Beta by the ever patient Theresa, sorry for the delay,  the gremlin that sits on the line between Theresa and me ate the Beta again!

Evensong 12

Scanned by a cruising hawk, Fangorn’s forest canopy billowed in seamless profusion, the only break in the tossing olive-green a groove cut by the Entwash. The hawk skated down the icy slipways of air, head turning, looking for an unwary pigeon, a blackbird seduced by rage at a rival - a sparrow too far from its flock.

A disturbance caught its attention, the trees moving against the wind-driven pattern, but no bird started, panicked, into the sky and the hawk flew on, angling its flight to be near the lifting air that spiralled off the mountains, and then it soared, lazy, on the downhill of wind that carried the hunter far without effort.

The forest margin came into view. The hawk floated on the edge on a thermal, intent, the camp of men on the very eaves of the forest deserving of his time.

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In a trampled circle of grass Earnulf, fighting on foot and encumbered by unfamiliar weapons and clumsy armour, found himself very tired of being cast as the orc.

Sweat trickled from under the ill-fitting helmet into his eyes; it stung.

He shook his head and tried to keep his tormentor in view. His opponent was much slighter, un-armoured and, by the Valar, older. He should be at Earnulf’s mercy.

Earnulf had taken note of Duilin’s sour expression at the beginning of this bout. The king’s bodyguard stood as close to his charge as he could without actually being in the demonstration ring with him.

Earnulf had thought that he would have to be careful to not hurt the King of Gondor. Now irritation was turning to actual red anger as Aragorn danced around him, always out of reach. The rider lifted the heavy hooked blade Gimli had cast for this demonstration - it tugged at his balance, and he lunged forward, finally spotting an opening.

Aragorn swayed away, as fluid as air, again.

Ignoring Earnulf’s yell of rage, the king used the flat of Anduril to add momentum to Earnulf’s clumsy charge, swept the legs out from under him and at the same time caught him in his middle with what felt like a knee.

Earnulf cartwheeled through the air, the circle of watchers scattering to avoid his flight. In the strange arrested motion of falling Earnulf glimpsed a hawk hanging silhouetted against the clouds marching across the sky, and then the rich earth of the plains came up to meet him with a force that knocked any remaining wind out of his lungs. Earnulf tasted the iron of blood in his mouth and then felt the now familiar prick of Anduril as Aragorn pointed variously to his kidneys, his neck, and his ribcage. Last time it had been his chest, his belly and his throat.

“Here, here or here.” Aragorn sounded mildly short of breath. “Orc armour was always weak at the joins.”

Earnulf wondered if air would ever flow back into his lungs. The thought of never leaving this comfortable mud appealed, as his diaphragm laboured his vision narrowed to a small circle. Oda beckoned behind his eyes, gentle and compliant, as he had never seen her in life. Finally his aching chest drew in a single huge breath and the racket of the day returned. He opened eyes he hadn’t realised he had shut

Aragorn was on one knee beside him, his expression slightly concerned.

Earnulf, mortified beyond expression, looked past the king and spotted a chortling group of his men watching from several paces off. Wind blew through the leaves on the massed ranks of trees framing them; it made a sound like distant, mocking, applause.

“Are you all right, Captain?”

Earnulf nodded, weakly. “Winded, Sire.”

Earnulf wheezed and Aragorn slid a sympathetic hand under his twisted breastplate. Earnulf felt the warmth of the king’s hand and his chest eased further, the intense pain fading.

“The best targets for arrows are here and here. “

 The lighter voice of the elf sounded behind Earnulf and Aragorn stood up, his face vanishing out of Earnulf’s field of view. The king’s worn and muddy boots stayed close by and Earnulf wasted just one moment on the fantasy of sweeping the king’s legs out from under him. The memory of Duilin’s obsessed face fortunately overcame his need for revenge.

Aragorn moved away and Earnulf, shaking his head, started to climb groggily to his feet. Legolas lent him a strong hand; Earnulf was astonished once more by the hidden power that the immortal held in his slight form. Earnulf pulled off the orc helm and started stripping the awkward armour from his body.

Legolas peered at his swollen lip. “Get that cleaned up, Earnulf, then come and join us.”

In the background Earnulf could hear Aragorn organising the remaining spectators into practice groups. Esgarth approached from behind the elf, looking far too cheerful for Earnulf’s comfort.

“Let me help you with that armour, Captain.”

Legolas ceded his place to Earnulf’s man, tucking his bow over his shoulder and striding off to join Aragorn.

Soon the armour lay in a pile at the captain’s feet. The smile faded from the sergeant’s face as his battered captain loomed over him, dabbing at his sore lip and swaying slightly. Earnulf handed the balding man the despised helmet and sword.

“Get kitted up, Sergeant.” Earnulf limped away towards the healer’s tent. “When I get back, you can be the orc.”

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Legolas joined Aragorn.

“You were hard on the lad.”

Aragorn took his eyes from the sparring men and eyed the elf. “It might keep him alive.”

Legolas looked at the king askance.

Aragorn sighed, waved his hand at Earnulf’s men, “They think he is invulnerable. With his size and the skills he learned from you, no one has taken him down for years.”

Aragorn turned abruptly and walked away from the fighting groups and nearer to the trees; with the ease of long practise he ignored Duilin’s stealthy shadowing of him. It hadn’t hurt for his bodyguard to see that the old dog still had a trick or two to his name.

Legolas walked with Aragorn, looking thoughtful. Aragorn stopped beside the beaten trail that was the path the orc-band had taken into the depths of Fangorn. The leaves of low growing shrubs and the trampled grass were blackened yet by their brutal passage.

Legolas cradled a broken branch in his hand as he looked into the forbidding tunnel of trees. No song welcomed him this time to the ancient forest. The active malice of the trees was clear as they mourned the violation. Radagast had vanished slipping between the dark trees and into the forest and was yet to return to Aragorn’s camp.

“Orcs, Legolas. Given any advantage they will slaughter these babes and innocents.” Aragorn waved back at the camp.

Legolas’ lip twitched. “They are seasoned troops, Aragorn. I think you do yours and Earnulf’s men disservice. Did we know so much the first time we faced orcs?”

“The bliss of ignorance. It is a wonder any of us survived.”

“Aye, but we hold Middle-earth, the orcs do not.” Legolas smiled at the king, moved away from the trail and leaned on the trunk of a tree that stood nodding to itself in the blustery wind. The elf closed his eyes, then looked round sharply.

“Someone approaches, the trees welcome him.”

Aragorn said, “Fangorn?”

The elf shook his head. “ I cannot say.”

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Quickbeam hurried, and that was no usual thing for an ent, even an ent as light-minded as he. The wizard had no difficulty keeping up, which, Quickbeam reflected, said more about wizards than was concealed in many a long tale.

Radagast’s staff suddenly shone brightly, a black branch that had been groping into their path drew back with the squeal of a nail wrenched from a plank.

“ The evil is so confident?”  Radagast made an tsking sound.

Quickbeam swayed and sang a restraint around the black-hearted grove, the saplings swayed away from him, creaking. The ent cast around briefly then spotted a half grown oak.

“Guard,” he sang, commanding.

Golden eyes opened just under the canopy, peering at the tree herder then resting on the wizard. The eyes blinked, and then turned their gaze on the renegade trees.

Quickbeam forged on, his slender body and supple arms weaving patterns like spells to open the way. Even the most quiet of trees loomed, conifers showered the travellers with needles, vines swayed, branches moved. The ancient forest was disturbed and aroused.

A herd of deer broke in front of them, fleeing for the forest margin. No other living thing did Radagast see, the inhabitants of the forest gone or hiding.

Groves full of chittering darkness came in ones and twos, then more often as they started to climb, negotiating the far-flung foothills of the vast, last mountain.

Both the wizard and the ent extended their powers, the air became so dark that Radagast could see the silver edge of his protective spell like a soap bubble, illuminating strange fungus’ that grew in profusion on the tortured wood.

The ent gasped. Silhouetted against the grey sky a remembered and treasured grove of rowan trees were being enveloped by strangling fleshy vines, only the shape of the trees visible under the green shroud.

“I cannot.” The ent warded the horror off with an arm cast over his eyes, “These are my friends. I cannot go further. They live yet, under that, that obscenity.”

Radagast lifted his staff and peered down the cliff face that dropped away from the ridge. A black mist shrouded the depths and repelled his enchanted light. The mountain at the head of the vale cast its solid shadow. Near its granite sides the trees diminished to shrubs as scree slopes of tumbled rock replaced the soil. A finger of congealed snow lay in the shade of a sheer face, pointing at the valley.

Quickbeam raised a silvery arm and indicated, “Treebeard is down there, somewhere.”

Radagast looked back at the ent, “We need the extra support Legolas can give us. He may be able to call many of these back from the dark. By elves in the distant past were they wakened. Only by an elf, failing Treebeard’s ancient authority, can we calm them.”

Radagast cast a shrewd look over the blighted forest then looked into the air above, turning in a full circle to take in the view.

Sunlight slipped between the moving clouds, dappling the forest that rolled away beneath them. Somehow the shafts all missed the shrouded valley at his feet.

Quickbeam moved nearer the afflicted rowan trees and started stripping the grasping vines from their branches, using violent, jerky movements.

Radagast took another look into the valley and then joined the Ent in his work. Where his staff passed the fleshy leaves curled into desiccated crisps, and the winding stems fell into powder, releasing Quickbeam’s friends from their suffocation.

Leaving the last of the uncovering to the ent, Radagast tracked the vine to the cliff top, and then sent a spell of destruction racing through the tangled lattice that groped up from the valley floor. Something like a heartened sigh lifted the air that blew from the vale.

“I must go and fetch Legolas. Will you stay here and watch, old friend?”

Quickbeam squeezed his shoulder with a hand that had many fingers. “For your assistance here I would wait a season, Aiwendil.”

Radagast harrumphed. “Nonsense, we should be back here by morning. If I can convince one of the feathered folk to fly here I will send you news.”

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Aragorn looked up from his lists - men, supplies, arms - as Gimli entered his tent.

The dwarf made eye contact with the king and bowed slightly, and then strode across the tent to help himself to a cup of ale. Aragorn was ever well supplied.

“Duilin said you had news for me?” The dwarf wiped a hand across his mouth and wandered amiably nearer to peer at the pile of scrolls littering Aragorn’s desk and battered old campaign trunk.

“Elfwine has sent reinforcements,” Aragorn held up a half unrolled scroll. “ They arrive at dawn. Telfaren brought the message pouch.”

”Telfaren,” Gimli exclaimed joyfully. “Where is the lad?” He peered around Aragorn’s tent as if the messenger might be conjured from under the king’s cot.

“I sent him to his meat. Would you join him?”

“Aye, he will have news of Gleowyn and the bairns.” Gimli grinned at the King, “Come with me, Aragorn. Leave all this for an eve. Gondor will not fall if you share a tale or two around the fire.”

“But..” Aragorn moved a list to one side to reveal three more.

“Come.” The dwarf grasped his sleeve and pulled him towards the door flap. “Why should the elf have all the fun this night, communing with Radagast and his trees. Let us share some fellowship.”

With a sigh the king allowed himself to be dragged.

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 The orcs,  driven by Elfwine’s approaching reinforcements and finding the camp in their way, attacked at the third hour before dawn.

TBC

Rose Sared