthrown in the waters and its peoples scattered.” The King looked up at the wizard. “Sauron cajoled the Númenórians into treachery.”
“Yes, he did. He was the snake in shadows, whispering lies,” agreed Gandalf. “As Melkor had done with the Noldor in Aman, the falsehoods and deceit and beginnings of murmurings, so Sauron did with the Elves of Eregion. He worked stealthily for his goal and hinted at greater rewards should the young Cerediron decide to become his pupil and follower. He spoke of journeys, where Elves had not heard the music of the House of Maglor, and how he would be received as a Lord amongst his own kind instead of being reminded at every turn that he was youngest of five and had much left to learn.”
“And Cerediron fell away from his kindred,” said Aragorn. “As Sauron himself was corrupted away into darkness by promises of greater power, so was this young Elf.”
“He was, but though Sauron needed Elves who could summon Earth power of a quantity to pour into the Master Ring, he decided that he did not want to destroy Cerediron in the making of the Ring of Power. He wanted Cerediron to become his obedient follower much as he had become a follower of his Dark Lord. A cherished underling as he was a cherished underling.
“Cerediron went with Annatar by free choice and through his gift of tongues, he persuaded other Singers to consent to the Lord of Gifts’ authority. He was credible and earnest and used his talent to deceive and lull them, singing their wariness to peace. It was as if he changed their minds from the inside. And Annatar himself, the great serpent of deception, he used his conjurers magic to render any objections silent. The Singers were spellbound and went submissively into shadows.
“But though some were deceived, Cerediron could not convince others and Annatar took those by force as a boon to his new protégé. These were the souls he intended to sacrifice in the forging of the Ruling Ring and they were four.” The White Wizard’s voice was stern. “Cerediron himself chose them.”
“His brothers,” hissed Legolas. “He gave up his brothers.”
“Oh!” said the King, aghast.
“His four brothers,” said Gandalf heavily. “He lured them to Annatar early in the day and Sauron took them prisoner and sacrificed their fëa upon the overlook of Orodruin beside the mighty forge of Mordor. It took the Dark Lord nearly two days to forge the One Ring … and while his brothers cried as the Earth power was drained from them, Cerediron, who remained in Eregion, sang every song of sorrow and lamentation and so covered their agony. The Elves marveled at the tragedy he sang for that length of time and yet his face remained full of joy.”
“A hundred curses from Manwë Súlimo would not be punishment enough for such evil,” said Aragorn. “To deliver his own blood and then remain calmly behind to deceive while they die?”
“One curse would be sufficient,” said the wizard, but he chided no further.
Shadowfax extended his graceful neck and nearly touched the King where he sat, breaking him from his silent fury. Aragorn almost patted the Great Stallion, but then considered his rage and refrained. He did not want to touch Shadowfax with wrath in his fingers; if the mearas would permit him to lay a hand upon him, he wanted to be calm and pure of heart.
“I am sorry,” he said softly. “You belong beyond this world and I will not handle you with anger in my heart.”
“He knows,” said the wizard and he rubbed the muzzle of his steed. They heaved a sigh in unison, Maia and mearas.
“Finish this evil story,” pleaded Legolas, “for my soul is heavy and will not know the sun if you linger here.”
“Cerediron fled to Mordor when Sauron donned the One Ring, for the forging of the Elven rings of Power had been concealed from him—Celebrimbor had saved all his skill and strength and ability with Earth power to make them. As Fëanor had crafted three Silmarils, so Celebrimbor crafted three rings greater than all others and he was their sole Maker.
“The Elves of Eregion knew they had unwittingly revealed to their great foe how to craft a tool of astonishing power. And yet they did not call for aid, for they were anxious to make amend for their plunge into shadows and solve this crisis themselves. They repented the making of the Rings of Power, but Celebrimbor, just like Fëanor, was unable to destroy his magnificent creations. He sent the three Elven Rings secretly out of the land to safety.
“The House of Maglor was at a loss for what to do about their enslaved kin. Even more at a loss of what to do about treacherous Cerediron, considered to be powerful enough at his young age to be the Songmaster of the House of Maglor. While they lived, they would aid or be compelled to aid the Dark Lord. More betrayal would be laid at the feet of the Noldor. Misery and woe compounded by the weeks in their counsel, for a terrible choice must be made. They wrestled with their alternatives and the months slipped past and all the while, they knew Sauron was gathering his might to destroy them.” The wizard’s voice was terrible. “He would be coming for his rings, for it was partly his skill that made each one.”
“The Songkeepers gave up their kindred,” said Legolas and Gandalf leaned his brow against the turn of Shadowfax’s neck and let him speak. “They did what they thought was fitting and they judged and pronounced their doom. As Mandos had pronounced doom against the host of Noldor who left Aman, so they pronounced the fate of the betrayers of their House. The House of Maglor gathered every member of their order and drew upon the magic of Earth and set a curse upon their traitorous people; a curse full of death, for they silenced the music in the souls of those who abandoned their oath. Legend speaks that thirty seven Elves died in the making of such a terrible spell,” Legolas looked at Aragorn. “They acted to destroy them, for they were Forsaken, betrayers of the songs and their people.”
“But,” continued Gandalf heavily, “Sauron now wielded the One Ring and it was alive and recognized the will of its master. This was its first challenge—Earth power against Earth power and the Lord of Barad-dûr put his resolve and strength to the test. He perceived the curse from afar, divined its order, and halted it before it struck his glorious new slave’s souls … then Sauron sent it back to Eregion and smote the House of Maglor with their own device.”
The White Wizard fell silent, waiting.
“They all died,” whispered Aragorn, understanding what Gandalf could not seem to speak. “Their own spell silenced them. They bound their souls to the songs and to the Great Song; without the music, they could not live.”
“They died,” said Gandalf heavily. “And with their death, the great symphony of magic, the Old Powers, withdrew from the division and turbulence of the Children of Eru. It lays coiled about the Flame Imperishable now, dormant and quiescent, unheeding to all voices. The Valar will not call upon it until the End of Days, when all free folk stand together in harmony, for only with a mighty Work can the Ainulindalë be roused.
“Ninty three years later, Sauron came in fury from his dark tower and overran the lands of Eregion and he sought for the magic rings. He took many Elves back as prisoners and corrupted their magic with his black arts, making of them the fallen creatures that serve him. In 1697 of the Second Age, Celebrimbor faced his old friend Annatar at the doorway of the House of Mírdain and his will withstood every torture. He would not give up the three Elven rings, nor could Sauron get him to submit to his authority. He slew him and set his body on a pike to be carried as a banner by his foul troops.”
“Elrond came with forces and was driven back,” said Aragorn, for he perceived that the wizard was spent from the tale. “And the Dwarves sealed up the Gates of Moria to protect themselves from the invasion. Sauron destroyed the whole of the land and threw his army against Gil-galad at Lindon, who resisted. It was finally a fleet from Númenor that beat back the evil host. Sauron escaped with only his guard and fled back to his fortress in Mordor.” The King picked up a rock and tossed it back down. “After a time, he gifted the Rings of Power to those he would control and took Middle Earth prisoner.”
The three companions sat in silence, for Gandalf could not go further. He laid his head against Shadowfax and stared up at the sky. Legolas was lost in thoughts and Aragorn sat with his heart grieved and darkened.
Eventually, the King roused from sorrow and spoke.
“Ránë is one of the betrayers of the House of Maglor, a Forsaken One,” he said.
“Perhaps,” answered the wizard.
“Perhaps?” said the archer and his voice sharpened.
Gandalf turned his head and even in the limited light, they could see his distress, for the tale of Eregion’s woe was a grievous thing. The archer was contrite and softened his tone.
“You know more of this tale in her regard,” said Legolas carefully. “Yet she is Forsaken. There is no melody within her heart at all, not even the simple song of a newborn Elf. You had me search for the melody that dwells dimly in the depths of all Elves and she is a dark pit of silence.”
“I do not deny she is Forsaken; I merely deny that the doom applies properly to her,” said the wizard.
The archer snorted very faintly beneath his breath, but did not pursue that course.
“Why is she still living when the music of Earth power has been cut off from her? She should have died once her soul was silenced,” he asked instead.
“She is spell-spoken and preserved, though she would say she is dead and merely refuses to submit. But this I will say and I know it is true, she is utterly trustworthy in the cause we ride for.”
To this, the archer said nothing, but his face was gloomy and unsettled.
“Are we hunting these outcast Elves? The ones who could be subverted by another creature intending evil?” asked Aragorn, for his mind considered the whole of the tale and their present march into ominous territory. “If Sauron taught another how to craft a ring of power…” He did not finish his leap of thought.
“Yes, we are, but there are perhaps only two remaining. The rest have been destroyed through the ages,” softly answered Gandalf. “Ránë is one, riding within the reach of our blades and unconcerned with her own death. The other is the one we seek and he is wise and crafty and potent with Earth power. He will be difficult to find and difficult to overcome, for he craves life and will not go willingly to death and judgment.”
“What is his name?” abruptly asked Legolas. His fingers went still upon the shaft of the broken arrow.
“Cerediron, The Maker,” said the White Wizard mildly.
“Of course,” muttered Aragorn.
“The betrayer,” said Legolas darkly. “I will choose an arrow specifically for him.”
“Do not be joyous in your anger,” sternly said Gandalf. “Better to choose an arrow out of pity, for surely his life has been bitter and full of grief. The blood of his brothers stains his soul—do you not think Earth power has accused him every moment of his life henceforth? Do you think any song of joy passes his throat and does not stick like cotton? The finest of Singers he was, full of music and mystery and magic, and all robbed from him by the treacherous Sauron!”
The archer accepted the chastisement with bowed head.
“You are right, Mithrandir. An arrow of pity I will choose … but its point will be just as sharp and deadly as the unmerciful one.”
“I do not know if I can permit you to slay him.”
Both Aragorn and Legolas looked at the wizard.
“Surely you do not mean to leave him alive?” demanded the archer.
“His deeds warrant death,” agreed the King.
“Peace, peace,” softly said Gandalf. “His deeds warrant death, but destroying him may prove difficult. He has the formidability of an Elf and power through music—if Sauron could muster battle with song, then we should fear the voice of the House of Maglor. And,” warned the wizard, “if he harbors a lingering spell as I suspect Ránë bears, I do not want either of you caught in its snare.”
“Or you,” said Legolas. “A last device of Sauron toward a bitter foe? Did I not hear you speak that this trap may be placed for you?”
Gandalf merely grunted an assent.
“Will we ever be rid of the evil of Sauron?” questioned the King to no one in particular. “Or will his underlings live on to plague us, one and again?”
“Hope,” said Legolas. “As you were named, hope. In Melkor’s day, Middle Earth thought never to be rid of him, and now he is gone.”
“For now,” said Gandalf, and both looked immediately to him, aghast, and he lifted a placating hand. “Do not worry, my friends. That day is long hence when Melkor and all who followed him will break through the Door of Night and descend to the plain of Valinor to wage the Final Battle against Manwë Súlimo and the host of the Valar. The Dagor Dagorath will be a terrible day … but the Lord will bare his holy arm and none shall prevail against His judgment and retribution for evil.”
At this, Aragorn looked relieved, if a bit sorrowful, for it meant that wickedness would exist for many, many years ahead and his heart yearned for healing and wholeness of Middle Earth.
“Why do we need Ránë?” asked Legolas. “If these two are the last, then let us end her despair and go on.”
“She is spell-spoken by more than just the House of Maglor,” grumbled the wizard. “You have a fine pair of Elven ears, yet they seem to pick and choose what they will hear concerning her! She should be free of Sauron’s treachery … yet she is not. Will you bring down an uncertain fate upon Arda?”
The archer sighed and drew in the dirt, irritated.
“Where did you find her?” asked Aragorn after a moment.
“I found her walking through the Valley of Udún, near the roots of the broken Morannon.”
“Escaping Mordor?”
“No … she was returning to it.”
“Returning?” puzzled Aragorn.
“Evil returns to evil, despite being freed from it,” said Legolas.
“Ránë’s story is for her alone to tell,” crossly said the wizard. “Idle speculation leads you in circles, fair archer, and serve only to sharpen my tone.”
“Ahh,” said Legolas and he held up his hands placatingly. “I will not vex you, for your soul is sorrowed and mine brought low. Peace be between us.”
“Peace,” said Gandalf, “and sleep, for the hour is late and dawn will catch us too quickly.”
So they rested and though Aragorn wished to take a turn at watch, the archer did not wake him at the hour. He let them slumber and kept the guard himself, standing atop a lonely spire. No bird or beast disturbed the night and the only sound was the wizard, waking partially once to speak a word that held no meaning he could discern.
5. Raavhar Basin
Mordor had once been a prosperous land, despite the devastating arts expended upon it by Morgoth in its earliest birth. The twin range of mountains fencing it in on three sides created a barrier that broke the high wind currents and bid the clouds to drop abundant rainfall. Grasses and meadows and forests flourished, even up to the lower levels of sleeping Orodruin, Mount Doom. To the south, an inland sea was filled from every point of Mordor and wildlife teamed at its banks.
Then Sauron came and claimed the land for his own and he burned the meadows and cursed the trees of the northwestern plain. His demon spawn quarried the hills and dug the land for iron and stone to build mighty Barad-dûr. The ground was scarred and broken for forty or more leagues. What few green things left struggling on to survive were trampled and torn up by the Orc and Trollusk and Vetch. Every beast that had not found its way out before the Black Gate was raised at Udûn was hunted down and their bones left to bleach in meager sun.
Beneath the dominion of the Dark Lord, Mount Doom’s cauldron filled and spilled and painted lava down the flanks of the volcano and spread across the lowlands. And from thence on, the mountain seethed sullenly and threw fire unpredictably.
Now, a year since the downfall of the Black Hand, I was not surprised to look out upon a barren waste with only brambles and withered moss to break the bleakness. Without seed, how could the grasses renew? Without trees, why would the birds return? And without any forage or shelter, no life would return. I was certain my expression was grim and Talemon swiveled his ears uncertainly at the bleak landscape.
The White Wizard took counsel with Ránë and their words were a low murmur. The dark gelding was querulous and snapped at the wizard. Ránë pulled his muzzle aside without even looking.
“If I was less alarmed and wary of her,” I said, “I would put an arrow through the heart of that beast and she could ride double.”
“Now you understand more clearly what she represents,” said the archer. “Yet we have volunteered for this burden and have come too far to turn back.” He studied the ebony gelding. “Mithrandir spoke truly that he is a demon spawn, for there is a shadow upon him that shifts along the edges of his skin. You cannot perceive it, but my eyes can. Something unnatural abides in it.”
“We ride for the Sea of Núrnen,” announced Gandalf as he joined us. He looked fit and alert after the late night at the mercy of a tragic tale. “A long journey upon uncertain terrain and perhaps spies watching.” He shifted the White Staff in his hand. “I will conceal us beneath a glamorie spell and hopefully the watchers of the land cannot pierce through it. Ránë will ride openly.”
“They expect her,” said Legolas. “Have you considered she may be leading us into a trap?”
“I have,” muttered the wizard. “I considered many things before I came to Minas Tirith and petitioned the King of Gondor for aid, not the least of which was your persistent argument. You are a stubborn Elf.”
“I am not stubborn,” said Legolas, humored. “Merely convinced I am correct.”
“So Arwen has said many times and so you are,” I chuckled. “And Gandalf is a most stubborn wizard. What shall happen when two immovable forces meet?”
“Sparks! Of which I am adept at managing,” said the wizard. “Let us ride, for the day is nigh breaking.”
The descent from the Mountains of Ephel Dúath was grueling and not simply from our departure in the shadows before dawn. Steep inclines, clinging soil, and sliding stones vexed horse and rider. Once, a boulder the size of a wagon broke loose above and we scattered to get out of its path. We hid ourselves while the roar of the avalanche it produced faded. Ránë held her gelding back and he champed at his tack, irritably.
“She is an Elf, but she rides with saddle and bit,” I said. “I thought all Elves rode bareback as you do.”
“Spirited animals are easier with a means to guide them,” Legolas said. “I do not know if her steed is spirited, or just unruly. Arwen had a white stallion of fiery temper that required tack. I have ridden several that required such, one of which was a mare surefooted as a hind. I oft had to negotiate with her lest she carry me away obstinately.”
I could not imagine a horse gaining advantage of Legolas. My face must have shown my curiosity.
“She was the great grand dam of Glorfindal’s marvelous Wingsteed, Asfaloth. Her lineage had been guided and governed for six hundred years to produce that bloodline. And Asfaloth himself required tack, for he would take a rider upon gallops that only the mightiest Elves could endure. He drank the wind, that one, and only a sure hand could turn his head to home when he wanted to run!”
“Ride,” ordered Gandalf from the distance.
If I thought the descent of the mountain was difficult, the flat was just as uncertain. There were innumerable rockslides gathered below the last cliff face, none of which had been cleared. Sauron’s denizens had merely marched over the top of increasingly harsh rubble instead of clearing it. Streaks of obsidian glinted like ebony lightning through broken granite. Shadowfax the Great slowed, picking our pathway carefully and Gandalf eyed the surroundings warily. Every click of hoof upon stone made us uneasy.
Ránë studied the arduous surroundings just as keenly, but was undisturbed by the bleak landscape. Her gelding picked up to a trot, gaining upon us. So focused were our steeds that they quarreled not with the dark horse when he drew the closest he had ever come. Ránë’s hood was thrown back and her hair unbound and I noticed that she tugged it back with her fingers often to keep it out of her eyes.
“We know your appearance,” I said softly. “Tie your hair back if you wish—we will not be alarmed.”
When next I glanced around, her dark hair was braided back. And though the disfiguration of her ears lent her a severe appearance, nothing could erase the airy beauty common to all Firstborn. The archer looked back and I watched a troubled expression pass across his face.
Gandalf halted and we drew abreast of him.
“The Plateau of Gorgoroth,” he said. “The fire in the belly of Mount Doom has calmed since the last we beheld it.”
Calmed? I thought. Smoke and heat made the air shiver far off to our right.
“What do you see to the north, where Barad-dûr once stood?” asked the wizard of Legolas.
The archer stood atop the back of Ashra to look. His steed stood like stone and so was the Elf’s stillness. He slid back down and patted the neck of his horse.
“There is nothing. No movement of any creatures or any walls being raised amongst the dark rubble.”
“Why do you tarry?” called Ránë. “We must cross the open to the Maegond Spur before the sun reaches the zenith. The broken land consumes the heat and your horses will suffer.”
“Maegond Spur?” I questioned, shifting to the woodsman I harbored within. “We do not know this ground as you do. Speak plainly so my mind can discern the lay of this land.”
“Mordor is framed by mountains as if hands and there are several small ranges extending out as if fingers, nearly enclosing the Plateau of Gorgoroth from the southeast. The Mithram Spur extends from the north as one of these fingers—nearly touching the spur extending from the south. At the base of the final peak lies a watchtower named, Nargroth.”
She pointed south, where a range of mountains extended into the ruined plain. One peak at the very end vaulted higher than all the rest.
“That is Morigost, and upon its peak resides a small fortress as well. It faces to the southeast, watching the plain of Nurn and all who dwell upon it. Nothing can enter Mordor from the south without the two watchtowers seeing it. We must get to that mountain range before the sun turns these rocks into a simmering cauldron.”
“Will they not see us in broad daylight?” demanded Gandalf.
“Duty is always lax this direction; it is the duty of Minas Ithil and Cirith Ungol to watch here. And the Dark Tower and the Black Gate watch the northwest. Nothing sane would try to cross the cursed land in daylight.”
“A tremendous run,” said I, considering the distance. “It is well we started early if we must beat the sun.” I considered Ránë’s stocky gelding, compared his heavy limbs to the fine strength and fleetness of the mearas. “We may leave you behind.”
“Hitaur was born in the Dark Country,” she said. “You will not leave him behind, though the Steeds of the Gods are swift. The necromancy of the land sustains him, for even the ground was changed by the Lord of Mordor with the power of the One Ring.”
“The sun is rising,” said the White Wizard. “Shadowfax can find the smoothest path. Stay close to his heels, lest the spell of the staff lose you.”
We ran.
It was neither a smooth ride, nor one of enjoyment. The ridges of boulders gave way to hard ground covered with jagged rocks and our horses could not assume a steady pace. It was as if a quarry master had determined to leave no stone entire and set a workforce to crushing them. Gandalf twined a hand into Shadowfax’s mane to aid his balance and I was forced to do the same. The archer, his braided hair bouncing with the stallion’s gait, seemed to float along with every lead change and turn.
The sun rose and the ground began to grow hot as a forge. Urgency sped Shadowfax and he galloped gloriously through rising heat waves, his alert eyes upon the torturous path. We followed, both our mounts becoming lathered.
Towers of black strata flashed past as sentinels. We crossed the bleak bed of some forgotten river and the dust of decay rose in our wake. A bank of brambles with thorns a hand span long we leapt over one by one. Ránë’s mount did not fall behind; he thundered across treacherous rocks unconcerned, a dark flame in the corner of my vision.
On and on, the heat rising like a furnace beneath us, we crossed the edge of the plain. One sunturn bled into the next, each hotter than the previous. The air was burning, whipping past my face. My eyes watered without consent and trails streamed past the corners of my eyes. Grit clung at the curl of my eyelashes.
I had never put the stamina of Talamon to a test such as this, across harsh land some ten leagues or more. I was proud of him, with his ears perked to his Greatsire and his gait measured to the rhythm of his breaths. He tucked his chin and shook his head once, as if to tell me he fared well in this run of endurance and I called encouragement back and let his reins completely free.
I watched Ashra, the fleet Windsteed of Minas Tirith. He was long and lean, his tail streaming like a comet. Legolas crouched over his shoulders and his hair flew. The black grit of Mordor soiled the archer’s cheeks as it must be smearing mine.
We came abruptly upon a black valley hidden over a rise and Shadowfax halted so abruptly that he reared high and sat nearly upon his haunches to keep the White Wizard from being flung headlong. It was a tremendous effort and the unworldly mystery of the mearas came into play—the ground tore beneath his hooves and the air seemed to twist and settle. Gandalf threw his staff sidelong and the authority of the magic that sprang from it hit me like a wall.
Though Talemon fought to save me, I was not so adept … I went over his shoulder with my hand set in his mane and felt the jerk upon my shoulder clear to the knees. He swung sidelong from the edge of that dark vale and spun me along with him as he turned to get himself stopped. And from countless practices on horseback, I kept my wits and my grip in his mane and ran, remaining upright beside my struggling steed. When the black dust settled, I was untrampled and still on my feet, though my hand felt pierced by nettles.
The archer went over the head of Ashra coiled like a ball, rolled twice, and seemed to strike something unseen: the mage thrown wall of the Istari. He bounded to his feet and scrambled from the edge of the valley where the sunlight did not seem to pass. I had the impression that the Elf had flung himself off, taking his weight out of Ashra’s fight to get halted.
All of our horses were greatly disturbed and Shadowfax squealed angrily at the dark bowl ahead threateningly. Ránë said something beneath her breath that I did not comprehend, but Gandalf jerked his head about as if he understood.
“What evil lies in this valley?” he demanded. The Lord of Horses sidled sidelong with the wizard, highly agitated. “Shadowfax perceives it as smoke and ash. I see it as a gloom that slips along the ground as fog.”
“Raavhar,” she answered. Her gelding seemed little disturbed by the path ahead; he bobbed his head as if eager to be away again. “Your horses perceive. We have run hard, yet this will be the test of staying power. If we remain fleet and no one falls, we will escape.”
She pulled her gelding around and backed him from the edge of the vale and he snorted and bickered with her authority.
“Explain this creature,” said Legolas. “I perceive no shape or breath. The best I can discern is that where sunlight should be, it is simply absent.”
“The lifeless have gathered here; the Raavhar.” Her voice was hurried. “They are like the souls that haunt the Dead Marshes and as with them, if you do not linger you will not be snared.”
“We must let our horses rest a moment if we must race across this glen,” I said.
“We cannot, for they muster from every corner of this basin,” she countered. “They perceive the mearas, that they do not belong here. We must ride now!”
“What counsel would you give us?” abruptly asked Gandalf. He was refastening his cloak and wrapping a thong around the Great Staff. Shadowfax sidled and blew, intuiting a race ahead. “Anything else to aid us?”
“Run straight across and gaze ahead at the horizon. Disregard the shadows that gather and follow.” She looked at the wizard. “Conceal the might of your rod, for they are drawn to its potency.”
“Ride!” commanded Gandalf and he drew up the heel of the Great Staff as if lifting a curtain. Shadowfax sprang into the dark glade and no beast on four feet could have matched that leap.
It was a glorious race, though I was too disturbed to enjoy much of it.
The Lord of Horses was a blur to my right and Gandalf leaned over his withers until his white hair mixed into the whip of mane. They cut straight through the heart of the valley, an ashen streak. Talemon lengthened his stride and I felt the power galvanize through his spine as he matched his Greatsire. The ground thundered beneath us. Ashra, fleetest of steeds, seemed to only have one foot upon the ground at a time, though I surely knew it not so. I shall never forget the sight of being flanked by so glorious steeds as these; the sound of three powerful mounts matching stride and breath.
The bowl of this valley was twilight shrouded and my skin prickled as if touched by a thousand fingers. Now that we had entered, I could see the murky twist of creatures. They held no steady form, but moved like mist and poured one into the next disconcertingly. There was a sound upon the wind that rushed by my ears, summoning, and I turned my mind from it. I stared straight ahead at the crazily bouncing horizon with Talemon’s mane whipping my face in a constant stream of stinging.
It was a formidable distance for such a sprint after galloping through the morning. I feared for my stallion. I feared for the endurance of Ashra. I could not even turn my head to view Ránë. The shadows upon the ground seethed and moved, gathered as if to intercept us.
“Nornoro horta!” shouted Gandalf and the grip of his words seized the sinew and muscle of our steeds, vaulting them into astonishing vigor.
I heard Talemon grunt and Ashra passed us in two tremendous strides. There was something beneath our feet and Talemon went over the top without gathering himself. I felt the shudder of one hind foot striking something … then the streak of light marking the rim of the vale shot beneath me and my grand steed ceased that terrible push for speed. I left his head loose and let him bleed out the velocity at his own pace and he circled, still galloping, eyeing the glade mistrustfully.
So it was that we turned in time to see Ránë cross the last part of that evil valley and I was witness to the pile of shadows that raced alongside of her dark gelding. He galloped straight as a charger and just as fleet, seemingly undisturbed … and his outline was blurred as if something held to his hide. Fifty or more shadows matched him in turbulent waves of smoke and shadow.
But at the very last, the steed balked and set his feet and threw Ránë fifteen feet over his head. She rolled tight another twenty and I shouted, pointing. I was almost seventy yards away, but Ashra turned like wind as Legolas brought him around.
“No!” shouted Gandalf and his strident call checked the archer. Shadowfax plunged and whistled his ringing stallion call.
Ránë bounded back to her feet and sprinted the last fifty feet out into sunlight without harm. We met in a rush of blowing steeds and concern and she was irritated, but unhurt, cursing in some dark language.
“Hitaur!” she called once, then pondered the gelding where he cantered circles in the glade, tossing his bridle until the steel rings jangled.
“Is he not afraid?” I asked, studying the scene. “Why did he halt?”
“The valley is filled with his ilk, creatures that have been spell-bound and have died,” she said dourly. “His kindred run in this bowl of shadows. I did not expect him to want to linger.”
“Will he come?” asked the archer. “I have rope, but he is too far without someone entering the glade again.”
“Let him abide a moment,” said Gandalf. His eyes were oddly solemn. “He is lonely.”
Ránë looked up at the wizard, her eyes also serious. “Yes, he is. He is one of the last and when he is killed, his spirit will find its way to this place and run with his brothers.”
“Killed?” I said, startled. “He will not die unless he is slain?”
But Ránë did not answer; she whistled into the vale and called to the gelding that stood head down and blowing. He swiveled an ear, but ignored her.
“Hitaur! Hitaur, we ride!” she called. “Come, you spelled spawn of Melkor! Hótuli!”
I believe all three of us flinched upon hearing the first Dark Lord’s name cast so casually, but the black steed in the glade grudgingly came to her call. She seized his reins and cuffed him upon an ear, then pulled that same ear down and whispered something soft and fierce into it.
“That is the second Elven woman I have seen cuff an unruly horse upon an ear,” I said to no one.
“I talk to them,” informed Legolas. “They eventually understand what I desire.”
“A swat gets their attention and then they listen the first time,” said Ránë and then she added without malice, “Horses are like males with more weight to throw around.”
“I will not argue that theory,” Gandalf said, humored. “Yet you have never attempted to swat me to get my full attention.”
Ránë climbed into her saddle and her tone was somber. “Be comforted, wizard. I never swatted Aulendil either.”
“The sun is at the midway and we have six leagues at least to ride,” said the archer.
“Canter us for a distance,” said the wizard and the Great Stallion swiveled his ears, listening. “Gauge the stamina of your sons lest we injure them.”
Ránë led us, searching for any more pockets of dark spirits, and all our horses cantered in an easy loose gait. The ground flattened and was covered with a partial thickness of ash. It swirled up with our passage, forcing us to ride abreast to keep from inhaling the silt.
“Who is Aulendil?” I asked of Gandalf, knowing I should know that name.
“Aulendil, Artano, Annatar. Sauron was known by all such names, as well as the Lord of Werewolves. The Necromancer collected names and titles like pretty jewels to wear.”
We cantered and walked and cantered more and with each gait change, Ránë glanced back and sped her gelding or drew him in. The miles passed and the temperature climbed steadily, beating upon my brow. The grit and ash clung to my face and stung my eyes. I let them tear to clear them, trusting in Talemon to care for me and the White Wizard to care for all of us. The heat parched my throat as if I had drunk the dust. Stamina was bleeding away despite my will, crushed by dry wind and the arduous ride.
Legolas fared better it seemed or it was the formidable endurance of an Elf. Dirt streaked him, but his eyes watched alertly in all directions. His hair lost its luster and hung. I was proud to have him beside me, nearly brushing my stirrup. The Sons of Thunder were in step like heartbeats and when the archer glanced to me, it was reassuring to see the brightness of his gaze.
“We have less than two leagues to go,” he said, intuitively discerning my strength.
It was a long two leagues and we coughed through the silt and clung to our steeds until they cantered into the shadows of the looming Maegond Spur. Even Gandalf was subdued and his shoulders sagged. Ránë pressed on and no one quarreled; we followed her dark gelding up the slope until the rocks stood like towers and shade became plentiful.
When she dismounted and led her horse, we slid off gratefully and our steeds heaved a sigh, including Shadowfax, strongest of all. Gandalf staggered and found his footing, followed the Elf up the mountain with his white hair grimy grey. My legs were unsteady and Legolas caught my elbow a moment.
“Stay the course, for once we halt, you will be unable to rise for a while,” he said.
I was wise and did not argue. I concentrated on the soft silt and the strength of my knees. Talemon followed like a great hound just off my shoulder.
We hiked for nearly a sunturn, until my thighs burned and my breaths were short, before Ránë halted. The White Wizard sat and leaned his staff against his brow, exhausted. Shadowfax shook himself and a cloud of dust puffed from his grey coat. It was a dreary clearing no larger than any other, but the ground was level and enclosed by a rocky cliff on two sides.
“Defendable,” said the archer.
“There is water, though the horses must find it for us,” said Ránë and she pulled the saddle off her gelding and shoved him away. She called after his dark form, “Bicker not with the ghosts, Hitaur, or I shall tie you to a boulder.”
“The ghosts?” said Gandalf, but then he chuckled softly. “Is that what he calls the mearas?”
Ránë smiled and it was the first true smile I had seen.
“He thinks of them more as fog or a mist, an apparition. He does not believe them alive—to his mind, only he is alive.”
“We are all dead things?” said the archer. “No wonder he is onerous to us!”
“Perhaps,” she said solemnly. “I think he is just cantankerous. He is old and cross and set in his ways.”
“That sounds like someone I know,” I said wearily.
I was humored by the snap of Gandalf’s blue eyes amidst the grime and tiredness of his face. My legs would not hold me anymore and I sat on a likely boulder. My exhaustion made me hang my head, blinking, too fatigued to even search for a sip of water to drink. All the hours of training on the practice sands of Minas Tirith would not have readied me for this long day.
But when I raised my head, Legolas was studying Ránë across the glade and I wondered at his contemplation. He seemed to reach a decision within a moment.
“Gandalf the White has vouched for you, though I trust you not,” said the archer. “Both the Istari and King are weary and I cannot be in two places at once.”
“They are not my foes. I will help,” she answered evenly. “What is your need?”
“Will you stay in this camp and aid them, or scout for the enemy?”
“Camp. Your ears are keener than mine,” she answered. “You would not trust my word to the absence of foes, anyway.”
“I am an astute Elf,” said Legolas, then he added warningly, “I will be listening for any shout from this area. Know that I will be swift to return if either Mithrandir or Aragorn calls for aid. You will not escape me.”
“They are not my foes,” she returned sternly. “I trust them little, but intend them no harm.”
So, curiously, it was Ránë who brought us water in a waterskin and then a cloth for wiping the grime away. Talemon eyed her and sidled away, but Ashra permitted her to lead him by the forelock until he caught the whiff of the spring and went to drink. Only then did Talemon submit to the saddle being pulled off and his bridle loosened. She soaked meat in water and wrapped it in flatbread and handed it to us. By the time the archer descended with a few leaps from the rocks overhead, we were refreshed.
“Anything?” I asked.
“The mountain is dark and inhospitable, without a lark or bird. What grass there is, huddles quietly, hoping to be unnoticed. This is a sad, piteous land.” He eyed the surroundings, taking measure. “I saw no tracks, heard no sounds, caught no scent upon the wind over the peak. The ground we traveled today is hot as an anvil and simmering. Surely it was not like this when Frodo and Sam passed this way?”
Ránë looked perplexed at the names. I explained quickly and watched her eyes grow thoughtful.
“Brave souls are they, to cross Sauron’s Forge,” she said when my tale was finished. “The Black Hand made the land passable for his troops, but when he was thrown down, the deep anger of the soil resurrected for all the evils done to it. Only a Songmaster can soothe its rage now.”
Ránë seemed to remember herself after this statement and lapsed into silence. She got to her feet and turned away, searching the terrain with her eyes.
“You are welcome to tarry with us,” I said.
“No. Hitaur is uneasy without my presence and I once left arms on this ridge many years ago. I will give search and see if they have survived.”
I did not ask if she wanted aid, sure it would be refused. She left our sparse camp without another word and Legolas sighed, relieved. I wished him peace and did not quarrel.
The sun was overhead, blazing unnaturally. We shifted with the shadows for the rays burned and only our cloaks protected our skin when it crept upon us. The archer spent a moment digging loose rocks aside and made a cleft below the rim of the cliff where the moving sun would not strike.
“Rest, Mithrandir,” he said. “You held a spell the long hours and are worn beyond simple weariness.”
“Only a small charm of concealment. The land was barren instead of full of spies. Greater hardships lie ahead for which we shall all be tested.”
He laid himself in the shade and it was telling of his weariness that he did not shed his cloak for a soft pillow. He only put off his boots and sat them unlaced near his hand.
“Sleep, Aragorn. I will watch,” said the archer.
“Wake me in a sunturn,” I whispered.
“Nay, I will not. A sunturn is not enough time for our steeds to be capable.”
I was too exhausted to argue.
The sun was entering the afternoon when I woke groggy and stiff. My mouth tasted of ash. Gandalf slept on and I did nothing to disturb him. I took the skin of water that Legolas handed me, drank quietly. There was grit in my mouth and I swallowed it as well. Spitting would only wake the wizard.
“Do you perceive where Ránë is camped?” I whispered.
“You will not go to her without me and I cannot leave the wizard slumbering vulnerably.”
“You think the wizard defenseless when he sleeps?” I countered. “Here, in the tainted lands, where foes dwell mightily?” I pointed across the small clearing where Shadowfax lay dozing. “Do you think the Lord of Horses will permit any harm to befall him, or will he strike as formidably as a war horse if Gandalf tarries with his protection?”
The archer scowled at me and I grinned, humored, up at his face.
“You know her crime,” warned Legolas. “She is cursed by the souls of her kindred and by the Deceiver himself. She has dwelled in evil company for centuries.”
“I know.” My voice was steady. “Yet Grima Wormtongue was offered clemency for his crimes. Saruman the White was offered his life to be spared, but he hardened his heart. Ránë was lured away beneath the dark charisma of Sauron. Is her crime greater than these? What will become of the world if mercy dies?”
“What will become of the world if justice fails?” he returned.
The clear and decisive mind of Elves was a trying thing. I was grateful I was just as stubborn and resolved.
“I will speak with her. Direct me or I shall wander about for a sunturn and injure all your sensibilities listening for foes,” I said.
“I will go,” eventually said the archer. “You are correct about Mithrandir. He likely has set a spell about himself while he slept.”
Ránë was hidden in a cleft of the rocks below us and I was grateful for Legolas’ keen ears, for he kept me from blundering headlong into her irritable gelding.
“What has happened?” she asked upon spotting us.
“Nothing has happened,” I replied. “The wizard sleeps and the mountain is quiet. Did you find the arms you left?”
“Nothing survived the years, save the knife.”
The dagger in the dirt was bladed on both ends and I looked at it curiously. It could not have been more than seven inches long. She also had gathered a pile of small stones and was sorting through them one by one, discarding some and keeping some. She had robbed some leather straps from her tack and they lay beside her.
“A sling?” I asked, squatting to observe her work. “Their range is good if you are adept.”
“I do not know how adept I have remained,” she answered somewhat guardedly.
“Will we ride farther this day?” asked the archer.
“Only if the wizard and Man are able. Yet it would be wise to wait until nightfall, for if any Goblins are upon this mountain, that is when they travel and we will hear them.”
“They will hear us as well,” I observed.
“I have listened to your horses,” she said. “They are as quiet as they are quick. I would rather discover the Orc by the noise they make than have them resting undetected and we perceive them too late.”
I mulled her thinking about before admitting, “My vision is less than that of Elves in the darkness and the terrain is unfamiliar. My steed will watch and listen, but in a fight, I will not be as adept.”
“I will be adept for you,” said Legolas. He regarded Ránë. “Do you suspect Sauron’s minions upon this mountain?”
She was slow to answer and sorted through several stones.
“I do not know. I perhaps am only mistrustful; I suspect treachery at every turn.”
“Paranoid is not an adverse course when at war,” I said mildly. “Tell me about your gelding, for I am curious.”
“Hitaur?” She shrugged. “He was spelled in the womb by the Black Hand and such never ends well for the mare. She had to be cut open to release him and died harshly.” She glanced at the gelding, for he trod heavily to her upon hearing his name and nudged her upon the back of the head. “Not extremely intelligent, and yet surprisingly discerning. Faithful and loyal and will face any foe, for he was bound with enchantment to me. Sometimes obedient, sometimes not. Often he is a pest.” She swatted idly at his muzzle, for he was trying to chew upon her hair. “I do not know his age, but he was given to me almost a hundred years ago.”
A sound turned us almost in unison and every hand was upon a blade … but it was only Gandalf, who looked alert despite the heaviness of his steps. Ránë sat back upon her heels and watched his approach, her expression thoughtful if a bit wary.
“I am ready to go on,” said Gandalf. “The steeds are willing, for I have inquired and I am strong enough to spell their weariness away for a time.”
“You should not,” answered Ránë. “As we pass out of Gorgoroth, the power of your sorcery will draw attention. Those who perceive will come looking for the cause, hoping for a new mage to lead them or be bent to their cause. From this point, you must not use magic.”
“A surprise awaits them at finding the White Rider on the other end of that rod,” I said. I was sketching what I remembered of Mordor’s landscape in the dark silt. “We may rely on stealth and speed for much of our way, but eventually there will come a time when we will need the craft of the wizard.”
“We must be closer to our quarry before they know we are coming,” said Gandalf. “The southern plain of Nurn is nearly seventy leagues long.” He drew with the end of his staff in my map. “The inland sea is here … the land of Khand is beyond the Ephel Dúath. We suspect our foes are massing down along the cliffs of the sea, near the fortress of Thaurband. If not there, they are in the fertile valley where Sauron’s slave-farms lie.”
Legolas, who stood a distance apart habitually at sentry, looked sharply back to us.
“Melkor took the Avari and corrupted them in the mighty fortress of Utumno,” he said with a terrible voice. “I am not surprised that Sauron created his own pits for fouling the fair ones, though I thought it would be in Barad-dûr itself.”
The White Wizard looked quietly at Ránë.
“Speak what you know,” he said quietly. “In time, there will be no secrets.”
“Lugbúrz,” she said in the Black Speech and both Legolas and I flinched, though the wizard endured. “The uppermost tower where he surveyed unceasingly the lands and peoples of Middle Earth. The lidless eye never slept and never closed. He kept Elves there, but only for short periods of time. The evil of that tower was so potent that their souls faded quickly.
“Sauron desired power over the will of the people, especially the Elves, whom his master hated. He terrorized to gain cooperation, he took hostages, he tortured, and he used the dark arts to pervert their minds to his will. He bred them to foul creatures, producing terrible offspring. But there were some Firstborn that he left unmarred. He ruled them and guarded them, but left their minds and bodies intact as a testament to his absolute power. It was vanity and arrogance on his part to have the beauty of the Eldar in his presence and under his control. He prized the Elves of the House of Maglor the highest.”
“And he kept you,” I said slowly. Somehow, her preservation seemed a greater evil than had her mind been shattered and her form corrupted. “He kept you as a thing of beauty to show off his power instead of destroying you.”
“Except for my ears,” she said harshly. “He could no longer assume the beautiful form of a Maia and resented our natural splendor.”
“What did he use to destroy your ears?” asked Gandalf and I wondered at his question.
Ránë seemed unsurprised. “Heated tongs.”
“No spells or chants?”
“He did not speak … he sang,” she slowly added, as if remembering from a distance. “I did not know his words, but I remember that my whole frame twisted in the power of that tune and I screamed and screamed until it was finished.”
“He used the Ainulindalë,” said Legolas savagely. “He tore away your ears beyond just disfigurement by tongs—he unmade them with the Song of Creation.”
“It is an unforgivable sin to wield the power of the Ainulindalë in such a fashion!” sternly said Gandalf. “It is why it became forbidden for any to sing it! Melkor must have taught Sauron enough of it that he could use it to twist Elves into a mockery of their divine image.”
“Stop, stop,” Ránë whispered and she held her hands over the ruined places. “I can not speak of these things. They cut somewhere as a whip of thorns.”
“Enough,” I soothed. “Tell me about the land and these slave-farms, for I am skilled with the ground and those that move upon it.”
Ránë drew from painful memory and steadied her voice.
“The Elves did poorly in the bleak shadows endlessly hiding the Dark Tower. They wasted and died and no dark magic could hold them. Sauron captured more and more to feed his pride and they also succumbed to killing depression. I told him to send us to the slave-farms out in the green plains, where the sun and trees and grasses dwelled. They are scattered on the south bank of the sea. He did so and by letting us live part of the time there, the Elves endured their turn at dark servitude in his citadel.”
“Better that they died than to live on in such a way,” said Legolas sternly. “You should not have suggested it.”
“Perhaps,” she replied tersely. “But we who were Forsaken chose to live, for while we lived, Sauron ceased trying to abduct every Firstborn that fell within his grasp. We purchased death for other Elves instead of them being captured and corrupted by necromancy for his sport and pleasure.” She regarded him steadily. “We chose to endure misery to spare our kin.”
The archer considered this and to his credit, he acknowledged the veracity of her thinking. It was only a nod, but it soothed. I was disheartened at the willing slavery for the penalty was horrifying.
“Better that a hundred suffer than all of Lothlórien, or Mirkwood, or every Elf in Eregion be taken alive to the breeding pits of Mordor,” softly said Gandalf.
Ránë looked away and took a breath. I could see the pulse bounding at her throat and I reached a hand to touch her without thinking, but she pulled back.
“Do not touch me. I am unclean.”
“We have ridden through the dust,” I said. “We are all unclean.”
“I am bound with a curse and it may harm you.”
“The magic placed upon you is not a trap set for Men or Elves,” said Gandalf. He leaned upon the Great Staff with both hands. “It is meant for me, though I discern little of its device. It is only I that you must not touch.”
“You?” she queried thoughtfully. “Ahh, but I remember! You crept into Dol Guldur and took the key of Erebor. A small thing, but it was an affront to Sauron that you could slip stealthily into his fortress and find him out.”
“That was not the first time I came to Dol Guldur. The first time, he was not to his strength and fled before I could discern his identity,” muttered the wizard. “If I had been swifter of foot, more perceptive of eye, we might have ended him before he regained his potency!” Gandalf sighed heavily. “Mistakes and missteps are ever my bane!”
“Yet the One Ring had not yet been destroyed, nor did any know of its whereabouts,” I interjected. “You perhaps would have wounded him, but not vanquished him.”
“Why would the Lord of Mordor lay a spell upon me designed for you?” Ránë inquired.
The White Wizard smiled. “That, I cannot say.”
“You do not know?” asked Legolas.
“That is not what he said,” I chuckled. “He said he would not say.”
“Ahh,” said the archer. “I forgot that this is Mithrandir, keeper of mysteries and secrets!”
Silence ruled us for a moment.
“Did you perceive enmity between you and Sauron when you both dwelled in Aman?” asked Ránë.
This was a surprising question and one I had never thought to ask. I watched the play of emotions through the wizard’s eyes, the familiar twist of his lips as he pondered.
“We were utterly unalike,” slowly said Gandalf. “Sauron was the firstborn Maia of Aulë and the most powerful of the lesser Ainur who served him. He had great gifts of Making and forging and his mind craved order. He was beautiful, as are all the Maiar.
“I was created last of all the Maiar and with no more strength than any other. I had no specific skill or purpose and was left free to decide whom I would serve. I chose Manwë Súlimo and the Elder King accepted my service, though I spent time with every Vala to learn from them what wisdom they would impart.” He shrugged diffidently. “Sauron considered himself of importance because of his skill and might. I considered myself not at all. I set my mind upon the Vala and their understanding of Eru’s will for each had a portion of the Father of All’s mind and if I served each of them, then I would see the whole of His wisdom.”
“Elbereth,” said Legolas and longing was in his voice. “You were in the court of Varda, Manwë’s Queen.”
Gandalf reached almost without looking and touched the archer’s face with his fingers.
“Queen of the Stars,” he said gently. “And her love for the Eldar guided my devotion to the Elves, for I am an extension of their heart and will and purpose.”
“Did the Valar cherish you?” asked Ránë.
Gandalf blinked at the question, surprised.
“If they did, I was unaware. I did not serve to gain accolades. I served because I was obedient and there was no higher service than to the Lord of Arda, dearest to Eru Ilúvatar.”
“You knew Melkor in the beginning. What did you learn from him?”
Here Gandalf seemed taken aback and he shifted his grip upon the White Staff as if it comforted.
“I will not speak of him,” he returned. “Why do you ply me with questions of the past? We must dwell upon our next passage in this quest.”
“Power,” she said instead. “Creation authority and control over the magic given to the Ainur through the Great Song.”
“He offered such things and I refused to hear him. The Song of the Valar is not to be handed to the lesser Ainur as some bribe,” returned Gandalf. “I earned the knowledge of the Ainulindalë through my patient service to the Arator—each taught me their portion as I was deemed worthy to know it. I knew Melkor was most powerful, but I did not choose to serve power for the cause of power—I chose to serve the one who worshipped Eru in every word and thought.”
Ránë nodded almost to herself.
“That is why Sauron set traps for you—you chose wisely and he chose to serve the power represented in Melkor and fell from grace. He remembered all the millennia he spent earning the notice of the High King and Manwë thought little of his prowess. But you … you walked into the Holy Court and were always received because you came with your hands empty and your heart open, the image of submission and worship.”
She looked up at the wizard. “If Sauron thought he could break your devotion to the Elder King and make you unfit for Valinor’s holy shore, he would exert the power to do it. The Lord of Barad-dûr spent much time speaking to me of his various hatreds and he left no thread undisturbed.”
“If you know Mithrandir to be good, then why do you mistrust and have malice toward him?” said Legolas. “A foolish Elf are you.”
Ránë’s eyes flashed and my spirit rebelled against every argument about to be uttered. The harsh land had brutalized me, the endurance had taxed me, the harsh telling of history had brought my soul to sorrow—I would not be put to test any longer by divisions amongst us.
“I will have peace,” I said and my voice found a stern tone between the Ranger of old and the present King. “Hardship will try us and our foes besiege us; we must be solid.”
I looked at Ránë and then Legolas and shouldered off acquiescence. The decades of leadership amidst the wilds sprang to the fore and straightened my back and my resolve.
“We must lay down injuries and arguments,” I said sternly. “This has been said time and again. And since you both are quarrelsome, I will take command of this party until you find your rightful places within it. We march into the mouth of the wicked, against foes outnumbering us, in terrain that hates us. You will either work toward the common good together or you will die alone.
“You,” I stabbed a finger at the Elven woman, “need practice with that sling. If the land is quiet, then take yourself off and regain your skill. A fight lies before you, one for which you are not ready. Only a foolish Elf goes unprepared towards certain battle.”
I looked at the archer, trusting him to comprehend my words and decisiveness.
“She needs to be steady in a fight, or we will exert extra effort in protecting her. See that she has what she needs and give over any of your skill, for you are the master of arms, be it knife or bow. Find where her talents lie idle and sleeping and stir them. Only a foolish Elf withholds knowledge when knowledge is required for survival.”
The archer responded readily to my voice of command. “I shall strengthen her skill at warfare, for your counsel is wise.”
But before they left the clearing, Ránë stopped near Gandalf the White and looked upon him.
“You perceived Hitaur was lonely,” she said quietly. “Something I did not discern until you spoke it aloud.”
“He is the last,” returned the wizard. “I know the loneliness of being the last.”
“You are not alone,” Legolas said. “You are surrounded by companions who love you.”
“Yet, he is alone,” I added quietly. “The last of the Istari, for Radagast and the Blue Wizards have passed from the sight of Middle Earth and Saruman is fallen.”
I caught the eyes of the wizard, knew my words true.
“He is old, your dark steed,” diverted Gandalf. “Shadowfax told me his mind is still and slow as old Earth while the mearas are like swiftly moving water and air. There is a spell binding his spirit and body, one that grants him life past its time—an unnatural convention. Who gave him to you?”
“An Elf named Cerediron, though he did not lay the dark charm upon him.”
“We know that name,” I said. “He is the one we seek, the last of the House of Maglor.”
“Not last yet,” corrected Gandalf. “There is another.”
“They will die with me,” said Ránë. The straps of the sling dangled loosely from her fingers. “There must always be two.”
She strode past the wizard and Legolas followed, mindful of my final request. They would not go far I knew, for the archer was a diligent sentry of our party. Nothing would slip past his notice.
“Two?” I asked of the wizard.
“Two,” said Gandalf. “Perhaps I forgot to speak it amidst the tale last evening. Arda’s mightiest Vala are males, the greatest Elven Smiths are males and, likewise, the Elves of House Maglor who can wield the most Earth power are all males. But unlike the Valar and the Smiths, the Songkeepers cannot exist in a void; they must have an equal to listen and answer the song inside their soul. There are always two.” He was adding mountains to my crude map. “The Two Trees of the Valar were male and female and the stronger was Telperion, the White Tree, from whence the White Tree of Gondor is a pale imitator.”
The wizard stopped drawing and studied the dirt.
“Thank you for taking command of our party, Aragorn. It took you a few days to remember your voice of leadership in a sortie, but I am a patient wizard and I knew you would take the reins in your hands and leave me free to unwind spells and discover others.” He sighed. “Now. Here is your map, crude as it is!”
From there we spoke of the ruined hills of Mordor and Gandalf left nothing out. From the fertile beauty in the very dawn of Arda to the subsequent rending and upheaval as mighty forces fought over it. Every animal that once roamed herein. The flora that was safe and those hostile. The dark curses he had heard upon the wind as we rode.
Every mountain and every tributary that fed the inland sea had a place name and I said them aloud as he marked them, fixing them in my head. We spoke of Orc and Shades and the habits of the Vetch. Undoubtedly there would be Men and perhaps Mumakill, even the squat Rindor with its face full of horns. The wizard grimly suggested that some of Saruman’s great Uruk-hai had likely survived the destruction of Barad-dûr. There were a thousand mountain caves to hide in and league upon league of open ground to catch us upon.
We were marching into evil and this was their land.
“We have a guide that knows our quarry and the swiftest bowman upon the land in our service,” said Gandalf, discerning my expression. “And you will find their footprints, though they take to the sky as ptarmigans.”
“And we have the White Wizard,” I added. “Who conjured an inferno in the belly of Minas Morgul that will consume it from inside out.”
Gandalf fixed me with steely eyes.
“Do not forget that this wizard must be quiescent upon the land. I can use no spells, lest Cerediron detect us. Without magic, I am just an old quarrelsome man.”
I laughed despite our present hardships and laid a hand upon his arm.
“That you surely are!”
6. Combat's Furnace
Legolas and Ránë returned after three sunturns, she with a somewhat severe expression and the archer dispassionate. Her hair was untidy and there was a lash mark encircling her right forearm. When archer removed his cloak, he sported a red welt slowly becoming a bruise upon a shoulder. Not a word of what transpired was uttered and neither wizard nor King inquired.
“She requires more time with the sling to be as accurate as an Elf is capable,” said Legolas. “Her skill is far better with a staff or spear, for she dwelled in open ground and not the close confines of forests.”
“A staff or spear?” said Aragorn. “We must make search for the strength of wood she needs. In our diversity lies our strength, just as in the Great War.”
“Agreed,” said Legolas. He glanced at the brutal landscape. “Would that the trees here were not so wretched. Perhaps farther on we will come upon cleaner branches.”
“Begging a staff from a betrayed forest will be the challenge,” said Gandalf.
“Indeed,” said the archer.
They rested through the afternoon and nigh to evening; Aragorn sleeping and even the wizard returning to dreaming to refresh his stamina. The Elves had no need, for they had the tremendous vitality of the Eldar. They busied themselves quietly, picking up stones for hurling, seeing to the edges of weapons, and searching for tufts of hidden grass for the steeds.
Ránë found a layer of dirt atop a monolith of stone that supported fodder and she tossed the grass down as she pulled it, leaving the tallest stalks to reseed. Legolas bounded atop the obelisk with a flask of water to refresh the soil to make amends.
Neither said a word, for it was a silent truce that had been fashioned.
When the day cooled and the shadows loomed tall, Aragorn stirred and rose. The wizard was close behind and they took a meager meal and listened to the night descend. The horses drew nigh, alert to the will of their masters, though Hitaur had to be sought out by his mistress.
“Will we walk or ride?” asked Legolas softly, for whispers carried farther than soft speech.
“Ride until we reach the crest of the mountain,” quietly answered Aragorn. “The wind rushes down from the high peaks to the heated plain. If there are Orc, we shall hear them first.” He looked upon Ránë. “Are there passable trails, or will we pick our way?”
“There has been nothing to hunt for centuries, but there once were mountain elk and swift goats upon the ramparts and they are great trail blazers.”
“Then perhaps you will strike a path to get us to the rim,” said Aragorn.
“Another should lead, for my ears are not keenest,” she admitted without remorse. “My eyes discern as they ever did, but hearing is our advantage.”
“I will lead,” said Legolas quietly. “Follow fast upon my heels, for the vision of Elves pierces the dim more clearly.”
“I will be our rear guard,” offered Gandalf. “Aragorn is the better fighter and should we find foes, we have need of silent speed, not spells or umbrage from an old man to draw attention.”
“I have heard that umbrage before!” Legolas laughed softly. “Some would say that it is more fearsome than the spells!”
So their order was fashioned and Aragorn smiled amidst shadows to see each finding their proper fit without quarrel. It had taken three hard days.
They started towards the summit at dusk and the temperature plummeted along with the sun. There was an eerie silence over the mountain and Aragorn felt again the deadness of the land. There were no crickets or night cicadas, no sound of birds or rustling beasts coming out to forage. They climbed a lifeless peak of dirt and rocks and it was a pressure in their hearts.
After an hour of hiking, Ránë discovered a rough path that spiraled its way upward. It made their passage easier, though the Elves had to exert effort to follow the abandoned trail. When Aragorn glanced up, he could see the familiar figure of Legolas peering alertly ahead while Ránë searched the terrain for the broken path.
The wizard’s grey cloak blurred his figure. Whether in moonlight or in the lee of standing obelisks, he was shadowy and obscured. At times, Aragorn stood a moment just to be sure he had not fallen behind in the hike, but he was always there, the long edge of his cape partially draped over the staff to conceal it.
The standing stones became harsh and severe as they climbed, scoured by elements. The stars were pinpoint, their very beauty seemingly dimmed. Aragorn suspected it was just his perceptions deceiving him. They climbed for hours before the Elves halted and all four met. A rocky windswept ridge loomed over their heads.
Not a word was spoken, but they drank from water pouches and ate a bite or two of dried meat, refreshing their energy. Below, the pale steeds lingered in shadows and Ránë’s dark gelding could not be discerned at all.
Slim and motionless, Legolas stood near the crest, listening. Against the blackened sky, even his hair was dark. He had tied it back severely to keep it off his ears. Aragorn looked up and took comfort in the familiar angles and planes of his face. One step away, Ránë stood just as quiet and alert, reading the sounds upon the wind flowing over the rim.
A hand signal brought them all up and over the summit of the mountain and they hurried down to obscure their silhouettes. Aragorn found himself with Ránë, crouched near a leaning strata of rock to make the smallest target. He did not disturb her concentration as she gazed at the slopes below.
Legolas brought them farther with a hand gesture and they moved carefully now, cautious of steps that would dislodge stones. Down and down, cutting sidelong so the descent was less onerous, the four hunters descended.
Then the archer’s hand flashed and he pulled up short.
Aragorn halted instantly and Gandalf nearly bumped into him, his eyes upon the terrain. The wizard curled long fingers around the top of the King’s shoulder, a warning and soothing gesture in one. Ránë crept farther down and drew abreast of the motionless Legolas. Not a word was spoken and in the chill, their breath puffed.
Faintly and far away, there was a sound upon the wind and then it ceased. For many minutes, no one moved.
Then the archer turned his head and even in the distance his eyes gleamed. He looked at Ránë, frowning near his shoulder, and she nodded back as he pointed down the westward slope of the mountain.
Aragorn heard the breathy sigh of the wizard at his back and smiled grimly. He loosened his great hunting blade in its sheath, but left the safety tie intact. The slender thong would break if he jerked the blade loose for fighting, but would not simply be pulled out by crawling through brambles.
The wizard whispered something so softly beneath his breath that the King wondered at it until he heard the name Shadowfax. Gandalf had halted the steeds on the other side of the ridge.
Silently, the hunters drifted down and the Elves spread apart, listening to affix the position of their quarry. Aragorn and Gandalf remained in the center, moving stealthily.
Down, down and across … Gandalf’s thighs ached and the staff was troublesome to conceal when his instinct was to use it for stability. The descent was so severe in some places that Glamdring nearly scraped the rocks.
Aragorn fared better, but he lost his balance once and shot both arms out to steady himself without falling. The sweat trickled into his eyes and he patted his brow upon a sleeve.
An upraised finger by Legolas halted them again and they listened to their pounding pulse a moment. The wind whirled an eddy about their feet and Aragorn tipped his face skyward to keep from breathing the dust. And in that pose, he finally heard the guttural speech of Orcs drift within his hearing.
Gandalf looked to his hip and just below the cross guard, Glamdring shown with pale light.
Guardedly, the four drew close in the lee of tumbled rocks and Legolas found soft silt to draw in. They had to lean close to decipher, but he sketched the hillside and several tall crags that rose from the mountainside and placed their position and that of their foes. Ránë added a ravine and three cliffs from memory and there was a moment of communication with gestures to decide how many Goblins had been heard.
A handful at best. Twenty at worst. In the echo of rocks and canyons, the fickle movement of wind, it was difficult to be precise. Legolas frowned at his inability to be specific and Aragorn gripped his shoulder encouragingly. Ránë was searching amongst the load of stones she carried while Aragorn and Gandalf drew in the dirt, plotting their attack. They erased several and started again.
A sound caught their notice and changed every plan, for it was close. They crept away from each other, furtive as thieves. Legolas pulled his bow free. Aragorn’s knife was in hand. To his right, Ránë closed her fist about the double bladed knife she had found on the mountain.
It was Gandalf that ended the contest before it had begun, however. He threw a rock from his position so truly that it smote the creature on the temple and crushed its skull in.
There was a soft thud and Legolas blinked, then grinned roguishly back at the wizard. Gandalf looked a trifle embarrassed. Throwing stones was childish play and generally considered ignoble amongst Men. The wizard might as well have pulled hair.
And though Men sometimes hurled rocks amidst warfare, none would admit to such an act. Aragorn suspected the wizard had learned it from contests with the hobbits and he made a mental note to tease Gandalf at the first opportunity.
They reconnoitered quickly and both Aragorn and Gandalf went back to strategy. The Elves crept aside and listened to the wind, discerning the movement and strength of their quarry. The archer eventually held up eight fingers and came back to the two plotting in the dirt and marked their position. The hand signals flew, for the trio understood even the trifles of partially aborted gestures.
Ránë, however, looked perplexed. Aragorn scribbled in the dirt to explain their tactics until she understood.
Slowly and intrepidly, the four hunters crept along the parapet. They framed their quarry by sound and Aragorn caught the first sentry as he turned and stilled him before a single utterance. His blow was smooth and true. Legolas came in low and deadly upon the second sentry and the Orc had no breath to shout when the Elf cut through his lungs. A third fell with his neck broken; testament to the Elf’s ready strength. Ránë, flattened next to a column of rock, swung an arm forward and back. The double bladed knife pierced two standing together.
The wizard came in quiet as an apparition. And though he had oft said he was not fond of hand-to-hand combat, he was adept at surprise and his wiry strength served him well. He strolled openly into a pair and they gaped at the old man an instant too long. He silenced their tongues with a woven spell and slowed their limbs, then set their necks to the edge of Glamdring. The sword glowed as blue flame.
The wizard was grim and stern when his companions drew nigh. Aragorn took his shoulder with a grip, for he knew the Istari disliked killing in such a manner. It was like slaying sleeping children, he had once said, shuddering.
Legolas thought it a keen method against the Orcs and was disappointed to learn the wizard could only manage a handful in such a way, and only if they were within his grasp.
One was left, but so still that they stood for a long interval before discerning where he was. Aragorn slipped after their prey and caught him just as he discovered one of his downed companions. There was one startled cry that hung midair before the King silenced him with his knife.
The four froze, listening.
Nothing answered that last sound. All remained still and silent, the craggy rocks witness to the seeping of foul blood into the dirt. The King took a restful stance in the shadows and the wizard sat upon a boulder. The Elves climbed partway up the nearest strata of rock and hid their outline against the rough surface.
For a full moonturn, no one moved and no one spoke.
Then the archer turned his head, listening, and the tension of Ránë’s body changed. They both stared down across the ruined landscape and eventually, stealthily and slowly, Legolas leveled the Bow of the Galadhrim and a swift arrow sped into the abyss of darkness. There was a faint sound and then silence.
For another moonturn, they waited, but nothing more was seen and nothing more heard. The Elves drifted down from their perches, pleased. Gandalf no longer appeared troubled and Aragorn was glad for it. He wiped his knife clean upon the nearest dead Orc and retied the safety string.
Then Ránë did something unusual. She strode from Goblin to Goblin and took a blade from each and buried it into another. Aragorn deciphered her action after the fifth body had been so treated and he helped with the rest. Any sentries returning in the next few days would likely believe the quarrelsome creatures had argued amongst themselves and slew one another; an event not unheard of amongst the foul ilk of Mordor.
Legolas gave search for his arrow while Gandalf whispered the horses over the crest of the mountain. It was a quietly jubilant party that resumed their downward trek.
The descent remained onerous and the clouds came and scuttled the wan light of the moon. Aragorn was forced to go slower and slower and the wizard fared no better. The Elves fell back and flanked them, alert and observant. Twice Gandalf stumbled and shot a hand to catch Aragorn’s shoulder for stability. Once the King twisted his foot upon an unsteady rock and then the wizards grip was to halt his headlong plunge off the ledge they trod.
The Elves halted to let them rest and take a sip of water. It was the third hour and strength began to fail. Legolas produced two strips of meat and gave one to the wizard and one to the King.
Then Ránë made a swift motion with her hand that drew the archer’s glance straightaway. She pointed down the incline and far in the murky depths, a dark shape moved rock to rock erratically. It was large and shaggy and white spotted along the belly.
“Targ,” said Ránë softly. “Neck, below the mane.”
The archer stood to his bow in an instant. He sighted along the arrow with both eyes and held for a second, then the missile was away and a sharp high cry sounded down below their vantage. There was a crash and thud, the sound of rubble sliding. Legolas’ mouth was severe at the disturbance lifted into the silence.
All four waited, poised for discovery … but silence greeted them. Aragorn waited upon the leading of the Elves, relying upon their heightened senses to cover the limitations of his own. When the archer beckoned them onward, he followed completely trusting and alert.
Ránë led by only a few steps, searching for a way down a severe crevasse that appeared in their path. Softly, they followed, watching the darkness of the edge and their footing.
They had only traveled part of a moonturn when Ránë slowed. Legolas, trailing her, moved more guardedly, watching alertly ahead. Aragorn expected any moment for some band of foes to spring out upon them; he wiped the sweat out of his eyes once more.
Ránë held up a single finger and pointed far down the rugged landscape. Legolas frowned into the gloom and stood still as a pillar. There was silence in the depth of the craggy canyons and forsaken soil, but the archer pulled an arrow from his quiver and laid it upon the bow.
There was nothing to be seen by Aragorn, and even Gandalf’s vision revealed no threat. But the archer drew and held, pulling to an eyetooth as was his custom, all the tendons taut through his bow hand—then the arrow sprang away and vanished. Far, far below, there was a sudden roar and bellow, the sound of rocks tumbling and then nothing but the echo that bounced until it, too, was dead.
For a moment, the two Elves stood, watching.
Then Ránë turned her head and looked upon Legolas, her eyes thoughtful.
“You have a potent arm and a true aim,” she said solemnly.
He nodded just once.
Nothing more was said. The four hunters angled along the fissure until they negotiated a way down and by the time they arrived at the mouth of the severe gash, the sky was beginning to lighten.
Here they halted, for both the wizard and Man were unsteady and worn, their bodies rebelling against the long night of marching. They found a defendable position amidst inhospitable stones and Gandalf did not even remove his boots when he lay down.
“Sleep close,” he murmured. “Legolas’ attention will not be so divided.”
Aragorn crept to the side of the wizard and curled against his chest.
“A rock?” he whispered. “You threw a rock in a fight? Those mischievous hobbits have led you to dishonorable tactics, Gandalf.”
“Hobbits lead everyone into mischief if you abide long enough. Mischief and laziness…” he yawned widely, “…and too much ale.” He did not sound the least bit contrite.
“You have a good aim,” eventually added Aragorn. Sleep was tugging his mind away. He could hear the heartbeat of the wizard, slower than his own, a reminder of his otherworldliness.
“I can throw a rock.” There was a thin note of pride somewhere in his sleepy voice. He tucked the edge of his cloak around them both, sealing in body heat. Neither woke when the steeds eventually sauntered in.
The Elves let them sleep only until the dawn broke and both Aragorn and Gandalf woke readily. Even the short nap aided their disposition and strength and they rose to face the long miles ahead.
This offshoot finger of the Ephel Dúath had a gentler descent than the ridge they had climbed the previous day and as they descended from the wind scoured heights, small patches of green began to appear and they were heartened.
The first tree they came upon was short and sparse and Legolas knelt a moment to speak encouragingly. The wizard passed it without halting, but he stretched a hand to trail upon a branch and every leaf shivered in answer.
Aragorn’s thighs and calves burned. His neck was tender, both from stress and sleeping oddly upon rough terrain. The wizard accosted him with a whisper.
“What herbs are you carrying for aches?”
So the King relinquished his own stubbornness and gave a twig of Moorian to the wizard to chew and took one himself. Legolas nodded approval from his position on point.
The standing monoliths of rocks gradually disappeared. Small trees and shrubs became more numerous, then grasses, and then they passed a weigela in bloom. From there, the slope grew a variety of green things, though the Elves still regarded them sadly, as if hearing their woe of dwelling in the Black Lands.
Legolas found a small spring of water, no larger than a span of fingers and they refreshed their waterbags and patted their faces. The horses drew nigh and drank, one by one, though Ránë’s dark steed balked until everyone had moved away. For a sunturn, they rested and ate and then rose to continue the descent.
All day, they walked and when the Elves found a trail hospitable enough, they rode. Legolas led, for his ears were keenest and Ránë followed him at a short distance. Hitaur was sullen and snappish and she spoke a stern word at the petulance of the gelding. Ashra laid his ears back more than he looked ahead. Aragorn and Gandalf fell back to keep the steeds from quarreling.
By the close of day, when Aragorn and Gandalf were once more fading of strength, the four found themselves on the lee of the final ridge. All dismounted and the archer was quick to steady the wizard. The King wrapped his fingers in Talemon’s mane and thus kept his feet in the initial shock of dismount.
They looked out over a wide and seemingly fertile plain that stretched away. The Mountains of Shadow bound it on the right, but to the left hand, there seemed to be no limit to the expanse of grasses. Distant mist hung: the inland Sea of Núrnen basking beneath sunlight. From Gandalf’s map in the dirt, Aragorn knew there were myriad streams that fed the land on their way to the inland sea. Among them were four great rivers from each direction.
The smallest tendril of vigor entered their hearts and the mearas lifted their heads into the wind. The desolate memory of the Plateau of Gorgoroth faded before the lush valley of Núrn, but even here, there was unwholesomeness upon the air.
“We must abide the night upon the ridge,” said Aragorn softly. “There is shelter and enough grass to graze. Water must be found, for surely the greenery below is fed from a rivulet from here.”
“Agreed,” said Legolas. “We will camp here, where the trees are thick. I will search our perimeter.” He sped swiftly away, vigor undimmed.
“Where will you abide?” questioned Aragorn of Ránë.
“Below, at the final edge of the mountain. If any Orc stumble across me, you will hear my warning.”
“Will you not tarry with us?” asked Gandalf. He pulled a hand up and over his scalp and it made him untidier after the long miles. “You have kept our company day and night. Surely you realize our hands are not raised against you.”
The old wariness was back in her eyes, however, and Aragorn was unsurprised at her words.
“I will not shelter with you. Hitaur remains querulous and we must have calm.” She regarded him as if this should be obvious. “Speaking will not give us away, but one squeal of a horse will carry as a bright bird awing to listening ears.”
“And you must not use your rod,” reminded Aragorn. “The power will be discerned.”
Gandalf grunted an assent. He was unlacing his boots and tipped a small chip of rock from one.
“There you are, my unwelcome guest!” the wizard said.
“We would have halted for a rock in your shoe,” said Ránë.
“I struck a bargain with it,” returned Gandalf. “If it stayed clear of the ball of my foot and the heel well enough, it could have a ride to the green plains. I will carry it in a pocket and toss it aside when we reach the grasses.”
“You negotiated with a stone?”
“Did you not know?” said Aragorn. “Gandalf is an odd wizard; he will haggle with anything except evil.”
Ránë answered this with a rare smile.
“Will we follow the curve of the mountains or strike across the grassy plains,” asked the wizard. He aimed the question neither at Aragorn, nor Ránë.
“The mountain will hide us, yet cast echoes out upon the plain if we ride amongst the rocks and trees,” said Aragorn thoughtfully. “The plain affords little ground cover, but plenteous grasses to succor our steeds and a clear line of sight for the better part.”
“True,” agreed Ránë. “The plain also has roads that network across the open. The closest to us is called the Nurn road and it splits south to Thaur Road. Many convoys from the vassal nations east and south traveled here, bearing slaves and supplies to feed the furnaces of the Black Tower.” She glanced aside at the wizard, as if searching for his counsel. “I do not know if Khand and Rhûn remain active in the land, ferrying goods to those that remain. The roads may be abandoned … or not.”
“Old trade habits fail slowly,” muttered the White Wizard. “Though they despised Sauron, they took what he paid them, if anything, in return for him leaving their lands unmolested by his ilk.”
“Aulendil did not leave them unmolested; he routinely sent demon-spawn into the east to harass and take captives. It … amused him.”
The archer returned and in his left hand he carried a long straight shaft of wood.
“All is quiet upon the mountainside and naught but peaceful whispering amongst the trees. This flank of the mountain has not seen harm in a sevenday, or they would remember.” He held the rod out to the Elf. “I found a willing terebiuth tree and petitioned a shaft for a spear.”
“This is fine wood,” said Ránë as she took it. “What did you trade the tree?”
“A full skin of water and my thanks,” said Legolas. He turned attention to Aragorn. “There is a road six leagues away that follows the line of the mountain. Landscape berms of boulders have been thrown up along the pathway, some the size of small hills. They are odd and irregular.”
“They were put up to protect the caravans from the raiders that lurked upon this spur of mountains,” said she. “They were disloyal to Sauron and hunted fiercely by those true to his cause. There were not enough of them to warrant outright extermination, but enough to ambush passing convoys if they were in the open.”
“They will give us an advantage of cover from either the road or the mountain,” observed the wizard. “If we ride the roads, we can duck behind them if we are spotted or attacked.”
“So that is our path,” said Aragorn. “We will travel the road if it lies empty and hide around the berms if we have need. I do not trust the wind that idles upon the mountain, coasting sounds up and over the rim. We rest until morning light.”
Ránë regarded Legolas. “How long since you have sparred with staff or spear?”
“Long enough that you will bruise me,” he returned without embarrassment. “Mithrandir would be a worthy challenge; he carries a staff every day.”
“I must not touch the wizard,” she reminded him. “Nor will I spar with the Man and perhaps injure him. If you are unwilling…”
“I am not unwilling,” replied the archer. “Aragorn spoke the truth; your skill must be sharpened lest you be a burden to all of us.”
“Does it not occur to any of you,” Ránë said firmly, “that it is you who are the burden? I would be to the south river by this time and few Orc would stop Hitaur or hinder my passage. It was not I who sought aid from any of you.”
“The stubbornness of Elves is not to be underestimated,” said Gandalf. His eyes were humored and his tone full of longsuffering. “Whether you sought our aid or no, we ride for the common goal. Perhaps by the end, you will understand that you have need of us.”
The evening passed without trouble, though there was one ghostly twirl of wind that brought the sound of wood striking wood to their ears from where the Elves sparred. The volley and speed of the blows was astonishing and Aragorn shook his head when he heard it.
For two days, the four hunters kept a southeastern pace on horseback and saw nothing of alarm. The grasses were tall, for the ash blown from Mount Doom made the soil rich and fertile, and the steeds grazed mouthfuls as they could. The road was deserted as far as the eye could see, though at every bend, they left the path and traveled behind the rocky berm to conceal themselves.
Yet at every turn of the rough wagon trail, there was naught to see. No prints, no droppings, no discarded objects common to all trade routes. If anything, it made Aragorn more wary and cautious and the Elves’ alertness did not diminish.
Nightly, Ránë practiced with the throwing sling and the spear until on the third evening, Legolas came back to camp earlier than usual.
“She is ready,” he said. “I cannot get through her guard anymore and no Goblin will accomplish what an Elf cannot. Her aim with the sling is worthy, though only at one hundred paces or less.”
Aragorn removed his pipe enough to speak. “Will she need a bow? We have come across no likely trees to fashion one since leaving the brow of the mountains.”
The archer squatted to pour hot water into a cup. “She is not an Elf who commonly used a bow for fighting for most Elven women are not trained to wage open war.” He sipped the tea, contemplating. “In the dark days of Arda they fought side-by-side with the men, but we do not sent them into battle. We train them to be skilled in close combat for if the enclave of Elves is overrun, the women will fight to get the children out. Foolish are the troops who think an encampment of Elven women and children is an easy mark while the males are away.”
“That eases my mind even more at leaving Eldarion in Arwen’s keeping,” said Aragorn. His face reflected a passing longing.
“Your son is safer with Arwen than with you,” Legolas said, amused. “The Lady of Imladris was trained beyond the customary fighting skill of Elven women because of Elrond’s fear for her.” He sobered and said evenly, “Ránë does not use a bow to fight; she uses a spear and sling, a knife for hand work.”
Aragorn said nothing; it was the first time Legolas had used the Forsaken’s adoptive name.
“A Keeper of the Lance,” said Gandalf. He was reworking a lace on his cloak that had broken. “So such Elves are called, as was Gil-galad with his spear, Aiglos. There are spear dancers, archers, masters of sword, those who use slings and knives amongst the Eldar. There was one Elven male in Galadriel’s kingdom who wielded a whip with glass shards embedded in the thong. At fifteen paces, he could strip the armor off an Orc and on the second blow, eviscerate him. Yet his skill was so fine, he once was seen to snap an adder off the blanket of a sleeping child without even awakening the infant.”
“That is not a foe I would wish to face on a battlefield and be required to fight hand to hand,” said Aragorn thoughtfully.
“Nor I,” said Legolas.
“A shield and staff,” said Ránë. She stood amidst grasses that reached to her waist. “Against a whip when you have no arrows or knife to throw, a shield and staff is your only recourse.”
“And a strong arm,” added Gandalf. “The shield to take the first lash, the staff to entangle the thong, and a strong enough pull to keep the whip taut while you engage your adversary.”
“You have encountered someone armed with a whip,” said Aragorn to the wizard.
“Not in a fight. Being dragged into an abyss by one hardly constituted a fight,” replied Gandalf almost offhandedly. “Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor, and Elrond of Rivendell encountered one in the Siege of Barad-dûr.”
“Yauvved, the Scourge,” said Ránë. “Gil-galad took the lash upon a shield that glittered as stars and wrapped his glaive half-way to the point upon the thong of the whip. Yet it was not Gil-galad himself who slew Yauvved.”
“Elrond slew him with Hadhafang, for he was Gil-galad’s minstrel, counselor, and shield bearer,” said the White Wizard. “How did you come to know of this?”
“I was not there to witness the battle, but the story of how he fell was carried abroad. I was sent out of the land, to the east, and held in Hildorien.” She added somewhat dryly, “There were no tears shed for the Scourge of the Black Tower when news came that he had fallen. He was bred in the desert beyond Far Harad and brought in barbed shackles to Barad-dûr in his youth. Dark was his visage and cruel was his sport. He had been told that only one of the house he was birthed into would be permitted to live and serve Sauron—so Yauvved slew his sisters and brothers while they slept so that he might live. He was ten summers old.”
“There seems to be a long precedent for brothers killing their siblings for gain,” said Aragorn.
“Not just among Men,” added Gandalf. “The ilk of Ungoliant, the giant spider that destroyed the Two Trees of the Valar, also killed and fed upon each other at birth until only the strongest and most cunning survived the hatch.”
“A propitious thing,” pointed out the archer. “If they had not devoured their kin, the world would be filled with more spiders as foul as Shelob.”
“I hate the spiders,” said Ránë. No one asked for explanation.
Conversation failed for the night was upon them and the winds rose. Aragorn felt as if the shadows had eyes and every breeze drew a fine cobweb across his hair with it. Ránë vanished into the plain where she had left her sullen gelding and the three companions ate dried meat silently. It was a peaceful night, but Aragorn’s sense of eeriness lingered late.
Another day passed without event, but as the sun sank, Legolas caught an odor upon the wind that made him turn Ashra and circle. His companions halted, watching the surroundings warily, while the Elf searched for what elusive thing had alarmed him.
He shook his head to Aragorn’s questioning look, but the four hunters proceeded cautiously, mistrusting every grassy tuft. The road was deeply cut here, with shallow shoulders framed by straight stalks of wild fesque. If they stayed down in the trenches made by wagon wheels, they were hidden … but if they fled the road, they would be exposed to any watching eyes. The nearest defensible position was a rocky berm nearly a quarter of a league away, shimmering copper-brown in the slanting light.
Gandalf came abreast of the archer. “What did you perceive?” he asked without taking his gaze from the road ahead.
“A scent, but one I cannot place.” Legolas’ voice was mystified. “Sweet and dark. Something of nature, but not of nature.”
“Ñauro,” said the wizard. He shifted his grip upon the Great Staff restlessly. “And I cannot use my powers here and attract attention.”
“Werewolves,” said Legolas over his shoulder.
“Manwë, give us courage against our foes. Oromë, mighty Huntsman, give us skill and strength,” whispered Aragorn. “Násië.”
“Shifthounds,” said Ránë. “They travel in threes. Their anatomy is uncertain until they change to beast form. Nornoro, Hitaur!”
With the last shout, Ránë’s dark gelding lunged up the bank of the furrowed road and into the open.
So startling was her departure that the three companions stared an instant before sending their mounts out of cover after her. Nearly seventy yards away, moving fast, Hitaur galloped across the open and three mannish creatures sped after her, fluid as if they loped instead of ran. As they watched, the figures altered shape, twisting inhumanly through the spine and haunches, until they took on canine form. Gigantic and fearsome, they sped after the gelding more swiftly, gaining.
In a flash, the three alabaster horses were after their quarry. Legolas sat tall to swing the length of the bow and, despite uncertain turf and the madly bobbing horizon; he snapped an arrow after the nearest werewolf. It pitched and howled, rolling crazily.
Talemon swept past the downed creature and Aragorn glanced to see the fangs snapping at grasses as it died. He did not tarry, for Hitaur had not the speed of the creatures that fled like sour wind after him.
Ránë swung her hand and the crack of the sling was lost in the sound of horses hooves and snarls. The nearest creature tumbled, but regained its feet and sprang after them again. Her aim was not quite true, but Hitaur had gained enough distance to charge up the landscape berm. It was a tumble of rough boulders and dirt, fraught with deadly holes and crevasses that would snap a horse’s foreleg, yet the sullen gelding miraculously came to no harm. He spun at the apex, his ears flattened, and struck at the nearest werewolf with his forelegs.
“Legolas!” shouted Aragorn, though he knew he had no need. Of a surety, a second arrow had already darted ahead. It was gratifying to see the second shaggy beast jerk sidelong and thrash, fall off an embankment and land with a howl.
Then the white horsemen were amongst the lower structure of the berm and Gandalf shouted from his position as six more snarling creatures burst out amongst the rocks. Aragorn jerked loose his hunting knife and threw it overhand as a stone. The silver blade spun over twice and impaled its target through the sternum.
Ránë had taken cover behind her steed, for Hitaur stomped and snapped, spun as a warhorse to kick. The werewolves feinted and fell back, circled without avail, trying to get through the gelding’s guard. And for every one of the gelding’s spins and plunges, Ránë clung to one of his wide haunches as if held by a rope. Their teamwork was in full view and her companions took heart. The she-Elf bided her time, then brought her sling around and the snap was loud as a whip. A wavering cry hung momentarily and then sobbed away.
Two hoary fiends, both malignant and cunning, confronted Aragorn. They had not the sheer audacity of Were-cats or their agility, but they worked as a team against him and he quickly slid down from Talemon’s back to get within sword reach. The moonbeam stallion raged, chasing the adversaries a few yards and then returning dutifully to Aragorn’s side. The King found himself driven back and up the rocky berm, using the size and training of his steed to keep the werewolves at bay.
A fang tore through his leather breeches. He spun out of reach and came face to face with another overhead. Talemon reared just at his shoulder and Aragorn ducked beneath the belly of the stallion. The werewolf aborted its jump too late and tumbled from its vantage. Aragorn impaled it through the spine, keeping his hands well away from the frothing fangs that snapped at the blade. He twisted Andúril sidelong with a sickening pop and broke it free of the bones. The blood was black upon the steel and sickly sweet. His stomach roiled at the odor.
Legolas fought daringly, for he left Ashra’s side and struck out on his own. The knives were ribbons of white and the archer flowed over rocks, sprang sidelong up sheer faces and hurdled down others. Up and down seemed to have no meaning; he sprang off the vertical rocks as if they were the ground, launching himself into a completely new trajectory at full speed. He fought as inhumanly as all Elves, a mix of footwork and sweeping turns, bounding through the rough terrain as if gravity stretched in a bubble about him. The archer made his way around the entire lower part of the berm and the ferocious howls and snarls emanating along his course were terrible.
Ránë fought less fluidly, but just as deadly; the pivoting posture and alacrity of a spear dancer. She used it as a staff, for it would be foolish to throw it at a foe and then be unarmed. She struck those that dared to face her and the wood whistled as it cleaved air. Her backhand was just as vicious. Other blows cracked rock against rock, sending splintered ricochets into the werewolves. Once, she catapulted up and over a beast that struck cunningly from the rear. He blundered into Hitaur, who stomped and stomped until there was naught but blood and fur and bits of bone.
The wizard was not idle. He had neither the grace of the Elves, nor the bristling energy of Aragorn, but the staff struck with a blink even as he himself appeared not to move. Shadowfax faded back, feigning fear. But when two werewolves confronted the wizard, the Lord of Horses circled through boulders and came in behind them with a lunge. He snatched one up in his teeth and threw it headlong. When it staggered back to its feet, the White Wizard was there. The butt of the staff stove in the ribs and then crushed the throat almost as one motion.
It was a fast and terrifying battle, made more sinister by several more man-like creatures joining the fray. Their eyes were slate grey and had no pupils Aragorn could discern and the solid blow he struck did not fell the first one.
“They must shift!” shouted Gandalf from his position. His cloak had come unfastened and the wizard flung it off at the nearest beast.
It dodged, startled, its edges bleeding into a shorter shape and the wizard swept the heel of the rod beneath its feet. As it tumbled, it shifted completely into its true form, twisting midair as a cat and Gandalf killed it with a blow to the neck before it touched ground.
“How … do … you…” panted Aragorn, but then he turned and ran.
In a blink, the mannish figure confronting him transformed into fleet-footed hound form. Aragorn let it nearly catch him before he spun into it and the Great Sword hewed through fur and muscle and bone. Another leaped to savage him, but Aragorn threw himself to the ground and the Sword of Elendil spilled its belly as it passed. He rolled to avoid the foul contents.
It was over in minutes, but Aragorn’s heart pounded as if they had fought hours. His hand stung; some globule of matter clung to it and he wiped it off hurriedly in the grass. He retrieved his hunting knife where it sizzled and steamed in werewolf blood and wiped it clean as well.
Legolas stood atop the tumble of rough boulders with his bow in hand, surveying the landscape. Ránë was off to his right, putting the spear point through the eye of a wounded werewolf. Gandalf leaned upon his fouled staff, winded. His tunic was torn nearly off one shoulder, but his skin was unscratched.
Suddenly, Ránë made a quick movement and Aragorn caught it from the corner of his eye. He wheeled in time to see her heave the long spear with all her might directly at Legolas! He whirled in a flash, aghast; the archer was gone from his vantage point as if the lance had pierced him with such velocity that it flipped him from the boulder.
Every warning and prediction he had heard catapulted to the front of his mind. She is Forsaken! His hand flew to the hilt of the hunting blade, an oath to his lips—
“Hold!” shouted Gandalf the White. His hand was raised, every finger extended, trembling as he fought the instinct to use power to stay Aragorn’s hand. “Go and see!”
Aragorn raced up the rocky berm, slipping through rubble that turned beneath his feet and scrambling across boulders that pounded his knees. When he reached the archer’s last position, there was nothing to be seen but the rocks and trampled ground. Even Legolas’ body was absent.
“Legolas!”
“Down here,” said a muffled voice. A cough followed it and then the sound of dirt sliding.
Aragorn looked to his right and then peered down into a crevice between the enormous boulders. The darkness was so complete, he could not see anything … but another cough verified that his friend was down in the cranny.
“Legolas!” he called fiercely, overjoyed after alarm. “Give me your hand.”
“A moment,” replied the archer. “I must climb to reach you…” Dirt shuffled and slid. Grunts of effort escaped the cleft. A soft word of rebuke followed the sound of stones falling. “Stretch—”
Then Aragorn’s hand met the slender strength of Legolas’ and he drew him up through the torturous passageway. Legolas twisted and shinnied to fit through the gap and emerged scraped and untidy, with every fold of his tunic filled with dirt. The only brightness was his eyes, blinking in sudden sunlight. The tip of his bow was clenched in one hand and he drew it up carefully behind him.
“I thought she skewered you!” said Aragorn.
“She might have, had she not been certain to catch my gaze before she threw.” He waved a free hand off the north face of the rocks. “There is a were-beast spitted on her lance somewhere down there. We will have to seek it and kill it to retrieve her spear. It came quietly up behind me—too close for my bow and at the wrong angle for my knife to be effective.”
“Ahh, see?” said Gandalf, climbing to their position. He leaned upon the nearest boulder wearily. “I did not think her to be so foolish as to slay one of us.”
Ránë gazed quizzically at them. “If I wanted to kill you, I certainly would not attempt it now,” she said.
“Not now?” said Aragorn, amused. “Perhaps later?”
“After I reached my destination, of course,” she returned calmly.
“Of course,” said Gandalf.
“I would still start with the archer,” she said drolly.
“Naturally. I am the most dangerous.” Legolas was brushing dirt off his tunic and did not even look up. “Look for my other blade; I dropped it when I fell into the fissure.”
“Here,” said Aragorn, retrieving the white knife from the dirt. “We must get off this lookout, lest there be other foes afoot. The sound of our fight has carried on the wind.”
They scouted the area quickly. Gandalf found a werewolf impaled through the breastbone with a spear thrown with enough strength to pierce out the back. It scrabbled vainly at the ground, unable to get to its feet. The grass withered where the saliva of its fangs dripped. The wizard dispatched it and jerked the lance free. He rolled the wood shaft with his boot all the way down the hillock of grass to clean it.
“I doubted you,” said Aragorn to Ránë. “I am sorry for thinking ill of your intentions.”
“Mistrust those that have dwelled overmuch in darkness, for then you shall not be caught unawares,” she replied without malice.
“Trust those who abide consistently in the light, for they are practiced in fairness and justice and mercy,” he countered. “You took your steed out into the plain after the werewolves instead of waiting for a better place and time. Why did you not consult with us first?”
“There is no better time or place against shiftwolves. If you spend even a quarter sunturn deliberating how to survive an attack, they have their assault planned and nearly executed. They hunt in packs with intelligent leaders. Foul spirits inhabit them and give them unnatural speed and agility. The only way to survive is to not give them time to formulate their offensive.” She looked down at her black gelding. “Hitaur is spell-spawned; the poison in their mouths cannot slay him, nor can their bites overcome him. The shiftwolves saw only him, leaving the three of you free to engage them before they formulated a plan.”
“Come, we must ride,” said Legolas.
They did not return to the road; they struck across the landscape parallel to the rough wagon trail. A trot carried them miles from the scene of their fray with little effort on their horse’s part and Legolas found a likely place to conceal themselves for the night.
“She takes risks.” Aragorn spoke it in ink blackness. “This is the second time she has committed herself to an act without consulting us.”
“Thus far, she only risks herself,” said Legolas. “Be wary of the day she risks all our lives in the careless regard of her own.”
“We all take risks for a worthy cause,” said the wizard. He was only a spot of grey in the night. “Aragorn has left the secure safety of the White City. I have left the guidance of the Valar. Legolas rides with a Forsaken, though his heart bids him slay her or flee.”
“I am more secure with the White Wizard and the bow arm of Legolas than a legion of soldiers,” replied Aragorn. “And why do you say you have left the counsel of the Valar?”
The wizard did not answer for a moment. Aragorn nearly gave up hope of a response before he finally spoke.
“The task appointed me in Middle Earth is finished, yet I have pursued another course. And I did not ask the Holy Ones for counsel or permission before undertaking this…” his voice hesitated “…I did not want them to forbid it, for then I would be openly defying the command of the Valar. Without their approval, I do not petition for aid. I do not pray.” He moved in the night and Aragorn realized the wizard held his fingers over his face. He repeated himself, whispering, almost aghast. “I do not pray.”
“I still pray.”
Aragorn rose to his feet in darkness and lifted his face to the starlight.
“The name of Manwë Súlimo is ever to be praised, from His going out and His coming in.” His voice was strong, reciting from memory. “The whirlwind and storm obey His word. The stars and clouds are His footstool. His splendor encompasses the heavens and His scepter scatters sunlight. In His right hand, the judgment of the ages. In His left, the compassion of the world. He is a fortress in the day of trouble and knows the name of those who take refuge in Him. He is our King and our peace, He who does not retain anger forever and forgives the repentant heart. Though your words are dry dust, He hears them all. He redeems the souls of his servants for they are called by His name.” His tone deepened, became a warning. “Take heed, all you who love iniquity and hate justice, the High King of Arda does not forget. On the Day of Wrath, no Man will escape the reach of His mighty right hand.”
Then Legolas spoke, his voice gloriously clear, his right hand palm up.
“Elder King, be our vision, our hands, our feet, and we your foot soldiers. Where our path lies, there lead us. In our trials, be our vanguard. In our troubles, our comfort. In our death, gather our souls to the Hall of Mandos in kindness. In all things, go before us as our defender and shield, the living will of Eru Ilúvatar.”
At the last, Gandalf spoke, though it was just a whisper. “Not for our name or glory, but for you, Lord of the Breath of Arda. Násië.”
The archer drew near and groped for the wizard’s shoulder, followed it down to his hand. His fingers were hot even in the cold of the night.
“Though your spirit is uncertain and your prayers fail, ours will not,” said Legolas. “I will call upon the Powers of Arda with more diligence.”
“And he will not pray alone,” said Aragorn. “So it is in our band of four; we do not endure this course alone and neither shall you. As our trials have forged us, let us be one heart, one prayer, and one strength.”
7. Companions of The Lance
Dawn found the four hunters already a half league along the torturous caravan road. The horses cantered easily; all of them hardened to the endurance of this journey between meager hours of cropping grass. None of them were overweight, but the seven days had pared rider and steed down to muscle and bone and tendons.
Ashra was lean as a hound and seemingly swifter than before. His spirits were as light as his hooves and the archer found it difficult to keep his pace measured in the cool morning. They passed Shadowfax and turned fleet as wind to circle the wizard. The Lord of Horses shook his mane as if humored, but his rolling gait did not change. He could not be baited into a race. Gandalf flashed a smile; a rarity in their present circumstances and Legolas returned it.
The grasses were motionless along the roadway. The sun rose cheerily. The damp dew that kept the dust of the road down evaporated and Aragorn lifted a hand to bring every steed down from their rolling gait. The dust of their passage would be easily seen.
For three leagues, they rode without a word and then both Legolas and Ránë became more alert. All the horses lifted their muzzles into the air, searching.
“Water,” said the archer.
“The river Gurthrant,” said Aragorn, conjuring the name from Gandalf’s dirt-drawn map. “We must be more cautious now. These banks were once settled by the South Men and they will not greet us kindly.”
“The Haradrim,” said Gandalf. “Most fled back to their ancient territory when Barad-dûr was thrown down. Proud and warlike, they will not be easy opponents if any remain.”
They went on, though they spread out to form a longer target. Hitaur champed his bit and flapped his ears, annoyed at being in the rear in the dust. Ránë scolded him softly. Legolas took the lead by tacit agreement and he listened and looked as alertly as a hunting falcon.
The four halted when a dark treeline came in view. It meandered across the grassland in the serpentine manner of all rivers and the sound of water became unmistakably clear. The hint of coolness wafted to them upon the air. Every horse stirred, eager to drink from something more than a muddy rivulet dug by hands, but their riders held them back. Warily, they watched.
“Two at a time, Gandalf and Legolas,” ordered Aragorn. “One would be suspicious, traveling alone. Refresh yourselves and the waterskins, but do not linger. Pass beyond the river and wait for the others.” He shot a glance at Legolas. “If we do not come, search and evaluate before rushing in for a rescue. A great force of arms will only lead to death.”
The counsel of Aragorn was wise, but the archer scowled at the final command. He willingly went with the wizard and the river was a sweet rush of clear water. The archer waded out beside Ashra, filling his waterskin and scrubbing water quickly through his face and hair.
Gandalf was more restrained and stayed astride Shadowfax. The mearas went out to the deepest of the rushing water and so dusty was his long tail that it refused to become waterlogged and sink—it floated out behind him ingloriously. The wizard leaned to fill his waterskin and then cupped mouthfuls while Shadowfax slurped water.
Neither archer nor wizard stopped and by the time both horses were across, all were refreshed. Their clothes streamed. The far embankment was grassy and shaded. Legolas drew them into deep shadow and then left the wizard with both horses while he scouted about.
He was back within minutes.
“Men, armed in Mordor black. Downstream and hidden by the sound of riverwash. Can you warn Aragorn to wait, Mithrandir?” he hissed.
“The same riverwash will hide my voice from them even if I used magic,” returned Gandalf. “I would have to shout and that would alert our foes. Aragorn is watchful and wary; perhaps he has sensed or seen them. Give them time to slip past.”
They waited, wary and fearful.
Their friends did not appear.
“Lead us around the riders downwind,” whispered Gandalf. “If our companions are taken, we will hear. If not, we know they wait and we must conceal ourselves.”
“Wise wizard,” returned the archer.
He stealthily led through the copse of trees and short brush, weaving from sandy ground to sandy ground. Gandalf picked up a branch covered with wispy leaves and trailed it behind him, erasing their footprints. To a casual eye, the ground was undisturbed. To a trained woodsman like Aragorn, the telltale sign of someone’s passage would be unmistakable.
For nearly a half league, Legolas skirted around the river trees and then halted near a rocky embankment along a turn of the river. The water was noisy, but they grew used to the rumble of its voice and then even calling birds became clear against that backdrop.
They heard no shouts or cries, no sound of warfare or skirmish. Legolas was tension wrapped in skin, but the wizard was calm as any clear sky. Only the piercing look of his eyes belayed his fretfulness.
“How many?” whispered Gandalf.
“I did not halt to count. I came back to see if you could warn Aragorn,” replied he. “Perhaps five, maybe more.” He looked vexed. “I should have waited and counted, then we would know what size of force we are up against.”
“Wisdom would be to warn me and both of us be together. If you were taken, I wouldn’t even suspect until nearly a sunturn went by. I would think you were simply scouting as always.”
Legolas grumbled quietly, but nodded. He accepted the wizard’s placating hand upon his shoulder and took what comfort he could from it.
The White Wizard’s grip tightened. Words, rough and choppy and full of inflection, drifted to them and were caught against the rock wall. None of them were familiar or friendly … until one stern voice pierced through. The clear unmistakable voice of a woman.
“Ránë.” Legolas twitched beneath the wizard’s hand and if it were not for that sure grip, the intrepid archer might have leapt back into the river and swam it alone. “They have been taken.”
“Listen, for your ears are keener than mine.”
“…return with the summer planting and tilling. Did no one tell you? Count on a simple wag to fail—next time I will carve it upon his back and when he flees, you will see it…”
“She is unharmed,” whispered the archer. “She spins some tale that they laugh at.”
“Mixing lies,” answered the wizard. “Talking her way out of it.”
“…with a strong back. Look at his teeth if you don’t believe me. Does any Man of Far Harad or Rhûn have teeth such as these? And the straight shoulders, the posture despite submission beaten into him—he has been bred well and we have need of his ilk…”
“They have Aragorn,” said Legolas. The wizard’s bony fingers had surprising strength, strength now put into play as the archer made as if to shrug off his grip.
“Stay the course. Let her have time to put this in motion.”
“She takes risks! Risks that now involve the King of Gondor,” ground out the Elf.
“The King of Gondor was left behind somewhere near the edge of the plain. The Lord of the Dúnadain travels with us and he is neither foolish nor weak. He is coiled strength and cunning, even now discerning every means of escape,” countered Gandalf. “And not just means to escape, but a plan to execute every foe before he does so.”
Legolas relaxed fractionally. The grip of the wizard did not.
“…fine—kill him. But when Rudnouk demands to know where his seventeen silver nins went, I will have to tell them it was spilled at the riverbank by a bunch of trolluck brains. Think you will avoid his sword through your spine? Here … use his own blade. Maybe the wolfhound’s nose will prove false this time and convince the Masterslaver that you were not fools…”
The voices faded below the babble of water. Legolas watched anxiously for many moments before his hand seized the wizard’s cloak and urged him down. They crouched together in dappled shadows…
…and presently Hitaur appeared upriver and behind him, pulled along by a rope tied to his wrists, was Aragorn. His shirt was disheveled and his long hair hung in his eyes and he walked without his usual grace, pulled along dispiritedly. The black gelding waded the river and dragged him stumbling in boiling water across. At one point, Aragorn lost his footing and went under, but Ránë kicked her mount and yanked him with a gasp back to the top. They came ashore and headed straight through the line of trees.
“She suspects she is followed,” said Legolas. “Her posture is upright and taut—she’s watching without turning her head, straining for any sound.” He pointed parallel to her trajectory. “Stay low.”
They slunk away, following, and had to nearly run to cut across the land through trees and shrubs.
Gandalf did not whistle for Shadowfax, yet still the Great Stallion came. Ashra trotted quietly along with his Greatsire. Startlingly, Talemon came from the river streaming water and looking alertly about. The Sword of the King was wrapped in oiled cloth and fastened high on the saddle.
Through squat gorse and mittberries, stands of dogwoods and birches, the archer and wizard traveled hidden from sight. Legolas finally popped his head over a hillock and Gandalf crawled up beside him. Ránë had taken to the open ground and Aragorn trotted to keep up. The straightness of his spine belied the hang of his head; he was looking through the tangle of his hair, cataloguing the surroundings.
Thus, when a company of dark men came at a run from the trees, swords unsheathed, Aragorn was readily able to catch the double bladed knife that Ránë tossed to him. She came down from Hitaur with the spear in one hand, the sling in the other.
Oddly, she did not part the rope that bound Aragorn’s hands, nor did she sever his connection to her gelding. The steed’s tight turn to stay with his mistress forced Aragorn to turn with the horse, keeping the ten lengths of rope from tangling his feet. He could not spare the instant it took to cut himself free, for the Haradrim were upon them.
“From the rear,” said Gandalf to the archer. “Cut them down in a line—none must escape to give warning.”
But Legolas set his arrow at the Man in the lead and the wizard said something beneath his breath and nudged the archer’s elbow. The arrow missed.
“Do as I say!” hissed Gandalf. “Ránë protects Aragorn—you must kill the ones joining the ranks, not alert them that she has companions! They will veer off and escape!”
The archer was exasperated, but obedient. One swarthy swordsman after the next fell from the rear and the ones racing after the swirl of dark gelding and the she-Elf did not perceive.
Aragorn did not hesitate over the cord that bound him to Hitaur. Those outside his reach, he tripped with a curl of rope, flipping it into their feet. One was caught about the neck and the Ranger heaved against the gelding’s weight and strangled him. The sullen steed snapped and plunged at Men caught between them, but readily charged at Aragorn as well.
Ránë used the sling at twenty paces, the spear as a staff when the Haradrim moved in closer. She pivoted with Hitaur, watching Aragorn with the turn of her head and sharply calling in the gelding when he savaged whom she was trying to protect. By the time Legolas had brought down eight Men in a line, there were only four left.
Aragorn pitched sand at two and Ránë clouted the nearest on the back of the neck hard enough to drop him. The second took the butt of the spear through a cheek and screamed horribly. Aragorn found his rope caught by another adversary, but instead of fighting the pull, he lunged towards the swordsman and hit him midline with a shoulder before he recovered from the surprise. Before Aragorn could regain his feet, Ránë bowled him headlong as she went over the top of him with the spear and spitted the fourth. He came up spitting dirt and found the fight ended.
The archer was coming down the hill at a run, bow in one hand, knife in the other. The White Wizard stood at the crest and leaned on his staff.
Legolas was angry and relieved at the same instant, glaring at Ránë while cutting Aragorn’s hands free. She was unaware of his ire, working amongst their downed foes with the point of a spear to kill the wounded.
Aragorn caught Legolas’ shoulder with one hand. All of his knuckles bled and there was a mark on his wrist from the rope.
“It was the only way,” he said. “There were too many to fight and if we fled, they would sound the alarm. She knew they’d let us go initially, but then confer and likely change their decision…such is the way of loose raiders. She hoped to bluff her way to your side of the river, counting on your aid. ”
“We would have come back for you had they taken you!”
“At the worst, you would be too late. At best, you would come upon them with both of us tied securely and unable to help or protect ourselves.” Aragorn jerked him, hard, to focus his rage. “The first order when carrying captives is to kill them quickly if ambushed! No choice was to our liking.”
The wizard had made his way down the ragged terrain. Ránë was kicking dirt in the face of the slain, hiding the shine of dead eyes from the carrion birds.
“She risks you now,” said the archer.
“I was willing!”
“Argue the merit later,” said Ránë crossly. She tossed Aragorn’s hunting blade back to him. “We must flee this scene without a trail and for such, I am no aid.”
Aragorn straightened and studied the terrain. The archer ceased his protests.
“Gandalf, collect every arrow and use a sword on each body. Turn them to face the river and besmirch their tracks.” He turned to Legolas and Ránë. “Return to the water and see if any more patrol the shores—bring word quickly.”
So the four hunters dispersed to tasks. The wizard wandered the far grasses and finally found the single arrow that had gone astray. Aragorn was humored by his companion’s persistence in locating it.
“I caused him to loose this arrow poorly from the bow. You know how irritable he becomes at losing one to carelessness!”
“I remember well,” chuckled Aragorn. “Tell Shadowfax to bring the steeds to the west and meet us in the grassy plain.”
The Elves returned at a trot.
“Nothing at the riverbank,” said the archer. “We ran each direction to be sure.”
“Ránë, send Hitaur out in the plain. You can call him in later,” said Aragorn.
But the contrary gelding would not be warned off from his mistress. If anything, he became more sullen and unruly with her words; when she shoved him away, he bit her upon the upper arm hard enough to leave marks.
“Let him alone,” said Gandalf. “Did you not tell us he was bound by magic to you?” He glanced at Aragorn. “He will not abandon her, especially now after a fight.”
“He was just as keen to stomp me as our foes,” said Aragorn.
“I expected you to be able to dodge a single horse,” said Ránë. “I did not know if our companions had recovered us—how could I defend you if you got out of my reach?”
“I would have stayed within your reach,” returned Aragorn.
She looked him up and down, humored. “I have heard how well Men remain close so a female can defend them.”
Even Gandalf chuckled at this, but Aragorn merely smiled and tilted his head sidelong. His voice was very serious.
“You are an Elf. All Elves can outfight Men—something I learned long ago in my youth. And when I chance to forget it, Legolas is quick to remind me.” He looked at the terrain and put a hand upon the archer’s shoulder. “We go back to the river. Lead us, my friend, for your ears are keenest. Each of us step in his tracks and I will brush them out behind me. Let us hope they see Hitaur’s tracks as just a loose steed after water!”
Neither wizard nor archer seemed surprised by this tactic. Ránë puzzled silently and had to stretch her stride to match that of the archer. Legolas skirted the muddy bank and chose a rocky one, where they leaped one after the other on boulders the size of a horse down to the water.
“Up or down?” called Legolas over the rushing water.
“Up. We shall forfeit some miles, but gain time to shake our pursuit,” returned Aragorn.
“Drink,” said Ránë. “I drew you across too quickly to slake your thirst. I needed to get us to open ground before they came for us.”
Aragorn grinned through sweat and grime, the spots of blood that dried upon his face.
“I guessed your purpose. I took a few mouthfuls when I fell in the river.”
“Smart slave.” She smiled fleetingly. “A fight was nigh and you perceived without me having to tell you.”
The four waded upstream and kept to the rocky places where the water churned. Hitaur walked midriver as well, his head bumping into Ránë’s back at times. Aragorn cupped water to drink as he walked and watched behind them. What little silt was kicked up by their passage settled quickly.
For a whole sunturn, they trod the river and Aragorn was humored by how Elves could bathe themselves clean while walking at the same time. The wizard took off his cloak to keep it from getting waterlogged and used his staff for balance in water boiling about his knees.
The only moment of fright came when something moved against the trees ahead of them. Legolas, leading, alertly saw it and the bow was up with a snap. The Haradrim that lurked beside the river staggered out with the arrow buried midchest. His own arrow went awry and fell to the river harmlessly.
But a second man was overhead amidst green boughs and the archer had taken a step into a whirl of river that turned rocks beneath his feet. It was Ránë who spotted the second and she jerked one of the archer’s white knives from the scabbard before her and threw it. It flipped twice on the way and she lunged sidelong to escape the bolt sent after her. The arrow struck the rocks with a dull sound, but he fell from his perch with a high cry of pain. By then, the archer had regained his surefootedness and his next arrow struck true.
All four companions bolted out of the river for cover. Hitaur plunged out and shook on the bank like a great dog, then fell to nipping at greenery undisturbed. His nonchalance eventually drew the four hunters back together and they stood over the two downed men a moment.
“Had we run farther in our search, we would have spotted them,” said Ránë.
“Not if they were sitting still as these apparently were. They were napping,” said Gandalf. He poked about in the remains of a meal with the end of his staff.
“Their swords bear the same emblem as those who waylaid us,” said Legolas. “They waited for their companions downriver.”
“Put their bodies to the sword and pummel the mark of those arrows with rocks until the tissue crushes,” commanded Aragorn. “Dump them in the river and let them float downstream.”
“Every corpse we have left deceives the eye,” said Ránë. “You have seen interesting battles.”
“Yes,” replied he. “We are ashore by fate; call in the stallions.”
They rode quickly without benefit of any road for the remainder of the day and left the river behind. The treachery they had encountered made all four wary and Legolas rode with an arrow on the string, but twilight came with no more troubles and Aragorn heaved a grateful sigh when they scouted a safe place to tarry the night.
“She takes risks,” said the archer pointedly after Ránë had drawn herself away for the night. “Today she risked the King of the Reunited Kingdom.”
“She takes risks, as I myself have said,” agreed Aragorn quietly. “There were few options, so quickly did the Southrons come upon us today. I will not deceive you; she would have taken me prisoner without permission had I not understood the predicament and consented to her lie.” He eyed the White Wizard. “She does not lack for decisiveness or boldness.”
“No. She does not,” replied Gandalf. His tone was even. “Neither does the Ranger, nor the archer.”
“And a wizard when needed,” said Aragorn, humored. “Are we not a band of headstrong individuals? Yet, we must be discerning and wise and bend our wills to whichever amongst us has the right of a matter. To my insight in tracking, the archer and myself in skirmishes, Gandalf in sorcery, and Ránë in her knowledge of the Black Lands.”
Then he grew serious. “We each have skill and strength, but she strikes out on her own without discussion, let alone consent by the whole. Somehow, a way must be found to rein her in, be it threats of abandonment or intimidation from the wizard.”
“You will have me menace her when I have patiently worked toward her trust these many days?” grumbled Gandalf. Even his beard bristled. “Another way must be found, for I am unwilling.”
Silence for a moment. The aroma of stew began to waft as it cooked.
“She is not obedient to any leader when danger is nigh; not to me and not to the wizard and not to you, Legolas, though you are both Elves,” said Aragorn. He stirred the tiny fire into more life. “She follows direction in every other moment except then. Would that she was more biddable, for I would be less apprehensive when a fight is upon us.”
Legolas looked thoughtfully off into the distance.
“What is it?” questioned the wizard.
“Take no alarm,” replied the archer, rising to his feet. “Nothing is amiss.”
He strode nearly out of their sight in the tall grasses and when he eventually returned, Ránë was only moments behind them. She came easily to the firelight and Aragorn remembered how watchfully wary she had been at the start of their journey. The friction between them had softened.
It was Legolas who first spoke and his voice was placidly calm.
“You laid hands upon one of my white knives this day.”
“I did,” she returned. “You would have been only seconds late, but those seconds counted. He was stealthy, that one. Hiding in trees.”
“You did not have permission to touch my weapons,” said the archer.
All easiness vanished from her countenance.
“You cannot deny the need of using your knife. The one I carry is not weighty enough for such a throw. My spear is too heavy for such distance and my sling would take too long. Your bow would suffice, but I am unfamiliar with a bow—speed and accuracy were needed.” Her words were as measured as her scrutiny of his face. “I drew your knife without your permission, but it was necessary.”
“Still,” he said calmly, “you used it without approval. An Elf’s personal weapons may not be touched by another Elf without consent. It is tantamount to a slap amongst Men or seizing Mithrandir’s staff out of curiosity.”
“You will let your pride be insulted?” she demanded lowly. “You, who show your love for this Man in every act of protectorship? And your high regard with the steady service to this Maia? You are a double-minded Elf!”
Legolas said nothing. Aragorn and Gandalf wisely held their tongues, for it was obvious that the archer had pulled some lever. They waited and watched without moving, intrigued by the conversation unfolding.
Ránë neither physically retreated, nor became aggressive in demeanor. She stood still, scowling, studying Legolas’ placid features. Firelight made her shadow tremble amongst the grasses.
“Do you deny that you seized my weapon without consent?” he asked quietly.
“I do not.”
Her tone calmed with his; she watched his lax posture, the weight he had shifted off one foot. The archer was clearly nonthreatening despite the words that provoked and she studied the conflict of the two.
She seemed to reach some inner conclusion and said calmly, “Name your demand and I will pay.”
“No ransom do I demand for your insult,” he said. “But I will have you swear an Oath.”
Wariness roused through her stance, the set of her jaws. The archer was placid and docile, as if dozing on his feet. Only his eyes remained alert, fastened upon her face.
“I swear no Oaths,” she replied. “I have not sworn an Oath for two thousand winters. Do not expect me to bow to your will in this matter.”
“But that is my demand,” he said somewhat sternly. “I will not take any of your weapons, nor seize the life of your steed though he is ill spawned and deserving of death. I will not demand some task of you. You will swear an Oath with me to make amends for your act.”
“I am Forsaken!” she said harshly. “You must not swear any Oaths with me.”
“This one,” he said blandly, “will be fit to swear together and it will not bring either of us to harm, nor hold you captive. And you must grant this lest you cast down the structure of honor between Elves that has held us since the Awakening beneath the stars. Or have you forgotten the ways of Elves?”
She was very still, very silent.
“I have not forgotten,” she said slowly, warily. “What Oath do you demand of me?”
“The Companions of the Lance swore a warrior’s Oath to one another. Do you know of it?”
“Women do not swear such an Oath.” She regarded him sternly. “I do not understand why you, a male, would want to swear such a thing with a female anyway—the males only swore such things between themselves.” She lifted her chin almost insultingly. “It was a great show of brotherhood and unity for them; words and ceremony and pride. All that we women did was fight and die to protect our children. We did not couch our bravery in lofty speeches. Duty did not depend on such.”
Legolas smiled and his blue eyes glinted; he refused the bait of irritation. Her scowl deepened. She shifted her weight to another foot, leaned upon the shaft of the long spear.
“You will swear it with me, for that is what I ask,” he replied quietly. “This is the only demand I place on you. I will say the words and you only need swear to them.”
He waited. She frowned and shifted her feet, studied his composed stance and the firmness of his conviction. It was many minutes before she finally nodded assent.
Legolas took the Bow of the Galadhrim and stood it between them, then he reached and wrapped his fingers around the haft of the spear she held.
“Put your hand on the bow.”
“Not if it will cost me another Oath,” she said dourly.
“It will not.” His voice was humored, if a bit stern. When her fingers wrapped the apex of the carved wood, he spoke in a solemn voice neither fast nor slow. “Earth, fire, wind and water. Bone, iron, and wood. My fight shall be your fight and your battle shall be mine. Where you go, I will follow and where I halt, there you shall halt. I will see along your line of sight; you will test the winds in my face. When the battle finds me, I will find you at my back. Though the road leads to death, until the end is reached, there we shall travel together. And if the Powers lead us back to life and living, then our oath lies fulfilled and we shall be free.” He looked at her, saw her back straighten. “Do you so swear?”
“I swear by earth, fire, wind and wood. Bone, iron and wood. Dark be the pit, hot is the furnace, sharp are the blades, but through all of them, I will be true to the cause for which you fight and you to mine. If I fail, the silver moon and black steel by my judge and executioner.”
Legolas released the spear and she let go of the bow as if it burned. They never touched each other. But as she turned away, the archer spoke.
“Bring Hitaur as close as he will come to our encampment and silence him. Tether him if you must, swat him if you must, but bring him. We will speak to our horses and they will submit to his presence,” he said calmly. “You will sleep at the fire tonight, for that is where I abide.” He looked at her and his shadow fell between them. “Where I linger, you shall linger.”
Ránë looked as if she would give argument, but eventually she nodded and strode away.
Legolas turned and looked at Aragorn.
“Now she is biddable, for I am biddable to you and she is bound to my path—but do not bid me too much, Aragorn, or she will discover the trickery I have laid upon her to make her biddable to you.”
Aragorn stared a moment, amazed. Gandalf began chuckling from his position at the fire, but never let it become a riot of laughing. He hid his eyes behind his hand, scrubbed at his brushy eyebrows and forehead to get composure.
“I would never ask you to swear such a thing,” eventually said Aragorn, taken aback. “Not with a Forsaken, whom you fear and hate.”
“I know you would not ask,” he answered. “I can lay aside my fear and hatred, for having her biddable when facing a fight is a wise choice. And Mithrandir has proclaimed over and over again that the curse laid upon her is not designed to snare me or you.”
The archer looked upon his friend and King. His voice was honest, forthright.
“She gambled with your life today, but I bore witness to the effort she put into keeping you safe. She fought to protect you with her life, the same as I would have … though I would not have risked you to begin with.”
“I knew better than to let him come to harm,” said Ránë. She loomed quietly up out of the darkness with the same stealthy ability of Elves that Legolas had. “Even the wizard would not have been able to keep you from slaying me had Aragorn fallen in the battle.”
“No, he would not have. I would have fired an arrow in you from a hundred yards away.”
“And died at the hands of the Haradrim,” rebuked Aragorn.
“Yes. But you would be dead.” He shrugged as if that was an answer in itself.
“Have you forgotten the quest? And Gandalf the White, who petitioned us for aid?” demanded Aragorn. And then, the deepest stroke of all, “Have you forgotten my Beloved, who cares for you?”
“Would I return and face her knowing I had failed you? That I had left you in the hands of a Forsaken One and you died because of it? Would I watch her linger and succumb to grief, knowing the blame was mine?”
“Enough,” interjected the wizard gruffly. “Enough tangling about with ‘the might have been’ for this day.” He tapped out his pipe and poked a twig in the stew while emotions cooled. “Where is Hitaur, Ránë?”
“To my right. I scolded him and pinched his nostrils. He will be silent.”
“I will speak to our steeds,” said Legolas.
“No need of that,” said Gandalf. “I have spoken to them every day. They knew this hour would come and what I expected of them.” He looked up, amused. “The ire of the White Wizard intimidates even stallions as sturdy as the mearas.”
Now it was his turn to be scowled at by Ránë.
“The Maia are ever at their plotting,” she said dourly.
He gave her an inscrutable smile and ladled out a dipper of stew.
“Will you sleep or have something to eat?” he said. “And pray do not be stubborn about it.”
“I will not be stubborn.” Her voice was quiet, almost resigned. “I do not hunger. I am only tired … I will sleep. Wake me when it is my turn at watch and I will serve.”
She chose a spot near the tall grasses and curled into a blanket without preamble. The companions at the fire were silent. Gandalf handed the tin to Aragorn and then dipped another one.
“You need not be quiet,” said the White Wizard. “She will not hear you.”
“She is asleep,” Legolas said, wondering.
“Already?” softly said Aragorn. “She just laid down.” He looked upon the wizard, passing a hot tin hand to hand and blowing upon it. “She is weary indeed and you know something of this.”
“The stubbornness of Elves is not to be underestimated,” he replied. “She has been on her own during these nights we have traveled; always watchful, always alert, always the sentinel. I doubt she slept a single night through.” He looked at each of them in turn, his face stern but kindly. “It has taken these many days to wear down her suspicious nature to the point someone could bring her to this fire without arousing a fight. Exhaustion and the relenting of Legolas’ obstinate wrath has brought her where no hand could lead her—not yours and certainly not mine.”
“I have not forgotten she is Forsaken,” said the archer critically. “I will still watch her, still mistrust her intentions. I will not deliver either of you into her care and keeping.”
“Tut-tut,” said the wizard. “You just swore an Oath.”
“I did.” His voice was amused. “What better way to ensure your safety than to keep her within arm’s length of me? The best weapon against an Elf is another Elf!”
Aragorn sighed, but the wizard smiled his secretive smile.
“She must sleep this night through,” said Aragorn. “We will keep the watch as usual between us three.”
So they set guard over their encampment as always and did not wake her. Legolas spent his hours standing between his friends and the she-Elf, contemplating. Aragorn paced quietly and recited the old prayers in his mind. But the wizard stood next to Ránë, whom he dared not touch, and watched her face transformed by sleep.
Save for quarrelsome words at dawn over not waking Ránë for her turn at the watch, the morning was as every other.
They ate flat bread and dried meat and washed everything down with tea. Ránë was uncertain where to stand or sit amongst their amiable trio and kept herself a bit aside, but in other camp matters she was apt. They shook out and recoiled their ropes. Examined every weapon. Checked over their horses and picked up every hoof to inspect the tender frog.
Aragorn took his hunting knife and worked a stubborn whirl of burrs from the long fetlock of Talemon’s right front hoof and the stallion nudged and pestered him the entire time. They watched Ránë stand with the black gelding and speak softly and at length to him, all the while finger-combing his untidy forelock. Gandalf brushed and brushed Shadowfax’s long back with heavy strokes.
“He sweats where I sit and it makes him itch,” explained the wizard. “It is his only complaint at bearing me; I wear too many clothes. If he had his say in the matter, I would be riding naked!”
“Not a pleasant thing,” said Aragorn. “I did that once on a dare in my youth. An experience not easily forgotten.”
“The Edain are not always remembered for their wisdom,” said Legolas with a chuckle. “Though I must admit to an encounter with a roapod plant I was teasing when I was ten and they had to shave my hair down to the scalp to get the residue off me.”
“Nasty, those,” said Gandalf. He looked over his shoulder with a laugh. “No hair? You must have been all ears at that age!”
“I was all ears! My friends teased with vigor and I had many friends.”
Aragorn quit shearing Talemon’s fetlock until he was more composed.
Ránë said nothing to their humor.
“She needs more time,” said the wizard softly to Aragorn while they rode. “Companionship that does not harbor pain or betrayal is foreign to her.”
The grasses were chest high to the horses and the green-tan of the growth stretched away. The full seed heads drooped. Now and then a tree grew in the expanse of grass. Once Legolas pointed and a small deer-like animal ran out of sight. Behind, more slowly, all the grass stalks trembled as something passed through.
“Fawn,” said Aragorn. “Maybe two. What kind of deer is that, Ránë?”
“Not a deer,” she answered. She rode a stone’s throw away, but Hitaur’s ears were laid back more than pricked forward. “The red roe has been slaughtered to the last. That is one of the wild grassland goats. The rams are bigger and worth hunting, but the ewes are small and lean and hide well.”
“Are they kept by herdsmen?” asked Gandalf. Shadowfax eyed the black gelding mistrustfully, but did not quarrel.
“Only if he has wolfhounds, for the goats are unruly and will not stay herded placidly.” She shrugged. “The wolfhounds were just as likely to eat the goats as herd them, something the Slavemasters discovered when they brought the big breed down from Barad-dûr.”
“Do they not have dogs to mind the flocks?” asked Aragorn. “The herdsmen of Minas Tirith use dogs as well as great pack beasts from the far west; the animals think the sheep are their kin and protect them as fiercely as the shepherd does!”
“We used to have dogs, but when the overseer decided they wanted the hounds bred by the Dark Lord instead, the wolfhounds savaged and killed all the dogs. Now there are no dogs throughout Nurn except for pets in the fortress cities and they must be guarded from the wolfhounds.”
Silence for a time.
“There was no barking to wake you in the night,” observed Aragorn.
Ránë smiled at this and said, “There are still many roosters and most cannot tell night from day.”
“Tell us of the slaves,” asked Legolas. “What should we expect since we are riding towards the farms where they are kept.”
She did not turn her head, but her words were clear.
“The farms do not keep them, they keep the farms. Various Houses control the rivers and each has crops and land that must be cultivated and harvested. The food was sent forward to the Black Tower to feed Aulendil’s minions. A portion was left to keep the House. Whichever House had the greatest crop was the favored one that year, so they were constantly competing.
“Whomever had the most slaves could work the most land. Women were in childbed twice a year and only the strongest men were allowed to breed. Small men were slain or worked to death in the iron pits. Children as young as four worked the fields, for if the House they served won, then their rations would be larger.” Her expression was severe. “If they did not, the lash became hungry and the culling would begin. Theirs was a hard life.”
“You were not part of this?” asked Gandalf.
“No. I am from the House of Maglor. We were kept apart.” She looked at him as if this were obvious. “No lash was laid to us and no torture befell us. While other Elves were mated vilely to the Uruk, we were never subjected to his breeding experiments. Only Sauron was permitted to harm us.”
“So … you were cared for in this place?”
“We cared for ourselves.” She turned again, her expression less open. “Why do you ask me of this?”
“You were kept on the slave-farms, yet you were not treated the same as the slaves. I thought you were treated the same; the whip, the injustices, the irons.” He spoke patiently and the Lord of Horses swiveled his ears, listening. “What did you do here?”
“Lived. Breathed in clean air. Learned the taste of food again. Tilled the land, planted, harvested.” Her voice was clipped. “We sang, but did not dance. Dancing was not in our hearts. After months in the Dark Tower, our souls dying steadily in shadows and horrors, this was the only place that saved us. And we came here and relearned to live so we could face the terror of Sauron and dance to his cruel tunes when it came our turn.”
“I see,” said Gandalf.
“Too little do you see, wizard.” Her eyes were angry in an otherwise tranquil face. “Did you think we played the fife and harp, danced and sported in sunlight? Those that had been subverted by Sauron learned in agony the choice they had made. Those who came willingly still endured the weight of his hand, for Elven pride and beauty angered him. Whether freely or in thrall, every Elf suffered their turn at his feet. And whether we longed for freedom or longed for death, we stayed to be his puppets.”
“So he would not take more Elves,” said Aragorn soothingly. “If he had a few as pets, he ceased trying to take every Elf prisoner. This you spoke several day ago.”
Her ire faltered as if the wind gave out.
“We planned no uprising and we plotted no rebellion.” She looked at Aragorn. “There was a Songmaster in our midst and the magic of Arda obeyed his will. No one from the House of Maglor or any other Firstborn could flee in secret and not be found. Only one ever attempted such an act and Sauron had the song of his soul removed note by note over the course of four winters. He screamed night and day until a surgeon from Khand took his voice out—then he screamed without a sound until enough notes were silenced that he died.”
“Stop,” said Gandalf and he pulled Shadowfax aside as if by invisible reins. “Stop a moment.”
So powerfully did the White Wizard command the mearas that the stallion drew alongside Hitaur. The proximity turned the dark gelding and he laid his ears back and bared his teeth.
“You will not!” said the wizard, lifting a finger warningly. “Be still!”
And Hitaur turned his head and did not bite at Shadowfax, neither did the Lord of Horses balk or squeal at the spell-spawned gelding. Ránë looked across the dark mane of her steed surprised.
“What you reveal is an evil too terrible to comprehend; to have a soul unwoven by the removal of the Ainulindalë that made them is a fate reserved for the foulest and the darkest.” His voice was deep and potent, filled with rage. “Only those who first sang the Great Music, the Ainur themselves, have the right to use it for such a purpose—and only Manwë Súlimo, He who inhabits the will of the All High, would dare to strip the fëa from a living being in such a manner!”
He halted and drew a shuddering breath. The potency of his voice tamed, but a thread of tremendous emotion took its place.
“Did Sauron have no understanding of what he did? When he unwound the melody and magic from that Elf, he ceased to exist. Not simply died—he ceased as if he had never been created, never born. Never sang or smiled or loved or hurt. His place in the world is empty—as if he never was—and even the Father of All cannot remake him! He is lost! Lost forever!”
Shadowfax turned so swiftly that Talemon jerked his head aside to avoid a collision and Aragorn realized the mearas wheeled to keep Gandalf astride. The archer came off Ashra like fluid and seized the great cape of the wizard at nearly the same instant that Aragorn leaned and caught a shoulder from the other side.
“I have him,” said Legolas, and Aragorn let the Istari slide down into the archer’s strength of arm.
“I am sick,” whispered the wizard, heartbroken. “I am sick. Put me down. I cannot go further.”
“A moment, Mithrandir,” said the archer. “Rest here a moment.”
Ránë dismounted and came to where they placed him and she stood so her shadow blocked the midmorning sun out of Gandalf’s eyes. She looked down at him, thoughtful and troubled. Aragorn gave him water, patted his face and hands with a cupful and held his brow against his own. The wizard gasped as if some blow had fallen.
“A terrible thing,” murmured Aragorn softly. He dug his fingers into the wizard’s hair until he reached the heat of his skin. “Steady yourself, old friend.”
“There are no words, in any language…” Gandalf fell silent. The water Aragorn had washed upon his face hid all tears. “My heart is taken ill.”
“I know … I know…”
“You love the Elves,” said Ránë slowly. “That one would be unmade has devastated you.” She pondered her own sentence.
“Mithrandir has always loved the Elves,” said Legolas irritably. “From the Awakening, he walked in our dreams, making them sweet and hopeful. You judge him without knowing him.”
“And you judge without knowing me,” she rebuked. “Do not mock my slow understanding. I have been in darkness.”
“Then come to the light, for it is here,” said Aragorn. He looked up at Legolas. “And you—be free with wisdom but selfish with chiding!”
“Gorthaur, the Sindar called him in the First Age,” whispered the White Wizard. “The terrible dread. He was more terrible than I understood.” He looked up at Aragorn, blinking. “I can go on now. Let us turn from these grievous things, for my soul is downcast and cannot look up.”
They went on and nothing was said for many leagues. The wizard rode ably enough, but his face was still as the dead.
Then Ránë spoke clearly enough for Legolas to hear.
“The captives who work the farms are scattered along the rivers throughout Nurn, especially along Culdiun and Sirlith, closest to Khand and Rhûn. There are slavers in the grass plains, but the rivers are the fastest way to move goods and only nomads live out on the open land, at the mercy of raids by other Houses. The slaves wear bright garments so they are easily seen: reds and greens with tinkling bells and bright ankle bands. The overlords wear softer colors in case of marauders and to escape the notice of Sauron’s Uruks, who are wont to take whomever strikes their mood into slavery.
“The outpost of Caran, near the Khand road through the southern boundary of mountains, is the first destination of those brought captive into Mordor. Here, they are sorted and tested and parceled out; those unlucky ones who went directly to the Plain of Gorgoroth beneath the whip of the Uruk and the lucky who remained in the valley. The largest conclave of slaves lies in Thaurband, the iron fortress by the sea. Here, the slaves notorious for being spirited or rebellious are held until they are broken or dead.”
She turned enough to look at the archer, riding the length of a wagon away from her.
“You asked of the slaves, so I will tell you. Those in bondage on the farms have little spirit and even less rebellion, the men big and stupid and the women docile. The children are taught the way of the slave early so they are not killed or sent to be ‘retrained’ in Thaurband. Even if the master is away, they continue their duties in fear of retribution when he returns. They know nothing else.” She shot a glance at Aragorn. “Their most terrifying thought is to be without a master to guide them or tell them what to do, for if any of them slack their labor, the whole is punished severely.”
“Men do not live easily this way. Are their wills subverted by magic?” asked Aragorn.
“No. There is no craft involved. Threats and torments and hardship break the stubborn ones in Thaurband for Rudnouk, the chief of all slavemasters, discerns the mettle of each Man brought in beneath chains. Those who will not break, who wait quietly for a chance for rebellion, are sent to work in the pit amongst Uruks who pride themselves on not allowing any slave to escape. Ever.” She looked away, discomfited. “It is said that Olog-hai and Shades live down in the iron pit; sinister and evil things amidst flame and melted metal and endless dark.”
“Only the docile and dispirited remain,” said Aragorn. “Every slave that would lead a rebellion is put beneath the strictest guard.”
“Yes. No rebellion rises amongst captives without a valiant leader … and no leader of such strength going into Thaurband in chains is ever seen outside the Iron Wall. Only the easily controlled and dominated are sold out of Caran to tend crops and fields. And any youth born on the plains showing fortitude or leadership capability is sent to Thaurband to be controlled.”
“Speak of the history of this Thaurband,” asked the White Wizard. “Can its yolk be broken?”
Ránë eyed him dubiously.
“This is not our quest, wizard.”
“Yet the question remains,” said Aragorn. “A swarm of angry slaves would be a boon to our forces for surely they would see the need to wage war against those remaining in power after the Dark Lord is cast down. And if what you say is true, if Thaurband houses the most cunning and determined, then these are Men with indomitable spirits and we have need of such. How could we tip the scales to favor their tendency for rebellion?”
She shifted in her saddle, as if the question perplexed.
“The city is crowded and unable to expand. It was built into a hole burrowed by ice and water amidst the cliff face. When Aulendil took Mordor for his own, the city raised the Iron Wall at the opening of the cleft and sealed themselves in. They did not consider the use of sorcery and the people were beset with daemons and pestilence as the Dark Lord made sport of them.
“But there were some who wisely decided to treat with Sauron and they took captive the strongest of Men and sent them out in chains to appease him, promising a steady supply of both slaves and goods if he would spare the city. The agreement has held thousands of years.” She sighed, discouraged and irritated. “So Thaurband has free Men living amidst Shades and Black Uruk and nameless dreads in service to Aulendil. Millions of slaves have fallen beneath the yoke and collar—but the city remains intact. Crowded and festering and backed like a wild animal inside a cave, but not destroyed.”
“Those in power enjoy life despite the city being held hostage,” dourly said Aragorn. “Trapped, as Théoden was trapped in Helm’s Deep.
“The city chose cowardice instead of dying for freedom as Rohan was willing to do,” pointed out Legolas.
“Thaurband’s wall is over forty feet high and has no gate,” added Ránë. “Goods and people are loaded into platforms that are raised or lowered to convey them over the wall of the city. Nothing goes in or out without notice of the guards on the barricade. The rings of the chain are the size of wagon wheels. Only once did a chain break and the people and steeds that fell were pulp at the heel of the wall.”
“No gate? No back door? How will they escape a conquering army?” asked Legolas. “Truly Men build things that end up dooming them! Minas Tirith has no feasible way of escape, either.”
“I cannot conceive of Thaurband falling to anything less than a sorcerer of Sauron’s power.” She shot at glance at the White Wizard. “And you must not use any art or magic to draw attention to us; we must be vague as fog and twice as silent. Cerediron must not discover we are hunting until we are nearly upon him.”
They road in grim silence after this and the grassland swallowed them without a trace of passing. No pursuers were seen on any horizon and they pushed their steeds to put as much land between themselves and their skirmish.
But Aragorn chafed at the knowledge that a portion of Middle Earth might still toil and suffer beneath the vestiges of Sauron’s old empire. The misery of slavery made his blood heat and his right hand itch. He thought of the children born with a master’s foot upon their neck while his own child grew up free.
He remembered Gandalf’s words, that there was a remnant to be destroyed yet; a battle he would fight with Éomer, King of the Mark. He prayed, as did every day, that he would live to fight that day. That Middle Earth would be free and all those who dwelled in goodness would be without terror and oppression. That he would once more behold his laughing son and hold his Beloved in his arms.
That night, he dreamed of green fields and wagons of corn, but between the stalks, the people lay crying in the rows as if it were their coffin. Their tears were black. The crows were blood red. He woke for his turn at the watch as if he was drowning in dust.
8. Thorns Around the Well
Sixteen days of riding through rocky terrain and treacherous plains left me strengthened as during the rough battles in the northern wasteland. I bathed at a spring we had come upon and laughed at my reflection, all leg and muscle and my hair grown long and rebellious. I trimmed my beard with a knife, but that did little to curb my unruly appearance. The King of Gondor was vanished. I was every bit the Ranger again.
Talemon shed the lingering appearance of his youth and took on the steady alertness of Shadowfax the Great. The saddle had initially put sore places upon his long barreled body despite my careful care; now all were gone and his hide toughened. The breast strap of the saddle wore his hair thin across his chest and his mane had a permanent part where the bridle strap rode.
Ashra, all his speed untapped by these measured days of riding, was a tethered falcon in our midst. There was a wild look in his eyes in the morning, for his longing to run went unsatisfied. Legolas spoke to his steed at length and I am uncertain of what promises he gave, but Ashra never bolted from our midst. He pranced as if on springs when he walked, but the archer seemed to have no more difficulties managing him than usual.
The Lord of Horses remained as unchanged as sky and earth; steady and effortless with every day regardless of our pace. Sun or chill did not disturb him, though he flapped his ears, annoyed, when there was strong wind. He grazed as we rode without a falter in his stride and often seemed to be having some conversation with the wizard that none of us could discern.
Gandalf alone cared for him for despite our friendly company, Shadowfax would not allow any of us to touch him and we did not dare his ire. He would consent to be stabled, but none touched him unless he was in need. I reminded myself often that he was wild despite his placid demeanor.
Hitaur seemed unchanged by any terrain, any length of our day, or by heat or wind or chill. He remained sullenly unfriendly to any overtures and snorted distastefully at our stallions, but otherwise caused no hardship at the closer proximity. I noticed almost immediately that it was Gandalf the White that the gelding most objected to and commented as much.
“Hitaur is well acquainted with enchanters. They have been a cause of pain all his life,” said Ránë. “The Lord Sauron, who bent his creation in the womb and then reworked his essence to force his long life. The cruel Morgul-King, who spun enchantments upon him for sport. Ever the hook and goad, the tether and hobble.”
“He was beaten and mistreated?” I said. “No wonder he does not trust the wizard.”
“Beaten and mistreated on the outside, but altered within as well. How else do you build a steed that can endure the dread of the Witchking and his mount? The presence of the Vetch and Rindor, the vampires and Walkers? You change their inner being with sorcery.”
“So he as been made very brave,” said Gandalf.
“No,” corrected Ránë. “He has been taught a more terrible thing—the horror of the mageborn.”
“I have caused him no pain,” said Gandalf. “I have not touched him once, nor woven any spell to snare him.”
“You are a sorcerer,” she said without inflection. “He knows. Even if you never performed a single act of magic in this land, he would know what you are.”
“A sorcerer?” placidly said the wizard. “So I am. But Hitaur is a dumb beast and unable to reason. You are not so.” Then he said no more.
We rode through greener and greener terrain as we circled back down across the Nurn Plain. Our encounter at the river had sent us a fair distance, but our secrecy seemed intact. The sweet grass hid the dust from our passage and more and more brush and other forms of cover sprang forth in the fertile ground. There were springs and wildlife and groves of tanglewood trees.
The archer took the lead and let Ashra bolt away now and then. When he returned from one such short run, he had a string of three hares tied to his waist.
“Fresh meat tonight,” I said. “Watch for the wild carrot tops, for they likely grow amongst the grasses.”
I was proven correct within the morning and we paused to dig the tubers from the ground. The White Wizard was just as keen with flora and discovered several more roots that were edible. Ránë gleaned wild oats as we rode and the archer plucked stems as well. By the time nightfall was upon us, our bellies rumbled for the savory stew our combined effort would build.
Ránë studied Gandalf when we halted, but said nothing when he only looked after Shadowfax. We tended our steeds, set the camp, and gathered wood while Legolas scouted our place of rest.
But when I began to apply my effort to start the fire, the wizard drew nigh and leaned over the little triangle of twigs and grasses I had prepared.
“No magic,” I warned, surprised.
“No magic, this,” he soothed. “Ránë is cranky because I do little with our encampment. Perhaps she is right; I should share more of the menial tasks.”
I looked up at him, reached a hand nearly without thought and gripped his shoulder.
“No, you will not,” I said sternly. “You earned our care through thousands of years of toil. We spare you the simple tasks for when might beyond ours is required, you are there! You shall change nothing of what you have ever done or ever been. She will learn as Middle Earth has learned; you are a giver of hope and light in a dark world. If you change, you prove yourself a variable wizard.”
“I thought I was always an irregular wizard,” he chuckled. “A giver of light? I shall give you light.” And then he dropped a pinch of something powdery upon my pile of dry twigs and grasses. “Only a few sparks will be needed. Be swift to lean away.”
Only one spark was needed and the fire flared up and commenced to burn.
“What did you add, Mithrandir?” inquired Legolas.
“Something I use with my fireworks; a potent little dust called gunpowder. Very dangerous if used without caution.” He eyed me across the spirited fire. “Saruman used it against the Deepening wall.”
“Great quantities of it,” said I. “Enough to breach the might of the boulders.”
The wizard grunted his response and pulled forth a lit twig to start his pipe.
Two uneventful days passed. Summer sun simmered off our heads and made every trickling spring a treasure. The nights were hot and humid and sleeping was fitful. I allowed myself to doze on horseback during midday, trusting the Elves to be vigilant. Talemon kept me horsed even when I slouched forward upon his withers, though the high saddle arch soon woke me.
Legolas stripped to his inner tunic and then removed even that by midday. Sweat discolored the straps of the quiver jouncing on his back. He was pale skin over tendons and muscle, lean and sinewy, a double measure of the incredible stamina and strength of the Eldar. Despite heat and dust and sweat, the weave to keep his hair back from his eyes was intact.
The pendant he customarily wore was absent. I suspected he had it secreted away and the thought made my thoughts grim. The archer only removed the talisman when he perceived a dire threat ahead of him.
Ránë removed her dark garb down to a simple tunic and wet a strip of cloth that she tied around her neck. She was different from my Beloved Arwen; less curvaceous and bewitching of beauty. I tried to visualize her with Elven ears and failed. Her habitually severe expression did not lend itself to the loveliness of the Firstborn. If anything, she reminded me of Legolas, sharp as a hunting hound even when at peace.
Her hair was as unruly as my own and it appeared that she had used a knife to cut it shorter around her face. All the edges were ragged and several locks fell in her eyes regardless of how she tied it back. Arwen cared for her beauty and knew exactly what garments heightened it; Ránë seemed to care for her appearance not at all.
The White Wizard also shed his cloak, though he did not go so far as to remove his loose flowing shirt. I remembered his shoulder beneath my hand, knew this arduous journey had pared him down to bone and gristle and willpower. And though his Maia fortitude could see him through countless snares and dangers, I knew his body was that of an old Man. I had deliberately ladled most of the pieces of meat with the fat into his tin last evening. Though I suspected he observed my act, he said nothing and consumed every morsel, even the gristle.
Gandalf tipped water into his misshapen wizard’s hat and then clapped it back upon his head. The moisture that did not soak in ran down behind his ears and wetted his collar.
Legolas laughed lightly from where he road, but then his light voice died and he sat straight, peering into the distance. We pulled up almost of one accord, waiting, our own eyes straining to discern what he studied.
“I see them,” said Ránë.
“Thirty, perhaps forty. Their colors are wine and blue,” added Legolas. He spoke without turning, staring off into wavering grasses. “Slaves, working.”
“Where are they?” I asked, sidling Talemon beside his brother. “At the top of the hill?”
“No, in the depression before that last hill in the distance. I cannot tell what they harvest, but they all labor bent down.”
“Most likely a subterranean river is trapped between the plain above and the bedrock,” said Ránë. “Some hardy wheat and rice will grow in such ground. Or it could be sorghum, which will survive even in arid soil.”
“Is this still our path, Ránë?” I asked.
She hesitated only a moment, as if listening to something we could not hear.
“Yes, towards the Sea of Núrnen. The coastline has caves and various strongholds and plentiful food. He is there.”
“Then our path does not change, despite a slave farm in it. Are there outbuildings in sight?” I asked.
“None to my eye from this vantage.” Legolas flicked a glance sidelong. “I can circle around to view the back of the hill.”
“No,” interjected Gandalf. “We shall not separate unless hard pressed. The last time was an uncertain hardship.”
“We must know where their main enclave is,” I said, “lest we underestimate the size of this farm and end up creeping through the middle of it. The Elves go in search, or we all go in search, but we must know how large this encampment is.”
I waited, watching the wizard stare off across the plain a moment.
“You lead us, Aragorn,” eventually spoke Gandalf. “I will abide by whatever choice you make.” He nodded fractionally at me and it was worth a welter of words.
“We will all go,” I said, “and may the Powers favor us. Legolas and Ránë lead, I will follow you, the White Wizard will guard from the rear and pray we have no need for his craft.”
Thus we went on foot and left our steeds behind and each of us crept stealthily through goat trails and natural patterns in the tall grasses to give us easier passage. I knew this crouched walking was difficult for the wizard, but so did Legolas, and he found a gully that hid us nicely for a quarter of a league. My knife hilt was ever beneath my palm on this furtive journey, but the archer led unerringly.
Ránë turned our path twice and there was no argument; both Elves fashioned a formidable team and I had a glimpse of what it must have been like in the youth of Elves, when both women and men fought against the evil of Melkor. When we parted the grasses a few inches to peer down the final hill, the bright clothing of the slaves was easily seen two hundred yards away.
They worked arduously, these abandoned amongst their own kind. Some cut stalks, some gathered, some carried them away. Others cleared dirt of weeds and brush with sticks and some carried water in buckets and poured them out. Their backs were brown as butternuts and the lash had written its name on every one I saw. Old and young alike worked in the dirt, some shriveled up as an old grandmother.
And there were children working, one no higher than my waist and muddy to her ribs. There was no laughter or banter in them, no jostling or flinging of mud common to Minas Tirith’s youths working in fields with their parents. These younglings never looked up.
Something flicked my shoulder. Ránë had plucked a grass stalk and patted me to draw my attention. I searched where she pointed and saw a Man dressed in greens and browns and so well did he blend into the grasslands that I had not spotted him. A coiled whip and a sword girded his hips. A slaver. I scowled despite myself. More careful scrutiny revealed three more garbed exactly the same way.
Another frond took my attention. Legolas was pulling us back. We crept away without notice and struck southeast, searching, and after another half league of furtive exploring, we came upon a single stone dwelling.
The building was without elaborate carvings, save for corner posts of wood, which had a peculiar face engraved into it. It was built upon a stony outcropping that rose above the surroundings and the hillside was excavated all around it. A steep slope led up to it on all sides and it was a curious star shape, the likes of which I had never seen.
Ránë nodded off to my left. She pointed at a group of rough tents held within a circular fence of stones. The top of the wall was edged with jagged shale pieces, each of them upright. I knew without being told that the slaves dwelled here, kept within a boundary with access by a single gate.
I held up four fingers. The archer frowned, but studied the encampment to discern how many slavers occupied the dwelling. We waited for a full sunturn before the archer pressed himself backwards and we slipped away. No cry was raised. Not even a bird flew up in alarm. We were most fortunate.
Nothing was spoken until we located our steeds, grazing peacefully exactly where we had left them.
“Four slavers watching the people work,” I said.
Legolas leaned an arm across Ashra’s shoulder. “Five more at that oddly shaped house, but there may have been more that I did not hear.” He looked at Ránë. “Tell us about that star shaped fortress?”
“Men can fire arrows from both sides of the points at anyone attempting to breach a wall or tunnel beneath it.” She shrugged and drank from her waterskin. “Such will not halt Sauron’s ilk, who will starve them out or throw sheer numbers at the building until it falls.”
“Designed to thwart raiders,” said Gandalf. “What do they protect so mightily, surely not the slaves?”
“The crop, perhaps. Maybe they have silver, some copper. All that is left of an old House treasure that has not been discovered and taken from them.”
“Maybe the house is made a fortress just to feel safer in this dark land,” muttered the White Wizard.
“We are southeast from our last position,” said Legolas. “The slaves working in the field will return here and then we can skirt their field and head towards the sea without being seen.”
“They will find our tracks,” observed Ránë. “Perhaps they will ignore them, but I would send a spy to seek the maker of such tracks.”
I was already contemplating the ramifications of a slave farm across our path.
“I would send a party to investigate as well,” I said slowly, “but if their numbers are too few to send a party and keep their slaves from being governed, will they do so?”
“Did you not understand my words? The slaves will not rebel or run away. They can be left bereft of all masters and they will continue just as they always do, waiting until the master returns,” said Ránë. “They will wait and till and harvest knowing that if the old master does not return, a new one will—and he will deal harshly with any who were idle while the power of the House changed hands. Even if you killed half of the slavers, the others would still leave the farm and seek aid.”
“Then we will leave no masters behind,” I said grimly. “If the slaves merely work, then the farm will continue without any master. No alarm will be raised until some other authority passes here and realizes they are ungoverned. By then, our tracks will be lost.”
“You will pause to slay nine instead of skirt the land and ride on?” She studied me, perplexed. “If one raises an alarm during the fray, or sends a hound or pigeon, it will be enough to alert the lieutenants of Rudnouk. Our secrecy in this quest will be lost.”
“I will not have us followed by spies if we can avert it. We cannot ride with foes at our back as well as our fore; it presses us into desperate decisions.” I turned enough to look at each of my companions. “Of a certainty, we will face conflict on all sides, but until we enter that arena, I will keep us clear of it.
“And,” I added more heavily, “it is a grievous thing to see the young and old bent to the whip. I do not need to see the torture and rapes to know that they happen—evil men thrive upon their wickedness. We will end the slaves torment, though they will continue just as before.”
“Foolishness,” said Ránë. “Focus on our task; to reach The Maker before he is alerted to our coming. Our fight lies there, not here with the hapless that are frightened sheep without their overseer.”
I became stubborn now, unwilling to leave children at the mercy of whip and lash another day. Perhaps because of my son, perhaps because of her argument.
“What evil we can quickly remove, we shall,” I said sternly. “Is that not the duty of those who do right? What will befall the world if good rides by the downtrodden?”
“I would rather slay one to save millions than to let him escape while saving thirty.” She was just as passionate as I. “Better that seventeen serve in misery than thousands be corrupted. Have you no sense of the balance in the future?”
“He knows perfectly well that the good of the many depends on the decision of one or two,” sternly said Legolas.
“Peace, peace,” interjected Gandalf. “Cerediron shall not escape even if he is alerted, this we have sworn to. We will hunt him to drowned Beleriand if we must!” He looked Ránë fully in the eyes. “But Aragorn is also right in choosing pity when it is easily in our power to do so. Spend less effort in words and more in planning and we shall be done with the deed ere morning breaks!”
Ránë huffed at the wizard and turned to pull her gelding’s saddle off. He shook all over and scraped at his belly where the cinch rode. She reached to scratch it for him and I let her fuss with Hitaur for a few moments.
“Come, Ránë,” I eventually cajoled. “Let us decide the best use of our force to attain the goal.”
So we each came with our ideas and the wizard used his long staff to nudge stones about and draw. Ránë transfigured from unwillingness to methodical plotting in just moments. I was reminded of Legolas facing the uncertain battle at Helm’s Deep with me. By the time the sun crept down another fingerlength, we had our plan.
We knew that slaying the overseers out in the field would only panic the slaves and they would flee thinking raiders had attacked. The slavemasters in the fortress-like house would barricade the door and though Legolas was likely capable of firing a bolt through a murderhole, it was unlikely he would get more than one target that way. We had to lure those inside the house out and detain the overseers as well.
“Bait,” I said. “We should use a horse. They will sent out men to catch a horse, will they not?”
“Unless they suspect the horse has a rider nearby. Hitaur would be unruly and put up a fight; they would come out in numbers to catch him. He might also make them board the doors in fear that the Uruk are afoot and foolishly let a steed stray.”
“One of the mearas,” said Gandalf. “Every eye will see him and come out to catch him.”
“Talemon will not understand our plot, but Ashra will,” said Legolas.
“He will not understand enough of what he is to do,” said the White Wizard. “He must graze as if placid, wander ahead of them just in sight, avoid being caught, but continue to lure them onward if they leave off pursuit too soon. Can you make him understand all of this?”
The archer looked a bit dubious.
“Can Shadowfax do this?” I questioned.
“Yes, but he cannot be commanded.” The wizard leaned upon his staff and pondered the crude diagram we had drawn. “I will ask him, but I cannot compel him. He has no master.”
“No master?” said Ránë, puzzled. “You ride him and he takes instruction.”
“He consents to bear me, he listens to my counsel and oft agrees, he has seen me through many hardships,” said the White Wizard. “But I do not order him, nor demand obedience from him. He has no master; he merely consents to be my friend.”
We waited for several sunturns, lounged in the shade of the meager grove wherein we hid. Legolas napped and I dozed, discerning a long night ahead of us. Ránë was still too irritable to sleep and she stood staring off to the north.
“He will lure them out,” said Gandalf when he returned, “but if any Man attempts to seize him, he will fight. No rope has laid upon his neck and he will not submit.”
Shadowfax followed the wizard and his intelligent eyes looked upon all of us. The wizard had curried all the sweat from his back and combed all the burrs from his long tail.
“If they capture you, we will free you quickly,” I said to the steed.
“No,” said Gandalf. “If they capture him, I will slay him before he is put beneath their tethers. Even the Horsemaster of Minas Tirith did not lay a rope upon him when Shadowfax was in his care; every door lay open and no hand stayed him.” He patted the stallion and scratched beneath the tousled mane. “He is wild. Death is preferable to a rope, even if it were part of a day.”
The thought wounded me, but I knew the wizard’s words were valid. We were tarrying to free the slaves for the same reason; Men ought to be free.
We rested the evening without a fire, consuming what fare we could. The horses grazed at the bottom of the ravine and napped. The wind died. Evening birds called amongst the grasses.
We stealthily moved to a vantage below the formidable house, crawling through grasses until the crescent of the slave enclosure was in view and then watched the many hued bondservants return. They were shepherded inside their enclosure and a single sack of something tossed over the heavy gate. I suspected it was corn or barley for their supper. One small sack would not be enough to fill so many bellies.
The slaves worked for themselves now, lighting fires and shaking out clothes. The elderly sat against the rock wall and hung their heads. None aided them. The thin wail of a baby crying wafted in the air. A harsh voice yelled something from the house and the infant was taken inside and its cries were muffled. It sounded piteous to my ears, the sound of starvation and deprivation. My blood was roaring in my head.
The moon appeared as only a slim crescent. The stars came and went behind clouds. At last, when the slaves had supped and slipped into their rude tents, I nodded at Gandalf. He pulled his grey cloak about himself and stole away.
Hitaur, black as the night and twice as dusty, was nearly unseen. Ránë had taken off all his tack, save for a single strap about his neck. In her black garb, she was as invisible as he. Legolas, too, had shed everything light or made of silver and he pulled his Elven cloak over his golden hair. They made their way along the flank of the hill until they were opposite and waited. The house was a bulwark against the sky, lit at odd places by firelight within.
Then Shadowfax whinnied and I felt the tension gather between my shoulders as I waited. Nothing occurred. I scowled at the house as if it was to blame for its occupants.
The Lord of Horses called again, this time the whistling shriek of a stallion, with all the vigor and restless energy of such. A door banged. A voice shouted, then several more. I watched firelight shift and torches be thrust through dark portals to light the main entrance.
To my left hand, Shadowfax sauntered up the hillside grazing. He seemed completely placid save for his tail, which twitched and swished more quickly than his usual. I knew he was completely watchful of that house on the hill.
“Come,” I whispered, willing the Men to emerge for the treasure idling upon their grassy hill. “You see him … come…”
More voices were raised, some in warning, others in urgency. Another door banged and then the front entrance flew open and a handful of Men emerged. They fanned out with ropes and Shadowfax did not even look up.
I moved as silently as in the days of old and wove my way through grasses where the light from windows did not shine. But when I was almost to the house proper, I heard Shadowfax snort and something about that sound halted me.
I rose to peer just above the grass stalks—and there were two Southrons directly ahead of me, crouched motionless in the darkness beside the house. I froze, debating, unable to move according to our plan.
Abruptly there was a whinny and then a shudder, so very faint from my position. The two adversaries ahead of me stood tall and one loosened a coil of his rope and ran forward. The second hesitated, as if deciding his course … and I heaved my knife at his back so hard that it stumbled him forward in the darkness and he fell with a grunt.
His companion went on, however, trying to snare the ethereal horse that cantered around the circle enclosure of the slave pen. There were Men on the run, shouting, and one yelling for them to cease, to move calmly lest they frighten off such a steed.
Order descended. I wished I could see events down the other slope, but I retrieved my hunting blade and scooted along the wall. A dark aperture opened twenty feet above me, but no face looked from that narrow portal. I continued my journey along the rocky outer wall, wary of every shadow and sound, crouching low.
Eventually, I could look down the hillside at the front of the fortress. I saw Shadowfax down the slope, but I could not see our foes or Gandalf or the Elves. I scurried to a position beside the door and found nothing to hide myself, so I crawled back the way I had come and lay flat upon the dirt in the dimness, counting on the events down the hill to attract the attention.
This was the terrible task I had drawn; to lie as a shadow near the entrance and do nothing while my comrades down the hill saw to any foe unwise enough to emerge from their fortress. There was silence, then shouts, then silence, then a horse’s whicker, then shouting, then silence … but nothing emerged from that dark portico, nor returned to it. My neck burned from the angle I kept to watch.
And then a voice! And the tip of a boot!
The wearer did not emerge, yet neither did he retreat. He stood and called to those down the hill, summoning them back. I drew up out of the shadows and lunged around the corner of the doorway after him.
It was speed and surprise and a trick of the wind that saved me, for he held the collar of an enormous hound with eyes like glowing coals and no sooner was I around the door and slicing hard across his throat, but what that wolfhound was lunging for mine. A Werecat was faster and far more deadly, but a hundred or more pounds of snarling dog was formidable enough to respect.
I killed the Man poorly and uncleanly and left him thrashing out his life while I jerked the blade free and leaped for my life. The hound and I exited the fortress as quickly as I had leapt inside.
Running was no option and I whipped around the doorpost of the building by one hand while the hound went wide. By the time it whirled and gathered to lunge at me, Andúril was in one hand, the curved Elven knife in the other. Death surely did not deter this animal, for it leaped without regard and I took it across the shoulder with steel that cut through bones … and it fell, staggered, and leaped again!
I cut and cut, turned and turned, held at bay by this hellish hound and every cut streamed blood and cracked against bone and still it came on. I was beginning to feel desperate and then, finally, I stabbed the sword point through its broad breast and then stabbed the hunting blade up through its jaws and into the skull for good measure.
It was a desperate act that left me without any weapon and thus I found myself face to face with three slavers empty-handed and covered with blood. They stared, surprised, at both the dying wolfhound and me.
Adrenalin is the nectar of violent men and I had sipped my full share on many occasions in battle. This time was no different. I sprang at them with little plan other than the sure knowledge that I must get my hands on them before they gained wits.
The rope one held became a ready garrote, but I had little time to choke a Man to death—I looped it twice and jerked hard, hoping to distract him for a few moments. The second had a blade and he raised it high enough overhead for me to come in beneath and kick straight up beneath his ribs. I did not linger to see if he would die. The archer had taught me that blow and none of his lethal maneuvers failed.
The third was ready and a wrestler, for he sidestepped me neatly and laid a blow across the back of my neck that rattled all my teeth. The ground hit me in the face and I took advantage of it and threw a handful of rock and dirt up at him. He coughed and cursed and I would have had him right then, but rope-man was afoot and he lashed me with the end of the rope, curling loops around my feet and jerking.
I fell again, hard, saw a handful of stars bloom behind my eyes and everything swim. Urgency kept me moving, albeit, slowly. A kick caught my ribs. A fist fell upon my back. There was pain somewhere deep inside and blood was in my mouth. The weight of a man crushed me to the ground. I could not breath through dirt in my mouth and even the jerk upon my hair to raise my face did not alleviate it.
Then I heard a familiar whistle and my opponent’s weight disappeared. I flailed over on my back, rolling, and the incline was my friend, for rope-man came running after me angrily and the long rope curled about him like snakes. It was only seconds before one loop caught him and jerked him down hard enough to stun.
Unarmed and still dazed, I scrambled for a tool and closed my hand around a stone. One blow silenced him, the next ended him and I confess I struck him several more times before halting myself.
Then there I was, out in the full light of torches and the windows, unarmed. I did the first thing that came to mind; I flopped over sideways and played dead.
Playing dead was never so breathless as in the games of my childhood. Nor fraught with danger and the sense of doom.
I blinked and cleared my eyes, realized I was facing the downward slope, and tried to focus on sounds and shapes. The slave circle was towards my head, just past my vision. I could not see Shadowfax. I could not discern voices clearly with one ear down. I lay like a gutted animal and waited for what came next.
Voices. Someone moaning in pain and approaching. I could not discern if there were one, or three, perhaps four. I wished for the torchlight to brighten even as I prayed it would gutter and hide me better.
Four came up the hill. None of them had the familiar gait of my friends, but one limped as if his leg had been cut nearly off. He was not a threat. I was not certain if I could rise fast enough to kill three Men even if they were hampered by a fourth. The pain in my back was spreading. Some dull fire chewed the bottom of each breath.
Then two shapes appeared behind my foes, moving so light and swift that I knew them for Elves before I clearly saw their faces. Legolas and Ránë. There was a flurry of blades and shouts and two Men fell. It happened so quickly that Legolas whipped back around with a knife in either hand and dispatched the third before I was off my knees. I got to my feet just in time to catch the wounded one as he stumbled and then Ránë was upon us both and had I not let my knees buckle me down, she would have spitted me with the same spear she spitted him upon.
“It’s me! It’s me!” I cried rather alarmed and Ránë looked down into my face with her hair wild and awry and her eyes rather mischievous.
“I saw it was you,” she said. “That is why you are not dead.”
Sometimes I hate the forthrightness of the Elves.
The archer hauled me to my feet and my breath caught ignobly. He searched with his eyes, then his hands, and I steadied myself against his strength a moment.
“You have taken no wound that bleeds,” he said. “But pain has you.”
“I can walk.”
“I will search the house,” said Ránë and she sped quickly away with vigor I coveted.
“Shadowfax?” I questioned. “Gandalf?”
“The Lord of Horses is surely worthy of his title and many more, for he led Men on a merry chase through the dark and when they failed, he wandered back to entice them onward!” said the archer. His candid delight made me smile. “Mithrandir is afoot. He is taking down the gate of the slave pen and speaking to whatever soul approaches.”
“What will he say?”
“Only that they must continue their duty, but that their share has been increased. They must serve themselves carefully; enough to survive and do well, not enough to anger their new masters. Toil hard and save all.” Legolas paused. “He cannot rework their bodies, nor give them hope. He gives them just enough to survive.”
“In case another slaver takes them hostage before the day when I return to free them,” I said. “And I will return. No Man should live in slavery that another may live in luxury.”
Gandalf the White strode out of darkness and came to me, took my chin in his fingers. I could never keep secrets from this wizard and would not try now; I let my pain show in my eyes.
“Take him from this place, Legolas,” he commanded. “Find a flat place and lay him upon his side. His injury is not fatal, but painful. Mix a pinch of bitterroot and let him drink and rest before we put him astride.”
“Did he not just say let me drink bitterroot,” I chuckled to my companion. “No Man drinks that herb of his own free will.”
“Nor any Elf.” The archer’s voice was mirthful even as he led me carefully away. “Let that knowledge lift your spirits.”
I drank the bitter herb, strangely grateful for the ebbing of pain and even more grateful for the clasp of Legolas’ fingers around my wrist as he gauged the effectiveness of it. I let my mind drift, secure in this hand. When Ránë and Gandalf crouched and spoke, I was surprised to see them.
“No slavers remain alive. We drug the bodies within the house and threw them down the lower staircase into the depths. Seven females were chained in the house and we released them. One carries a stillbirth, but will labor with it all the same,” said Gandalf quietly. His voice was solemn and tinged with anger. “One other carries a living child and will do well. Two others have gone mad and no art of mine will restore them. I left their chains on, but delivered them to the care of others so they will survive instead of running away and dying upon the plain.”
Drugged, I asked innocently, “Why are you angry, Gandalf?”
He looked at me, surprised, but then ordered himself with a sigh.
“Ránë would not permit me to charm the woman with a stillborn and cut the child from her. It would have taken only a moment or two. She would awaken with a stitched wound and no memory. Instead, she will labor mightily and produce only death. Such is hard for a woman to bear.”
“You can do that?” I frowned at my slight slur of speech.
He smiled down at me, the benevolent smile of the White Wizard, and I smiled back out of reflex. He patted the top of my head fondly and circled his thumb on my brow. Heat swirled inside my skull.
“I did not spend fifty years caught in Ioreth’s cranky and wonderful companionship without her teaching even a clumsy wizard how to mend Men. She was ever the teacher, though a rather abrupt and scolding one.”
“Explaining such a scar to a new master would prove her undoing,” said Ránë. “She will endure nothing that other women before her have not endured. Can he ride? We must move from here and quickly.”
“He must rest a time,” said Legolas.
“That was not the plan and his injury is not grievous.”
“The night is early and we have time. A rest here will not delay us long.”
But Gandalf looked across the archer to the she-Elf and I turned my head enough to view her also. It was to Legolas that she spoke, but she looked only at me.
“Did not Aragorn, the Ranger, set this sortie into motion? Was not his counsel evaluated and determined to be wise? Would he agree to this change of the plan if he were not befuddled by herbs?” she said sternly.
“I am a better Ranger than a King,” I interjected blearily. “I have had more practice at it.”
They all looked at me, blinking.
“You say foolish things when given herbs for pain,” Gandalf chuckled.
“So do you,” I countered, “but you giggle more.”
This silenced him completely.
“You are right,” said Legolas, who had remained attuned to the question. “If he is not severely injured and can tolerate riding, we must press on. He can ride double with me on Ashra.”
“His stallion will bear him, Legolas,” softly said Gandalf. “Talemon is the Steed of the King. He will not fail. Lay aside your worry and set your skill upon our safe passage.”
So we went on and the wizard did not lie. Talemon was steady and smooth and the rope they lashed about my waist gave me extra balance. I leaned over the high arch of the saddle and let my mind bounce about blurrily with the horizon. We passed nearly the whole night on horseback and I remember little of it, save Legolas’ eyes and the hand of the wizard that reached now and then and patted me.
By the time dawn crept lightly across the hills, the bitterroot was wearing off. Discomfort made my forehead buckle and Ránë searched for a likely copse of trees for us to hide within. Legolas took me down from Talemon and steadied my first step.
“There is a rope of fire about my ribcage,” I said to Gandalf.
“You were struck just below the ribs and there are soft organs beneath that are bruised. You will feel better with light food and lots of tea. Tell me if anything is amiss when you make water.”
“You have spent many hours with Ioreth,” I said. “Did I not say you were handy to have about in a fight?”
“And for a party. I make the best fireworks Middle Earth has ever seen,” chuckled the wizard. He covered me with not only my blanket, but his as well. “You must not shiver or get chilled. We will heat water for tea.”
Thus we rested and I was humored to watch Gandalf the White set up our camp with Legolas and Ránë. Most tasks he was apt with, but there were several he was not. Legolas came behind him and set things to right and Gandalf never complained. It took twice as long to build the dry tinder for the fire and then the wizard worked fruitlessly to light it without using magic.
“I never thought to see you at such menial tasks in this camp,” said Ránë.
“I never thought to see you in this camp, let alone helping,” returned Gandalf.
She took the flint and knife from him and conjured the fire in two strikes.
“I never though I would be serving another Maia for anything,” she said solemnly. “I pledged I would never wait upon another after Aulendil and here I am building fires and laying blankets and contemplating what we have on hand for the meal.”
“Foolish Elf,” he chided.
“Perhaps you have stealthily spell-spoke me,” she countered. Her voice held no malice.
“If I was going to lay a charm upon an Elf, I would not leave them so querulous.”
“You would just argue with someone else,” I said from where I rested. I cradled my head beneath an arm and grinned at the glance he shot my way.
Ránë left us and returned with her hands full of some dark and withered looking fruit. We were dubious until she had consumed two and threatened to eat them all. It was unlike apples, but not so sweet as dates and it had a large pit that was bright red. She buried each seed as we ate.
At last, with the archer having searched our surroundings four times and Ránë circling us thrice, we gathered close and sipped tea and dipped dried bread into a broth cooked down from the rabbit bones. Legolas had cut some woody tuber into the pot that lent a savory taste, but he cautioned us to not eat the tuber itself.
“Who killed the black dog at the dwelling?” inquired Ránë. “I found him sprawled dead at the House Totem on the right.”
“I pulled Aragorn’s knife and sword out of it,” said Gandalf.
“That was one of the wolfhounds of Barad-dûr,” said she. “They are violent and fierce, capable of turning aside a mountain troll. I should have liked to see that fight.”
“Eh,” I said with a shrug. “It would have been unimpressive to an Elf. I hacked like a woodcutter and looked for escape at every instant. If I had found one, I would have scaled the wall barehanded to get away!”
“But you killed it,” said Legolas. His eyes were proud.
“Indeed,” said Ránë. She nodded at me in acknowledgment.
“Tell me how it went on the slope,” I diverted. “Did our preparation unfold as we planned? Did anything go awry?”
“Shadowfax had to work to get the Southrons out of that fortress. Perhaps they had just supped, or were planning to,” the wizard spoke around his pipestem. “He dallied to the north of the slave pen, but when they hesitated, he trotted closer and circled the front of the enclosure and that was enough to entice all of them. Torchlight makes him glow.” He smiled crookedly around the pipe. “I will attest that he showed off a bit.”
“He did,” said Legolas. “Never was a horse more beautiful, tossing his head and turning broadside as if tame and indifferent to their approach!”
“He lunged away from them and struck the rock enclosure with a haunch. He was uninjured and cantered a short distance, then halted and went back to grazing,” continued Gandalf. “There were more slavers than we expected, just as you planned for. The mearas took them down the slope into the ravine and Hitaur sprang out upon one and ran down a second. Shadowfax chased three out into the plain where his sons lingered and returned alone.” He looked across the tiny fire at Legolas. “I was watching my stallion, so I did not see you or Ránë.”
“Once the Men were afraid and running, I slew three with the bow,” said Legolas. “Ránë stood with the sling and took two. We came down to the water wagon, but when there was a disturbance near the entrance, I broke us early and we entered the courtyard. Five were returning, one badly injured, and I took the man trailing behind. We ran down the four easily.”
He turned his head, bemused, and looked at Ránë. “You have none of the grace of the Firstborn with that spear. You crash through as if you are three times bigger than you are. I nearly had the haft of the spear in my jaw twice.”
“I am sorry. I was distracted.” She shrugged as if ashamed. “I have sparred against the Orc too long and grace is not required, only speed and muscle.”
“It is still effective,” said Legolas. “And now I know the truth; I not only must keep you at my back, but keep one eye on you lest I get a spear butt through the shoulder.”
“I always beat the boys up.” She smiled like one of the cats in Minas Tirith, which always looked friendly right up to the moment they wrapped claws around your ankles.
I laughed aloud and saluted with my pipe stem.
“Now you tell me,” I protested. “It is not the point I need to fear—it is the other end!”
We slept through the morning and I the least restfully, for every few hours Legolas gently turned me over. Twice it was Ránë who woke me enough to turn. I only knew it was her because her scent was different from either archer or wizard. I dreamed a confusing mix of war and Arwen and nightmarish horses with heads like wolves.
I woke in early afternoon and found my companions had risen long before I. Even Gandalf was alert and I scowled that I was the tardy soul. The pain in my ribs and back had settled to an ache and only a deep breath reminded me of previous pain.
“Tea?” said the wizard.
He handed a tin to me before I even answered and I nursed it along until it was cool enough for a proper sip. My companions must have been sitting quietly for at least a sunturn while I slept, for their demeanor revealed their harmony. I shrugged off nightmares and sipped tea, willing myself to alertness.
“We were discussing the inland sea coastline and the myriad caves there,” said Gandalf once we were underway. “The level of the Núrnen once was higher, but with Mount Doom alive, the temperature has risen and the level of the waters fallen. There is a labyrinth of caves dug into basalt and granite.”
“Our quarry hides amongst the caves?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” said Legolas. Ashra shouldered up against Talemon and I was so accustomed to the Sons of Thunder jostling each other friendlily that I barely registered it anymore. “She has only the vague impression of his presence at this distance. It is the right direction and as we move closer, it will become more refined.”
I looked ahead to where Ránë road on point.
“What is this connection that ties her to this Cerediron, Gandalf?” I inquired. “She is from the same house of Elves as he … how can we trust that this is not a trap?”
“That would be a triumph,” said the archer. “To overthrown the King of the Reunited Kingdom and take hostage the White Wizard at the same time? With such levers even a Troll could rule Middle Earth.”
“The charm set upon her is not of her making,” patiently said Gandalf. “And as to their relationship; that is her story to tell.” He looked across Talemon to the archer. “She would not tell a mortal, but she would tell an Elf. Perhaps your temper has cooled enough to seek for the truth.”
“But you know, do you not?” I asked.
“I know some.” His voice was devoid of inflection. “The beginning of her story is as painful as the middle. Let us hope the end is written better.”
I was not surprised by his answer. Gandalf not only kept his own secrets, but he kept everyone else’s as well. Something I was grateful for when I was only named Estel.
We pushed to the northeast until long past sunset before halting. I was weary and concentrated only on getting the campfire lit. Gandalf cared for Talemon. Ashra came and pestered him for attention as well. Legolas trotted the countryside searching for any track or signs of pursuit. Ránë brought a handful of dried pine needles and added to my firestarter. I must have looked haggard, for she took the flint and lit the fire, blew upon the tinder until it caught.
“Your pain is interfering,” she said calmly. “Take a sip or two of bitterroot and it will curb the sharpness of it so you may rest.”
“Giving advice?” I smiled down where she squatted.
“To stubborn males? Always.” Her smile was easier than I had ever seen. “Every female of every race deals with stubborn males. If I asked the wizard, would he reveal he was reproved by his female counterparts?”
“Be sure to ask that in my hearing,” I chuckled.
I took less than a pinch of bitterroot, knowing I would not be rid of the taste the whole evening. The ache deep in my back settled and I could sit on a likely boulder without feeling as if drums were pounding somewhere in the bottom of my lungs.
Legolas came in from his survey and his tranquil eyes erased our worries. Gandalf had found mushrooms in the most unlikely place and put them top down on a flat rock in our fire to sizzle. It was a motley assortment of food that we consumed this night. Tea was plentiful and conversation easy, though I saw everything through a light haze.
Thus it startled each of us when Ránë came back from a perimeter search and pulled out a parcel from Hitaur’s saddle near the fire. Herbs and lances, needles and threads of sinew lay within. She shed her cloak and then her shirt, remaining only in her light vest.
“The wizard cannot touch me,” she reminded us warningly. “But there is a cut on my back that continues to bleed. It should have ceased troubling me by now, but the heat reopened it and the riding has aggravated it.”
“Let me see.” I sat aside my tea.
She spoke truly. It looked as if a blade had just grazed her below the ribs. I had seen such a wound before on Elves, for they often spun as they fought and sometimes did not quite get out of reach of the steel they were evading. It was not deep, but extended past the span of my outstretched fingers.
“She needs to be sutured and a poultice of arnica and nettle made. I have no nettle, perhaps boswellia…” I muttered to myself. I prodded about the edges to see if she flinched. “Do any of these places hurt more than others?”
“No.”
“Aragorn,” said Gandalf the White. “You cannot suture this, you have taken a draught of bitterroot.”
“Only a light dose,” I replied without looking up.
“You said you do not have nettle, but you have nettle. It is the boswellia you left behind because of the odor,” he chided. His hand was heavy on my shoulder. “If you cannot name your own herbs correctly, you will not be doing any stitching—especially if we want her healed and in fighting shape in a day or two.”
“I am in fighting shape regardless,” Ránë said irritably.
I was humored by her crossness and considered my state of mind a moment.
“You are right. I should not sew this up.”
“I will sew,” said Legolas. He rummaged through the items she had laid out. “You concentrate on the poultice and, Mithrandir, watch that he knows what he is doing.” He threaded while he spoke. “How do you want this done, for this cut runs atop muscles that move while throwing the spear.”
“A running line while I stretch,” she said. “I would rather it pucker when I ride than pull and sting when I am concentrating on warfare.”
The archer said nothing. He was absorbed on tying the knot. Ránë sat, curled herself around her knees and put her hands flat on her feet. Her back was in a perfect curve and it made the cut gape wider and begin to weep tinted fluid.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“I am.”
Suturing the Firstborn was a pleasure compared to Men, though some Men were uncommonly strong and patient. The Eldar held so still, without a single trembling of their frame. I had sutured up Arwen’s finger once when she cut herself preparing a meal; I was more alarmed at the blood and depth of the wound than she. It was my fingers that trembled that day, not hers.
And thrice I had sewn the archer, who could be flayed open down to bone and remain absolutely still while I gathered torn tissues together and stitched him up beside a battlefield. He was fighting the next morning at dawn.
Ránë was no different than Arwen, Elrohir, and countless other Elves injured during the wars. Even her face was composed and her breaths were measured as if she slept. I wondered if that was the key to the stoic endurance of pain amongst their kind, that they somehow could transport themselves away from their bodies.
Legolas sutured with careful skill and pulled all the skin edges taut. His concentration was absolute and his fingers did not tremble. Gandalf wisely picked up a burning stick and held it near so the archer could see more clearly. Only I saw the wizard catch a falling ember in the palm of his hand and flick it back into the fire as if it were merely a leaf.
I applied the damp poultice and bound it with strips.
“Better,” she said. Gandalf held a tin of tea by the rim and placed it in her open palm. Their hands never touched. She looked up at the wizard almost challengingly. “You did not slip herbs for pain in here, wizard, for I must keep my wits about me.”
“I did not,” he replied. “You force me to tread a line of completely sincerity and honesty.”
“You make it sound as something foreign to you,” she said. Her eyes slyly looked over the edge of the tin at him.
“You are a scoundrel and a rogue,” replied Gandalf. He leaned upon the staff as if affronted, though all could see the humor in his eyes. “It seems to be my lot to travel with untrusting and argumentative rascals such as you three. I did well to spend thousands of years learning patience in the Blessed Realm.”
We returned to placid calm after this moment of levity. The fire stuttered and died to coals and we let it. Talemon gave me a start when he nibbled at the back of my hair. Gandalf left our fire for a time and stood where the wind blew, listening to the voices hidden to all ears but his.
But when he returned, Legolas drew from his perch upon a likely bough and came to sit in front of Ránë.
“We have sworn an Oath,” he said to her.
“I have honored the Oath.” She eyed him curiously.
“You have. You have also failed to prove any of the legends and rumors and hearsay of the Forsaken. I have listened to every word, watched your every move, waiting for you to prove your guiltiness.”
She sat very still, very poised, and said nothing.
“A terrible doom was placed upon Fëanor, Greatest of the Noldor,” said Legolas. “The fate set upon the Singers who betrayed the House of Maglor was nearly as terrible. The songs were silenced in the souls of all those who were disloyal, but Sauron deflected this bitter vengeance and destroyed all the bards of the Noldor. Every Songkeeper died and the Old Powers went to sleep instead of being living and aware in the temple of the Singer’s fëa. The Ainulindalë is silent and our souls are bereft of its care and concern. All that is left to the Eldar is the lesser magic of Earth power and it is summoned with great cost.”
Ránë closed her eyes and took a breath deeper than before.
“Nothing of what you have spoken is a lie,” she replied. “Is there a question in all of this?”
“Tell me what happened.”
She blinked at him and then frowned slightly.
“Your question is too large, ask another.”
Ránë could not see the wizard, but Legolas and I could. He jerked his chin at the archer encouragingly and staved off any irritation at her brusque reply. I watched Legolas ponder and wrestle with a hundred questions at once until he retrieved one.
“Why did you go to Mordor to serve Sauron?” he asked quietly. “Did he spell-speak you or did Cerediron lure you with his skill?”
“I went to Mordor of my own free will.” Her voice was just as quiet, but her answer was like sand eroding a fragile embankment. “I was neither spell-spoken nor lured by a Songmaster’s enchantments.”
Legolas seemed taken aback and he impossibly became even more still. He studied her by the failing fire as if unable to speak for a moment.
Gandalf the White was not so immobile. He raised both eyebrows at the archer as if speaking a dare, compelling endurance. I stared into my tin of cooling tea, patiently waiting and willing this story to be unveiled.
“Why?” softly asked Legolas.
“Why?” She tipped her head to look at him. “Would you rather have the truth or the lie, for the lie is easier to bear.”
“The truth.”
She looked aside, discovered Gandalf and frowned at him. “Do not stand behind me when I mistrust you, wizard. Stand so I can see all your expressions as you coax this archer into more questions.”
“You have eyes in the back of your head,” said Gandalf. He sat upon a boulder we had rolled near the fire. “Just tell him the tale and it will be a lesser burden for you to carry.”
“I am used to this burden,” she remarked dryly. “It is no heavier than when I first took it up.” She looked upon me, then Legolas. “Mine is a story of nothing as it seems.”
“Why did you go to Mordor?” reminded Gandalf softly. He did not look at her; he looked at the dirt between his boots.
“I took a Vow,” she said grimly. “You remember the great Vows of the Eldar, Legolas? How they were fashioned at the Awakening beneath the stars and have held Elven-kind thousands of summers?”
He frowned at her tone, but the wizard was quicker.
“All of us have sworn a vow now and then, but the pledges of Elves reach beyond the simple words of Men,” said Gandalf. His voice was very solemn and formal. “You spoke a great Vow.”
“A great Vow and when Cerediron went into darkness, I followed after him because of that Vow. I had to see if I could save him, if I could bring him forth from Sauron’s empire of stone.” Her words came faster, as if a dam had sprung a leak no larger than a fingertip. “I went into the land of evil, amongst vile and twisted creatures. They let me through the Black Gate, wary and wondering and making mockery, for they deemed I would never return through that portal alive. No injury befell me. No hand was placed upon me. No foul-bred ilk attempted to subvert my passage. Three thousand Orc followed me in a fetid march, watching.
“And I came to Barad-dûr and the Black Tower was newly being raised in that year. The portcullis closed behind me with a note of doom. Cerediron was there, just inside the jaws of the Tower, waiting. He knew me, but his mind was fixed on the Deceiver and I could not discern if he was spell-spoken or if his heart had truly gone dark. And Sauron laughed, clad as he was in a form more glorious than any being in Middle Earth, for I had come freely into the reach of his power and he perceived that I would not leave.”
She floundered, looked appallingly at the wizard and Gandalf reached a hand for her before he remembered himself and drew it back.
“How do you know when someone is corrupted to their very marrow and cannot be saved by any faith or love or true companionship?” she demanded of everyone and no one. “If you stay, can you lever and pry at the snare and retrieve them, restore them to fellowship? Do you try for ten summers and then give up? Twenty? Eighty, a hundred, a thousand and thirty—do you put a limit on how many years you hope and try when your years fail not?
“Do you wait until the sorcerer is sleeping? Away to war or made a captive himself? Vanquished to a spirit form? Or do you wait until something is strong enough to kill him and then see if your fallen companion is restored to their mind?
“When you have taken a Vow, does your Vow ever let you go without accusation? Is it when they do wrong? When they are led astray? When they are old? When they hurt you in their lost state? When they are crippled or faulty of mind beneath the thrall of a Maia? Do the great Vows recognize such things as this and let you free without recrimination?
“How many years do you remain faithful to a Vow you took? Is it based on their faithfulness and devotion to you … or based on your devotion and faithfulness to them?” She looked sternly at each of us. “And if you give up on the Vow you have taken … if you forsake the Vow, how do you live, then, if none of these questions are answered in your mind? Forever wondering if you failed because you were too weak to uphold what you swore? How do you betray your own Vow and then live?”
She tilted her face upwards at the moon, spoke with a last breath, “I took a Vow and I do not lay down or forsake my Vows. When I swear an Oath, it is with my life. No matter the cost.”
Gandalf the White could not touch her, but I could. I groped with a free hand and found hers, gripped her fingers with the hot heat of my own and she returned it reflexively a moment, then pushed me away.
“What Vow did you swear to Cerediron that could hold you against the evil of the Dark Lord?” whispered Legolas.
“He is my Heart,” she answered. “My life, my bright light, my husband. But by my side, he will never be again—he is lost in my dreams, walking in forgotten memories.”
I took her hand again and she thrust it away with more vigor. Her eyes were poignant, but her face strict.
“I do not need sympathy or a hand in mine. I have spent my life holding out and holding in.”
“Take my hand in yours,” I said sternly. “This is nothing about consoling you.”
She took my hand. I could feel the war of emotions in her, turbulent and chaotic, but beneath it laid the grim determination that drove her anger and irritability. I focused on that; the grit and fortitude that held her together and let my own strength of will touch hers. She blinked at me, looked at our hands. The chaos steadied. The bitter lines around her eyes faded.
“Cerediron did tragic and unforgivable things,” she continued softly. “The souls of Elves accuse him from beyond the world. The Songkeepers of the House of Maglor voted their decision and, Valdagerion, the Songmaster, declared him Forsaken and all those who went into Mordor with him. They set their will to build a curse and hide it within a song, one that would overcome all other songs, even the highest notes of the Ainulindalë. It would take nearly fifty years to craft such a work of magic, but when they sent it forth, it would silence every Elf of the House of Maglor outside their ring of strength. They meant to slay every Singer that had strayed into evil, be it of their own choosing or being led astray.
“Yet even Melkor was given the chance to repent and be forgiven and I had sworn my soul to Cerediron. I had to see if I could retrieve him from the Dark Lord’s lure; I had to see for myself that he was beyond hope or help, but it was difficult to determine if Cerediron was truly dead to good … or deceived by a power greater than all things in Arda.”
She shot a glance at Gandalf that bristled with venom and I understood the edge of it as if it had been leveled at me. I crushed her hand with all my strength, diverting her away from the wizard’s presence.
“How could I be sure, as long as Sauron held him?” she said lowly. “My lover, my soul, my Heart—how could I turn away if there was any sliver of hope? While Cerediron lived and Sauron lived, there was hope and I clung to that hope while the spindle of the world spun.”
“And then Sauron was slain,” whispered the archer. He stared somewhere off in the black of the night. “The Dark Lord fell and his power was crushed and you found no hope anymore.”
“I was taken North when Witch King was destroyed and secreted in the backlands of Mordor where no Men dwell. News traveled slowly. We heard rumors of war and of a battle at the Black Gate. I felt it when the Eye of Sauron fell, but found it hard to believe. The demon-spawn who guarded me slipped away and I stayed, waiting to be sent for if Cerediron yet lived. From thence, the remnant of Sauron’s mighty forces passed over the West rim and scattered into the vastlands.
“At last, I made my own way back across the burning ground of the Plateau of Gorgoroth, for Hitaur can always find his way to the land of his birth. I found my Heart and looked in his unfettered soul and finally knew the truth—he was broken, his magnificent fëa shattered. He was nothing of the Lord I loved. He could never come home again. Thousands of years in the shadows of the Lord of Barad-dûr had drained him to naught. The Blessed Realm would spurn him, and now me, for I have been used by evil to do evil.”
She looked up at the silent wizard.
“I waited and endured in hope. Perhaps it was my failing that I did not slay him when hope ended, but I was heartsick and shattered. I fled for a time and cared for the agony within. Now I return to the place where once I stood alone, frozen in the eye of forever, to make an ending of this terrible dance of ours.” Her smile was grim and ghastly. “Sauron dressed me in brilliant colors when I served him and I did not understand the irony; I have been a widow for a lifetime. Perhaps that is why I am so badly bent as an Elf.”
“Can you kill him?” asked the White Wizard. “For when the moment comes, Aragorn and Legolas will have no power against him and it is not for my hand to take his life. You had many means and many opportunities to slay him and you held your hand because of your Vow and your hope. Will you fail when we give you your opening?”
She was silent. I felt nothing through the palm of my hand; she was calm and tranquil as a mountain pool.
“I must kill him, for I have the only chance. He musters the foul breeds again now that he has recovered from the death of his master and the song of his soul is evil. I must kill him.” She sighed heavily, and then whispered, “I am tired. I have held fast to a Vow that failed me long ago. It is a relief to have no more doubt and know that my act now is without shame. I have no fear of dying; it is this living that takes so much work.”
“This is why you know where he is,” I said sadly. “Can he sense you as well?”
“He can, but he does not care.” She shrugged. “I have always been with him and around him. I have no wrath or anger in my spirit toward him; he discerns nothing amiss. No malice lies in me toward him ... just emptiness. A heart is a terrible thing to lose.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “All the rain is full of ghosts.”
We were silent, stricken. My eyes hurt without cause.
“He knew you?” asked Legolas. “Did he have aught to say for his treachery?”
“He knew me, but we did not live as Elves together,” she answered. “There were none of the trappings of lovers between us, no private conversations that hinted at affection. Sauron delights in the agony of his followers and saw to it that our time together was misery. There was malice and pain and mockery. It was always Cerediron that fastened me to the rape bed.”
I flinched despite myself, appalled and angered, though I had surmised that she had been used poorly this way. The degradation of the Elves by Morgoth was legend and his lieutenant had learned the same.
Gandalf was seemingly without mercy, for he asked bluntly, “Were there children from this forced coupling?”
“Of course there were children.” She seemed unsurprised by the question.
“What became of them?” asked Legolas. His fingers went quiet where they had been tracing the contours of the bow. “The Dark Lord corrupted them in the womb?”
“Not so,” she replied, “for the wombs of the Elves are more potent than his art. All of my children were born perfect and fair … only after they were born could he distort and defile their minds and souls. It was one of his chief pleasures to let me keep a child for a time.” Her tone became harsh and her grip tightened to pain. “I never knew how long he would wait … an hour, two weeks, a year. Of all the agonies I endured, this was chief—to try not to love the child I bore because it would be immolated before me or cursed into some ill form where it would linger and be hard used until it died.”
The archer was silent. His knuckle-white grip on the bow spoke for him. I remembered Arwen’s words of how Legolas had once longed for children of his own, felt sorrow in me like a wound.
“This is why you hate me,” said Gandalf very softly. His face was mournful. “Because your children were destroyed by the power of a fallen Maia.”
She stood, quick as a released spring. Legolas shot to his feet as if he would protect the wizard, but she made no move towards Gandalf.
“The Powers of Arda let Melkor live and his hatred of the Firstborn thrived in his heart, yet you saw it not. Then you released him from prison to do more harm against us until finally he was taken and cast from the world,” she accused. “But none of you hunted far enough, determinedly enough, to slay the evils that remained behind to torment our souls. You left them amongst us and delivered us to fate for six and a half thousand years!” She was fury without raising her voice, without moving. “I hate because of your power, because of your magic, because you are Maia—the representation of destruction. Because of beings like you, everything I have loved dearest and best in this world have been cruelly used and ruined. All my yesterdays are destroyed … and now I must slay that which I have loved more than myself.”
She turned away and none of us had any heart to halt her or call after her. She vanished into darkness and I was left with a stone where my stomach had dwelled.
“She hates you with the same blindness that I have hated her,” murmured Legolas. “The Forsaken are evil, the Maiar are the destroyers and not to be trusted…did I not once believe that the Dwarves were abominable things?”
“Determination and anger drive her,” I said. “The reins of rage are never far from her hand. Her life has been hollowed out by sorrow even as Túrin Turambar’s was in the First Age.”
“Abide,” said Gandalf the White, softly. He looked off into the darkness. “For a new Oath has been sworn and the placekeeper is here.”
Ránë reappeared just at the edge of the fire’s glow. She stood there, tall and dark and seemingly without breathing. I could feel the emotion pouring through her, yet she spoke not, nor moved. A mortal would have seethed and paced, but not the Eldar.
Then Legolas extended his hand and she studied it a moment as if something should be written there. Eventually, she touched just the tips of his fingers and he drew her by that brief touch back into the circle we shared.
I sensed no unease in her, only the willpower that formed the foundation of all Elves and I was comforted to be amongst such determined souls as these. We did not have great force of arms, but these that we had were stronger than fifty fighting Men.
“The White Wizard did not lie,” Legolas said quietly. “The curse of the House of Maglor does not properly apply to you, for you did not betray your people and oaths and forsake your brethren—you went to save one. You were not faithless and weak, you were stronger than they to dare the strength of Mordor instead of slay all from a safe distance. Shall courage and valor fade from the Firstborn? Nay, never. Not in a thousand, thousand years. I entered into this quest because of Aragorn, but now I enter it fully aware and in understanding.”
“And here is the wonder that I have found,” solemnly said Gandalf. “An Elf of Eregion who is guiltless of the doom pronounced against her House and has survived the extermination by Sauron. Nothing is by chance, nothing is ever by chance. She has endured and survived for a purpose.”
“To kill Cerediron,” Ránë said grimly.
“Perhaps,” said I. “But the Powers often use adversity to test and then refine those through whom they will work. I know this because I am one of them.”
“The Powers,” she said darkly. “They abandoned me and mine thousands of years ago.”
Gandalf the White stood with that surprising agility that perplexed those who focused upon his old features and he reached a hand for Ránë’s face, but halted just before touching.
Her wary watchfulness was back in full force and she tightened all over. “No magic, wizard, or you shall give all of us away,” she rebuked.
“You and yours have not been fully abandoned. I have come to save you, for you have been found worthy of saving.” His voice was solemn as if giving a promise. “Legolas has said it and I have said it, so an Elf and a Maia have vouched for you. One of your own kind and one who has power from on high.”
“And I deem her worth saving,” I said, and I spoke with the voice of the King. “What fate befalls our quarry must not drag her down with him.”
“You are all fools,” she countered. “I am Forsaken and cursed, a curse that has not lifted with the downfall of its Maker. A Singer does not live alone; there must be a counterpart, an echo somewhere else in the Earth power. It was how we ensured that there would always be two Songkeepers. There must never be only one or the desire for the magic would tempt him to wield too much authority.
“This is what we face,” she looked at each of us in turn, “a Songmaster who is nearly the last of his race, who has gone mad in the shadows, who is capable and willing to draw on all of Earth power to aid him and shield him. He can bend the magic within the songs of Earth and is unafraid to tear the balance. All sanity has been burned away from him. He will wrap a gentle tune about your throats and strangle you upon your horses and they will never discern it is happening until you fall from their backs.”
“Not so,” countered the White Wizard. “The High Magic of sacred Aman runs in the veins of Shadowfax and through the blood of his sons. No enchantment of Earth power can touch any of us but what our steeds will discern and give warning.” He smiled at all our surprised faces. “But I cannot take credit for such a boon. That was the Lord of Horses doing.”
I laughed and brushed a hand behind me where Talemon still stood, dozing upon his feet.
“The Valar do not always work through their wizard, I see,” I teased. “They will get our horses to save us!”
“They have saved us before,” observed the archer.
“Return to the subject,” implored Ránë. “None of you shall come face-to-face with Cerediron. He will kill you easily for you have no gift of song to defend yourselves. This is my task and I go alone.”
I looked at her, humored, remembering the Paths of the Dead. “Of course you will. And we shall go with you.”
“I have sworn an Oath and will not lay it aside,” said Legolas. “It is not such as the great Vows of the Eldar, but I will honor it the same. The stubbornness of Elves is not to be underestimated.”
“And I must attend to keep both of them out of trouble,” said Gandalf nonchalantly.
“No, no, no,” she admonished. “This was not our agreement, wizard. You said you could obtain a woodsman and guard to see us safely past Mordor’s borders and to the inland sea. That was the goal and we are nearly there.”
“I made no promises of what came after we reached the shore of Núrnen,” Gandalf said mildly. “I made certain to swear no Oaths to a Forsaken.”
She glared at him. “So I will have all of your deaths placed at my feet as well? Know you not that I will spend my afterlife in the company of Sauron and Morgoth and the haunts that have ruled me all my waking days? Shall you add more condemnation to what already condemns me?”
“Hauta!” commanded Gandalf the White sternly. “I have no intention of dying, nor letting any of you die.” He stabbed a finger at her. “While I live, you have hope, for I have come seeking for the last of the Singers of the Noldor and will not be swayed by argument or curses or threats of power on Earth. Greater things than these have reproached me.”
She laughed at him and I blinked to hear the mockery in that sound.
“Cerediron and I are bound by the Founders of the Songhouse. You cannot change what is woven into the fabric of our souls—when his song falls silent I will die. Our blood knows, the songs of earth know.” She looked at me. “If I did not know that Cerediron keeps another Singer alive in case some Orc caves my head in, I would have you just slay me outright to end him—but, alas, he is wise, my Heart, and he plans to live.”
“There are two?” I said, startled. “Then we must hunt for both of them.”
“This I did not know,” said Gandalf, frowning.
“Two or one or seventeen,” said Legolas calmly. He plucked the string of his bow to make it hum. “Does it really matter now? I think not.”
“Stubborn, obstinate, mulish …” she muttered.
I laughed and place a hand upon her shoulder. She was taut and turbulent as any steed pulling against the reins.
“Did you think the wizard alone was inflexible? Why do you think we bicker as children and are the staunchest of friends and make implacable foes? We each have our gifts and merits, but in tenacity, we are cut from the same weaver’s cloth.” I reached to put my other hand upon the White Wizard, for though Ránë could not touch him, I could touch him for her. “So we four, determined and unwavering, resolute towards the same goal … we shall march together to face this foe and nothing shall sway us from the mark save death.”
9. Beneath the Black Wind
Ránë was no quieter than her usual silent demeanor when the four hunters rose and broke camp, but all of them felt the weight of the previous evenings revelation. Legolas eyed the terrain ahead with more eagerness, as a hound straining for a scent. Aragorn spent a longer period of time than most tending to the Great Sword and honed the edge with a sharpening stone until it cut his skin with the slightest pressure. Ránë was taking the grassheads off with sling and stone from a hundred yards away and did not miss one.
The White Wizard was the most buoyant, as if gladdened by the unveiling of secrets. He whispered nonsense to Ashra and Talemon until they tossed their heads as if laughing and played, jostling together as if they were not in the maw of Mordor. Shadowfax drew off the wizard’s somewhat crumpled hat and shook it fiercely. Gandalf fastened his sword to his hip with two knots, perceiving a long days ride, and looked expectantly at the rest of them.
All their hungering for a brawl was curbed after nine sunturns of riding across the grassland plain without a sight of anything of merit. The sun baked all humor, all vigor, and all contemplation of retribution out of them. They tarried a few minutes at a spring to cool the horses and wet their napes, then doggedly rode on. Little was spoken.
The greatest event of the day was when Ránë espied a wild hog and both Elves crept after the wary beast until the archer drove it down a wash and Ránë speared it through the spine. The uproar of squealing was short, for Legolas flipped it by a hind leg and cut its throat. The Elves worked for a sunturn and had it gutted, quartered, and all the offal buried and then they were riding once more.
The evening meal was a feast, though none ate to excess. Legolas kept all the rib bones, for they would be savory in stews. Aragorn stripped out the tendons and laced up every piece of his riding gear for more strength. Ránë broke loose the lower jawbones and scraped the wet bone edges until they were sharp as curved knives. Gandalf rubbed a globule of the fat against the heels of both his feet and Ránë puzzled over this for a time.
“He is old,” said Aragorn. “The heat dries his skin until it cracks.”
“Does he not change his form?” she asked, surprised.
“No. He is as he was sent, with all the aches and crossness of the aged.”
Legolas laughed very lightly from nearby. “Are you sure his crossness is from being old or because he is simply cross?”
“Tittle tattle where I cannot hear you,” grumbled the wizard, stretched out with his feet propped over a log.
Aragorn drew again his map of Mordor, as he did nearly every night, and they gathered around to plot their progress and destination. A line of rocks marked the Ered Glamhoth, the southern boundary of mountains, and a crumple of grass marked the inland sea of Núrnen. The White Wizard carved the crooked rivers of Gurthrant and Culdiun and set a stick where the guard tower city of Thaurband was located. Ránë erased and redrew some of the lines to make the bends of the tributaries more accurate.
Legolas sat and watched and studied the map from all angles.
“Where are the caves?” he eventually asked. “Show us all the exits and entrances, which ones are accessed only from the sea and which from land.”
“None of you will enter the caves. It is a labyrinth and dimly lit.” Ránë turned her head to regard him. “It is likely that Cerediron has called the Haunts from their lairs with promises of souls to usurp. Trolluck guard the passages and the Olog-hai have returned, for since the downfall of the Dark Lord they cannot walk beneath sunlight anymore.”
“By the time we are at the caves of Núrnen, they will know we make war against them,” said Gandalf the White. “I will have the use of magic and the Mage light will pierce their scales and drive them back.”
She sighed irritably. “The males of every species are as intractable as the badger, who will give ground for nothing, not even a river flooding into its burrow! It will snarl and snap at the waters and drown instead of sensibly giving up the den and fleeing!”
“So you have spoken and so it is true,” said Legolas. “Spend less energy trying to deter us and more energy into helping us survive.”
“I have little to aid you,” she said grimly. “I entered the caverns with complete safety being a Singer of Sauron and needed no protection or way of escape. The Orc and trolluck will not harm me—they will take me where I wish to go. But you … they will muster their power against you and distract me from the goal.” She looked at them in turn. “You cannot help me, only hinder, and I have no hope of escape afterwards. I will be dead.”
“Nay,” said Aragorn. “Four will enter and if the Powers will it, four will return to sunlight.”
“I will not leave you to die in darkness,” said the archer directly.
“Do not be foolish,” she said crossly. She gestured at the Ranger and wizard. “These will have need of your cunning and strength. Leave the dead for they will not care.”
“I swore an Oath.” He gave the word emphasis and smiled his inscrutable smile. His eyes glittered, defiant.
“The dead keep no Oaths,” she countered.
“Cease this volley of words,” huffed the wizard. “I despaired trying to get you to trust each other and now that you trust better, you still quarrel! Must I always be shepherding about a pack of squabbling races?” He looked heavenward as if some aid was there. “No Vala warned me of this!”
Aragorn laughed aloud and both Elves shook from their argument enough to smile at his vexed tone.
“It is foolish to follow me to the very end,” she said to each of them. “Neither Ranger or archer can face Cerediron with any hope of gain and the wizard is warded off by cunning traps. What will you do when he snares you in the songs made for battle?”
“We will strive as we may and perhaps distract those who serve his purpose,” said Aragorn. “It is not likely he is alone and you will have need of us when you strike.”
“You will have one chance to destroy this evil,” reminded Gandalf the White. “Do not fail.”
She nodded gloomily.
For the next hour, Ránë described all she remembered of the limestone and granite laden caves of the cliffs. The descents into pure blackness, the narrow passageways carved between rooms that could hold two hundred Orc, and the meager torchlight guttering with cave wind. The sound of water dripping and churning endlessly in darkness. The scrambling of small things that lived beneath ground. The gnawing of dreadful vermin upon any scrap of food or wounded comrade left unattended. The shafts that the sea had drilled through sandstone that ended a thousand feet down in water.
Legolas was unable to calm the shiver that sped through his frame now and again—a reminder of that fateful day he had been buried beneath Minas Tirith.
They were silent and sober when she was finished, for their doubts had multiplied as shadows in a forest.
“I will go,” said Aragorn. “Though it is a dark and fearful place, still I will go.”
“And I will go,” said Gandalf, “for I petitioned for aid and received it from friends. I have trod uncertain ground all this while, but now my way is before me and I will not turn aside.”
“Where she goes, I will go,” said Legolas. “To look upon the Forsaken who has caused so much harm and the downfall of the Singers of the Noldor. I will fight if I may and if I am to die, my eyes will accuse him to the end.”
“I lead you only to death,” she said sadly.
“You are blameless for our deaths,” said the White Wizard. “It will not be laid to your account unless you fail to slay him.” He looked sternly down at her. “You must not hesitate.”
“You should not follow me,” she said darkly. “Did I not warn that you would be drawn into a pit with me? Did I not swear you off, wizard? If these die, it will be laid to your account. Every Maia I have known has thought nothing of sacrificing those around them as if their lives were of no value.”
“Peace,” said Legolas. “Mithrandir is not like the corrupted souls you have known. Do not lay their sins at his feet; he is for us, not against us.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But if a spell has been placed upon me for him—how do you know it is not to wholly corrupt him when it is sprung? Instead of a dark lord with eyes of flame, you shall have one with white robes that slowly destroys the world while watching with his kindly eyes.”
Gandalf spoke with that same formidable and stern voice they had heard when he renamed Ránë. It was the sound of water and avalanches and a gong sounding in the pit of the world and he looked into the west as if speaking to someone. He did no magic and the Great Staff was silent and cold, but every hair prickled at their napes and Ránë ducked as if some blow would fall.
When he ceased speaking, the final word lingered as if a ghostly afterglow.
“What did you do?” boldly asked Aragorn. He stood and faced the wizard.
“Take no fears upon yourself,” he said quietly. “Nothing I have done can alert any foes; there is no magic involved. I gave the Valar back my name.”
“What?” said Legolas. “Why have you done this?”
“If I am corrupted, they need only call my name and I will be unmade in this world and summoned to them.” He smiled benignly at them. “I am only held together by the grace of Manwë Súlimo and if He removes His will, I will die. So the world is safe even from me, though it must endure my crossness for a while longer yet.”
Later, when Ránë patrolled their tiny encampment, Aragorn squatted near the wizard. Gandalf was washing all the fatty oils off his feet and did not look up.
“You have reminded her at every turn that she must not fail to slay Cerediron,” quietly said Aragorn. “You must have reason to believe she will fail.”
“Think of Arwen and of your love for her.” Gandalf looked up at him. “Think of the passion that heats your blood at nightfall, and the joy that greets every dawn with her. Remember the times you have knelt in prayers, asking to be made worthy of her affection and respect. Is she not your whole life and the living of it?”
“She is,” he replied and longing nearly choked his words.
“Elrond’s Daughter, your Beloved one, your desire,” said the wizard gently. “Now think of being required to take up the knife in your own hand and slay her—and you will sip what Ránë faces with her own love, her Lord, her Heart. For despite his evils and the ills he has bent her to, she has never allowed Sauron or his machinations to destroy her love for her lover. She came freely to Mordor, the only Elf to do so without any of Annatar’s skillful plotting, and Sauron delighted in the fact that she came and then remained, free of any charms on his part. The Dark Lord could do what he wished with her body and force Cerediron to treat her poorly, but she locked up her heart around her Vow. Her affection remained, guarded and kept burning, unyielding to violence and terror and darkness.
“Now the mighty is fallen and the hope that sustained her has been strangled. While you have twined your heart fully with your Beloved, her love withered as fruit on the vine and finally died. Her heartbreak is fresh, her soul hollow.” Gandalf looked pityingly up at him. “She goes to slay a lover she has defended thousands of years from assault—could you draw a blade across Arwen’s throat in the night?”
Aragorn said nothing. He stared into the dark plain long after the wizard retired.
They slept and rose and rode onward, angling back towards the sea that lifted a haze of moisture into the far horizon. Game picked up as they entered the basin formed long ago by the original sea, for the ground was rich with sediments. Quail appeared and raced off into the tall grasses. There were foxes and pigeons and grouse, the latter of which Ránë struck off its log perch with the sling. The doves were mournful sounding even in bright morning and it echoed their somewhat somber mood.
The clouds far away gathered and darkened, gradually spreading across the sky toward them. Rain was an unlooked for boon, for it would stifle the dust and erode tracks. The Ranger stood in his stirrups to gauge the uncertain clouds. Legolas also paused and studied them.
“Rain?” asked the archer.
“I do not know,” replied Aragorn. “The clouds are dark enough to carry rain, but whether they will drift this far to us, I cannot tell.”
“We must leave the gullies and take to the higher ground,” said Ránë. “The air from the southern mountains will collide with the storm over this plain and flash floods are common. I should like a bath, but one in such a boil of water is not what I wished for.”
Legolas turned his head, laughing, but he sobered upon seeing the wizard for Shadowfax had halted and he snorted at the faraway clouds as if a warning.
Gandalf, too, gazed warily at the approaching storm and his fingers shifted upon the White Staff by habit. “Shadowfax is uneasy and the clouds do not look right,” he said. “Do my eyes deceive?”
Both archer and Ranger turned and stared at the storm more carefully. The color was uniform, the clouds roiled and stacked as they usually did … there was nothing untoward that either could see and they spoke as much.
Ránë pulled abreast of them and Hitaur laid his ears back by habit and champed his bit, irritably. “I see nothing amiss,” she said. “What do you discern, wizard?”
“I do not know,” he sighed. He pulled the rim of his torturous hat down and then shoved it up again indecisively. “Perhaps I am only tired.”
“What vexes you?” asked Aragorn. “This day is no more arduous than any other. Where do your thoughts lie?”
“We drawn nigh the inland sea,” he replied solemnly. “Our fate and task is almost upon us. The ominous clouds simply feed my fretting.”
Ránë looked at the archer, astonished. “He is afraid? When does a Maia fear?”
“When he has someone to lose,” replied Legolas, without malice. “The more irritable Mithrandir becomes, the more dire our path.”
She pondered this, mystified.
“I see nothing wrong with the sky, Gandalf,” said Aragorn. “Let us ride until we reach the Tham Spring.” He pointed ahead, where a copse of trees sprawled. “We will shelter there and decide how best to approach the sea.”
They rode on and the clouds continued to pile until the sun was obscured. The wind gathered their garments and tugged, blew off the wizard’s hat and forced him to dismount and catch it. Ránë’s hair tangled about her forehead and her dark hood would not stay put. The steeds grew energized with the wind and trotted, tossing their heads with the scent of rain in the air. Shadowfax went with his sons, but his dark eyes never left the approaching clouds. Hitaur ceased hanging back and cantered to catch up; he had scented the spring beneath the trees.
But along the last league of the distance, the mist of rain began falling and away to their right, the sky streamed down in a black veil. Aragorn drew up to study it and Talemon pricked his ears towards the horizon. A flicker-flash of lightning shot through the dark of falling rain.
“Flood,” warned the ranger.
“Higher ground,” ordered Gandalf and Shadowfax turned eastward and started up the slope.
They were none too soon, for a rivulet of water sprang into being in the gully. It quickly became a tumult of muddy water and logs and grasses and they turned to look upon it. The banks of soft dirt soaked up water, split, and then fell into the rushing stream. Tall islands of grasses were spun away and then folded under.
Ránë, however, did not pause to stare at the flash flood, for Hitaur was eager to be free of the rain. They trotted up the hillside. By the time the mearas were also atop the hillock, the black gelding was nearly a hundred paces away.
The Lord of Horses snorted, halting so abruptly that the White Wizard gripped his mane to steady himself and held the staff sidelong for balance. Ashra nearly collided with his Greatsire, for he was partially watching the flood below.
“What is it?” demanded Aragorn. His hand was on the hilt of Andúril though no foe was in sight.
“I do not know,” said Gandalf. Thunder growled above their heads and Shadowfax whinnied as if in answer. “Something in this storm is not to his liking!”
Hitaur spun with a squall ahead of them and Ránë looked up in fright.
Suddenly, lightning struck the ground between the gelding and the watching stallions and it shuddered the earth and rang a din inside every skull. The snarl of thunder behind it hit them in the chest almost palpably. Every horse scattered in terror.
Hitaur called wildly and Shadowfax answered his fright, for beyond all differences of lineage and despite foul charms, he was the Lord of Horses. The white stallion turned and plunged back toward the panicky gelding, carrying the White Wizard with him.
Then, while Aragorn fought to keep himself horsed amidst panic and Ashra bolted along the rim of the hillside, Gandalf flung himself from his steed and ran, for Hitaur had thrown Ránë headlong. The gelding raged and galloped circles as if some unseen hand drew his reins. The wizard’s grey cape lifted and streamed behind. His tall hat swirled away amongst grasses waving as choppy seas.
Ránë staggered to her feet, stunned. She stared up at the sky disbelievingly and cried some unknown word up at the churn of clouds, but then she saw both her terrorized mount and beyond him, Gandalf afoot with the great cloak flying behind him.
“The Maker!” she shouted into the rip of wind and held up her arms as if to halt the charge of the wizard. “Go back! He commands the lightning’s hand!”
But Gandalf did not stop his sudden sprint; he cast aside the White Staff and let the tattered cloak ribbon its way free. By the time he had crossed the distance, the storm overhead had gathered its strength and the breath of earth paused for the bolt of lightning. Ránë fell and covered her head.
The White Wizard reached her just as the air changed. He conjured no magic and he cast no counter spell—he lifted his hands above her and looked up into the sheeting wind and clouds as a man looks upon death: open and naked and vulnerable.
“Manwë!” he cried—
—And then the bolt hit him, catastrophic in power, and the wizard bent beneath the scourge of energy as it traced his outline and set fire within every bone. He went to his knees and a new sound entered the tumult of noise: a man screaming in unbearable torment. A nimbus in the shape of the kneeling wizard burnt itself in every eye.
In a blink, it was over and the thunder clapped deafeningly, swallowing the horrified cry of Aragorn and the harsh command of Legolas as he turned Ashra from his fearful run. Overhead, the clouds suddenly rushed in a whorl as if some vortex had caught them and the wizard lay beneath, staring.
Shadowfax thundered up to Gandalf and whinnied, struck at the ground twice, as if summoning. Aragorn was swift to arrive upon Talemon, but not as swift as Ashra. The archer threw himself off on the run and his speed kept him from falling. He was at the wizard’s side in a second.
“Do not touch him!” he cried to Ránë, for she reached for the wizard without thought.
“Do not touch him either,” she shot back. She pointed to where eddies of charge seemed to writhe upon Gandalf’s bare skin and across his garments. “That is not lightning! Quick, we must get him to water! It will bleed off the power more quickly.”
The wizard gasped as if air would not come and slowly turned face down, pressing his brow into the sodden ground with a terrible sound.
“Bring his wand to lead him!” ordered Legolas to Aragorn. “He cannot be touched and he cannot walk.”
The archer hovered, torn by his eagerness to help and yet cautioned away. There was a stench of burning hair and singed clothing that hung midair and the Great Stallion circled them all warily, watching every direction. His anxious calls compounded their own fretfulness.
Aragorn seized the White Staff and discovered its properties had not changed with the wizard’s crisis. It rippled and shuddered, as slippery as oil and difficult to grasp. He wrapped his arms around it and still it slithered evasively through his grip as he herded it along toward its master. It took all his will and a constantly shifting hold to travel the distance to the wizard and at no point did he ever feel he actually closed his hand about it.
Legolas found the staff just as unwilling to submit, but he nudged the rod until Gandalf’s fingers touched it and the wizard, blindly struggling with some urgency they could not discern, closed his hand reflexively around the center of the shaft. The White Staff went solid.
“Pick up the other end,” said Legolas and together, the archer and Ranger pulled the wizard to his feet.
“Down the hill. The spring is near,” called Ránë. Her voice was calm, but the anxiety about her eyes was difficult to miss. “Lead him straight into the water.”
“What is this pale fire?” demanded Aragorn.
“I do not know!” she returned, just as harried and pressed.
“Ask no questions,” barked the archer. “Concentrate on our path.”
It was an anxious trio that framed the wizard and they led him stumbling and weaving down to the muddy edge and Gandalf staggered into the spring until it reached his waist. The silk-spun shirt clung to him and a line of bluish fire followed the waterline up like a live thing. He tipped forward into the water with a groan of pain and sank. The lingering charge vanished without a sound.
“I will tend him for I have the strength.” Legolas was already shedding his shirt, vest, and hopping out of his breeches. Then he was out through the mud and snake grasses and plunging in after the White Wizard.
Thus it was the archer who pulled Gandalf up from the cold water and turned him in his arms. He floated unresponsively and Legolas framed his face with his hands, speaking patiently, coaxingly. He whispered and sang and combed fingers through the white beard and tugged on the white hair floating atop the water, willing him to wake.
“We must build a fire; he will be cold to the marrow,” said Ránë, but then, as if discerning the Ranger’s anxiety, she added, “I will do it. You wait to see if Legolas needs aid.”
Eventually Gandalf opened his eyes and stuttered some word. The archer put his brow against the wizard’s in relief a moment, then levered him upright and worked open the buttons of the soaked shirt. He unlaced breeches and untied boots, supporting with one arm and stripping with the other. One article at a time, the archer pitched clothes from the spring and Aragorn caught each one.
Gandalf revive poorly, in fits and starts framed by moments that he failed and lay limp against the Elf’s strength, but eventually the cold water reached through the barrier that held him prisoner. By the time Ránë returned with flint and firestarter, the wizard was shivering on his knees in the spring and his hair hung dripping around his face.
Aragorn forced his attention to the necessity of the fire and had it lit in a few minutes. Ránë fed it dry fuel and built it up quickly. The Ranger levered boulders against one side of the flames to catch the heat and hide it at the same time. Ránë wrung out the wizard’s clothes with vengeance, as if they were to blame for present circumstances, and Aragorn said nothing to sway her impotent rage. His own fingertips bled from furiously rolling stones.
They worked together without needing directives, for Gandalf wept as if fatally wounded in the grip of the archer and the sound held them silent, torn and afraid.
It was nearly a full sunturn before the archer led the wizard from the water. Aragorn trod the mud and took one of Gandalf’s hands; found it warm despite the old man’s shivering. They drew him pale and drowned to the fire. Legolas draped a blanket over his head and shoulders and left the front open to the fire. A tin of hot tea had to be held for him and Aragorn sat close to give him sips. Shadowfax, hung his head over the wizard’s shoulder with a snort and nosed at him without a returned response.
Nothing was spoken, for Gandalf was incapacitated. Ránë returned from a survey around the spring and drew near the shattered trio who huddled close.
“What was that storm?” asked Aragorn. “I heard you shout ‘the Maker’ and ‘lightning’, but that is all I could make out before Talemon bolted away with me.”
“Cerediron,” she said bitterly. “He has discovered that I seek him with ill intention. How he knows, I cannot say. Perhaps a pigeon was loosed from the slave farm or perhaps we have been spotted from afar. The first bolt of lightning missed, but I could sense Cerediron’s will behind it. He sought for my soul and found it … the second attack was guided specifically. He meant to kill me.” She looked upon the wizard. “You should have turned away, for when he encountered you, he bent his full will against the strength of your soul and made discovery. Now he knows what you are.”
Gandalf said nothing. He hung his head as if all willpower was gone.
“Why is he choosing now to slay you? Is he not bound to your fate?” demanded Legolas.
“Do I have all the answers to such riddles? Do I know the plans Cerediron has?” she retorted. She gestured sharply at the wizard. “Do you know every secret riddle of this Maia? There is another Singer besides we two, held in secret. Obviously Cerediron has decided I am no longer useful to have alive.”
“We hunt the wrong quarry,” said the archer. “We need to make an end to the other Singer, then hunt for Cerediron! If we do not, you will be slain before we can find him!”
“I cannot find the other Singer; I am not bound to him or her!” she retorted. “They were hidden away long ago, by Sauron himself, to be sure his favorite survived all upheavals.”
“Stop, stop,” said Aragorn. He lifted the tea and gave the wizard another sip. “We are angry at a common foe, not each other. Peace be amongst us.”
Ránë sighed breathily and combed a hand through her unkempt hair. She looked more gaunt and serious than usual, brittle as frozen grass.
“There was a terrifying song wrapped within the heart of the second bolt and I do not know what harm it caused the Maia. I warned him away,” her voice dropped to a whisper and she looked at the sluggish wizard, “I warned him away and still he advanced. Why didn’t he stop?”
“Because,” grated the wizard in a raspy voice, “I came to save you.”
They blinked at him, astonished, thinking him incapable of discernment. It was Ránë who returned to the question.
“He might have killed you. Next time he comes for me,” she said softly, fiercely, “do not get in the way.”
“I will always be in the way.” He turned his head slightly towards Aragorn but his eyes did not focus. “I am weary.”
They made a bed of packs and blankets and laid him out with a groan. Ránë paced, muttering, while they saw to him. The wizard shivered in fits and his fingers clasped the fabric of the blankets convulsively, as if some remnant of battle raged dimly. His hands were hot when Legolas took one in his own, but the archer could feel all the tendons writhe.
“What is this skirmish that you tend, Mithrandir. Is there ought we can do to aid you?” he asked.
“You cannot help me,” whispered Gandalf. His eyes were red rimmed and stark against pale skin. “I go alone.” But then his vision focused upon the archer’s fair visage looking down at him. “I will not give you up—not you, not her, and not Aragorn.”
He said nothing more. His eyes faded from their presence as if he fell. Aragorn took the Maia’s other hand and clasped it. Every thread of the wizard’s presence seemed to be unraveling from a spinning spool.
“I have no skill for this,” Aragorn said softly. “Darkness is falling where I have always discerned light. Would that Ioreth or Laleth were here—they would know what to do!”
They waited the hours restlessly, watching over their injured companion. Ránë took the duty of the first watch and then the second. Legolas took the third watch, for the White Wizard had not stirred or made any outcry through the long hours. It was bleak dawn before he moved with a groan and Aragorn carefully sat him up.
“My hands ache,” whispered the wizard. “And there is a howling inside my head.”
“I can give you some bitterroot, but without eating something first, it will turn your insides.”
“No … no bitterroot,” said Gandalf. “Just let me sit.”
“Tea?”
“Tea.”
Aragorn held the tin for him and Gandalf raised no objection. The tips of all his fingers were dark and the fingernails scorched black.
“We found Glamdring upon the plain and retrieved it. Your Great Staff is at your feet. Shadowfax and all the horses are well, so is Ránë.” Aragorn recited all they had done calmly. “The area is quiet and we have seen no sign of any foes.”
“Let me abide a sunturn.” Gandalf’s voice was frail. “If I can be put on Shadowfax’s back, then we can ride on for he has the power to keep me astride. I will not be of use if we come upon our enemies soon. Perhaps a day, perhaps less, and then I will be fit.”
“What happened?” asked Legolas. “It was lightning, yet it swarmed across your skin long after the bolt ceased. Only water seemed to break its grip upon you.”
“I do not know,” he replied. Lines of pain lingered around his eyes. “I only know the grip of it, the rending as if something gave way within me. Every thread of my fëa was plucked like harp strings and something slid like a knife along the boundary between my soul and body, a place wherein I have not been touched since Ilúvatar touched me last. It was crafted of melody, but the song of it could not seize me properly. Amidst the terror and agony, I could not even look for Ránë to see if she survived.”
“I survived,” said Ránë. She had returned quietly from scouting. “And I know what he did to you.”
“You said you did not know.” Aragorn looked up accusingly.
“I was not sure until now.” She squatted to look in the wan face of the wizard. “Your description of it matches what I perceived. He was trying to seize me with the song and magic that created the Elves and had he succeeded, I would have died upon the plain.” Her expression was grim. “The Maker seized the fabric of your fëa with one of the lesser anthems of the Ainulindalë—he tried to unmake you.”
Legolas twitched as if something had pricked him. Aragorn, less attuned to such things, still felt a thrill of uncertainty and fear. It deepened when Gandalf closed his eyes against her words.
“I did not teach Cerediron any of the melodies of the Old Powers though he demanded and pleaded for my knowledge. Sauron must have taught him the song that gives life to the Eldar,” she said grimly. Her eyes were terrible. “And he also taught him how to manipulate it, for no Songkeeper, nor any Elf of any nation, would have the lore of how to tear the magic out of a living soul.”
“This sin cannot be forgiven,” Legolas said darkly. “Even if all that came before was forgivable, this is not.”
“She needs no reminders,” said Gandalf.
“How did you endure?” she asked. “Even though you are not Eldar, you still have a body as host and its fragile form can be destroyed by such a work of power. Did you cast some spell to save yourself?”
“I spoke no charms,” replied he. “I was created from Eru’s thoughts—not the Ainulindalë. The Song of Creation has great power, but the Father of All has written a name upon my fëa that cannot be easily undone.” He looked directly in her eyes. “And I was not utterly alone in that attack, for I called upon the Master of the Winds and He heard me from His temple and answered.”
“Manwë Súlimo,” breathed the archer.
“The Elder King. The clouds spun in a vortex above our heads, did you see?” His eyes were proud, though his voice remained faint and frail. “There is only one hand that commands the airs of Arda.”
“Did I not say that the eyes of the Valar still rest upon you?” gently chided Aragorn. He smiled into the wizard’s face. “You should listen to me, Gandalf.”
“I always listen to you.” His tone regained some of its usual vigor. “I just do not believe you some of the time.”
“He knows we are here and that we are seeking him,” said Ránë dismally. “Beyond that, he knows I travel in the company of a Maia and he will be thrice as cautious. All hope of surprise is lost.”
“Hope of surprise is lost,” interjected Aragorn. “But hope yet remains, for we have knit our ranks and the wizard has survived a mighty test. Now we shed uncertain creeping and the White Rider can wield his power fully in our defense.” He paused and looked at the three companions. “I am grateful the stealth is over.”
“He will strike again,” said Ránë warningly to the wizard. “He will exert his effort for he can find me through the bond between us. These others are easily subdued, he will spend little effort upon them while you and I live.”
“Next time, he will find me ready to defend my soul.” Gandalf looked up and the old challenge was back in his eyes. “And he will find me at the doorway of yours as well, girded with a hook and a sword! He will not make such a step more than once, for though I may not kill him, he will feel the burn of my rage like a brand upon his fëa!”
She reached without thought as if to touch him, but Aragorn intercepted her hand gently. The light of some strong emotion worked through her visage and the Ranger felt the intensity of it through his fingers.
“I cannot even touch you,” she said. “I am cursed and Forsaken … why have you done this? Why would you risk yourself for the fallen?”
“Herein lies the mystery of mercy,” Gandalf said gently. “I came seeking that which was lost, be it rings or Kings or the fading lineage of the Songkeepers of the Noldor. Did I not name you as a wandering and straying soul?” He reached almost to touch her face. “I came to set you free and lead you home.”
“He will slay you!” she cried. “If it is true that you are a good wizard, then Middle Earth needs you. Do not throw your life away for a Forsaken One!”
“It will not be the first time I have died to save those in my care,” he countered softly.
Ránë sat back upon her heels and contemplated his words. Emotions raced through her eyes and settled to something discarded, yet pleading. A puppy kicked in the street without reason that still looks up in hope.
“Is it so hard to say the words, Ránë?” gently asked Gandalf.
“Yes,” she answered simply.
The wizard sighed and looked at the burnt tips of his fingers, touched two or three gently together as if testing the tenderness.
“You remind me of the One who made you,” he eventually said. “Determined and courageous, full of passion and loyalty. All the Eldar are things of beauty and strength and purity of mind: a manifestation of the soul of Eru Ilúvatar. Each of His Children are reflections of a portion of Himself and if bound together in perfect harmony and holiness, they will contain the sum of everything He loves. All His good works made flesh.” He smiled, looked from Legolas to Ránë. “Stubbornness is just another word for tenacity and I have never met an Elf who did not have a full cup.”
“I believe you,” she said abruptly, resolutely. “I believe in your goodness and wisdom. I have been abased and abused by a Maia most of my life, but you … you are not such as he. You are of a different kind than all I have known.”
“Trust,” pressed Gandalf. “I must have your trust.”
“You have my trust,” she answered solemnly, though she sounded somewhat fearful to say it.
He closed his eyes as if weary. “If pain is the only price I must pay to gain your trust, then I have done well for an old wizard. Let us eat and then ride on, though I must go slow for a time.”
Shadowfax skillfully bore the Istari in his weakness, though Aragorn and Legolas rode nearer than usual. Gandalf shook off lingering hurt while they traveled and by midday, his eyes were bright. It was late afternoon when he untied the White Staff from his waist and held it. The archer saluted with a shout and galloped ahead to join Ránë at point.
“I am grateful to have you back,” said Aragorn. Talemon was close enough to his Greatsire to bump their knees.
“I am grateful to have the contemplation of the Valar, for though they have not given me sanction, neither do they forbid. I travel with a lighter heart,” returned Gandalf.
“Can Cerediron destroy me from a distance this same way?” Aragorn sounded neither dismayed nor particularly afraid. “And is Legolas also in danger now that we are discovered?”
“Melkor, as Vala, knows the majority of the Ainulindalë, but I doubt he taught it to Sauron, lest his lieutenant grow conceited,” said the wizard. “Arrogance keeps those craving power from sharing every dark art that they know. Sauron, likewise, did not share power readily. He obviously taught Cerediron the melody that sustains Elves, yet I think it unlikely that The Maker knows much beyond this.” He glanced aside at Aragorn and his voice was stern. “We are all in danger from the lesser Earth power that he commands, but the archer is warded in mysterious ways and so are you. The sorcery of Cerediron will find the way is very slippery to strike at either of you.”
Aragorn pulled up, perplexed, and Shadowfax turned without guidance and brought Gandalf close.
“How am I warded and by whom?” he asked, bewildered.
Gandalf’s smile was kindly. He drew his right thumb down Aragorn’s forehead, the familiar benediction of old, and heat swirled through that touch clear to the back of his skull.
“It is you!” said Aragorn, surprised. Then he laughed. “I should have known there was a reason for your interest back when I was merely a child named Estel! Have you seen this journey of ours in your mind all these years and known you must care for me?”
“Nonsense,” huffed Gandalf and he turned Shadowfax away and resumed the pace. “I have told you many times that I cannot see the whole future—only parts of it. Usually the parts that do not matter! I paid attention to you because you were going to be the King of Gondor.” He glanced at Aragorn and spoke cheerfully. “It is always handy to have the ruling Kings as your friends. Look at Théoden, King of the Mark, and now Éomer? The Thanes of the hobbits and Elrond, Master of Rivendell? Lord Celeborn and Galadriel? I can travel the whole of Middle Earth and always find a soul to take me in out of the weather.”
Aragorn chuckled, nudged Talemon to keep abreast with his Greatsire and rode silently a long while.
“I cannot remember the first time you put your hand upon my brow like that,” he said thoughtfully. “But you have done it often enough that it is as familiar as your voice.”
“I protected you long ago, though it is not a safeguarding that could completely thwart a mage attack. Such a charm would drain my soul to the edge to place it in a mortal,” muttered the wizard. He was worrying at a cocklebur caught on his trousers. “It is only enough that my fëa will sense yours under assault and be able to aid you. It alerted me at the Tower of the Rising Moon when evil snared you.” He looked seriously at Aragorn. “I had to know if Sauron attempted to overthrow the last of the line of Kings. As it were, you were kept quite safe, quite hidden, all your years of growing up.” He shook his head, bemused. “Sauron’s spies never found you.”
“Why have you never told me that I had such protection?”
“Because you must become strong in your own right, in your own strength and upon your own deeds.” The White Wizard smiled, supremely pleased. “And you grew up mighty, both in mind and spirit … mighty enough to bait the Dark Lord through a Palantiri. And when Sauron spoke to you before the Black Gate, all your fortitude was firmly set upon the right path and could not be swayed by his deceitful promises.”
“I would not serve the cause of evil!” said Aragorn decisively. “Even if my choice was service or death!”
“You belong to the army of light, not the denizens of the Void,” whispered Gandalf. His voice sounded somewhat tearful and Aragorn reached a hand for the wizard’s sleeve, concerned.
“Pay me no attention,” said Gandalf. “I am still tender from the assault of a Songmaster. It will pass. Let us hurry, lest the Elves become alarmed that we fall behind.”
“You did not tell me how Legolas is warded,” called Aragorn as they cantered.
“It is not time to unravel the mystery of the Son of the Morning,” replied Gandalf. “Be patient, Aragorn. I can not do everything at once; I am just an old wizard!”
Their foe did not strike in the morning or in the afternoon. It was late in the evening, as the summer sun faded past the horizon and the temperature finally began to plummet from the heat of the day. This time, it was subtler than a summer thunderstorm … a wind picked up in the distance.
Shadowfax halted as he had before and snorted, stared off at the open range. Talemon halted as well and tossed his head, uneasy.
“Just as before,” said Gandalf. “The mearas sense this misuse of Earth power, for it is a vile thing instead of the good purpose of such magic in Arda.”
“Where?” demanded Aragorn. “Do you see anything?” He stood in his stirrups and called to Legolas. “What do you see ahead that is out of place?”
“Nothing,” replied the archer. “Just wind from the north.” He turned Ashra about and then stood upon the stallion’s haunches, balancing with the bow in one hand. He gazed long and then dropped to the steed’s back. “There is something amiss with that wind—it only disturbs a narrow corridor of the grasses and comes straight as a launched arrow to us!”
“Legolas, Aragorn—scatter! Ránë, come to me!” ordered the wizard. He slipped down from Shadowfax’s back and clapped a hand on the stallion. “Take them, lead them to safety.”
Ránë turned her head and saw the unnatural wind. Hitaur squealed at it and pawed angrily. A wave of emotions cascaded through her face, from fear to sorrow to resignation.
“You must live to see them out of this land,” she called back determinedly. “With you, they will have a chance to survive, for he cannot find you without me.”
“No one in Middle Earth has a chance to survive if Cerediron lives! He is the Songmaster of Arda!” shouted Gandalf the White. “Who shall hide from him when he commands the whole of Earth power without the temperance of you? Even if he never lays hold of the deep power of the Ainulindalë, the lesser songs will flay the land! You must live!” He held forth a hand, summoning. “You must trust me, Ránë! Come!”
“You can slay him,” she shouted. “You are a Maia!”
“I cannot slay him; that task is appointed to you.” His tone was compelling and direct. “Foolish Elf, do you not see? It is the only way to save you! All your suffering shall be for naught if you cannot be redeemed! This is your test of trust—is there truth in your words, or do you deceive me?” He set the Great Staff heel down, stretched his fingers as if to snatch her and spoke with the authority of the White Wizard. “Come!”
Thus, though no charm or spell was conjured to force her decision, Ránë came. At the last moment, she flung herself from Hitaur and scrambled through the tall grasses to stand near the wizard. The black gelding peeled off from their position and the Lord of Horses swept past him, leading, galloping away towards a ravine.
“Stand perfectly still before me,” commanded Gandalf. “He will see you before he sees me.”
“He knows you are here … he will find you…” she said without turning.
“By then,” he shifted the Great Staff to his right hand, “it will be too late.”
The wind came straight as an arrow, but just as Ránë’s hair stirred and she made a hoarse sound of pain, a concussion shook through the firmament and the rod flared incandescent. A note sounded in the air, though it was so deep as to be felt more than heard, and the bedrock of the ground hummed it back. All the grasses shivered. The wind twisted evasively and spun and took on a mist in color, but the White Wizard lifted the staff over his head and it was as if the tail of the wind were a kite string, whipping round and round the apex.
Gandalf held his left hand high and sang softly into the cotton-like wind caught by the staff and the air shuddered and lunged. The Great Staff bucked like a steed. The clouds streaked away from above the rod as if some explosion drove them and blue sky bloomed like a pool directly overhead.
A shriek sounded in the air, high and horrified and terrible, and then there was silence.
The wind was gone.
“What did you do?” Ránë said, stunned by how suddenly it was over.
“He sings old and potent songs as his weapon, tools of Earth power never meant to be used for such malice,” answered the wizard gently. “But I know much older songs of magic than he, for my loyalty and steadfastness to the Elder King earned them. I know the melody of the fathomless Void, the empty place between the stars from which there is no returning. The dread of it consumes the mind and unknots the bones. The terrors of the unmade linger within that refrain, a sobbing and gnashing of teeth.” He looked vengefully off in the far distance and his face grew hard. “Now that refrain spins inside Cerediron’s soul, unable to be forgotten or defeated by any song he has ever heard.”
She bowed upon her knees and the wizard looked startled, then alarmed. He knelt upon a knee with his right arm curled about the staff, unable to touch her or raise her face.
“What is it? What harm is left?” he demanded.
“No harm,” she whispered. “You know both the fullness of the Ainulindalë and also the song of the Void. Is that not enough to cause me to kneel?”
He closed his eyes in pity, held one hand over her head without touching her.
“Peace, Ránë,” he said gently. “I will never sing that song for you, nor did you hear it then—I sang only for his ears. Lift your eyes to me.”
He studied her very seriously. “I will not harm you, I will not spell-speak you, I will not enslave you. I am here to preserve you. Trust my words. Trust Legolas, with whom you have sworn a warrior’s oath. Trust the Ranger who plies his skill to this task. You, who have been betrayed in every corner of your being, trust me to speak the truth at the right time and the right place.”
“I will trust you,” she whispered. Her voice was small as a child’s.
“I will pray for you, for I know you do not pray,” gravely said the wizard.
“I … can’t.”
“I know. There are times when even I cannot, though I usually find my way back to being able to pray,” he said. “You are just taking more time to get there.”
Thus it was that when Aragorn and Legolas arrived, they found Ránë kneeling before Gandalf and the wizard floated a hand over her head as he spoke. His words were soft and in that tongue both familiar and completely foreign to their ears. The archer leaned upon the Great Bow and closed his eyes to listen and Aragorn knelt with his right palm upon the hilt of his sword until the prayer ended.
“That was swift,” said Legolas. “We barely were out of sight in the rocks before Shadowfax was leading us out again.”
“What did you do?” asked Aragorn.
“Do not ask,” replied the wizard. “Cerediron will not be back to torment us as he did today and that is a good thing, for I am starving! Why haven’t you a camp made yet?”
Ránë laughed wildly, as if some boundary that held her had been removed, and called to Hitaur.
“A fire and food and your pipe,” she said. “You are a simple Maia to keep happy!”
“That he is,” agreed Legolas, searching the terrain. “But I would wager that Mithrandir wishes we had wine.”
“Wine,” said Gandalf. “I miss that more than a soft bed!”
10. Exiles Children
“Tell us of this other Singer,” asked Legolas of Ránë. The firelight flickered cheerily upon their faces where they gathered close. “You said they were hidden long ago, a captive to ensure Cerediron’s survival if something should befall you?” He pondered less than an instant. “It was a female, I wager.”
“Yes, most likely a woman. Sauron hid her both in case I died and to ensure that the connection between the Old Power and the Singers would continue.” She shrugged and sipped her tea thoughtfully. “The strength and skill with the magic lived in the males, but the birthright and the avenue to the magic passed through the females. The wisdom of the Founders, those who called upon all the minstrels of the Noldor to make the House of Maglor, made it so.”
She glanced at Gandalf as if to confirm her words and he nodded back gravely.
“The Founders looked back upon the history of the Noldor concerning their great craftsmen,” said the wizard. “They judged that if the wife of Fëanor had had more influence upon him, his attitude towards the Silmarils might have been different. His Beloved would have swayed his mindless fixation on the Great Jewels, devotion that was becoming zealous obsession. The vow of his sons, the flight and banishment of the Noldor was yet to come, but even then, the wise understood the necessity of shared power. They witnessed that one Elf had a tremendous gift and would throw away the blessing of the Valar and the wonder of sacred Aman in his greed of it. He already permitted none save his close family to look upon his Jewels, hoarding them protectively behind his fortress walls.
“The Noldor who wove the connection to the Ainulindalë into their souls determined that the males would have the capacity to wield the power, but it would be through the females’ bloodline that the heritage was passed down. All who responded to the call, the poets and bards and minstrels, pledged the Vow that would create the balance between males and females. The sanction of the Valar and the magic of the Blessed Realm made it so. Thus amongst the Singers of the Noldor, the daughters were cherished as highly as the sons.”
“The inheritance of the Singers passed through the daughters?” said Aragorn. “So if a woman married outside the House of Maglor and bore a child, they would have the birthright and ability of a Singer?”
“Yes,” said Ránë. “The magic is living and remembers, just as the Oath of Fëanor compelled the sons who swore it to honor their Vow even to the ending of their years. Those born with the birthright heard the call of the Songhouse and the Old Powers and answered, for their souls instinctively took delight in music. They gravitated to the House of Maglor for it was as breath and life.”
“A Songkeeper male who married outside the House, none of his children would be Singers,” said Legolas thoughtfully. “This I did not know. The history of the House of Maglor is faint, lost amidst the doom of Fëanor and Celebrimbor.”
“None would be Singers.” Ránë smiled craftily. “What better way to keep those who can wield such power under the guidance of older and wiser Songkeepers? No males ever took a wife outside the House while I was alive, though it is rumored that there were a few who wed outside and so their line left the House except for the father, who remained a Singer.”
“I thought they had to marry a Singer or they failed and died? I have been confused,” said Aragorn. “Did you not say there must always be two?”
“Yes, one Singer alone will not survive the silence, but,” Gandalf took the pipe from his teeth, “they do not have to be wed. They simply must exist somewhere near. Their souls must be able to hear one another, for therein the music dwells, always in motion.” He waved his pipestem about as he talked and a line of smoke spiraled above his head. “The proximity differs. Îdhron could hear his sister, Airedhiel, from the shores south of Yvanna’s grasslands to where she sat atop the foothills beyond Formenos.”
“Máramo and Elenion, fast friends, could hear each other’s fëa from the farthest edges of Eregions boundaries,” said Ránë. “They gave us headaches singing nonsense songs from childhood back and forth in a jumble. Some songs are not designed to be sung together!”
The White Wizard spoke distantly, lost in thought, and Aragorn sat rapt to hear, for he spoke of the older days and the mystery and majesty of Aman entered his voice.
“The Singers of the Noldor wished for a gift of their own, a Making of their own like the Elves before them. Yet they were not carvers, not weavers, not glassworkers, or makers of metal things … all they did was sing. And though the songs of Elves are wondrous beyond compare, the bards looked upon the jewels and graven statues and metals beaten so thin that they were transparent, yet strong as iron … they had nothing to show for their long hours with their craft.”
The wizard grumbled and gestured with his pipe crossly.
“They found all the songs in stone and water and wind, all the melody in grasses and trees, but none of the other Noldor seemed to care for what they found. The poets and harpers wanted the respect of those who created marvelous things, but they wanted a way to govern and control its usage. They hoped wisdom would shield them from the foolish pride that had snared so many of their kindred.” His voice dropped. “None could foresee the allure and deceit of Annatar. Who would fathom that a Maia, a Holy One of Aman, would wring the gift of the Singers out of them for his own gain?”
“Women had authority from the beginning,” interjected Ránë. “If we were not in agreement with the actions of our husband and his use of music, there would be no children. His line was unworthy to continue in the Songhouse.
“And beyond this, the influence through the joining of our souls to our husbands could enhance or interfere with his use of magic. An intemperate and willful Elf soon learned that he was hindered with song without the sanction of his Beloved. An Elf with great capacity for creation, such as those who sang the anthem into Fangorn in its youth until it was a mighty forest—a cathedral of limbs up stretched in worship to Eru—they stood side by side with their wives and it was a great making. We were the balance for their use of power; some to greatness, some to restraint.
“Every Elf of Eregion wished for children,” she added. “Thus there was great pressure to be worthy and to do well, to use the power of Earth for good and to build harmony between races and within the world. The Dwarves carved and made the ground beautiful and we Elves crafted song and lived in harmony above the ground.”
Her tone changed, became downcast. “I was the one who recognized that my Beloved was headstrong, hearkening to his own will and not the Songmaster of the House. He was skilled, but grasped for greater power at every turn. It was not enough to have the deepest song of the river, not enough to know the whisper of forgotten agates, the tearful mourning of rust. He wanted the full weave of the Song of Creation, the Ainulindalë itself, which no Elf was given in entirety, for the Valar knew it led only to misuse.”
“Indeed,” said Gandalf around his pipestem. “Melkor twisted it to his own devices when the world was new. He would have it ordered after his own design, not Eru Ilúvatar’s.” He looked at the ground. “It is forbidden to be sung by any creature, great or small, and the penalty for breaking that law is grievous.”
Aragorn and Legolas glanced to the wizard almost in unison, yet they had no opportunity to voice the questions in their minds, for Ránë took up the history once more.
“The Old Powers were too vast to be known—only the eddies of the symphony, the Earth power, was to be ours. Cerediron longed for the forbidden and I knew long before Annatar came into our midst.” She stared at her own hands. “I did not need the Mistress of the Songhouse to tell me not to bear his children—I already knew. It was a bitter thing and I will speak no more of it.”
Aragorn scowled at his tin of tea. It trembled in his grip, so powerful was his emotion. His voice was gravel and steel when it came.
“Sauron subverted your womb against your will and Cerediron lay with you, also against your consent.”
“He did, but the Dark Lord showed Cerediron to whom he had given his allegiance—for every child that Cerediron desired me to bear for him was destroyed or corrupted. Sauron would not risk such a child disrupting his plans—he meant to keep Cerediron’s allegiance, not have it subverted by a child of his own body.” She spoke grimly. “There were always promises from Sauron that perhaps the next child he would be allowed to keep … but that promise never was fulfilled. Just as all his promises of glory amongst Elves was never fulfilled.” She looked up bitterly. “Sauron betrayed Cerediron just as Cerediron betrayed his kindred. Woe bought woe, as it ever does.”
“It is a terrible thing to use the child hunger of Elves as a tool against them,” said Legolas sternly. “Without freedom, with nothing to build or create, with no new songs to learn and no rapport with Elves of other nations to learn their new songs, with child after child corrupted or destroyed before his eyes—it is no surprise that Cerediron lost everything of himself.” He looked upon her sadly. “Perhaps your hope in its youth was not misplaced … but time wore it away until he was destroyed. Would that Sauron had been cast down earlier!”
Aragorn said nothing. He thought of Isildur’s choice and was pricked.
Ránë said nothing. She thought of her choice and felt desolate.
“What happened to the rest of the Singers that Sauron conjured away?” asked Gandalf. He leaned slightly and looked in her face. “Did he drain their souls to craft anything else?”
“No,” she answered, but then, because of his scrutiny, “nothing that I know of. There were no other tools that the Dark Lord boasted of. Just the One Ring.”
“So, you are not sure?” prodded the wizard.
“Nothing is sure, but surely he would have boasted if he crafted another Ring.” She eyed Gandalf. “The crafting of the Ring of Power drained much of his power and fortitude. I doubt he had the capacity to pour more of his essence into yet another Making.”
“He is a Maia,” said the White Wizard heavily, “and he is more powerful than you know. But tell me of the other Elves taken. What became of them?”
“It was nearly ninety years before the House of Maglor conjured the Silencing and sent it after us. Three there were who fell in the beginning of the curse, for they were at the Morannon when it was loosed from Eregion. We heard their cries as silence descended in their souls and knew death had been sent. Sauron halted the spell at the third tower of Barad-dûr. There was screaming and chanting in our own tongue, the deep whisper of the Ring, and Sauron plying one curse after the other upon it—it was madness and terror and it broke the overlook itself. ”
Her hands went still, remembering, and then she shook herself and returned to the question.
“One Singer was killed by the Uruk in sport after that and the Dark Lord punished a thousand or more for that foolishness. Eight lay near death by the time I discerned that they languished in the darkness of the Black Tower. The bleak sunlight over the Plateau of Gorgoroth was not enough and two more died upon the Nurn Road. Then there were eight of us, including Cerediron.
“One was unmade by the Dark Lord for trying to escape.” She shivered and Legolas, without thinking, put a hand upon her shoulder a moment. “Two remained with us, Tórion and Salcheth. The other four were sent from our company; two females and two males. Elránia, Erulissë, Galáril and Eäraraldor. I was told much later that one was killed by some mishap, but was never told which one.
“Cerediron laughed one day when I pleaded with him; it was then that I suspected that one female Elf had been secreted aside. It wasn’t until I played a game of chance against the Red Eye and that Sauron revealed that he indeed had secured one soul of the House of Maglor so they would not perish. Ever.” She flicked her eyes away from them to Hitaur. “I do not know what he has done to make such a boast, but it does not bode well for an Elf’s sanity.
“Over the thousands of years serving the Lord of Barad-dûr, Salcheth succumbed and then Tórion. The shadows and his hideous presence creeping through their souls became too much. Erulissë was serving her turn in Barad-dûr beneath the Eye when Sauron was overthrown and the tower fell.”
They thought upon all that had been spoken.
“So there are perhaps two beside Cerediron and yourself?” asked Aragorn eventually.
“I do not know, precisely,” she answered. “We have been held apart so long, I do not sense them. Of a certainty, there is one female or Cerediron would be retrieving me and holding me safe.”
“This complicates our search and multiplies our hardship,” said Legolas.
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” said the White Wizard. “It is Cerediron who gathers the forces of Mordor. If he is removed, the other Singers might be freed by those that hold them.” His words were weighted. “The House of Maglor might yet live.”
“They were lured by Cerediron and corrupted into Annatar’s service,” said Ránë with a scowl. “They were easily ensorcelled by the Dark Lord, for their wills were weak.”
“Are they to blame for being weak before the power of a Songmaster such as Cerediron? Are they to blame for not being stronger than a Maia?” said Gandalf sternly. “No. They were forced astray as lambs are herded by a dog. They have suffered enough. Let them live if they can live.”
She contemplated his words a moment and nodded as if agreeing. Then she added very quietly, “I do not think they will choose life. We have been poorly used and some horrors cannot be overcome.”
“You have overcome,” said Aragorn.
“I have one task left to accomplish and then I will sleep.”
“No,” said the archer. “Perhaps you will not die, for if a Singer lives on then you will live.” He gazed upon her with a strange light in his eyes. “And you have found friendship and these bonds will see you past your years of suffering and terrors if you will permit it.”
“I am tired,” she answered. They could hear it within her voice: an overwhelming weight.
“I, too, have been tired,” said Legolas quietly. “Tired enough to wish to be free of the living.”
“He speaks the truth, for I have heard him,” said Aragorn.
Ránë looked astonished, turned fully towards the archer.
“Why would you choose such, for you are strong and beautiful? Surely love and companionship surround you and your children adore you.”
“No lovers and no children, but many friendships,” replied he. “There was one great love, long ago, but it was not to be. My life has been spent in war and death and hardship. The courts where fountains play and the sedate pace of tranquility unsettles my soul. My heart longs only for the bow and the white knives, a life of pursuit and the ending of evils.”
She frowned slightly at this.
“The bow and blade do not sing to you like another soul does,” she eventually said. “It will startle me when Cerediron’s melody goes silent. Put an arrow through my heart if I start screaming. I do not wish to leave the world so unraveled.”
The archer said nothing; he blinked as if she had struck him.
“Our conversation grows heavy in these dark hours,” gruffly said the wizard. He tapped the coals from his pipe and spread his fingers to the fire. “Ránë speaks of an Elf woman hidden to preserve the lineage of the Singers of the Noldor and this was wisdom on the Dark Lord’s part. In order for the House itself to survive, a woman must live, for only through the females does the doorway from the Ainulindalë to the Earth Power stand open.”
He looked candidly from one face to the next.
“Do you suppose the House of Maglor was canny enough to realize Sauron might have the authority to thwart their curse? Even send it back at them? They surely knew from Galadrial’s warnings that the Dark Lord was still within the confines of the world. Would they be wise enough to ensure some way of survival, these who had sworn themselves to house the lore of the magic within all songs?”
“There was no surviving the cataclysm of what happened,” said Ránë. “I was there. I saw what the Necromancer did. I was a prisoner in the march to Eregion when the borders were overrun and the trees felled and the House of Mirdain taken.” Her voice was harsh with old pain and bitterness. “I walked amongst the rushes where my House dwelled, where we could hear the changing music of the waters as it passed. There was not a soul left alive; not brother, nor sister, mother or father. The book of the dead held every name of every family in the House of Maglor, each written with Celembribor’s hand for he was partly the cause.” She sighed heavily, as if the retelling exhausted her. “The flowers had bloomed nearly a hundred times over their graves when I walked amongst them there. I shall never forget the mournful song of the blossoms.”
The White Wizard said nothing; he smoked his pipe without comment. Aragorn studied Gandalf’s posture.
“There was someone saved…” said the Ranger. “They were the Keepers of the Songs, the connection between the Ainulindalë and the soul of the Eldar; a duty they had taken on when they yet dwelled in the Blessed Realm. They found a way!”
Ránë and Legolas both stared at the wizard.
“No Elf could have been saved,” slowly said Ránë. “You have heard the myths and longings by those who feel the loss of the Singers. The Old Powers do not answer or heed the voices of the Elves any longer. Earth power drains to the Heart of the World and all the Elves are going home across the sea, where the might of Aman’s magic remains rich.”
“Perhaps,” Gandalf said and gave them his inscrutable smile. “Yet the legend endures. I heard them in Lothlórien, though the Lady of the Woods spoke no names. Elrond had heard various whisperings, but believed hope had failed the years. There were none to speak or deny, but the story of a sole woman who survived the destruction of the House of Maglor and the slaughter of the Elves of Eregion persists.”
“They might very well be speaking of Ránë,” observed Aragorn. “If they knew she left of her own will, they may not have known she went to Mordor—perhaps they believed she slipped away and escaped the vengeance of Sauron upon the House of Maglor.”
“Slipped away to where?” Ránë said critically. “No fortress in Middle Earth could protect the soul of a Singer from the curse fashioned by her own people. It was designed to silence the fëa of all those who stood outside the circle of their Making and Sauron seized it and tripled its power with the One Ring. He sent it to slay every Singer throughout the land of Arda save those who stood outside his own circle. He would not just be Lord of the Rings, he would be the Master of the Singers and of the whole of Middle Earth in time!” She threw a tuft of dried grass into the fire and it popped into flame instantly. “Even if she took to the heavens and flew to Aman, the spell would have found her and silenced her soul.”
“Mmmph,” said the wizard, sucking on his pipestem. “Perhaps you are right and it is only hope that carries such stories. I have oft been accused of listening to gossip and rumors.”
“They must have been hearing word of my leaving,” said Ránë. “I left nearly two years after Cerediron, when it became obvious that the Songkeepers were going to slay those that had forsaken their oaths. I had to move before they did, to see if he would turn from wickedness.”
“You were there nearly ninety years before the curse was sent,” observed Legolas.
“Yes. It took them that length of time to draw the power of Earth and fashion a charm to silence fifteen Elven souls. It was,” she shuddered as if doused with cold water, “a terrible curse.”
“Did you warn Ceridiron of its coming?” asked Aragorn.
“I did not.” Ránë’s expression was grim. “The verdict of the Songmaster was just. I would accept the doom placed by my own House and saw no reason to alert those who were wayward.”
“They paid dearly to make such a thing,” said Gandalf dourly. “Proud and stubborn Elves; they should have petitioned for aid and both Gil-galad and Elrond would have come.”
“And done what? Storm Mordor?” she said critically. “Storm Mordor with fifteen Singers held there in Sauron’s power, capable of being used by him to fight back? And let us not forget the Ring, newly awakened to the power of its master and so invincible that nothing but the fire of Orodruim could unmake it. Nay, wizard, there was no help against this calamity.”
“Peace, Ránë, for the day has been full of trials,” said Aragorn and she calmed her demeanor.
They sat in contemplative silence for a time and the fire died quietly to coals.
Aragorn let his pipe cool and cleaned the bowl with a thumb, then checked all of his tack and gear for mishaps. The Great Sword was silver in faint moonlight and he sharpened every burr from the steel, even the most minute.
Legolas took the wizard’s hands and rubbed oil upon the tender tips of his fingers. The burnt nails were brittle and cracking; the archer pared them carefully down to the quick with a knife and Gandalf was patient with his ministrations though it was obviously painful.
Ránë trotted the perimeter of their encampment and found nothing of alarm. She loomed up silently out of darkness and startled them all, carrying Hitaur’s saddle. Aragorn went over all the laces of it on one side with oil, Ránë the other.
“Those who carried the tale of a lost Elf of Eregion were not speaking of our companion, Ránë,” Gandalf said softly into their silence.
The archer halted with his hands upon the wizard’s. “How do you know this?”
“Because as a Maia, I know all true names.” He looked upon them a moment. “Ránë is not the one of whom they speak, because the names within their fëa are different.”
“So there is an Elf that escaped the curse, both of the House of Maglor and of Sauron’s strengthening of it?” exclaimed Legolas. “What has happened to her and why have we not heard this tale ourselves?”
“What was her name?” interjected Ránë. She was absolutely motionless, half crouched over Hitaur’s saddle.
“I cannot speak her true name; I do not have permission,” the wizard admitted. He waved a hand towards her. “And lest you forget, I changed your true name and gave you another, itself merely a place keeper until you find your path again. I will be in trouble with the Valar if I fail to set it to rights, for it quite mixes up things for Mandos, Doomsman of the Valar. He must know the name of every soul that passes into his house, less the deeds and misdeeds are applied incorrectly. And Námo forgets nothing—I must be careful to put things back when I meddle in the fëa of you Children!”
“You are speaking in circles,” chided Aragorn. “Can you not be plain with us? What was the name of this Elven woman?”
Gandalf looked surprised and then abashed. He frowned at his hands where Legolas had paused tending them.
“So I am!” he said. “Ránë has left behind her name because of hardship and suffering. So did the other in the age past; it died with all of her kin in the Silencing of the Singers. Nucëmi was the name given to her after she became an exile: one drawn from the ground.”
“I do not know that name,” said Aragorn. “And its meaning is strange, for no Elf willingly goes beneath the ground.”
“Nor do I recognize it,” said Ránë, “especially not if she took it after she left the House of Maglor. There were no Elves within the House who enjoyed visiting the Dwarves inside their mountain home; they always asked them into sunlight to trade.” She gazed critically at the wizard. “Are you sure this is the name?”
But the archer sat back upon his heels with the knife in one hand and stared off into the darkness.
“Nucëmi,” he said, turning the word upon his tongue. “I have heard that name before, but only once. I was small and had crept between the curtains and the stone wall of the Emerald Court. I remember how quietly the Elves spoke and how close the air was.” He blinked at the wizard. “I sneezed and gave myself away and was strictly ushered out. I never heard the name again.”
“How did you remember such a small matter?” inquired the wizard. He waved a finger before the archer that had been missed. “It is only a name amongst many that are spoken.”
“I thought it beautiful,” he replied, scraping away burnt nail. “No Elf with that name dwells in Eryn Lasgalen.”
“Eryn Lasgalen?” Ránë looked curiously at him. “I do not know that conclave of Elves.”
“It was once named Mirkwood.”
“You are a woodland Elf? I took you for one of Lorien’s Elves.”
“Why would you think I was from Lothlórien?”
“You carry a Galadhrim bow, and that is the mark of Celeborn, the Golden Master, upon it. Your hair is the same golden of all the Lady of Light’s people,” she said dryly. She looked at the wizard. “Tell me what you know of this Nucëmi.”
“The hearsay abounds,” he answered. “That she was seven feet tall, that her hair was the color of fire, that she was blind from being below ground, that she bore a child after carrying it for ten months, that she wandered quite mad for nine years in the forest … much that is told around firesides is rubbish.”
Aragorn laughed quietly. “Much that is spoken around Men’s firesides is just the same and hobbit firesides are the worse of all!”
“You do not lie,” said the wizard with a shake of his head. He gazed at his neatly trimmed nails, then looked candidly at Legolas. “Thank you. I never could have managed by myself with every finger smarting like nettles.”
“You are welcome, Mithrandir. Now … tell us the rumors of this Nucëmi that perhaps might be true!”
“Perhaps true?” he mused. “That she dwelled for a time beyond Carn Dûm in the plains of Forodwaith. The Men of that ancient wasteland carried tales of an Elf of the mountain caves.”
“The Witch King took Carn Dûm as his capital in Angmar,” said Aragorn. “Yet he did this in the Third Age, when he set himself to destroy the Dúnedain of the North. Was he, in fact, searching for the basis of these rumors?”
“I cannot say,” admitted the wizard.
“I heard no rumors of an Elf who escaped Sauron’s retaliation,” said Ránë. “Murazor sought to destroy the Númenóreans who had come from their doomed isle to Middle Earth, not look for some hidden Singer.”
Aragorn looked bitterly across the fire.
“You and I have much in common,” he said lowly, “for your people have been hounded and hunted and slain by the forces of evil since you awakened on these shores and I come from the heritage of the Númenóreans. Do you wonder any longer why I long to free the slaves and will risk this march into darkness to bring retribution for the slaying of your people? I am only a Man, but have been kindred in my heart to the Eldar all my days.”
It was a mighty declaration and Ránë gave it weight.
“I will heed your grief over the enslavement of Men. Do not lose sight of the greater shadow that lies upon them—we must find The Maker before he amasses more creatures or moves from the caves of Núrnen. If we chase him past the Mountains of Ered Glamhoth, he will gather the Southrons to him as flies to offal.”
Silence fell. The wizard sighed wearily, for the hour was late.
“What happened to Nucëmi?” asked Legolas.
“She died,” answered Gandalf softly.
The archer looked downcast and Ránë, who had not believed, frowned.
“The Maia are ever plotting. Why did you speak of this rumor if no hope dwelled in it?” she inquired.
“It is not always about hope; it is about truth. And the fact that Legolas heard the name Nucëmi spoken in the Court of King Thranduil lends more credibility to the legend that one survived.”
“You were in the court of King Thranduil as a child?” asked Ránë of Legolas. “Thranduil, the son of Oropher?”
“I was,” he answered diffidently. “I am his youngest son.”
Ránë studied the archer, then looked upon Gandalf. “You petitioned to aid me in this nearly futile endeavor and you bring the King of Gondor and a Prince of the Woodland Realm and never think to mention it?”
The White Wizard smiled his kindly smile and cleaned his pipe bowl with a corner of his grey cloak.
“I did not bring them for their titles; I brought them for their stealth and cunning and skill. Skills that you have seen full evidence of and now trust. If I had told you who I was bringing, you would have rode on quietly in the night and left me behind before I ever petitioned them for aid!” He chuckled at her exasperated expression. “Am I not a wise wizard?”
“Wily,” said Aragorn.
“And crafty and sly,” said Legolas.
“All of those,” said Ránë, but then she added, “and a Maia I have learned to trust despite these failings.”
“Failings!” huffed Gandalf, pulling his cloak about his shoulders more tightly. “I am failing the hours of this day. Let us sleep and rise early.”
“Yes, and you will sleep close to me,” said Aragorn to the wizard, “for I will not have you getting cold and rising to pace for warmth. The moon is out and all the stars clear, it will be chilly ere the dawn.”
The wizard looked into the sky, beheld the sliver of moon, pale as dew.
“Do you still sing, Ránë?” he asked gently.
“No,” she answered honestly. “I do not sing anymore.”
“The archer sings, though he has not since we left Minas Tirith. He sings every morning to the sun, but never to the moon.”
“To the sun, but …” she paused, contemplating. “Not the moon?”
Legolas looked across the fire to where she sat. “The Elves do not sing to the moon. We sing to the stars and the sun, almost everything else.” He looked perplexed a moment. “It is odd that we do not sing to the moon.”
Ránë looked up. “No wonder the moon is so sad—he has been forgotten in the years!”
Then she sang, but less with fine high tones as much as with the wide lower tones. It was soft and sweet, a lullaby and a dance.
From that flow’r plucked from death’s pale jaws.
Darkness creeps o’er the world’s brow,
Yet onward you lead.
Thou lightest our eyes, our hearts,
And with gladness we greet thy rising
From the dim corridors of the vales.
O beloved, meek power, to rule seas and charm babes,
Glory of night in modest grace
Tremble in modest waves and dancing streams
Smile in the eyes of the lover and the beloved
Patient, steadfast, and piercing clouds,
Radiant faith to light our way.”
“The Elves have forgotten much in the thousands of years without the Songkeepers to bring the treasury of songs to the people,” said Gandalf the White very seriously when she finished. “I am heartened that you have not forgotten.”
“I have not,” she said. “I have not had reason to sing.”
“I would learn that song,” said Legolas thoughtfully. “I have never heard it before.”
“I will teach it to you, but the hour is late and the wizard and Man must rest.”
“True,” said Aragorn. “Tomorrow we draw close enough to the inland sea that we must decide our course.” He looked upon Ránë. “You must attune yourself to Cerediron and discover where he is hiding.”
“Hiding?” she scoffed. “Do you understand so little? He knows we are coming and with whom I travel.” Her gaze was steady, her voice true. “He is not hiding, he is waiting.”
“Waiting or hiding, we will not shirk the task,” said Legolas. His fingers smoothed along the bow by habit.
“I will take the first watch,” said Ránë, stretching. “I have thoughts to ponder.”
“Wake me second,” said Aragorn. “Let the wizard sleep this night, for his exertions have wearied him.”
“I will take third and fourth,” said Legolas, whereupon he rolled himself in his light cloak near the coals of the fire. His last act was to pull a corner of the garment over his ear to sleep.
“I have forgotten that,” abruptly said Ránë.
“Forgotten what?” asked Gandalf, pausing from shaking out his blanket.
“Elves cover their ears when they sleep so they do not get cold.” She reached a hand for one of her misshapen ears and aborted it before touching. “It is odd to remember the things that I have missed.”
“Like tea,” said Aragorn. “And friendship.”
“Trust,” said Gandalf the White. His eyes were solemn.
“Yes,” she answered and then she strode quietly away into darkness.
11. The Road to the Sea
Cool air woke me, sending chilly fingers down my back. It was barely beginning to lighten in the east. The tall stalks of grasses were motionless sentinels where I had fashioned a sleeping nest amongst them.
Gandalf the White was curled beside me. He smelled faintly of pipeweed and some tang of spice, though I could not fathom from where it came amidst this wilderness. Memory reminded me that Gandalf always smelled thusly; I recalled burying my face in his robe as a boy, as if to drink in the wonder of the wizard and keep him long after his journeys took him away from the House of Elrond.
I always ran away and hid myself to cry, lest the Elves mock my sorrow at his leavetaking. I am a grown man now, but how shall I fare when Gandalf leaves Middle Earth forever?
I thrust such dismaying thoughts aside and regarded my companion. The pads of all his fingers had lightened during the night, though the nails were still charred black. I leaned and placed my fingers atop his very gently.
Be well, I prayed. Manwë, whom he serves, and Varda, whom he loves, speed his healing and render him whole. Go before us into the pit of darkness and guide our steps. Protect your emissary as he protects us. If ever we return alive, the glory be to you for this battle is yours. Násië.”
“Treasure of my heart,” whispered Gandalf very softly and I looked into his aged face somewhat surprised for I thought him soundly slumbering.
“I did not try to wake you,” I said quietly.
“Praying so heartfelt right over me is enough for me to hear you even without speaking.” His eyes were tranquil, still encumbered by sleep. “Mânawenûz,” he said in Valarin and the otherworldliness of that language made my soul shiver in delight. “The Blessed One, One in accord with Eru. Though I love Vardaalso, it is Manwë Súlimo who is the treasure of my heart. Everything I do, I do for Him.”
“And not because you love us?” I questioned, aware that he was vulnerably open, caught in the gossamer threads of slumber.
“Before the Children of Ilúvatar, there was Manwë, ruler of my soul. When all passes away, He will remain. My love for the Elder King surpasses all others, confounds all others, and usurps all others.”
I thought only an instant upon this, for it was impossible to be threatened or jealous over love for the Lord of the West.
“As it should be. We are pale imitators of Eru, but the High King of Arda stands perfectly within the will of the Most High God.”
He blinked and focused, frowned very slightly at me, and I knew him fully awake and aware.
“Aragorn, why do you plague me when I am small and sheltered by sleep?”
“Sheltered by sleep, perhaps you are,” I chuckled lightly, “but small? Never.”
We rode northward, alert and straining ahead. Thaurband lay to the west and the landscape altered as we traveled down the sloping plains heading towards the inland sea. The grasses grew thickly and the air was scented with water. We came upon several roads, but no travelers. Our passageway remained hidden from eyes.
Ránë traveled with every weapon near at hand and her features were sharp, hardened by determination and fate. I decided her beauty did not lie upon her face as did Arwen and the archer’s … it lay in the burning soul beneath the surface, akin to the fiery spirits of the High Elves of ages before. Mighty were the Eldar of yesteryears, both in deeds and temperament.
Legolas had braided his hair tightly for warfare and the bow rested across his thighs. He was stern and unsmiling, riding just a handspan from my left boot. I called to mind every deadly battle amidst tangled Mirkwood trees and open glens, dire runs across plains, the assault of dark forces at the Gate of Mordor beside this particular Elf. Once again I felt the honor of being in the company of such as these, a mortal amidst immortals.
The White Wizard belied none of the previous days hardships, despite his blackened nails. He kept his grey cloak fastened over his white raiment, but I was gratified to see the Great Staff in his hand, resting across Shadowfax’s withers.
“The White Rider,” I said softly, proudly.
“Let us hope we have no need for such a display of power,” he said gruffly. “The Maker knows we are coming, but the rest of the land does not.”
“Do you not think word of you has reached this far?” I countered. “Men in bondage would yearn for any word of a Holy One that can deliver them—surely they would look upon you and their faces would be radiant with hope.”
“This is true,” he said thoughtfully. “But only in Caran, where free Men change hands and they hope to escape. Those in the slave farms look not for deliverance and I fear Thaurband is too old and too merciless; none in bondage look for hope there.”
“Not so,” said Ránë from yards away. “Beneath Thaurband, in the pit where they mine ore, labor the most volatile and intrepid of slaves. Rumors constantly circulate of the rebellious and those who hatch plots. The taskmasters entertain some of them to break the monotony, but their yolk is nigh impossible to break. The only way to conquer the Shades is with wind, the Olog-hai with light.” She glanced at the wizard. “I know of no way to send light or wind down in the iron pit where they overmaster Men with terror and arduous labor.”
“Conjuring light in darkness,” I said grimly. “Yet it would be a boon to our cause to have a host of angry Men at our back. Even if they are only a diversion for us to slip quietly into the caverns.”
“The task is too great for me,” admitted the White Wizard. “I was not sent to Middle Earth with my full power—I was sent only to inspire Men and Elves and Dwarves to strive for themselves against evil. Even the Eagles of Manwë could not simply whisk the One Ring off to Mount Doom and drop it in!”
He shook his head, almost sadly. “The Powers of Arda cannot enter herein and take hostage the old evils without rending the land yet again. Such a battle of Holy Ones would destroy all that has been built. Yet I will give thought to your words, for we ride perilously close to Thaurband and if the city has been walled for thousands of years, the hunger to be free is great. Especially now, with Sauron cast down and all his minions laboring for no cause but their own.”
“Goblins without a ruler?” said Legolas. “Would they not slay each other, as they did in the Tower of Cirith Ungol when Samwise rescued Frodo?”
“The common Orc would, but not the Olog-hai. They are greater in intelligence and skill, superior to other trolls,” said Ránë. “And the Uruk-hai, are clever leaders compared to their squat forebears. The trolls and Shades work the deepest bowels of the pit and the Uruks work the topmost layers, where sunlight is permitted to filter down to the slaves quarters.”
“The slaves never leave the pit…” I said, sickened. “They are housed therein as well.”
“Of course not.” She spoke as if it would be obvious. “Once they are conveyed down, there is no escape. All their food and water must be sent down and when they fail to work, they simply are starved into weakness and torn apart by other Men and consumed.”
Cannibalism. I am certain my face showed my inner rage. Talemon snorted, discerning my state of mind, and clamped the bit between his teeth. I soothed and petted his neck until he relaxed.
We traveled slower and slower as the day progressed, for the roads became more numerous and dots of farms sprang up. Legolas left us and galloped southward and we did not see him for several sunturns. He returned with a bundle across his shoulders and his expression humored.
“What is this?” said Gandalf. Legolas was tossing garments at each of us.
“A change of raiment, for our strange garb and Elven cloaks will give us away when we are forced to ride openly,” he returned. He hit me in the chest with a nondescript brown shirt. “They are clean, mostly.”
“I would spell any who chanced upon us and they would see nothing,” protested the wizard. He was examining the stained shirt flung across Shadowfax’s neck. The Lord of Horses snorted scornfully.
“Why task you any farther than necessary?” scolded Ránë. “Dress as one of them and fabricate a reason we are going towards the Sea of Núrnen.”
“Lie?” I said, humored by the thought of an Elf lying. I was quite aware that she was attempting to care for Gandalf, though she was abrupt and chiding.
“Yes, lie,” she replied smartly. “I lie frequently and you should believe none of my words.” She smiled across at me while I worked my shoulders into the shirt. “Tie your hair back into a single tail low in the back and you will pass.”
I complied, though I had to search my pack for a string to restrain my thick hair.
“I will compose our deceit,” said Gandalf, shrugging into his borrowed garment.
“Yes,” agreed Legolas. “You lie quite skillfully.”
“Hmph!” replied the wizard. He eyed the shirt mistrustfully and pulled at the neckline.
“There is no way to hide you, save with a hood,” she said to the archer. “An Elf of your beauty and stature is sure to garner notice. I will be overlooked wearing Sauron’s black and riding this spell-spawned steed, for the Dark Lord is still feared to return and his foul bred ilk given wide rein.”
“Which is why I searched most diligently for a hooded cloak,” he replied. “And it is as black as yours. We must not groom our horses and let their coats become dingy, though nothing will soften the fire in their eyes.”
“A wise Elf,” said Ránë.
“And I rarely lie,” he added.
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I will forgive you.”
I was hard put to not laugh and give ourselves away.
Slaves upon the roads. Slaves in fields. An overseer or two and one who stopped us only to inquire the price of our horses. Gandalf spun a tale of rare stock that had been stolen north of Dorwinion and galloped away to the east. Sadly, ours were not for sale, nor were they likely to be, but assuredly the bloodline was moving into the south and a fine Lord such as he would easily be able to barter for one.
No spell was required, save the generous use of the term ‘Lord’ and then we were off again.
“You were charming, Mithrandir,” said Legolas cheerfully.
“I can be charming,” Gandalf shot back. He straightened from the slumped appearance of an old man. “Vain are the hearts of Men who enslave others for profit. No honor or nobility is left in them, only greed and malice. The ability to abuse and slay another without retribution is a heady power and ill suited to Eru’s creations.”
I found an embankment of loose dirt that had slid and we halted to scrub silt through the coats of our alabaster steeds. Talemon enjoyed the dirt bath and Shadowfax endured without troubles, but Ashra wheeled and snorted and pawed.
“Fussy steed,” said the archer. “Shall we leave you behind instead?” The Wind Steed submitted a moment later.
It was fraught with tension, this sneaking down to the Sea of Núrnen in the sight of all. The Sons of Thunder perceived our tension and became more alert and agitated. Their customary friendly jostling vanished. Ashra pranced even as he walked, as if flight was imminent. Talemon worked his bit to relieve his stress.
Hitaur acted as if each hardship was expected and his demeanor changed not. I briefly envied the sullen gelding, for whether the day was merely sunny or cloudy and swarming with werewolves, his temperament did not alter.
Shadowfax, well acquainted with peril, only heaved a great sight at each road and studied them alertly. Gandalf whispered beneath his breath at times, though I could not discern what he spoke.
“You hated the city. The press of Men, and their stench,” said Ránë without warning. “You called them Apanónar, the After-born, as did the Noldor in Beleriand. The Usurpers of the Elven Kingdoms. Why then do you tarry near the city you hated so?” She scowled across the declining hills toward the north. “I do not want to go that way, yet you are there.”
“Cerediron,” said Legolas. He drew Ashra as close as he dared to Hitaur and the two steeds swept their ears back nearly in unison. “He is not where you suspected he would be.”
“No,” she muttered. “It would seem not.” She pulled the sullen gelding up and he flapped his ears, annoyed. “I sense him towards Thaurband and not at the eastern cavern fortress.” She shot a glance to the wizard. “Unless he is luring us towards the city while he creeps to his stronghold with stealth. He can strike from a distance, why could he not send his presence to another place and snare us?”
“Thaurband,” said Gandalf. “Unwelcome news is this, for we do not have the force of arms to invade such a city. Our goal was to catch him upon the plains or caves, where the speed of the mearas or stealth would be our ally.”
“Did I not warn in your hearing that they were moving?” she returned irritably.
The wizard was close enough to nearly touch her and he stretched a hand as if he would, garnering her gaze instantly.
“Gently, Ránë,” he said quietly. “I am your foe no longer.”
She huffed at him, but said nothing. We waited, pondering this new development.
“He is not where I thought him to be, yet maybe he is not sequestered behind the Iron Wall of Thaurband,” she said more calmly. “There is a catacomb near the City of Slaves with less ability to enter or exit. I can give no reason why he would tarry there; he hated those tunnels with the murmuring cave wind. They do not open to the inland sea
