In the Vales of the Anduin

The sun beat strong down upon them as they rode out of another forest glade into an open grassy swale.   Gandalf and Haldir in the lead, followed by Drianna’s two cavalrymen, astride their mounts, tethered to two heavily laden dray horses.  Arthed and Hagar rode with the cavalymen, engaged as always in conversation, the afternoon punctuated by his laughter as he regaled them with tale after tale of a time before they were born. 

Drianna followed somewhat behind them, her mood sour and disagreeable from the moment they had left Rivendell.  Further back, Aranarth and Arahael took up the rear guard.  Ardugan and the very independent bobcats were long gone, vanished during the night after the banquet and meeting in the Hall at Rivendell.

They had crossed the Anduin at the Old Ford, then stayed close to the east bank of the great river.  There had been much debate about their intended path that evening in Rivendell, now easily a fortnight past. 

Aranarth, Arthed and Drianna favored the west bank, keeping the river between them and Mirkwood.  Though the way had little in the way of satisfactory trails south of the Gladden, it also had few inhabitants other than a small settlement of Stoors near the confluence of the Gladden and the Anduin.   Haldir had offered passage through Lorien and watercraft to make a crossing just above the Celebrant. 

“Well conceived and no doubt likely to better preserve our anonymity” Gandalf had commented, “But He will be watching his western flank I fear.  When we cross from west to east across the river, our sudden presence on the river’s eastern shore so close to his realm will not go unnoticed ”

“But do we not risk being noticed by traveling the entire way on the east bank?  Mirkwood is but 10 or 15 leagues from the river and the vales in between may still be home to woodmen who will know of our transit of their lands” Drianna countered.

“The woodmen are no friend of orcs and others of Sauron’s ilk” Ardugan had replied.

“Indeed not.” Gandalf continued, “Those few who dwell there may be kin to Hagar and the people of the Eotheod, who chose to remain in the Vales of the Anduin when Frumgar led his people north to the Langwell and Greylin.  They descend from the Kings of Rhovanian, whose people suffered mightily at the hands of the Wainriders and other allies of Sauron.”

“Still it takes but one enemy in a sea of friends to do harm, Gandalf” Aranarth commented. 

“It is a weighing of the risks, Aranarth.  Had I gone alone it would be to approach Dol Guldur from the north, entering the forest below the Gladden Fields.  His eye looks to his immediate west and south, not north.  With such able friends as I now have to accompany me, I see no reason to change the plan.  It is made stronger by your presence."  

Thus it was that they settled upon their ruse, a party of traders and trappers heading south from the Carrock for Gondor.  Hagar looks would clearly identify him as of kin, even after Frumgar’s parting from this region nearly a hundred years ago.  The others would be made drab and unremarkable as could be.  Elrond had provided travel worn woolen garments for some of them to wear, cloaks with hoods, leggings, and scuffed boots.  Old saddles and packs completed the picture, though one could sense in their eyes and bearing a strength little associated with ordinary travelers, even ones so bold as to make the long and risky journey to Gondor.

That had been days ago.  Now as they rode into the sunny haze of late afternoon Arahael eased the sleeve of his woolen tunic back, exposing his mailed glove.  It was of fine workmanship, crafted to fit his hand comfortably, enough room to flex in the heat of battle, yet neither too loose to soften one’s grasp nor too tight to grow hot and heavy in a long ride of this sort.  A layer of fine chain mail, custom fit, protected him under his coarse woolen garments.  Additional armor was packed securely away for their entrance into the forest itself, though he and all that rode carried their primary weapons, whether sword, axe, knife or bow, nestled close near their saddle bags.  His was a gleaming steel blade, perfectly balanced, one that he had trained with for many a year.

He stole a glance at his father, riding just to his left.  He had needed no travelworn garments, having just returned to those in which he had arrived at Rivendell.  His gloves were heavy, studded with metal embossments and scarred with dents and cuts.  What chain mail he wore was well concealed beneath tough leather garments and a full woolen cloak.  His boots were worn and stained with mud, grass, grit and more.  He had seen his father’s sword, notched and scratched in places, tucked away now in what appeared to be a bulky pouch. 

And he would have traded all the fine things in which he had been arraigned for those that his father possessed.  For Aranarth's sword bore the notches and scrapes of a murderous battle with the minions of the Witch King himself.  His garments were worn with years of experience alone in the wild, patrolling what was once Arnor at its height.  The calloused, meaty hands had known harsh winds and nights in cold caves, days facing down wildmen who still might descend from the heights of the Western slopes of the Misty Mountains to waylay the stray traveler.  In the spring and summer they wrestled a plow or broke horses.

As for himself, he knew he had been ably trained by the best elven weapons masters, educated by scribes in the long history of the Ages, of the fall of Morgoth, the rise and destruction of Numenor, the War of the Last Alliance.  He had ridden with Elladan and Elrohir, had served in disguise as a platoon leader in Gondor’s infantry, and ridden with his father on occasion through the wild spaces of Cardolan, Minhiriath, and Enedwaith.  Still it was all in training.  He had never been tested, put himself at true risk.  His father’s worn boots seemed immeasurably large to fill out here in the great empty spaces that he called home much of the year.

Ahead of him Gandalf and Haldir slowed to a halt.  The grassy swale they had just entered now opened up.  The forest glades were retreating east for the while.  Ahead and to the southwest the land flattened, the grassy slopes merging into damp reedy flats, which in turn eased into a marshy realm where the Anduin merged with the Gladden coming down from the Misty Mountains to the west, forming an ancient basin of islets, shallows, and shoals.  Stands of yellow iris, some the height of a tall man, were scattered amongst the reeds. 

The riders gathered together around Gandalf and Haldir.  Far to the west the sun was falling behind the distant peaks of the Misty Mountains.  Shadow would soon be stealing across the land.

“We can find shelter amidst that copse of trees.” Haldir pointed to a grove fifty yards away.   It was a last outlier of many other scattered stands of oaks and beeches mixed with wild shrubs that covered the rumpled land rolling down to the narrow grassy alluvial

“I will stand the first watch.” Aranarth volunteered.  In quick succession, Arahael took the second and Arthed the third.  They made camp inside the ring of trees, sweeping brush and leaves away to find a small hearth.  Its stones were full of lichen and moss, as evidence of long years of disuse, yet they were cunningly fit and suited to travelers needs where heat was desired but light to be concealed and smoke avoided by careful fire craft.

The horses were tethered and fed.  The light faded quickly to a soft glow in the west, silhouetting the far peaks.  Drianna lit a small, smokeless fire fully concealed below the rim of the hearth.  They all sat quietly making such meals as they had from their provisions.  Gandalf brewed some tea, which sent a soft aroma of flowers and honey about the campfire.  One by one they sipped their full then retired, Drianna to a far corner of the grove, her cavalrymen not far away, but keeping a discreet distance.  Arthed and Hagar took their own corner, while Gandalf and Haldir lingered about the hearth talking quietly.

Aranarth and Arahael found their own spot near the edge of the trees and set their bedrolls.  The western horizon was nearly dark now, the sky glittered with a thousand stars and the glow of a quarter moon.  Not far away the marshy shallows of the Gladden Fields were glazing over with a ground fog, ghostly white under the light of the heavens.  Arahael crept under his blankets, adjusting his position around a projecting root under his bedding.  Several feet away he could see the dim bulk of his father standing just beyond the last tree, facing east, still as a statue.

He fell quickly into sleep and dream.  After a time he could not measure he found himself walking in the moonlight, down the easy grassy slope beyond the copse to the edge of the marsh.  A shallow layer of mist, barely chest high, cloaked the reeds and stands of yellow irises, pale white now in the moonlight.  He seemed to glide forward through them, following some hidden path from hummock to shoal, farther and farther into the depths of the fens.

Time passed.  Then ahead he saw a figure, tall and broad shouldered, clad only in heavy linen leggings and a short tunic, as if he had recently shed his body armor.

It was a man, now half crouched over, searching for something amongst the tall grasses and murky pools.  He was muttering something but Arahael could not make it out.  Arahael moved closer, curious.  Then the figure stood up suddenly as if aware of his presence.  He turned slowly and Arahael gasped as he saw the man’s wounds, for the front of his tunic was punctured with holes, some still stuck with the unmistakable line of an orc arrow. 

The face was noble, of high lineage, but contorted in pain, regret, and sadness.  It seemed to be trying to say something, though the words formed by his lips had no sound.  Soon the figure began to fade, gradually at first, then more so, until it vanished into the pale mist that coursed sluggishly through the swampy shallows. 

Arahael woke suddenly, awash in a cold sweat.  He flung off his blankets, stood abruptly in the night, catching his breath.  Just yards away his father stood as before, now turning his head at the sound of his son’s movement.  The rest of the encampment was asleep.  Arahael walked over quietly, stopping at his father’s side.

“You saw him” Aranarth stated matter of factly.

“How…?”

“Something I never told you.  You would have to see it for yourself.” Aranarth turned to his son, face etched in moonlit shadow.  “Though my journeys have most been west of the Misty Mountains, there was one tour, long ago just after you were born, with Elladan and Elrohir eastwards over the Old Ford we passed not too many days ago.  We camped this very spot and my sleep was wrought with the encounter you made moments ago.”

“You speak as if you know him” Arahael replied incredulously

“He is…or was…and it appears that he makes himself known only to the first born of the line as he was when he fell here two thousand years past.  You should know of whom I speak, having spent many a year in the study of the deeds and failings of men and elves in tutelage at Rivendell.”

“…Isildur…” Arahael whispered half to himself.

“It is he, son, and it is not just in dreams that he appears.  Look…” Aranarth pointed

Far off there was a ripple in the low fog that shrouded the marshes east of them.  Their sharp eyes seemed to detect a small object, the head of a man just above the mist, moving about, as if in search of something.

“Aye, heirs of the Dunedain, it is indeed he of whom you speak.” A voice intruded, older, kindly with a sad sigh in it.

“Gandalf!” Arahael whispered loudly.  Gandalf put his fingers to his lips then motioned them both to be quiet. 

The moon was close to the western mountains now.  Gandalf’s already graying beard was burnished with a silver light. 

“He seeks what he had lost.”

“But what was he trying to say to me” Arahael whispered urgently

“I cannot say for certain for it is not me to whom he appears in dream.  But from your account and that of your father many years ago, it would be a warning of sorts.”

“Warning…?”

“Perhaps of too much pride, too much lust for power.  I fear that while what he seeks is beyond knowledge, he too cannot rest, at least until it has found the hand of another to bear it.”

“The Ring…” Aranarth replied flatly

“Shhhhhh…..” Gandalf cautioned, “ Speak not so clearly…we are not so far from its creator.  Say only that Isildur was the last to possess as far as we know and in his death it has vanished from our ken.  May it stay so, even at pain of his eternal search.”

They were silent for a while, watching the ground fog undulate in the near calm of the night as the half moon touched then sank below the jagged peaks of the Misty Mountains.   Aranarth quietly made his leave and went to his blankets, his watch done.  Arahael took his place.  For a while Gandalf sat on a low rock next to him, peering at the stars, one bright one in particular that was setting soon after the moon.  Then he too departed to the grove, leaving Arahael alone in the night.

Or almost alone, for as his watch waned and the night deepened he thought he saw points of light, two spots of yellow-green and two more of a particularly luminous green.  Eyes, two pairs of eyes in the night, low to the ground, perhaps thirty yards off.  He began to slowly move towards them.  They blinked twice, then vanished.  He walked to where he thought they had been.  The nearly knee deep grass yielded no clues in the black of the now moonless night.  He stood for a while, listening intently for the sounds of an intruder, but there were none.  With a shrug he walked back to edge of the grove.  Arthed was up now, standing next to a tree.

“Lose your way?” Arthed commented amiably

“No, uncle…I thought I saw eyes watching us, but they were gone before I reached them”

“Hmmm…well perhaps they will favor me with a visit ‘ere dawn.  Oft times I have seen things when the watch gets late.  Get some rest Arahael.”    

************************************-***********************************

Arahael awoke to the sound of contented horses.  Arthed had busied himself in the final hour of his watch by feeding their mounts and concealing the now cold hearth with leaf and brush.  The eastern sky had softened with a milky glow that fed through the treetops.  To the west it was still dark enough for a few late stars to bid their farewell.

The group gathered quietly, bundling up their blankets and securing them behind their saddles.  They ate a spare meal of smoked meat and a slice of a nutritious elven bread Elrond had stored in each of their food pouches.  The dawn gathered pace, first providing that flat wan light to distinguish night from day, then a stronger swell that brought the color back to the land.  To the east the marshes were quiet, the night’s mist swept away by a slow roll of air from some cool northern source down the valley of the Anduin.

By the time the treetops were lit with dawn’s gold they had left the grove, heading south, still close to the river, the night’s events a private thing amongst a few.  The great river had left its marshy shallows and now flowed confidently between low bluffs that gradually increased in height as they made their way south.  The strip of grassy alluvial plain on the west bank they had comfortably followed for the last few days now narrowed.  The land to their left now rose in undulating hills covered in patchy forest.

They would pull away from the river now, moving gradually south to south east for 30 leagues, taking such obscure paths and trails as Haldir knew from elder days.  That would put them on the borders of Mirkwood itself by the end of the week, barring any unforeseen circumstances.  Other than the rustle of squirrels in the underbrush, the sounds of occasional songbirds or a swift glimpse of a herd of deer oft on a distant hill, the land was deserted or so it seemed.

“It would seem that Elrond’s disguises for us are of little use.  The land is empty” Arthed commented to Hagar as they rode through a leafy glade just off a meadow.

“My father Breor says this was once our land, in the days of his grandfather, Frumgar.” Hagar replied with a measure of self-importance.

“Would that make you chieftan of the Vales of the Anduin then, someday” Arthed inquired, mocking amiably

“Why yes it would, as it seems there are yet none here to say otherwise” Hagar replied thoughtfully, missing the humor in Arthed’s comment.

“Then from the tales of your ancestors it appears that all who were once here made the journey north to the Greylin and Langwell?” Arthed persisted.

“Not all, so the tales tell.  Frumgar’s sister is said to have stayed, among others.  Then there were those not of the Eotheod, fugitives from attacks in the forest, but of good stock and spirit it is said.  It has been years since any word has come to us.”

“Then we must hope that no ill has come to them” Arthed replied.

Just after their noon they rested the horses in an open grassy area and made lunch of dried fruits and meats.  The day was fair, the deep blue sky dotted with puffs of white cloud.  The terrain had been mildly hilly, traced with shallow valleys.  There were signs of habitation long past, clusters of log cabins collapsed and decayed, fields returned to young trees and shrubs.     

The Anduin was now long out of sight to the west.  Ahead in the rolling countryside they could see the frequent meadows becoming smaller, isolated patches on hillsides, hemmed in between ever larger tracts of forest.  Just ahead, the sunlit grassy field upon which they had gathered began to narrow between thick stands of oak and maple to the left and right, crowding in until only the trail itself appeared to make passage half a league to the south.

The woods now closed ranks.  Their trail through the meadow just passed was a corridor a hundred feet wide and narrowing.  In the middle of their party a figure spurred her horse forward to a light gallop, reaching Gandalf and Haldir, both deep in conversation.  Her arrival stilled their discussion.

“Drianna…it is a favorable day indeed that you join us” Gandalf responded warmly

“Perhaps not so favorable” she replied in a low voice.  “I sense something in the woods ahead…watching”

“Indeed we are being watched, my dear.  They will wait until we have all entered the narrows up ahead before making their presence known.”

“You knew this! And yet we continue into their trap!” Drianna flared, her hood falling from her head, pale blue eyes ablaze with anger.

“Not all who watch bear us harm” Haldir said calmly, “...unless our actions deem us a threat to them”

“Then who…?”

“It is about to be revealed.  Look!” Gandalf replied.

Fifty yards ahead a figure emerged from the woods. He was clad in buckskin and positioned himself in the middle of the trail, hands on the haft of a great axe.  A bow was slung over his right shoulder next to a quiver of arrows.  Gandalf heard the sound of horses hooves and shouting behind him as the rest of the party made notice and quickly moved forward into a clustered defensive posture.

“A fine axe, if I may say so” Arthed commented approvingly, his hand loosening the straps that secured his own to the side of his saddle.

“Stay your weapons for the now” Gandalf said quietly.  Let us hear what he has to say, though be on guard.”

In moments they were upon him.  Stocky and muscular, brown haired with gold streaks, his face was hard and intelligent. 

“Who might you be, traveling thus” he spoke boldly, not intimidated by the gathering on horseback before him.

“We are traders from the north with business in Gondor.” Aranarth replied curtly, speaking for the group.

“Indeed.  And would you be trading in pointed hats and brides?” the man mocked, staring first at Gandalf then at Drianna, whose hood had fallen back.  Drianna’s eyes flared, but it was Hagar who was first to speak.

“Have a care with your tongue, woodman, if you would keep it” Hagar dismounted, then slowly made his way towards the man, his broad shoulders straining at the threadbare cloak Elrond had provisioned for him.  “I am the son of the Breor, chieftan of the Eotheod and grandson of Frumgar who led the people from this empty land well before you were born!”

Aranarth grimaced at Hagar’s words, which he feared would give away their ruse.  On either side of the trail in the woods he sensed a tenseness, a vague rustle of hands brushing garments aside to clutch weapons.  He slowly edged his own towards his sword.  Out of the corner of his eye he could see similar movements by Arthed, Arahael, and Drianna.  Then Gandalf spoke, attempting a conciliatory tone.

“Forgive my attire, woodman.  I am an eccentric old man, an old trickster and jester who has been allowed to make one more journey south to amuse and bemuse those of the southern land.  My companions tell many tall tales.  Please…let us pass in peace.” 

But then another figure stepped from the confines of the forest.  Tall, regal, she wore a brown, ankle length woolen dress, belted at the waist.  A short sword hung at the belt.  Her hair was nearly pure white, with golden streaks.  Her face was heavily lined with old age, but strong, with high cheekbones and a firm set to her jaw.

“Who speaks so of the family of Frumgar!” she challenged, blue eyes fierce and unafraid. 

Hagar was momentarily speechless, an unfamiliar state, but then gathered his wits.

“I do, old woman.  And who would you be to ask?” Hagar replied with as much bluster as he could summon. 

“I am Freyja, daughter of Karinna, sister of Frumgar…”

“She who stayed…” Hagar replied in wonder, his voice a half whisper.

The old woman walked forward slowly towards Hagar, her eyes examining his face and bearing.  The Dunedain stayed alert, hands near their weapons.  Gandalf and Haldir exchanged worried glances.  Drianna and her cavalrymen were poised to charge.  In the woods there was a hint of a murmur of voices.

“You have Frumgar’s eyes, so as my mother had described them” she said, walking closer til she stood but inches away from Hagar, staring intently at him as if examining some old rune or lost sculpture.  “And surely you have his temperament as well from what my mother told me” 

Then unaccountably the sternness in her face relaxed and she smiled, then tossed her head back in a long peal of laughter.  Behind her the woodman eased, a big grin creasing his face.  The company of ‘traders’ shared puzzled glances though their hands still did not wander far from their swords.

“Be at ease then, for you are as what you were foretold.”

“Foretold?” Aranarth replied uncertainly

Another figure stepped from the forest, also clad in buckskin, his hair in gold ringlets, graying at the temples, a sardonic smile playing at the corners of his mouth.  Two bobcats skirmished at his feet.

“Indeed, older brother.  I could not let you make your way unannounced in this land.  It would not be fitting and the last of the Eotheod to make their way home can be unforgiving of strangers in what has become an unforgiving land”

Aranarth’s face was a mixture of astonishment and anger.

“Do not be alarmed” Freyja spoke, “Though he goes unnamed, we have long known him, by the sign of the half moon he leaves on the forehead of the enemy.  It is an honor to know his kin.” She bowed slightly towards Aranarth, “And great fortune indeed to meet the great grandson of Frumgar in the same company.” She smiled, though there was a speculative look in her eyes.

There was a rustle in the woods.  Then men, women, and children emerged from the forest on either side of the trail.  They were all armed, some with swords, others with bows, spears.  Even the smallest child that could stand clutched a rock or a sharpened stick.  But these weapons were put away, replaced by smiles of relief that there would be no fight today to thin ranks already dwindled by other hardships.

Then others came forth with horses and wagons loaded with food stocks and what few belongings they could take with them.  They all clustered about Hagar and Freyja, ignoring the rest of the ‘trading’ company for the while.  There was animated conversation, some in the common tongue, some in an older language strange to most.

Sensing that this could go on for more than a few minutes, the companions dismounted and tethered their horses to trees at the edge of the trail.   About that same time the old woman known as Freyja separated herself from the crowd ahead and quietly walked over to them, singling out Gandalf for conversation.

“You are not traders, though far from it for me to make challenge of your ruse” Her eyes were penetrating, a wrinkled smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“And what would you call us then, mother” Gandalf replied kindly, but with a trace of wariness.

“Fools…or warriors, I do not know.  The one who goes by the sign of the half moon has been known to us since the days that I was a young woman.  He is older than I, but does not show the years.  Your dour companion…” she motioned towards Aranarth, standing aloof a few yards away, “…knows him as do the rest of you.  Your faces told as much when he first spoke.”

“Your eyes are sharp” Aranarth replied, joining the conversation.

“Sharp as the swords you conceal beneath your baggage.  You will need them in this land.   There has been little trade here for more than a dozen summers and your horses do not carry enough of value to make such a journey south.”

“We have what we need” Aranarth replied somewhat gruffly.

“I pray you are right.  South of here there are no settlements, no people. Too many things from the Dark Forest emerge in the night.  There was a time when I was young when we could still hunt in its eaves.  Then the big game disappeared or became queer, unwholesome.  If the forest no longer provided game our farms still prospered and small game was still to be had outside the forest.  But when I was fifty summers old the night raids began.  Small, isolated homesteads near the Dark Wood were ravaged.  Our people moved west and there was peace for a while.  Then ten summers ago the raids resumed.

Strange animal cries in the night, foul odors emerging from the forest, livestock stolen or ripped to pieces by unknown beasts. 

“That time we fought back instead of moving again.  Blood was spilled.  My son amongst them.  His son, Garth, is the stern young man who first greeted you today.  Orcs and short, swarthy men were felled by our swords and axes, but their toll on us cut deep.  We moved again, westward.  Again they left us be again for a time until this year just over a fortnight ago.”

“It was a night raid, but unlike the others.  The sound of orc speech roused the guard, but ‘ere they could fully gather, the night was rent with cries and bellows of beasts no man could name.  Long shapes slithered through the grass.  All fought bravely, men, women, and children, but we were but five score strong the next morning down from eight score when the sun set the night before.  Of the enemy we took our share.  Some of what they left for dead bore no shape of beast I know.”

Freyja seemed to shudder at the memory of it.

“Great snakes…the length of ten men, bigger than tree trunks at the middle.  Other things the size of a large horse, and bigger.  Foul smelling, ugly things, grey and brown, fur and teeth, bare patches of skin, bulbous eyes.  Aggggh…they were rotting fast by dawn and little more than stinking heaps by the time we buried our dead.”

“And now we move for good.  Let them deal death to others.” Freyja glanced at Aranarth and the other companions.

Suddenly there was a commotion in back of her.  Hagar was returning, surrounded by a throng, excited, his eyes shining.

“They have agreed to join the Eotheod in the north!  Would that I could accompany them and see Breor’s face when they arrived!”

“Having come this far and faced great danger, I have no fear that they will fall astray!” Gandalf replied. “Hagar, do you have for them a token of greeting that they may present upon their arrival?”

Hagar stood for a moment, his young blond brows knit in concentration.  Then a thought occurred and he strode to his horse and fished around in a saddlebag.

“Hah! “ he said, holding a palm sized object in the air, “Present this! Say that you received it from Hagar, son of Breor!” Hagar handed it to Freyja

“What is this? Some stone, a carving?”

“No! It is one of Scatha’s teeth that I carry for luck! Now you will need it for the journey ahead and it will be reckoned upon your arrival in the far north!”

“You do us great service young master.” Freyja replied gracefully, then turned to her people now gathered around her and Hagar. “Behold a talisman of the Eotheod, a tooth of the dragon slain by Fram, son of Frumgar, father of Breor and grandfather of Hagar, future chieftan of the people!”

There was a great cheer.  Hagar’s face was a mix of astonishment and pride as he heard his destiny spoken outright from those who had known him but for a day’s encounter.

“Some day yes, but Breor is chieftan now and you will all do well to remember that!” Hagar scowled, but then softened, speaking once more, “but his son thanks you for your allegiance to the line of Frumgar.  Now you must go as must I and my companions.”

Another cheer leapt from the hundred that constituted the descendants of the last of those who had survived the hard passage since the fall of the kings of Rhovanion two hundred years past.  Quickly they organized their horses and wains along the grassy trail bounded by the woods.  Children scrambled into the wagons with their mothers.  Older boys and men with hard faces mounted strong horses.  Freyja sat astride a lean white mare, her blue eyes smiling in a face creased by a lifetime’s sorrows and hardships.  She eased her mount next to Gandalf’s and spoke quietly.

“You are like another we have heard tales of, the one who is friend to the winged creatures, who lives with the great trees to the north.  I am old and this will be my last summer.  But I feel you have many summers yet, your gray beard serving no true mark for your years.  See that young Hagar too has his fair share whatever task you are bound to.  He is raw and rash, but the people trust him.”

Gandalf reached out and held her hand for a moment.

“I have far too many summers yet, Freyja, ‘ere my tasks are done.  Hagar has his part to play in these next events and it is not certain what that will be.  But he will one day lead his people if my sight is any match for the fog with which the future cloaks the present.”

“Good luck to you then, gray traveler” Freyja smiled, then turned in her saddle and waived to the gathering behind her.  “Come people, we have three leagues yet to go today and the sun is already half towards the mountains.” 

With that she rode off, Garth behind her marshalling the wagons and shouting at the mounted men and boys to get under way. 

The companions watched in admiration as they passed.  Hagar stood at attention, his eyes glistening in silent salute to their bravery.  When the last were well past, he quietly took to his saddle and rode up to where Gandalf, Aranarth and the others waited.

“So, how did they take to the tale of Fram and the dragon” Gandalf inquired, a smile tugging at his beard.

“Scatha’s teeth! I forgot to tell them! So much the conversation was on their trials and the beauty of our northern lands”

“No doubt they had more to seek from you than tales of the past, which they will hear much upon their arrival” Gandalf replied, then turned to Aranarth. “Have you seen Ardugan?”

“Not since our arrival. He is long gone now, having guided them to this spot.  We will see naught of him till Mirkwood’s eaves are behind us.”

“Then we must be on our way, lest we delay that rendezvous.”

With that Gandalf nudged his mount forward, down the grassy track through the forest that had moments ago been alive with bustle and talk.  Behind him rode Haldir and Aranarth, then Hagar and Arthed, deep in conversation, followed by Drianna and her cavalrymen, with Arahael taking the rear guard.  They were now but ten leagues from Mirkwood, just two days travel. 

                                                                  Escape from Dol Guldur

They had moved him several times now.  The bare stone floors upon which he and Zerephath had awakened were long gone. He had been taken by force days ago in darkness, bludgeoned into unconsciousness, though he had a memory of two orcs fallen with broken necks and two others howling with pain before a massive blow felled him.

Life had become a blur for a while until he had foregone for a few days the base food and drink they had supplied him.  Then his head began to clear again though his stomach ached and his throat rasped with thirst.  He realized he had been moved to a stout wooden cage on the side of the mountain. 

He gained his strength there, at least so it had seemed at first, with the arrival of wine and victuals tolerable enough to eat.  Then the empty time began, half awake, half dreaming.  Shouts and leering faces, threats and violent abuse, terror and rage, some of which was his, some of which came from others.  Then silence for a while, as if something in him had broken, snapped, retreating to a final fortress deep inside his will that none could touch.

That might have been three days ago or weeks, he did not know.  But when he had awoken some hours ago his head was clear again though his body ached. 

This was a different prison from the others.  His cell was hollowed out of a rock wall, fronted by thick bars and a locked gate.  There was barely room to sit upright much less stand.  Beyond the confines of his cell was a narrow rough stone track for orcs to stand and patrol his cell and others carved out of a long curving wall of rock. 

Then there was a second set of bars, six feet distant from those of his cell, thick as a man’s wrist, spanning the gap from the track floor to the ceiling of a large underground cavern that opened up far beyond the bars.

His eyes had almost fully adjusted to the dim light provided by torches in sconces every third cell.  When he pressed his face against the cold metal confines of his own cell, he could see the second set of heavy bars retreating to the right and left, pinioned between the ten foot opening in the long rock face that curved away in each direction. 

Beyond the second set of bars there was the open space of a great cavern, dimly outlined by the torches and a pale phosphorescence that speckled its walls.  Far off he thought he could discern a tunnel at the left and right ends of the barred gallery where the orcs patrolled, and yet another hole in the rock in the far wall of the cavern, a large and almost perfectly round opening black as pitch. 

The was the sound of splashing water, distant and below his line of sight, followed by snarling and hissing.  A strong reptilian stench saturated the already moist subterranean air.  He had glimpses of shapes in the distance.  Was it the glint of wet scales in the torchlight? Or some vague refuse being dumped in the foul waters of this forgotten cavern. 

And the hiss and snarl, was it an echo of orcs fighting over some mean wager, a scrap of meat, or something else more vile and sinister than the caged creatures he had seen upon reaching consciousness days ago when he and Zerephath were in adjoining cells.  

He suspected the latter if his experience of last night was real and not some holdover from the fog of terror of days past. 

There had been a sound, a shouting that had wakened him.  A headache seemed nearly to cleave his skull with pain, but he had enough of his wits to recognize the voice that spent itself echoing in the cavern as his own.  He had sat, swaying, clutching his head, shivering slightly in the pathetic rags that remained of his garments. 

Then there was a rush of odor on a wave of air.  Hot, decayed, vaguely sulfurous.  He remembered gagging, trying to stand up, but only able to crouch in the cramped space of his cell.  Then moving towards the bars as if better air would be there.  But it was fouler still.  Beyond the second, stouter set of bars he saw something in the dim light, a shape emerging as it slowly approached.  A great snakelike head sporting small fan-like ears and large green-gold eyes.  A mouth half open lined with long, sharp, wet fangs and a forked tongue, black in the murky gloom, sliding from side to side, testing the air.

He remembered the pain in his head being suspended, his mouth gaping open, his own eyes drawn hypnotically to the eyes that hovered just inches from the massive bars.  Then a great metallic clang as the creature’s jaws lunged and snapped at the thick steel barrier.  A loud resentful hiss, coupled with an intense stench that caught his breath, leaving him doubled over coughing and crawling back to the far recesses of his confinement. 

He had then sunk into sleep, succumbing to exhaustion and the returning pain in his head.

But it was no dream that had left the fresh grooves he had spied on the heavy metal bars across the passageway when he had awakened hours ago.     

His dark recollection ended with the sudden clang of a metal gate down the passageway far to his left, and the sound of shuffling foot steps snapped him out of his dark reverie.  In a few moments a bedraggled orc in oversized armor and boots appeared at the face of his cell carrying a stained leather pouch and a rude wooden bowl, its foul contents steaming and sloshing over.

“Look what we got here, the Steward’s son.  And how’s the high and mighty toast of Gondor today”

Eradan merely glowered at the orc.

“Ahh too noble to share a word with old Naglik is he.  Old Naglik who brings him something to drink…something to eat too” Naglik cackled at some private joke

“Keep your slop and rubbish orc.  I’ve had enough of your master’s poisons!”

“You’ll sing a different tune soon enough” Naglik snarled.  “Old Naglik is all that is left to guard the caverns…the others have been called to other quarry, fresh meat from Gondor”

Eradan’s pulse quickened.  A rescue party.  An army of Gondor’s finest come to exact revenge and free him and any others that yet survived.  He crept up to the bars.

“It is you who should change your tune, orc.  Gondor’s might, its great armies will overwhelm this pit of evil and all in it”

Naglik laughed, harsh, rasping and mocking. “Armies” he seemed to spit out the word in contempt, “No armies at all…scarcely a thousand men and what more the Steward himself in the van.  Soon we’ll have the father and the son as guests of Naglik!” 

The old orc let out another round of twisted laughter, half doubled over with his own amusement, leaning against the bars, grasping them for support lest he collapse with mirth altogether.  The stained pouch and foul meal dropped from his hands greasing the stone floor.

The news stunned Eradan.  What could they be thinking, his father above all, to venture out with such a scant force.  He would be a sure target for capture or death.  Before him the orc was contorted in mirth, cackling and coughing now, trying to catch his breath.  Eradan was weak from lack of nourishment, bruised and battered from days of abuse, but he knew that this might be his only moment , that he had to act if he was to have any chance to prevent what he saw as a disaster in the making.

Naglik’s cynical laughter was beginning to recede, his old bent shape starting to rise from his crouch, when Eradan launched himself at the bars of his cell.  His right hand, strong from 20 years of gripping a mace, reached between the bars and snared Naglik’s wrist in a mighty grip.  With all his strength he pulled the orc’s hand and forearm through the bars.  Naglik let out a wheezy gasp.  There was a dull metallic clunk as his body and head slammed into the bars, the only thing that prevented the rest of his body from being yanked into Eradan’s cell.

The old orc fell like a sack of cobbles.  Eradan quickly pulled his motionless jailor close to the bars, feverishly rifling through his pockets, belts and pouches.  Nothing, not the ring of keys he had hoped would be there to free him.  Eradan leaned back, breathing heavily, trying to control his disappointment, grasping for the focus he would need. 

It came in a childhood memory, when he and his friends among the noble families in Minas Tirith would play a game they knew their elders would disapprove.  One that amongst themselves they called guards and gaols.  They would steal down to the lower levels of the city where the miscreants and thieves were held for trial.  Sneaking past the guards they would venture into little used passages, extra cells made in times long past when there was more need.  With keys snatched from the Royal Gaoler’s chamber they would play endless games of capture and escape.  And none better than Eradan who had quickly learned that the locks on the cells could be picked from the inside by dint of hard work and a slender metal fillet.

But this was no game now.  There were no keys.  Eradan returned in earnest to his search of Naglik’s still quiescent form.  A dagger…no use, too blunt, the standard orc sword, stout and heavy for battle but little use on a lock.  His frustration was mounting. Eradan grabbed at a small grimy pouch that the old vermin had tucked under his sword belt.  The contents spilled out, a few third rate baubles, a handful of coins, no help.  Then the prize, a crude broach, booty from some past battle or stolen from another orc.  But its crudeness was its bounty, for the rough metal crafting was attached to a long, thick pin meant to pierce heavy garments for the display of the broach.

Eradan bent back the pin from the metal face.  It might be enough.  He reached through the bars and inserted the pin into the keyhole from the outside.  For minutes he fished around, getting the feel of the lock, trying to remember the locks of his childhood, the path of the tumblers, the feel of the metal point on the invisible mechanisms.  Sweat broke on his brow as he tried to maintain control over his urgency, striving to constrain his movements and focus to the minute battlefield in the small metal space before him.

There was something vaguely familiar about the lock, something coming back to him from decades past.  The urgency fell away as his fingers took over, the feel of the metal parts becoming instinctive, the unerring intuitions of his youth taking over.  An almost inaudible click, a sliding movement, pressure on a spring mount, then release, another louder click, then a resigned metallic clunk as the lock yielded to him.

Holding his breath, he nudged the door.  It swung open slightly.  Eradan leapt up and forced the gate back.  He was outside now, able to stand fully for the first time.  But there was no time for triumph and celebration.  He knew what he had to do.  Working quickly, he stripped Naglik of his oversized armor and boots.  Too big for the old bent orc, confiningly small for him, but all that he had to camouflage his form and intentions.  Eradan donned the foul orc gear, sword and dagger included.  He grabbed a gob of his greasy meal, spilt on the floor, and smeared it on his face with what grit he could scrape from the floor of the passage.  Then he heaved Naglik into the cell. 

Now which way to go.  On his left he knew the passageway led to an entrance where Naglik had come.  No good, there would only be more orcs there, however thinly garrisoned, and some to check on Naglik’s guard before long.  So he would go to the right, hoping for an alternative exit.  Whatever awaited him there he could not say, only that it now seemed the lesser threat of the two choices. 

Movement was painful, part from the awkward restrictions of the undersized black orcish armor, but mostly from the array of deep bruises from the repeated beatings that had been inflicted on his entire body over the past days.  Every dozen steps he stopped for breath, his head spinning from lack of food and water and the lingering effects of the potions they had forced on him. 

Now he could see the outline of a heavy barred gate in the distance, at the end of the corridor.  To his left, through the massive set of bars he could now make out the lazy surface of a subterranean pool, ghostly silver in the luminescence of the cavern.  Its pale watery sheen was broken with shallow ripples from long sinuous forms.  On his right were small empty cells like the one he’d just escaped, some completely bare, others cluttered with human bones.

In moments he stood in front of the gate, old and rusted.  A tug at the bars moved it a few inches on screeching hinges.  Eradan pulled harder, opening it enough to pass into a tunnel in the rock wall beyond the last cell.  A cool draught of air flushed his face, pouring from the darkness beyond.  A mix of odors flooded his nostrils.  A vague musty decay mixed with a softer rot like spoiled fruit, and an unidentifiable scent, not quite reptilian, but not that of any animal he had known. 

Ahead, the passage was pitch dark.  The infrequent torches along the way from his cell did not continue.  Eradan walked back a few yards to the last one and yanked it from its sconce.  He gave it an appraising look.  A smoky flame, perhaps two hours worth, maybe three.  It would have to do.  There were no guarantees ahead.  Behind him he suspected that the way involved more orcs than he could overpower.  With a grunt of resignation he entered the passage and pulled the gate shut.

The torch provided a halo of light for the first twenty feet.  He was in a rough hewn tunnel, sloping steadily upward, several feet wide and tall enough for him to stand upright with a few inches clearance.   The floor was dusty, but otherwise unmarked by any evidence of occupation.  His fresh footfalls kicked up a plume of fine powder that left an acrid taste in his mouth. 

He went on for some time this way, time in fact having no meaning other than the slow erosion of the torch.  There was a moment when he thought he heard the faint echo of shouts and cries behind him.  He had tensed, gripping the blunt orcish sword.  Then the sounds faded into a distant mean spirited laughter, fading into an indistinct cackle.

Eradan’s ears strained for more, standing there ready for the sound of orcs footsteps and snarls of revenge for their fallen comrade left behind in his cell.  But there was nothing further. 

It both relieved and surprised him.  It would have taken little skill, even for orcs, to have divined his escape up the passage.  Yet they did not pursue.  The thought suddenly occurred to him that maybe they didn’t have to, that perhaps this was just a dead end and he would have to turn around and return to the gate, and the laughter of awaiting orcs.

Well that would have to be proven to him.  The torch was halfway burnt down now.  If there was an escape it would have to be soon.

Eradan went forward now, increasing his pace purposely, despite the aches and pains that still dogged his every step.  Some minutes later he felt a current of air and an intensification of the odor he could not identify earlier.  Then the corridor came to an end or almost an end.  Ahead there was little more than a rock wall, where the tunnel abruptly ended, its artisans quit for reasons unknown.

But off to the right, a narrow crevice continued, a small winding natural gap in the stone foundation of Dol Guldor.  And there was a new odor on the air from this opening, faint but unmistakable, the smell of vegetation and outside air.  Eradan squeezed himself into the fissure, forcing himself through, driven by the scent of freedom, temporarily distracting him from the growing rank odor of something else.

This path was different than the tunnel.  His feet now trod on an irregular floor, sometimes covered in a soft, almost spongy accretion he could not identify.  Other times he had to trust to the now dimming light of the torch he carried to guide him through passages where the floor fell away into sharp defiles and crevasses.  There he was forced  to press his back hard against the rough stone protuberances of the natural gap in the stone, carefully placing his feet from one ledge to another.

The winding cleft in the rock corridor he navigated varied from tight pinches where he could barely make his way through to small caverns where the torch light glimmered on pale dripping stone.  All the time the current of air maintained itself, taunting him with the hint of the outside world, while turning his stomach with another, increasingly dense stench that comes with a concentration of living things in a small space.

He felt a sudden crunch beneath his feet.  Bending over, he put the torch low, spying a scrap of what appeared to be a brown, semi-transparent shell-like material, the size of his hand.  Though curious, there was little time for detailed inspection.  He had barely half an hour left with the torch.  Half an hour to find an exit at the end of the stream of air, or be plunged into darkness, fumbling about, lost under the mountain, or worse, a retreat back to the cell.

Eradan pressed ahead.  Along with the ebbing torch he felt his reserves of strength leaving him, his limbs becoming increasingly sluggish, a fuzziness creeping into his thoughts.  The crackle of the unknown shell-like material beneath his plodding feet faded into the background of his surroundings.  His pauses for breath, leaning against the raw ragged walls of the stony fissure, became more frequent.  Still, the hard core of his being that gave no quarter and would demand survival at all costs sent him on.

The torch became his measure of time.  And now precious moments had passed and it was down to a nub barely six inches long, erratically lit.  He was now shuffling through ankle deep layers of the brown shell material.  The stream of air running through the fissure maintained itself, the scent of outside vegetation competing all the more with a now powerful stench of organic decay and acrid closeness.  He paused again, right hand against a rock outcrop, catching what breath was available in the heavy air. 

Then the sound hit him.  A rustle, not unlike the soft scrape of boot upon stone, yet magnified, echoing restlessly.  A slender finger of fear worked its way up from his bowels to his chest.  He caught his panting breath, stifling it behind his left hand while his right tightened its grip on the short orc sword. 

Eradan edged forward a few more paces.  The rock wall he’d leaned on had bent sharply right as if into a larger opening.  Cautiously he extended the stub of the torch out in front of him.  At first he could see little in the last flickerings of the flames.  Then his eyes adjusted and he could see that the fissure had opened into a cavern perhaps a hundred feet across and twenty feet high.  Its floor glistened strangely in the last of his torchlight and seemed to undulate, synchronized with the rustling sound he’d heard moments ago. 

Then the torch gave up its last light, now just a smoky stump in his left hand.  Again his tired eyes had to adjust.  At the far end of the cavern he thought he could detect a vague gray light high up in the far wall.  The floor before him was dim now, just picking up a trace of the gray light as an occasional fleeting glint.  But the rustling sound was picking up in volume, becoming more of a scraping noise, like a chorus of a thousand tiny claws on stones or plates.     

Now he could make it out clearer, the light at the far end of the cavern.  It was daylight, or what was left of it, a fading twilight peeking in from the outside world.  Eradan’s pulse quickened.  He was just a hundred feet away from freedom.  But he knew there was something between him and that opening, something that made that scraping noise…something alive.

Eradan gauged the distance.  A quick dash across the cavern, then a vault up the far wall, clutching at whatever rock outcrop would allow him to haul himself up to the gap, then drag himself through to the outside.  He readied himself for the burst of effort, what might be his last real surge of strength, took a few deep breaths, tightened his grip on the short orc sword…then gasped as his right ankle was pierced on both sides.

Eradan let out a growl of pain and anger, stamping his foot, which had no effect on the pain.  He reached down instinctively with his left hand to whatever might be the source of the pain.  His hand closed around an object the size of a loaf of bread.  He gave it a yank and grunted in pain as it became clear that it was attached to his ankle…and was moving, wriggling frantically, unwilling to give up its purchase on him.  Eradan pinned it to the floor and stabbed repeatedly at it with the sword.  A horrible odor stung him, he could feel the creature, whatever it was, writhing in its death throes.  A moment later it subsided and he was able to pry it off his leg.

It had felt hard to the touch, as if its surface was armored, yet it gave no great resistance to his sword.  Eradan stabbed at the floor with his sword and found its corpse.  He raised it in the air, wanting to know his adversary.  The light was too dim to see clearly.  He held it up against the gray light in the distance, looking for a silhouette, a rat perhaps, or a some squat cave lizard. 

His breath caught in his throat as he turned the object impaled on his sword in the dim light.  Eight short articulated legs attached to a chitinous body sporting two pincers at its head each the size of his ring finger and twice as strong.  Repelled, he heaved the thing off his sword, its body still dripping vile ichors.  His mind raced first with fear, then with a fevered search for what it was. 

Then it came to him, a childhood memory, late one day, as dusk in the royal garden.  He’d discovered a small bird, just barely hatched and fallen from a nest in a high tree.  It was twitching, dying from the fall, but also in agony from the swarm of insects that had emerged from a small hole in the ground and overwhelmed it.  It was a horde of beetles each just a half an inch long, armed with merciless little pincers at their heads, remorselessly attacking the pitiful creature, taking it quickly to its death before dragging it away to be devoured.

Now he knew what stood between him and freedom, some perversion of nature that had been bred in this dark place for what purpose he knew not.  Only now he knew why the floor shifted, what the scraping and rustling was.  Hundreds, perhaps thousands of them in heaps he knew not how deep.  They were night hunters, coming out as the dusk faded into dark. 

Ahead the light from the gap to the outside was fading fast.  Before him, the masses of giant carnivorous beetles were becoming increasingly restless, prompted by their nocturnal cycle or perhaps the smell of prey in their midst.  Rustling that had become scraping, the sound of their limbs on bare stone and each other, had become highlighted by a sharp clicking sound, of pincers awakening for deadly duty.

There was no time.  If he was to live, he had to run the gauntlet before they fully awakened.  His ill-fitting orc armor would be of some help, but his face below the eye visor, his forearms and most of his legs would be exposed, as would his bare feet, however callused.   There was a path he could barely make out, a slight ridge of limestone rock between shallow basins where heaps of beetles were becoming restive.  It wound unevenly towards the far wall. 

He felt two of the beetles scuttling around his ankles.  In a moment they would be gouging his flesh.  Eradan took a deep breath and charged ahead towards the fading ashen light. 

Ten seconds to go, just focusing on his footing, keeping his balance. 

Eight seconds… the far wall was becoming clearer now, a ten foot climb to an upper shelf where the gap to freedom opened. 

Six seconds…the beetles were becoming fully awake, aroused by the death of one of their brothers and the scent of prey walking amongst them. 

Five seconds…the narrow ridge of stone between the basins was disappearing, becoming immersed in the ebb and flow of monster insects, swarming now. 

Four seconds…Eradan tried to retain his mental imprint of where the ridge had been as his feet crunched down upon a wriggling beetle the size of a house cat.

Three seconds…he felt sharp pains in both calves as two of the insects leapt up and secured a hold with their pincers.  There was no time to dislodge them, any pause and he could be overwhelmed. 

Two seconds…he could see the far wall in detail now.  A surge of energy as he recognized that its rough surface would allow him to find hand and footholds to haul himself out. 

One second to go.  The pain in his legs was sharpening as the pincers tightened their grip.  He felt the impact of other beetles making desperate lunges.  One succeeded, now clambering up his back.

Eradan gritted his teeth against the pain and revulsion of the insectile parts clutching and puncturing him.  He grunted with effort, launching himself up to the rock face just as a swarm of beetles closed upon the spot where he had stood an instant before.   His hands found grips on ragged sharp stone.  He pulled up hard, tucking his legs up beneath him, trying to clear enough distance from the boiling horde below him. 

His feet found purchase and he pushed up with his legs, allowing his hands to grab higher on the rock face.  He could feel the beetle on his back probing for a gap between the ill-fitting helmet and the layer of metal studded leather armor over his shoulders.  The ones on his legs were beginning to gnaw away at his skin, having secured their position with their pincers.

Then his head cleared the top of the ten foot rock wall and he found himself on the shelf and just twenty feet from the opening to the outside.  A rush of adrenaline kicked in at the prospect of freedom so close.  Eradan hauled himself up over the top of the wall and scrambled to his feet. 

But he had company.  Just behind him the rock wall was now covered with hungry, maddened insects, clambering up with the aid of the tiny claws on each of their eight legs.  He staggered towards the opening, just a few yards in front of the wave of remorseless pursuers.  It was a tight squeeze, costing him two valuable seconds to force himself through.  The snapping tide of death behind him took full advantage, narrowing the gap in pursuit to just a few feet.

But his was outside now.  No matter that his legs were bloodied and raw from the predations of the two parasites that had fixed themselves on his human flesh or that some alien horror was tethered to his shoulders in search of a living meal.  He was free now and unafraid to deal death to any adversary regardless of the odds. 

From some unknown reservoir of strength he forced his legs to pick up speed, his breath coming in harsh gasps.  The peril of escape from the cavern was receding enough that he became aware of his surroundings.  It was late dusk.  He was in a forest.  That much was clear after he caromed off a stout tree trunk.  The footing was uneven, the forest floor  spongy with rotted vegetation. 

There was a sound behind him, rustling, snapping.  They had not given up.  Eradan  pressed harder, trying to distance himself from the horde in the hopes that they might give up, find another source of prey.  But the woods would have none of that, throwing more obstacles in his path, great gnarly roots, tangles of thorny vines.      

There would be no flight to safety, that much was dawning upon him.  And so his instincts narrowed to that of the cornered wolf.  If only he could find a high rock to make a last stand and take as many with him as he could.  He pressed on, but his pace was slowing, the weight of his disgusting passengers attached to his body beginning to slow him down.  His breath was coming in ragged rasps.  A root caught his sluggish steps and he went sprawling, striking his head upon a small stone jutting from the damp, rotting vegetation of the forest floor. 

He sensed a blur of movement leaping over him.  Sinking into blackness he thought he saw four pale golden green orbs before him, then the sound of hissing, snarling, and the satisfied gnashing of teeth.  His last thought was that the teeth were feasting on his exhausted flesh, then all was black and pain was no more.

                                                                At the Edge of the Dark Forest

It was her turn to watch. 

They were scarcely a mile away from the edge of Mirkwood.  The days before they had passed the empty husks of the settlements of the last of the Rhovanians they’d met a fortnight before.  The abandoned sturdy log farm homes, were now lonely without their human purpose, slowly passing their time as gravity returned them to the earth.

It had been visible from the start of the day, a constrast in color at the eastern horizon.    From the rich vibrant greens of the Anduin valley trees, always changing with the season, to the wall of Mirkwood, a darker hue, dense, close, heavy with evergreens and other species now changed with the arts of the Lord of Dol Guldor. 

She could smell the change.  The sweet growth of the seasons had retreated at first to a somber flow from the east, what might once have been a sharp fragrance of pines, junipers, cedars and spruces.  A hint still remained, a stubborn resistance to the tide, as dried herbs compared to freshly cut sprigs.

Other odors had less to recommend.  A vague rot seeped in, clutching close to the ground, as if a message from the deeper forest.  It gave her a chill, because it was not entirely unpleasant, a perfume if you will, decadent, unwholesome, but tempting, almost hypnotic.  Whatever its source, they would soon be walking amidst it.

The others were sleeping now.  The moon had risen, passing silently above the eaves of the forest to the east.  Drianna was alone with her thoughts and the night.

So much for the plan eloquently outlined in Rivendell.  Since then she had been quietly enraged for days and days at the thought of her father.  Still unforgiving that he had let her brother Eradan go off weeks ago, knowing his nature.  More so that he had acquiesced to participate at such risk in this venture.  Mostly it was her feeling of helplessness at it all, clinging onto a thread of hope that her brother might still be alive, angry at her father, yet desperately fearful of his fate in events to come.  

She stood at the top of a small knoll, the top crowned with an old growth of oaks and maples.  There was an opening in the grove to the west, where she could see down a gentle slope, a mixture of tall grasses and shrubs, dim and silvery in the moonlight.  Beyond that another cluster of trees, deep in shadow.

It had been quiet since dusk, though something was nagging at her.  She fidgeted, checking the placement of the daggers in her belt, the slender, deadly sword that always welcomed her grip with its effortless, seductive weight, perfectly balanced.  The tension would not go away, something out there calling to her, just beyond the ability of her senses to see.

Time passed. She had almost dozed off.  Another hour and Arahael would take her place.

Then something caught her eye at the edge of the trees at the base of the knoll.  Just a flash of pale white.  Drianna stepped forward, quietly easing her sword from its scabbard.  A figure half emerged from the trees, fifty yards away, down the slope, a shape not that of a man.  Something familiar though about it to her, tugging at her memory.  It came out of the woods now, its head close to the ground, nibbling at a patch of long grass, a horse.

Not just any horse, for even in the moonlight she could make out the distinct dark brown splotch on its left side.

Her breath caught in her throat.  It was Xandr, Eradan’s favorite mount. 

Her pulse raced beneath her field buckskin tunic.  She knew the horse, had helped to raise it from a foal as a gift to her brother.  Drianna edged slowly down the slope as if walking on eggshells.  Xandr raised his head, fixing her with a stare, a pale equine ghost in the moonlight.  His body tensed, readying itself for flight. 

Drianna stopped, quietly cursing her eagerness, not understanding what the horse must have been through, how he had survived.  She sat down.  Xandr watched, still as stone for a few tense moments.  Then the tension eased in his muscles and he lowered his head once again to browse on the long grass.  Drianna thought back several years to the days about the stables when she was shepherding the little colt about.  How she whispered in his ear, even making up a little song for the rambunctious yearling, one that she would sing to him as the dusk faded and the lightning bugs glimmered in the early summer night.

A smile spread across her face.  Still seated in the damp grass she began to hum the song, repeating it over and over, raising the volume ever so slightly with each cycle.  Xandr raised his head from his browsing, not in apprehension, but in curiosity.  Drianna began to put the words to the song, singing softly at first, then raising her voice slightly.  Xandr swished his tail, standing now, focused on Drianna. 

Time to take a chance.  She stood slowly, continuing to sing.  Xandr stayed his ground.

Another recollection from the stables came to her, the hand signals.  Could he see them in the moonlight?  She had one she always used in the morning when she would see him, a movement with pressed palms that opened to a wide sweeping greeting, palms outward.   When he saw that he would rise from his straw and gallop over on his still spindly legs, circling her until she produced some treat from a pocket that he would delicately snatch up in his teeth.

Drianna patted the numerous pockets in her tunic.  There was a slight bump in a small pouch in the lower left side, a last coveted hard candy treat she had kept from the dessert table at Rivendell.  Oh, this would do. She secreted it between her fingers.

She clasped her palms together in front of her.  Xandr raised his head slightly.  Her palms parted as her arms swept out in the welcome she always made those years past.  For a moment nothing happened.  The horse seemed to struggle within himself, front hooves quivering, back legs tensing.  Drianna took another chance and called in a loud whisper

“Xandr…good morning little one”

The great horse moved forward a few steps. 

“Come…we have much to do today” she whispered louder.

The great horse quickened his pace to a trot, then a gallop, circling her, his great head held high.  Drianna kept her position, arms spread, the sugary snack pinned between her fingertips as always.  Xandr tightened the circle, he could smell her now, remembered the scent from his youth, a friend, a trusted friend.  Then he slowed, approaching her directly, edging closer til the breath from his nostrils poured soft on her fingertips.  In an instant he snatched the elven candy from her outstretched hand and pranced away, triumphant, his youth reclaiming him.

“Good boy” Drianna spoke now, her voice low but clear, no longer a whisper.

Xandr returned to her, feeling safety in the pattern of memory that she had extended to him.  He was so big that it startled her, the last memory she had being his coltish eyes staring levelly into hers.  Now he looked down on her, a mighty cavalry steed, fit to bear the son of the Steward.  Still he was her baby and seemed to need that again.

Even in the moonlight she could now see something was wrong about him.  His ears were cruelly chewed, the tender flesh about his eyes scarred with poorly healed wounds, some swollen with infection.  Drianna kept her palms on his body, murmuring to him, slowly working her way along his flanks to his hindquarters.  There she saw more damage, tears and rents still oozing, some covered with scabs.  It was too soon to tell if he would sire more of his courage and spirit.  It was not too soon for her anger to boil up at the thought of who or what could do such a thing and how she would deal with those responsible.

Xandr stiffened suddenly.  Drianna looked back up the slope.  It was Arahael, emerging early for his watch, standing at the opening in the trees, looking down at her, his body language cautious, not understanding what was transpiring. 

“It’s all right Xandr…he is a friend, come…follow me…there are more friends and you will be loved and cared for”

The great horse paused, uncertainty coming over him like a wave, instincts sharpened by recent horror and cruelty now trying to pull him away.  Drianna reached up, gently cradling his head against hers, whispering in his gnarled ears.  Xandr relaxed, the trust from a distant youth reasserting itself, wanting to, wanting to replace the terror of the past weeks.  A decision was made deep inside him and he followed as she walked purposely up to the top of the moonlit slope where Arahael stood.

--------------------------------------------------*--------------------------------------------------------

The wet rasp of a warm tongue on his cheek brought his body abruptly awake.  It was an instinctive thing, eyes suddenly open, arms and shoulders tensing in for a fight.  Fear raced through him, visions of swarming insects tearing flesh as he sat helpless, back to a tree, hands tightly bound behind a scaly trunk.  He struggled violently, thrashing, then wrestling himself up to a standing position.  Wild-eyed, panting heavily he braced for death from hundreds of remorseless pincers and greedy jaws.

But death failed to arrive and after a few moments the fog of fear left him.  Sight and reason returned and he began to take in his surroundings for the first time. 

It was day, perhaps mid-morning, though little sun made its way through the impenetrable canopy above to the forest floor.  Before him lay an old fall of great trees, victims of some long ago bolt of lighting or stormy gale.  Others, dark boughed evergreens, had sprung up to take their place, letting no precious daylight go to waste.

Atop one huge rotting moss covered log sat two large bobcats, eyeing him coolly.  One with golden eyes licked its lips.  Eradan smiled, that first strange sensation on his cheek now clear to him.

“Well at least Clybrindor likes you…or we might have just left you to the bugs” a voice gently mocked just inches from his left ear.

Startled, Eradan wrenched to his left toward the source of the human voice.  It was a human voice!

A figure brushed past him.  Dark green buckskins, slightly above average height, compactly, but solidly built, confident in his stride, at home in the forest. 

“Who are you!” Eradan nearly spluttered, astonished yet grateful at the same time.

The man turned, round face framed by curling golden hair, greying at the temples.  Large, pale blue eyes stared back at him appraisingly.  A small wry, ironic smile suggested humor though the curl of his lip hinted at the potential for cruelty if provoked.

One of the bobcats leapt off the log, gray with a slight bluish tint, the one that had woken him moments ago.  Now it sat at his feet, poised, an attitude of confidence mixed with a tinge of expectancy.  Eradan now saw that his fur was matted with brown stains, some with his own blood.  Both ears sported small puncture holes and a fresh wound below its right eye still oozed.

“Clybindor and I would like to know who you are.  He and Chrisandil fought well for you if that means anything!”

“I am Eradan, son of Mardil, Steward of Gondor.  Release me that I may reach my father who is in great peril!”

The man sat on the log next to the other bobcat, which promptly leapt off to an adjacent fallen tree and began grooming herself, removing the stains from her golden fur.

“What would I know of Stewards and kingdoms.  I have saved you as any man would under the circumstances and lucky indeed it was that I was spying on Dol Guldur at that very moment.  But you are no ordinary man it is clear, to have escaped from Dol Guldur.  How could it be that I can be convinced of your truthfulness.  I must think for a moment.”

Eradan fumed, fists clenched in frustration.

“You don’t understand! I…”

The enigmatic man on the log interrupted him, raising his voice.

“You were a young man high up in the White Mountains in the winter, training with your battalion.  You were climbing a steep icy slope just behind your squad leader.  What happened!?”

Eradan stared, mouth agape at the stranger, whose unnaturally large pale blue eyes bored into his.

“Well….?” Ardugan insisted.

“He fell, slipped on glare ice.  I grabbed the hood of his outer cloak and held him long enough for him to regain his footing.  We were both nearly killed.”

“Good”

“Wait…how do you know such a thing! Nothing was ever said.  We were alone.  It was an early morning test before the rest of the recruits had breakfasted!”

The stranger smiled.  “I have a talent for observation, young man.  Now another question for you.  Your horse was a gift.  Who was the giver?”

“My sister, Drianna.  She raised it from a colt.”  Eradan replied, grudgingly.

Unexpectedly the man approached, walking purposely, pulling a curious knife from a small sheath in the belt about his buckskin tunic.  Eradan tensed, preparing to make whatever fight he could against this adversary.  The man moved with surprising quickness, darting in back of the tree, severing the rope, then agilely evading Eradan’s outstretched arms, ending up on one of the logs, a small bow already drawn, arrow pointed at Eradan’s heart.

“Sit. Listen and learn, Eradan, for you are the son of the Steward as I am the son of a king.”

Eradan sat.  The blue-gray bobcat eased over and joined him.  The stranger leapt down from the log and put away his bow.

“I am Ardugan, son of Arvedui, last king of Arthedain, descendant of Isildur, Elendil’s son.”

Eradan just stared at him, realizing what a ragged figure he must present, tattered orc armor over rags, greasy gray flecked brown hair hanging over his forehead, scars and wounds still seeping blood.  He was hardly a convincing figure, yet this man clad in dark green who claimed noble blood believed him.  Now, was he prepared to believe this stranger with the luminous blue eyes.

The man called Ardugan made his way forward and sat on the ground a few paces in front of Eradan. 

“Your father knows full well his danger.  Your sister, who raised Xandr from a colt was in our company less than a week ago.”

“Drianna?! “ Eradan burst out, “Of what company do you speak! How is it that she is near, yet so far from Gondor!”  Eradan now stood again eyes blazing, confused, yet angry.  Next to him the gray bobcat backed off hissing, baring its teeth.  Ardugan maintained his ground, hardly moving from his sitting position.  After a few moments the silence of the forest soaked up Eradan’s outburst and Ardugan spoke.

“Listen!” he shouted, “We could spend a day and more with what has transpired since your capture at the edge of the Brown Lands weeks ago, but there is not time for storytelling!  We are barely 3 leagues from Dol Guldor.  I have carried you all night and into the day to reach this spot.”

Eradan’s eyes widened as he realized the means of his rescue from the certain death of the night before.  Ardugan resumed.

“This narrow sliver of forest where we sit still resists the foul invasion from the southeast.  An age ago these woods were alive with elven trails.  The land still remembers and resists the dark incursion of mold, vine, and corruption.  But its memory is weak and the fair wood retreats more each year.  Of my reasons for venturing so close to the doom that almost overtook you we will speak later, but not here.  We must go!  There are those who await you and urgently need the counsel of your dark days ‘ere they proceed.  Come! My horse is near and will bear your weight while I and my companions protect the flank.”

Ardugan glanced at Clybrimbor who sauntered off.  He turned his head to Chrisandil who ignored him, continuing her grooming.  

“Come Eradan, this way.” Ardugan gestured to a spot on the other side of the fallen logs. He helped Eradan limp along.  Then the figure of a horse emerged in the dim light, a tall, lean, black stallion, alert and fearless.

“It’s all right Nytral…he is a friend and needs your strength for this day.”

The stallion snorted briefly then turned slightly to allow Eradan to mount.  Disdaining Ardugan’s offer of assistance, Eradan grimaced as he placed his left foot in the stirrup and painfully hauled himself up into the saddle.  Breathing heavily, he managed a strained smile of triumph at what would normally be a small physical feat.

Ardugan fished around in a small pocket at the lower end of his short buckskin tunic. 

“Here”, he said to Eradan, handing him something the size of a walnut wrapped in silvery leaves.  “Chewed, it will give you healing strength, yet will calm your spirits”

Eradan took it reluctantly, eying it suspiciously.

“As you wish” Ardugan commented somewhat wearily, “But I have invested all too much effort to bring you this far only to poison you for sport!  If you have any intention of joining your sister and the others as something other than a weakened husk of your former self you will consume this medicine and give thanks that you will not be walking the next 10 leagues!”

Eradan glared at him momentarily, then removed the small irregular brown nodule from its leafy wrapping and tucked it in his mouth.  It had a curious chewy texture and a sweet, spicy flavor.  He felt the aches and tears of his bruises and wounds fading, replaced with a quiet sense of strength and tranquility.  Relaxed, he leaned forward in the saddle, resting his head on the nape of the horse’s neck.  Moments later he was fast asleep.

Ardugan wrapped a few straps loosely around the battered warrior to insure that he would not fall off the steed.  Then he disappeared into the woods, followed by feline blurs of gray and light golden brown.  Nytral trotted off behind them, picking his way effortlessly through the dense evergreens and the thick matted piles of dead branches and pine needles that carpeted the forest floor.

-------------------------------------------------*---------------------------------------------------------

Drianna and Xandr slowly made their way up the slope to Arahael, her hand on his left hind flank as a measure of security.  They had approached to within yards when the horse stiffened suddenly.  Drianna could feel his pulse quickening beneath her hand.  Xandr raised his head, eyes glistening with intent, scarred snout testing the air.

“Xandr…what is it?” Drianna whispered, afraid that the great horse might abruptly bolt after all her patient coaxing.  He seemed not to hear.  Once again he raised his head, like carved marble in the moonlight.  A sharp snort, then a whinny, almost joyous, burst forth and the great steed reared up, hooves pawing the air.

Drianna backed away and Xandr took off to the east at a spirited gallop, tall swishing, head bobbing with excitement.  Arahael came down the slope to her.

“I made no movement…” he began almost apologetically.

“No…it was not you Arahael, nor was it fear that roused him.” Drianna replied excitedly.  By now Xandr had disappeared in to the east, swallowed by the night.

“Then what was it” Arahael inquired.

“You would not know…the horse was Xandr, Eradan’s mount…a gift from me when we were younger”

“He survived the battle?! Are you sure it was his horse?” Arahael replied disbelieving.

“I raised it from a colt…there is no doubt as to his identity.  Perhaps it is just the dreams of a grieving sister, but I believe it was joy that pulled at him, drawing him off suddenly.  I know only one thing that fills his heart with such joy”

“And that would be…”

“The presence of the only master he will obey, my brother Eradan!” Drianna replied, her voice thick with emotion.

Arahael knew her grief to be great and her heart hardened by its burden carried over the long leagues since she left Gondor.  Now that they were close to the source of what might have been her brother’s certain death, he felt that the pain of such a loss was showing in her words.

Just then they heard Xandr’s whinnying, far off.  But this time the call was answered by that of another horse.  Both Arahael and Drianna were momentarily startled.

“Drianna, we must wake the others! We know not if what approaches is friend or foe!”

Quickly they went through the camp, rousing the companions in the middle of the night.  Soon they all stood in the moonlight, brushing sleep from their eyes and readying their swords.

“You are certain that a different horse answered and not one of our own” Aranarth questioned gruffly, ill disposed to losing sleep to the imagination of an inexperienced cohort.

“We both heard it” Arahael replied evenly, taking slight at his father’s tone, “Drianna has already checked our horses…none are missing.”

“Very well, but it ill behooves us to venture blindly in the night in search of horses this close to Mirkwood”

“Aranarth is right” Gandalf replied, “If indeed this is Eradan’s steed I am gladdened by its presence and what may be another of its companions that may have survived that terrible day.  But we must be cautious.  If this is an enemy let it face our swords together at this place.  If it is no foe then we will grant such greetings as are due.”

“That choice will soon be upon us” Haldir commented, staring hard to the east.

Eyes followed his.  Even at this distance they could sense the pounding hooves and the exuberance of the stallion, a white glimmer in the moonlight some two hundred yards off, emerging from behind the black nighttime shadows of a grove of evergreens.  Down it raced through the tall grasses and shrubs into a shallow crease of the land, then up again towards them, as if in a hurry to pass on news.  In moments it came thundering to a halt, eyes ablaze, head held high, steam billowing in moonlit clouds from his flanks and mouth.

Before any could make a move there was a rustle behind them.  Swords scraped upon scabbards, the air was silent but for the intake of breath before battle. 

“Sheath your weapons…” a tired voice called out, as if preoccupied with more important tasks.

“Ardugan…” Aranarth commented flatly.

“Yes, Ardugan it is and with company…someone help me with him…he has sustained injuries and needs aid.”

Drianna pushed her way through the crowd of men, feeling her way amongst the nighted trees to the voice on the far side of the grove that topped their knoll encampment.   She could discern little other than Ardugan’s form crouched over another in the dappled moonlight under the trees.  

“Eradan....”she whispered to herself, saying a silent prayer of thanks.  Quickly she knelt at Ardugan’s side, heart pounding. 

“Is he…”

“Dead?…no, Drianna, just fast asleep” Ardugan replied.  The others had now arrived and Gandalf gently rested his hand on Drianna’s shoulder.

“Rare indeed is the man who can escape from the clutches of the Necromancer.  Such a story begs to be told, but first we must first tend to his wounds.  Haldir, can you assist us?”

The Marchwarden of Lorien approached quietly.  He, Gandalf and Ardugan cleansed Eradan’s wounds, applied salves and oils, wrapping the most pernicious of the cuts and punctures in cotton bandages.  They would do more on the ‘morrow when daylight might reveal more damage to be repaired.  Haldir then produced a small vial that emitted a pale silvery glow as if it had captured the moonlight itself.

“Lift his head Drianna.  Let us see if he can sip a little of this” Haldir requested

“What is this…what do you give him?” Drianna reacted protectively, shielding Eradan’s lips with her hand

“Fear not sister.  It is called the Light of the Silverlode.  It will cleanse his body of such venoms and poisons that may have been forced upon him which sap his strength and spirit.”

Haldir knelt down, his face softly illumed by the silvery glow.  Carefully he touched the vial to Eradan’s mourth, sparing but little, then backing away.  Even in the dim light Drianna could see a change come over him, lines of tension easing from his face, fists unclenching, muscles relaxing.

“We must let him rest now Drianna” Gandalf whispered into her ear.  She nodded silently, only half hearing him, absorbed by her emotions, immensely grateful that her brother yet lived, still astonished that it had come to pass.  She spread two blankets over his sleeping form, then stood up.

“I will stand watch over him tonight.”  She announced.

“Arahael and Hagar will join you, Drianna” Aranarth replied. “We know not who or what may be in pursuit of Eradan nor the manner of his escape”

“Indeed we know very little!” Gandalf interjected.  “Perhaps Ardugan would favor us with what he knows from his days in the shadow of Dol Guldur.”

And so as Eradan slept, Ardugan told his tale, his secret reconnoiter of the outskirts of the Necromancer’s abode, the sudden appearance of Eradan, rescue from the insect horde and return through the paths of the dark forest.  There was much discussion, then Gandalf bade them all to sleep.

He stayed up after the others had gone to rest, watching the sky.  Clouds now obstructed the moon.  The wind was still from the south, but would shift to the west and north accompanied by a gusty shower or two.  Farther up the vales of the Anduin the shift had already occurred the day before.  That and more he knew from the message that Guaykil had brought him last night.

The birds had left the sanctuary of Rhosgobel.  Indeed, at the time that Guaykil arrived they were resting in great flocks on the south side of the Gladden river, enjoying the repast that the elves had laid out for them.   Few had born witness to their flight, other than a small collection of astonished hobbits, dwelling quietly near the marshy bottomlands of the Gladden where they fished and raised crops in small fields.

Tonight, if all went according to plan, a north wind would have already carried them to Lorien where they would fill the great trees and dine again on elven fare.  There they would rest for a day before making their way east to fulfill their part in the plan. 

He could smell rain on the wind now. It would be upon them soon, but would pass quickly.  The arrival of Eradan was unforeseen and he was uneasy as to what it meant.  Despite his statement to the group extolling Eradan’s bravery, he found his arrival in the very midst of what was perhaps too intricate a plan to be almost suspicious in its timing.

And they could ill afford much delay.  They had to be at the gates of the Necromancer in three days.  He sighed to himself.  It was ever so in Middle Earth.  All his efforts, talents and skills could be undone or made whole by random events.  What Eradan’s appearance meant at this point would have to wait until tomorrow. 

********************************-----************************************

Atop Dol Guluor a darker, more sinister spirit also brooded about the ‘morrow.  He had left the form of the great black wolf, allowing it to slumber on a flat slab of black granite under the cloudy night sky. 

His presence now floated free, a roiling ball of crimson striated with writhing tendrils of orange and black, with an occasional spout of flame.  Deep within, the vague form of a lidless eye emerged briefly from time to time.  He did not sleep.  Days and nights being a contrivance of time and natural phenomena that had meaning only as it affected the affairs of those creatures he strove to dominate.

The ball darkened angrily with that thought as it reminded him of his failure with the Steward’s son.  The others from the battlefield had succumbed one by one to the drugs and deprivations he had inflicted on them, even the one known as Zerephath, who had resisted most stubbornly.  A few finishing touches and they would be automatons, nearly dead, but alive to do his bidding. 

But the dosages and torments that had worked well on them did not break Eradan.  He had become concerned that he might risk killing him, given the toxic effects of the potions, such was the unexpected strength of his will.  That would not do, if he was to return the young master to Gondor as his living, compliant, yet unwitting servant.

So he had sent him to the lower pits while he pondered other elixirs, tortures and terrors.

And then the whelp escaped! 

Once again the crimson ball pulsed and roiled with anger, spitting flame.  Then, after a while, it gradually subsided, fires banked.  He was part to blame, he knew, stripping the garrisons to such a bare minimum to put as many orcs in the field as possible against the approach of Mardil.  Of course, that had no effect on his decision to punish the two dungeon guards who had let him head up the passage towards the beetles, assuming he would have to return once he weighed his chances.  They now dangled from the ceiling of the cavern where his insects gathered, their naked feet inches of the floor.  His little bugs would find the two swaying morsels to their liking, even if it took all night for them to work their way up from the feet to their necks.

No trace of the Steward’s son had been found.  No bones picked clean, no shreds of clothing or the shabby armor he had stolen from the old orc.  Perhaps two score of his favored beetles were discovered in a heap, slashed to ribbons.  Others were dead but intact, smelling of some strange secretion or potion. 

How this could be, none could tell him, unless they turned on each other in a frenzy to compete for the flesh of a man or were set upon by some beast.  No matter, the young warrior would not survive long, becoming dinner for a troupe of his giant spiders.  Even now he might find himself securely wrapped in sticky web, paralyzed with venom, awaiting the pitiless piercing that would slowly drain the life force from his veins.

His death would still be a blow to the detested Gondor.  But an even greater blow was about to be struck, a more valuable prize almost at his doorstep, the Steward himself!

The hovering entity that was Sauron took on a deeper, richer red, suffused with malevolent satisfaction and excitement.  Dead or alive, Mardil was more than an adequate substitute for his son.

The fool! Had he learned nothing from the vainglorious, fatal exploits of Earnur’s challenge to the Witch King or the headstrong pursuit of the mirage of rescue that had entrapped his own son?

It was almost too easy and a small seed of doubt and suspicion lingered deep within him.

Yet there was no mistaking Mardil’s presence along with 1000 of his best cavalry just two days south of the forest’s edge.  And no reinforcements to follow.  The Steward would be outnumbered perhaps three to one.  Though Eradan’s troops had cost him dearly there were still more than enough to handle this force once the bats had sown their chaos and blood in their ranks.  And they would bend to His will, suppressing any fear in their brutish minds.

His focus was to the south and so it had been for days.  It grated on him that His power was still limited, a pale shadow of what he had wielded ages past.  That would change in time.  But now he would not waste it other than the opportunity at hand.  To the north the forest was vacant for hundreds of leagues, the elven king Thranduil having no stomach for battle.  To the west, the last ragged band of Rhovanian remnants had been driven from their meager lands not more than a fortnight ago.  Lorien would not venture beyond the formidable defense of their own borders. 

Other than a small, insignificant trading party that had crossed the Anduin at the Carrock days before, the land around him was empty for all intents and purposes.  And the traders would be a welcome amusement later, imprudently hoping to cut a few weeks off the trek south to Gondor via the eastern banks of the Anduin.  He would think of new ways to send them down the river, something more original than the arrangement he had designed for the earlier party that had left Gondor months before.

Then for a moment another thought, the Istari.  He knew enough that they were abroad in Middle Earth from the West, watching him, plotting perhaps with what feeble remains there were of the Alliance that had defeated him two thousand years past.  Yet the most powerful of them was far to the east.  Two others also east were lost, wanderers without purpose, of little use to whatever mission they might have envisioned. 

The Brown One, well to the north, seemed content with his birds and herbs, a footnote in the history of this world.  The Grey One, a wanderer from what his spies could tell, genial, convivial, eager to befriend the races of Middle Earth, if they were less eager to embrace him.  No there was no immediate threat there either.  Still they were a potential pest, or perhaps a future opportunity much like Mardil.

Such thoughts he dismissed now.  There was business at hand.  It would be dawn in an hour.  He sensed a lightening in the sleep of the huge black wolf to his left and eased into its mind.  The power of its sinews and tendons felt good to the touch.  It still twitched in dreams he could share, visions of prey struggling between gnashing teeth, the pounding hearts of deer out of breath and hope.

No, He did not sleep.  He only paused for a moment in his ageless thought for diversion and in the deep night the great black wolf met His need.

********************************----***********************************

To the west the clouds had cleared after a light shower.  The leaves of the great mallorns, still wet with rain, glistened in the moonlight.  Atop the highest tree on a platform woven into its uppermost branches, two figures stood, facing east.

“It was once like this long ago” the tall woman spoke wistfully, “before the lands sank beneath the seas, the forests of Eriador laid bare to the Numenorean axes or darkened by evil.  We were much closer to the creatures of the world for so much of it had yet to be taken from them.”

The silver haired man next to her nodded silently in the pale light.  It had been an extraordinary day in that respect. 

They had stood on this very platform hours ago in the morning.  To their left the rugged snow-capped peaks of the Misty mountains had marched north piercing a brilliant blue sky.  Down their great slopes stretched long green flanks towards the undulating flatland where the Anduin wound its way out of the northern wastes far over the horizon.  To the east Mirkwood brooded sullenly.

But their eyes had been fixed on a smudge on the northern horizon, hovering in the sky just above the easy rolling plain near the river. She had remembered a quickening in her pulse as the first of the flocks approached.  Celeborn had seen to it that great painted simulacrums of each of the species were hung from the stands of trees where they were to congregate.  And the first were the swifts.  In moments they were upon them in a great rush of wind, their wings beating furiously in rapid, almost bat-like movements, some darting to and fro as the swarm abruptly banked in a steep climb, spiraling up with the first of the morning thermals.  Then, from high up they dove down in a swooping cloud braking at the last moment, entering the trees, chattering and twittering excitedly.

Others followed in sequence, an enormous flock of starlings, darkening the sky with their numbers.  Then the raptors, kestrels, sharphawks, goshawks, and red-tailed hawks.  Finally towards the end of the day came the small owls.  The eagles, unused to tree living, remained to the west, high up upon the mountain crags west of Lorien, though their leader, Aquilar came to give his respects to the Lady of the Wood, arriving majestically from on high.

Lorien was awash in avian conversation as the thousands congregated in the branches, enjoying the foodstuffs tied to perches or dangling from boughs.  It was a sight never before seen in the land and not likely to be experienced again.  Later, an hour before sunset, the flock leaders had gathered with Galadriel on her high platform.  A semicircle of perches had been set for them, with bowls of treats particular to each species attached.

The Lady of the Wood sat before them at a small table covered in purest white linen.  A single silver plate lay before her arranged with delicacies and specialties that she enjoyed.  

After a time she spoke to the assembled lords of the flocks in the manner she had learned long ago from Melian the Maia when she had dwelt in the kingdom of Doriath in the days of the First Age of Middle Earth.

“You honor our Woods with your presence, lords and ladies of the air” she spoke to the group.  Apodidie, leader of the swifts, replied for them.

“We are honored to receive your invitation to share in the bounty and beauty of Lorien, my Lady.  It has become all too rare that many of our numbers grace these boughs and branches.  A time long ago we could fly for days without end over the endless forests.  Now we must take care where we dwell and how we journey.”

“I too mourn the loss that time and evil have brought to the land since I set foot on its distant shore two ages ago.  And now evil has returned.”

“As well we know, many of our long ago roosts and hunting grounds in the Greenwood have turned dark, a place unfit for nesting and gathering.  We too wish to reclaim what has been lost.”

“We shall strive together then.  You know the plan.  We shall house you here tonight and the next day that you may rest.  On the third day as sunset approaches the west wind will carry you to Mirkwood where the hospitality will fall far short of these gentle environs.  The eagles, Galadriel nodded respectfully to Aquilar, have from great heights espied those portions of the wood least hazardous.  There you will land and wait until that moment on the fourth day when the signal will announce your time has come.”

“We will be long without food then.  A feeding tomorrow, perhaps, but then nothing for a number of days.”

“There will be ample dining for some of us that fourth day” Falcoverus, lord of the Kestrels replied with satisfaction, a gleam in his eye.

“What you feed upon here in Lorien will provide you with special properties of strength and endurance.  You will not find your wings tiring nor your spirits dulled with hunger.  Those who do not find live prey appealing are welcome to return here or to the southern shores of the Gladden once their role is done.”   

The lords and ladies of the skies nodded their satisfaction.  There was more discussion both of times past and times to come.  After a time, when dusk had retreated well behind the Misty Mountains, Galadriel bade them good night as they were needed with their flocks. 

That was hours ago. She had remained on the platform since then, watching the stars wheel about the heavens and the moon rise over the eastern horizon.  Celeborn had quietly ascended the stairs to join her. 

Galadriel continued with her thoughts.

“I fear for their safety, that they will be discovered, such are their numbers”

“They will not leave as one, but in individual flocks, with the last and sharpest eyed leaving closest to dusk.  It is not without risk, Galadriel, but His focus will be to the south, on Mardil’s cavalry, not west concerned with the affairs of birds.”

Galadriel listened in silence for a while, her face washed pale in the moonlight, long hair silvered in its glow. 

“Still, I will mourn the loss of even one of these brave creatures, who have suffered the wars and deprivations caused by the pride and prejudices of elves, men, and others.  Despite our plans and provisions notwithstanding they are here nonetheless at risk.”

Now it was Celeborn’s turn to be silent, her words holding a hint of reproach lest he feel that any participant, in what would transpire, could be considered expendable. 

He knew different and knew that she did as well, but that she did not wish to address it now, flush with the company of the flocks and their brave spirits.  The next few days could dictate otherwise.  Indeed, the Age had much yet to impose upon all of those who dwelt in Middle Earth, and he had little doubt that it would bring change and pain for many over the centuries to come.  But those were thoughts for another time and place. 

“They were comforted by your words as you know.  The hazards have been told to them before they set flight.  None are here without foreknowledge of their task.  All have been strengthened by the rest and provisions.  There may be few opportunities left in this Age or others to come for them to affect their own destiny so directly.  Grieve not, Galadriel, for those who may fall.  They do so knowing that to do nothing may presage a greater doom for their descendants”

His words fell away in the night.  Galadriel stared east at the moon, now high in the sky.

Then she stepped forward and embraced Celeborn, locking her eyes, sparkling with that curious mixture of love, longing, power, and compassion that had drawn him to her Ages past.  She made her way down to their high bower in the trees.  Moments later he followed.  They would need their rest.  The next few days would be a test for them and many more facing greater threats.

****************************_____************************************

Gandalf had not slept.  It did not matter.  There was much to contemplate this night and the dawn was pressing ‘ere he was satisfied with the results of his thoughts.  Off to his left he could sense that Haldir had awakened, more than likely to the wracking cough and wretchings of Eradan, finally responding to the treatments the elf had administered the night before.

Gandalf sighed and reluctantly stood, bearing his weight on his staff.  To the west the last stars still glimmered against the roll of the day, its predawn gray already crossing the zenith. It was one of those last cool late spring mornings, wisps of ground fog, droplets of dew on leaf and grass.  Would that they were just a trading party, able to linger in this moment.

The others were wakening now, roused by the sounds of Eradan’s distress.  Drianna, Arahael, and Hagar had slipped into sleep, their place taken by Arthed and Aranarth who were now with Haldir, crouched over with concern over Eradan.  Gandlalf approached.

“The poisons emerge…” Haldir commented, intently observing the Steward’s son.

Indeed, even in the dim light of early dawn, Gandalf could see a black liquid being expectorated, a steaming, malodorous slime fouling the floor of the glade.  Eradan writhed as if a parasite was being drawn from his bowels.  Drianna rose from her sleep in alarm and went to his side, clutching him, looking up accusingly at Haldir.

“Is this the work of your Light? He is ill…look at him! Can you not ease his pain or do you cause this distress in his hour of need!” 

“No child…the elven potion works its way.  Your brother frees himself of the Dark One’s poisons.  We must let it do its way.” Gandalf replied kneeling next to her.

It was so for a period of time and then Eradan’s torment eased.  The sun had come over the eastern horizon and they had all gathered ‘round, unable to keep distance.

He lay panting, bathed in sweat, clad in a rough tunic that Ardugan had provided in place of the rags and orc armament.  Drianna cooled his forehead with a dampened cloth, then turned to the group.

“Have you no better thing than to stare at his misery! Elf and men, kings sons and wizards! Leave us be for a while.  Is there not enough to contemplate ahead that his distress is less a spectacle for you!”

Her blue eyes flashed and the dawn’s flame on the lingering clouds cleaved to the crimson streak in her hair.  They retreated to the western opening of the grove, chastened by her tone and the strength of her will.  But Ardugan lingered, a smile on his face, not his usual disdain, but one of genuine warmth and respect.

“Pardon my intrusion, my lady, but he will be hungry in moments.  Shall I prepare something”

Share glared at him initially, then calmed, realizing the practicality of his advice.

“He will need meat and bread.  Dried fruits will aid his energy.”

“As you wish” and Ardugan bustled off to his pack horse, foraging among his pouches.  He returned with smoked venison, oat bread from Elrond’s larder, and dried apples.  By then Eradan had ceased retching and was seated upright on the floor of the grove, his face haggard but showing determination.  He took a long draught from a water pouch Arudgan proffered then went at the provisions with unalloyed zeal, as if the violence done to his stomach a moment ago had never occurred.

Some yards away a frown darkened Aranarth’s face.

“I am heartened that he is alive, but we can ill afford to delay while he recovers his strength.” Aranarth declared gruffly

“Yet I would chance the delay to glean what he knows about the Necromancer’s lair where he had been captive these long weeks” Gandalf mused.  “He will soon pause in his breakfast, long enough to take in some air as well as food.  It will be time then for him to tell his tale.”

And so it was, that after a while Eradan’s appetite paused, and he drank deeply again from the water and let out a satisfied belch.  Gandalf approached, smiling.

“Well, Eradan, you certainly sound better than you did earlier this morn.”

Indeed he looked better too, Drianna having removed his prison rags and clothed him in clean pants and tunic from Arahael’s pack, the two of them being nearly the same build, save for Eradan’s outsized mace arm and shoulder.  She had combed the tangles out of his mane of brown hair.  Though still somewhat gaunt and blotched with lingering bruises, his strong face was now animated with life.

“I am Gandalf.  Your father and I have met long ago, ‘ere you were born.  You have already met Ardugan.  His brothers Arthed and Aranarth…” Gandalf gestured to the group in conversation at the edge of the glade, “…Hagar, from the far north of the Anduin, Arahael, son of Aranarth, and Haldir, Marchwarden of Lorien.  And of course Drianna’s two cavalrymen you must know.” 

“Balas and Ensil, both good men.  I know not what mission brings them here, but their swords and horses are needed further south where my father, Steward of Gondor, marches toward deadly peril.” Eradan was standing now, his voice earnest, steel grey eyes fixed upon Gandalf.

“Mardil knows full well the risks of his mission…and the rewards that it may bring, Eradan”  Gandalf replied carefully, “as does your sister, who accompanies us of her own free will.”

“He speaks the truth, brother.  Our father has consented to this task and we are here to support him”

“We…? The one called Ardugan claimed to be the son of the last northern king.  Those are his brothers and the one named Arahael is his brother’s son…and another looks like a Rhovanion warrior of old. There is even an elf from Lorien as well! You appear as northern traders, but it is not the business of trade you seek.”

“Indeed not, Eradan.  Our business is with your captor, the Necromancer, and our destination is Dol Guldur.”  Gandalf replied, his tone firm and serious.

Eradan’s face paled at the wizard’s words, but his eyes narrowed a bit.

“None enter save as servants or captives.”

“We are neither.  We seek to drive him out of his lair and destroy such allies as He has gathered to him there.  Your arrival is most fortuitous as it may give us insights into His defenses such as we would otherwise not have.”

Eradan looked at Drianna, seeking confirmation of what he had heard. 

“It is so, brother.  You must tell us what you can.”

“Very well, then I will tell it from the beginning.  Summon your companions then, for it is a lengthy tale and one I have no inclination to tell twice.”

And so it was that they gathered ‘round him, all seated now as he told the story of his pursuit through the northern marches of Gondor, across the Anduin. Then the battle just short of the Dark Forest, the unexpected attack of the bats, a last stand and the appearance of the great black wolf.  Eradan then spoke of his times inside Dol Guldur, beatings, foul creatures, being hauled from one cell and torment to the next.  Once again his features paled as he told of the underground prison, serpents that might have been dreams induced by the Necromancer’s potions, then the escape through the horror of the swarming, carnivorous beetles.

Many questions were posed, the strength of the guard, the orientation of the beasts held in barred cages across from where Eradan had first awoken as prisoner.  All the time Gandalf sat back, away from the others, watching his responses.  They broke for lunch and once again Eradan was voracious, eating thrice as much as any of the others. 

Gandalf signaled to Aranarth and Haldir to join him in a stroll outside the glade.  It was early afternoon.  The sun was strong, spring was giving way to summer.  Bees buzzed about the wildflowers emerging in the rough grasses covering the slope downward from their woody knoll.  White, fair weather clouds sailed eastward, decorating a deep blue sky.

“It would seem as you had expected. He has sent all his forces south to meet Mardil” Aranarth commented approvingly, “There may be little opposition to our quest!”

“Yet we do not know what traps and snares he keeps behind, Aranarth, and we place much stock in the word of one man, however noble, whose escape is curiously timed to our arrival” Haldir replied cautiously.

“You both speak truly.  We must be cautious and yet I see truth in his belief that Dol Guldor has been stripped of its guards for the sake of a telling blow against Mardil.  That is as we had planned and none could know those plans save us.  Yet Haldir’s caution is advised.  We know not what spell may linger in Eradan from his capture, nor can we assume he knows all that He has placed in defense.”

“Such was always the risk with the plan, even with our knowledge of the Hidden Stair” Haldir replied.

“But we did not expect Eradan’s arrival and we must act upon it,” Gandalf said half to himself.  “We must do the unexpected, as insurance that we do not find ourselves walking into His dark sanctuary exactly as He would want us to!”

“What have you in mind” Aranarth queried.

“A diversion” Gandalf’s eyes sparkled and a smile crossed his lips and he would say no more.

                                                                                                                            Into Mirkwood

They had decided to embark shortly after lunch.  Eradan had again made the most of his appetite and was steady on his feet, restored for the time with meat, bread, and a little of the elven grape that Haldir had secreted among his possessions.  There had been much discussion about waiting til the ‘morrow, but Gandalf would have none of that.

“Time works for those who work with it and we have precious little to spare.  We will ride at Ardugan’s lead and camp at dusk.  Balas and Ensil will take the horses back tomorrow and wait for our return.  The rest of the journey will be on foot.”

“On foot?!” Hagar remonstrated.  These horses seem well suited to ride.

“In truth they are, chieftan’s son, but the path beyond tonight’s encampment is ill-suited for a cavalry mount, however valiant.  Even my own steed, accustomed as he his to…well…unusual circumstances, cannot be expected to make passage all the way to Dol Guldur.”  Ardugan replied with a trace of condescension.

“Enough debate.  We know our task.  Let us mount and be gone.” Aranarth growled with finality.

And so they left their little grove on the knoll and headed east.  They went down a gentle slope, tall with waving grass, then marched uphill again approaching a stretch of forest, young, perhaps cut some thirty years past and still growing in.  A semblance of a trail, more like a winding gap between the oaks and beeches, led them on.  The early afternoon sun lit the leaves with the cheerful green of late spring.  Then after twenty minutes time the trees thinned out to an open space, sparse with tired grasses, yellow and pale.  Not far beyond, just a hundred yards or so, a wall of dense, dark green reared up.

There was now a noticeable silence in the air.  The sky, brilliant blue from the grove, had paled like the tone of a colored dish left too long outside.  The sun’s cheer had emptied to a toneless brightness, providing light and heat, but nothing more.  Of birds and animals there was no sound or movement.  The party came to a gradual halt, not out of any order or command, but of instinct, seeing and feeling the end of the familiar and the beginning of something that emptied life as they knew it.

For Ardugan it was not unfamiliar.  He had probed the dark fastness of Mirkwood before and feared not the dark spaces of the world as they were no worse than the haunts of his own soul.  It was not so for the others.

Eradan not the least of them, having barely escaped from its confines with his life not long ago.  What plan the others had was still vague to him, though his sister’s commitment to it comforted him.  Still he harbored a silent resentment that they had pressed him for information yet had not responded fully on their intentions.  Drianna had counseled him to patience, yet that had not assuaged his curiosity or anger at his exclusion from their strategy.

Aranarth stared grimly at the sight before him.  He was too much the realist to expect a quick victory and toasts to valor.  Too many had died in the fall of Arthedain in his far off youth for him to indulge in the blind optimism that coated the fear of death.  There would be losses ahead, he knew well, no matter how sound the plan or powerful the allies.  Too many of his own kin were present for death not to take someone close to him in the next few days.  Still he felt it was not yet his time.

Arthed felt an unfamiliar shiver staring at the hulking forest wall ahead.  He had given little thought to their venture, enjoying the travel and the camaraderie, especially the company of Hagar who reminded him of himself as a youth.  The seriousness he left to Aranarth, but now at the eaves of the forest he knew this was no empty patrol in the lands west of the Misty Mountains.  His great axe, long dormant in battle, could be tested. Rusty skills from nearly a hundred years past chasing the remnants of the Witch King’s armies would be summoned again.

Arahael had no rusty skills to summon, only endless years of training and limited exposure to the wider world under the careful tutelage of Elrond and his sons.  There were no notches in his sword, scars on his visage, or creases in his armor.  He stole a glance at his father, stonily glaring at the woods beyond, and silently envied the older man’s stoicism.

A test was coming and he could feel it.  It was his burden to prove that he could carry the line for another generation.  Far off in Rivendell he thought of his expectant wife and hoped that if it were to be a son, the lad would have a father to guide him.

There was little in the way of introspection in Hagar’s mind.  Perhaps alone amongst the group he had thoughts of battle, swordplay, and victory.  He was now arrayed in his full armor of dragon boots, shield, breastplate, greaves, gloves and armlets.  As one who had not faced death or understood its pain he was oddly best served to ignore its warning signs.   

Not so Drianna, who saw death staring at her from the twisted boughs of the forest wall.

She cursed the fate that drew her brother back against all the odds to the very place that nearly claimed him and might yet claim her father and her own life.  Her teeth gritted at the thought that once again Gondor was taking all the risks.  Yet there was no good alternative and she would not wish to be a distant, helpless observer to the fate of the men in her family.  No, if there was blood to be shed, she would see to it that it was not that of Gondor.

Haldir and Gandalf stared at the edge of Mirkwood together, riding first amongst the companions.

“How strange it is to see so close what appears as just a thin dark line from the highest flets of Lorien” Haldir commented, a tinge of awe in his voice.

“Stranger yet it will appear once we have immersed ourselves in its embrace” Gandalf replied soberly, casting a look back upon the others coming out of the last trees.

After a few moments they were gathered together.  Ahead the forest loomed as an alien organism, broken only by a hole where a path entered, much like the opening of a cave. 

Gandalf turned in his saddle.  They were all gathered before him, their trader guises packed away.  But save Hagar, there was little to be seen in the way of heavy armor, helms, and shields.  Rather they traveled light, with sparing use of heavy layered leather protection and careful deployment of light chain mail.  Speed, mobility and an innate trust in their own weaponry and skill were their protection.   

“You all know what lies ahead, “Gandalf pronounced, “Long have we discussed in our journey the evils that the Necromancer has set upon this once beneficent wood.  There is still time for those whose hearts may seek other ways to battle his will to remain back.”  He gazed long and hard at each of them, probing for doubt or weakness of purpose.  There was none.

Without further ado he rode off, disappearing into the narrow opening in the forest.  Haldir followed, then Aranarth, Arthed and Arahel.  Behind them rode Hagar, Eradan on Xandr, and Drianna, then Balas and Ensil who looked pale and grim.  Ardugan took the rearguard.  The two cats were long gone, whether into the forest ahead of them or back to Rhosgobel, none could say.

It was if a door had shut behind them, entering Mirkwood.  Behind them the opening they had entered receded to a pale point of light, then disappeared as they rounded a bend in the trail.  Inside the forest it was dark, in part from the old growth that had never known the axe, but also from the impenetrable canopy of leaves high up that blotted out all but a few meager pinpoints of sunlight.

It was suffocatingly quiet and still as no wind could breach the closely ranked trees and the thick gnarly undergrowth that seemed to thrive despite the lack of sunlight.  There was the occasional rustle as something unseen scurried on some worrisome errand amongst the deep fall of dead leaves and branches on the forest floor.

But what struck most of all was the sense of grimness and sadness amongst the trees, a palpable feeling of their souls battling on the edge.

“It is all they can do to hang on to their treeness”, Haldir said half to himself, his elven heart sensitive to the ways of living things. “They grow from seed here and spend their lives fighting His spell, but it saps their strength and dims their hope.  When acorns fall, the old trees sigh for they know that the saplings will rise with no knowledge of the fair light that once was and still exists not far to the west.”

Yet there was still a trace of the magic of the early days of the Second Age, when Oropher called this home.  In those days the trails maintained themselves, spells directed the trees to extend their boughs away from the trails and drop their acorns well off the path.  Light springy grasses thrived on the open corridors, nourished by the dappled light through the thin layer of branches directly overhead.  Enough of a vestige of those days remained to make the path passable, at least for the first few leagues into the wood.

As the afternoon wore on the trees began to grow twisted and bent, their leaves fading in color from a drab olive gray to a dusky brown with fine veins of black.  Even the bark became coarse and ragged, with thick bulging deformities.  Small clots of dark mosses began to appear in the crooks between the branches, dripping pungent ichors that attracted flies.  The first thin tendrils of vines began to crawl up the tree trunks, mottled green and black with small pale gray flowers exuding a faint rotten odor.  On the forest floor, the initial sparse undergrowth had given way to a profusion of low thorny shrubs with long black spines and tiny, oily leaves. 

Along with these changes the sense of sadness had faded to that of vague hostility, as if these inhabitants of the forest had finally surrendered their souls, feeling resentment that any living creature should still move amongst them so freely.

Now the already dim light began to fade as late afternoon approached.  Though the early June sun was strong and would not set for another two to three hours, it was dusk in the forest.  And the trail had come to an abrupt end, at least the portion where men could proceed on horseback.  Ahead the trees suddenly closed in, their branches crossing the trail, no longer encumbered by any traces of elven magic.  They would do well even to stand upright when they proceeded on foot.  While Ardugan and his steed Nytral, accustomed to strange environs, might venture further, it was of no use to the others.  Indeed the horses were nervous enough, sensing the ill will of the forest.

Gandalf dismounted and directed his followers.  “There is a small clearing off to the left here, not much, but enough to make camp and secure the horses.”

It was certainly not much at all.  In fact the odor about the place brought a quick comment from Eradan.

“It is an orc encampment!  One they must use in patrols.  You think it wise for us to stay here?”

“If we were wise we might be home in bed” Aranarth growled to himself.   

“There will be no orcs this side of Dol Guldur tonight Eradan.  He will spare no swords for patrols of what he believes to be an empty forest” Gandalf tried to reassure him.

But there was little cheer as the dusk deepened to night and they set up camp in cramped spaces, their noses wrinkling at the heavy orc scent that lingered over the site.  At least the orcs had cleared it of the thorny shrubs and smaller wretched trees, leaving just room enough for them to lay their blankets and see to the horses.

Ardugan had set up a small folding contraption he hauled out of a saddlebag.  It was made of thin metal, blackened with use.  Initially flat on the ground, he raised four sides on hinges to form an enclosure just over a foot tall.  He filled the interior with small twigs, branches, dead leaves and other forest litter.  Soon he had a small, economical fire going, largely hidden behind the metal flanges, each of, which sported a grid of tiny holes to let out air and a minimum of light.

“Do not worry, “ Ardugan announced to his companions, “The holes are filed at an angle such that none can see the light beyond 50 paces and methinks there will be few orcs venturing out tonight in these parts of Mirkwood”

“Few creatures on two feet at any rate” Arthed replied absently, noticing the gradual emergence of points of light beyond their encampment.  Dots of red, yellow, green, some in pairs, some in clusters, some still, some on the move.

“Indeed Arthed is right”, Gandalf commented, “We have curious visitors already, and not all of them will be friendly. The fire will dissuade them as will a strong watch during the night.”

Drianna shivered, her back up against an old rotted stump at the perimeter of their campsite.  She had no fear of bear nor wolf, but the thought of smaller, unnatural creatures creeping over her during the night left little doubt as to how much sleep she would get.  Already she had to deal with a small reminder of some unwholesome denizen’s recent passage, a sticky strand of white that resisted her efforts to scrape it from her boots when she made the mistake of stepping on it. 

“I will take the first watch.” She announced, knowing that it would be better to be up and active than lying on the ground, wide awake, her imagination working at her.

“And I will join you” Eradan replied quickly.

“No brother, you must rest as much as possible” Drianna admonished gently, “Your strength is not yet fully restored and we have larger challenges ahead than this night’s watch.”

Even in the small ruddy light from Ardugan’s firecage she could see his teeth clench at her words.  There was a moment of tension.  She realized that she had done the wrong thing, saying that in front of the others.  Arahael came to the rescue.

“The first watch suits me as well.  Perhaps Eradan would tell me more of his escape from Dol Guldur ‘ere he rests for the night.”

Drianna gave him a grateful look.  Eradan’s scowl faded and his eyes warmed at the prospect of spending a few moments with Arahael, like him the son of a leader.  They walked over to the fire and were soon in animated conversation.

“He has a deft touch, your son” Gandalf commented approvingly to Aranarth.

“One of many things he will need when he is Chieftan of the Dunedain.  Peace is also made with the sword and he has yet to be tested.” Aranarth replied gruffly.

Gandalf did not push the conversation further.  The night deepened and Eradan ended his reprise of the tale of his escape, then eased himself to sleep a few yards from the fire.  The others too went to bed, leaving Drianna and Arahael to watch.  Later they would be replaced by Arthed and Hagar, who in turn would sleep while Ardugan and Haldir awaited the dawn. 

There was little to remark the night.  The west wind off the distant Misty Mountains crossed the Anduin and brushed the high forest canopy, rustling the leaves, but too weak to stir the air close to the ground.  Beyond the soft glow of the fire the flicker of strange eyes on the camp periphery continued, but there was no intrusion.  Drianna and Arahel retired just before midnight.   Hagar grumbled as Arthed roused him to watch, then stood half asleep propped up against a tree until Arthed gave him a shove and he toppled over.

“Is this how the grandson of Fram, dragonslayer, keeps watch?” Arthed glowered at him, his normally light hearted mien twisted into a frown.

Hagar scrambled to his feet, clearly embarrassed, hoping Arthed’s comment and his movements hadn’t waked the others to his plight.

“No…no, I was not…”

“Not thinking that there was anything out there worth defending against.  Just queer looking eyes of small scuttling creatures you would crush with your boot as it they were bugs?!”

“I…uh…”

“This is Mirkwood, not the vales of the Langwell.  What will kill you here will not give fair warning or sporting chance.”  Arthed paused for a moment, waiting for Hagar to gather himself.  “Be grateful you were not sharing watch with Aranarth.  He would take a far harsher view of you.  Now keep an eye over there by yonder tree.”

Hagar dutifully trudged over to the edge of the clearing and stood, attempting a look of fierce watchfulness with all he could muster.  Arthed smiled, taking a similar position on the opposite side of the camp. 

Midnight eased to the wee hours and Ardugan and Haldir awoke and bade Arthed and Hagar take their rest. 

Though the wood seemed still and silent, Ardugan was at once alert, his razor sharp senses detecting something amiss.

“Haldir…the wind, it has quieted for now has it not?”

The elf cocked his head, listening for the distinctive wind driven rasp of leaves upon leaves that Silvan elves learn even as infants. 

“So it would seem…yet there is still a rustle far above and in the distance beyond the meager glow of our campfire.” 

“And more…listen…”

Almost camouflaged by the rustling of the leaves, there was a sound, which for most would have been dismissed as the wind, but was a sporadic mix of hissing and scraping, barely audible.

Ardugan looked up towards the forest canopy high overhead.  It was still at least two hours before dawn.  Above the forest the stars twinkled and the moon shone, but below it was an almost impenetrable gloom save for the guttering coals in his small fireplace.  But his were eyes used to the night, eyes large and luminous that could draw in every shred of light available, like some human owl.  And at the limit of his ability he detected something.  At first he though his eyes still a bit rheumy from interrupted sleep, slightly filmed over.  Blinking and rubbing he looked again. 

High above there was the faintest touch of a light milky haze, but it was not the distant reflection of the glowing coals upon pale leaves, nor the wisp of a night fog haunting the early morning forest.  Neither were the darker patches in the haze, neatly circular.  Ardugan darted over to the fire, blowing fiercely on the embers, stoking it with twigs and fine dry brush.  The campsite went from near pitch dark to a building red glow.

“Ardugan…what are you doing…there is no need for a bonfire…we will be leaving in just a few hours.”  Haldir queried, puzzled at the sudden odd behavior.  But Ardugan behaved as a man with no time for words.  The fire flared up, as did his eyes as he turned to Haldir.  But the time for words was past as one of the horses let out a scream of fear and pain.

“Spiders!” Ardugan cried.  “Rouse the company Haldir! We must defend ourselves!”

Above he could see evil black shapes emerging from the dark circular patches above, great hairy spiders descending on a single strand of thick, sticky web, each deliberately positioned above one of the company or their horses. 

As is often the case in crisis what happened next appeared to him almost as if time was slowed.  Arthed and Aranarth, long used to roaming the wild alone, were on their feet in an instant from a sound sleep, wakened by the cries of the horses.  Their alertness proved providential for the spiders descending over their formerly sleeping forms missed their mark on their downward glide, merely grazing shoulders when they had expected firmer targets.

Aranarth drew his short sword, this not being work for a battle blade. Arthed picked a short battle-axe he kept near his blankets.  Ardugan turned away from them, confident that their battle skills would suffice for the moment.  Not far away he spied Gandalf, also standing, his arachnid predator narrowly missing his form.  His face was unfamiliar to Ardugan, wreathed in anger and disgust, his long staff thrusting into the body of a hissing, wriggling spider the size of a small dog.

To the other side of the encampment it was not so sanguine.  Drianna was half up, screaming under the weight of a fat spider on her shoulders, its spiky legs tangled in her long blond hair.  Hagar was bellowing like a stuck bull, a small, but tenacious devil latched upon his side, its taloned legs seeking purchase to administer a paralyzing sting.

Arahael, who had slept amongst them after his evening conversation, was wrestling with a six-legged monster the size of a small dog, scrabbling on his chest, its writhing mouth parts inches from his face.  And Eradan was assailed by a hissing adversary on his upper back, its long legs probing up to his neck. 

Near the horses, the two cavalrymen, Balas and Ensil, were screaming in terror and pain.   Mixed in was the thunder of hooves and the snap and thrash of ripped vegetation as their mounts bolted in blind panic out of the camp and into the benighted forest, some with horrible dark shapes attached to their flanks.

It was a scene of chaos, made all the worse by the darkness that favored the spiders. This was all in an instant to Ardugan.  But of all of them he alone had spent the time in Mirkwood over the decades and these were familiar predators to him…were often prey if the count had been kept.  He knew what they would do next and what the companions would need to do in response.

“Haldir! To the fire…prepare your bow…more will descend!  Arthed!” his older brother was just finishing off his assailant in a welter of slime and odorous insectile gore.

“What…?”

“Ready your throwing axes…more will descend and Haldir cannot kill them all!”

Arthed flipped aside his blankets…he always kept a brace of deadly throwing axes near him at night.  “I don’t see…”

“You will soon! Stand by the fire and be ready!” Ardugan commanded.

Now he drew his attention to the others.  Arahael had thrust his attacker off his chest, drawn his sword and impaled it, though his success was not without price as the beast had managed to set its sting in his left arm.  But Hagar, Drianna, and Eradan were not faring well.

Luckily Ardugan too slept with weapons at the ready and now drew the first of his knives from a bandolier about shoulders.  Though the light of the fire was meagre his special eyes could see clear and a silver dart flew unerringly towards the fat body of a spider on Drianna’s shoulder. 

There was a sudden jerk, its legs jutting out in surprised pain as it dropped to the ground, leaking vile fluids.  It was too late, though, as Drianna, a look of shock and fear on her face, collapsed next to it badly stung, already sinking into paralysis.

Another of Ardugan’s knives pierced the abdomen of the creature on Hagar’s side, the beast unsuccessful in penetrating his dragon skin armor with its stinger.  Ardugan drew another knife and turned toward Eradan, but saw him being aided by Arahael who was hacking away at the black body clinging to the Steward’s son.

He had four knives left and a glance upward told him that they would be needed as the second wave of spiders descended from the black holes in the webbing above.  He heard a series of low grunts from Arthed as he let fly his small throwing axes at targets dim to him in the flickering light of the campfire.  Two dealt death with a sickening smack of steel on soft flesh.  Then Ardugan’s remaining daggers flashed off to others, piercing heavy, hairy bodies tended to thick sticky webbing as they emerged from above.

There was the fading sound of the horses crashing further away scattered in panic.  Other sounds emerged, less wholesome, men gagging as their muscles seized up, fixed forever by a spider’s poison.  Arthed and Aranarth ran to where the horses had stood watching, helpless at Balas and Ensil, whose limbs twitched and then lay still under the baleful stings of two large spiders. 

Swift work of sword and axe dispatched their six legged attackers, but they had done their work all too well.  The two cavalrymen had taken a fatal blow.

Then the camp was lit by a cool white light.  Gandalf’s voice could be heard, a spell or some sort emerging from his lips, the tip of his staff aglow. 

“Come! Bring the wounded to the fire!” he shouted, trying to gather the company from the chaos of the battle.

Initial dullness and inertia prevailed, those with killing fresh in their minds still staring at the product of their efforts.  Those with the wounded and near dead before them still stunned at the fate of their companions and their own luck to have survived.  Far off the sounds of horses crashing in their death throes echoed in the forest, mixing with the snarl and hiss of bobcats rending insectile adversaries.

Ardugan cast off the fog of battle and went to Drianna, lifting her from the ground and gently laying her beside the fire.  Her face was bathed in sweat, her limbs twitching violently.  Ardugan roughly turned her over, finding the barb of the sting still impaled in her upper right shoulder.  He yanked it out, then drew his long knife and made a cross cut in the hole of the puncture.  Not hesitating a moment he pressed his mouth to the wound, sucking the poison and spitting it out, repeating again and again till the blood flowed clear.  Then he drew a small vial from one of the many pockets in his tunic, smearing the wound with a strongly scented fluid and swallowing the rest himself.  Her movements eased, though pain still creased her face.

Hagar then reeled over to the fire, his long blond hair matted with blood, his own, scalp badly torn by the frustrated spider’s talons. 

Arahael lay slumped up against a tree, left arm and shoulder now numb and useless, eyes still glistening with fear and shock.  Aranarth came to his side and raised him to his feet, helping him over to the fire.

“Quickly! We must attend to his wound!” Aranarth shouted, an edge of desperation in a voice usually gruff and harsh.

“Let me…” Haldir came to his side, assisting Aranarth, gently laying Arahael next to the fire and taking stock of the wound to his left arm.  It was not deep and the sting had been short lived as Arahael had managed to fling the beast off of him.  The elf did much as Ardugan had with Drianna, cross cutting the wound, then applying an elven remedy before securely binding the damaged flesh with a strip of white cloth. 

“He will live and the arm and shoulder will heal, though full strength will not return for a fortnight.” Haldir counseled a worried Aranarth.

But these words were soon replaced by the sounds of madness.

Eradan was on the ground, ripping apart the spider that had set upon him and had received Ardugan’s mortal knife throw.  He was tearing it into small pieces, oblivious of the viscous gore of spent life that covered his hands and arms.  Strange sounds came from him, growls of rage, higher pitched bleats of panic and fear.  Soon he went on to another dead spider, a victim of Aranarth’s short sword, once again tearing it to pieces.

Now they were all watching him, the aftermath of the battle being swept aside by the possession of Eradan.  His growls and bleats increased as his frenzy of spidery destruction increased.  Drianna struggled to overcome her pain and semi-paralysis to go to him but was restrained by Gandalf who whispered something in her ear, calming her for the moment. 

Eradan set after another spider corpse, pounding its oozing remains with his fists.  In time  though his blows eased off then ceased entirely and he sat on the bare earth consumed in great wracking sobs amidst the mashed wreckage of the spider..  Gandalf held his arms up as if to still the others and let this wave of emotion run its course. 

After a while Eradan’s cries eased and he raised his head as if coming out of a deep sleep.  He was awash in sweat, his hair damp and matted, his face haggard and grim.  But his eyes were clear and set.  Gandalf came over to him and spoke to all, his voice somber and serious.

“Two lie mortally wounded, beyond our skills to save them.  Drianna will live but cannot accompany us further.  Arahael will need to make do with his one good arm and Hagar’s head will carry scars of his lost innocence in Mirkwood.” 

“As for Eradan…let none forget what he has borne during his weeks as a prisoner of the Necromancer.  The violence and degradation of his captivity has been drawn out in rage upon these vile creatures.  That no man could disguise by guile or potion.” 

Eradan rose wearily to his feet and spoke to the group.  “I may still be weak…but pledge to join you in cold purpose towards the end you seek.” He paused for a moment, bent over, catching his breath.  

Aranarth replied, his voice pragmatic. “Dawn will be upon us ‘ere long.  We have horses to find, such that still live, comrades to tend to, and hearts beating too hard to think of sleep.”

“Aranarth is right.” Gandalf replied.  “We must tend to the wounded and find the horses at first light.  Events are already in motion that cannot be stopped on our account and we must be off at first light.”   

Thus the time to first light were spent binding wounds and setting plans.  Ardugan stitched Hagar’s scalp together, the blond giant stoicly undergoing the procedure.  Arahael and Aranarth stood off near the fire testing what feeling and movement remained in his semi-paralyzed left arm.  Arthed set about recovering such knives and throwing axes as he could discover embedded in the repulsive corpses of the spiders, some still twitching weakly.  Eradan sat close to Drianna who was being tended to by Haldir.

There was a rustle in the thorny brush beyond the campsite perimeter.  Those standing drew their swords, hearts pounding, bracing for some new forest horror.  Thankfully, friendly faces intruded, in the form of Xandr and Nytral, returning from the unknown darkness of the wood.  A sigh of relief washed over the encampment.  Ardugan sprinted over to his black mount.  Eradan achingly rose to his feet and made his way to Xandr.

The horses edged into the clearing, meeting their masters, though both men would bridle at the term, regarding them as partners.  Ardugan drew close and whispered something into Nytral’s ear.  The horse nodded in response and pawed rhythmically at the earth.  Meanwhile, Eradan was examining new wounds on the already cruelly punished Xandr,  rips and gashes still bleeding from his flight through the thorny brush.  Trails of red also glistened on Nytrals flanks, which were scored with ragged trails from spider talons.

Ardugan turned to the company, his face somber and grim.

“They will lead us to the other horses.  Three are dead.  Two more are stricken but on their feet.  One has lost its mind and is long gone to the north.”

They went off through a rough path cleared by the fleeing horses’ pounding hooves which had crushed and torn aside the thorny underbrush.  After perhaps fifteen minutes they came upon the bodies of the two dead horses. The lingering spiders had scuttled off quickly at the sound of their arrival, not wanting a repeat of the debacle at the campsite.  There was little they could do other than to remove the saddles and other packs that were still strapped on to the doomed mounts. 

A rustle in the thickets to their right brought swords to their hands.  Two more horses emerged, both limping, escorted by Xandr and Nytral.  Ardugan and Eradan approached slowly, not wanting to spook the injured animals.  Their eyes were still wide with fear, their flanks trembling slightly.  The dash through the thorn and bracken had gouged their hides.  Other marks spoke of spider talons, digging in to find purchase while the beasts sought to throw them off, bucking and slamming into trees and spiky brush.

But the two men were keenly attuned to horses, having spent much of their life in partnership with them.  Surprisingly gentle hands and calm words eased the fear out of the horse’s eyes.  Their trip hammer hearts slowed, breathing became natural again.

In a few moments they were able to make their way slowly back to the campsite.

There they found a hive of activity.  Packs, foodstuffs and weapons being sorted and ordered.  Final medications being made to wounds.  Aranarth approached them as they entered the small clearing.

“Can they make their way back, out of the forest?” Aranarth was practical and brusque as always, seemingly oblivious to the distress of the horses.

“Once we attend to their wounds and feed them” Ardugan replied evenly.

“Do your best then, brother, for we must be off for Dol Guldur within the hour, so says Gandalf.  Drianna will take the horses back through the forest.”

Eradan was relieved at his words.  The sight of his sister upon his bare escape from Dol Guldur had been reassuring more than any could imagine.  Yet upon his rough recovery from that dark period he had regained something of his old self, obsessively protective and increasingly alarmed that she should continue to the dark place where had spent these past nightmarish weeks.

Though the thought of her leaving the forest alone to the empty lands bordering the Anduin was of little comfort, it was as best as could be expected.  Still he knew this would be hard for her to bear having coming this far to represent Gondor at the behest of their father, the Steward.  He walked over to her.  She was now standing, though the tightness about her mouth revealed the pain that the spider’s sting had left in her veins.

“It is good to see you up, sister” Eradan ventured

“Yes, though they say it will be a number of days before the pain fully recedes and I have full use of my limbs.” 

“You will be able to ride?” 

“With Xandr one only need sit in the saddle…he will do the rest.  I will make for our camp just outside the forest.  There are enough fast provisions that I will have no want nor need.”

“Balas and Ensil…” 

A shadow crossed her face.  They had accompanied her from Gondor to Rivendell and south into Mirkwood, enduring long marches and her short temper.  Now they were dead, wrapped in blankets, their bodies curiously preserved by the massive doses of spider venom. 

“They will accompany me.  I would see them buried in Gondor if circumstances permit.”

Eradan could see her eyes watering.  It was the first time she had been responsible for the lives of others.  He knew the feeling well.

“Many serve Gondor, Drianna.  Some in her army, some by way of sea, others preparing provisions or forging swords.  Only the best qualify for the cavalry.  And they know that their horses will carry them far from home into battles, some at long odds.  Many such sons of Gondor have fallen leagues from Minas Tirith without the dignity of burial.  Three hundred I have left at the southern reaches of Mirkwood.  I cannot say where their bones lie”

She watched his face grow grim, his eyes go distant and cold.   Her grief at the death of her companions seemed to recede for the moment to a small ball, an ache in her stomach.  Her brother carried something more and should he return from Dol Guldur he would attend individually to each of the families of his slain men.  That did not include his own feelings for companions with whom he had trained and ridden for years.  And even as they stood here their father was positioned on the southern edge of Mirkwood with a full regiment of cavalry, hoping that a complex and risky plan would rid the world of a devil for a while without the sacrifice of more lives.

It was now that she understood.  Not that she would shirk any responsibility thrust upon her.  But the shoes her brother and father walked in were different from most in this world.  Rage as she might at times at the decisions they made, whether rash or cold, until now she had not carried the burden of responsibility for any lives other than her own.    

She made to reply to him, to say something in recognition of his duty.  But this was forestalled by the approach of Gandalf and Aranarth.  The gruff chieftain spoke first.

“Ardugan will soon be done with the horses.  They will be loaded with such provisions and weapons that we will not be able to carry further on foot.  Balas and Ensil…their horses survived and can carry them with you.”

“It has been a difficult night, Drianna and I regret that you are much worse the wear for it” Gandalf commented, “But the way ahead is difficult even for those not badly wounded”

“You need not apologize for my fate.  I would not continue just to be a burden and it is fitting that I leave this place with those who had accompanied me this far.”

Something of the anger that had inhabited her since childhood had given way.  The competition for her father’s attention had died with the passing of Balas and Ensil.  That and her own brush with death with the spider’s venom.

“It will be two days march to Dol Guldur and three days back, assuming we are not otherwise detained.”  Gandalf’s gray eyes looked at her meaningfully through his great bushy brows.  “You will be on your own for nearly a week.”

Drianna’s eyes lit up with some of her old fire at these remarks.  “I have dwelt alone in the White Mountains for a fortnight with little other than a bow and tinder box.  A soft stay in the Vales of the Anduidn will be little test for me.”

“Very well” Gandalf’s eyes twinkled for a moment, enjoying her spirit.  “Though you will be apart from us, keep a look to the south and southeast for signs that will mark our progress and events to come.”

Even as he spoke, there was a gathering occurring.  Ardugan was leading the horses, Xandr at the van with the others, black Nytral aloof and to the rear.

Eradan assisted Drianna up onto Xandr.  They took a long look at each other.  He was tired, his proud face drawn, brown locks showing hints of gray.  Her eyes were alight though her face was tight with pain.  Long ago he was twice her size, riding through the cavalry encampments, holding her tight, the older brother parading her around, flush and confident with his first major commands.

Now they were in the sudden cold marches of their adulthood, together again briefly and unexpectedly, but soon to be parted.  Neither could quite connect the past with the present.

“We will return within the week”  Eradan held the bridle of Xandr firmly, locking his eyes with hers.

“I will be waiting.  Then again, I may recover quickly and have other plans” Drianna taunted.

Eradan smiled.  It was always thus with her, wanting the last word.  “Keep him well, sister” he patted Xandr gently on the side of the head, “no matter what your plans may be”

With that, Eradan gave the great horse a nudge and he ambled off.  The others followed slowly, still limping, their wounded flanks smeared in a healing herbal balm Ardugan had applied.  Nytral took up the rear guard, the black horse casting a reluctant, almost baleful eye at Ardugan.

After a few moments they were gone, disappearing around a bend in the westward trail, their hooves receding in muffled cadence.

Eradan returned to his companions.  They had all donned their packs.  Under thin wools they wore such armor and footwear as suited them.  Swords, axes, knives, and bows were strapped and secured.  Gandalf was another matter, with his heavy black boots, great gray cloak and pointed hat.  Yet he too bore a sword belted beneath the cloak and his staff had unspoken power.

“We have saved these for you” Arahael brought out a heavy pack for Eradan.  In front he laid out boots, shining mail, a gleaming broadsword, two hefty knives, a helmet and gauntlets.

“We pray you will not begrudge the presence of a mace, but these accoutrements of battle are all we can provide”

“A stout branch and a heavy stone would be weapons enough for me.  You do me honor with these and rest assured I will make the most of them.”  Eradan replied.

Standing in the background, Aranarth spared a grudging smile.  Though his own kingdom was gone, the fate of another would be in good hands should this son of Gondor live out the week.  Of his own son, still new to adversity, he could not yet be so sure.  

                                                               The Path to Dol Guldur

They set out not long after Drianna’s departure.  It was at best an hour after dawn and the woods were gloomy, visibility perhaps a hundred feet.  The trail that had led them this far, wide enough for horses single file, narrowed to a footpath winding uncomfortably between bulky misshapen oaks and beeches with low hanging branches that seemed to itch to grab them in their clutches. 

What little elven magic from another age was faint now, barely enough to keep the path from being completely overgrown.  It was deadly quiet too, not a breath of air or sound, save that of their own footfalls, soft rhythmic thuds which the forest quickly sucked away.

There was no conversation amongst them as they marched along.  Events of the prior night had been a slap in the face that had left them all brooding about their own fates, entombed with their own thoughts. 

After a few hours they noticed that the scent of the place was changing.  What had been a dry, almost acrid smell of dead leaves and woody decay was being supplanted by a noisome rot, vaguely sweet and sulfurous.  This coincided with the appearance of new vegetation.  Mottled black and green vines began to creep up the distorted tree trunks like predator snakes.  Moist, grey-white flowers bloomed off the ropy stems, bobbing slightly as if to tempt the unwary to come closer for an inspection.

Small scattered patches of moss on the forest floor expanded to thick oozing carpets of dark green and yellow-gray that came right up to the edge of the trail.  The first of the distorted evergreens began to appear amongst the mutated beeches and oaks. 

No fair scented firs were these. Thick squat trunks, twelve feet thick thrust above the noxious moss. Scaly black and red bark glistened with a layer of sticky resin the color of dried blood.  The branches sprouted in a mad tangle as if fighting each other for space while pendulous whitish green cones hung from their tips like insect larvae, twitching slightly.

At what might have been mid-morning, the trail met an isolated rocky prominence that heaved up off the forest floor.  Little more than a tumble of boulders upon each other, it still broke the oppressive monotony, for no trees grew on its surface. The foul mosses and vines shrunk back, held at bay by a welcome patch of sunlight that shone through the gap in the tree canopy at the top of the stony mound. 

Arahael, in the back of the line, could see Ardugan and Haldir up ahead halted at the base of the slope.

“This is the first of the three dolmens.” Ardugan commented to Haldir.

“It is just as the old scrolls and tales say, Ardugan.  In fairer times long ago graceful wooden stairs ascended their slopes and beautifully wrought platforms topped the rise.  Music would be played and one could look across the treetops and listen for the distant sound of melodies from one of the other dolmens.  Now only the stones remain.”

“Thankfully He has not corrupted them as yet” Gandalf replied, joining their conversation.  “Let us halt for a moment to take sustenance and sunlight.”

“Welcome as it may be, should we not take care that snakes or other vermin do not inhabit the crevices of the rocks?” Aranarth commented, removing his pack as he approached them.

“It is safe here, brother, as I have sat alone for hours atop this stony rise in times past.  Come, I will show the way to the summit.”  Ardugan cast his pack aside and lightly made his way up the nearest boulder field into the sunlight.

“I could use the light of day myself” Arthed added agreeably, as he doffed his pack next to Ardugan’s and following his younger brother up the slope without further comment.

Hagar and finally Arahael arrived.  They glanced up the rocky rise, following Ardugan and Arthed as they climbed up into the brilliant light of early summer afternoon.  

“Well let he who is last be the one to bring the provisions.” Gandalf laughed as he scampered up the slope with an agility unseemly for a man of his apparent age.  The others looked at each other momentarily.  Haldir leapt up first, his elven feet scarcely touching the rocks as he raced past the wizard.  Aranarth glared at Hagar and Arahael, but his son quickly launched himself up the first boulder, a rebellious smile on his face.

“It would be more efficient if we would share the burden” Aranarth growled at Hagar.

“Agreed! With the two of us there will be more for me to eat when we reach the top.  I will carry the meats, waybread and dried fruits.  The waterskins you can easily sling across your shoulders.”  Hagar replied enthusiastically.

And so they clambered up the rocks towards the height, a lumpy summit just a dozen feet above the treetops, but a world apart from the oppressive forest that lay below.  The seven companions found perches upon a ring of small boulders at the top.  The air at this level was less fetid and a slight breeze from the west sailed past them.  Aranarth and Hagar distributed the food and drink.  The sunlight seemed to wash away some of the dread from their hearts from the morning’s deadly brush with the spiders, though none were so warmed as to forget the seriousness of their situation.

“You can see it from here.” Ardugan commented matter of factly, chewing on a nugget of dried beef.  “Off to the southeast, that bare topped low mountain.”

They rose one by one to see it.  Dol Guldur, hulking in the distance over the forest, surrounded by a weak yellow haze.

Gandalf was looking elsewhere, to the west and southwest, talking half to himself.

“They will be coming soon, later today, seeking what purchase can be found high up in the limbs to our south.” 

He turned to the group. “A few moments more, then we must be on our way til darkness halts us.  We must reach the base of the Necromancer’s hill by noon tomorrow.”

There was desultory grumbling and a rush to finish off a last mouthful of food or a final gulp of water.  They all took a last long look at the sun, then reluctantly descended, below.

----------------------------------------------*---------------------------------------------------------

Off to the north and west of their position, another had already taken leave of the lonely ride back to the knoll just outside Mirkwood.   

She sat on Xandr looking back along the trail.  Just two hours spent traveling west had perceptively brought her closer to the western edge of Mirkwood.  There was a scent of life in the air, which came from the west this day.  The trees were still strained and bowed, but there was tangibly more green to their leaves, signaling a small victory over the darkness.  More light seemed to filter through the forest canopy, allowing a few scant plants to grow on the forest floor.

Behind her were the other horses, Balas and Ensil strapped their mounts which limped along gamely, along with two other spare horses who had served Aranarth and Arthed.  Nytral had slipped off, maintaining his distance. 

Perhaps it was the change in the mood of the forest as she went westward, or could it be that Ardugan’s swift work on her wound was paying off.  That and a generous supply of lembas she had consumed in the saddle for breakfast.  She was beginning to feel like her old self again.  And over the last hour she was getting less and less inclined to wait out events on a knoll outside Mirkwood. 

Action, far more than patience, was in her blood.  Her mind churned, wheels turning.  Again she looked back at the horses, the still forms of her escorts lashed to their mounts.  The sight filled her with guilt as much as rage.  Time was spilling away.  If she was to catch up with Eradan, a decision had to be made now.  But what was she to do.  She could not simply abandon the lifeless forms of her comrades to the forest, food for some stray spider.  Nor could she leave them fastened to their mounts, who would bear the burden for days without any respite. 

Drianna ground her teeth in frustration.  She looked again at their forms, wrapped tightly in their blankets.  No, it was as Eradan said.  The cavalry was a service that neither gave nor expected any quarter.  They would far prefer her to return to her companions then to sit idly by dwelling on their already determined fate.

Drianna smiled.  “Is it so, Balas and Ensil? May I take your leave then and mayhap strike a blow for your efforts on my behalf?”

The forest answered with silence for a while.  Then there was a rustling and a soft clump ahead of her.  At her feet the two bobcats sat expectantly, their eyes shining with a curious mischief.

Drianna felt a compulsion to dismount.  She walked over to the cats and crouched down beside them.

“You favor me with your company, yet I sense you have something more than companionship to tell me”

The two cats cocked their heads briefly at her then darted off to the horses carrying the dead cavalrymen.  The steeds seemed slightly agitated at their arrival, nervous, yet excited in some mysterious way only horses sense with their emotions.  She looked back to the path where Nytral gave her a long look with his deep black eyes.  Xandr turned his head to her, holding a gaze that tried to send a message.

Drianna returned the stare and a thought slowly grew, more a memory than anything else.  A time when she was raising Xandr as a young colt, teaching him a trick a stableboy had shown her.  She would tie a knot in an unusual configuration with a small bow around a sugar sweet.  The young Xandr learned that if he could grasp the end of the bow in his teeth and gently pull, the sweet would tumble out and be his.  It was a trick she had enjoyed demonstrating over and over.

Yes, there was a way, she thought to herself.  Drianna went over to one of the two spare horses and removed two coils of rope from a saddle bag.  She walked over to the wrapped bodies of the cavalrymen, each draped across the back of their own horses.

“Forgive me for not accompanying you further, but I will find no rest under the boughs of a woody knoll outside Mirkwood with you while my brother risks his life in Dol Guldur a second time.  These fine steeds will watch over you ‘til I return.”

Having said her peace, Drianna went to work, cutting the coils of rope into various segments, them into loops and hitches of various shapes and functions.  She tied them off on the pommel of each saddle, then lay the bulk of the array over each body, leaving a longer length of cord that slipped through several of the more elaborate knots.

It was a skill she had learned as a child, but eight summers old.  Mardil had taken his precocious daughter with him on a tour of Gondor’s still formidable naval armada at the mouths of the Anduin.  While he conferred with the Admiral of the fleet on his flagship, Drianna was to receive a casual tour of the decks by a young ensign.  But whilst his back was turned she had bolted off, scurrying down a hatch into the lower decks.  Wandering about as if she was the captain she came upon a white bearded old salt bent over heaps of ropes, setting up intricate knots in webs of rigging.  She sat down, intrigued by his concentration and the complexity of his constructs.  Time went by and the aged sailor looked up at his admirer.

“So..ye be a knotsmith young lady?” the leathery old man grinned at her, his gnarled hands moving nimbly among the wide lengths of rope.  “Here…let’s show you one I like…the slow drag”

With that he pulled a few stray lengths of cord and went to work.  She watched him eagerly, fascinated by his easy expertise.  Soon he had a curious network assembled to which he attached a heavy block and tackle on the free end of the rope.  A large ropy loop stood out prominently.

“Now lass..” he said in a gravelly voice, standing up holding the web in two hands, suspending the heavy gear from it two feet off the floor.  “…just make a tug on the short end of yonder loop”

Drianna had done so and the knots began to unravel in a slow progression.  The heavy block and tackle slowly descended, its weight balanced against the friction of the ropes against each other as they passed through various hitches and binds.

“We call ‘at the slow fall, lass…very handy when yer lowering a main mast and such”

Just then there had been a commotion and a small coterie of over uniformed officers came thundering down the lower decks looking for her.  They had glared at the old man and scooped her up despite her loud protests.  She’d spent the rest of the day in an upper cabin minded by two impassive midshipmen.  But the moments spent with the old sailor had kindled an interest in knots and ropes that she continued, expanding it to hunting snares and other curious applications.

Now that first lesson, the ‘slow fall’ would be applied to the still forms of Balas and Ensil once their horses had reached the knoll outside of Mirkwood, hours to the west.  All that was needed was for the knot to be released and they would descend gently from their position fastened to the side of their horses.   But there was another important ingredient yet to make that happen.

She went over to another saddle bag and fished around til she felt a small metal box.  Something the elves had given them in Rivendell as trading goods, should their cover story be put to test.  It was plain and slightly battered, the metal dull.  She pried off the lid and a spicy fragrance poured out.  Cinnamon, twenty dried sticks, often coveted as an additive to teas and fine desserts.  This would do just fine.

Drianna took three sticks out, replaced the box in the pouch, and walked over to her constructs of rope.  At the horses carrying Balas and Ensil she took the long free end of the last length of cord she had left dangling and carefully wrapped it around a cinnamon stick, then looped and tied it over and over again, creating the shape of a blossom.  A short stub of cord remained, coming out of the center of the blossom.    Now she cut another length and made a similar blossom shaped knot, free standing, with the third cinnamon stick in its center.  This she took over to Xandr.

“Do you remember old friend?” Drianna held the rope blossom up to Xandr.  The great horse’s nose began to work, animated at the strong cinnamon aroma.  He opened his mouth, pulling his lips back to reveal strong white teeth.  Gently, he locked them about the small portion of cord that emerged from the center of the loops and whorls of rope.  A tug and the blossom collapsed in a heap of coils and the cinnamon was freed up.  Xandr picked it from the unraveled cords and munched it, a satisfied look in his eyes.

“Well done, Xandr.” Drianna led him over to the horses bearing Balas and Ensil.  “Now I have two more for you when the time comes.  But that will be later.”

Drianna then released the baggage and saddles from the remaining horses.  No need for them to be weighted down unnecessarily.  She walked over to Nytral who stood quietly, several yards in front of the other horses, an enigma in black on the westward trail.  Chrisandil and Clybrindor sat attentively beside him.

“There is something more than horse in you Nytral” Eyes like black glass stared back at her without expression.

“And the two of you seem to know more than a cat should”  Drianna smiled at the two bobcats, who twitched their tales in response. “So I will not account myself foolish to stand here discussing plans with you.” 

Nytral cocked his head ever so slightly.  A trace of emotion flickered in his eyes.  Drianna cautiously reached out and touched his head.

“You must lead them westward, back out of the forest.  Xandr will join you before dusk, after he has taken me back to the campsite.  As for the two of you…” Drianna crouched down in front of the two bobcats.  Their yellow-green eyes locked on her, curiosity and a measure of approval mixing with the usual regal haughtiness “…you will do as you please, but it would please me to know that all arrived safely.” 

As if to underscore her comments, they seemed to forget that she was there the moment her words were out, commencing a desultory grooming process that gave all indication of lasting the rest of the morning.  Drianna rose to her feet, strode over to Xandr and eased herself up into the saddle.  The movement brought a fresh stab of pain into her shoulder as if to remind her that her choice to go east would not be without difficulty. 

But already, Nytral had started off to the west, the other horses following obediently behind.  The cats had disappeared in the seconds it had taken her to mount Xandr.  She waited until the horses had rounded a bend in the trail fifty yards west, out of her line of sight, then turned Xandr eastward.

Pressing the great steed on, unencumbered by the slow pace the limping horses had set in the morning, she managed last night’s campsite in less than an hour.  There Drianna layed out a pile of oats and some dried fruit for the stallion and emptied the contents of a water sack.   

There was no lack of provision in Xandr’s saddlebags.  More lembas, dried meats and fruits, mixed nuts.  Then on to armament.  Here there would be no luxury of heavy mail, shield and plate.  She had to conserve her strength and that meant minimizing the weight of defensive measures while maximizing those offensive capabilities she could carry.

And so she donned just a light coat of mail, over which went a jacket and leggings of cured leather with layers of toughened cowhide and thin metal sheet to protect the most vital areas.  Still that left relatively unprotected areas that at best would slow, but not completely stop the piercing of an arrow or the thrust of a knife. 

She bound her mane of yellow hair and tucked it inside a smallish battle helmet. Lightweight and cleverly crafted in small overlapping sheets of pounded steel it provided surprising resistance to even a stout blow.  It had been a present from Eradan some years back, the work of one of Gondor’s finest armorers.

Her sword hung from her belt and two small daggers were tucked in sleeve pouches.  To the back of her pack she strapped a small crossbow, easily removable with the tug on a slip knot.  Over her right shoulder would go her hunting bow.   Not a great tall long bow, but a lithe, medium length arc of supple wood and taught line whose flex and snap magnified the draw her own strength provided.  She had made it herself and could fell a stag from a hundred yards, smaller prey from twice that distance.

She backed up to Xandr where her backpack lay suspended from a strap around the saddle pommel.  Slipping through the straps, Drianna stood, wincing at the impact of its weight on her tender left shoulder.  At least her legs were sound, for they would have the bulk of the work the next two days.  She fixed the hunting bow over her right shoulder and turned to Xandr.

The great white stallion gave her a long look.  His noble face bore the scars of the attack by the bats weeks ago.  His eyes communicated concern for her, knowing that she too now bore the pain of an injury and was heading east to a danger he could sense.

“No, Xandr…” Drianna whispered into his ear, holding his great head once more in her hands. “…do not worry about me.  Your part is done.  Go west.  Join the others…two more treats await you in the knots.  Just pull them and the rest will follow”

She gave him a light rap on his back flanks, the signal to be off that she had taught him years ago.  He tossed his head once, then took off at a quickening gait, breaking out into a smooth loping gallop, navigating expertly between the bent and twisted trees hemming in the trail.

In a few moments he was gone, the sound of his hooves fading to silence.  Xandr would catch up with Balas’s and Ensil’s mounts at the knoll outside Mirkwood.  He would smell the cinnamon in the rope blossoms she had fashioned then pull the cords seeking the treats.  The knots would unravel according to plan and the wrapped bodies of Balas and Ensil would gently ease from their ropy nets to the ground freeing the horses from their burden.  The old sailor from years ago would be pleased to know his craft had contributed in this way.

But now she had to focus on the task of travelling alone to Dol Guldur, almost half a day behind the others.  Ahead the forest looked darker, the trees even more bent and gnarled, branches seeming to reach out to grab the unwary.  A faint scent of sweet sulfurous rot hovered at the edge of perception.  Drianna took one last look west, then turned away and plunged east into the darker depths of Mirkwood, ignoring for now the slow ache growing in her shoulder.

------------------------------------------------------+++-----------------------------------------     

They arrived at the second dolmen later in the afternoon.  Gandalf bade all save Haldir to rest upon its lower reaches, just out of the darkness and oppression of the forest.  The two then made their way upwards, a few feet below the small summit, taking care to keep its mass between them and Dol Guldur, now beginning to hulk ominously to the east.  It was well into the second day now that they had entered Mirkwood.

Gandalf pointed to the southwest, over an undulating sea of treetops.  Above them the air was hazy, shimmering in early summer heat.  Far, far away along the western horizon a white glimmer hinted at the snowy ramparts of the Misty Mountains leagues away. 

“Your elven eyes are the most keen amongst us Haldir.  Does anything mark the horizon coming from the west.” 

Haldir sensed a trace of anxious expectancy in Gandalf’s voice.  Shading his eyes with his hand against the sun he scanned over the forest, an ominous dark carpet of woods.   In the haze far to the west, below the heights of the distant mountains, he could discern a patch of deep green that marked Lorien’s upper reaches. 

“The skies are empty…not even so much as a cloud”

There was a worried look on Gandalf’s face.  “They should have been on their way by now” he said, half muttering to himself, squinting against the westering sun.  He let out a small sigh.  Then there was silence between the two of them, Haldir still scanning to the west, Gandalf staring into the middle distance, lost in his thoughts.  Below them nearer the base of the dolmen, the others were in quiet conversation. 

Minutes drifted by.  Aranarth looked up at them, impatience and concern growing on his face.  They would need to be off soon if the final dolmen was to be reached before nightfall.  He made his way quietly up the boulders to where Gandalf and Haldir had positioned themselves.  They seemed not to notice he was there, the gray wizard hunched over, seated on a rock. Haldir stood like a statue facing west.  Aranarth followed Haldir’s gaze across the vacant pale blue sky, seeing nothing but an endless sea of trees.  The air was still, time seemed suspended for the moment.

Then Haldir stiffened and leaned forward slightly.  Aranarth saw his eyes blink twice then focus again on the west.

“There is something….”  The elf spoke softly

“What?”  What do you see?”  Gandalf was suddenly alert, coming out of his reverie

“A smudge…like a bit of dark smoke, coming east from Lorien, changing shape….wait, there is another like it following some distance behind…heading for the edge of Mirkwood, but south of here.”

“Good…good!”  Gandalf cried, then rose and turned to the elf, a broad smile on his face and twinkle in his eye. 

“Come then Haldir, we have no time to waste skygazing and Aranarth is ready to drag us bodily back to the trail as we have much distance to cover ‘ere nightfall.”

They both looked at him quizzically, startled by his abrupt change in mood.  But there was no mistaking his laughter as he clambered down the mound of boulders to the base of the dolmen. 

Arnarth and Haldir made their way down behind him.  The others were donning their packs, sensing that some decision had been made.  Gandalf eyes lingered appraisingly at all of them for a moment, then spoke.

“It seems the allies that Radagast has recruited have completed their stay as guests of Lorien and are en route to assist us.  But their time in this forest is to be brief, no more than a day.  So we must make haste to the third dolmen ‘ere nightfall, if tomorrow we are to pay visit to the Master of Dol Guldur at the appointed time.”

The mention of Dol Guldur was like a dousing of cold water to the group, a reminder of the reality of their mission.  Gandalf stared long and hard beneath his great bushy gray eyebrows at each of them, gauging once again their resolve at the imminence of their task.

Haldir was cool, expressionless, elven eyes distant as his thoughts.  Beside him, Aranarth found a deep scowl to match the glare of his eyes beneath the rim of his battered helm.  Arthed’s long lean face was somber.  His right hand fidgeted absently with the handle of his axe.  Eradan stared stonily back at Gandalf, his proud high visage still swollen and bruised from rough days inside the Necromancer’s lair.  Framed by long yellow braids clotted with his own blood, Hagar’s face was a curious mix of apprehension and youthful truculence, though his eyes met Gandalf’s unflinchingly.

Arahael had an air of quiet preparedness about him, mixed with a fatalistic relief, knowing that the true test of all the training he had received was irrevocably at hand.  Ardugan’s unnaturally large eyes were a heartlessly cool blue, the ever-present wry smirk now nearer a leer.  Thoughts of dealing death again were awakening killing instincts that lurked within him and had kept him alive those many years alone in the wild.

Yes, they are all prepared in their own way Gandalf thought to himself.  Let us hope that He is not so prepared for what we have in store for Him.  

Quietly then they left the second dolmen behind them, plunging back into the forest which seemed ever darker, more fetid and sinister. 

--------------------------------------------------**------------------------------------------------

Drianna sat atop the first dolmen, breathing heavily.  Her shoulder throbbed unmercifully.  Exhausted, she lay back on a slab of rock for a moment, savoring a moment of afternoon sun, shutting her eyes briefly. 

With a grunt of pain she sat back up suddenly, shaking her head.  Sleep was tugging hard at her body, too hard to tempt it this soon in the day.  She remembered the maps Gandalf had laid out before them days before at Rivendell.  She just had to reach the second dolmen today if she was to catch up with them tomorrow.  She took a draught from the water skin that hung over her good right shoulder.  A few more minutes rest and then she had to be off.

Drianna stared wearily at the pack next to her propped up against a lump of rock.  It would be all she could do to make the second dolmen before the forest became too dark to traverse.  It would not do to be stumbling about, losing track of the slender thread of trail that wound through the increasingly nightmarish vegetation.  

Another long look at the westering sun, then she crouched down in front of the pack, slipping her arms through the straps behind her.  Drianna leaned forward, wincing as the weight of the pack bore down on her left shoulder, a hot center of pain around which all else traveled.  She stood, tightening the straps, adjusting the mass to proper balance. 

She knew she could just as easily spend the rest of the day marching west instead towards safer realms.  A trace of a smile fought for purchase against the grimace of pain that was stamped on her face.  She knew herself too well to consider turning back.  She had to be part of the mission.  Pride and competitiveness were part of it.  But there was something else, a growing feeling that things would somehow be dangerously incomplete without her there.   Things that would put Eradan’s life at risk. 

That brought back her suppressed resentment about the entire mission.  Gondor called upon to risk its best as pieces slid about on the chessboard of Middle Earth by elves and wizards.  Gondor to the rescue of Arthedain, which if her version history told true was but a dry rotting branch by the time the Witch King advanced with vigor.  Now her brother was hauling his battered body back to the very place he had already once barely escaped with his life, while her father and his cavalry lined up in formation like unprotected sheep on the empty plains of the Brown Lands.

Her anger smoldered into a dark rage that wound between her grinding teeth and poured from flinty blue eyes.  It was over a league from the first dolmen before she realized that she had been marching like an automaton in a wave of anger so all consuming that it had blotted out the drumbeat of pain in her shoulder and any sense of her surroundings.

---------------------------------------------------**------------------------------------------------------

Far to the south of Drianna the afternoon sun was hot, the air heavy and silent, the vast empty plain unceasing in its attempt to diminish their presence to little more than the dust that caked the hooves of their mounts.  Her father, Mardil, smiled at the irony of what came into view as he reached the crest of the gently undulating slope before him.  The dark unmistakable line of Mirkwood, perhaps five leagues north.

Finally some landmark after days in a sea of grassy stubble and windblown dirt the consistency of ground ashes.  Then men would be cheered as a mariner lost at sea would welcome the sight of land, any land.  But his long aristocratic face with is high forehead and grave, gray eyed countenance merely sank deeper into the lines of worry that bound it.

He had consulted the daykeeper in the morning, the one whose task it was to track the days, nights, stars, and progress on long tours of duty.  Mardil had already known the answer to his question.  They would approach the edge of the forest tomorrow, draw the enemy out, and hope that the works of the others were not in vain.

He had all but given up on finding any trace of his son.  Now he feared for his daughter’s life, knowing that she would insist on accompanying the party to Dol Guldur, willful to a fault, unable to accept the likely fate of her brother.   Life would be empty indeed should he lose them both and still live. 

He shook the thought aside.  A thousand men arrayed behind him on horseback needed a clear head to lead them.  Speculative grief was a luxury for peaceful times with limited responsibilities, neither of which were presented today.  To his right Perrian cleared his throat.

Mardil turned in the saddle to his troop captain, arrayed in the new gleaming light armor that encased him in what was now a furnace of body heat and reflected sun.  The man was pointing high off to the southwestern sky.

 “It has been circling far off for the last hour, Steward.  The last few minutes it has closed the gap on us, descending in great loops.”

Mardil shaded his eyes against the sun.  There it was, at first little more than a black dot against the relentless blue.  But quickly there was the hint of wings, then a clear shape of a bird, a large one.  A few more downward loops and it leveled off, coming right at them.

Perrian started to make a signal to the archers.

“No!  Hold that command!”  Mardil’s voice was tense, uncharacteristically harsh.  Perrian lapsed into immobility.  The bird, it had to be an eagle, approached on its final glide, wings wide, effortlessly parting the air, now only thirty, twenty, ten feet off the ground.  A brief flurry of wings and it eased itself to a spot in the sparse brown grass just a few yards from the hooves of Mardil’s horse.

He dismounted.  The eagle seemed to glare at him impatiently.  He noticed something wrapped about its right talon.  Slowly he knelt beside the great bird whose eyes nearly met his own.  Gently he untied the knot that bound the parcel, a cloth sheath designed to contain brief messages.  Before he had fully stood, the raptor had let out a cry and launched itself back into the air, its only true home, riding the currents of heat upward into the sky heading southwest towards the Emyn Muil.

Mardil removed a small scrap of parchment from the finely woven pouch.  He alone of the thousand on the plain knew how to read the elvish script. 

“Captain Perrian!  Prepare the men to camp here on the rise.  We will watch the forest the rest of this day from a distance.  On the ‘morrow we will enter its eaves.”

Perrian saluted crisply and rode off at a gallop to bark orders to the company commanders.  Mardil crushed the parchment into dry brittle bits and allowed himself a grim, mirthless smile.   The playing field would be level this time, to the great surprise of the enemy.  No, he thought, turning and looking back at the powerful, gleaming horsemen behind him.  It would be far from level.  Now he allowed himself a real smile.

--------------------------------------------------**----------------------------------------------------

Five leagues to Mardil’s north, a man called Drazakh stood in the last of the forest’s deep shadows.  Ahead the trees thinned to ragged clumps swimming in a sea of yellow brush and thorn hedge that faded into the tawny haze of the Brown Lands to the south.  Gimlet eyes under a single heavy black brow picked out tiny specks along the horizon to the south.  A voice like an iron grate dragged across rough flagstone barked a command.

“It is as He said it would be.  Alert your battle groups” 

“No, Drazakh…we should wait til they are closer, more vulnerable”  The tone was almost sibilant with insincerity and contempt.  It did not go unremarked.

Drazakh whirled and struck the orc commander with the full force of his mailed fist, sending him flying into the trunk of a nearby tree.

“I am in command now Ugbek!”  Drazakh stood over him a snarl writhing beneath his greasy drooping mustache.

The orc gathered himself to his feet slowly.  He knew he was no match for the Easterner, some barbarian from lands beyond Far Harad.  Easily a head taller, shoulders like slabs of granite, a face disfigured with battle scars and hideous tattoos, Drazakh was now His favorite, after the prior leader, an Orc, had his head liberated from his body by the mace of the Gondoran whelp.   

“Yes, yes…of course!” another voice intoned smoothly, “Ugbek! It is not for you to question Drazakh!” The tone turned harsher, though mockingly so.  “Come! We must go to our troops and make sure they are ready.”

Naglish, the other orc commander dragged Ugbek off into the forest.

“Fool!” he hissed, looking back over his shoulder to make sure that Drazakh was out of hearing range.  “Do not confront him now!  There will be plenty of blood tomorrow on the plain and who is to say what blade or arrow may find a target”

Naglish’s yellowy eyes met Ugbek’s. 

“Aggh…you are right, Naglish, as always.  These…men! They serve Him but are little better than those on the plain.  A few things I have saved from the last battle…arrows, lances…of Gondor make they are.”

“Now you are thinking like an orc!” Naglish smiled, grabbing his cohort by the shoulders.  “Remember, we have work to do…did our commander not order us to ready for battle?”  They both suppressed a vile, murderous laughter, heading off in that slightly crouched orc manner to their encampment half a league away.

A hundred yards away, Drazakh smiled with an expression that would scorch stone.  He had heard their every word, could still distinguish the crack of the dry twigs under their shod feet as they plunged into the darkness of the forest.  They could hate all they wanted, but they were not as he, a son of the East.  There your eyes had to see ten leagues, your ears waking you from deep sleep to the shift of the sand beneath your enemy’s boot two hundred yards away.  That you needed just to survive twenty summers at the bottom of the heap. 

He turned back to the forest now, his hand on the pommel of a huge flat expanse of curved steel that could halve a horse.  His own men would keep eye on the orcs and after this battle was done, he would personally see to the punishment for their insubordination.

Perhaps even He would care to observe the finer points.  There would be many days of work after all.

But that was in the future.  There was still another captain to be addressed today, Zeorn the Wolfmaster, though this one was far more to his liking that the wretched orcs.

After half and hour’s hike, Drazakh came upon Zeorn’s compound, really little more than a clearing of bare earth amongst a cluster of thickset, black barked trees.  Low growls met his arrival from a hundred hungry lupine throats chained to the twisted, gnarled trunks. One made the mistake of leaping towards his throat, fangs bared.  Drazakh whipped out a small iron club and neatly crushed its skull, dead before it hit the ground.  The others skulked quietly away and lay glaring at him.

A figure emerged from a fold in an irregular shaped canvas tent at the rear of the clearing.

Tall, half a head taller than Drazakh, but lean, muscles like bundled ropes trying to free themselves from the confines of his metal studded heavy black leather battle gear.  Beside him two huge black wolves slathered, unfettered, eyes greedily calculating Drazakh’s body weight. 

But Zeorn’s head was more distracting than the hungry stares of the wolves.  Of Rhovanian descent, his village had been torched years ago by a raiding party from Dol Guldor.  Horribly burned, six summers old and the only survivor, he had dragged himself off into the forest, learning to survive on the dark provender of Mirkwood.  By his mid-teens he had met the first of the wolves He had bred and introduced.  In that split decision of food vs kinship they had accepted him as one of their own. 

It might have been in part due to his appearance.  What skin that still covered his skull was without hair or adornment, save the livid scars of badly healed burnt flesh.  Both eyes still set in their sockets, though bone showed below the right and protruded along the jaw line, revealing teeth deeply browned from meals of raw meat. 

Then again it might have been the swift demise of the wolf that set eyes upon him as food.  It leapt at him upon first sight.  Zeorn ducked the blow and grabbed both front legs whilst it was still suspended in air, then stood, thrusting up, turning the hound over on its back with a twisting motion that snapped both forelimbs.  Its yelp of pain was stilled by a rib breaking knee thrust and a ripping bite to its jugular.  He had stepped back, letting the beast twitch for a few moments in its death throes.

That had been the alpha male of the group.  Now they all belonged to him, fiercely loyal.  He gestured to the two wolves at his side who quietly padded off to the victim of Drazakh’s wrath, which was dragged off as an appetizer for a few of the younger pack members.

“My apologies for the discourtesy you encountered” Zeorn bowed before the Eastener.

“We all have our problems with command.” Drazakh replied, the incident with the orcs still fresh in his mind.

“You have news then.” 

Zeorn got to the point quickly.  Drazakh like that about him.

“They have arrived as He predicted.  There will be battle tomorrow.  It seems by the greeting I received that you are ready.”

“Almost.  They are not hungry enough and some examples must be made amongst those who are less…competitive…for food.  That will be resolved tonight.”  There was an ugly gleam in his eyes, saliva emerged between the teeth of his exposed jawbone.  “Take care that none of your command approaches this compound after dark…I cannot guarantee anyone’s safety other than my own.’

Drazakh grinned.  “Only a few of the…mmmm…less competitive…of my own will dare these parts tonight.”

He turned and walked away, satisfied with his dark humor.  It would be no joke for the count of twenty he would demand from Ugbek and Naglish for Zeorn’s sport tonight.  But that was always the way of the herd, culling the weak that the strong should survive.

----------------------------------------------**----------------------------------------------------------

The long shadows of the distant Misty Mountains to the west were overreaching the forest heights of his leafy bower when the message arrived on the wings of an eagle.  Radagast quickly removed the pouch strapped to its leg and bade it farewell.  The great bird wasted little time, departing quickly, in moments a mere speck in the glow of the western horizon.

Anxiously he opened the message, then let out a sigh of relief.  They had left safely, well fed in Lorien, and clear on their mission.   Now they were no doubt gingerly alighting the upper canopy of His forest realm some leagues east and north of Dol Guldur. 

Even the kestrels and goshawks would be uneasy this night.  While they would be high enough to escape the funguses, vines, and scuttling aberrations that filled the night nearer the forest floor, the hostility of the trees themselves would pain their avian spirits.  But this they knew before agreeing to the mission.

But this gave him little comfort, standing there nervously twisting the ropy cord about his long brown cloak.  From the beginning his heart gravitated to the creatures and plants.  These friends of his, painstakingly cultivated over hundreds of years, were at risk now.  Tonight and tomorrow he would abide in his treetop barrow.  Though they were far too distant for him to meaningfully assist in any way, he felt better up here in the heights beneath the open sky.

In another hour the sun’s glow would be a fading rosy memory.  A full moon would soon be poking its milky circle above the eastern rim of the forest, burnishing the night leaves with silver.  The evening would be warm, the air humid and still, stars bright as diamonds scattered on fine black felt.

-----------------------------------------------------**-------------------------------------------------

Far to the south another of the Istari sat upon a rocky outcrop of the third dolmen.  He stared west, chin propped on the palm of his right hand.  The hood of his cloak was down, a light silver sheen of moonlight glistened in his long thick hair.   His deep gray eyes were open, yet seemed dreaming, far away over the inky black rolling sea of treetops to some unfathomable gulf of time and memory.

A few yards away a tall elf stood silently, his golden hair faded to milky white in the moonlight.  His keen eyes scanned the western night sky, its stars glittering.  Fifty leagues away, a narrow white serration at the horizon marked the highest snow capped peaks of the Misty Mountains catching full the moon’s flood of light.  The elf brought his gaze closer now, spying the first dolmen, from here a speck of pale grey above the blackness of the woods.  Then the second dolmen, its small, lumpy summit a tiny island of bony rock breaching the benighted treetops just a few leagues to the northwest.

A third figure shared their silence atop the dolmen.  Tall, massively built, he set his eyes eastward where a looming bulk rose from the forest, blotting out the stars.   Its lower reaches were black as night, covered in rank vegetation.  Further up its slopes steepened, the vegetation yielding to gashes of bare rock that widened and merged to a level, barren carapace of stone whose rim gleamed like a bleached skull in the ghostly light.

Halfway up its height a point of light glowed ruddy yellow.  A smaller speck of light moved towards it slowly. 

Aranarth sat down beside the wizard.  Gandalf did not appear to notice him at first.  Then he seemed to slowly draw himself up from a great depth back to the existence of the moment.   

“Ah, Aranarth, forgive my inattention.   My thoughts were of…home.  It has been a long time and a long time it will yet be.”

“Well do I know the feeling.” Aranarth’s gruff voice was thick with emotion.  They were both quiet for a moment.  Aranarth spoke again.

“They post little guard on the mountain if torchlight is any measure.  Perhaps it is as Eradan told us…He has sent every able bodied man and orc south awaiting the arrival of the Steward.  Even the woods about us seem quiet, bereft of prying eyes and midnight rustlings”

“All are in thrall of His anticipation…the focus of His energies to the south, his greed for the ‘morrow when he expects to capture his prize.”

They were both distracted suddenly by an intake of breath.  They could see Haldir’s posture stiffening slightly, his head forward a bit in a pose of concentration, eyes blinking, then steady and open.

“Something in the night air, Haldir?” Gandalf spoke softly

“For a moment…I thought I saw something on the second dolmen, just briefly, a spot of black moving about”  Haldir replied

“One of His creatures perhaps…following our scent.  Though all seems quiet we will watch the night more carefully this time after the lessons of last night’s peril

Haldir straightened, taking one last look.  “Nothing more…whatever it was is gone now.” 

The wizard rose, right hand on his long staff.  “Come then, Haldir, Aranarth , we have much ahead of us tomorrow and must get as much rest as one can in such a place.  Arthed and Hagar have the first watch.”

The son of the last king and the Marchwarden of Lorien made their way down to the lower slopes where each picked their own small cul-de-sacs to rest amongst the larger boulders.   Further down on the forest floor a ground fog was creeping in from the east, gray tendrils wrapping winding through the twisted trees and vines, bringing a vague odor of sulfur, offal, and putrescence.  Tonight’s watch would be marked well above the fog, on the stones where the elves had once played and sang in another Age.

--------------------------------------------------------**--------------------------------------------

To their west, Drianna collapsed with relief on the lowest slopes of the second dolmen.  The last half hour she’d navigated in near darkness, crawling on her hands and knees, her palms outstretched, feeling the ground for some faint impression of footprints.  It was that or lose the trail entirely.    

Now she caught her breath and eased out of her pack, a grunt of pain forcing itself between clenched teeth.  The pain had been welcome in a way, dominating her mind, leaving less room for fear as the thought of spending the night alone in Mirkwood had settled in.

Yet something was different tonight.  A quietness in the woods as if it and all its creatures were caught up in some collective anticipation that dissuaded their nightly prowls

Still she would set up her protective ring as she did when hunting alone in the White Mountains.   Drianna painfully dragged her pack up near the top of the dolmen and extracted thin twine, some small sharp sticks, tiny rattles and hooks.  Clambering slowly about the summit, she set up trip wires and snares in two concentric rings.  Not that they would halt the attack of a company of spiders or a pack of wolves.  But at least she would be awake in time to deal death to some of them, rather than be taken by the throat in her sleep.

Drianna pulled a blanket out of her pack and laid it out on a ledge beneath the outcrop that comprised the dolmen’s top.  The crossbow was loaded and within reach.  Her sword lay beside her on the blanket, silvery blue in the moonlight.  She nibbled on some lembas and a few handfuls of nuts and dried fruit, then gingerly rolled over on her back.

The night sky was dazzling, reminding her of high summer evenings in the upper reaches of the Ered Nimraith, the air fragrant with the scent of tall firs and spruces.  She smiled, remembering the tales her brother would tell of Gondor’s history, just the two of them sitting by a small campfire.  Drianna closed her eyes, just for a moment, she told herself, savoring the memories of her youth.  That moment stretched on for hours as the moon sailed grandly across the firmament, washing her dreaming face with a cool light. 

                                                                    The Gates of the Necromancer

They were riding hard, just the two of them.  The sun was blazing on a rolling plain and the enemy was broken, scattering into clumps of orcs and hillmen.  He could hear Aranarth yelling, his great sword cutting into the fleeing remnants of the Witch King’s armies.  His older brother seemed curiously young, scarcely twenty summers. 

He could feel the rhythm of his own horse beneath him, the haft of a great axe in his right hand.  He and Aranarth then became separated by a small copse of trees.  No matter he charged on after a cluster of the ragged vermin.  Then the light failed, the trees grew large and closed in, the hunted turned, grinning, growing larger and larger til their heads rose above his, mounted on horseback.  A deep throaty laugh surrounded them and a figure in gleaming jet black armor appeared.  Suddenly he felt paralyzed, unable to attack or retreat.  The figure came closer, grew larger, towering over him, reaching out with taloned hands towards his face and….

He awoke, panting, a light sweat of fear clinging to his tall rangy frame. It was still dark. 

It had been a dream…the dream that had begun to haunt him these last weeks.

He sat up on his blanket nestled between the two huge boulders half way up the third dolmen.  Hagar, the young northerner snored loudly on not far away, satisfied to be twenty and tired, irrespective of the hazards of their surroundings.  Below he could discern the blocky figure of his older brother, still and silent, much like the bulging outcrop of stone at the base of the dolmen where he stood the last watch.

Arthed rubbed his eyes and face.  He could smell new moisture in the air, a deck of clouds laying in from the southwest shutting off the night sky and the pinpoint stars. 

He felt old somehow after this dream in Mirkwood’s predawn, as if the thousands of dim mornings he had previously witnessed had finally filled the cup of dawns a man could see or feel.  He looked down to his brother again.  Aranarth’s cup would never fill.  That top had been extended to the sky with the death of their father and the fall of the kingdom.  Nor would Ardugan’s, a hole at the bottom draining out whatever small providence that might pour in.

Arthed sighed quietly.  He was over a hundred years now, still hale, strong of arm and back.  As a son of the last king, an heir to Isildur, the blood would extend his life for many more years.  But his heart was another matter.  This would be his last journey for his birthright.  He had a wife west of the Misty Mountains and sons to enjoy and send onto their own duties as men of the Dunedain.  It was their turn just as Aranarth knew it would soon be Arahael’s. 

The dream had blown away now, just wisps remaining.  There were a few more hours of sleep to be secured and a few more days at risk on the wizard’s quest.  Then home. 

Arthed lay back down on his blanket.  His breathing had settled down.  He closed his eyes for a moment, visualizing a blazing hearth in a great open room hewn from logs stacked and morticed by his own hand.  A tall woman in a long white woven dress stood next to the fire.  Her hair was long, mixed grey and gold, her eyes bright, the smile warm.  Somehow he knew he was dreaming again.  It did not matter.  He was home.

The hearth’s light still glimmered in his mind hours later as he stood with the others facing Gandalf. 

A gray day, the sun obscured behind a thick deck of overcast.  It set a somber mood in the lee of the Dark Mountain which loomed over their shoulders a few leagues to the east.  Gandalf sat, his back to a corner between two rocky outcrops on the dolmen.  A shelf of rock jutted out before him where the others, in a half circle, took their seats.  Once again, he took their measure for a moment before speaking, each standing appraisal from beneath his great bushy eyebrows.

“Well then…” he said finally, slightly embarrassed, realizing they’d been holding their breath the last few moments, waiting on his words.

“Let us start by remembering our task… that we are here to drive him out, He and his minions, before they can build a power here beyond our abilities to reckon with.”

“But not destroy him” Aranarth replied half to himself.

“No…”, Gandalf responded, “That power we do not have…that power He alone has created which is long gone from our ken and His for two thousand years now.”

“So even if we succeed today he may return?” Arthed spoke up.

“How and when I cannot say.  Much depends on a future uncertain in these times.  But at least we may be able to guarantee peace for a time for Middle Earth, be it a watchful one nonetheless.  But enough of the future. The day marches on and we have much to do.  Eradan…what of our diversion?”

“The beasts reside in great cages.  Some are let out after being fed some foul offal to calm them.  The gates to their cages are secured by thick bolts thrust through rude slots of metal, enough to confound the beasts, but without locks. Any strong man could open them”

“The entrance to the cavern appears lightly guarded” Ardugan added.  “It is as Eradan told us…He has sent all that are battleworthy to the south to confront the Steward.” 

Ardugan had been out before dawn, reconnoitering through the ghastly forest at night, creeping up to the very gates of the Necromancer to assess the enemy’s strength.

“I do not like that we divide our forces” A voice spoke firm and evenly.

Heads turned, surprised.  One of them, often grim, stared intently, his dour disposition softened ever so slightly, then spoke.

“What do you propose, Arahael, if not this plan?” Aranarth replied gruffly.

“What plan did we have at the outset?  Eradan’s arrival was not foreseen.  Would we not have taken our full strength up the Hidden Stair?” Arahael replied, not giving ground.

“Indeed, we would” Gandalf interjected.  “And we would have been taking a risk.  All would be well if our surmise was correct and His mountain was unguarded.  But if more than a small force remained, our great ally of surprise would have been lost, even if we should prevail.

“But from Eradan we know his guard is stripped for the battle with the Steward…the mountain was all but bare of torchlight last night” Arahael countered.

“The comments of an old orc gaoler left behind and a single night’s patrol on one side of the mountain.”  This time it was Haldir who spoke, coolly, slightly dismissive.

“What lies inside is still open to question.  If the guard is light, our diversion will cost us nothing.  If more are present, our foray into the cavern may allow the others to reach the summit without compromising the advantage of surprise.”

The consequences to the diversion party of ‘more are present’ settled in on the group, particularly those few who would lead it.  A few moments passed, then Eradan spoke, resolute and serious.

“None know the inside of Dol Guldur as I do and I believe that few remain”  Eradan nodded in Arahael’s direction, “but I also cannot be certain and your mission is too important to be compromised by some unexpected resistance.  We must draw out what forces remain in this diversion, even at the risk of those of us involved.”  A shadow passed over his face at the thought.

“Arahael, I do not begrudge your opinion.” Gandalf commented with respect.  “None here should feel that they march blindly into battle without thought or question, but timing is crucial to our success today.  If we are too early upon the summit, He may realize that He is the target of our efforts, and the arrival of the Steward is just a ruse to commit His forces.  He may cancel his attack, and the trap I have labored to set will not be sprung properly. 

“But, should we arrive too late he may flee if he suspects the battle is lost south of Mirkwood and then our trap snaps shut without Him in it.  While that may not be the worst of outcomes, it is my desire to confront him to insure that his departure is accompanied by such loss and regret that he will not soon return.  The providence of our diversion is an extra measure of new found surety that the journey to the summit will not be interrupted.”

“And it is not my intent to be denied my place when that confrontation occurs.” Eradan replied harshly.  “He has taken too many lives…”

There was silence once again for a few moments.  Then Ardugan spoke.

“The trail from this dolmen to Dol Guldur widens.  You will see…the mushrooms grow with abandon not far off.  They send the injured with carts to collect them from near the base of the mountain.”

“Food for His beasts when there is no fresh meat…” Eradan replied

“And a hazard for any man...or orc…for their consumption brings madness and death” Ardugan added.  “From my hiding places I have seen some of His servants, new to affairs there, tempted by the sweet scent they send off and the soft white rounds of their bloom.  Delight wreathes their faces at first bite, but not long after froth rings their mouths and fear their eyes.  They howl and screech, lashing out with sword and dirk, frenzy increasing til they collapse, twitching, then still and dead.”

“So what is the plan for this diversion?” Aranarth growled impatiently.

Ardugan’s eyes hardened for a moment at his brother’s interruption, then smoothed out, masking his feelings.

 “We will take the trail from here toward the gates to the cavern under Dol Guldur.  There is a clearing in front of the gates where a small bridge crosses the black stream that issues from the interior.  Two broad trails lead from the clearing, one running east around the base of the mountain, then turning south along its eastern flanks, the other trail heading west then south along its other side.  Other smaller trails branch off from time to time.”

“There is a cache of orc armor not far from where the trail from this dolmen ends at the clearing.   Leftovers from some earlier forays I have made to this area.” Ardugan permitted himself a small smile at the thought.  “I will pretend to be an orc with prisoners…Eradan recaptured and Hagar a renegade Rhovanian intent on some sort of revenge for the depredations upon the last of his people outside the forest.”

“You may look an orc but will smell like a man” Aranarth replied skeptically.

“This small vial…” Ardugan plucked a tiny stoppered green glass potion bottle from a side pouch of his heavy leather tunic.  “…will make any that approach me think orc above all else” He smirked defiantly at his older brother.

“And what might that be” Aranarth leaned forward scowling.

“You would not know, brother, only having slain them outright in your youth.  As prisoners they yield up some surprising secrets…when persuaded.  I have found a slow fire the best in that regard, though they seem to quickly perish.  Still, if one is careful, a drizzle of orc fat can be saved, dripping through their armor before they suddenly alight over the coals.  Of course, then they have little more to tell at that point”

Ardugan’s small smile twisted, his eyes widened for a moment.  Their momentary shock at his remarks was a source of quiet pleasure.

“Any enemy of His creatures is friend of mine” Eradan pronounced bluntly, then continued.

“I care not for his means, only the ends.  It is good he will reek of orc…the light guard will accept the ruse on that alone, long enough for us to dispatch them and make our way inside.  They feed the beasts not long after dawn, then leave them for the rest of the day til a second feeding just before sunset.  We will have no trouble freeing the beasts from their cages…their orc masters will do well to rouse themselves from the stupor of the foul ales they drink to pass the day.”

“And when you have roused the beasts…what then?” Arahael returned to the conversation.

“Then they will leave the cavern to the chaos they have created and meet us at the base of the Hidden Stair” Gandalf replied, beginning to weary of what was a longer discussion than he had planned.

“And if they cannot return for some reason…or if the forces inside respond quickly with unexpected strength and they are captured or cut off…what then of our mission, the surprise we covet?” Arahael persisted.

“If there are unexpected forces, better they be occupied with the diversion in the cavern than arrayed before us halfway up the mountain.” Gandalf’s voice had an edge of finality to it.  “If the guard is light as we expect, then our diversionary party will soon join us for the ascent of the mountain.  We must take the opportunity to improve our chances that fate has given us with Eradan’s escape.   Now…let us talk about their rendezvous with the rest of us at the base of the Hidden Stair once their task is done.”

------------------------------------------------------**------------------------------------------------

She awoke to a pair of luminous green eyes staring at her dispassionately from a backdrop of iron grey fur.    She jolted up, instinctively clutching at her sword beside her on the blanket, then recognized the form of Clybrindor.  She remained motionless, patiently waiting for her heartbeat and defensive reflexes to quiet.  Drianna glanced up toward the lumpy pinnacle of the dolmen.  The silhouette of Chrisandil was revealed against the low gray sky, caught in the act of languorous grooming. 

“The horses must have arrived at the grove safely, then” she said half to herself and half to the cat, still fixing its gaze intently on her as she gathered herself.  How long the two of them had been there she knew not.  In any event the snares and trip wires she had laid out about her the night before had proved no obstacle to them. 

Drianna fished a little lembas and some nuts and dried meat out of her pack and munched it into a pulp which she washed down with a measured swallow of water.  The motionless cat made no move to nibble at a few pieces she laid on a rock near his feet.

“Already caught your breakfast then…” Drianna smiled at the bobcat.  She glanced at the sky, the color of lead.  Good, it was just dawn, the rising sun muffled behind the overcast.  She had a chance to catch up if she left at once. 

Drianna flexed her left arm and shoulder.  Stiff and sore still, but less so today.  She stuffed the blanket back into the pack, hauled it up and over her shoulders.   The sword slipped back into its scabbard and the medium bow went over her shoulder.  Above her Chrisandil made her way slowly and regally down the side of the dolmen.  Clybrindor marched down the lower slope of the dolmen and stared back impatiently.

Drianna reached the base of the dolmen and was immersed in the early morning gloom of the forest once again.  The light breeze she had enjoyed in the night was a memory, the mixture of sweet rot, excrescence, and decay returning, a thick miasma that stole at the breath in her lungs.  Chrisandil reached them and let out a yowl of displeasure at the scent, which was quickly cut off by a hiss and snarl from Clybrindor.

The male cat led off around the base of the dolmen on a narrow track hemmed by the rocky slope on their left and the leering vegetation to the right.  Drianna could barely see the way forward as the trail left the east side of the second dolmen, checking her bearings by the twin flashes of green light that signaled Clybrindor’s turned head, keeping track of her from time to time yards ahead on the trail.  The bold cat quickened his pace, forcing her stride to lengthen.  From what she remembered of the charts they’d examined at Rivendell, she was perhaps and hour or so away from the third dolmen where her brother and the rest of the party no doubt had spent the night.  Behind her she heard another whine of displeasure from Chrisandil.

“Complain not to me…it is your brother cat who sets the pace.” Drianna shouted back over her shoulder, tightening the straps of her pack.  She leaned forward slightly and picked up her pace, near to a trot now.    With a little luck she could still catch them before they reached the mountain itself.

--------------------------------------------**------------------------------------------------------

“The scouts report some activity at the edge of the forest, Steward”

Mardil nodded expressionlessly, standing with arms folded.  The Chief of Scouts bowed and made to leave, but Mardil raised his hand for him to remain.  The man stood silently, awaiting further orders. 

A gray heavy dawn.  It would storm before the day was through, the dusty plain turning into a sea of mud and pelting rain.  It would rain on his adversaries too. 

“What did they spy, Jared?” Mardil said quietly.

“It was difficult to be certain in the darkness, Steward”

Mardil sighed impatiently, “I have not time for riddles, Jared.  Your men could steal into my palace bedchamber past my guard if they so chose…and have done in training I might add.  There is no doubt as to what they have seen this past night.  The uncertainty lies in how the news of their efforts will be received.  Out with it man!”

“They heard the voices of orcs…and of men.  Stakes were pounded into the earth beyond the forest edge.  The men, dressed in Gondor’s cavalry colors, were dragged to the stakes, and tied fast.  The orcs mocked them, then retreated to the forest.  Moments later arrows sped out of the woods, some finding mark.  The men were still alive when the scouts made their return ‘ere dawn”

“Who knows of their report, Jared?”  Mardil’s voice was grim, hard.

“None yet, Steward.  I have sequestered the scouts for the while.”

That alone would have the men speculating.  But Mardil knew this was but the opening gambit in which he and his men were to play a part expected of them, as unknowing sheep come to the lair of the wolf.  And the part must be played convincingly or the wolves would not bare their own necks to the threat of a greater pack in sheep’s disguise.  Still, the thought that these might actually be survivors of Eradan’s foray into these desolate plains filled him with a cold rage that he struggled to discipline.

“Call Captain Perrian to me! We will break camp and all will know what foul business these vermin have conducted under cover of darkness.  We will ride to the aid of these men, may they yet live.  Then we will administer punishment at the point of every sword and lance that rides with us today!”

Jared saluted briskly, a smile of satisfied blood lust breaking out on his face.  Mardil returned the salute, his aristocratic face stern and resolute.  Off to his right he could here shouting as orders were being bellowed out, the sounds of tack and gear fastened into place, breakfasts bolted, pots and pans clanging and put away.  Whatever happened the rest of this day, these men would be prepared.  His son might not yet live, but the trap was in place and those responsible for his fate would learn a lesson they would not live to tell.

------------------------------------------------**-----------------------------------------------------

Ardugan crouched behind a scaly gray tree trunk just shy of where the trail from the third dolmen emptied out into the broad clearing in front of the gates to Dol Guldur.  Behind him, further back in the shadows, Eradan and Hagar were donning the ragged clothing from the cache, sloughing it over their swords and light chain mail. 

Ardugan had donned his own disguise, a battered orc helm, well worn orc armor, a notched and pitted short sword and shoddy boots.  A liberal application of the grease from the vial left them all gasping with the stench of ‘orc essence’.  His odor would convincingly wrinkle the nose of any of the foul vermin that might stand guard this day, their sense of smell distracted enough to believe the ruse for the moments needed to dispatch them.

Eradan came up from behind.  “We are ready for the rope”

Ardugan stood, inspecting him and Hagar, now trudging over, bereft of his horned battle helmet.

“You both look the proper captives.”  Indeed they did, Eradan still bruised about the face and Hagar’s scalp still bearing streaks of dried blood from the spider attack the day before.

“And you a credible orc” Eradan commented wryly, pinching his nose.

“These bonds will look convincing enough as well” Ardugan busied himself with tying their hands behind their backs.  “But all you need do is twist your hands thusly…” he demonstrated the movement to them, “…and the ropes disengage”

Ardugan left them for a moment and stood again from the egress of the trail.  The clearing in front of the gates was roughly a hundred yards square.  The rank vegetation of the forest had been hacked back, leaving a thick carpet of slimy gray-black coarse grass.  Through the middle of the field a stream meandered out from the heart of the mountain, noisome and steaming, disappearing into swampy oblivion beyond the edge of the encroaching forest on the north side of the clearing. 

A stoutly built bridge crossed the stream.  On either side a well worn muddy track spoke of the recent passage of His servants, now encamped where Mirkwood met the Brown Lands, awaiting Mardil’s arrival.  The track’s scar passed just yards from where they stood, turning south, paralleling the west flank of the mountain, then plunging into a hole in the forest at the southern end of the field.   Not half an hour before they had watched Gandalf and the others follow that same trail in search of the base of the Hidden Stair. 

Ardugan glanced up at the west side of Dol Guldur and spied the winding crease in the mountain’s side, an irregular cleft between two folds of rock, running all the way to the summit.  The Stair was said to follow that groove.  In any event the three of them would be making for it within the hour, once their diversion was complete.

“It is time…” He rose and beckoned to Eradan and Hagar, who walked out into the open area in front of him, hands tied, heads bowed.  Ardugan drew the short sword and held it menacingly in front of him, occasionally poking it into Hagar’s back.

They made their way to the bridge.  From here the entrance to the cavern under the mountain was clearer.  A jagged opening yawned in mountain’s side, roughly triangular in shape, perhaps fifty feet wide and a hundred tall.  Massive gates, thick barred, adorned with spikes and grotesque images, braced the opening from side to side.  Forty feet in height, they were a formidable barrier to escape or entry, but left a gap through which bats and other winged creatures could enter and exit. 

The path from the bridge forked just before the gates, one way heading to the eastern edge of the clearing and back into the looming forest, the other making way directly to the cavern entrance where two guards were engaged in bored conversation. 

Movement and the sound of footfalls caught their attention as Ardugan and his party approached.   

“You there…be lively and open the gate” Ardugan barked out.

“And what’ve we got ‘ere?” One of the guards sneered back, coming forward.  A short, squat, black haired muscular man from the distant east, he had little love for his orcish allies.

“The Steward’s son himself and a Rhovanian renegade…not that it be any of your business” Ardugan replied as insultingly as possible.  “I captured ‘em myself…more’n can be said for you lumps of offal.”

“Captured ‘em yourself ‘ey?”  The second guard came forward now, sword drawn.  He was a different sort, tall, sour faced and malignant.  “Able bodied orc like you ought to be long gone south…not pokin’ ‘round the forest.  And these here two…Steward’s son so you say…”

Ardugan’s grip tightened on his sword.  Before him he could see Hagar’s wrists beginning to twist, loosening the bond.  In an instant they would be upon the guards.

Suddenly there was a shout from their left.  Heads turned to the east where three large ox carts unexpectedly emerged from the forest into the clearing.   Laden with huge noxious mushrooms, they were drawn not by oxen, but by some leathery single horned beasts clumping along on deformed legs.    

Each cart carried three passengers, a driver and two laborers.   

"That’ll be the mornin’ delivery of mushrooms for His beasties delight” the sour faced guard spat.   “Late again today…and He will hear of it!”  The guard strode off past Ardugan, temporarily distracted by the arrival of the carts.  They could here him berating the slow moving supply train, cursing them for their tardiness.   He turned on his heel and stalked back, contempt and disgust smeared across his face.  The carts picked up speed, matching his pace, some last effort at exigency demonstrated by their drivers who lashed away at the hapless beasts.

They arrived almost as a group.  Ardugan gave a gentle poke to Hagar’s back, stilling his wrists for the moment.  Things had changed.  Now there were eleven to dispatch, not two.  The drivers and their laborers looked a surly lot too.  All sported injuries of some sort, eyepatches, arms bereft of left hands, legs with crudely fastened wooden stumps.  Victims of the battle with Eradan, perhaps, relegated to menial duties.  That being the better alternative to the badly wounded who ended up as fodder for His beasts.  Yet they were still strong, heavily muscled, with long wild black hair and dark skins.  The long hooked scythes they carried to fell the mushrooms could easily separate a man’s head from his shoulders.

“Now back to you three” the guard sneered at Ardugan.  One of the drivers approached and interrupted.

“I know this’n…” the driver pointed a thick, dirty finger at Eradan, “…bashing away with ‘is mace…near took my head off, him and ‘is horsemen…”

The sour faced guard turned to Eradan, eyes narrowing.  “So is it the Steward’s son after all…captured by an orc?  Maybe better yet captured by a guard of the Gate…and who would miss an orc then…” he looked menacingly at Ardugan.  The driver and the others from the carts began to mutter darkly, starting to cluster about Ardugan and his ‘captives’.  Things were beginning to unravel. 

Then the air was split by a strange yowl.  All was suspended as heads turned around to a creature sitting behind them a few yards away on a patch of mottled black turf.  Utterly fearless, it glared at them with luminous green eyes set in a noble feline face with fur the color of iron.  Beneath his helmet Ardugan permitted himself a small smile.  A heartbeat later there was a humming noise in the air followed by a thick smack of steel on flesh.

The tall guard was making a gurgling sound, clutching a bright steel shaft that protruded from his throat.  A whirring noise quickly followed, then another.  Two more shafts, steel tipped oak, found homes in the faces of cartmen.  The figure of the gray cat was suddenly draped on the face of the driver.  Another bobcat, golden and imperious, had appeared of nowhere, leapt, and fastened its claws where the eyes of the second, smaller guard once looked out at the world.

Shouts and screams erupted.  Ardugan put himself between the remaining cart men and his ‘captives’.  Hagar and Eradan quickly flung off their bonds and drew swords.  The three of them turned, facing ten cart men with scythes.  The air vibrated again three times in quick succession as three more shafts found deadly homes.  Now it was but seven to three. 

Hagar charged the remaining cart men with a great bellow, swinging his black sword in a wide arc, cleaving the head off one and nearly halving a second at the waist with the force of his blow.  Ardugan made quick work of another in short, deft strokes that would have brought an admiring smile to a king’s master butcher, then completed the work on the two that the cats had clawed to a pulp.  Eradan chased down the last two just short of the forest, killing with the remorseless vengeance only a former captive can know, the only mercy being the single sure stroke that quickly finished each.  

Then he turned, his eye caught by a flash of yellow amidst the desolate grays and blacks.  His jaw dropped, face caught in a mixture of shock, delight, and exasperation.  He would recognize that wild mane of curly golden hair anywhere with its livid crimson streak down the center.  The woman that bore it walked over the bridge towards him, a smug smile on her face, confidence in her stride, one bow over her shoulder and a crossbow dangling loosely from a wrist strap.

She stopped a few yards from where he stood, his sword still dripping blood.  Hands on hips she looked over the carnage that had been wrought.

“Men…so untidy.” She shook her head, then walked past him to the body of the tall guard, face down.  A boot planted on the back of his head, she grasped the back end of a steel shaft and with a grunt pulled it out, shaking off bits of gore.

“Always the women who have to clean up their mess…” Drianna groused mockingly.

“You…!” was all that Eradan could managed at first.

“Saved your life? Yes, quite possibly since the three of you could only manage two dead apiece.  Though why I should rescue someone who seems intent on putting his life in harm’s way I cannot say!”

“You should be leagues away from here! Outside the forest, safe!” Eradan was finding his words again.

Drianna ignored him, stalking over to another corpse to remove an arrow.  Ardugan now approached her brother, removing the stifling orc helmet and face plate.

“We have little time for sibling debate, Eradan.  Drianna is right…this is an untidy scene.  Our task was to free the beasts and escape unseen, leaving the impression that some lazy orc feeder forgot to shut the cages.  Two guards deserting their posts would not arouse suspicion.  But now we have eleven bodies and three carts.  Whatever guard is mustered to deal with the beasts will not be so stupid as to ignore the obvious signs of an attack.  We risk an alert of the remaining forces here or worse.”

Hagar had returned by now, looking over his shoulder as Drianna yanked out the last of her five arrows that met their mark.

“She shoots well” the blond giant commented approvingly.  Eradan glared back at him.  Drianna now approached the three men, tucking the last of her bloodied arrows in the quiver slung over her shoulder.

“Should we not proceed with the diversion…or has battle dulled your enthusiasm?” She smirked at Eradan, knowing she was deliberately provoking him.

“It is as you say, Drianna…” Ardugan broke in before a spluttering Eradan could frame a reply, “…a most untidy scene…hard to explain as anything but an attack.  We must deal with that before we enter the mountain.”

“Why not just heave the bodies in the wood” Hagar offered, trying to be helpful.

“No…we need to create an illusion.” Ardugan’s smile was satisfyingly sinister.  “The fools that harvested the mushrooms obviously succumbed to their aroma and ate some of the fungus themselves.  They went mad and attacked the guards, then each other.  All we need do is hack at them with their own weapons and arrange the bodies in death embraces.  We could even bring two of them inside with us to add to the confusion.”

Eradan was nodding his head.  “It will work…but we must make haste…Drianna you take the two at the edge of the forest.  Hagar, you will carry two inside.  Ardugan and I will arrange the rest and sprinkle some mushroom about their mouths.”

His words signaled that he had grudgingly accepted Drianna’s arrival and it was all business now.  In a few moments their grisly handiwork was done, the corpses locked together, hands gripping weapons stuck deep in adversaries.  Eradan opened the gate and beckoned to the others. 

“It is dim, almost as night inside.  Allow a few moments for your eyes to adjust to the darkness.  The cages are at the far end of the cavern.  If all is clear, Hagar will drop the bodies near one of the cages, as if locked in mortal combat.   Two of us will slide open the bolts in the cage doors then swing them open.  The beasts will emerge quickly…we must each move fast to avoid being a mid-day morsel.  Drianna and I will position ourselves nearer this gate.  Should any of the guard emerge early and threaten our escape we will make them regret their decision.

He glanced quickly at his sister, respect in his eyes, then ducked inside.  She followed, then Hagar.  Ardugan took one last look about the clearing, insuring that they were alone, save for the dead, then entered the cavern of the Necromancer.

-----------------------------------------**------------------------------------------------------

They had parted company with Ardugan’s diversionary party nearly an hour ago, making a brief appearance at the edge of the clearing before plunging back into the forest on a well traveled route wide enough for ten men.  The ruts in the earth and mangled oily gray and black turf spoke of tromping soldiers, heavy wagons, and bestial footprints made not long ago, all heading south to the border with the Brown Lands. 

Overhead, the trees on either side of the trail, laden with thick, greasy vines and dripping molds, merged into a dark canopy that let in little the leaden sky’s feeble light.   They had carefully checked their bearings at the third dolmen, marking the crease on the side of the mountain.  Anticipating where it would meet the forest then finding it would be no mean task. 

The trail they took was a hundred yards off the mountain’s lower flanks, running south, paralleling its western side.  Somewhere about a half a league below the cavern entrance there would be a sign, but one perhaps buried in an entanglement of toxic vegetation, thorns, and mire.  Locating it was something that Haldir and Gandalf were up to, leading their party, the two of them immersed in conversation, occasionally pointing to some shapeless lump in the forest just off the trail, looking around for other clues, then proceeding on once again.   Arthed followed them close behind, eyes scanning the woods for clues of another nature, two legged creatures bearing swords who might be patrolling the near marches of Dol Guldur’s realm.

Further back, Aranarth and Arahael took the rear, wary of any late stragglers He might be sending down to battle with the Steward.

“Your position on the diversion had its merits”, Aranarth broke their silent march abruptly.

“Pity not enough for others to agree” Arahael replied drily, masking his surprise at what was for his father a compliment on the discussion earlier in the day.

“No matter.  You spoke your mind amidst those with more years and experience.  Oft it is the silence of good men that does more harm than the works of darkness.”

“Still I would be comforted more with the others marching amongst us now.”

“And they may yet join us, son.  If not, then they will have played a part that will allow us to succeed.  Look, up ahead…they have stopped.  We may be close to the Stair.”  Aranarth pointed to the forms of Gandalf and Haldir standing together, both gesturing at something in the forest to the east.  Aranarth and Arahael approached the pair, Arthed already beside them.

“Ah, Aranarth, Arahael…” Gandalf turned, smiling at their arrival, “It appears Haldir may have found the sign we seek”

Aranarth looked into the forest, seeing little other than the terminus of a low mound, perhaps some tendril of rock from the mountain, now heavily entombed in twisted roots, black tangled vines, and glistening heaps of spongy moss and fungus.   Haldir picked his way gingerly into the forest and crouched at the base of the mound.  He withdrew a long knive and scraped away layers of moss and dirt to get to the bare rock.  The elf shook his head quietly then moved on to another spot, then a third.

This time he seemed more animated, scraping vigorously, widening the area of exposed rock.  Carefully he brushed away some remaining dirt and moss, then took off the glove from his right hand and gently ran his fingers over the rock. 

Even from twenty feet away they could see it, a pulse of light that warmed Haldir’s face, coming from the rock itself.  Gandalf went over to his side, leaning over his shoulder.

“It is the mark of Celebrimbor!” Haldir said breathlessly, almost reverently speaking the name of the last of the great Elven craftsmen from the Second Age, dead for over three thousand years.  Beneath his fingers the outline of a rune glowed with a shimmering silvery green light, then gradually faded, having responded to his initial touch.

“We have our Stair.  Come let us tell the others”

The two made their way back to the trail, the excitement in Haldir’s eyes betraying the news.

“You’ve found it?”

“Yes Aranarth.  That low mound in the forest runs back some ways to the base of the mountain where the stair begins.  The rune was clear evidence though it has been many a year since it has last felt the touch of an elven hand.”

“What rune?” Arahel inquired.

 “The Stair was intended as a gift, Arahael” Haldir commented, “…My Lady Galadriel and Celeborn had settled in Eregion in the Second Age.  Over time they made contact with the elven lands over the Misty Mountains, first in Lorien and later in Greenwood.  It was not as if she was the first.  After the sundering of Beleriand, other of the Sindar and Noldor had made their way east.”

“And not always welcome from what Thranduil says” Gandalf replied

“No…that is true.  By the time she made contact with Oropher and his people, he had already become wary of their influence in Lorien, the mighty works of the dwarves in Moria and rumors of Sauron’s re-emergence in Mordor.  The Stair was intended as a token of good will, a work of great skill by disciples of Celebrimbor that Galadriel had brought with her to Amon Lanc, as it was then called.”

“But to no avail, it would seem” Gandalf concluded.

Haldir sighed.  “If anything it hastened Oropher’s decision to depart the southern forest, having perceived the power that such workmanship could wreak in the wrong hands. And so it was scarcely used, the Hidden Stair.  Other than Galadriel there may be few, if any who still know of its existence. Those who crafted it died in the destruction of Eregion.  Oropher and many of his people were slain in the War of the Alliance and were by then far removed in time and distance from their ancient home around Dol Guldur.  Even Galadriel did not see it completed, having urgent business back in Eregion.  What she knows comes from the words of the craftsmen upon return from their labors.”

“Then let us share those words with all now here.” Gandalf replied.  Haldir nodded an continued

“It is said that the first step of the Stair is the largest and clear for all to see, but the second and all that follow are Hidden.  Only the footstep of an immortal on the first step will release the next ten that follow.  Then as one climbs, a series of ten upward steps emerges ahead.  Ten remain open behind the one being trod upon.”

“So only ten ahead and ten behind are open at a time?” Arahael queried.

 “What purpose to such a limit?” Arthed said, puzzled.

“To insure that no force of non-mortals would have an easy task of following an elf to the top with any hope of a simple return.  Galadriel intended that the peoples of Lorien and the Silvan Elves at Amon Lanc would be able to signal each other from the high points of their realms, though they be many leagues away.  The summit of the mountain was for elven boots, not the feet of men or dwarves.”

“Or orcs” Aranarth replied gruffly.  “We have been fortunate to make such progress, but the morning wanes.  Are we close to this first step you describe for we have a long climb ahead of us”

“We will have to cut our way through the forest, perhaps two hundred yards, to reach the base of the mountain.  There a deep natural crease in its flanks meets the ground.  That is where the Stair begins.”

“And you are confident still that He will be atop?” Aranarth gave Gandalf a long look.

The wizard met his gaze from beneath his great bushy brows. “His presence is strong, Aranarth.  There are things I can feel of him given his nature…and mine, that others cannot.  His is there, so confident after his first round with Eradan, that he can enjoy this victory from afar.”

“There is the matter of Ardugan and the others” Arthed interjected.

“We will give them an hour as was set out in the plan, no longer.  His woodcraft is such that he will have no trouble marking our path through these dark environs to the base of the mountain.”

“But if he is late, the stair will close behind us” Arthed persisted

“Then let us pray their progress is swift” Aranarth concluded flatly, then turned to his brother, seeing the need for them to commence action.  “Come Arthed, release that great axe of yours and make a way for us through this benighted realm.”

And Arthed indeed did release his axe, adjusting its handle to the maximum.  Then, with the rangy strength in his wide shoulders and long arms he began a wide scything motion.  The cut of the axe whistled through the air and took great gouges out of the tangles of vines and thorn bushes before them. 

His strokes took on an inexorable rhythm, felling all in their way, saplings, even smallish trees.  The pent up energy of their long journey released itself in the simple physical joy he felt when putting the great blade to work.  The others followed behind him, several paces back to avoid the hurtling fragments of torn vegetation, hacking away themselves at some of the plants that seemed to twist and writhe like severed snakes spewing yellowish ichors in their death throes.

It was less than half an hour when they reached the base of the mountain where Arthed chopped away the last of the tangle.   Haldir came up to the front, standing beside him, Arthed breathing heavily from his exertions, a satisfied smile on his face as he looked back at the destruction he had wrought to the nightmarish plants.

“It is as Galadriel said” the elf contemplated the rocky formation before them. 

They stood at the opening to a deep cleft in the side of the mountain that was twenty feet wide at its opening.  The channel ran all the way up the side of the mountain like a great gouge of a knife in its flanks.  The cleft itself seemed clear of vegetation, though on either side of the runnel the sides of the mountain were still cloaked in vines, thorn bushes and gnarled trees grimly hugging its steep slopes.

Haldir walked forward slowly, examining the ground.  The vines and gray-black grass gave way to a roughly level rocky surface that rose slightly as he made his way between the rock walls on either side of the cleft.  The others held back for a moment, fixed by the sight of the elf, now on his hands and knees, deep in the confines, nearing the small space where the rock walls almost met.  As before in the forest, he removed the glove from his right hand and seemed to trace a pattern in the stone on the ground.

This time, though he stood up, replaced the glove and carefully positioned his right foot on the patch of stone that he had just touched.  The stone seemed to glow softly beneath his boot.  Then there was a series of sounds, that of smooth stone sliding upon stone, then a clicking and whirring, like tumblers of an enchanted lock falling into place. 

Haldir stepped back a bit.  Between the frowning walls the narrow flat rock face before him seemed to shift.  One by one, small slabs of rock slid out, with perfectly polished surfaces.  Each was a step, perhaps three feet wide and two deep, set apart by a height less than a man’s knee.  Ten such steps had emerged from the side of the mountain.  Haldir turned, his face illuminated with a joy at the handiwork of his ancestors, still in perfect order after the passage of an Age.

The others made their way in now, single file, as the gap would not permit two abreast for long. 

“It is as you said Haldir” Gandalf commented approvingly.  “Take the first step as it is your tread that will open the rest.”

Haldir took the first step.  Above them they heard the clicking, sliding noise again as another step slid smoothly from its position in the stone.  Haldir took two more and the process repeated itself.  Then he turned about and came back to the base of the cleft.  The steps slid gently back into the mountain, invisible once again.

“It works! My Lady will be greatly heartened to know that this craft of the Noldor is still in service to the fair folk!”

“She will indeed, Haldir, for there are few such creations of his forge yet in existence.  But now we wait for Ardugan, Hagar, and Eradan” Gandalf counseled, “Not too long though…as the wheels that are about to turn will fly by without us if we tarry” 

                                                   Dol Guldur – Diversion and Decision

Initially the day’s light helped them find the path inside from Dol Guldur’s entrance gate as it wound along the inside wall of the cavern.  Behind them, crisscrossed by the silhouette of the great gate’s bars, the tall narrow triangle of the cavern’s exit retreated.  Ahead they could see little, their eyes only beginning to acclimate to the darkness inside. 

But not Ardugan.  His unusually large pale blue eyes drew in the light as they had on many a dark night’s solitary hunt in the wild allowing him to take the measure of their surroundings.  He turned to his companions, whispering.

“We must wait here a few moments for our eyes to adjust.  We must be certain that the cavern is vacant before proceeding”

“It is late morning.  The feeding has been done for over an hour.  They usually slink back into the far entrance after that unless pressed by some other business” Eradan whispered back.

A few moments passed in silence.  Ardugan could see clearly now, the array of cages for two legged prisoners several hundred feet away on the left, where Eradan and Zeraphath had been held.  Another series of cages, rising up from the cavern floor on the distant right, holding His beasts, if Eradan’s information was correct.  In between, a long, open space split by the sluggish black stream that crossed only twenty feet from where they crouched, as it made its way to the outside through the gates.  He could see at least three rude stone arches crossing the flow between their position and the last of the cages.  In the far rear of the cavern a flicker of light denoted the first of the torches lighting the stone hewn entrance to the orc’s quarters.

“Can you see well enough?” Ardugan whispered to his charges.  They nodded in assent.

“Very well.  Hagar, you and Eradan will cross the stream at the first arch taking the dead mushroom harvesters.  Prepare them as the ones outside and dump them short of the cages closest to the gates.  Drianna and I will stay on this side of the black creek keeping pace with you as you proceed.” 

“We will start with the beast cages closest to the orc entrance.”  Eradan confirmed, “The cages open from the outside though the bolts are heavy and it will take much of our strength to slide them free.”

“Drianna and I will be in position.  She with her bow and I with her crossbow which she has generously allowed me to borrow for the occasion” Ardugan nodded in Drianna’s direction.

“They would be no match for my sword” Hagar boasted

“We have no time for swordplay” Ardugan chided.  “You and Eradan must open the cages quickly and make fast back to the gates.  It is not our task to kill orcs, just distract them.  We have no desire that they know of our presence.  Only that whatever numbers remain here be fully occupied with the beasts we free.  Drianna and I will only launch our arrows and bolts should you be discovered in the act.”

“Time passes even as we speak.” Eradan reinforced.  “We must make haste if we are to rendezvous with the others at the Stair.  Come Hagar, we have dead Easteners to haul and beasts to free.”  He turned to Ardugan and Drianna, his face tight, then made his way off the trail, down an uneven rocky slope in the dim light towards the first of the arches crossing the stream.

Drianna watched as he and Hagar made their way across and up the opposite slope to another stony trail following the far wall.

“Come…we must keep up” Ardugan whispered and beckoned towards the far end of the cavern.   Drianna nodded silently and stuck close to him, hugging the cavern wall as they made their way deeper into the cavern.

Across the way Eradan took the lead, bent under the dead weight of the corpse.

“This one stinks” Hagar muttered half to himself, commenting on his burden, carelessly slung over his right shoulder.  Eradan turned, the glare on his face commanding silence.

After a minute had gone by Eradan encountered a break in the rugged cavern wall on their right.  An entrance yawned, twice the height of a man and ten feet wide.  He held up his hand, halting their progress.  He stood near the opening, listening and peering cautiously into the passage.  There was no sound other than his own breathing, no light, just a pitch dark tunnel.  But there was a smell seeping up from below, damp and reptilian. 

Eradan shivered involuntarily, remembering that odor from another day not long past when he lay in an underground cell, battered and half conscious, seeing…or was it dreaming…a vision of a huge serpent, sizing him up. 

“Why do we stop” Hagar whispered

“Nothing…just a tunnel.  It seems quiet.  We should move on”

Eradan crossed the front of the passage and continued on.  Hagar paused for a moment, peering into the blackness of the tunnel, wrinkling his nose at the smell that came out, then quickened his pace to catch up with Eradan, now twenty paces ahead on the trail that wound along the cavern wall.

Two minutes later they were approaching the first of the animal cages, just a hundred feet ahead.  Once again Eradan held up his hand.

“We will dump the bodies here” he whispered to Hagar, “The scent of this human carrion will draw their attention once the doors are open.”

Hagar let the corpse slide off his shoulder, flopping to the stony floor.  The two men arranged them in an embrace of mortal combat as they had done with the others outside.

Ahead the cavern wall receded sharply to their right, opening up a space filled with great barred cages whose iron stanchions were anchored deep into the cavern floor.   The gravelly trail they trod passed by the first row of large cages.  A second row was set further back.  

Further ahead the trail wound to the left, sloping slightly downhill to a large torchlit entrance.  From his first day of captivity Eradan remembered the orcs wandering in and out of that passage on their duties, feeding the beasts in the cages. For now it was devoid of activity.

He glanced across the cavern to the opposite side, a good two hundred feet away now.  There he saw a slight movement, Ardugan and Drianna edging along the far wall, keeping pace.  It was time.  Already he could detect a restlessness from the cages, the beasts sensing their presence and getting their first whiff of the dead men lying on the trail.  He turned to Hagar.

“We will take the cages in pairs of two, you and I, from the farthest back to those just in front of us.  The cage doors face onto this trail.  The bolts slide to the right…I have seen the orc feeders open them.  We will sling the bolts back, open the doors, then quickly move onto the next pair.”

“And the beasts?”  there was a touch of apprehension on Hagar’s voice

“Of no natural creation.  Do not tarry over their horns and claws.  That will be for the orcs to restrain.”  Eradan’s permitted himself a grim smile at the thought.  “Now we must go!”

Eradan walked away briskly along the trail past the first eight cages.  After a moment’s hesitation Hagar followed, sparing nervous glances every now and then at the inhabitants of the iron barred confines.  Soon they each stood in front of the stout gates of the first pair of cages, forty feet square.  Eradan gestured to Hagar, positioned over ten yards away in front of his gate. 

Hagar could not help but look in to what hulked inside.  A boar the size of a small ox rummaged through a heap of foul smelling detritus and bones.  It was distorted, though, its back legs stubby and uneven, skin covered in open sores, head bulging with strange growths.  And he was going to let it free.  Now the thought of what their diversion entailed sunk in.  The cavern would be full of creatures like this…and worse, if his hurried views of the other cages were true.  They would have their hands full just escaping the chaos they would create.

He heard a clang of metal on metal and the creak of metal hinges.  A glance to the left…Eradan had already opened his cage.  Hagar took in a deep breath, grasped the heavy iron bolt in front of him and slid it to the right past the restraint of the clasp on the cage frame.  He pulled on the heavy barred gate, wincing instinctively at the squeal of its hinges as it opened.  Inside the boar turned, suddenly alert, its yellow piggish eyes focused on Hagar’s movements.  He stood still for a moment, caught in the beast’s gaze, until the rough hand of Eradan cuffed him on the side of his face.

“Do you wish to be its dinner?! Come Hagar! We have eight more to open and with luck may make it to the cavern entrance before the beasts take too strong an interest in us!”

Hagar snapped out of it at his words, galvanized by the thought of the boar standing over him.  He sped off to the next cage, wasted little time examining its contents, merely sliding the bolt, opening the door and racing on.  Eradan matched him, cage to cage.  Inside of a minute they had opened nine of the first row of then cages.  Eradan slipped the heavy bolt on the tenth and swung the door open.  The hinges squeaked, but another noise intruded, a thunking and clacking, like the tumblers of some large lock shifting in position. 

What Eradan could not have known was that the cages had been linked to an emergency closure gate to the cavern.  Should any ten doors be opened at once, it was a given that a mistake had been made and that the beasts might escape en masse.  So a massive solid portcullis had been built, the width of the cavern exit and fully forty feet tall.  A great restraining chain would be released from its locked position once the door to the tenth cage opened, and the gate would plunge from its position high in the shadows above the cavern opening.

And so it was.  The opening of the tenth cage freed the lock and released the chain.  Eradan and Hagar heard the clang of iron links sliding rapidly through massive forged guide loops.  Far away a creaking and groaning noise echoed back from the cavern entrance.  Eradan watched, dismayed, as the triangular sliver of light marking the exit from the cavern became blotted out with the descent of the massive slab of iron bound wooden timbers.  It struck the cavern floor with a thunderous blow, rattling the cages and rousing the beasts.

The air was suddenly filled with roars and howls from creatures freed from their foul confines, able to wreak havoc.  Eradan grabbed Hagar by the shoulder.

“We cannot stay on this side! Follow me!”

Hagar needed little encouragement.  The two of them clambered down the stony slope to one of the arches over the sluggish stream running through the center of the cavern.  They quickly crossed and hauled themselves up the opposite slope to the trail near the opposite cavern wall where Drianna and Ardugan crouched.  The bestial cries were growing louder and now a new element intruded, the shouts and curses of orcs emerging from the torchlit tunnel at the rear of the cavern.

“I did not know…” Eradan was breathing heavily, trying to explain to them.

“No time for regrets, brother…you have done well,” Drianna replied.  “The diversion is a success.  What orcs He has left behind will not trouble the passage up the Hidden Stair.”

“But we will not be joining that passage this day” Ardugan replied soberly, assessing the scene of growing chaos in the cavern.

“Perhaps there is still room for us to squeeze through the gate” Hagar ventured.

“And if there is not we will find ourselves cornered.  No, we cannot take such a risk” Eradan replied curtly.

“Nor can we just stay here, huddled against the cavern wall.” Ardugan replied.  “There must be another way out” He turned expectantly to Eradan. 

Out in the cavern at least twenty orcs had emerged with ropes, chains, spears and nets.  The beasts were rampaging about, some attacking each other, some now evidencing interest in the orcs.   Eradan knew they could not go into the dark entrance he and Hagar had passed, the one that led below where the only exit led past the ravenous insects that had nearly killed him.  Nor could they simply walk into the torchlit tunnel where the orcs were emerging. 

There were now close to thirty orcs spreading out into the cavern, clustering in groups of five and six about some of the lesser beasts, trying to hem them in.  Some of the larger beasts were still thrashing about, crushing orcs in their path, getting closer to where the four of them were huddled.  Time was running out.  Eradan cast his eyes about.  Not far from their position the three rows of cages for two legged prisoners were arrayed along the wall on their side of the cavern.  He remembered waking there days ago with Zerephath, trying to regain his senses.  Then the visit later on, the great black hound emerging from behind the rocky outcrop behind his cell.  Maybe.

“There may be a way.  Behind the cells just ahead where I was kept captive.  I cannot be sure, but I believe a…visitor… on my first day here may have come from a passage behind the cells.”

“We cannot stay here” Drianna could see the turmoil in the cavern moving closer to them.  It would not be long before someone spotted them.

Eradan said nothing more.  Gesturing to them to follow, he slowly made his way along the path that hugged the cavern wall.  The wall receded back around to his left as they reached the prison cells arrayed out in the three rows in an embayment carved out of the cavern’s side.  Eradan stuck close to the wall, making his way past the last cell in the first row, then the second, and finally the third.  Now they had the three rows of cells between them and the open area.  Eradan crept along the narrow space between the last row of cells and the rugged cavern wall. 

They could hear voices louder now, from just beyond the first row of cells.  A wild roar from some beast split the air.  Then a thudding clang as it crashed into a cell, partially tearing the bars from their stone anchors.  Eradan motioned the others to follow him along.  The voices of angry orcs were getting louder, cursing, trying to pin down one of the creatures near the cells.    

Then he spotted it, a bulging outcrop, nearly reaching the back of one of the cells in the last row from the cavern.  He squeezed between the rocky thrust and the cell’s cold iron bars.  On the other side of the outcrop he felt it, a current of cool air, and saw it, a dark hole in the rocky wall.  Once again he motioned to the others, this time more agitatedly. 

Soon they were all gathered in front of the opening.

“Where does it go” Hagar ventured apprehensi vely.

“Anywhere but here” Eradan replied curtly.  “We have no choice for now.  At the least we need to make our way far enough up to avoid being seen by the orcs or smelt out by the beasts.”

As if to emphasize his point there was another great crash, then a grind of stone and metal.  A deep bellow followed, then screams from orcs which ended abruptly with a sickening crunch of great jaws on bone and flesh.  They were just yards away.  That was more than enough for Hagar who dashed headlong into the dark opening without a second thought.  Drianna followed, then Ardugan.  Eradan ducked in last, sparing a last look. 

He entered the tunnel just in time.  Outside, a huge beast twice the size of an elephant sporting massive horns and tusks was in a rage heaving itself into orcs and iron barred cells, ramming them into a tangle of metal and blood.  With a last spurt of savagery it rammed the debris straight at the entrance the four of them had just ducked into, blocking any exit with a mound of twisted wreckage and crushed orcs.  

------------------------------------------******---------------------------------------------------------

“We have waited long enough…too long”  

“I fear you are correct Aranarth” Gandalf replied shaking his head.  It was well past the hour’s deadline they had set for the return of the diversionary party.  The afternoon was getting on, the gray overcast gradually lowering and thickening.  They had a long climb ahead of them.

Haldir let out a curiously melodic whistle, not unlike the sound of a songbird.  Moments later Arahael appeared, making his way from the wide path on the west side of the mountain, through the rough cut in the woods made by Arthed’s axe earlier in the afternoon.  Arahael said nothing, his look enough for them to understand that there was no sign of the others.

They made their way to the Stair in silence, concerned about the fate of their companions, as well as their own, should the possible failure of the diversion somehow alert Him to their approach.  Aranarth caught his son’s eye for a moment, the look on the older man’s face a grim acknowledgement of the sentiments Arahael had expressed the day before about dividing their resources.  But that was past and done now as they made their way up the Stair, Haldir taking the lead as he must to activate the steps, Gandalf next, then Arthed, Aranarth and Arahael.

The crease in the mountain they climbed was deep and sinuous.  A glance above would reveal 30 to perhaps 50 feet of the way ahead before a fold in the rock blocked out further view.  It was just as well.  If they could not see past that point either could any of His guards see them looking down from some trail along the side of the mountain. 

What they could see was the forest receding below them as they climbed.  Soon above the treetops, they could see the vast black carpet of Mirkwood’s southern marches undulating away to the west.  The air was heavy with moisture and still, the sound of the steps ahead snicking out and those behind them whisking in muffled.  From time to time Gandalf would tap his staff on Haldir’s back.  They would stop and the wizard would examine the lowering skies and cast a worried look to the west southwest. 

They were closely packed, the five of them, the brace of ten steps forward and ten back leaving little room for laggards.  Once when they stopped for another of Gandalf’s searching looks Arahael counted the steps idly, having already taken in the view.  Indeed there were ten steps above Haldir as far as he could tell, but it seemed to him at least that there were eleven below.  Perhaps the elf had his figures wrong.  No matter, he would be sticking close, having already observed the steps remorselessly sliding back into the rock not far below him, leaving no possible means of passage back to the forest floor.

Late in the afternoon they came to a temporary impasse.  Thirty feet above them they could see the defile they climbed had been bridged by a rude construction.  Haldir turned.

“The light we saw crossing the mountain’s side last night.  This may be one of his outer patrol trails.  They have built a span over the gap above us.”

“We will have to past it…and hope they are occupied with tasks elsewhere” Aranarth frowned.

As if to emphasize his point, they suddenly became aware of voices, barely audible, well above them, but becoming gradually louder, orc voices.  Haldir motioned them to absolute stillness, hoping whatever intruders these were would move on, allowing them to pass without the need to risk a skirmish.

“…and I says the animals are no concern of ours…”

“…the call went out Ragnish…Orgluk’ll be looking for us…”

“…and ‘e’ll find us good and proper…but not fer a while…we has our rounds to make and then we’ll head down…let’m get them beasts back in their cages their own self…theys the ones what didn’t lock the doors…the fools!”

“…it’ll be on yer ugly head then Ragnish..”

There was the sound of a blow, as if one of the orcs had roughly cuffed the other.

“…an you’ll lose yer head if I hear any more guff from you Beglik.  Now shut yer trap and follow me.  You’ll thank me good enough when you see the mess down there.”

The voices faded as the two orcs made their way over the span and to the right, heading south along the mountain’s west face.  They waited for another two or three minutes to make sure that the orcs were truly gone and that no others were following closely. 

“It seems the diversion has met with some success.  The path ahead should be unopposed” Haldir remarked

“Yet at what price we do not know, Haldir” Gandalf replied somberly.  “Their absence at the Stair does not bode well.”

“Nor does waiting here while the path ahead is clear for now.” Aranarth growled.  “My brother knew the risk and he is most resourceful when he chooses to be.  We must make the most of their contribution and hope that we will join them again ‘ere this day is done.”

There was little more to be said.  Aranarth’s counsel was direct and to the point.  Gandalf nodded at Haldir and the elf took a step, then another and they ascended the Stair.  The crease in the mountain was deep, still the twenty foot wide cleft they started at its base.  The rude bridge the orcs crossed lay at the outer opening of the cleft, leaving a gap between the bridge and the base of the notch in the mountain where the Stair was fixed.  Soon they had risen to the level of the bridge which lay just a few yards between them and the open air on the west side of the mountain.  All was quiet.  They heard no approach from the northern side nor a return of the guards who had passed to the south moments ago.

They were halfway to the top now.  Gandalf looked at the sky, a trace of anxiety on his face.  The featureless high gray overcast was still lowering and darkening.  The afternoon was all but over.  Evening would come early, even with it being high summer. 

“Now we must hurry my friends.  As Aranarth says, the path is clear and we have business with the Necromancer before the sun sets behind the clouds.  Haldir…lead the way!”

------------------------------------------------------***----------------------------------------------

Far below them and deep inside the mountain four others faced a more difficult quandary as to which way to proceed.  Ardugan looked down the passage that had secured their retreat and saw little but a dim square of light and the silhouette of mangled iron bars and crushed orcs.  The sound of the unnatural beasts still wreaking havoc in the main floor of the cavern echoed up the tunnel where they stood. 

“We could call out for help and wait upon our rescue” Ardugan attempted some dark humor.

“Little help I would expect from them” Hagar muttered half to himself.

“Ardugan makes light of a dark situation, Hagar.  And we have more need of ideas than levity” Eradan’s voice was quiet but harsh as he glared at Ardugan.

“What do you suggest?” Drianna tried to focus their emotions on decisions before their frustrations were directed at each other.  Eradan replied first.

“He took this passage from some other place on His mountain to visit me in my cage.  It leads to Him.  Gandalf and the others seek the same end.  We should follow this tunnel in hopes of meeting up with Him and with our companions on the outside.  We have no other choice, unless you wish to give yourselves up to the orcs as sport once they clear the wreckage of the beasts.”

“It is dark ahead.  Perhaps Ardugan will lead the way, his eyes being most keen in the night” Drianna sought to bring them back as a team.

“I can see well enough…and smell as well.  The scent of a great wolf lingers on these walls.  We will follow as long as light provides.  I have flint and tinder in a small pouch, among other implements, enough to fabricate a modest torch.  It will last less than half an hour so we must use it only in final need.  Let us see how far we can go without it.”

And so they left the last dim light of the cavern behind and turned to follow Ardugan up the gently sloping passage. 

After just a few minutes the last of the sounds of orcs and beasts had faded away, along with the light.  It was black as pitch for all save Ardugan, who still managed to wring some meager illumination with his strange large eyes.  Still he knew it could not last and he tied two of Drianna’s arrows together to form a rude blind man’s cane to tap the ground ahead lest they step suddenly into some yawning chasm.

On they went for a while, stumbling occasionally on the rough surface of the tunnel.  Staying close to avoid being separated this also meant that one stumble often left them crashing in a heap together.  The slope of the passage began to steepen and wind about to the left and right, seemingly without purpose.  Eventually they came to a point where the irregular surface resolved itself into roughly cut steps. 

Here they paused.  The air was stagnant and silent, dark as an orc’s heart.  The wolf smell lingered, along with a trace of something musky that seemed vaguely familiar to Eradan.

Drianna felt something brush past her leg and let out a gasp.

“What was that!”

A light padding sound with a whisp of sharp claws on rock sped by them.  Eradan drew his sword. 

“Ardugan…best you light that torch…” he whispered.

He could not see Ardugan’s smile as he bent down to the first step and extended his hand, feeling the soft fur before him.  The tunnel hummed to the sound of a purring feline.

“It’s all right, Eradan…we do have company, but familiar friends” Ardugan smiled again, enjoying this private play on words.

“Friends!?” Eradan replied incredulously

“Radagast’s bobcats…they must have tired of the sport inside the cavern.  Their eyes and powers of scent are keen.  They may be of some help to us”

As if to underscore Ardugan’s comment, Chrisandil let out a low meow.  For a moment they could see the palest reflection of two pairs of green eyes.  Then there was a barely audible sound of padded feet and claw tips scampering up the stairs.

“Let us hope they do not find too much mischief” Eradan groused.

“Their mischief is often to the detriment of our adversaries…I for one wish them good hunting” Ardugan admonished.  “Come…we have stairs to climb now…a sign that something must be near to deserve such efforts.”

He led the way, one step at a time, now more cautious as they might be encountering interior chambers for which the stairs were designed as access.  After about ten minutes Ardugan halted.  He reached out in back, his palm extended, pressing against Eradan who followed closely.

“Listen…” he whispered, barely audible.

Nothing at first, then the sound of orc voices, then nothing again.  Ardugan tested the air.  A slight change in scent and the barest hint of a current wafting past.

“Careful now…we know not their numbers…”

They crept up the steps, still in utter darkness, single file.  The voices, in and out of hearing, became steady as they climbed.  Then they began to see light.  Just a crumb of gray at first, far, far up the steps, a small dot that gradually expanded as they approached.

Their eyes, starved for illumination greedily took this in. 

After a few minutes it brightened, revealing the walls and pitch of the staircase.  It was a splash of light from some sort of room off to the right of the passage, casting a flickering glow on the tunnel wall opposite its entrance.  They were now fifty feet down passage from it.  The voices were becoming clearer as they crept up.  Orcs.

“…look at ‘em layin’ there like the dead…”

“They is dead or near to it, Dalek.  Look…hands and arms all white…go ‘head an’ poke one…I did it…just a little black goo what comes out…’an they don’t even twitch…don’t feel nothin’…”

“…He wants ‘em that way…wants ‘em to be like the dead, but fightin’ like the living ‘ell…” 

“If they’s so good at fightin’ why is they here and not down South?”

“…they’s not fully cured yet Bulgash…’at was what He said….an’ this one, the old one…he’s a tough case…”

“Better put ‘nother dose of ‘at potion on them, Dalek…if they awake, theys liable to take a cut at you with their fancy swords…”

“Let’m try…I’ll give ‘em a whack with this ‘ere mace what we captured from that Steward’s son…no use to him in the bellies of His beetles…”

Ardugan had now crept up to the very edge of the entrance.  The bobcats were nowhere to be seen.  He turned to Eradan holding up two fingers, then running his hand across his throat.  Eradan passed the signal on to Drianna and Hagar.  They nodded, understanding.

Eradan quietly got into position next to Ardugan on the step just behind the opening.  They locked eyes for a moment, drew their swords silently from their scabbards, took a deep breath, and charged in screaming at the top of their lungs, Hagar and Drianna following close on their heels.

The room was low ceilinged, perhaps thirty feet square, lit by several torches in stanchions on the walls.  An exit passage was a dark square in the wall on the far side of the room.  Five stone platforms rose from the floor waist high.  Bodies, the bodies of men, lay under blankets, their arms and legs sticking out.  Two heavy long wooden tables covered with jars, implements, and weapons, backed up against the far left wall.  There two ragtag orcs stood astonished as four raging invaders leapt at them swords drawn.

They barely had time to draw their own weapons.  Eradan parried a weak thrust, sending the orc’s short sword flying then sending his head off in the same direction with a wide arc of his blade.  Ardugan toyed with the other, mockingly deflecting the desperate orc’s hacking and cutting, til finally wearying of the sport, he took off the orc’s hand at the wrist, then its head. 

Drianna and Hagar took a look down the exit at the far wall, listening for the sound of reinforcements, but heard nothing. 

“Drianna! Look!”

She turned at the sound of Eradan’s voice to see him lifting the blankets off the forms on the flat stone platforms.  They were fully clothed and fitted out in battle gear replete with Gondoran style weaponry. 

“I recognize these men!  Caldor..and here is Galvan, Nestir,  Belas…and Zerephath….”

Ardugan examined them closely.  “I fear for what He has done to them, Eradan…what he was trying to do to you as well.”

Hagar was rummaging through the contents of the table while they spoke.

“Ah…a fine weapon indeed” the young northerner picked up something long and menacing, admiring its weight and balance.  “Methinks I will keep this for myself!”

Eradan turned, his face a mix of shock and joy.  “Crusher!  Bring that here Hagar…that is mine and there are orcs aplenty who have left their heads and ribcages stove in from its not so gentle caress!”

It was like a reunion of long lost friends.  Eradan almost snatched it out of Hagar’s grasp, then gripped the haft of the great mace and took a few practice swings, his eyes warming to the sound of the spiked head swooshing gently through the air.  But there was little time for displays as another stranger sound filled the room, the rasp of breath through the throats of the living dead.

Almost as one, the five recumbent figures on the platforms sat up, opened their eyes, swung their legs to the floor, drew their swords and began to stalk Eradan and the others.

“Galvan! Nestir! What are you doing?!” Eradan cried.

There was no response.  Their eyes were open, but entirely black beneath their lids, exposed flesh pale and cold like an animal washed up on a northern beach after a violent storm.  Their faces were set like stone, mouths carved into a tight sneering grimace.

“What do we do?!” Hagar shouted, “These are your kinsmen!”

“Not any more” Ardugan replied, “We must defend ourselves”

No sooner did he get his words out then Caldor took a vicious cut at him.  Ardugan parried it away and struck back with the flat of his sword to the side of the head, hoping to stun the possessed cavalryman.  It had all the effect of a brush with a twig.  Caldor kept coming, this time thrusting his sword right at Ardugan’s chest.  He deflected it aside and this time let the edge of his sword answer back, cutting deep into the bicep of Caldor’s sword arm.

There was a moment’s hesitation.  A small viscous black trickle emerged from the cut.  Caldor merely exchanged the sword to his left hand and attacked anew as if he had felt nothing.  Ardugan blocked his next blow, then struck with all he had at Caldor’s exposed upper left forearm, severing it save for a string of pale skin. 

Caldor evinced no pain, drew a knife from his belt with his damaged right arm and charged Ardugan, seeking to overwhelm him.  He met the point of Ardugan’s sword square in his right eye.  Ardugan drove it deep, twisting it wickedly.  The doomed cavalryman grabbed the blade with his right hand as his body convulsed once, twice, then flopped to the floor, oozing more of the black ichor from its eyesocket.

It was a battle repeated with each of the others.  Drianna parrying at first, then recognizing like Ardugan, that these were not longer men, but automatons.  Though she lacked the raw physical power of the others, she was extraordinarily fast and accurate.  Deflecting the first blow she flicked her sword back twice in a blur of motion, each time gouging out the eyes of what had once been Belas.  He staggered, blindly flailing about with his sword, crashing into one of the stone platforms.  Will little choice, Drianna brought her sword down on his neck, cutting deep enough to sever the spine.  Belas dropped to the floor in a heap.

Hagar had two to deal with, both nearly his size.   Galvan and Nestir began to press him into a corner.  But they had not bargained for the strength of the Rhovanian nor the deadly power of his sword, Anquiriel, made of elements not of Middle Earth.  He took a massive cut at the first, and a sickening crunch rent the air as the black blade carved entirely through Galvan from upper right shoulder down and through his lower left waist.

Still Nestir came on, the tip of his thrusting sword scraping across the breastplate made from Scatha’s skin.   The old hide proved its merit, shunting the blow aside.  Hagar struck down, severing Nestir’s sword arm at the shoulder, then raised his blade and hacked off the top of Nestir’s head just below the nose.  Gushing black blood and white brain matter, the cavalryman slumped to the floor.

Eradan had Zerephath to deal with and the old warrior was just as resourceful under the Necromancer’s spell as he was in battle for Gondor.  With the extra advantage that Eradan did not want to kill his old friend and mentor.”

“Zerephath!” he shouted, as if the sound of his voice might somehow rouse him from his deadly hypnosis.

The grizzled cavalryman advanced, sword out.  Eradan took a swing of his mace, knocking Zerephath to the ground with a blow that would have left an ox unconscious for an hour.  The old warrior picked himself up as if nothing had happened, though Eradan could clearly see that his left side was battered in, half his ribs broken.

“Don’t make me kill you” he pleaded, blocking another of his sword cuts with his mace.

But it was to no avail.  The veteran cavalryman shifted the sword to his good side and took a vicious cut at Eradan’s head.  Once again he parried the blow with his mace and this time swung hard, very hard, hitting Zerephath square in the chest above his heart.

There was a whoosh of air forced from dead lungs as he was flung back with enormous force against the edge of one of the stone platforms.  A sharp cracking noise told the tale of his spine breaking on the unforgiving stone.  He fell to the floor, twisting and writhing, trying to make his broken body respond, get up, and resume the kill.

Eradan walked over, tears streaming down his face.  The form below him convulsed then grew still, the sword clattering from its grasp.  Eradan kneeled down beside his old comrade.

“He said I would kill you before I was set free…” Eradan spoke softly, remembering the evil taunt that He had made.

Zerephath’s eyes fluttered.  Eradan gripped his mace, preparing for another blow, but  Zerephath did not rise.  His eyes opened.  They had cleared, resuming their natural gray coloration.  His mouth worked to speak.

“Eradan….where am I…how is it that you are free…my body…I am sorely wounded”

“It is all right, old friend….you are amongst the living again…that is all that matters.  Now rest a while…we will return for you when our task is done…”

Zerephath smiled briefly, meeting his eyes.  But his wounds were too severe, the dark potions that had poisoned his body too toxic.  With a gentle exhale he breathed out his last, his right hand gripped tightly about Eradan’s forearm.

The tears dried on Eradan’s face as he separated himself from his old friend and stood.  His features were drawn, haggard, grief fought with anger.  No one stirred.  Finally Eradan met their eyes.

“We can do no more for them here.  There is a score to settle.” His eyes were flat and grim.  “Ardugan…which way to the top of this accursed mountain.”

“Back to the stairs…follow the scent of the wolf…”

And so they exited the room, a welter of blood and body parts, dead companions and lost memories.  Back up the steps they went, each taking a torch with them this time, not sure where and when they would reach the summit, but resolved to inflict a price for what He had done.

------------------------------------------------****--------------------------------------------  

Sauron’s lieutenant, Drazakh, glared out at the flat expanse of the Brown Lands before him, heavy arms folded over his barrel chest.  Late afternoon was giving way to early evening, gray and humid under the featureless overcast that had been lowering all day.  Out in the near distance he could see mounted formations of Gondor entering the opening of broad embayment carved out of the southern edge of Mirkwood. 

Gondor’s scouts had been riding about all day, darting close to the eaves of the forest, looking for evidence of his own massed troops.  They had also seen men, garbed in Gondor’s cavalry uniforms, strapped to poles on the plain, the target of arrows from unseen archers deep in the wood. 

Drazakh gave grudging respect to the Steward, leading his men, doomed as they were.  The sight of what to them must appear to be Gondor’s finest being methodically pierced with arrows and allowed to bleed to death must be excruciating to such a proud commander.  Yet he moved his troops cautiously, at a measured pace, not allowing emotion to spur a premature charge. 

This one was not like the last, impetuous, daring, and ultimately defeated.  And from what his own observers were telling him, hiding behind the last trees at the edge of the forest, these men and their horses were better armored.  Still that would not fully protect them from His winged creatures which would emerge thirsting for blood, determined to find the smallest gap in any protection.  It might take longer this time, but they would wreak the same havoc, disrupting formations, sending men flying off horses panicked by the pain of hundreds of bites.  It would be hand to hand again, like before.  His men and the orcs still outnumbered them three to one.  And then there were the wolves.

“Do your pets smell their dinner yet, Zeorn?” Drazakh growled to the hideous figure of a man standing to his left.

“They haven’t eaten in three days…man or horsemeat…either will do”

Zeorn turned his parchment skinned skull around to examine the hundred famished wolves chained to trees, whining and pawing at the dirt.  The wind was out of the south.  They had the scent of the approaching cavalrymen since early in the morning.

The wolves would form part of the center of his attack.  Soon Drazakh knew His voice would appear inside his head, alerting him to the release of the bats.  He would have an hour until their arrival.  That would provide time for the rest of the fifty laggards and drunkards he had singled out from his own troops to be dragged out of the forest onto the plain, tied to posts and used as target practice.  It would be too much for the Steward and his men.  They would advance deep into the open cove in the forest to rescue their ‘companions’. 

Then from either side of the cove Drazakh’s orcs would emerge from the dark forest, howling, beating their battle drums, brandishing their swords and spears.  The cavalry would organize into cohorts, preparing to sweep his men from the field.  He would hold back, waiting until the first of the bats flew over.  Then the trap would close in, orcs charging from either side, the cavalrymen wheeling about, splitting their forces in two, thundering directly at each of his flanks to meet in battle, confident of the superiority of mounted armor over footmen.

But just like before, they would not get far.  The voracious bats would set upon them in clouds, maddening the horses, rending any open skin on the seated riders.  Chaos would reign.  His Easterlings would advance from the center and in the final charge the wolves would lunge out en masse, howling, jaws agape, ripping into throats and guts. 

The Steward was to be spared.  He had made that clear.  Drazakh knew his life would be forfeit if he failed in that task.  But the lives of the rest were at his whim or the appetites of the wolves. 

----------------------------------------------***---------------------------------------------------------

Perrian looked apprehensively entered the broad open area that was bounded on either side by the brooding forest.  Ahead, less than a league now, he could clearly see the posts staked out on the barren plain and hear the cries of men in torment.  To his right Mardil rode without expression, seemingly immune to their pain.  Behind him he could hear a low murmur, his men muttering, unsure why they did not simply charge ahead and free the others slowly dying at the stakes.

Mardil raised his hand and turned to Perrian.  There was a curious smile on his face.

“Call the company commanders and their platoon leaders, Perrian.  A battle will soon be upon us, but not one that our adversary expects.”

Perrian looked at him quizzically for a moment, then rode off through the formations.  He soon returned with a dozen men, galloping up, then spreading out in front of the Steward.

“I know you and the men have grated at our slow pace and think me heartless that such caution has allowed good men of Gondor to die at the stake who might otherwise have been saved.”

The hard stares of his commanders were indictment enough.  Mardil smiled again now.

“Their deaths mean nothing” Mardil could hear a gasp from some of the commanders. 

“They mean nothing for those who have died are not of our land…they are barbarians from the east.  It is a ploy to draw us in close to the forest.  On either side of us, hidden in the dark eaves are three times our numbers, preparing to attack once we are deep enough in their trap.”

“What madness is this that we march to our dooms?” Perrian cried out, unable to restrain himself.

“Not our doom, my loyal captain, but theirs.”  Mardil’s face was deadly serious.  “It is time you knew the true nature of our adversary and the importance of our mission.”

And so Mardil recounted the events leading up to Eradan’s departure to the north in pursuit of what had seemed to be a renegade party of orcs.  How it had been an elaborate hoax designed to lure the heir to the Stewardship into battle and capture by an old evil that men had long since thought vanished from the earth.

“He has returned?”  Some of the commanders paled at the thought, remembering the old tales of the Alliance and the great cost of lives it had taken to defeat Him. 

“Yes, Perrian.  He makes his lair in Dol Guldur, just fifteen leagues north of where we stand.  While the world has slept He has quietly begun to rebuild his strength, casting a dark spell upon the forest men now call Mirkwood.  He must be driven out ‘ere he becomes too strong.”

“And we are to force His departure?”

“No…that is for others to do, but we must do our part.  Our arrival is an unexpected prize for Him, but one he is intent on seizing.  He seeks to capture me above all, leaving Gondor without a leader, weakening it, laying the groundwork for disunity and its future downfall.”

“We should have come in force, with greater strength”

“No.  We could not afford to drain our eastern and southern fortifications.  We cannot know what deviltry the Witch King might spring on our land while we were so far from home.  But more, we could not allow Him to withdraw his forces and escape into the forest, seeking to avoid defeat.  We had to muster just enough strength to tempt him into battle with the thought that He would prevail.”

“Our scouts have had little luck in estimating the size of his forces” Jared, Chief of the Scouts replied apologetically.

“Nor would they.  He will keep them beyond sight in the forest til we are deep within jaws of the trap.  But from what I have learned, the price of Eradan’s capture was dear.  I would guess He has at best three thousand now to muster into battle.”

Mardil paused for a moment, allowing the number to sink in.  The commanders spoke amongst themselves for a few moments.  He could see their faces, animated in discussion, heads nodding over some point of tactics.  After a while Mardil held up his hand, signaling them to silence.

“Yes.  A thousand of our cavalry is more than a match for three thousand on foot, whether men or orcs and He will have both to put into battle.”

“But surely He knows that as well.” Perrian replied.

“He counts on more than men and orcs to win this battle.” 

Mardil then described what the hawk Guaykil had seen, flying high over the battle months ago.   The momentary confidence of his commanders seemed to sag.  One of them, Lerion, a company commander, spoke up.

“If it was as you describe, then even our new battle armor and the shielding for the horses may not fully protect us.”

“If indeed He sends his winged minions you may be correct Lerion.  This new protection would suit only to allow enough of us a chance to escape, not to win the battle.”

“Then…”

Mardil cut him off in mid-sentence.  “Then we wait and see.  If it is foe we see from the skies, ready your men to charge through the ranks of orcs and men at full speed, stopping for nothing til the horses can go no further.  We will at least put a day’s march between us and their foot soldiers.  If it is friends we see, then we will feign being attacked, riding aimlessly, flailing about with our weapons and shouting like raw recruits.”

“Friends…?” Perrian had a puzzled look on his face.

“Not all with wings seek our defeat, Perrian.  Mardil described the plan and the confidence and understanding returned to his men.

“By feigning confusion they will believe the winged attack has begun in earnest.  They will advance, seeking to finish us off.”  A broad smile began to emerge on Lerion’s face.

“At which point we will suddenly reform ranks and attack them with utter surprise, while others that they least expect will greet them from above.”  Perrian concluded, his eyes glittering with the thought of such a turnabout.

Mardil stared at them all for a moment, allowing them to savor the potential that lay before them.

“It is yet too early to be singing songs of victory” Mardil admonished gently.  “Even if things go well they will fight to the death and their wolves will be a match for any of us.  Not all will return to tell tales of strength and valor.   If things go awry, only a handful may return.  Remember we are many leagues from any form of assistance.  Now you must go and prepare your men.”

The commanders saluted and rode off.  Perrian stayed behind.  Mardil turned to him.

“It grows late.  The attack will come within the next hour or two, when our advance takes us close to the forest’s edge.  Ride with me a while longer, then inspect the ranks and report back what you see in their eyes.”  Mardil’s own gray eyes met Perrian’s now, looking at the depth of his captain’s resolve.  The moment passed and Mardil wheeled his mount about and eased it forward, satisfied with what he had seen.   

A league to the north, Drazekh watched the small group of men disperse, the lone rider taking the lead further into his trap.  So, he thought, their commander holds one last parley with his men.  Best they had said their goodbyes.

Suddenly the barbarian was seized as if possessed.  A voice like the grating of iron saws on raw stone filled his head.

“I am releasing the bats!  Make your preparations for attack within the hour.  I will be watching through your eyes, Drazekh.  Have a care that I like what I see!”

Just as quickly as he was jolted by His presence, he was released, slumping over in a cold sweat.  He knew he would feel Him again when He entered his mind again to see the battle, though His touch would be lighter, just enough to take in sensations.  Gathering himself he turned and strode off into the forest where the miserable orc commanders awaited him, no doubt plotting his demise.  He would see to it that their heads rolled, but for now there was much to be done and their obedience was all he needed.

                                                           The Battle in the Sky

They were nearing the top of Dol Guldur now.  The Stair had steepened the last hour as they neared the summit.  Gandalf tapped his staff against Haldir’s back.

“Haldir…we must stop for a moment.”

The Marchwarden of Lorien turned, a slight concern on his aquiline face, wondering if the old wizard had become winded by the pace of the climb.

Gandalf smiled.  “No, Haldir, it is not altitude that tugs at me.” He glanced up.  The edge of Dol Guldur’s ashen stone skull cap loomed over them, perhaps another two hundred feet further.  It was early evening now, but an indeterminate gray sky blurred time into dimness.

“Why do we halt” Aranarth’s voice was heavy with impatience.

“There are things you must know ‘ere we reach the top and advance towards His lair” Gandalf replied.  Behind Aranarth, his brother Arthed and son Arahael looked up, listening intently.

“Our arrival at the summit will not go unnoticed.  He is not so focused on the south that we may advance undetected.  One by one He will sense you, attempt to enter your minds and probe your intentions.”

He could see concern in their eyes.

“But you are not the fodder he recruits from the East, nor hapless orcs bred for obedience to His will.  Though some say the line grows thin, the blood of Numenor still runs in your veins and your wills are strong even if the kingdoms of men are less so.  Think of those you love and protect, put their faces before you and He will find harsh purchase in your minds.”

“And what defense will He have to greet us?” Aranarth’s dour face looked up at Gandalf

“In truth I cannot say for certain.  Atop Dol Guldur He feels strong, confident.  Yet His strength is not yet near what it was in Ages past.  That is our advantage.  He has committed all that he has to the capture of the Steward and in any event would not deign to have others in his presence except to take orders and be gone.  But even if He is alone, his energy drawn to the battle he desires, do not let down your guard.  Before the first Elves walked under the stars he had already been long in the embrace of darkness.  He was old when Men came out of the east to witness the War of the Valar and the sundering of Beleriand.  Even if His strength is limited, His knowledge is vast.”

Standing above the wizard, Haldir suddenly stiffened, cocking his head, listening to something he alone could discern.  Arahael caught the change in the elf.

“What is it, Haldir?”

The elf put up his hand, begging silence.  A moment passed.  Then he pointed down and to the right of their position, perched on the upper side of the mountain.  Arahael saw nothing at first, just the empty sea of black and gray treetops rolling away in all directions.  But then something caught his eye, an intrusion of color, a dusky brown stream emerging from the lower reaches of the north side of the mountain, flying between them and the forest canopy far below.

“He has released the bats!” Gandalf’s voice rose with excitement.  He looked up to the sky as if seeking some confirming signal.  “Haldir! Look up! Do you see anything…there, just to the north and west.”

The golden haired elf scanned the grey sky.  Seconds passed.  Nothing, then a smile crossed his face and he gestured upward.  “Look, hovering just under the clouds…there” he pointed.

A tiny dot of movement, barely visible, descended from the high overcast.  Haldir turned to the west.  “Look…others have seen his signal”

Their eyes strained to pick out what his immortal sight had spied.  Arahael thought he saw faint dots coming down from the layer of cloud, falling towards the treetops at least some leagues to the west.  He could not be sure.

“It has begun then.” Gandalf intoned seriously.  “Now we must hope that the allies Radagast has recruited will take to their task.  Haldir…let us make way to the top.  Our time has come.”

------------------------------------------------------**-----------------------------------------------

Apodidie could sense the growing restlessness in the flock.  The swifts had arrived yesterday afternoon in the full blaze of early summer sun under a soft blue sky.  That had  been the last of their comfort.

Gingerly alighting in the upper reaches of the forest, they had spent an uneasy night.  Though it had been amply forewarned to them, their instincts still recoiled from the scents and sounds of Mirkwood so close to Dol Guldur.  She wondered how the raptors had fared, though felt their fierce natures would blind them to the more subtle sensations that her swifts detected.

She still felt strong.  Lorien’s elven provender had seen to that.  It would be another day before hunger gnawed and by then they would be back across the Great River for another meal.  That assumed all went well.  Deep inside her there were growing doubts.  She strove to dismiss them, feeling that it was her own empathy with the anxiety of her flock, seeking respite from the oppressive environs of the woods.  Perhaps it was something subtler, some ingredient in the feast they had enjoyed across the river, a calming nutrient that was now fading just in time for them to embark on their task.

And that task would have to come soon.  Apodidie cast a glance at the sky.  There were perhaps two or three hours of light left.  It would take them just over an hour to quit the forest and cross the river.  If the signal did not come soon she would have little choice as they would leave without her, unable to tolerate another night in the forest.

Then something caught her eye in the formless gray overcast as she judged the daylight.  Something she had been waiting for all day.  At first just a small black dot against the background, one towards her and others to what she knew must be the flocks of raptors not far away.

Moments later Aquilar himself descended in a flurry of great beating wings, his mighty talons clutching a mottled branch, golden eyes blazing with excitement.  The golden eagle and the queen of the swifts spoke in a language of sound and gesture that was hidden to those who walked the land.

“They take to the air…it is time for your flight” It was a command but there was warmth in the glow of his eyes.  Courage was born within him, but he knew that she and her flocks were not bred for battle or risk to life and wing.  All the more he and the raptors respected their contribution in such circumstances.

She knew the plan.  They would fly south, then southwest, the bearing already communicated by Aquilar.  In less than an hour they would reach the southern edge of the forest to execute their part of the plan of deception.  The eagles would follow soon after. 

“Fair skies and full nests, Aquilar…may your hunting always prosper…we will look for you when the day is done.”  Apodidie cocked her head for a moment, gave a glance from her deep black eyes, then launched off her perch, wings beating rapidly as she sought out her lieutenants to strike the flocks in motion.

The warmth faded from the great eagle’s eyes.  His thoughts moved quickly to time and distance, pursuit and prey.  Not far away his chief fighters were passing orders to the leaders of the goshawks, kestrels, kites, red-tailed hawks, small owls, starlings and sharp hawks.  The conversations were blunt and clear as befit hunters of the skies.  Now it was time for he and his three hundred to group and make their way south where much different land based large prey beckoned.  In this case not for the food, but for the killing. 

-----------------------------------------*****-------------------------------------------------------

He knew the terrain well.  The undulating forest canopy, featureless to the eye, was a meticulously etched pattern to the echoes of his soundings and those of his vampire bat species.  Not that he was unable to see the land below.  The Master had bred more into him and his clans over time, increasing strength, endurance, the ability to lengthen the time between feedings, but most importantly enhancing vision to lessen their dependency on their one instinctive sense of echo sounding. 

They had been hungry this day nonetheless.  The usual feeding on the hapless beasts tendered for their satiating had not occurred.  The day had drawn on and the remorseless need for blood had grown, starting in their bellies, filling out their veins and blotting all else from their small minds.  Then the jolt of His presence late in the day, a flash vision of men and horses, reminders of their last glorious meal in the wild when the son of the Steward and his cavalry had been their victims. 

Chirox felt the same surge as the rest of the thousands of bats he commanded.  They had poured out of the cavern, through the small triangular opening above the newly fallen exit gate, past the last of the bellowing beasts dumbly enjoying freedom from their cages. 

He preferred the dark, but knew they could tolerate the gray skies of this early evening, particularly with the blood reward that lay ahead.  They would initially swing to the west, then head south, hugging the treetops, the line of flight imprinted by His command.  There would be no deviation, no deterrence from their destination.

--------------------------------------------****-----------------------------------------------------

Sturnus glared at his flock leaders, commanding their attention.  He knew it was against their normal instinct.  Not a hierarchical breed, the starlings had chafed at this journey and the order it had enforced upon them.  They would soon be gone after its completion, happy as he would be to return to the gregarious open gatherings after breeding season.  But they had made their pact with Radagast and he would see that they stood true to it. 

“The bats will cross our position in the time it takes to pluck a crawler from the field.  Go to your flocks.  Send them up now.  Head south with speed then west, ahead of their line.  Then bend them west, then northwest then north, finally closing the loop around.  They will try to escape, flying higher.  The raptors will join us to halt that.  Close the gap below, let the hawks and others do their work.  Then we leave, cross the Great River and return home.”

It was all trill, whistles, clatter and twitter, but there was little doubt amongst the flock leaders who flew off to pass it on to the thousands who filled the upper reaches of the forest to the southwest of Dol Guldur.    The last of the bats had exited west out of Dol Guldor's entrance, about to make their turn south towards Mardil and his cavalry.  The starlings now rose en masse from the treetops, gathered strength and speed, a great low cloud moving faster and faster to the south, preparing to cut off the bats. 

At their lead, Sturnus cocked his head to the right.  Off to the northwest he could see the lead elements of the bats, wings beating rapidly, perhaps half a league away, making their turn to the south.  He banked to the west now, adding speed, increasing altitude, the dark swarm of the starling flocks behind him. Spreading out now, they formed a dense feathered curtain, its bottom skirting the treetops, the top extending upwards a thousand feet, heading due west walling directly across the intended path of their adversary.

-----------------------------------------------****---------------------------------------------------

Chirox felt something returning at the outer edge of his echo range, something unfamiliar.  There were no cliffs, no mountains here he knew.  His vision, limited as it was, detected a cloud ahead.  His soundings confirmed cloud, but one unlike he had ever known, one with small gaps of air amidst solid clumps of matter, matter in motion.  Whatever its progeny it was in their way.  They would detour west around it then make to their original course south. 

He had over five thousand bats in number.  Chirox rose in height, leaving a larger gap than usual between their count and the tops of the trees.  An inconvenience, but a momentary detour to their carnivorous destination.

Only the echoes coming back were not reassuring.  The cloud, whatever its form, was heightening, curling to the northwest, forcing him higher and farther away from His directive to the south.  The echoes suggested further height and so he flew, but now angling away, bounded by the wall of the dense cloud, still off to now what was west north west .  

-------------------------------------------------****-----------------------------------------------

It was their turn now.  Striator led his red and white breasted Sharp Hawks from the disagreeable perches they had tolerated in Mirkwood, up into a cloud roofed sky.  The starlings were to their right, curving northwest in a great feathered wall.  Striator drove his wings and made his way upward to a thousand feet above the forest canopy.  There he merged his flock of two thousand with the upper reaches of the starlings.  He could see the bats now, perhaps half a league away, rising higher, slightly confused, seeking still to overtop the barrier in front of them.

Not far behind Stiator was Falcoverus with his tawny breasted Kestrels, all eager to prove their prowess in this special pursuit.  Quickly they rose, blending their rufous wings with the upper reaches of the Sharp Hawks as the entourage bent northwest, forcing the bats higher and further from their goal.

Next the Kites soared beating hard with their brown wings and grey bodies to meet the limit of the Kestrils, extending the regime of the raptors up to three thousand feet.  The great wall of avian defense now curved true north, the top fliers of which looked down on the five thousand of His bats swerving and banking once again.

----------------------------------------------****------------------------------------------------------

It was not going well for the bats.  They were flying north now, and well above the forest.  Every move Chirox made to angle away from the barrier was met with a counter move as it seemed to curl inexorably west, northwest, north, and now northeast.  Even his attempts to gain height and overtop it were defeated as it expanded upward, matching his moves.

Chirox sent out more echoes as he banked to the northeast.  Whatever it was that blocked their path had virtually surrounded them, its leading edge about to close with its back end, forming a vast rotating cylindrical jail in the air. 

Now he was sensing returns from above.  The open hole of sky overhead was filling in, capping over with the great wings of the redhawks and goshawks.   Even with his small bat brain he could sense a trap, feel the confinement.  And the noose was tightening even as he and his flock circled, flapping uncertainly in their column of air bounded by the swirling starlings and raptors. 

They had less than half a league of air space and it was narrowing quickly.  Below, the familiar echo returns of the forest canopy had blurred and disappeared, replaced by a deep layer of milling starlings, rising up, filling the bottom of the shrinking cylinder of air they occupied.

Though attuned for sounds far beyond the register of most inhabitants of Middle Earth, his ears could still detect much that coursed the air.  And now they picked up the cries of the raptors, the kik..kik calls of the Sharp Hawks and the kee..kee..kee of the Kestrils and Kites.  Though he and his minions were the result of His careful breeding, they had not lost their ancestral senses entirely. 

A rill of fear shuddered through his small hairy body.  Flashes of instinctual memory fashioned visions of sharp beaks and iron-gripped talons.  There would be blood spilt today, but it would not be the sweet red nectar of equine flanks and underbellies.  No, it would be the veins of his flock that would rain crimson in the skies over Mirkwood, torn asunder by the cold-eyed hunters now rapidly closing in on them.

The raptors were now picking out their individual targets.  They were that close now.  Their blood was up.  The practice at Rhosgobel, the long journey south, feeding on grains and elven fare, spending the night in the noisome embrace of Mirkwood’s southern fastness.  Their instincts pulled hard at them for the promise of the blood sport of the hunt, of prey and killing.  Now the promise was before them, flapping helplessly. 

Overall, the numbers were nearly even, raptors to bats, but the bats would be no match for the hawks, kites, and kestrels.  There would be a few minutes of frenzied flight, cries and impacts, the rush of feathers and leathery wings.   Then a few stragglers might escape somehow, flying low, descending through the upper branches of the high trees, making back for Dol Guldur.  But the Small Owls would be waiting, unmoved by darkness, seeing all and cleaning up the last of His blood drinking creatures.

The first strikes were being made.  The swarm of bats, were now in a long sinuous vertical thread fluttering anxiously, on the brink of imminent decimation.  Chirox sent out a last series of echoes.  There was little choice.  It might be death either way, but at least this offered a chance, however slim.  He sent out a call, one only his flock could detect, then wheeled around and began a flight directly down towards the earth at the highest speed he could muster.  Behind him the others followed.  But they had company, as the raptors had finally closed in.

Now it was a game of attrition.  Chirox and his best fliers descending at increasing speed, making directly for the deep swarm of starlings that blocked the exit of the trap below.  From either side the hawks, kites, and kestrels were taking their targets, seizing them in sharp talons, mid-flight.   Tearing into their vulnerable bodies with razor sharp bony beaks, they gulped chunks of flesh down their voracious gullets, then coldly dropped the lifeless, bloody corpses of the bats towards the ground in search of fresh prey.

The numbers were dwindling.  Where there were once five thousand, there were now four, three.  But Chirox had built up speed, letting gravity and the desperation of the situation drive him and those in his flock strong enough to follow.  The starlings were now just yards away.  Perhaps he and many others would die, crashing into the dense throng of birds.  But some might dodge through, deftly using their echo location sense to weave and bob.  Others who perished might open holes in the blockade wide enough to allow more the possibility of escape. 

And escape did not mean Dol Guldur.  They had gone too long without a blood meal.  Those who broke free would head south, for the horses, and the men.  There would be no welcome at His abode for failure. 

--------------------------------------------------------****---------------------------------------------

The last Stair snicked back into the rock behind them.  They had reached the top of Dol Guldor.  No tree grew atop its crown, and precious little grass, mostly ragged greasy looking strands, mottled black and gray, hugging tenaciously in little hollows.  Aside from the sparse vegetation there was little save barren rock the color of ash and dried bone. 

The summit rose gently at the edge where they stood to a modest height at the center.  But their eyes were drawn to a structure at that hulked atop this rise.  It was in the shape of a wide, squat dome, its roof supported by great curved black beams, each of which sported a row of twisted hook-like protrusions that seemed to tear at the sky.  Between the points where the massive barbed joists met the rocky floor there were wide arches at least thrice the height of a tall man.  At the pinnacle of the dome the vault was open to the sky.  Beneath this opening, through the arches over three hundred yards away, they could see a pulsing red glow at the heart of the structure.

Gandalf could see the concern in their eyes, the sobering reality of His imminent presence upon them.  He motioned them closer, his voice hushed.

“Any moment now He will reach out, sensing our arrival.  Remember what I have told you.  Be strong.” 

Gandalf tugged lightly at his peaked hat, as if to secure it against a coming gale.  His eyes scanned his companions, all somber, yet quietly confident, bound by a shared goal.  Iluvatar’s Children, he thought to himself, pressed since birth by larger, darker forces that wax and wane in vast cycles of time.  Again they wax and again the young must learn, must be taught.  Gandalf sighed and with a rueful smile he turned and made his way, staff in hand, up the shallow rocky slope towards the Lair of the Necromancer.

Not seconds later they all felt it, like the first gust of wind before a summer storm.  At first just a tingle in the mind, a light dancing on the surface of thought.  But then bolder, a more forceful riffling through memory and soul.  It was not unlike a thief with sullied hands, quickly rummaging through one’s belongings, tossing them awry, leaving a foul scent and streaks of grime. 

But they heeded Gandalf’s words.  Aranarth focused on his long dead father, Arthed on the family that waited his return, Arahael on his young expectant wife, and Haldir on the Lady of the Wood who he served.  Suddenly the intrusion was over, ended with the sound of an evil laughter echoing as if from a distance, mocking, derisive.

But it continued on for one. 

“Olorin……”  It was barely a whisper, an ancient sigh on the wind entering his mind.

“I am known by that name in other lands…” Gandalf responded in thought.

“It is long since we have spoken…little Olorin” the voice was slightly raspy, almost sibilant, probing, mocking.

“More than five Ages, Sauron…it is long you have been absent from the Undying Lands” Gandalf replied evenly

“Absent….?  No little one, I think not…that is your world, not mine.”

“You are still Maia, Sauron.  There is still time to answer Eonwe’s call to return.” Gandalf replied amiably, knowing it would provoke Him.

 “And spend yet how many Ages in thrall? Do not think me a fool!” the voice was briefly harsh, angry.  But then it subsided, softening.

“The Halls of Mandos ill suit me Olorin.  Melkor had no good tidings of the three Ages of his confinement.”

“You need not repeat his mistakes.”

“It is you who err, Olorin.  But what could you know, little one…what could you possibly know, always the wanderer, the seeker, with aught to show for your journeys.  While you sat adoringly beside Manwe I learned the secrets of forge and element from Aule, the Smith.  As you waited at the foot of Nienna, learning her tiresome lessons of pity I wrought the fastness of Utumno with Melkor, a true Vala.  For three Ages while you wandered under the stars guised I lay low and rebuilt Angband after Melkor fell.”

“Too what end, Sauron.   Utumno is weathered rubble.  Angband destroyed.  Barad’dur vacant.”

“Fool! These are mortal lands, in spite of the few Elves that still cling on to their ways.  What care I for these trifling setbacks.  Time has no meaning.  And there are none to contest me.”

“I contest you, Sauron…and there are those of men who will stand fast”

“That rabble with you?”  Gandalf’s head was abruptly filled with laughter, cruel, disdainful.  “Oh I can smell the scent of Numenorean blood on them well enough, little one, though it is weak and pale.  This is the army that Valinor sends? Little Olorin, his vagabond Dunedain and a stray elf?”  the laughter resumed echoing louder.

“Laugh as you will, Sauron.  Much of your power is riven from you, uselessly confined to your Ring, now gone from all ken these two thousand years.”

“There is more than enough left, Olorin and my power grows.  The Ring still abides…I can feel it though it lies distant and ill disposed to discovery.  It will be mine again and this mortal world will tremble ‘neath my foot.  But today I must settle for lesser gain…the Steward of Gondor in chains, his cavalry slaughtered and eaten down to the last horse.  Come, join me, watch it unfold.  You are strong.  You would be stronger yet at my side.”

Gandalf and the others were now approaching one of the great arched openings in Sauron’s mountaintop lair.  It was now that they noticed the stonework around the curve of the opening.  Blocks of black granite, each with a face, astonishingly lifelike, carved upon it.  Not in triumph or celebration, but fixed in fear, agony, or writhing torment, faces of men, elves, even dwarves who had the bad fortune to meet their death at His hands.  Gandalf paused for a moment, sparing a look back at his companions in the fading gray light of early evening.

Haldir’s noble face revealed little other than quiet concentration framed by long golden hair.  Aranarth’s heavy broadsword was already drawn, his iron grey hair unbound, a deep scowl on his face.  Beside him, tall Arthed’s lean, lantern jawed countenance was absent its usual wolfish grin, the wry humor gone from his eyes.  A gleam of metal revealed the long steel handle and sleek scimitar edge of his battle axe swinging gently in his right hand. 

Lastly there was Arahael.  Despite his more than forty years he was still young by the standard of his line, and younger still if his meager battle experience was accounted.  But there was no fear in his face.  Under his high brow and mane of light auburn brown hair his gray-blue eyes were lit with excitement.  A bright sheen of pale blue steel glimmered on a sword not yet tested held by a man waiting to prove himself. 

But there was an answer waiting in the air.  Gandalf turned back to the looming arch, casting his gaze inside, under the shadows of the high dome where the figure of a wolf now waited, large even at over a hundred yards distant. He framed a reply to Sauron’s offer.

“It is true as you say.  I am strong, Sauron, but strong enough to know there is no lasting power in death, fear, enslavement, and corruption.   It is not for me to stand by you, but to cast you out.”

“Then try if you dare, little one, so unused to conflict.  Try while I choke the life out of the Steward’s men just to the south.  Try while I rend your ragged companions limb from limb and mount their torn faces over my doors.  Try while my army marches back, and you join those so unfortunate to have survived my wolves, bats, and infantry.  Or go back while you can, to your pathetic brother to the north with his birds and trees…”

Something hardened in Gandalf’s face, his eyes shone hard and bright.  He drew his sword, long, sleek and silver steeled and spoke out loud now to his companions.

“The time is nigh.  His spirit resides in the body of a great wolf he has bread and fears not our swords.  To our south He expects victory and another weakening of the will of men.  That outcome is in the hands…and wings…of others.  Our task is to drive Him from this place, to slay the beast whilst He inhabits it.  Then such power as I may summon will be brought to bear upon Him ‘ere His spirit can freely escape.”

“But He will not die”   

“No, Aranarth.  But He will be stretched thin, sending His will to his minions on the battlefield, reserving strength to dwell in His great hound and parry our blows.  He will see the defeat of His forces and feel fear.  Then He will share in the pain and death of His host.  He will leave its body and flee, adjuring any further pain.”

“You cannot destroy Him if so weakened?”

“No Arahael…such doom is not in my power.  We can only hope such injury as is done will dissuade Him from return…how long I cannot say, but one hopes that the lives of your children and theirs may be granted some relief, some peace for a time.”

“Five against a wolf, however large…we should prevail.  But what of guards He may have to contest us?”  Haldir queried.

“My dear Marchwarden, that is why I have you and the Dunedain with me.  Otherwise this humble wizard’s staff and my own sharp blade would be more than enough to dispatch Him.”  Gandalf smiled briefly and there was a twinkle in his eye.  Then he turned and made his way through the arch and into the great domed space where Sauron awaited them.    

--------------------------------------------------****--------------------------------------------------

The landscape was familiar again, returning echoes of the darkly wooded uplands at the southern extreme of the forest.  But Chirox was late now and the residue of His commands screamed at him to hurry.  Pain also cried out, leathery wings torn by savage talons, bodies scored with gouges and rents.  The air below them rained a fine mist of their own blood as they made way to the south, barely fifteen hundred survivors now out of over five thousand.

And it was blood they sought.  Starved for two days, they now had to feed soon or fall from the sky.  Chirox felt the same desperation as the remnants of his once mighty flock.  And that desperation, above the power of His commands or the panicky fear of avian pursuit, squeezed the last full measure of speed from their pinions.  They might arrive near dead, but a few seconds greedily drunk on the blood of a horses side would be like a magic elixir reviving them almost instantly back to life.  And so they flew, like the maddened creatures they were, covering ground at speeds they would not normally imagine.

Some leagues behind them blood was also playing a part.  The entrapment of the raptors had led to hunting and slaughter as would be recounted among the flocks for many nestings.  But in the frenzy they had focused on the close kills and not on Chirox’s suicidal escape through the dense wall of starlings below.   They had trained for the one task and now it was done.  The hawks and kestrels were in the trees below savoring the last morsels of broken bats in their talons, unaware of the escaping remnants.  The starlings were already heading west, eager to be done with Mirkwood, their part of the plan completed. 

Chirox sent out more echoes and his heart pounded all the more.  Just five leagues to the edge of the forest now, five leagues until the screaming ache in his body would be sated with a gush of red warmth.  But now he detected something in the return, something new, somewhat hazy at first, like a streamer of fog, now becoming clearer as they approached.  It was another group of birds!  He quickly gained altitude and pushed even harder.  They had to slip over this flock as much as possible.  There was no strength for another battle.

He chirped out a few short signals and they swept up, up, two hundred, three hundred feet, then leveled off pumping away at the air, their hearts almost bursting.

                                                --------*********----------

Apodidie sensed that it would not be long now.  They had been flying at a steady pace to the south, leaving behind the savage battle in the skies that was alien to their peaceful nature.   Thus their role simply as a ruse, their short rapid wing motions so similar to that of bats that they could momentarily fool the unwary eye, particularly as dusk approached.  That they were willing to do, leaving the killing to those who were born to it.

But now something in the flock was moving forward, a swell of concern voiced by those further back.  Then the sound of wings flapping, not just those behind her but something above, something that dimmed the light.  She glanced up, startled at the leathery silhouettes in large numbers against the gray sky above.  They were moving quickly,  outpacing her swifts, but heading on the same line, due south towards the southern edge of the forest.

Apodidie swept up and quickly banked left and right, her eyes taking in more of the air.  They were bats! And they were alone…none of the hawks or kestrels were anywhere to be seen in pursuit.  And she and her flock were alone as well. 

Long were the hours she had spent in the sanctuary of Rhosgobel.  She and the Brown One had from the start developed a special chemistry, a relationship that both startled and pleased them both.  She had volunteered much of the ways of birds and he had passed on wisdom from across the Great Sea, telling her of the origins of her kind, and the ways of plants and animals.

She had shared much of what she learned from Radagast with her flock leaders.  And now the departing bats overhead were not just a distraction.  She knew they spelt potential disaster to the intricate plan and a threat to her own numbers should they still make their rendezvous to the south.  There was little time.  She flew up higher, poised in mid-air, wings beating, summoning her ten lieutenants.  They departed their squadrons, leaving behind orders to circle in place for the while.

Apodidie met the concern and astonishment in their eyes as they approached, the tail end of the bat swarm not half a league distant.  Though her twittering would have been meaningless to men, her message was deadly clear to her kind.

“They must be stopped or all may be lost!” she cried out to her subordinates.

“But how?” they replied.  “Our beaks do not cut flesh, our feet have no talons”

“But our wings have speed and our bodies carry weight” Apodidie’s voice was insistent, implacable.  Suddenly they knew what she planned.

“It is the only way…but I do not command it.  Only those who volunteer.  The rest may do as they will…follow us should we succeed or fly west to safety.”   

There was much chattering, with groups of three and four darting about in debate.  After less than a minute, Aerona, her second in command returned with the other nine.

“We will all fly with you…the others will decide on their own”

“Hurry then…we have much ground to cover and little time”

They darted off to their flocks.  Apodidie could see each of the small swarms circling, could hear the chatter of her subjects, their fears, questions, doubts.  But not long after, the individual flocks formed up into a large circling throng.  Aerona darted over.

“All have volunteered, Apodidae…we await your command”

“Have the ranks follow me in the usual order, save yours which will take up the rear”

Aerona was about to protest, hers being the usual lead squadron, but Apodidie cut her off with a sharp chatter.

“Many may fall this day, Aerona, most of all those of us in the vanguard of the attack.  Those who live may need a new leader who must still carry out the mission of deception with what numbers may remain.  I cannot afford the sacrifice of your life lest it be the last we have to give."

Apodidie did not suffer a reply, and darted off towards the swarm, circling slowly over the forest.  Aerona sped off, close on her tail.  Through twitterings and subtle wing signals they mustered their numbers into shape.  Led by Apodidie, a long stream of swifts angled up to the sky at increasing speed, rapidly gaining altitude while maintaining a bearing due south towards the bats, now easily a league away.

Two leagues to the northwest of the ascending swifts, Aquilar had marshaled his three hundred golden eagles, descending majestically out of the clouds like the great aerial lords they were, making for the southern edge of the forest.   His talons twitched in anticipation of the ferocious attack on the wolves where he and his numbers were to be given free rein.  But it was his eyes that suddenly took over, amber orbs that could discern the twitch of a mouse’s tail from two leagues in the sky.  What they now saw puzzled him. 

He knew the plan and so could not fathom why the swifts had become separated into two groups.  One was obviously making direct for the forest’s southern edge, hugging the treetops, while the other lagged behind, but was closing the gap while climbing higher and higher into the sky, following the same bearing.   His razor sharp glare bored into the distance, picking, defining, separating. 

The air was split with a loud angry keya! cry as Aquilar realized that some of the bats had escaped, while he and his brothers had gathered their numbers in regal procession well away from what was to have been a foolproof trap.  But he saw more.  The ascending swifts were beginning to flatten their climb.  At their lead was a familiar form, her pattern of black, gray and white strikingly individual to him. 

The cold workings of his avian brain normally spared little sentiment.  There was life, death, the hunt, breeding and the wind.  But there was something special about the little bird that had penetrated this harsh exterior.  Something about her courage to make this journey to start, the way her flocks responded to her, her unselfishness.  He looked upon her as he might one of his new hatchlings, with a fierce protectiveness that went deep into the roots of instinct.  And now she was preparing to sacrifice her own life and the lives of others.  That much was clear from the pattern of their flight as she and the lead elements passed the apogee of their high arc.

Aquilar let out another cry, this time an order, a command.  Chrysaetos, his second, came to his side.

“Yes Lord”

“The plan has failed Chrysaetos.  Bats escape and the swifts prepare to dive upon them to drive them from the sky.  Look, their arc has reached its top”

“They have not beak and claw to do so.”

“Their bodies and speed of flight are their only weapons.”

“The impact will kill them” Chysaetos replied summarily

“Not if we intervene”

“It is not our task, Lord” Chrysaetos was cold, unmoved.

“No Chysaetos, it is not.  And the swifts outnumber the bats three to one.  They will succeed though but a handful may live.  But I will not suffer them to die.”

“The wolves await us Lord” he replied with impatience.

“Then the wolves will wait longer! Heed my command and summon our brothers! We have speed to match and more.  Our bodies are great and strong.  We will sweep the bats from the sky like insects.  The swifts have courage, Chrysaetos and their own task on the battlefield.  Now follow me and dive as if the sky itself was falling upon you!”

With that the eagle Lord began his steep glide, cutting through the air faster and faster, picking up speed like a great boulder rolling down a mountainside.  Behind him the air whooshed with the passage of great wings. 

Just under a league to their southeast Apodidie was about to commence her own dive, having overtaken the bats, which she now spied two thousand feet below her, flapping furiously, driven by their desperate blood hunger.  She would aim for the very lead elements of the leathery throng, hoping to crash into their leader.  Behind her, the flock leaders would hurl their followers into the long line of bats that strung out for half a league over the treetops.  With luck they would succeed.  But too few might remain to preserve the ruse on the battlefield, fooling His troops with their size and batlike wing movements.

Aquilar was nearing maximum speed now, having fallen three thousand feet.  It was time to flatten out, taking the massive momentum built up in the vertiginous dive and harnessing it like a bowshot straight across the treetops.  The tendons strained in his wings, his chest muscles howled at him with the strain of carving out of the steep descent.  But they were closing fast now.  He glanced ahead.  The swifts were plummeting now, their speed increasing rapidly. 

He was cutting through the air like a great knife blade, such was the perfect line of his form.  But as fast as he streaked through the evening sky he could not add to his speed, only watch and hope that he and his three hundred would arrive ahead of the swifts. 

The seconds ticked by.  His eyes gauged the distances and speeds with remorseless precision.  They were closing fast on the stream of bats, aiming to strike them flat on the side, on an angle from the northwest.  But the swifts were closing faster from above, their little stout hearts following their leader who tore through the air at a speed to rival the great eagle himself.  Aquilar let out another keya!, this one a cry of frustration.  If only the swifts could see them coming in.  But it was not so.  The eagles were coming in from the northwest behind the swifts who were utterly focused forward on their leader and their sacrificial dive.

The eagles were coming up fast now, but it would not be enough.  They’d needed another ten, maybe fifteen seconds.  Ahead he could see the first of the swifts making contact, striking the leading bats in an explosion of feathers.  One, two, three hundred made strikes.  Then he and his eagles swept in like a great scythe cutting effortlessly through the sky.  One moment there was a long string of bats flapping frantically, about to be decimated by swifts hurtling from the skies.  A second later they were bludgeoned from the air by eight foot wings and powerfully muscled bodies.

Such was their passage that the air was rent and torn by roiling currents.  The descending swifts were tossed about like leaves on a stormy sea, their formations scattered and dispersed.  But they lived, most of them.

On the forest floor one other still lived.  It had taken him completely by surprise.  His echoes had been out in front and below, scanning the terrain ahead, preoccupied with the blood meal only minutes away.  Then the terrible blow, knocking him out of the sky, blotting out consciousness.  Dimly he remembered crashing through the high branches of the trees, caroming left and right, finally thudding to the forest floor. 

Pain now erased any dimness in Chirox.  His spine was snapped, the narrow bones in both wings shattered.  Any movement was agony.  He thought he could hear a muted, plaintive echo sounding from some distance away on the ground, but it subsided in a mewling cry.  But now there were other sounds, vague rustlings in the moldy leaves that stuck to his hairy body.  He craned his head a bit, straining to see with his limited vision.

Two red pinpoints of light met his gaze, peering out of a bulbous misshapen body the size of a small dog, but mobile with long black spiky legs.  There was a curious clicking and snapping sound as it approached.  Then movement, rapid movement.  He felt himself being tossed about, wrapped in some wet sticky substance. 

The movement was excruciating.  Then more pain as something short and sharp stabbed into his already fatally wounded body.  It was a blessing really, for now he felt all feeling slipping away, his extremities going numb, breathing slowing, consciousness fading into a dark milky haze.  He was barely aware of being carried off by the spider and would be dead by any other measure by the time his corpse reached the arachnid’s lair.

Another was near death just yards away from where he fell.  Though her heart still beat, her neck was broken.  She lay on her back, looking up at a small gap in the trees, a hole through which she could still see the sky, gray and darkening with evening’s onset.  Had they succeeded?  She did not know, though she was certain that her strike had been a fatal blow to the lead bat.  The sounds of the forest had come to her as well, the singular scratchings and shufflings of predators and scavengers seeking opportunity in the small bodies falling from the skies.  One was approaching from her left, only yards away.  She could not turn her head sufficiently to see the messenger of her death, though she hoped whatever it was would be quick and efficient.

Then the furtive rustlings stopped unexpectedly.  Above her there was a shadow, something filling the patch of sky above her.  It was moving, descending carefully on great wings, slowly braking its descent to avoid entanglement in the gnarled trees and hanging vines.  Her vision and consciousness were fading now, but she was still curious, wondering what creature this was to find its way to take her.  The leaves about her scattered with its arrival, its great wings pinioning as it settled to the ground.  Eyes of amber gold stared down at her, eyes at once fierce and angry but now softened with uncharacteristic grief.  Familiar eyes.

“Aquilar….” She let out a weak twitter.

“Yes little one.  Too late…too late” his keya was low and trembling.

“Did we…”

“The bats are dead, Apodidie…through your courage and the vengeful wings of my brothers”

“Aerona?”

“Wends her way south now as does my second, Chrysaetos.”

“Leave me then…you are needed with your hunters.”

“No little one” he leaned over with his resplendent golden head and tenderly nudged her feathers back into place with his great hooked beak.  “We have another journey, you and I” 

With that he gently closed one of his taloned feet about her shattered body and launched himself up, fluffing his massive wings adroitly, building height and ascending upwards through the opening in the branches out into the open skies above the forest.  Free of the forest’s obstructions he began to wheel about the sky, his broad feathered ailerons beating rhythmically.  Achieving his desired height he swung to the north, increasing speed. 

Below, safe in his grip, Apodidie felt the wind on her face as they sailed through the evening sky, skirting under the overhanging clouds.  Where he was headed and why she knew not, only that she felt safe now.  With that she let go of her hold on the present, its concerns and pains.  The little heart beat its last and her small bright spirit left its mortal bounds for the endless skies and warm roosts of another world.

                                                                       The Price of Victory

Sauron’s lieutenant, Drazakh, permitted himself a grunt of satisfaction.  The last of  Gondor’s cavalry had cleared the outer southern arms of the forest and were now all just inside the jaws of his trap.  It would soon be time for them to be drawn well inside its teeth. 

He daubed a few more greasy streaks of black battle paint between the rows of ceremonial scars that disfigured his face. The impatience was building inside him.  He glanced over his shoulder to the right.  Fully three dozen men in Gondor cavalry raiment stood forlornly, surrounded by orcs brandishing spears.  They would be the last of the bait for the real men of Gondor less than a league away on the plain.  He only awaited the word from the north.

Then he felt the tingling sensation that presaged His commands.  A light sweat broke out across his broad low forehead.  Sparks of light danced across his vision.  Suddenly He arrived, taking possession.  Drazakh’s body stood bolt upright at attention, eyes bulging wide open, mouth slackjawed.

“Good….they are close now.”  The voice rasped, seeing through Drazakh’s own eyes Mardil’s formations in the near distance.  “Send out the last of your wretches.  Kill them all.  The fool of a Steward will attack just like his son and meet his fate.  I will be watching!”

Then it ended abruptly.  Drazakh, momentarily disoriented, shaking his head to clear his thoughts, leaned on the pommel of his great broad scimitar to steady himself.  He turned to the orcs, barking orders.

“Take them out to the posts! Have the archers ready their bows.”

The orcs cackled to each other, prodding the hapless men with spear points, out of the forest towards the series of stakes on the dusty plain, a hundred yards from the trees edge.

Behind them a figure emerged from the forest, short, squat, with simian-like arms extending from a torso as wide as he was tall, set upon legs like gnarled tree stumps.  Carelessly braided stringy black hair swung loosely around his massive shoulders.  Other than a loin cloth, mailed gloves and bronze armbands he was naked.   

Drazakh smiled at his approach.  It was Bavuk, a tribesman of his, in command of the battalions of men that would attack from the center.  Drakakh himself was clad much in the same way, disdaining, as all of their tribe, the accoutrements of battle armor, helms and shields.  Their bodies paid the price, crisscrossed with countless scars, gouges, puckers, and seams from sword cuts and spear points.  But it commanded the respect of their men, who saw fearlessness in the tapestry of old wounds and death cheating invulnerability in their battle skills.

“On your command” Bavuk was terse, his black eyes cruel and impenetrable.

Drazakh grunted, looking out again to the plains.  The men were now chained to the poles, the orcs trotting back to the safety of the forest.  The first of the arrows shot out now, finding easy targets.  A half dozen screams of pain became a chorus as multiple shafts found their marks and streams of blood puddled in the dusty ground.  Further out he could spy the commander of the host, perhaps the Steward himself, conferring with his lieutenants, pointing towards the forest. 

They would charge now, he could feel it.  He stole a glance at the sky, getting darker under the clouds as early evening wore on towards dusk.  The bats should be just about upon them.  The hulking barbarian tightened his grip on his sword.

----------------------------------------------**---------------------------------------------------

A league away from Drakakh, Mardil sat on his mount, Perrian at his right, Lerion and the two wing commanders to his left.  He was staring intently at the forest, at the tiny figures they could see being dragged and tied to the posts.  His gaze rose slightly to the treetops behind the captives.

“Jared.  Come, I have need of your eyes.”

From behind the wing commanders the Scoutmaster maneuvered his horse up beside Mardil.

“Yes Steward.”

They could now here the screams starting, rising in tone and volume, billowing out over the plain between the confining walls of the arms of the forest.

“Above the treetops to our north…do you see anything.” 

Jared stared for a few moments.  Nothing.  Just the dark line of the trees and the gray featureless overcast.  He turned to Mardil and shook his head silently.

“Keep looking” there was a trace of impatience in Mardil’s voice.

Jared returned his gaze.  For a few seconds, nothing, but then something, just a wisp at first, perhaps a slip of cloud or evening mist rising from the forest.  Mardil caught the change in his posture.

“You see something?”  Impatience shared space with anxiety.  Mardil knew he would have to attack soon.  To remain here oblivious to the screams before them would raise suspicions in their adversaries lurking in the forest.  The ruse and the entire mission could be compromised.

Jared held up his hand for a moment.  The wisp was quickly becoming larger, darker, a moving, shifting shape hugging the treetops, not some inert mist or cloud, but something with intent and direction, closing fast.

“Something on wings, in large numbers…it cannot be otherwise”

“How soon”

Jared counted to himself, eyes locked on the scene to the north. 

“A count of sixty, perhaps seventy, Steward, and they will be upon us.”

“Let us hope for beaks in lieu of teeth then, Scoutmaster.  Perrian! Call the charge!  Lerion will take the center.  Let the wings ride wide.  Remember the ruse and the ways of the Northern horsemen!”

There were shouts and the sounds of horns blaring.  Lerion galloped off at high speed at the head of three hundred cheering horsemen who spurred their steeds into motion, thundering across the brown earth towards the dying ‘captives’.  On either side of his compact formation the two wing commanders fanned out, each leading a long diagonal wave of horsemen, their line roughly parallel to the wall of the forest.

Mardil remained behind with Jared and fifty horsemen comprising his select guard, letting the battle groups fully clear.  Then they too advanced, protected for now by Lerion’s center and the two flanking wings.  He spared a last look to the skies above the approaching forest.  Even he could see them now, the first dark shapes emerging over the plains, wings flapping furiously.   It was too soon to tell what they were and would be too late by the time they truly knew.

----------------------------------------***---------------------------------------------------

“Look Bavuk! They advance at last!” Drazakh shouted, his blood up now.

They could feel ground trembling now with the rumble of a thousand horses.  Dust rose in clouds from the evening plains.  The shouts and cheers of the approaching horsemen began to drown out the last of the screams and wails of the polebound ‘prisoners’ a hundred yards away.

Then something caught his eye, up in the sky, a shape, silhouetted black against the leaden sky, darting, wings beating rapidly.

“The bats come Bavuk! Ready the men to attack!”  Drazakh pointed up.  Another quickly moving shape swept by, then several, then great flocks of them swarming, swooping down directly towards the cavalrymen.

Drazakh was laughing now, drunk with the expectation of battle, victory and slaughter.  Though their numbers were reduced from the taking of the Steward’s son, they were better prepared this time with more ropes and nets to snare the fallen and drag those still mobile from their mounts.  It was just seconds away.

-----------------------------------------------------**--------------------------------------------------

Five hundred yards, four hundred.  Lerion was closing fast on the stakes where slumping figures sagged in their chains draining out the last of their life blood to the dirt at their feet. 

Suddenly the air about him was filled with the rush of air and the noise of a thousand beating wings.  Instinctively he raised a mailed fist to ward them off.  An instant later he drew back, recognizing with a fierce exultation that these wings bore soft feathers and pointed beaks, not leathery skin and needle teeth.  He shouted a command to his platoon commanders.

Their well ordered charge suddenly dissolved into chaos, with groups of twenty and thirty careering off at random, horses bucking and wheeling, seemingly out of control.  Great clouds of winged creatures were alighting on the men and their mounts, crowding them, swirling about in pursuit.  To the right and left the advancing cavalry wings parallel to the outreaching arms of the forest were disrupted, disintegrating into a welter of scattered horsemen, charging in all directions as if attempting to escape the onslaught from the skies.

From the forest walls that bound them came a great roar.  Bands of orcs charged from the wings of the wood on either side, while a host of men raced out from the center to their north, rushing past the dead men staked to the plain. 

Drazakh’s howled the harsh blood cry of his tribal ancestors, joining the ululation of Bavuk and the other Easteners as they advanced out of the trees towards the cavalrymen, now under siege from the skies.  He felt a familiar tingling again and cursed loudly as he ran across the dusty earth.  It was Him again.  Well let Him come then…He would like what he saw.

---------------------------------------------***--------------------------------------------

They had lost all sense of direction.  All that was known for certain was that they were higher, but still inside the deep rock of the mountain.  Twice they had come to passages leading off to the left, rough hewn stairs disappearing upward into darkness.  Both times the cats were there before them, the golden brown one preening itself in front of the lateral passage, while the iron gray bobcat fixed them intently with its luminous green eyes, perched a few stairs up on the main passage.

They had followed its direction each time, though Eradan now wondered if it mattered much at all.  Up ahead he could see the light of Ardugan’s torch bobbing, casting increasingly muted glow as it guttered down to its last stumpy residual.  Soon they would be plunged back into darkness, with still no true sense as to whether this passage was a dead end or the gateway to some other horror inside His realm.

A moment later the torch stopped its motion as Ardugan paused the climb. 

“Why do we stop, Ardugan.  The torch is all but gone.  We should press on” Eradan demanded.

“Look…”  it was all the enigmatic Dunedain would say, gesturing to either side of the passage in front of where he stood.

Eradan, Drianna, and Hagar all made their way up to where Ardugan waited.  The dull ruddy glow of the torch bathed the wet rocky walls of the passage where they stood, but cast little light ahead, for here the passage suddenly widened and the ceiling, just over the height of a man, rose to more than twenty feet.  The relatively steep winding stairs they had been laboring up now leveled off and ceased, becoming a long smooth stone floor sloping gently upward into the darkness.

Just past the point where the passage abruptly expanded both in width and height there was a huge opening on the right, roughly circular in shape and more than thrice the height of a tall man.  Ardugan thrust the torch into it, but the weakening light gave little away, other than its smooth floored slope, which led downward into some dark heart of stone.

Though light revealed little to the eye, it was another sense that conveyed something to Eradan, a strong wave of the same scent that caught his throat and briefly roiled his memory in the cavern just before they released the beasts. 

“Eradan…what is it?” Drianna could see the look of concern on his face.

Before he could answer, Hagar interrupted from a few yards ahead in the main tunnel where something caught his eye. 

“Look!” he shouted excitedly, holding something hard and shiny, about the size of a plate.  It glistened in the red torchlight as he brought it back to the others.

“I know this!  And there are other pieces further up the passage”

Eradan also knew, but let the Northman continue.

“Scales…dragon scales!  We still have some from Scatha’s hide in the Hall!”

“And what would drakes be doing here, Hagar?” Ardugan posed with a trace of condescension.

“He speaks the truth.” Eradan spoke bluntly.  “Can you not smell it, Ardugan?  It is no damp nor mold that makes that foul issue.  They dwell under the mountain, in a great pit near the cell where I was last captive.  By their odor they have been here not long ago.”

“Is it wise to follow then…?” Drianna’s voice was apprehensive.

“We have long left wisdom behind us, sister, or we would be hunting boar in the forests of Lebennin, not stalking serpents in Sauron’s lair.  They will lead us to Him and to our companions, who may need us all the more.”

There was no rebuttal nor any turning back.  Ardugan exchanged a sobering look with Eradan, then turned and made his way forward into the passage that had become a hallway.  Hagar and Drianna followed, with Eradan taking up the rear.  The ophidian odor did not ease in this wider space, but grew gradually stronger, more acrid, more foul.  But there was the beginning of something else, an ever so slight movement in the air that had been stale and still for so long.  Eradan shuddered slightly, wondering if it was the swish of a serpent’s tail not far off or, if luck might have it, a sign that this long passage might have an end, an opening to the outside world.

-----------------------------------------------------------------**---------------------------------------

The lumpy rough surface of the mountaintop abruptly ceased at the edge of the arch the wizard had entered.  Captive artisans, long dead no doubt, perhaps immortalized in one of the ghastly faces on the trimming about the openings, had leveled Dol Guldor’s top and polished it to an immaculate gleam.  Others had erected the massive black ribs rooted in the basal mountain stone, then filled in the great spaces between them with the architecture of the dome that rose high over the smooth black and grey granite floor.

Aranarth was the first to follow Gandalf as the wizard strode off through the arch, his long gray robe swirling lightly in the evening breeze that had lifted from the south.  He stood cautiously at first, just inside, taking in the surroundings.  To his right and left the arched openings marched away around the great outer arc of the vault’s base, meeting once again well over a hundred yards directly ahead at the point of the circle opposite where he stood. 

He glanced up and caught his breath at the interior of the dome.  Even in the fading evening light it held him in momentary awe.  Black and gray, deep crimson, dark silver and gold, cunningly inlaid stone, metal and gems combined in the forms of great cyclopean figures.  Ebony horned giants with fiery whips, long darkly gleaming drakes spouting flame, unimaginable ramparts and fortresses scraping the sky.   Figures from another Age before Numenor rose from the sea.  That much he knew from the tales his father’s tutors had told him in his youth, now over a hundred years past.  

Haldir now entered and stood beside him, then Arthed and Arahael.  He watched as the vault above them stole their attention momentarily, jaws agape, eyes stunned.  Then Aranarth stepped forward, placing his booted foot on the polished stone floor.

But the instant his toe touched down, the dark surface before him came alive in a crimson tracery as if lit from below.  Aranarth reflexively jerked his foot back.  The dark red pattern pulsed gently, then faded, as if returning to slumber.  The others held back, uncertain as to what this might portent.  But ahead, Gandalf sojourned on, his tall pointy hat slightly askew, his staff rhythmically thumping the slick stone surface.

Disgusted with his apprehension, Aranarth resolved to plow forward, once again setting foot on the smooth pave and forging ahead.  The fiery red tracing re-emerged, radiating out from his footsteps in the form of runes, but not of any type he could recognize.  They lacked the poignant elegance of Elvish script, or the purity and directness of dwarvish carvings.  No, these were another sort, twisted, writhing, almost seeking to reach out of the stone to grab the unwary by the ankle.  A language of darkness, cruel and inhuman.

He gritted his teeth, increasing his pace, lifting his eyes from the floor in defiance of whatever message they strove to tempt him.  In a few seconds he was bestride Gandalf and the two of them were now less than one hundred yards from the far opening of the rotunda where the figure of a great wolf was silhouetted against an open arch.

“An ancient script, Aranarth” Gandalf anticipating his question, “wrought in the days when Elves were young and stars alone lit the skies.  Do not dwell on its curls and crags.  Our adversary lies before us.”

The wizard paused now, allowing the others to catch up. 

“Stay close to me now…pay no heed to His runes and mosaics.  It is the present that occupies us.”

Now they advanced again, Gandalf at the head, Haldir and Aranarth to his right and left, Arthed further right with Arahael next to his father.  The silhouette of a wolf paced slowly seventy yards ahead. 

-------------------------------------------------*****--------------------------------------------------

The clouds of dust from the initial cavalry charge were settling in the fading light of early evening.  Mardil looked ahead and to the flanks from his position in the rear center of the original formation.  The Easteners and orcs were howling, advancing rapidly on foot, soon to be within a hundred yards of the apparently disintegrating units of his cavalry wings. A satisfied smile curled the corners of his aristocratic face as he turned to his signalmen.

“Sound the horns!”

At once, long trumpets sounded out a great blaring noise that echoed off the dark walls of the forest to the left, right and front.

In the seeming chaos of the cavalry there was a great rush of wind and wing.  The swifts, having completed their deception as bats, left their perches on men and mount, led by Aerona, and launched themselves into the sky in a great cloud, initially hovering just ten feet off the ground.  With increasing speed the cloud swirled and rose, its upper reaches arcing off to the west in a long stream that became extended as the body of fliers in the avian cloud began to leave the field of battle in flock formation.

Now another signal of horns rang out.  The disorganized chaos of bucking horses and random galloping quickly resolved itself into individual units, their mounts wheeling around.  The original flanking formations now suddenly charged directly towards the forest, aiming square at the screeching orcs advancing on their positions.  The center units reformed and hurled themselves at the charging Easteners and the wolves that were now quickly loping out of the forest eaves to the north.

A hundred yards away, Drazahk’s own headlong dash withered to a trot, and then an outright halt as he stood slackjawed watching the inexplicable departure of the swifts who had mimicked his expected, but now dead, bat-winged allies He had sent to savage the men and horses.  Even more, the cursed Gondorans now seemed to rise up in formation, unaffected by the onslaught from the skies, their thundering hooves tearing the ground as they made directly for the spot on which he and his men stood.

Drazakh had made no provision for such an event.  His was only to charge for the kill after the bats had wrought their blooding.  But no bats had come to disrupt the enemy.  Instead, harmless swifts had alighted on Gondor’s cavalry, feigning with their quick winged movements those of the bats His master was to have sent and were nowhere to be seen.

Now he had no means of command, little ability to turn and reform to counter the sudden turn of fate.  He and his thousand men would be on their own to survive this first charge.  The orcs be damned, they would fend for themselves.  After the first clash he would take whosoever survived and make for the forest.  They would not follow in such close quarters on horseback.  He might still escape with his life.  He had done so before.

---------------------------------------------*****-----------------------------------------------

They had crossed the remaining distance under the malignant vault in silence.  Off to their left, the smooth pediment with its writhing red runes seemed to end abruptly at the edge of a large pit, its depths concealed in a pool of blackness.  To their right, near the southwest perimeter, the polished granite floor was interrupted by a set of stairs cut in bare stone, dimly leading down to some unknown depth in the mountain’s heart.

But these were distractions deserving little more than a glance.  Their eyes were locked directly ahead on the figure of a great black wolf standing less than thirty feet away.

It was panting lightly, mouth open, huge tongue lolling out to one side, draped over a row of gleaming white incisors.  Six feet high at the shoulder, the shaggy black furred beast was nearly the size of a horse, but it was the eyes that captured Arahael’s attention.  Dark red, penetrating with ancient knowledge, remorselessly cunning.

They were arrayed five to one against Him.  Enough to prevail, Arahael hoped, with the strength of their swords and axes and what power the wizard might bring to bear.  Yet the beast seemed unmoved, mocking them with its lupine grin, slowly shifting its gaze from left to right and back again, daring them to make the first move.

Seconds ticked away.  Sweat trickled down Arahael’s back, beneath the leather and light chain mail.  A light gust of wind blew in the smell of rain and rumble of distant thunder through the south facing arches behind the wolf.    Through the openings he could see glimpses of Mirkwood’s impenetrable carpet far below, black beneath the dimming light, rolling away to the Brown Lands where other fates would soon be decided.  

Mixed with the scent of rain on the wind was a whiff of a duskier odor emanating from the gaping pit off to the left.  But any musings as to its nature were cut short by a voice emerging as if both from the throat of the wolf and from within his own head.  Deep, resonant, assured to the point of contemptuous.

“Magnificent isn’t he” it spoke to them all, though intended directly for Gandalf.

“A beast fit for a beast” the wizard replied evenly.  The wolf’s red eyes flashed briefly. Its lips wrinkled slightly as if preparation for a snarl, then settled back.

“A compliment then.   Well might you favor me.  It has taken five hundred years breeding to reach this point.  A little of Draughlin remains in all wolves, Olorin, and I have culled much of it in this one.  His seed will bring many more like him.”

“His seed will travel no further than this mountaintop, Sauron.”

“I tire of your idle threats, little one.  You distract me from events to the south.  Gondor’s fool of a Steward and his cavalry are within the jaws of my trap. That I have seen  through the eyes of my own commander in the field moments ago.  Even as we speak the bats are tearing the eyes out of Gondor’s horses.  Cavalrymen are falling to the ground.  Wolves are rending their throats.  Swords and spears hack their limbs”

Gandalf took a step forward, a hard smile emerging on his bearded face.  His eyes twinkled an icy gray.  His voice was low, almost a whisper.

“Perhaps you should look again, Sauron”

The great wolf’s eyes narrowed slightly.  Its flopping tongue retreated inside its jaws. 

Far away to the south, the figure of a hulking barbarian jolted upright, possessed by a familiar spirit.  Then there was the familiar roaring sound in his brain.  His limbs shook violently with the force of a great rage that shrieked for a moment like a wild gale on open seas before abruptly departing.

Atop Dol Guldur the rage continued.  Now a voice like the scraping of cyclopean stones howled in astonishment and anger.  They all felt buffeted as if by a great wind.  But Gandalf stood fast and now raised his own voice, seeming to fill the dome with his power.

“Your bats lie twitching on the forest floor, Sauron, food for your spiders.  Orcs and Easterners will fall to Gondor’s swords and lances.  Eagles will feast on the eyes of your wolves.  And our swords will see that this abomination you have bred does not leave this mountain alive.  Get thee hence from this place, Sauron.  Your day is done!”

The tip of his staff began to glow with a pale white.  The great wolf snarled, then took a step backwards as if cringing from the light. 

“Not done yet! You think me unprepared after these Ages! More than wolf I have bred these centuries.  Test your swords on these!”

From the darkness of the shadowed pit to the left there was a scraping, rasping sound, then a wave of foul stench pouring out of the black abyss.  An instant later blurs of sinuous motion, then a rush of air.   

Arahael caught a glimpse of a golden green glint in the fading light of early dusk.  A shape emerged of a serpentine head, amber eyed, jaws extending wide, white fangs dripping, filling his vision as it rapidly closed distance with him, taking direct aim on his own head.  

A hundred years later, gray and stiff, taking leave on Master Elrond’s balcony overlooking the Bruinen, the memory would still be crisp and horrifically clear.  But he would have no recall of his initial reaction, the duck and whirl that allowed the reptilian maw to scrape by, gouging hair from the side of his head, while he simultaneously cut down with his drawn sword on the serpent’s back.  That was training, long hours with Elladan and Elrohir, playing games of dodge and parry that the elves had long mastered in over a thousand year’s practice.

But now this moment the downward cut of his steel merely creased the hide of the beast, its scales a formidably stout armor.  Its hiss of rage intruded.  Arahael wheeled around, instinctively anticipating its return charge and was not disappointed.  Long as ten men, girth more than the width of a full grown bear, it sported nascent wings both midrift and in flares behind its pointed ears.  He could see it coiling up for another strike, angry at its near miss. 

Off to his right there were shouts, warnings and cries of pain.  His father, Aranarth, had met his foe directly on, blunting its charge with a mighty blow from his broadsword, sending it reeling, sliding across the smooth stone floor.  Dripping black ichor from a shallow cut to the neck it rose, massing its length into a ball for another lunge.

Next to Aranarth, Haldir’s catlike elven reflexes let him easily veer away from his own serpent’s first attempt.  He did not await its regrouping, but charged after it, possessed by some ancient grudge, attacking its face and in particular its eyes with lightning fast thrusts of his sword.  But the drake was an even match, bobbing and weaving like a cobra, allowing the Marchwarden to drain his strength in the effort.

Next to Haldir, Arthed was in more dire straights.  His split second astonishment at the instant of attack had cost him.  Though he had kept his head, the teeth of the reptile had securely lodged on his left shoulder, locked tight and pressing down with awful force.  Though he had use of his axe arm and rained blows on the back of the beast, pain and lack of full movement took weight from his strikes. Scales flew off with each hewing, black blood oozed sluggishly where his desperate hacks cut through its hard exterior, but it was a battle of attrition he would surely lose absent aid.

Amidst the chaos there was laughter in the air, mocking, reveling, cold, a voice filling their heads as it had moments before.

“Drakes…cold drakes my presumptuous intruders.  They are half grown, but their hides will take most of your blows and their strength will outlast your own.”

“Desist Sauron! The power of the light is before you!” Gandalf cried, raising his staff high, the light at its tip increasing in intensity the glow filling the air and swelling towards the wolf that stood before him.

Further the wolf backed away, cringing, but still it mocked.

“Contest with me as you will, Olorin, but each moment you squander your strength your companions draw closer to death!”

Gandalf took quick glance behind him and took his words true.  As skilled as they were, the drakes’ size, speed, and scaly armament would outlast their adversaries in single combat.  There was little time.  He would have to take the risk.

“I have strength to spare, Sauron.”  The wizard shook back the long cloak sleeve from his right hand.  A fierce ruby light scintillated on his right index finger, one of the three elven Rings of power.  A bolt of raw fire leapt from its crown, swirling in the white aura of his staff and smote the wolf broadside, heaving it off its feet, skidding in a heap towards the southern arches.

Gandalf turned towards his besieged companions, preparing an incantation to drive the drakes off when the mocking, rasping voice returned, accompanied by a foul reek and a shuddering of the very floor upon which he stood.

“We are not done, little one! See now the mother of these children who I have bred from a thousand generations of snakes half this past Age ! Test what power you have left against her mettle knowing you will spend the night in her belly!”

From the black pit a great head emerged and rose on a long glistening golden scaled neck that seemed to go on forever as it climbed higher into the air.  It widened, filling out into the swell of a body twenty feet thick, arrayed with great wings that spread, tips grazing the lower reaches of the dome.  Clawed feet grasped the edge of the pit and heaved forward.  Its head scraped the upper reaches of the vault.  Its tail, a hundred feet back, still in the abyss, twitched up into the fading light.  Teeth the length of swords glistened wetly white in a leering smile of satisfaction.  Eyes the color of dark gold bored into Gandalf’s own.

“Now, let us see how quick you are on your feet, old man.” 

The great reptilian head swooped down, jaws opening, preparing to gobble him up, a helpless morsel.  Gandalf whispered silently to himself, quickly muttering the phrases he knew must be said.  The tip of his staff illuminated anew, a pulse of crimson swelled from the ring on his finger.  He could feel the first scent of its hot breath on his forehead.

--------------------------------------------------*****-----------------------------------------------  

The torch had given up its last sputtering flickers.  For the past several moments they’d been creeping along in almost total darkness, right hands maintaining contact with the wall of the passage.  The reek was intensifying, tightening their throats, stinging their eyes.  Every now and then a foot would scuff into a scale, sending it clattering off into the gloom. 

For the others there was no light.  For Ardugan there was just a trace of gray drawn into his oversized light blue eyes.  But enough to suggest an opening up ahead somewhere. 

Another minute of groping went by.  Then he saw four dots of light ahead, two pale green, two golden.  The gray was lightening perceptively as he approached them.

“The cats…” he whispered to Eradan, just behind him

“Yes…I can just see the glow of their eyes…”

The current of air he’d thought he detected earlier was now clearly present, softening the harsh stench of the serpent’s recent passage.  Ardugan’s hand gently came back, pressed on Eradan’s shoulder, signaling a halt.  The others soon gathered round. 

“Why do we stop?”

“You cannot see them, Hagar, but the cats sit before us and my eyes detect a smaller opening to our right, steps leading up and away from this main passage.  The air flows

fresh down its reach.  The cats stand on the third step.”

“They have been right before.  We should take the steps”

Before any could reply to Drianna’s suggestion there a sound of distant shouts and cries filtering down the staircase.  The cats immediately darted up the steps.

“That was Arthed! Aranarth’s voice as well!” Ardugan exclaimed, then charged up the stairs after the cats, heedless of the gloom.

Eradan was close on his heels, then Drianna and Hagar.  Now they could all sense the gray light brightening, the fresh air from the top of the mountain coursing past them.  The cries continued, growing louder as they vaulted up the steps.    

Now Ardugan could see a small square of brightness up ahead, the opening to the surface!  A bellow of pain echoed down the opening…Arthed!  Ardugan pumped harder, driving his legs like pistons.  Then the walls of the passage shook mightily as some large mass, just nearby, heaved itself about the top of the mountain.  The four of them caromed from side to side against the last of the coarse stone walls of the staircase, struggling to maintain their feet.   A flash of light from above filled the passage momentarily.  They could see clearly now, just twenty steps, ten, five.

They emerged into the dome atop Dol Guldur as if catapulted from below.  A nightmarish scene was set before them and they stood dumbstruck for a moment, despite the urgency of their arrival.

Arrayed before them stood Arahael and his father Aranarth, battling long serpents each of which braced itself on its coils, seeking a momentary weakness to strike a deadly blow.  Haldir the elf was similarly occupied, though his movements more closely matched his adversary and a smile still creased his fair face.  Nearest them Arthed was in dire straights, his left shoulder in the maw of the drake which held on inexorably.  His axe blows, though formidable, were weakening as the pain of the serpent’s jaws sapped his strength.  But above all was the form of the mother drake, scales sienna gold, risen from the pit, wings wide, great reptilian head poised on a downward strike to a small gray figure in a pointy hat holding a staff with a glowing tip above his head as if to ward it off.

There was a shout and Ardugan realized almost with a start that it was his voice, not out of fear, but of raw concern for his brother, Arthed. 

Involuntarily it seemed he dashed off, closing the gap across the polished stone floor, sword held high to strike a fatal blow on the serpent’s neck.  Then there was a loud hissing and shrieking.  The serpent’s emerald green head cocked back, releasing its grip on Arthed’s bloody shoulder.  It unexpectedly writhed in pain, coiling and swirling.  Ardugan could see two fur clad forms grimly attached to its face by long razor sharp claws, one on each side with teeth digging deep into its eyes.  The cats!

He ran to his brother’s side.  Arthed’s face was pale, his shoulder crushed and torn, blood, seeping fully through his leather and light armor.

“Ardugan…you…” Arthed struggled to speak.

“Lay back brother, you are wounded grievously.  Say no more.  We have returned from the base of the mountain.  Let us finish what you have started!”

But before he could rise to help the others there was a rush of wind from behind and a warning shout from Gandalf.

Even as the mother drake had descended in its intended death blow upon the wizard, Ardugan’s shout of alarm at Arthed’s distress had distracted the great beast.  The massive head poised, then swiveled, turning its saturnine gaze upon the four who had just emerged from within the bowels of his fastness. 

“Time enough for you later, Olorin! First a lesson for those who would seek to cheat death twice in my realm!”

A slimy black forked tongue licked out of the mother dragon’s mouth in anticipation as it quickly repositioned its body, shifting weight left, right, left, then right again in a heave that whipped out a great long rope of tail that had lain in the depths of the pit.  Like a bullwhip the thickness of a tree trunk it snapped forward towards the four who had just emerged.

They had all followed Ardugan’s lead as he ran to Arthed’s side.  But they never reached him.  The scaly might of the drake’s long tail whipped in a blur, first catching Hagar who was struck square in the back, hurling him through the air, then crashing to the stone floor and sliding halfway, limply, to the northern edge of the dome.  His black sword, Anquiriel, separated from him by the impact, pinwheeled in the air for a moment then fell point first, embedded deep in the granite pediment.

Drianna was next, the rapidly moving scaly tail catching her in the back of her legs, snapping them like twigs as it sent her flying into Eradan, just a few yards ahead.  It proved his salvation, for her hurtling body knocked him off his feet, sending him spawling face first on the cold stone surface, escaping the impact of the drakes tail as it sailed over head less than the width of a finger away.

Ardugan heard the swoosh in the air as the sweep of the serpent’s body approached.  He began his defensive roll to the floor, but too late as its speed overtook and flattened him with a crushing blow to the upper back and head.  Like a rag doll he was tossed, sliding across the smooth cold floor towards the far wall.  In his wake Arthed groaned in pain, struggling to get up.

All this in the count of a few seconds.  The dragon repositioned itself, swinging its body back, its mass pulling its tail with inexorable force, whipping it around the rear, over the expanse of the black pit.  Another quick series of body movements and the heavy appendage was on the move to the other side, sweeping ‘round to the spot where Gandalf stood.

Sauron’s voice snarled in his head..

“Whatever your power in this land, Olorin, you are prisoner to a mortal body.  Now taste the lash of my tail and despair!”

Though he appeared old and gray, he was strong and spry beyond a normal man’s body.  Gandalf watched the approach of the rippling length of doom, calculating the moment of impact, planning on a leap over it.  But his thoughts betrayed him. At the moment he jumped, the dragon’s tail flipped up, bearing hard upon his right arm and shoulder.  His grip loosened upon his staff, which was sent clattering across the floor towards the west side of the rotunda.  The wizard followed part way, rolling with the impact, momentarily stunned.

But in the seconds it took the dragon to shift its strike from Ardugan and his companions to Gandalf, a change had taken place in the deadly combat.  Aranarth, parrying each attack of the serpent before him, had found a pattern in its attack.  His blows had done little more than crease the surface of the emerald scales, drawing a few lines of dark blood.  But his eyes had noticed a clouded region in the adolescent drake’s own right eye.  And its movements suggested to him that it bode a narrow blind spot in its right side vision. 

Ardugan’s shout of dismay provided the opportunity.  The small drake before Aranarth glanced briefly left, leaving its right eye on its intended prey.  At that moment he shifted his broadsword to his left hand, hoping the movement was obscured by the serpent’s blind spot.  An instant later the young drake returned to its quarry. 

It was risky.  He had not the dexterity in his left hand to assure a mortal blow.  Further he would have to tempt the serpent in.  And so he stood as if confused, tired, his right hand bereft of the weapon he had blocked the drake’s thrusts, his left hand behind his back tightly gripping the sword.  A gleam in the reptile’s eyes signaled its confidence in a final attack.  The vile snake’s head lunged forward, mouth gaping wide, lethal incisors hungry for the crunch of hard enamel on flesh and bone.

Aranarth summoned all his strength and whipped the sword up with his left hand, putting the weight of his body and the power of his arm and shoulder in one thrust directly into the drake’s open jaws.  The blade struck deep, plunging through its forked tongue into the soft tissue of its mouth and beyond, through the flexible cartilage of its lower skull into its brain.  The beast spasmd violently, ripping the blade from his grasp. 

Little time for triumph.  Just as the drake writhed in its final moments, Aranarth beheld the mother serpent’s great tail striking Gandalf, sending him tumbling across the floor. 

Aranarth ran to his side, preparing to remove him from any further reach of the dragon’s tail.  Scooping the wizard up as if he were a child, the old warrior began his run towards the northern wall of the dome.  But there was not enough time.  The coils and whorls of the mother dragon’s tails straightened themselves as its body shifted to the left pulling the weight of its prehensile length back once more.  Like a great hook, the tip end curled in as it swept over the floor, catching Aranarth and his dazed companion just short of freedom. 

The powerful turns of scaly flesh then quickly wrapped themselves about the two of them.  Higher and higher the coils of its tail rose above the floor, captives in thrall, tightly bound, inexorably approaching the dragon’s head, where crimson eyes gleamed and jaws opened in malevolent anticipation.

                                                            ***********

Thirty feet below Gandalf and Aranarth, Arahael and Haldir still battled for their lives against their own drakes, helpless to aid.  Hagar lay unconscious against a far wall.  Arthed could barely crawl, so dire were his wounds.  Drianna was pale and shuddering with the agony of her broken legs. 

Eradan was at her side, torn between his sister and coming to the aid of the others.  This decision was now taken from him by a rising black form at the southern edge of the vault.

The great wolf, eyes no longer glowing red with His power, now vested in the mother drake.  Just a beast, a hungry vengeful predator recognizing a familiar face from a battle days before.  Shrugging off the impact of Gandalf’s initial spells it focused pale gold hunter’s eyes on Eradan and the form of his helpless sister behind him. 

It started a walk, becoming a lope.  Its jaws opened to gather air.  The gap began to close.  This would be easy prey.  The feet were in a lupine gallop now, knowing the impact its huge size would have on this mere man at full speed.  Adrenaline rushed to cover the strain.  Saliva poured into its mouth.  Long canine teeth glistened in the half light of dusk.

Thirty feet away Eradan saw its eyes and hope surged.  It was not Him inside anymore, just beast against man.  He was tired, still bruised and battered from days inside His lair, not fully recovered from the poisons they had forced upon him.  The wolf was more than twice his weight.  But it could die, and that gave Eradan new life and a surge of strength.

His right fist closed about the haft of his mace, Crusher.  The spiked head lay on the floor.  The first blow had to be decisive, but to do that he had to wait, wait until the last instant when the animal leapt at him, opening its jaws for the massive fatal strike.  Drianna moaned in pain behind him.  The head of the mace rose slightly from the floor.

Ahead of him the clack of claws on raw stone ceased as a great black furred bulk left the surface in a triumphant leap for his throat.

                                                            *********

Off to Eradan’s right a figure was righting himself.  His left shoulder was numb, bones fractured in his upper back and arm.  The rear of his head was scraped raw and bleeding from the impact of rough edged scales at great speed.  Pain brought him down to his knees, clouding his vision, muddling his thoughts.  Instincts took over.  Fingers probed in small vest pockets under light chain mail, clasped on a parcel of powder wrapped in light parchment.  Thrust into his mouth he chewed it aggressively without thinking.  The pain receded and energy flowed into those limbs still capable of function.  He stood again, knowing this power of potion taken from a Druedain chieftain long ago was as much poison as power. 

It would not last and he would be all but dead when its strength left him.  But his eyes were bright blue again, his good limbs strong, his mind clear and cold.  He swept the scene before him, Arahael and Haldir still holding their own, Eradan about to meet the great wolf in mortal combat, Drianna down, Hagar insensate at some far corner.  A cry of pain drew his eyes up to middle distance.  The dragon, jaws wide in some evil mix of mirth and blood lust, eyeing something in its coils slowing being drawn towards its maw. 

Another cry, a bellow of rage and frustration. Aranarth!!

He could see him now, bound in the serpent’s coils with Gandalf, helpless, about to meet  his doom.

Something opened up in Ardugan’s spirit.  The repressed years of long isolation, resentment, and hunger for acceptance broke through in a blinding light.  He felt his feet moving, running, making towards an object stuck deep in the basal floor of Dol Guldur’s summit.  His own sword had skittered off with the blow of the dragon, but now his good arm reached for this other, dark as night, seeming to call to him.  Without breaking stride, he grasped its ancient hilt.  It left the stone floor effortlessly, cleaving to him as a fatal partner.  A death smile opened on his face. His eyes were wide and the palest icy blue as he reached full speed, closing on the vast bulk of the mother drake before him.  Was it his imagination or did the black sword whisper something to him?

-----------------------------------------------------*----------------------------------------------------

Across the floor from Ardugan, a quickly moving figure distracted Arahael momentarily, nearly costing him his life as cold drake before him lunged, gouging a furrow in the side of his head.

He parried, retreating, but opening his eyes wide at the form of his uncle, Ardugan, making straight for the dragon, sword held high. 

The beast was distracted with its prize, the Maia Olorin, bereft of his staff, and the son of the king of Arthedain, both within His grasp.  The racing figure of Ardugan was beneath its notice. 

But Ardugan was now a man possessed.  The rage of a wasted life, the energy of an old Druedain potion was combining with the ancient deadly heritage of the sword Anquiriel, crafted by the Eorl, Dark Elf of Beleriand.  Like Turin before him, he felt the draw of death.  A huge leap and he was upon the dragon’s flanks.  Legs still churning, he vaulted up its back, climbing along its serrated spine past the scabrous wings towards its neck.

At last aware, the great serpentine head turned, saucer sized crimson eyes glaring at what was to it an insectile intruder.

“Fool!!!”  A great harsh mocking laugher thundered in Ardugan’s head.  “Do all such faded sons of Numenor seek death so readily?”

Yards away in the iron grip of the dragon’s tail, Gandalf and Aranarth writhed, struggling to free themselves ‘ere they were crushed or eaten.  The wizard, strong as he was, was losing consciousness, desperately trying to voice a last spell to compel the return of his staff.  Then he saw Ardugan, eyes gleaming, standing athwart the dragon’s neck, the sword of Eorl in his hands.

“The throat, Ardugan!” he gasped, “Strike for the throat!”

More laughter from Sauron.  “Why do you deceive him, Olorin.  Surely you know that no sword of this earth can pierce this dragon’s scales.

The captives were drawn closer to the gaping maw of the beast.  With his good right arm Ardugan raised the black blade high then came down with all the strength he could muster in a sweeping blow arcing towards the softer front of the dragon’s neck.

“It is you who are deceived, Sauron,” Gandalf managed to reply, “His sword is not of this earth, nor was its sister blade that slew Glaurung two Ages past”

The dragon’s eyes opened wide, suddenly aware of the truth he spoke.  But too late, for at that instant the sword cut deep into its neck, it meteoric iron cleaving into scale, muscle and bone.  A great gout of black blood geysered out, washing down the drake’s side and spattering heavily to the stone floor.  A deafening screech and hiss rent the air as mortal pain pronounced its doom upon the beast.  Its head swayed right and left, spewing blood.  Then its tail loosened its grip on Aranarth and Gandalf, sending them plummeting twenty feet to the floor.

Ardugan was flung from the serpent’s neck, his fall partially broken as he landed first on its lower back before tumbling to the granite pediment.  A dull iron clang rang out as the blade Anquiriel dislodged from its fatal wound and landed heavily beside Ardugan.

Aranarth had met the stone floor poorly, badly spraining his ankle and fielding much of the impact with his right shoulder, which was nearly wrenched from its socket.  Gandalf was spared the worst, landing on top of Aranarth, cushioning the blow, but still knocking the wind from his lungs.  He struggled to a sitting position.  Above him the great beast’s cries were weakening, the crimson light in its eyes flickering as the massive body began to sag to the right, staggering on its short clawed feet.  A last gurgling, hissing gasp emerged from its jaws, then it fell over, crashing into the black pit behind it in a tangle of scales, coils, and twitching wings.

                                                            *******

Sixty feet away death was making another appearance.  The spiked head of Eradan’s mace was a blur of desperate speed as it crashed into the side of the great wolf’s head, pulverizing flesh and cracking its massive skull.  But it was near the size of a horse and no blow could send its bulk far from its destined path.  Its shaggy black body slammed into Eradan with the force of boulder.  The two of them hit the unforgiving stone floor just inches from Drianna, and slid several feet.

Drianna twisted her head around.  Even the slightest movement of her body caused some shift in her legs, which sent jolts of pain that nearly made her faint.  She saw Eradan, sprawled face down, semiconscious, moving feebly in a weak attempt to get to his feet.

A few yards away the black wolf lay on its side whining and panting, head bleeding profusely.  Its claws scrabbled on the stone pavement, trying to get some purchase.  It managed to lurch to its feet, swaying and staggering, eyes glazed over, but focused enough on Eradan’s prone body.  He could see it coming, but had not yet the strength to drag himself to his feet for another swing of the mace. 

The wolf nearly fell, slipping in its own blood, but drunkenly plodded on, jaws open and slack, its intelligence narrowed to a single vengeful purpose.  Eradan managed to prop himself up on one elbow, but fell back, breathing heavily.

It was up to Drianna now.  And the answer was poking in her back, the tip of her bow, still strapped across her shoulder.  She looked about for her quiver of arrows.  The long, slender leather pouch lay just beyond reach and dispiritingly she saw arrows scattered far away across the floor.  But the quiver lay bottom end towards her.  There might be hope.

Gritting her teeth against the pain in her legs, Drianna wrestled the bow from her shoulder.  Stars danced before her eyes and blackness of faint nearly overtook her.  A few heartbeats passed.  She extended the bow outward, snaring the strap of the quiver, gently drawing it back to where she lay on the floor.  The wolf slipped again, hind quarters  splayed on the floor.  It struggled to right itself.  Eradan managed to a sitting position, bracing himself with both hands, but not yet fit to defend himself.

Drianna now had the quiver within reach.  She turned it around, feeling inside the open end.  Feathers brushed her fingers.  There was one, one arrow still inside!  The wolf was back on its feet, just six feet from her brother.  Its great head faced her and would take her once it had finished with Eradan.

She would have but one shot, and it must be true, direct into an eye, the sharp tip penetrating straight through to its brain.  Drianna lay on her side, cradled the arrow in the bow.  A wave of pain swept over her again, her vision swam, limbs trembling.  With all her will she pulled the string back, lifting the bow slightly off the floor, drawing it tighter and tighter, pulling the string back to her eye, just a finger’s breadth off the floor. 

The wolf staggered again.  Her vision blurred momentarily.  She almost lost the grip on the arrow.  Then the beast steadied itself, legs bracing for a final lunge at its victim.  Drianna’s vision cleared.  She let out a sharp cry.  The wolf looked over to her, distracted by the noise, head frozen in instinctive observance.  Now! While it was still! 

She let fly the arrow which stuck with a sloppy smack, driving deep into its eye and beyond into its brain case.  The beast shuddered, then fell, twisting and rolling in violent convulsions.  A long low release of snarling breath, a final clawing at the sky, and then it was dead.

                                                            *********

Not far away two others still battled for their lives, Arahael and Haldir, slowing backing away, managing to fend off the serpents but doing little to harm them save superficial cuts which oozed black and enraged the serpents all the more.  The fall of the mother dragon had heartened them, but what scant glance they could spare gave no immediate hope that help was on the way.

And it needed to come soon.  No matter his training, Arahael could feel his arm tiring. The serpent in front of him seemed not to flag and in fact pressed him further, sensing his growing fatigue.  There was no thought of hasty retreat at full run.  The young drake was fast, too fast, and could catch him from behind, jaws clamped upon a leg or shoulder.

A blur of motion caught his eye, not the rapid shift of the reptile’s head, but another independent shape.  It was blue-grey, vaulting up from the floor, dancing along the spine of the beast, taking a last jump, landing square on its spade shaped head, emerging claws of its front paws thrusting down and deep into the snake’s right eye.

The drake arched upward suddenly in astonished pain, its head twisting to and fro on is long sinuous neck.  The form of a bobcat remained grimly adhered to its head, remorselessly gouging the right eye with its claws and now gnawing savagely with its fangs.  Hope surged through Arahael.  Though his sword could not fatally wound the beast through its body, he too recognized what his father saw, that the soft flesh in its mouth and throat was vulnerable. 

Arahael waited, the serpent’s head swept about seeking to shake the cat from its agony.  Its jaws snapped spasmodically.  Then there was a moment when it came down, close to where he stood, sword ready.  The cat dug its paws in further, black blood now pouring from the chaos that had once been an eye.  The jaws opened wide in pain, hissing, forked tongue flapping loosely.  It was the moment.  Arahael lunged forward, burying his long blade deep into its upper palate, through the flesh into the base of its spine, the hilt just outside the reach of the beast’s outer fangs.

Arahel stepped back quickly.  The cat leapt off.  The drake was a mass of whirling, writhing coils and scales, unable to affect the mortal blow of the sword impaled in its head, hissing in angry pain at the ravaged ruin of its eye. 

Thirty feet away a similar tableau was playing itself out with Haldir and his adversary as the form of a golden feline preyed upon the orb of another serpent.  Soon another blade was buried deep in the soft tissue of a drake’s inner throat, thrusting back into its interior spine. 

                                                            ******

But these were frays fully involved as Gandalf sat, shaking the cobwebs from his mind.

Beside him Aranarth laboriously made it to his feet, gingerly testing the floor with his right foot, reeling from the pain to his hard impacted right shoulder.  His sword stuck awry from the mouth of a young drake twenty feet away,

The coils and golden reds scales of the mother dragon were still now, a chaotic mound of serpentine flesh heaped part over the edge of the pit, the rest settling in darkness beyond view.  A figure rose beside a portion of its dead bulk on the polished floor before them. 

“Ardugan!” Aranarth shouted, swelling with emotion at the sight that his brother had survived the fall from the dragon’s neck.

The figure of a man straightened, then seemed to look mechanically about for something.

It stooped to pick up a sword, then walked awkwardly towards Aranarth, holding the weapon before him, defensively.

The evening light was fading now.  Somewhere behind the lowering and thickening overcast the sun was near the horizon.  

Aranarth shook Gandalf and pointed at his brother, just twenty feet apace, approaching slowly.  The wizard came to his feet, weaving slightly.

“Ardugan…it is dead…your sword is done, let us see to your wounds”

It was if he were deaf.  He stalked on, oblivious to Gandalf’s words.  And now it was clear to the answer, for both the wizard and Aranarth could see it in his eyes, bright red eyes filled with hate.

“You are out of tricks now, Olorin! Birds and strange swords! I have the sword and the body of this pathetic runt of Numenor’s litter! But it will be enough to cleave your mortal heads from your bodies!”

Gandalf began whispering quick words, casting about for his staff, struck hard in the dragon’s attack and sent skittering over the floor, and out a gaping arch in the dome’s perimeter.  Aranarth’s sword was buried in the jaws of the young drake.  He pulled a dirk from a sheath in his belt, knowing it was little match for a sword, but was all he had.

The figure of Ardugan closed to ten feet.  His face bore no trace of his wry grin, instead a sneer of contempt distorted his visage.  Gandalf’s whisperings were having effect, though, as the sound of wood clattering on stone evidenced the draw of his spell, rapidly pulling his staff back, but not yet in hand.

Then Ardugan’s form stopped, shuddering as if in some internal conflict.  The sword rose and fell, legs started forward then halted.  His face writhed in indecision.  But the eyes told more, flashing from red like hot coals, back to pale blue, then red again. 

“Gandalf! It is Ardugan, seeking to gain control of his body from His possession!”

The wizard paused from his incantations.  “The spirit of Sauron is weakening, stretched thin and beyond with the battle to the south and the death of the dragon.  I must have my staff! The time is right for his banishment!”

But the staff was not quite yet at hand and Ardugan’s form pressed on, nine feet, eight feet, six.  He was raising the black sword for a killing blow.  Aranarth, wincing in pain from any pressure on his ankle, began to drag Gandalf back, trying to buy time til the staff joined its master.  But he stumbled and fell.  Ardugan paused now, a gleam of evil triumph from his crimson eyes, the sword beginning its downstroke.

Suddenly another convulsion wracked his body, the sword was stayed, the eyes flashed back to bright blue.  Ardugan smiled enigmatically, wistfully almost, at Aranarth, just as Gandalf’s staff reached his outstretched hand.  But before the wizard could act, Ardugan  turned and thrust the heavy black blade point first square in his chest, then fell forward, insuring its full passage through his body.

There was a great howling, thunder rumbled, lightning flashed violently.  Swirling winds blasted through the open spaces under the dome.  A fiery glow enveloped Ardugan’s fallen form, red mixed with black, boiling, fuming. 

The tip of Gandalf’s staff quickly began to glow, the white light pressing in on the ball of flame emerging from Ardugan’s body.

“You have no where else to go Sauron! Your beasts are defeated and your power spent! Begone this place! Return no more!”

The wind rose to a mighty gale.  The swirl of crimson and black rose high into the dome, retreating against the light towards an opening in the peak of the vault.  A final angry voice rasped over the mountaintop.

“It is only the beginning Olorin! Enjoy your peace for the while.  There will be little left to chance when I return!!”

Gandalf raised his staff high.  The white glow filled the space under the great rotunda.  There was a flash of red light, a deafening clap of thunder.  Violent gusts of wind tore through the dome, reaching a crescendo, then suddenly fell away, whirling towards the east under a tracery of lightning. 

A few yards from where he stood, leaning heavily on his staff, he saw Aranarth kneeling at Ardugan’s side.  The wizard made his way over.

The sword in Ardugan’s chest was broken, shattered into bits by the passage of Sauron’s spirit out of his body.  It would slay no more.  Nor would Ardugan, whose chest heaved spasmodically, blood swelling from a gaping hole where the blade plunged close to his heart.

“Only way…had to drive him out…” Ardugan struggled to speak.

“Quiet, brother…we must tend to your wounds” Aranarth replied softly, concern etched upon his face.

“No…no…too late.  You know it true” he coughed, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth.

“Your spirit was strong, Ardugan” Gandalf spoke quietly, gently brushing his hair back from the man’s forehead. 

“Arthed…tell Arthed…” Ardugan coughed, then gasped, his right hand gripping Aranarth’s arm.  The moment passed as he struggled to speak again.  Aranarth placed his finger over his brother’s lips, bidding him to be silent, to conserve his remaining strength.

“I will tell Arthed that only the true son of the king could have such courage as yours.”

A smile crossed Ardugan’s face as tears ran from the corners of his eyes, blue, large, and wide open.  He made to reply, lips opening to speak.  Then it was as if he saw something far, far away, beckoning, calling him.  His head rose slightly, the smile broadening as if he beheld a long awaited welcome to a home that he had always imagined but never lived.  Then the eyes closed, his head gently returned to the floor and a last long breath sighed out of his broken body. 

                                                             Aftermath and Reunion

As Ardugan passed on beyond the vale of living men, so did others leagues to the south on the edge of the forest.  Mardil’s cavalry had quickly regrouped after the ruse of the swifts.  The center formations now charged hard against the Eastern barbarians.  Flanking wings, once little more than random bucking stallions, now swept towards panicking orcs, milling confusedly a hundred yards outside the arms of the forest.

Beneath these charging hooves the lives of many orcs and Easterners were snuffed out.  Fully a third of their numbers fell.  The forces of Dol Guldur lay stunned and wounded on the plain.  Gondor’s cavalry had passed roughly through their ranks, now taking position between the disarrayed orcs and men and the walls of the forest. 

But it was not another charge that came to pass.  Instead the horsemen spurred their mounts on, parallel to the forest at first, then carving a great circle around their prey.  Faster and faster they rode, forming an impenetrable barrier of flying hooves between the beleaguered forces and the dark forest’s sanctuary.   

Now it was slaughter.  The riders pulled lances from their deep leather pouches.  Angry arms hurled pointed death at hapless targets, one after another.  As the orcs and Easteners fell, the ring gradually tightened.  High above another death rained down as the eagles dropped from the skies.  Each selecting their marks, they struck with violent speed, pointed talons tearing at the faces of Zeorn’s wolves, blinding them, ripping flesh away in ragged clumps.  Horribly wounded, the bleeding beasts howled their agony, then attacked at random, seeking retribution for their pains, inflicting further chaos on the shrinking ranks of men and orcs, within which they were trapped. 

Drazakh was no fool.  His dark gimlet eyes surveyed the scene before him.  To the south, the orcs, fractious and disorganized at the best of times, had lost all semblance of battle discipline.  The riders were quickly cutting them down.  A few minutes and they would be a pulpy memory under the hooves of the big steeds.  His own men had paid dearly.  The surprise charge and the hail of lances from the encircling cavalry had reduced his effective force to about two hundred.  With the circle narrowing, the riders were now three, four, even five deep where once they were strung out in single file. 

“Bavuk!!  Zeorn!!” he roared above the shouts and cries of the battlefield.

The short swarthy form of his subcommander appeared, blood oozing from a gash in his face and a puncture wound in his thigh.  The Wolfmaster followed soon after with a handful of wolves in his trail, whining and snapping.

“We must attempt a breakout now or die on this plain!  Zeorn , “Are these whelps still fit to fight or are their tails stuck between their legs!”

Zeorn glowered at him.  “They are all that remain unblinded…and they will fight!”  He turned and emitted a harsh inhuman cry while savagely kicking one of the wolves.  They backed off a bit, snarling, showing their teeth, eyes lit with anger.

“Good! Now, Bavuk.  Quickly, get as many of the lances as you can.  I don’t care if they are still stuck in living flesh, just get them!  Form the men in the grazkk, lances on the outside.  Zeorn! Bavuk’s men will charge, hurling the lances.  Men and horses will fall.  Those behind them will charge into them, stumbling and falling.  Let your wolves make for their intended prey.  Before they can close the circle again, many may escape to the forest’s edge!”

In moments they were ready.  The Easterners had coalesced into a tight wedge formation, the grazkh.  Bavuk shouted the order and they moved en masse directly towards the cavalry thundering past, still hurling fresh lances.  Then at once they released their own darts.  Horses and men screamed as the spears found home.  Swiftly moving horsemen immediately behind could not stop and plowed into their badly wounded comrades, trampling some.  The handful of wolves made their charge, some leaping onto struggling horses, others ripping at the throats of dismounted cavalrymen.

With a roar the men in the grazkh formation surged forward through the temporary gap in the cavalry encirclement.  Ten, twenty, thirty were through, pressed on by the desperate mass behind them.

But now additional cavalry were streaming in, part of the inexorable circle of hooves and armor.  Just over fifty had made the breach when a wave of horsemen closed the gap, crushing dozens of bodies along with any hopes of escape.  The noose was closed again.

A battle signalman rode up breathlessly to Mardil, astride his mount on a slight rise, looking down to the north on the doom his men were about to deliver.

“Steward! A small group has broken through, making for the forest!”

He looked to the skies.  It was getting dark, the light fading fast now.  He could just make out the retreating flight lines of the eagles as they soared north away from the battlefield.

“Let them go…we have other matters at hand.”  He turned to Perrian, “Finish it captain…and take care that no others see the light of day tomorrow”

The Steward’s face was cold, grim, implacable.  Perrian saluted and rode out into the circling ranks, shouting orders to unit commanders as they passed his position.  A savage roar burst out from the throats of the horsemen, none of which had any desire to be encumbered by the useless baggage of prisoners slowing them down on the way home.

Something caught Mardil’s eye far to the north, a flicker of light, the distant rumble of thunder.  The wind gusted up suddenly on the plain, dust swirling.  Then the rains came, gentle at first, increasing steadily to a downpour, drowning out the cries of the orcs and barbarians as they met their fate.

----------------------------------------------------****----------------------------------------------

The same heavy rains pelted the dome atop Dol Guldur, spilling in through the dome’s opening to the sky at its pinnacle, pooling on the floor below.  There four figures hovered about the still form of a fifth, eyes closed, a peaceful smile gracing his face.

“Is he…? “Arahael whispered, still catching his breath.  Yards away the young drake he’d slain was twitching its last in a widening pool of its own blood.

Aranarth looked up at his son from his kneeling position beside his brother.  The scowling, grim countenance had retreated to grief’s advance.  Tears glistened, tracking down in ragged tracks through his unshaven face. 

“He is gone, Arahael….”  He replied hoarsely, throat caught with loss.

Gandalf rose slowly as Haldir approached quietly, sensing the need for the men of the Dunedain to have some privacy.  The wizard gestured that they step aside to speak.

“We can do no more for him, Haldir.  But the others need our aid” He pointed to Hagar, still insensate at the far wall, Arthed, struggling to get to his feet, Eradan, sprawled near the body of the great wolf and Drianna, face tight with pain as she managed to a sitting position despite broken legs.

Dusk met the rainy night as wounds, both physical and emotional, were bound as best as could be managed.  Gandalf spoke a few words and the tip of his staff began to glow as it had during the fight with the spiders.  This time around there was little fear of discovery with Sauron’s exit. 

Just as the last shred of gray light left the sodden sky the form of an eagle glided in low and sure from the south through one of the open arches of the rotunda.  Circling once over their heads, it confidently luffed its wings, scattering drops of rain, picking a landing point next to Gandalf.  The wizard went to one knee beside the raptor, it beak still red with the blood of the wolf it had torn into a half hour before.  He nodded silently in response to its series of low whistling cries and keyas.  A growing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.  He reached into the small pouch slung over his shoulder, extracting a small piece of parchment, a stylus and a length of blue ribbon.

He inscribed something on the paper, then wrapped it securely within the cloth strip and bound it about the eagle’s right talon.  A whisper to the eagle and the great bird launched itself upward wheeling about the dome once, twice, building speed, before making exit to the blackness of night and rain through the same southern arch it had entered moments before.   

-----------------------------------------------------***-----------------------------------------------

They spent the night in the sorcerer’s lair, not by choice, but by necessity.  Battered and bruised, laid low by serious wounds and the loss of life, they were in no condition to attempt a descent of the Stair in the depths of the stormy night.

Dawn broke clear.  The night’s weather had retreated over the eastern horizon. The sky molted from black to purple, then to a deep azure as the sun rose bright and true.  A freshening wind from the northwest flushed the stench of the dead reptiles from the dome.

Aranarth’s massive stocky form was framed under an east facing arch as he stood, brooding, arms folded.  He had been there for hours, unable to sleep after wrapping his sprained ankle sufficiently to bear weight. 

The others had wakened, stiff and sore.  Drianna had slept little, her legs wracked in pain.  Arthed shared her fate, face drawn and haggard, shoulder rent and torn from the drake’s savage attack.  Hagar had come to with a ferocious headache, but otherwise intact physically.  His face told another story, older suddenly, soberly assessing the twisted remains of the dead drakes sodden in sticky pools of their own blood. 

Eradan was at his sister’s side, stoically ignoring his own bruises and aches, which were legion.  Haldir and Gandalf were amongst them all, tending to wounds, whispering encouragement, readying all for the descent.

A figure approached Aranarth hesitantly, sensing the man’s solitude, respecting his thoughts.

“Join me son…” Aranarth’s voice took him by surprise, he was still thirty paces away.

“How did…” Arahael started, now within reach of his father.

“I know the rhythm of your step, son.  You will see, now that it is your time.  The Wild teaches you lessons about sound and smell, light and shadow.”

“The others will soon be ready, father.”

Aranarth now turned.  The face was unfamiliar, not the unusual scowl or grimace of disapproval.  His heavy square jawed countenance was a curious blend of sadness, acceptance and quiet satisfaction.  Something had been lost, yet another gain had been made that settled a deeper hole within him.  He laid a meaty palm on Arahael’s shoulder, drawing him close.

“You have done well son.  Soon you will be Chieftain of the Dunedain.”

Arahael’s eyes widened, his mouth opened as if to respond, but Aranarth interrupted, bracing his hands on his son’s shoulders.

“Listen to me.  I have followed your progress from the earliest days at Rivendell.  Though I was long absent, there was little that I did not know.  Your training was proscribed from the beginning to set you on the lonely path that is your destiny as it has been mine.  Doubt cloaked you when we left Lord Elrond’s sanctuary.  You had not been tested, yet you were in the company of those who had met and overcome adversity.  The true test was not of sword and blood, but of besting yourself, casting aside doubt and acting when action called.  None will follow a man who has not first met the trial of his own making.”

For the second time Arahael saw tears well up in his father’s eyes as the man clasped him  and hugged him close, then stood apart from him, an unaccustomed smile upon his face.

“You will have a son some day.  I feel it though I am no wizard to know all.  The boy will be proud of his father.  And his grandfather will abide with him in the years to come, reminding him of his heritage, the duties that he will inherit from you, and the strengths you have.”

Now it was Arahael’s turn to blink away the moisture in his eyes.  Still Aranarth spoke.

“Let us join the others as you bade me.  Save the elf and the wizard you alone still bear full strength and it will be needed if we are to make our way safely back.”

Arahael nodded in assent and the two of them walked away from the open arch, back into the heart of the dome where preparations were underway.

-------------------------------------------------****----------------------------------------------------

It was the better part of the day for them to make their awkward descent down the Hidden Stair.

Eradan and Haldir took turns carrying Drianna, her broken legs painful and useless.  Hagar served to support Arthed, still swaying with the pain of his ravaged shoulder.

Aranarth insisted on taking Ardugan’s still form, heavy over his powerful shoulders, ignoring the pain of his wrenched ankle, though little begrudging Arahael’s frequent assistance.  Gandalf took the lead, still wary of what remnant orcs might cause trouble.

But of orcs there were no sign and by mid-afternoon they had reached the base of the Stair, tired and worn.  As the lasts of the steps slid invisibly back into the rocky face, Haldir paused, lifting his head, sensing the air, scanning the eaves of the forest which crowded close to the side of the mountain.

“It is different, though only a day separates our passage at this point.”

Indeed, although the signs were small, they were significant.  The greasy black lianas with the ghostly blossoms hanging from the trees were beginning to brown and curl.  The vines were drying in gray patches.  The slimy molds and mosses were sloughing off the trees and rocks, plopping noxiously like dead limbs as they hit the forest floor. 

“Bereft of His presence, many of His unnatural creations now lack the ability to survive”  Gandalf observed

“Then we may yet see the return of Greenwood’s glory” Haldir replied, optimism in his voice

“It is too soon to tell, Haldir’, Gandalf cautioned, “Much harm has been done and not all evil can be expunged.  Some things of His may find sufficient purchase to last well beyond the reach of His power.  It may be many a year before these woods are a place of welcome.”

Aranarth approached the two of them, favoring his one good ankle.

“We have not the strength to reach the first dolmen before nightfall” His voice betrayed an unaccustomed resignation and weariness.

Gandalf well knew of what he spoke.  Arthed was slumped on the ground, back propped up awkwardly against the rocky flank of the mountain.  His face was ashen, his tunic wet with blood still seeping from the deep bite wounds the young drake had imparted.  Eradan knelt beside Drianna, utterly spent, having carried her limp form down the entire Stair.  Thanks to a hastily conceived potion by the wizard and Haldir, she had settled into a temporary sleep, her face no longer framed in pain, just lolling amidst her red and gold tresses, now in total disarray.

Arahael stood watch over his fallen uncle, whose dead countenance bore the simple bliss of an unknown hand of welcome from beyond this world.  Hagar stood by Arthed, his eyes still not fully focused, his concussed head still spinning from the impact of the dragon’s mighty tail that had hurled him across the dome.

“We have but to reach the main trail, Aranarth, through the passage your brother Arthed hacked yesterday afternoon.  Help is on the way even as we speak.”

“Help? What help comes to our aid in this dark corner?” he replied tiredly.

“Come, gather the others.  Trust in the good fate your efforts have borne.” Gandalf smiled and gently pressed his hand on the grizzled chieftain massive shoulders, beginning to sag with accumulated grief and exhaustion.  Aranarth nodded absently and hulked off to the others.  Slowly they gathered themselves, then made way single file through the narrow passage until they reached the relative openness of the main trail along Dol Guldur’s western side.

For a moment they stood there, those that could, looking expectantly in Gandalf’s direction.  Then Haldir perked up, eyes alert to the south where the trail tunneled off to the south into the gloom of a Mirkwood afternoon.

“Something comes.”  The elf went to his knees, gingerly pressing his ear hard to the coarse gray grass. “Horses…at least two score, moving fast, less than half a league away!”

Aranarath and Arahael drew their swords.  Eradan released Crusher from its position strapped to his side.  Hagar, still dizzy, managed a long knife, his black sword destroyed the night before.  Haldir, though, stood unarmed, a smile broadening on his face.

“This is no time for mirth Haldir” Aranarth growled.  “Draw your sword.  We can scarce defend ourselves as it is!”

“It is not defense that beckons, Aranarth.  The signature gait of these steeds is that of Gondor, its cavalry at full gallop.”

“Haldir speaks true, Aranarth,” Gandalf replied, “Put aside your weapons lest you alarm the Steward’s personal guard.  Look…down the path!”

It was a smudge of milk against the dim gloom.  Then larger, a creamy shifting blur that resolved itself into an advance guard of charging horses, snowy white, with men in silvered armor and flowing capes.  The ground shook with the pummeling of the hooves.  Aranarth sheathed his sword, the others following his example, as the first of the riders arrived.

Their faces widened in astonishment at the entourage before them.  An old bearded man in a pointy hat, a blond haired man of the north, an elf, cool and appraising.  Then the others, an older man clad in light mail over leather, glowering at them, standing next to a younger man with auburn hair, similarly clad.  On the ground next to them the still form of another.  Then to the rear they spied two more, a man, bruised about the face, clad in nondescript clothing and mail, kneeling next to the silent form of a young woman with golden hair streaked with crimson.

“Eradan!” the lead rider cried, quickly dismounting and running to his side, ignoring the others.

The Steward’s son looked up, managing a small smile in a face cast with exhaustion and concern.

“Pellor…how…”

“The Steward received word at nightfall, a message borne by an eagle.  We have ridden a good ten leagues through this cursed forest.  Your sister…she is…?”

“Badly hurt, but sleeping for now thanks to the arts of Gandalf and Haldir.” Eradan nodded in their direction. 

Now the rumble of a larger company of cavalry shook the earth.  Eradan looked back along the trail to see perhaps forty riders, armored and caped as well, the Steward’s personal guard.  A familiar face was in the lead, grave, aristocratic, clearly in command.  The man reined in his horse, signaled to several in the party, then dismounted and strode over.  Eradan rose to greet him.  The two of them embraced briefly. 

“I had despaired of ever seeing you alive again, son” Mardil’s voice was husky, tight with emotion.

“Had I but followed your command to stay on the west bank of the Anduin those many weeks ago you would have scarce need of despair.  And Drianna would be happily hunting boar in the White Mountains.”

“Do not scourge yourself, Eradan.  An old evil has been driven out of these lands, at least for the while.  Perhaps it was your fate to be lured into his trap, forcing us to take action.”

“Fate has been costly, father.  My men are dead.  Drianna’s legs broken.  Ardugan has fallen, his brother Arthed grievously wounded.”

“The Surgeon and his attendants are seeing to them even as we speak, Eradan.  We have several horses rigged for the wounded, others for those able to ride on their own.”

Indeed the area was a beehive of activity as the Surgeon directed his men to put fresh dressings on Arthed’s seeping shoulder.  Another applied salve to minor cuts and scrapes on Aranarth and Arahael.  Hagar’s scalp, crusty from dried blood after the spider attack, received a cleaning and fresh bandage.  Ardugan’s still form was reverently carried off to a horse with a framework specially designed to carry the honored dead.

The Surgeon himself worked on Drianna, cutting away her leather trousers, examining the breaks in her legs, which were now swelling ominously.  Mardil and Eradan joined him, noting the concern etched on his face.  Two attendants arrived with splints and wrappings.  Another brought small jars of ointments and a cloth roll containing a series of sharp knives and other implements.  The Surgeon rose and spoke to the Steward and Eradan.

“Two breaks in her left leg, one in the right, all clean.  But hours have passed since the injury.  We can splint the legs well enough and the bones should mend, but steps must first be taken to reduce the swelling.  She will wake to pain and it will not soon leave.”

“Make it so, Surgeon, we cannot tarry here long.  It will be at least two hours ride returning to camp.”  Mardil ordered.

A figure approached the Steward, clad in his characteristic cloak and pointy hat.

Mardil stared for a moment as if recalling a memory from a time long past.

“Yes, we have met, Mardil” Gandalf commented as he stood before them, seeming to read the Steward’s thoughts.

“It was long ago.  I was a young man then and you were paying your respects to the court of the king, one of many that day.  You seem little changed for all the time that has passed.”

“Time seems to spare me, though the times themselves often do not.  But this is a good day.  I prayed my message would reach you safely and events would allow you to respond.”

“Thanks to your plan the field of battle was ours.  Only a few stragglers escaped and the forest will not be a kind refuge.”

“You will be heading south upon our exit.  My companions must make for the north.”

Mardil nodded.  “I have given this some thought.  Other than my chief captains and members of my personal guard, none know the full depths of this plan and the true nature of the evil that has been banished.  They think that we have caught the rogue orcs and men that captured Eradan and killed the traders and soldiers.  They will rejoice at Eradan’s return, but I have no wish for them to know of your mission.  Times are still tenuous in Gondor and my authority is not gladly accepted by all, particularly those who were strong allies of the last king.  The thought that He was lurking so close to our north at a time when the Witch King bides his time to the east…the people need no more news to trouble them.”

Gandalf nodded in assent. “If you can provide horses and provisions, we can make our way along the forest’s southern edge, then bear north, making for the river and the crossing below the Carrock.”

“It will be done.  I must also make plans to have the Surgeon take Drianna back to Gondor by a route separate from our main cavalry force.  Her presence would be difficult to explain.”

Mardil then paused for a moment, as if catching his breath, now noticing other details about him, with the fate of his son and daughter secure.

“Your companions…” he nodded in the direction of Haldir, Hagar and the Dunedain of the North.

“Haldir is Marchwarden of Lorien.  The young long haired warrior is Hagar, son of Breor, chieftain of the horsemen of the far northern reaches of the Anduin.”

“Well does Gondor know their people.  Their aid over a hundred years past may have saved the kingdom.  Frumgar’s departure for the north left our northern flanks bare, though we at least still maintain trade and contact with them.  And of the others?”

“The others are also men of the north.  Come, I will introduce you.”  Gandalf escorted Mardil over to where Aranarth and Arahael stood silently next to the body of Ardugan.

“The fallen one?” Mardil inquired of Gandalf.

“Ardugan, youngest of the three brothers.  Arthed is badly wounded, but will recover.  Aranarth is the eldest, standing with his son Arahael.”

Mardil approached Aranarth.  Clad in his cape and silvered armor he felt a stark contrast with the man before him, iron haired, built like an oak, clad in old leathers and light mail.  The face bore lines of grimness, determination, and defiance.  Steely blue eyes smoldered under heavy dark brows.  The younger man next to him was different, exuding the beginnings of quiet authority and an educated upbringing.  Yet the two seemed close, bound together.

“My condolences for your loss.  I am Mardil, Steward of Gondor.”

“I am Aranarth, son of Arvedui, chieftain of my people.”

“Arvedui…last king of the northern realm of Arthedain?”

Aranarth nodded curtly.

“But he is dead nearly 90 years.  You could scarcely be more than sixty”

Aranarth’s face momentarily hardened, his eyes flashed anger.  Then it passed and he spoke distantly as if telling a tale in an empty room.

“Sixty…when I was just past twenty I rode with the host that destroyed Angmar’s army to the last orc.  At sixty I was the father of a young son taken to Imlandris.  Seventy…high on the side of a mountain watching your father, Vorondil, and his hunting party.  Eighty, behind a column at the far end of your court, observing you as the young Steward advising an already impetuous prince Earnur.  One hundred years…wandering in the wilds of Minhiriath while king Earnur challenges the Witch King.  Now one hundred thirteen...

Aranarth’s voice trailed off.  He gave Mardil a long look then resumed.

“My father claimed the throne of Gondor.  Your grandfather, Pelendur, rejected his claim, though Arvedui…and I…are of direct lineage from Elendil the Tall.”

Mardil made to respond, to cite the ruling of Pelendur, that Gondor was to be ruled by the heirs of Meneldil.  Arnarth held up his hand, knowing what he would say.

“Well do I know Pelendur’s reasoning.  My father spoke often of it…but in his heart knew that Gondor would not relinquish the throne to a distant king of a fragile kingdom, no matter what the lineage.  Such a thing cannot be claimed by mere birthright.  It must be earned.”

Aranarth turned, looking at his son for a moment standing beside him.  Warmth, sadness and pride crossed his face as he collected his thoughts amongst the debris of memories nearly a century past. Then he returned his attention to Mardil.

“Like your son Eradan, my son is strong and brave, and well tutored in the history of this land.  Would that I could leave him a kingship.  But fate has dictated otherwise and he, like me, will spend most of his long years in the empty northern lands.”

“He will be welcome in my house, should his travels take him south” Eradan interjected.

“The Steward’s son will find that his hospitality will be honored, though my visits may be long scattered amongst the years to come” Arahael replied quickly.

“It seems our sons have plans of their own” Mardil smiled wryly

“Well they should if they are worthy to succeed us” Aranarth concluded. 

There was a sudden bustle of activity about them.  The Surgeon has done his work, the Steward’s personal guard were ready to mount the companions and Ardugan’s body on the backs of the spare horses.  The afternoon was waning and they were eager to depart.

Mardil turned to Aranarth.

“Aranarth.  Would you accompany me as we exit this dark wood.  I would here more of past events of the north, the battle with Angmar.  Much of what I know is from the dry scrolls of historians.  Only you and your brother yet live who have witnessed these past hundred years.  I would value the measure of your experience.”

“As I would the challenges of your Stewarship” Aranarth replied equably.

Arahael and Eradan exchanged smiles.  Then the company mounted their horses.  Arthed and Drianna gently eased on their steeds, Ardugan’s body carefully reposed on a small platform firmly fixed to the largest of their horses.

And so they exited the forest, the two older men absorbed in conversation of times past, events present, and the world yet to be.  In their wake Eradan rode close with Drianna, Hagar with Arthed, Arahael beside his fallen uncle, and Gandalf with Haldir.

Late in the day they emerged into the plains of the Brown Lands.  Mardil sent a small scouting party south to the encampment of his main force, just over the horizon five leagues away.  Word was passed that the Steward and his guard would pass the night at the edge of the forest, joining the rest of the cavalry just after daybreak.

Long into the night Mardil talked with Aranarth, then took words with Hagar, inquiring into the affairs of the horse people who now called themselves Eotheod.  Later he spoke with Haldir, conveying his respects to the Lady of the Wood. 

In the morning they all began their separate journeys.  The Surgeon and a small guard took Drianna west, heading to the Anduin where they would turn south and cross the great river, eventually arriving quietly at Minas Tirith.  There Drianna would complete the long healing process, the story told of a near fatal fall while hunting in the White Mountains.

Mardil would counsel his guard not to tell of the curious group of companions they encountered in their foray into Mirkwood, only that they found Eradan held by a small guard of orcs who were quickly dispatched.  Gondor’s cavalry was overjoyed at the return of the Steward’s son later that morning.  Mardil would address them all, telling only that Eradan’s original force had been wiped out to the last man weeks ago, leaving his son as prisoner.  He congratulated them on sealing the fate of the rogue group of men and orcs that had committed the deed. 

Then they made their way back through the Brown Lands to the crossing at the Undeeps.  Soon after, Mardil began to exchange his cavalry with the forces manning the outposts.  The first at the most northern fortresses, then positioning men near the Emyn Muil, followed by a larger group at Cair Andros.  The remainder of the cavalry that had made the journey to the edge of Mirkwood was dispatched to duties along Gondor’s eastern and southern borders.

The cavalrymen told stories as soldiers do.  The stories grew of their journey, the defeat of the orcs and men, and of Eradan’s almost miraculous recovery.  The tales also grew apart, becoming so embellished and divergent over time as to blur the truth.  By the time their distant tours of duty were up and they returned, the events were in the past, and their telling regarded more and more as campfire stories.   It was as Mardil had planned.  For he had no desire to make known the true nature of the threat that had lurked in Mirkwood, nor the risk inherent in the plan or the participants in its success.     

He bade no official record be made.  Of events, he and Eradan would demur when asked, only saying that Mardil’s journey to the edges of the kingdom had fortuitously brought the opportunity for his rescue.  In time their reserve in the manner dissuaded further inquiry and of the stories that circulated they would only smile.

To the north, a small detachment of the Steward’s guard accompanied Gandalf and his party to the small grove where the horses still waited with the bodies of Balas and Ensil.

They were returned to Gondor and quietly interred in a high cemetery above Minas Tirith reserved for Gondor’s fallen heroes. 

The others continued on to the north, crossing at the Carrock.  Here Haldir bade them farewell and returned to Lorien.  Hagar too made his parting, riding north to the land of his people between the Greylin and Langwell.

Gandalf accompanied the Dunedain to Rivendell.  Here Arthed received additional ministrations, hastening the healing of his badly mauled shoulder.  Arahael arrived to find that Oriel had given birth to a daughter.  But their stay was short, as Aranarth was intent on the task of taking Ardugan to his final resting place.  

And it was some days journey to that spot, the Rendezvous, a place secret, yet familiar to the privileged few who knew of it.  As in years past they entered through the door under the waterfall, using the curiously fashioned knives to turn the tumblers of the locks.  Near the pool at the base of the springs Aranarth laid his brother to rest, Arthed and Arahael joining him in paying their last respects as Ardugan slept in the place his father had reserved as ‘a place for kings and their sons’. 

Leagues to the east, over the Misty Mountains, past the banks of the Anduin, another had been set to rest, days past.  She had arrived in the clutches of the chief eagle, Aquilar who had flown all night after the battle with the bats.  The other flocks, raptors, starlings, swifts, had all made way west from Mirkwood towards Lorien, guided by the light of the great lamps in the high trees.  There they had fed again on elven provender, mustering energy for their departure north, back to their traditional territories and nests.

An older man in a brown cloak had faced the great eagle.  His shoulders were slumped, eyes welling with tears, barely able to meet the hard gaze of the magnificent bird.  Thoughts were exchanged, both sharing a deep loss that one so small and peaceful by nature should pay such a price.  Then the raptor left, soaring off into the morning sky for distant aeries to the west, high in the ramparts of the Misty Mountains.

She had been his favorite of all.  Loyal, selfless, pure hearted…and now dead for heeding his call in time of need.  The avian hunters, hawks, kestrels and the rest, he knew, had little sentiment in them and would quickly resume their ways.  The starlings would gather in their flocks, like vast schools of fish with no singular personalities or presence.  But for him the little swifts were individuals who he could see and who could see him, particularly Apodidie. 

Though the mission had been a success, evil driven from the forest, Radagast felt that he had failed.  As a Maia of Yavanna he was committed to the plants and creatures of the world for their own sake.  Having involved them in the affairs of men had been uncomfortable at best, and now the price paid within his own soul bore a guilt that was too great.

And so he withdrew into himself, staying deep within his small refuge in Rhosgobel.  Though surrounded by the great trees, birds, and other living things, his sense of purpose began to erode, and along with it the subtle projection of the power he had with living things. 

Far too the south, there were others with little remorse over the outcome of events.  Survival left little time for it.  Fifty or so in Drazakh’s breakout group had escaped the doom of their companions cut down to the last by the vengeful cavalry of Gondor.

But escape from one death only opened the door to another for most of them.

They had headed east along the southern marches of Mirkwood.  But it was an inhospitable wood, made so by His works.  Little game and what of it was vile tasting as were the plants.  Within a few days the inexorable pressure of hunger and thirst drove them to the base savagery of killing each other for sustenance.  This included two wolves that had survived the charge through the ranks.  Though in this instance their first meal was Zeorn who had made the fatal error of competing for a scrap of meat they had managed to secure after the slaughter of one of the wounded men.

By the time they reached the eastern fringe of the forest days later there were only two left, Drazakh and Bavuk.  They were no strangers to cannibalism. In their harsh home land, winters often required the thinning of their tribe so that what little there was to eat could be spread over fewer mouths.  And so they made their way out into the empty plains beyond Mirkwood, eastward towards their distant home, heavily laden with what limbs and organs they favored from the bodies of their former companions.  Of their destiny this tale does not say.

The two wolves had been driven off after turning on their master.  Lean and hungry they instinctively made their way back to Dol Guldur, making meals of the orcs and men who had begun to drift away once the magnitude of the defeat had become clear.  Then they ranged further north, meeting other wolves, mating, gradually spawning a more intelligent, vicious breed of canine that would eventually evolve into the wargs of the late Third Age.

The forest itself would partially heal, freed of the oppressive presence of His power.  The foulest plants and molds would fade, decay, and die.  The trees at the margins of the wood would return to fuller life, though deeper in the forest another more sullen breed would persist.  The outlandish creatures He had bred quickly died in their cages for lack of care by the small force of orcs and men that abandoned Dol Guldor.  But the spiders seemed to thrive without Him, spreading north, and in time infesting a goodly part of the forest.

And of the bobcats little is known.  They were not seen the morning after the battle with the drakes atop the mountain.  Hunters along the northwestern edge of Mirkwood in years to come would share tales of pairs of eyes in the night, one green, one gold.   The next morning they would find the twisted remains of a large spider just paces from their camp.

In time the sightings grew infrequent, then ceased altogether and the tales faded.  Time claimed them as it eventually claimed all.

                                                                                  Epilogue

T.A. 2106

It was as close to the edge of the precipice as the horse would go.  But Arahael could see clearly enough now.  Far below, the fresh mound of earth parted the waves of thick dark grass that thrived on the natural spring water spilling from the face of the cliff.  Beside the mound he could barely make out the gentle swell of two earlier graves, almost fully absorbed in the heavy green growth.

He pulled the grey woolen cloak tighter about his head and shoulders.  The wind driven rain was changing over to sleet, a cold sting on his weather-beaten face.  It would turn to a heavy snow overnight, covering his tracks.  

The horse was restless, impatient, standing in the building storm.  But Arahael was not ready to go, not just yet.  He had learned patience and endurance the last fifty years.  It showed in the lines in his face, the gray that had spread through the ranks of auburn hair of his youth, and the eyes that had faded to ashy blue. 

It was his third visit to this place.  He had come with his father and uncle years ago to bury Ardugan who had fallen while saving their lives.  Twenty years later another meeting with his father to bury his uncle, Arthed.  And today, finally, the father was laid to rest with his two brothers in the only place they truly belonged together.

Fifty years.  Now he knew the look in his father’s eyes when they had met at Rivendell before embarking on their journey. 

He would outlive them all from those days, at least those that were mortal. 

Hagar, the boastful young man with the black sword had become a capable chieftan after his father, Breor, had died forty years ago. 

Arahael had made way to their northern realm as he did every several years, the last visit just a few summers past.  Hagar had grown old, his hair long and white, leathery face lined with wrinkles, but a man still hale and full of gusto.  His people prospered, their farms productive, the corrals with their beloved horses straining to contain the spirited colts. 

The old chieftan had died last spring, so the word came.  His eldest son now ruled, a stocky, serious man who had abided their stories and tales cordially enough when he visited in years past.  He would not be unwelcome should he visit again, but the son was a hard, practical sort and saw Arahael as a wanderer, bringing neither trade nor wealth. 

To the south, Eradan was Steward of Gondor, for over 25 years now.  As in the north, Arahael had made it his business to visit this southern kingdom on occasion.  He remembered one of them, over twenty years ago, just after Mardil had passed. 

It had been a warm reunion.  Eradan, his wife,and  a son, Herion, a somewhat distant, haughty young man.  Drianna had recovered from her wounds and had chosen to stay with her brother in Minas Tirith, her hunting skills now applied to ferreting out conspiracies at court, grilling emissaries from the lands to the east and south, and traveling about the kingdom as a valuable set of eyes and ears sensing the pulse of the people.  She had not married, wedding herself instead to the governance of the land and the welfare of its people.

It had been five years since that last visit.  The two of them had already aged, Drianna’s golden hair mostly grey and white, the red streak faded to a dusky amber.  Eradan bore the look of an older man, though his eyes were still full of intensity.  It was a contrast with his own looks, which were slow to change, as was the way with the line of the Dunedain. 

Herion, had since grown into full manhood.  There was something brisk and cool about him.  Perhaps it was a suspicion about Arahael’s motives for visiting, some unfounded fear that he would make some claim to the throne based on birthright.  Or just jealousy that his father should have such warm regard for someone in a past the son could not share.  Whatever the reason, he knew that his welcome would be perfunctory at best once Eradan and Drianna had passed. 

Haldir, the elf, had retreated to Lorien.  He’d heard no word of him since.  Gandalf, he had encountered from time to time, sometimes unexpectedly in the wild or during one of his visits to Rivendell to spend time with his son, Aranuir.  The old man had not changed.

Neither had Elrond or his daughter Arwen.  He remembered her playing with him when he was young, then her doing much the same with his son born over twenty summers ago.  Others would follow down the years, babes growing to youths, becoming men, aging, dying. 

His father, Aranarth, had spent his last years in Rivendell, the old man mellowing a bit, telling tales of a lost kingdom to his young grandson, Aranuir.  They had made a few forays together into the wild, once to the borders of the halfling land, another time south along the flanks of the Misty Mountains.  But mostly the work had fallen to him, occasionally accompanied by one of Arthed’s sons when traveling south and east of Bree.

This was especially true after the death of Arthed ten years ago.  His father’s last surviving brother was the final link, the last man alive with whom Aranarth could share a past long dead to other men.   After that the old man had withdrawn, spending most of his time in solitary contemplation or in the library at Rivendell, hunched over parchments, pen in hand.

And now he too was gone.  And taking with him the memories of the final days of the Arthedain, the last kingdom of the north, the battle with the Witch King, the arrival of Gondor’s mighty host from the sea, Rivendell’s victory charge.   

A fresh gust of wind sprayed a wave of sleet against the sodden cloak.  Arahael tightened his grip on its margins, hunkering slightly in the saddle.

The time spent with his father in the task at Dol Guldur had brought them together after a lifetime of distance.  He had been fortunate to experience an echo of the man who when young, was a prince in waiting, a king designate.  Also lucky to have had the chance to participate in such a challenge to his skills as was the journey to Dol Guldur, and the benefit of friendships forged with others from distant lands.

There would be no such times for his son, Aranuir.  They now called it the Watchful Peace in the halls of Rivendell.  He should have felt some pride of authorship in such a grand title.  After all, it meant a period of restoration, breathing room for elves in their sanctuaries, dwarves delving into the earth in the far north, men building lives in the upper reaches of the Anduin and in the halls of Minas Tirith not far from the River’s exit into the Bay of Belfalas.

But there was no satisfaction.  He had a son waiting for him on the Greenway, a young man filled with the history of his people, the stories of his now dead grandfather, and the skills of elven warriors and woodsmen.  Energetic, intelligent, earnest, full of promise.

And what did he, Arahael have to offer him?  A kingdom? A great challenge, a quest? The company and respect of men from other lands?

No, there was no realm, no quest.  And the bonds he had forged at Dol Guldur would die with the men of that time, as they already had done with Hagar’s departure.  The same would soon be true with the eventual passing Eradan and Drianna.

His father’s task was to assuage the grief of his own loss; the death of his own father, Arvedui, a kingdom vanished, his own son borne to fostering at Rivendell, the passing of his wife, mother, and brothers.  Yet Aranarth was still strong enough to bind all of this into doing what must be done to allow his own son to have his own life, whatever future it would hold. 

But whatever the price for this, at least the old man had experienced something of a time now gone that he, Arahael, would not have, nor would his son, Aranuir, and those to follow, as far as he could see.  And in that, his task was the harder, finding the means to keep some measure of the fire burning in this worthy son of his.  And it would not come just from idle dwelling on lost kingdoms and bloodlines of the past, though the past was important in framing the future. 

No, it would be on what was, the new life of the Dunedain of the North, one of limits, loneliness, and hardship, maintaining the living link to kings long dead in the event that they might be called on in some distant future time to assume a role larger than chieftan of a scattered people in an empty land.  That was what was in his father’s eyes, the sadness, not over what he had lost, but for the task his son and other descendants would have to continue.

Snow was beginning to mix with the sleet now, wet flakes splatting on the side of his cloak, chilling the flanks of his restless horse.  Arahael opened the saddle pouch on his right, drawing out a package wrapped in fine linens. 

He propped it in front of him, on the pommel of the saddle, slowly parting the folds of the cloth to reveal six beautifully crafted knives with curiously serrated edges.  Even in the gray light of early winter under a cloud filled sky the polished steel gleamed with a life of its own.

Aranarth had given them to him the day that the two of them had buried Arthed.  No words had been exchanged.  He knew then that the decision of their use was his to make as his father would never set foot alive in the place again.  But later he had asked Arahael to bury him there, next to his brothers.  That he had honored, alone, this wet and cold late November day.

Unlike his father, it was not a place for him, belonging to another time, ‘a place for kings and their sons to meet and talk’.  That was the quote his father had repeated in his last days.

Nor was it a place for his son.  He and Aranuir would have to do with what was, with the life they had and would have, however spare and uncertain. 

Arahael looked again at the small oval of the Rendezvous far below him, the freshly turned earth, under which his father slept, the thick green grass now frosting with sleet and snow. 

One by one he removed the knives from their linen cradle and tossed them down, twirling, glinting, through the pelting ice and whirling snowflakes towards the small pond where the silvery spring water collected at the base of the cliff.  A glimmer as each they sank to the bottom after sending up a triumphant last splash.

Then it was done.  He wrapped the linen carefully, compactly, and stowed it back into the saddle bag.  A weight lifted from his heart, one he did not know was there.  The reins tightened in his hands.  His horse sensed the time for movement again and began to back away from the precipice.

His eased his mount along, making way through the windswept bare trees towards the west.  A smile creased his face.  In an hour or two he would meet his son who would be grousing about the cold and wet, the lack of provisions, why indeed they were even here in this wild and empty land.  And he would explain, teaching him, preparing him for his time, beginning the patient process of setting expectations so Aranuir in turn could do so for the son he would have some day, and the sons to follow.

This is what a Chieftan of the Dunedain did, what his son, and those to follow would do.   

The snow picked up in intensity.  It would be several inches deep in a few hours.  Behind him the trail, and history, were disappearing forever under a carpet of white.  Ahead he now knew his father’s way.   

-------------------------------------------------*---------------------------------------------------------

Author’s Note

The event of Gandalf driving Sauron out of Dol Guldur in T.A. 2063 is mentioned by Tolkien in his Appendices. 

Nothing is said of how this was accomplished.  So, it left an opportunity to develop a full length book about one way it might have been done.  Hence creating the Testament of Aranarth that would be the basis for a story of this event.

As to the characters in the story.   Many were taken directly from the Appendices and Genealogies.  Mardil was Steward of Gondor at the time.  His son Eradan succeeded him.  No mention in the Appendices of any siblings for Eradan was made, though I felt that it was not unreasonable for him to have brothers or sisters.  In this case I invented his sister, Drianna, to play a significant role in the story.

As to the Eotheod, Fram and Frumgar are mentioned in the Appendices.  Beyond that, the genealogy of this northern people, who would later migrate south to Gondor’s northern borders as the Rohirrim, is silent on Fram’s descendants.  I invented Breor, son of Fram and Hagar, son of Breor. 

Haldir, Marchwarden of Lorien, is mentioned in Tolkien’s writings. 

In the Appendices and other writings, Aranarth is said to have had siblings when he fled Fornost as the Witch King’s armies approached.  I named two of the siblings, Ardugan and Arthed, and gave them roles in the story.

Gandalf, Radagast, Elrond and his children, Elladan, Elrohir and Arwen, are familiar figures.   The use of the various species of birds as part of a ruse to trap and destroy the bats and deceive Sauron’s forces was my invention.  I hope readers enjoyed it. 

This will likely by my only work for the Stories of Arda site.  If you have any questions on the story, the characters, or other aspects of the tale, just leave a comment in the review section and I will be glad to respond.

Many thanks to those who have left reviews and questions.  Nothing appeals to an author more than to be read.  And from the hits on the site and comments made, it appears that my tale has appealed to some.  Glad to have shared it with you.