Chapter Three: Forces of Evil

In the forest east of Gondor, between that land of peace and the still-foul land of Mordor, two warriors rode side by side through the slowly gathering twilight.  Neither spoke - indeed, neither had voiced so much as a single sound for some hours.  On occasion, one would glance at the other, but no other communication occurred.  None was needed.  Both warriors simply followed the trail that lay before them, a trail marked by broken twigs, slight footprints, and marred sections of undergrowth.  To the untrained eye, the path was all but invisible.  To Aragorn and Legolas, however, it was as plain as a city street.

Without warning, one horse slid to a halt, followed quickly by the other.  One of the hunterst listened, and the other waited.

“Yrch.”

The single word, though spoken in a voice so low it was nearly unintelligible, seemed to echo in the still forest.

Suddenly, Legolas dropped from his horse and handed the animal’s reins to Aragorn.  Without another word, the elf sprang into the branches of the nearest tree and vanished among them.

Aragorn, unsurprised by this rather sudden move on the part of his friend, remained still and silent on the ground.  His thoughts, on the other hand, were neither still nor silent within his head.  His memory flew back fourteen years, to a fateful night when his daughter was but a year old - the night she was crippled forever.

The images still burned painfully in his memory - Dómiel lying in a crumpled heap just outside the wall, her feet bent almost double beneath her from the force of her fall, her face twisted into a mask of pain and terror and confusion as she screamed.

 Daddy!

And far above, on the city wall, was Dómiel’s nursemaid, a single arrow through her chest.

An orc arrow.

A familiar fury built again within Aragorn’s heart and mind - a fury that rose as a physical burning within his chest each and every time he thought of his daughter’s handicap.  Now, his fury tripled in intensity as he thought of her captors and the harm they might be doing her.  As those who his rage should be directed against were too far for him to reach, his anger turned to the enemy that he could reach.

Orcs.

Instinctively, Aragorn’s hand clenched around Andúril’s sheath.  Any sensible man or beast who now spied the Ranger, hand on his weapon and righteous wrath in his features, would turn tail and flee in the face of this specter of judgment.

Legolas dropped lightly to the forest floor but a few feet from Aragorn, unmoved by the intimidating figure before him.  When the king did not speak, the elf questioned, “What do you hear, Strider?”

Aragorn had to forcibly rip his mind from his near-overwhelming thoughts of revenge to focus on forming the words to answer his friend.  “No danger save that which you have already found.”

“The party of orcs does not march in our direction,” Legolas reported.  “If this trail keeps to its present course, we should easily avoid them.”

“But why should we?” Aragorn asked.

“What?”  The slightest hint of surprise stole into Legolas’ features.  Aragorn did not fear battle, but it could not be said that the King of Gondor was reckless.  Entering into battle with a party of orcs the size of the one that now passed near them was beyond foolish - it could even be termed suicidal!

A battle-light crept into Aragorn’s eyes.  “Why should we shy from battle, Legolas?  We are each trained warriors, are we not?  We have a chance now to thin the ranks of our enemy, and to exact vengeance on them for the many wounds they have inflicted on us!”

Legolas’ mind, by now used to following the emotional paths in the minds of men - and dwarves - quickly discerned the root of Aragorn’s sudden battle lust.  Only a wound inflicted on one whom Aragorn loved would move the man to such recklessness.

“Aragorn,” the elf said calmly, using his friend’s true name purposefully, “revenge here will serve no purpose.  Even if we were to survive such a battle as you propose, our strength would be sapped, and we would have wasted even more of our precious time.”

Aragorn would not be swayed.  “It would be well worth our time if we were to slay even one more of those foul beasts!”

“And if you are killed in battle, what then?”  Legolas knew his words would cut deeply, but he pressed on.  “Who shall bear the news back to your wife that you died in glorious battle without fulfilling your vow to recover your daughter?  Who then shall remain to find Dómiel and carry her safely home?”

The fury in Aragorn’s spirit overwhelmed all rational thought, and, for a brief moment, it burned fiercely against his elven companion.  He began to pull Andúril from its sheath.

The moment passed, however, and Aragorn was forced to confront the painful truth in his friend’s words.  His mission now was not to slay orcs; his mission was to rescue his beloved daughter from the fiends who had abducted her.  He was letting his emotions rule him.

Legolas nearly sighed with relief as the vengeful light died from Aragorn’s gray eyes and he released his grip on his sword.

“You speak truly,” Aragorn said finally.  “Revenge shall wait.  We have wasted too much time here, my friend.  Let us ride on!” 

The fury still burned within Aragorn’s heart, but the king kept the anger locked there, deep inside.  Save your anger, he instructed himself firmly.  You shall need it soon enough.  Wait...wait.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The following evening

“Strider.”

Silence was Legolas’ only answer.  The elf sighed.  “Strider.”

Still, no answer returned to him.

“Aragorn, we must halt for the night.  It has become too dark for even elven eyes to follow the trail.”

Aragorn obediently drew his mount to a standstill, but still refused to reply.  He knew in his mind that his friend was, once again, correct, but his heart drove him on.

“Strider?”

Finally, Aragorn turned.  “I am loathe to spend yet another night sleeping peacefully while my daughter...”  He could not bring himself to complete the sentence.

“You can not help her if you lose the path,” Legolas chided him gently.  “Besides, you are in great need of rest, my friend.”

Unable to deny either of the elf’s statements, Aragorn reluctantly turned back and followed his friend off to one side of the trail.

“I shall stand the watch tonight,” Legolas stated in a tone that brooked no argument as the two men halted beside a massive oak tree.  “You need rest.”

Aragorn grumbled a bit, but could not find grounds to argue the point.  He knew all too well just how long elves could travel without sleep.  Aside from that, his body clamored for rest.

After a quick meal of lembas, Aragorn laid out his bedroll among the roots of the oak tree and bade Legolas goodnight.

“Sleep well,” the elf replied.  “You shall need your strength.”

“I shall sleep quite poorly, I fear,” Aragorn commented.  “My mind can not rest ‘til she is safe.”

“She shall be safe soon,” Legolas vowed.  “Now, rest.”  His tone made it an order.  With that, he sprang into the branches of the oak, leaving Aragorn on the ground with the horses.

Aragorn had to chuckle – it had been so long since anyone had given him an order.

But even knowing that Legolas’ keen eyes kept watch above him, Aragorn’s sleep was uneasy and punctuated by mocking nightmares and images from the past.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

No other man could have said what awakened Aragorn later that night.  Indeed, all Aragorn himself could have said was that an elven sense awoke him – an instinct gleaned from his many years as a Ranger and an elf-trained warrior.

Whatever awakened the Ranger, however, instantly sent alertness coursing through his veins, and he sprang to his feet, loosening Andúril in its sheath.  Silently, he scanned the surrounding forest, searching for the cause of the disturbance.

“Strider.”  Legolas’ voice floated down, so soft that Aragorn was forced to strain to make out the words.  “I was about to awaken you.”

“What is it?” the man asked, with perfect faith that the elf had already identified the threat.

“Warg.”

The simple word sent a shiver down Aragorn’s spine.  This close to Mordor, the old evils still ran amok.  He had expected this, and the band of orcs they had nearly collided with the day before had warned him, but he had still entertained hopes of avoiding wargs.  Even two seasoned warriors such as Legolas and himself stood little chance against a large pack of the bloodthirsty beasts.

Abandoning his post among the roots, Aragorn clambered up the giant oak.  Legolas met him about ten feet off the ground.

“Not bad climbing - for a man.”  Though danger approached, the worriless side of the Eldar shone through in the good-natured verbal jab.

Aragorn, however, refused to allow his mind to stray from the task at hand.  “How many?”  He spoke so softly that even another elf would not have heard him, unless that elf perched as close as Legolas now did.

“I have only located one,” Legolas replied, almost as softly.

“A scout?”

“More likely an outcast.  I have not spotted any signs of a pack in the area.”

“Perhaps.”  Aragorn remained skeptical - wargs rarely traveled alone.

Several minutes passed as the two warriors remained crouched on branches high in the oak.  Neither man nor elf made a single sound as they concentrated all their minds and bodies on listening.

Finally, Legolas snapped to full attention, bow seeming to fly into his hand.  “It has scented us.”

A moment later, Aragorn, too, could pick out the soft sounds of the warg’s travel as the beast picked its way toward them.

A scarce two minutes later, both warriors could pick out the warg’s shadowy form, circling the tree.

“I will draw him to you,” Aragorn volunteered.  Before Legolas could protest, he dropped easily from the tree - but landed awkwardly and collapsed onto the ground.  Slowly, he stood, placing all of his weight onto his left leg and balancing himself against the tree with his left hand.

The warg locked its beady eyes onto the dark-haired man.

Aragorn’s breaths began to come faster, and the hand resting upon Andúril’s sheath began to tremble.

The warg charged.

Aragorn’s vision narrowed; his eyes filled with the horrifying sight of roiling black fur, razor-sharp teeth, and horrendous, glinting eyes.  Somehow, he stood his ground.

The warg’s muscles coiled on its final stride as it prepared to spring.

Without even a hint of warning, Andúril flew from its sheath.  Now standing firmly on both uninjured legs, Aragorn whipped his blade in a tight arc, aiming for the beast’s throat.

Exhibiting unnatural reflexes, the warg leaped aside quickly enough to save its life, though Andúril still scored a gash down the beast’s side.

Growling in frustration, the warg began to circle around the suddenly uninjured warrior.

Aragorn stood his ground confidently, awaiting the familiar twang of Legolas’ bow, which would be followed by the warg’s final cry.

The sounds did not come.

Thinking that perhaps Legolas simply was unable to get a clear shot at the foe, Aragorn pressed the attack.  His blade flew through pattern after pattern, stinging and blocking as the Ranger strove to drive the beast into range of Legolas’ arrows.

Aragorn let out a slight cry of triumph as Andúril bit into the warg’s face, just below its eye.   He pressed his sudden advantage, swinging violently in an attempt to seriously injure the beast. 

Just as a swing passed beside the warg, however, it took full advantage of the miniscule pause and charged the human attacking it.

Aragorn clenched his jaw against the cry of pain that threatened to escape his lips as the warg’s razor-sharp teeth ripped a bloody groove down his arm.  Before the pain even registered, he dove to one side, escaping a second injury.

And still, no elven arrow rescued the Ranger from his plight.

Now lying flat on his back, Aragorn fought for his very life.  Time and again, the beast’s jaws snapped at his throat.  Time and again, he dodged or blocked those death-dealing teeth.  What seemed like hours passed as Aragorn and the warg continued this horrific dance which could lead to only one conclusion - death.

Without warning, the warg leapt backward, howling in sudden agony.

Aragorn sprang to his feet, ignoring the pain that shot through his body from the various cuts and bruises that now decorated his arms, face, and torso.  Before he had even stood to his full height, the distinctive twang of a bow being released met his ears, and the warg howled once more as a second elven arrow appeared in its neck.

A third time the bow of Legolas sang, and a third arrow appeared - this one embedded in the beast’s shoulder.  The warg threw its head back and screamed its pain to the stars.

In one fierce motion, Aragorn silenced the warg forever.

Silence swept back through the forest as the fire of battle died from Aragorn’s veins.

“Strider!”

Aragorn did not start, though the voice sounded from just behind him.  “Well shot, Legolas.”

“Though not quickly shot,” Legolas replied ruefully.  “Come.  You will wish to see this.”

Aragorn obediently trailed the elf around the massive tree.  Just around the trunk from where he had fought, he stopped, staring in disbelief at the ground.

There lay the still form of another warg, this one slightly smaller.  Two arrows protruded from the beast’s body, proving Legolas’ kill.

“Now I see why your arrows did not arrive with their usual promptness,” Aragorn commented without any trace of bitterness.

“I do not know why I did not sense the second warg’s approach,” Legolas said.  “By the time I heard its footsteps, you had already engaged the larger beast.  Had I not dispatched this one first, it would have flanked you and possibly injured you further.”

“You have no need to explain yourself to me.  I am uninjured, and both beasts have now fallen.”

“It is true that they have fallen, but you, my friend, are far from uninjured,” Legolas responded, a slight rebuke in his voice.

Aragorn turned his attention to the gash that ran the length of his left forearm.  Now that his thoughts had turned to it, pain flooded through the entire arm.  His reaction consisted of only the slightest of winces - so slight that it normally would have gone unnoticed - but Legolas’ elven eyes caught the grimace.

“Sit.”  The elf’s voice brooked no argument, so the man obeyed.

With the ease of much practice, Legolas dressed the wound with herbs and bound it tightly.  When he finished, Aragorn stretched the arm, testing its strength and range of motion.  “I remain fit to travel,” he announced.

“You would pronounce yourself fit for travel were your foot broken,” Legolas retorted.

Aragorn refused to reply, but the hint of a smile touched his face.

The two warriors sprang once again upon their mounts and, as the first rays of dawn lit the sky, they set back upon their trail.