Chapter 27. Ride to Rhudaur

The stars were in the midst of their nightly dance as the great elven horse emerged from the hidden valley. He tossed his head, eager to run, and Glorfindel laughed and patted the gleaming neck. ‘Would you run all the way to the king of Rhudaur, Assilim?’ he asked.

The Thorn chuckled at the resounding snort. ‘At this rate we’ll be back in time for tea,’ he said.

 ‘Let us indulge him, shall we?’ the Elf-lord said, and gave the great horse his head. Assilim leapt forward as if to catch the wind, and ran so smoothly that it seemed to the hobbit that they were flying. For a moment he clutched more tightly at Glorfindel, but soon relaxed again, settling into the rocking motion. As the stars wheeled overhead the ghostly horse floated down the long slope to the Ford.

The Thorn awakened from a half-dream as the horse slowed, then stopped. ‘Are we there?’ he said sleepily, blinking in the dawn light that turned the silver horse to rosy-gold.

 ‘We have reached the Ford,’ Glorfindel answered. He spoke to Assilim with words that flowed as swift and smooth as the river at the bottom of the steep slope, and the horse picked its way carefully down the winding path to the bottom. He lowered his head to drink, then stepped delicately into the water, stopping to splash with a front foot.

 ‘No time to play, Assilim,’ the Elf-lord said. The horse snorted and tossed his head then plunged deeper. The stream was swollen with runoff and Glorfindel lifted his feet from the stirrups, bringing his knees up over the cantle of the saddle as the water rose above the horse’s belly. Deep and swift and icy the current ran, brushing the hobbit’s toes before the horse began to climb again.

 ‘You call that a ford?’ Thorn said.

 ‘It is the only crossing for miles,’ Glorfindel answered. ‘The river runs quite deep and swift along its course.’ He settled his feet again in the stirrups. ‘How about breakfast?’ Thorn obligingly dug waybread from the saddlebags and passed one wrapped bundle forward, munching absently on another as he took in their surroundings. Half-starved, exhausted, having barely escaped death, he’d not noticed much when they’d passed through the Ford on their way to Imladris.

Assilim snatched several mouthfuls of grass from the riverbank and then walked along the path, looking alertly about. They covered the flat mile between Ford and hills and entered a deep cut that rose before them. The horse lowered his head to climb the steep incline.

‘What makes the stone red?’ Thorn asked, looking at the steep moist walls to either side. He inhaled deeply as the scent of pine surrounded them, and looked about as echoes multiplied the sound of the horse’s hoofbeats. He relaxed again, seeing no hunters of Rhudaur surrounding them.

 ‘Iron in the rock,’ Glorfindel answered. Emerging from the tunnel of rock and overhanging trees, they came to a grassy place. The Elf-lord spoke softly to the horse and slid from the saddle, lifting the hobbit down, then slipped the bit out of Assilim’s mouth. ‘We’ll let him graze,’ he said. ‘It is a good place to rest before going on.’ They walked slowly along the Road, listening to birdsong and the tearing, chomping noises of the grazing horse.

Finally Glorfindel slipped the bit back into Assilim’s mouth, lifted Thorn into the saddle, and settled lightly behind him. ‘You may ride ahead of me now,’ he said. ‘There’s more to be seen now that the Sun has risen.’

 ‘Not to mention I make a good shield,’ Thorn replied. ‘Should we encounter hunters of Rhudaur, that is.’

 ‘I shan’t mention that,’ Glorfindel said. He leaned forward to speak to Assilim and the landscape began to flow past them once again, forest interspersed with grassy places. Forested hills arose on the north side of the road, and occasionally they passed sturdy walls in good repair, or a frowning fortress upon a hilltop. ‘Lords of Rhudaur keep the Road for their king,’ Glorfindel said. ‘They know better than to challenge an elf-horse, however.’

 ‘How do they know?’ Thorn asked curiously.

 ‘It is probably the bells on the harness,’ Glorfindel answered, ‘or it might have something to do with seeing one of the Firstborn on the horse’s back. Though they see us but seldom, they still tell many stories about the fearsome Elves and their enchantments. We have not disillusioned them, and so they leave us in peace.’

 ‘Ah,’ Thorn said wisely. He had seen few enough Men so that he did not know, yet, how they differed from Elves. Big Folk all, and tall they were, and the Men he had seen in Rhudaur had worn chain mail and helms on their heads, making it difficult to see their faces. Truth be told, he’d paid little heed to the Men he’d encountered, his gaze caught instead by the tips of the arrows pointed at the People in deadly menace. Their voices had been harsh, he remembered, not like the music of the Elves’ speech, but he could not recall a single countenance.

Several times they passed patrols of mounted guardsmen, or farmers or woodsmen driving carts along the road, but Glorfindel neither slowed nor stopped, breezing past the open-mouthed Men they encountered with no more greeting than a raised hand. ‘We seldom travel the Road so openly,’ he murmured in Thorn’s ear. ‘Since Arnor broke herself into three pieces, the kings bristle at each other across their borders and look with suspicion at travellers.’

When evening came, Glorfindel guided Assilim off the road and into a sheltered dell. ‘We’ll rest here tonight,’ he said. ‘None will disturb us here, and on the morrow we will take the northern road to the capital.’ He hung a nosebag of oats on the horse and settled to the grass, pulling out a silver-studded leather flask, extending it to the hobbit. ‘A drink,’ he said, ‘and a mouthful of food, and then it will be time to sleep.’

Thorn knew the drink well; a mouthful refreshed him and made the waybread that followed taste like a feast. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That is just what was wanted.’ There was no need for conversation; they’d made their plans before leaving Imladris. When finished, Thorn stuffed some dried sweet fern into his pipe and smoked it. ‘All the comforts of home,’ he said.

Glorfindel nodded with a smile. He had tried smoking, as had many of the Elves, but found no satisfaction in it. If he wanted to breathe smoke, he’d sit by the hearth of a windy day. Mithrandir, on the other hand, had taken to the new pastime, and was often to be found, when in Imladris, smoking and talking with the Fallohides. He rather wished the wizard had accompanied them on this journey. ‘Time to sleep,’ he said now, though he did not need sleep the way a Man or Hobbit did. ‘Tomorrow will be a busy day.’

Thorn’s pipe was finished. He tapped it out and put it back in the pouch that hnng from his neck. Pulling his cloak tighter about him, he yawned and stretched himself upon the grass, falling quickly into slumber.

****
 
Thorn arose early to wash his face and shake the leaves from his cloak. His fingers lingered in the soft material. How much his People had lost in their years in the forest! His mother was the only remaining Fallohide who remembered the old skills such as weaving and cheese-making, though in the months at Imladris she’d been passing her knowledge on to the rest, and they’d learned much of the Elves as well. Writing, now... there was a gift indeed. Even when the storyteller passed out of the world, his words would remain for future generations.

Thorn thought again of all they had lost, the stories, the history of the People... He determined that in the new land they would no longer live as wood spirits, but as people once more, raising crops, weaving cloth, blessing the land and being blessed in return. And they would keep records, writing down the names of those who came into the world that they might not be completely lost when they left it again.

Assilim grazed nearby. Thorn walked over to the great silvery beast. ‘Every time I see you idle you are eating,’ he said, patting the nose Assilim pushed into his hand. ‘Are you certain you’re not a relation of mine?’

 ‘He is indeed,’ Glorfindel said, returning to the dell. ‘Stout-hearted, clever, loyal, true... and always ready to eat.’

 ‘As am I,’ Thorn said. He had taken their breakfast from the saddle bags while waiting for the Elf-lord to reappear, and the twain sat now to their meal in comfortable silence. When finished, Thorn dusted crumbs from his fingers and stretched.

 ‘Are you ready?’ Glorfindel said.

 ‘There’s no time like the present,’ Thorn said.

It was a curious thought to the Elf, and he put it away for later consideration. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘The king has heard of us journeying in his land, and a large body of mounted Men awaits us on the Road.'

 ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Thorn said, scrambling to his feet.

 ‘What, and interrupt your breakfast?’ Glorfindel said.

 ‘You have a point,’ the leader of the Fallohides said. Glorfindel saddled the horse while Thorn slipped the bridle over the conveniently-lowered head. When finished the hobbit rubbed his fingers along the great jaw and the horse stretched out his neck, lower lip hanging loose in delight as he abandoned himself to the caress.

 ‘You have him eating out of your hand,’ Glorfindel said.

 ‘In the new land there are hobbit-sized horses,’ Thorn said. ‘ “Ponies”, I think Gandalf called them.’ He smiled absently as he combed the long forelock with his fingers. ‘Someday I hope to own one.’ He looked up. ‘Well, then,’ he added more briskly. ‘Standing here is not getting us any closer to the new land.’

Glorfindel lifted Thorn to the saddle and settled himself behind the hobbit, then spoke to Assilim. The horse moved out of the dell, slipping like a mist through the trees to the road. Thorn heard them before he saw them; harness jingling as impatient horses lipped their bits, stomp of a restless hoof, Men murmuring and falling silent at a sharp command.

 ‘We are come, Captain,’ Glorfindel said as Assilim emerged from the trees. ‘Take us to your king.’

 ‘This—is what you’d bring the king? This—vermin?’ the captain of Men said in shock. ‘I thought we’d exterminated them all!’ Evidently the hunters had lost all memory of the encounter with Mithrandir and the rescuing Elf-warriors, or had not reported the encounter.

 ‘This is the king of the Halflings,’ Glorfindel replied calmly. Though Thorn was prepared for the phrase, it still gave him a turn to hear it. He’d never met a “king” and wasn’t sure he wanted to be called such. He did not want to be classed with the ruler of the Men who’d slaughtered so many of the innocent and helpless among his People.

 ‘Ah,’ the captain said, outrage turning to something more sinister, dark satisfaction perhaps. ‘You bring my lord a great prize, a fine head for a trophy, and give him the pleasure of taking it himself.’

 ‘My business is with your king,’ Glorfindel said, and though his voice was mild to Thorn’s ears, the Men before them quailed. Thorn wished he could look behind him to see Glorfindel’s face, but that might spoil the effect the Elf-lord was making, so he settled for sitting as tall as he could, lifting his head, his face grim and determined. ‘Lead on,’ Glorfindel added. The captain stammered a reply, jerked at the reins of his horse, and shouted to his Men.

Though they began the journey to the city surrounded by mounted troops, Assilim slowly moved forward until he led them, tossing his head and breathing steam in the early-morning air. He pranced along the road, a glorious sight, tossing his long mane and prancing, showing off for the farmers and cotholders they passed while the captain pressed his troops to keep up.

Thorn looked about them as they rode. It seemed to be a well-ordered country. Not long after they turned off the East-West Road, passing between two of the great hills with their frowning bulwarks, the forest gave way to a rich valley, dotted with stone houses. Cattle and sheep grazed in lush grassy meadows; farmers were already out in the fields ploughing; bright laundry hung from lines in the yards and smoke rose from chimneys, a homey sight. Many of the lanes leading from road to farm had painted signposts with names and decorations: Sunnyview, Hillsdale, Singingbrook. On a hill ahead of them he could see many buildings inside encircling walls—a city, Mithrandir had called it. A great stone keep crowned the hill. That was where they’d find the king.

The hobbit stiffened as they rode past a lane that ran from road to farmhouse, a lane decorated with more than name and painted picture. A small skull was perched atop the signpost. Glorfindel said nothing, but his hand tightened on Thorn’s shoulder. As they drew closer to the town, more skulls were to be seen. One farmstead had a skull atop each fence post along the road, a boast of the farmer’s prowess at hunting, perhaps.

People ran and shouted, pointing as they rode into the city, falling silent as they approached. Thorn could not know it, sitting before Glorfindel on the saddle as he was, but the Elf-lord’s face was terrible to behold. Assilim no longer pranced playfully but jogged along, his neck curved, with rolling eyes and nostrils red and flaring, ears pinned back, striking out occasionally with his forefeet as if ready for battle. Thorn stared straight ahead of him, but could not help seeing the small skulls decorating doorposts and gardens.

They followed a road that wound around the hill, passing through gates at every level. ‘An imitation of a greater City,’ Glorfindel murmured in the hobbit’s ear.

 ‘The decorations as well?’ Thorn said grimly.

 ‘No, I believe those were additions by this people, perhaps at the behest of their king,’ Glorfindel returned. His tone was light, but Thorn fancied he could hear a distant rumble of thunder and smell a sulphurous fury building. They said no more as they passed the final gate, riding into the courtyard of the king of Rhudaur, grim guardsmen moving to surround them as Assilim halted before the keep, half-rearing, tossing his head, and whistling defiance.

Thorn felt much the same.