The Enchanted Forest began on the other side of the Gate of Night. The ground had been cleared for a bow's length, (a Numenorean bow's length) on either side of the road which was further protected by two rows of tall taniquelasse trees with silvery bark and clouds of large hand shaped leaves, pale green above and white below. Centuries of leaf-fall lay in drifts beneath the trees and on the white stone of the road; rose red, primrose, ivory and fire orange.
Gil had stationed Dan and Beomann on either side of the gate to repeat the same warning over and over again to each party that passed through; "Don't leave the road for any reason. There are things in the wood left over from the Dark Years, and some from the Great Dark before the Sun and Moon. But don't be afraid, as long as you stay on the road you are safe."
"But will they listen?" Beomann had wondered pessimistically when Gil assigned them the task.
"I think so." he'd answered grimly. "They have spent their lives on the border of the Land of Shadow and know only too well the tricks and deceptions of the Enemy."
Certainly Beomann saw no doubt or question in any of the Gondorim's suddenly paling faces, eyes darting nervously to the dark verges of the forest behind the protective screen of the Elven trees.
They moved faster than had been their wont as well, and the midday break was shortened from three hours to one without Gil needing to ask.
"Even so we will not make Annuminas before nightfall." he told the Captains of the Guard Companies as the rest of the train ate their uneasy meal. The Men exchanged worried glances. "But we will reach one of the protected wayhouses with time to spare," Gil continued reassuringly, added ruefully, "though we have a far larger company than it was built to hold. Still there should be room enough for the Women and children, and we Men will keep a careful watch." smiled suddenly. "We are, all of us, only too accustomed to bad nights in dark places."
Beomann saw uneasiness give way to determined answering smiles from the Guardsmen and turned away to hide his own grin. Good old Gil. Hadn't he once inspired a huddle of Breelanders to stand their ground against Barrow Wights? Putting heart into experienced soldiers was child's play in comparison. ***
The big stone wayhouse had more the look of a fortress than an inn with its narrow, high set windows and corner towers. The ground for a bow's shot all round was enclosed by a ditch and earthen rampart with the dark forest trees crowded right up against them.
As Prince Elemmacar had feared the house was barely large enough for the Women and children, even with the stables, storehouses, yard and enclosed garden all pressed into service. The animals were picketed on the side nearest the road with the bulk of the wayhouse between them and the forest and the tents of the Men filled the remaining ground.
The Prince stationed three sentries every fifty feet on the rampart itself and behind it had kindled a ring of bonfires, also fifty feet apart each with a watch of twenty men around it.
Siriondil, Captain of the First Company, observed these preparations with some alarm. "My Lord, you seem to expect an attack in force."
"I fear it," the Prince answered grimly, "so many Men will be a sore temptation to the Houseless."
Siriondil exchanged a stunned look with Hirgon, then said cautiously. "Houseless, my Lord, you mean the spirits of dead Elves?"
The Prince nodded. "Dark souls who serve the Shadow. There are many of them caught in the trammels of the Forest. Unbodied they have little might, not even the power of terror that our own Dead wield, at least not against Men. But not all are bodiless, and they have their allies among the Forest's other prisoners, the beasts and even the trees."
"That's encouraging." Hirgon muttered, a little to loudly.
The Prince heard and gave him a smile like the King's in its sudden radiance. "Fear is their chief weapon, and a blunt one against Men who survived the Pelennor Field and the Black Gate." ***
It was the seventh hour of the night when a sentry on the rampart caught a glimpse of light moving through the woods. "Hist, look there!"
All three Gondorim peered into the dark under the tangled trees. The light came closer, emerged from the wood and three breaths caught.
A tall figure, luminous with his own light, pale hair shining on his shoulders, clad in glimmering white, stood on the far side of the ditch with a small band of other Elves, every one fair as the moon and stars on a cloudless night, at his back. Bright eyes looked up at the Men on the rampart as their owners smiled and beckoned.
But these were soldiers of Gondor. Strongly as the desire to obey that summons was they remembered their orders and stood fast. The senior of them, Hirgon's sergeant, fumbled for the horn at his belt with leaden fingers.
Then a black arrow clove the air beside his head and buried itself in the broad breast of the lead Elf. But instead of falling he changed suddenly, horribly; withering into a gangling near skeleton with dead white hair, clad in dirty rags.
The thing uttered a shriek of rage, or disappointment echoed by his followers, now as hideously changed as he, and all turned and fled into the shadows under the trees.
The sergeant blew his horn, then turned to see who had fired the arrow. The stocky, brown haired Ranger stood there, a second arrow nocked on his short black bow, eyeing the Gondor Men with approval.
"Gil was right about you folk," he said, "you do know all the tricks."
Before the sergeant could scrape up an answer to that Captain Hirgon had arrived, and the Northern Prince with him.
"They just cast their lure." the Ranger reported crisply. "I put an arrow in one. They know they've been found out."
Elemmacar nodded, eyes on the trees. "Call your Men up, Captain."
The sergeant blew another call on his horn, and this time it was taken up by others down the rampart. A few moments later the Men who had been watching by the fire below, joined them on the flat top of the grassy bank and the quarter of the company who were awake assembled below and behind them. Torches were lit and hung from iron posts spaced along the rampart, dyeing the Gondor Men's armor and the blades of sword and spear red-golden.
There was a breathless pause - then things came out of the Forest, surging across the ditch and up the outer slope of the rampart: small, knarled, wood goblins with huge, palely glowing eyes; great black cats, bristling and snarling; and tall, cadaverous undead in the decaying remains of ancient armor wielding jagged, broken blades.
The archers had time for only one volley before the enemy was upon them and then it was cold steel against the grasping arms and gnashing teeth of the goblins, the swift razor sharp claws of the cats, and broken, time blackened swords wielded by skeletal hands. But swords proved of all too little use against the mummified flesh of the revenants.
Hirgon was but one who found himself locked in seemingly hopeless combat against an undead foe who took killing wounds without a flinch. The Man gave ground reluctantly, trying to hew the sword arm from his enemy's body but his strokes blocked by a riven shield.
Then, unexpectedly, the undead stiffened and fell forward, body disintigrating into dust as it hit the ground, and *something* fled shrieking into the night under the trees.
At that same moment the entire enemy force, goblins, cats and undead, suddenly turned and fled leaving the Men battered and breathless, but victorious. And Hirgon found himself looking over the crumbling, empty armor of his erstwhile foe at the Ranger Beomann calmly resheathing his sword.
"How?" He panted.
"Magic." the other replied with a quick grin. Then more seriously. "Ranger swords are spelled to slay such things. I take it you don't get many undead in the South?"
Hirgon shook his head. "Is it otherwise here in the North?"
"Oh yes." Beomann said grimly. "What with Wights and Swamp Walkers and Houseless we're just crawling with the things."
"That makes good hearing." the Gondor Man said drily.
The Ranger's eyebrows lifted slightly. "From what I hear your part of the world isn't exactly clover and cream either."
"True enough." Hirgon conceeded. But he was begining to wonder what sort of place this Lost Realm truly was with its shining white cities, and its ruinous ones. Its haunted forests and its silent guarded folk.
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