INTO THE DARK AGAIN

by Wayfarer
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)

Three
Over Misty Peaks

Heavy with dew, the frigid morning air was stiff with the mist of autumn chill. No sign remained of rain the night past. Pebbles strewn on paths gouged by the downpour sat cold and grey.

Over them Gandalf picked his way with care, probing for false footfalls with his walking stick, and he was not a little unmoved by Aragorn's sure-footed stride. Now he stood ahead, a ghost in the mist.

As Gandalf neared, he saw that Aragorn was casting about, searching as if for something on the edge of his vision.

'Do you hear it?' he asked.

Before Gandalf could ask what it was that held his attention, from afar he heard a sound. It ended quickly, but Gandalf thought it seemed like the clash of stone or bone. He was reminded of stone giants hurling boulders and rocks onto pathways and trolls crushing their prey.

Aragorn too stood still, distracted, maybe, by a faint echo. 'Under the mist, it sounds as rain-drops of a far-off storm were gathered and dashed at once against unyielding rocks. So oddly familiar.' He turned, his brow creased as he bent his thought to chasing memories of the muted sounds. 'I will have a look,' he decided.

Gandalf nodded. When his breath had calmed, he asked: 'Should I wait here?'

The Man shook his head: 'There is no sign of danger. Still, I do not think it safe to tarry here in the open. Keep walking; I will return to you if I may--' He turned toward the peak and gestured: 'Else we shall meet at the stone outcrop three miles northeast. It is not far from the path.' Then he was gone, silent as shadows.

For well nigh an hour, Gandalf had trodden with care over the rocks. But now he halted and turned his eyes to the west, away from the formidable mountain wall. Many times he had crossed these mountains, yet experience did not make it easier for always his lungs laboured to draw sustenance from the air; air that was thin and whispering in a shrill voice, moved and stirred by the wind.

The mist had lifted, and all round was a clear view of the mountains and the lands they straddled. From under his feet rough flanks of stone fell away to the border between bare ground and the fields of grass and trees straddling the mountains' girth. Imladris lay far below them, lost amid the grey-green mounds and clefts of hills and valleys at the mountains' feet then hidden in mist. Tall slopes of the range Men called the Misty Mountains rose behind, cloaked in early snow. The unseen peaks were covered by clouds that raced in from all directions to meet in a mad swirling mist, a dance of frost, ice and rain. Caught by the tall range, like skeans tangled in swords, they lingered, dancing around the peaks even as the harsh crowns rend and break them again and again into the tattered mist veil that gave the mountains their name.

Hidden among the mountain peaks was the High Pass and through it the Forest Road that ran down to the River Anduin and thence into Mirkwood where Aragorn had hoped for aid in their hunt.

Already I am tired! He thought in consternation at the stiffness gathering in his knees.

As his gaze swept over the drear vista before him, he wondered for a moment where in the vastness of the lands was Bilbo. No doubt the Dwarves would care for his safety as well as they would one of their own, and though the risk of the old hobbit had been passed on, Gandalf could do naught but worry.

He is beyond my ken, for now, he thought. The chief danger lay still in the Shire, my concern should be for Frodo and the finding of Gollum. He drew his cloak close as a chill wind arose. And if Aragorn does not return soon, I shall have more immediate concerns to hold my thoughts!

Gandalf turned back toward the scant path, and strained his eyes as he searched the mountainside, lit as if by twilight, for through the sky was bright, the slopes lied under the shadows of the high peaks. No light would touch the ground he stood on until the sun westered.

Of Aragorn there was no sign. Gandalf took the time to ponder the changes in his humour since they met in the Prancing Pony. The questions he had and the swelling of hope and dread was overwhelmed by impatience as they neared the Loudwater, and the Ford of Bruinen -- they were going to Imladris for it was there that they would provision themselves for the crossing over the Hithaeglir. The voice of the rushing river sufficed to remove the cares of Aragorn, for ere they gained the bridge, his step lightened; he did not linger by the Ford and chose to make for the House of Elrond with all haste. In the deepest night they reached the gates of the House, and even at that late hour, there were Elves to greet them, among them Elrond and Arwen.

Gandalf then spent his time with Elrond, closeted in his study. Though Aragorn sometimes joined them in council, he was more often found in the company of Arwen or the brethren, Elladan and Elrohir.

After only five days in the vale, they had bidden farewell to Elrond and his kin. And it was with much reluctance that Aragorn turned again to the road. He was quiet, and kept his thoughts to himself as they made their way out of Imladris. He seemed listless, unwilling, or unable, to share his thoughts and feelings. But Gandalf watched him with a knowing eye.

As they neared the Hithaeglir, however, the fierce alertness so familiar to Gandalf began again to burn in Aragorn's eyes, though he was not minded to say more than a few words even as they sat by the fire at night. A little at first, the Man had shed the pensive mood that gripped him since they departed the House of Elrond. When they reached the foothills of the Hithaeglir, he seemed fully reconciled. It eased the wizard's mind. And as the journey stretched forth, and they neared the peaks, the journey was easier to endure and time easier to pass when there was another to hold conversation with, more so when they were sitting around the fire at night for the incessant crackling and spitting of the burning wood was wearying after nights of sleeping under the silent stars.

Overhead, the fierce cry of an eagle pierced through his thoughts and broke his reverie. Eyes straining against shadowed walls of the grey mountainside, he looked along the path Aragorn had taken. But of the Dúnadan, there was no sign. At length, he began again his climb.

--- --- ---

Among the rocks high over the wizard's head Aragorn stood, his head raised as he frowned intently upon the cliff that stood before him. Strange rhythmic sounds, as of great rocks clashing, rang out from time to time, and filled the air with hollow echoes. Though it seemed it was near enough to touch if he but reached out his hand, Aragorn reckoned that it would take, at the least, three hours ere he gained the cliff-top. Orcs were uncommon high in the mountains' lonely range, but foolish was he who did not guard against attacks. Already he had been away from Gandalf for two hours; and yet he needed a clearer look.

Near at hand was a ridge and it likely overlooked the cliff-top. Judging it to be a short climb to its peak, Aragorn turned toward it, and lengthened his stride.

Half an hour later, he gained the peak of the ridge, his breath light despite his rapid climb up its steep flank. To another, it would seem as if ants were milling about the cliff-top, but for Aragorn a clear view was afforded. He smiled as he took in the sight, a little relieved. Shapes of many goats greeted his eyes, the sure-footed animals that lived among the sheer cliffs of the Hithaeglir's lofty ridges. It was the rutting season and the great rams were caught up in a frenzy of battles and mating: it was the clash of their mighty horns that filled the chill mountain air.

Yet he knew that where the herds grazed, hunters were sure to be near. The cliff on which they gathered was too near to Aragorn's intended road -- they would have to seek another path. And though he much desired to linger and watch the great rams at their contest, he knew he needed to find Gandalf. With one last look at the majestic animals he turned again, and descended quickly the steep slopes. Toward the south and west he strode, following the path laid out by long use and kept by the Beornings, hopeful of gaining upon the wizard within the hour. His plans, however, soon changed.

Tis true, the orcs stir, he thought as he studied the tracks that drew his attention. Fresh! His eyes swept through the hooded slopes, keen to the smallest movement. He was in no danger. He cast his glance downward again, brooding over his discovery. Very bold indeed to venture this near to the Road. What drives them ---- Quickly he stood up.

As thoughts of what might befall Gandalf pressed upon his mind, Aragorn lengthened his stride and was soon sprinting toward the stone grove. At times he broke his stride, stopping to read again the signs left by the orcs, careless in their boldness. Even at this great height, where stone and cold earth did not easily yield, it was not impossible to see marks that told of the passage of many feet. Yet, trained to the use of his rare gift of keen sight as he was, even the Dúnadan required time to read the tracks. Loath he was to do so for it caused more delay to his already late quest. But to risk losing time later over a wrong decision was an even worse thought to bear. And so, at times flying over the rough ground, at times sifting through scattered scree, Aragorn drew ever nearer the orcs. To his dismay, they showed no sign of veering away from the stone outcrop where Gandalf would no doubt be waiting.

Slowly weaving his way through rock-smothered slopes, he began to despair of reaching Gandalf before them. In his mind he began to lay out plans as he thought of the possible manners of his eventual reunion with the wizard.

--- --- ---

The sun had yet to gain the peak of her climb: with barely enough light to banish shadows from the day, the mountain flanks were still a drab world. Stones and boulders strewn upon the pathway and lying near seemed as wan sentries under the false twilight sky. Concealment was easy among their tumbling mess, and danger sometimes lurk within.

With great care, Gandalf neared the stones. Often, he stopped and listened while with his eyes he searched for shadows that moved of their own volition. He found himself wishing for the light of the westering sun, to burn away the doubts of the darkly shapes that sat in his mind.

Then he would begin his walk again, marvelling at the many shapes and sizes of the stones that now flanked his passage, for some were no more than very large rocks and yet others were of such a size that they seemed to be mountains reduced by wind and rain into shades of their former might.

The wind was rising again, and he pulled his cloak closer, the other hand on his hat.

A sudden gush of cold air rushed in through the gaps of the uncaring stones, butting against the slope, urgent as a herd of Kine that would cast down the mountain with their might. A roof is what I need, Gandalf thought, as he tottered and struggled to hold on his hat. Then with his staff in an awkward grasp, mixed among a handful of his cloak, he looked for shelter. Beneath one large boulder he sat, huddled at the mouth of a small cavern carved, no doubt, by the wind.

At length the wind softened, and among its whisper, Gandalf heard the soft crunch of unshod feet on the grey slate that covered the ground and the larger rocks. The sounds were faint, as if the owner, or owners, was coming from the sides of the boulder he was sheltering under. With a swift move, he reached for his staff and retreated into the cavern belly, careful to make no noise.

His heart began to race as he discerned more sounds, nearer this time, as of feet scrabbling on the steep flank of a boulder. His grip tightened as he listened for footfalls as they moved overhead, hoping they were the blithe steps of some passing animal.

Suddenly, a shadow flickered across the cave mouth. Though intent on the sounds, still he was alert enough to deflect with a quick parry the rock hurled by the form that appeared at the cavern mouth. The cave echoed with the sharp crack of the stone hitting the wall.

The orc growled and backed away as the pellet dropped to the ground, a little surprised at the quickness of the old man's reflex. He stopped retreating as one orc after another joined him, each one larger than the last. The cavern mouth was soon crowded. They began to quarrel, and the first orc was cuffed.

While they bickered, Gandalf drew his sword. As it left its sheath, the orcs stopped their quarrelling, distracted perhaps by the whisper of metal. Their eyes grew wide as it seemed to flash for a moment though there was no light strong enough that would reflect off the blade. The smallish orc begin to whimper. The largest one, clearly the captain, slapped him again. Then he stepped into the cave, his eyes gleaming with interest at the sword as Gandalf swung it in warning. He took a step nearer and then crouched down.

'Well, what's this?' he demanded. 'That's a nice toy, old man. How'd you get it?'

The orc captain seemed to fill the cave-mouth, and Gandalf's thoughts raced. To use his power was perhaps the quickest way but it would not be the safest.

'Well?' the orc said. 'Can't be the cat got your tongue eh?' he pressed. 'None of those skinny things found up here.' The others laughed and clapped at their leader's wit.

'Could be a cat bone stuck in his skinny throat, Grushluk!' hooted a lesser orc.

He took critical glances around the dim cave. Well, at least this is a defensible position, and they can but come one by one. The staff he balanced in his left hand, and his grip on the sword haft tightened. Would that Aragorn were not far off, Gandalf thought with fervour. Then he braced himself. 'Come closer then and have a look,' he invited.

A little amused at the Man's insolence, Grushluk took another step forward, his spear loosely held. But he stopped there when he marked the competent manner in which the sword was held. Eyes narrowed as he considered the old man, taking his measure and the clearly precious sword. He began to wonder too, why a man was travelling alone, in these times when crossings over the mountains were rare and when it was more likely to be trading bands of dwarves who risked the road from one side of the range to the other.

His eyes strayed to the sword again, compelled by foreboding. The sight of it brought him a strange chill. An unreasoning urge to leave quickly welled up. It annoyed him for this mountain was under his charge and he refused to be cowed by nameless fears. Yet he could not help but to shiver as the blade gleamed again----

Suddenly he howled, surprising his troop. They shouted in dismay, backing into each other and growling in reply.

Grushluk roared a command and all but the small Orc were suddenly still. He was reduced to whimpering.

'Shut up, Snoga!' The orc captain kicked the limp body aside. As one of the other orcs crowded behind him brandished something, Grushluk lunged.

At once Gandalf reacted, raising his sword to deflect the blow. It never came.

Yet, a flash of pain followed and he fought to keep his balance, clutching at his side. Warmth filled his hand as blood rushed out of the wound. As his breath caught for a bit, he leaned into the stone behind him. Still he was aware and as an orc rushed in, strangely silent. He shifted his position quickly, and adjusted his grip of the sword heft and sidestepped.

The orc's own forward thrust was against him. Twisting in the tight confines of the cave, his grip on the spear could not be adjusted quickly enough to ward off the stroke he knew would come. He resigned himself to the pain he would have to bear with until they returned to the caves, and the damage to his armour that would need repairs. Yet, he need not have fretted. His eyes widened as in one swift move, the sword swung upward and out, slicing through armour, cutting into flesh. There was no scream, only a loud grunt as the orc's gasping breath was driven out by the impact of crashing into the cavern wall.

Quickly, Gandalf turned the sword as he adjusted his swing. A dull sound echoed as another stone hit the blade. He looked up to see the other orc move away from the concealing bulk of his captain, in his hands and plainly visible was a small catapult. Clever! thought Gandalf. The lunge had been a ploy by the captain to draw his attention, leaving him open to the attacks.

Grushluk grunted: the ruse worked well enough. And yet, it was clear the old man's abilities were above that of common Men – that he was able to react so swiftly was proof enough. The captain did not doubt trickeries would work no longer. Already one was lost, and he was not inclined to risk personal damage to life and limb. He decided upon force. Yet even if he chose to do nothing, the old fool would bleed dry likely before the cursed light reached these sheltered slopes. He grinned at that thought. 'Get the others, Orskash ---- I want that sword and I'll personally squash any maggot that's not here in thirty minutes.'

Throbbing pain lanced through his side. He winced and gasped, leaning against the wall lest he fell. How inopportune if I were to lose consciousness, he thought The flow from his wound, he knew, must be stemmed.

Thirty minutes before the orcs try again. At the least, Gandalf thought. Until then, the sting of Glamdring's bite would hold them off. Wait was all that was left for Gandalf to do, until fear of the sword wore off and the orcs try again or until they were driven off. Or----, the thought trailed off as he felt the blood flow through his fingers anew.

He retched as a gust stole into the little cave. The dead orc was beginning to smell, but the body would serve. With care, he shifted himself. Slowly and painfully, he positioned it to offer what scant concealment it could.

In the dimness, he began to fumble with his cloak. Then holding the garment by the edge, he used Glamdring to begin a cut. With one wary eye on the orcs outside, he pulled at the rent cloth, careful to keep the noise of tearing fabric as soft as he could. Then, a long strip of his cloak in hand and some dried herbs from his pouch, he began to dress his wound.

The pain, finally, faded. As well as he could, Gandalf made himself comfortable.

Long moments passed, and he kept his eyes locked on the cavern mouth and the shapes that hovered there. Still it seemed his mind began to drift much too soon. As sleep threatened to take hold, he struggled to keep awake.

His eyes flew open at the sound of a loud yelp. The outline of the shape lying on the ground caused Gandalf to nearly jump up. He panted as shards of pain shot up to his mind, and blinked to clear the fireworks blurring his vision. Then his mind came awake and he remembered: it was the slain orc.

But something, he knew, was afoot. Daylight would not be far off, for the cave was growing quickly warm, and time was not on their side: the rising sun would force their hand. Likely, the orcs desired to bring him and Glamdring with them as they retreated into the dark.

Sweat beaded his brow as he pondered the state of affairs for he had no desire, dead or alive, to enter again the orc-tunnels that threaded through the bowels of the mountains. Yet he could do naught but wait. The sun would soon set the western faces of the mountains alight and maybe he would be free of the cave then; whether in the company of Aragorn or the orcs, he would not guess.

--- --- ---

Aragorn was no longer alone, that much he was aware from the footfall echo that sounded a moment after his own, the occasional rustle of dry faggots and the crack of brittle scree. Before him, the way onward was a sliver of flattened earth wedged between sharp stone fangs, a dry runnel shaped by bare slopes, little more than a breach in the cliffside just broad enough for a man. He knew once he pass the tall rocks, the sheer walls and narrow passage within would offer no means of defence. But it was a trap he walked into willingly.

Nine paces into the cleft, it turned dark for a moment.

'Hold!' a deep voice growled.

Aragorn stopped, and with a slow deliberate move, pushed his hood back. He looked up to see a face with a great shaggy beard, and noted the spear aimed between his eyes. The man was astride the crevice lips.

Another shadow loomed beside the man, looking down upon him. 'What business brings you away from the path?' an even deeper voice demanded.

'I am tracking orcs.'

For a long moment, all was still.

Then from beyond the cleft, the same voice rumbled. 'This way,' it ordered.

Aragorn emerged to see a tall Beorning waiting, fist on hip and leaning on a huge axe.

'Tracking orcs?' he asked, none too pleased. 'Have the rangers run out of sport?'

'These orcs are in my way,' Aragorn said. 'They move toward the stone grove south of here, where I fear Gandalf----'

'Gandalf?' the Beorning said, suspicion creeping into his voice. He beckoned Aragorn forward.

'Yes, Gandalf, who is Mithrandir to the fair folk,' Aragorn said gravely. 'I am his guide, many know me as Strider.'

The Beorning frowned, considering his words. 'A guide to Gandalf, so you say.'

Aragorn spread his hands. 'My word is all I have, and this.' Bending slightly to the side, he drew forth a small dagger from his booted calf in a slow deliberate move. On it could be seen runes as only Elves could make. Despite the faint light, the blade was an unusual hue, sheathed in a ghost blue sheen.

'I am Baran,' the Beorning said at last, giving his name in return. He frowned, thinking on the changes he had to make to his plans. 'Time runs short. Now tell me your tale, quickly.'

Aragorn shook his head as he returned the blade to its hiding place. 'Time runs short as you say. But unless I have guessed wrong, we pursue the same quarry, though for different purposes,' he said. 'Let me hunt with you.'

Baran stared darkly at the stranger whose calm gaze caused his own to deepen into a black scowl.

'I must get to Gandalf,' Aragorn pressed.

'You can do nothing that we can't,' he said.

Hand on the hilt of the knife on his belt as was his wont, there was a note of steel in Aragorn's voice as he said: 'I seek merely to do my duty.' He locked eyes with Baran. 'Gandalf's safety is my charge.'

The Beorning glared at Aragorn in a manner that caused him to wonder if perhaps he would have done better to continue on his own. Then, in a move that surprised him, the Beorning merely looked down the bridge of his nose at him.

As a cast between grimace and displeasure flitted across his bearded face, Baran called: 'Bereg!' A stout fellow stepped forward, gripping an equally stout bow. 'The ranger joins you.' Bereg nodded, and eyed the stranger with a critical glance, taking note of the small bow he carried. 'And you, Strider, follow Bereg's lead closely.' He leaned near and said in his slow rumbling manner: 'I know of duty and charges.' Then he motioned for Bereg to lead the ranger away. 'We are already delayed,' Baran said as the ranger moved past him. 'I do not want my plans changed, Strider.'

Aragorn nodded, 'Gandalf is my chief concern.'

'Come,' Bereg said then. 'How good are you?' he asked. His gaze was fixed on the ranger's bow.

'I can take a bird, in flight, at thirty yards,' came the reply. Bereg shot a quick glance, but the ranger looked as grave as ever. He grunted. 'We must hurry.' So saying, he broke into a run, leading Aragorn into the boulders encircling another of the Hithaeglir's nameless peaks.

Arms folded, Grushluk stared at the scout. As Orskash prepared himself, he could feel the others retreating further back. 'Gutless maggots,' he said under his breath.

'Well?' asked Grushluk.

Orskash swallowed hard. 'I couldn't find the others ----' He jumped back as something hit the ground with a dull thud, bounced and came to rest at his feet. He looked down to see a leering head. The gruesome face grinned madly at him, sickening in its familiarity. It was Snikdúsh. With a sudden horrifying clarity, Orskash understood -- it was not the burning light that caused the other scouts to abandon their posts.

Clear as the cursed day, the answer was far worse than he could ever imagine in his miserable life. Among the cliffs circling the grove were movement. His lips curled into a snarl as he stepped back.

''Ware!' Grushluk shouted as men swarmed forth. 'Bear-skins!' Already Orskash had an arrow nocked, and took aim at the rocks from where the head was thrown. Quickly he released it and dove behind a boulder as a rain of arrows answered his shot. He could see the cave: Snoga was cowering before it. Of Bog and Ogluk there was no sign. For the others, their fates were certain. They were caught in the open, with nowhere to hide; they were quickly surrounded, out-numbered and out-flanked. Shielded by the boulder, Orskash watched in helpless anger as the others were overwhelmed, falling from arrow wounds, and mighty blows of staffs and axes. He shuddered as Sguk's throat was torn with bare hands. Never had screams of the dying bothered him but this time he found in the noise an echo he could not ignore, for in it rang his own end.

But there was no place for self-pity. Quickly he let fly another, aimed at the man trying to drag his fallen brethren to safety. He roared as the arrow sank into the bear-skin's chest. Then he began to pick off men within bow-shot.

Suddenly, an arrow shaft protruded from his arm-guard. For a moment he stared at it. Then he shouted and threw down his bow. Quickly, with his free hand, he pulled at the arrow, while he searched for the man who had shot him. It was not a bear-skin but a man nonetheless. Orskash snapped the arrow shaft, oblivious to the pain. Then he jumped out, and picking up a spear that lied nearby, hurled it at the man as he turned back.

For a moment Orskash stood stunned, for the man had side-stepped the spear: no man could move with such speed. Then swinging his axe, Orskash leapt over the boulder, and charged, only to have a Beorning jump into his path

Orskash forgot the strange man as he engaged the Beorning. In a few quick strokes, he had overpowered the man, the blade of his axe bit into the bear-skin's torso, crushing his chest as he struggled. A satisfying sound of bone breaking greeted his ears.

Quickly, he pulled the axe loose, and took aim at another bear-skin running at him.

Iron clashed upon iron.

It took nearly all his strength to block the blows of the heavy-set man, but he was the stronger and soon, the tables turned. Seizing an opening, he aimed low and chopped into the man's legs. Then as the man paused in shock, Orskash hacked into his shoulder, loosening his hold on his weapon. As the man dropped onto his fallen axe, Orskash relaxed his grip on his own, panting. Threading through his ragged breath was a pitiful chorus, moans of the dying. Annoyance quickened his bloodlust, and he turned to the still living man. Orskash did not stop to consider the danger of being in the open overlong; again and again he let fall his axe, pressing the man down by his foot, unmoved by the man's cries. Not until his chest became a mess of soft red pulp did Orskash stop. At last, he realized his own danger.

As he muttered thanks to Azog for watching over him while he gave vent to his folly, he turned, seeking the safety of the nooks among the stones. But he stopped as he saw Grushluk run his spear through a Beorning. As the man flailed, Grushluk pulled the man nearer. He snarled and sunk his teeth into the dying man's face, muffling the screams. Then he spat out the bloody flesh and pushed the dead man off his spear.

Orskash saw movement and shouted: 'Grushluk, behind you!' The captain spun around, brandished his spear as a huge bear-like figure rushed at him, holding a staff aloft. The Beorning's roar resounded as he swung the staff. Grushluk yelled in reply as he loosed his spear, cursing as it flew wide. Then he drew his scimitar, just in time and wood clashed upon metal. They leapt back, and the orc staggered from the might of the attack. Quickly he swung his scimitar; it dug into the ground, stopping his backward fall. He held firm, and glowered at the hulking Man.

The Beorning glared back. He circled the wary orc, probing for weakness, while Grushluk tried time and again to attack. Then the bear-skin lunged, swinging his staff again. Grushluk pulled his scimitar up, deflecting a blow that left his sword arm aching from the jarring impact.

Orskash watched in fascination. The scimitar was not usually a match for the longer reach of the bear-skin's staff, made from some strange wood that metal could not easily break. But Grushluk was a giant among orcs, and he had never been troubled by the bear-skin weapons -- until now, for this Beorning was big. He was raining blows that Grushluk could barely avoid while the orc was increasingly angered by his inability to fight back.

The Beorning would swing the staff, sometimes feinting. And when Grushluk reacted, he would find himself hit in another place. He took a heavy blow to the head when he was protecting his side. Orskash flinched from the sound he heard, sure that the captain's head was cracked, despite his helm. Then the staff whirled again, and hit Grushluk's leg. He roared in pain and jumped back.

Enraged, he rushed back in, attacking the bear-skin in a frenzy, aiming for the head, the arms or any place that seemed open. Always the man reacted with a swiftness that did not seem possible for his size. Suddenly, the Beorning's staff broke, splintered by the might of Grushluk's blow. The captain howled, and ran at the bear-skin as he began to step backwards. Grushluk raised the scimitar for what Orskash thought was a fatal blow, but the bear-skin dove and the scimitar bit into the ground. Quick as a cat, the bear-skin jumped up and Orskash groaned to see the axe in his hand. As Grushluk struggled to free his blade, the axe cut into his side, In pain, he yelped and fell to the ground. The Beorning followed, hacking at him with increasing efficiency. Soon, Orskash realized there was no blood pouring from the axe wounds: it was too blunt to bite through flesh, but it was certainly still able to inflict pain.

Already, Orskash could barely open his eyes, for they hurt from the strengthening brightness. The sun would soon shine on the western slopes, and Orskash knew once it did, all would be lost.

Grushluk's head was bleeding, he was favouring his left leg and Orskash could see he no longer wielded his scimitar with quite the same force and his strokes seemed slower. With a sudden speed, Orskash dove back into the place where he had thrown his bow. Grimly, Orskash fitted another arrow and took aim at the bear-skin. His armguard glistened with blood and his arm shook with effort as he drew the bow.

Just then, hearing a growl behind him, Orskash swung around, his bow raised. Another bear-skin crouched on the rocks. In haste, he released the arrow, grunting at the strain on his left arm. It caught the man in the side, penetrating with a dull thud as he shouted an oath and leapt. But for Orskash, it was still too late. He fell backward, his wind knocked out as he hit the boulder that had shielded him. Gasping for air, he clawed at the hands closed around his throat. He flailed and struggled, frantic for breath. Moments passed and as his tongue lolled, his head fell to the side. His eyes still wide open, he saw the big bear-skin swing the axe into Grushluk's already bloodied face. The captain staggered. His head hung, and he no longer held his scimitar. Then he laughed, an odd gurgling sound, as if his throat was filled with liquid he could not swallow.

'Azog take you!' Grushluk spat. 'Burn in the pits of Darkness!' He sunk onto his knees and fell forward.

Orskash saw no more.

Panting lightly, Baran stood over the fallen orc. Though he did not understand the words uttered, the malice in the orc's curse was plain. The force of it surprised him and for a moment he was trapped among vengeful goblins, in the tunnels under the mountains. Shaking his head, he shrugged off the distasteful vision. Then extending the axe, he turned the body over. One side of the face had caved in, the eye hung by a thin sliver of flesh while the other stared sightless, and from the gaping mouth dark blood flowed. Baran grunted and looked up.

The sun, at last, lighted the dusk-grey mountain flanks. Bodies laid everywhere, upon the rocks, covering the ground, most of them goblin carcasses. Against the now bright slopes, Baran squinted and turned to the stone grove.

'Strider?' he called.

'Here.'

He went among the stones, going toward the voice. The ranger was outside a small cave, tending to an old man. Nearby was the body of a small orc, his hands clawed at his throat where the fletching of an arrow sprouted.

The ranger's sword laid near his hand. Baran stopped just beyond reach.

He looked up then, and Baran found himself staring again into those strange grey eyes, and for a moment it was as if a different man was cloaked in the Ranger's raiment. He was overwhelmed, as if the Ranger could touch the sky if he but stretched forth his hand.

Then Strider spoke and the moment passed. 'He has lost blood. He is not fit to travel, but I would have him far from here.'

Baran grunted. 'Dress his wounds. We move soon.'

'Strider,' called a Beorning. 'Gandalf wakens.'

Aragorn nodded and returned to tending to a Man with an arrow wound. He worked swiftly and then returned to the cave.

As Aragorn had feared, Gandalf struggled for breath. He knelt by the old man's side, and waited.

'You're late,' Gandalf complained when at last he could speak.

'I was delayed.'

'Really?' Gandalf returned. He coughed again. 'Since you've tended my wounds, I forgive you this time.' He leaned against the rock, and closed his eyes.

Gently, Aragorn checked Gandalf's pulse and the dressing. Pleased that the bleeding has stopped, he left Gandalf to what rest he could. He climbed the stones, and watched the Beornings at their tasks.

Soon, Baran returned, still holding the bloody axe. Orc-blood stained his tunic. Wrapped around his arm where it was bruised a grisly mix of purple and black was a band of cloth, and across his chest was a long wound, likely inflicted by a scimitar.

Aragorn leapt down from the boulder. 'He no longer bleeds. But he would not be able to move at any speed.'

'He will reach the Pass, even if I have to carry him there.'

'Since when have Beornings and Rangers began the habit of delicate discussion,' said a drowsy voice. They turned to see Gandalf leaning against the cave wall. He glared, hand pressed against his side.

'I merely thought you would appreciate the consideration,' said Baran.

'I am wounded, not losing sleep from overly sharp ears,' he said, the irritation in his voice unmistakable.

'Then you would agree that it is best to reach the Pass as soon as we may?'

'Of course!' Gandalf shot back. Then he frowned and thought for a moment. 'I will not be carried like a sack of potatoes!'

'You will not,' Baran said.

Gandalf looked ready to retort, then thought better of it. 'I suppose there is no other way, is there, Strider?'

Careful to keep the look on his face grave, Aragorn shook his head.

'We leave in five minutes,' said Baran.

Aragorn turned to the Beorning. 'Before we do, let me tend your wounds.'

Baran looked down at the gaping hole in his tunic. The chest wound caused by the orc captain was shallow and the blood had dried, but it had began to itch, and his arm too needed to be seen to. 'No, no delays,' he said.

Darkness covered the mountain peaks with a swift decisive hand. And for that small mercy, Gandalf gave much thanks. He was ready for the day to end, even if it meant chancing discovery by the orcs. For in spite of Aragorn's care, he felt himself at the end of his endurance, no longer able to bear riding upon a Beorning's back. They had moved over uneven ground, at a pace both brisk and careful. Rocked by the rhythm of the Beorning's gait, he wakened from time to time. And yet, he could do naught even as the steady pace lulled his tired mind, coaxing it into unconsciousness: he was falling back into darkness every time he managed to open his eyes.

And as with all meals the Beornings took on the mountains, dinner was cold, save for the drink of hot tea that Gandalf was made to take. But even the generous heap of athelas Aragorn steeped in it did not suffice to cheer his spirits nor waken his appetite. Not a word was uttered, even as Aragorn check again his wound dressing. And he soon lay down, asleep even as his eyes drew shut.

Through the night, as Aragorn sat by Gandalf, he observed the Beornings as they disappeared at regular intervals. Baran had finally allowed him to dress the wound, and was inspecting the camp boundary.

The calls of hunting wolf-packs would sound in the distance and time and again it would seem that some large animals prowled beyond their camp, their huffing breath and grunting growls plain to hear.

The next morning, they began early and the task of bearing Gandalf was taken in turn by the Beornings. Mostly, Gandalf slept, waking during the brief stops for Aragorn to check his dressing. So it went for many days until the wizard began to heal. The journey proceeded in silence. Aragorn saw naught of the Beornings except the one who was carrying Gandalf though he knew they were near. Even at night, the Beornings were not inclined to conversation, and Aragorn was left watching the sleeping wizard. For the first two days, they moved with great care, hiding quickly at the slightest hint of danger, and even breaking camp when the frenzied cries of wolves seemed to gather near.

But at last, the danger waned and they took to easier paths. Gandalf's appetite returned, slowly but surely. Aragorn was heartened. Soon, Gandalf was walking by himself, first for a few moments, then a few more until he was walking by himself for half the hour before rest was needed.

One day, Baran stepped out onto the path after Gandalf had passed. 'The orcs draw near,' he rumbled, as Aragorn drew abreast. He stroked his beard, his brows seamed as a speculative look spread across his face as he examined the thoughts in his mind with his deliberate manner. He threw a glance in the direction where the wizard sat with his human mount. 'Is he mending?'

'Yes.'

Baran weighed his reaction. 'And if we were to walk longer?'

'He will be able to walk at length, on his own for some of that time,' said Aragorn.

The Beorning nodded. 'And if ----'

'And if the need arises, he can run and keep apace, for a little.'

Baran eyed Aragorn. 'Good,' he said.

That evening, as the fire burned low in its pit, Gandalf turned to Aragorn. 'Well?' he asked in a considerate whisper. 'It is just the two of us now. Since you thought me well enough to risk walking on my own, I am well enough to hear the tale, yes?'

'I found orc tracks,' Aragorn said. 'Then Baran who was hunting the orcs.'

'And I suppose you walked up to him and introduced yourself?'

Aragorn said nothing as a Beorning passed by. Then he resumed, filling in the gaps for Gandalf.

Gandalf sat for a moment. 'The orcs are bold indeed,' he whispered, as if talking to himself. His eyes flicked for a moment toward Aragorn. 'And the Beornings seemed to have found new interest in ranging the western slopes far beyond the Pass.' Aragorn nodded. Gandalf pursed his lips. 'Did you hear tell of when it began?'

After a moment's silence, Gandalf said: 'I see you've managed to keep to the wrong side of Baran's humour.'

Aragorn returned a pained look. 'There was no time for a proper introduction.'

'Yes,' said Gandalf. 'Yes, I know.' Then he looked gravely at Aragorn. 'But I am glad,' he said. 'For your timely arrival.' He smiled, lost in thought as he stared into the fire. Then he took a deep breath, 'Now, I suppose I should see about getting some information.' Pushing down on his staff, he stood up and beckoned at a Beorning. 'Tell Baran I would like to speak with him.'

'They never ceased trying,' Baran said as his brows creased into another scowl. He began sharpening the axe-head he held and the dry sound of whetstone against blade joined the hiss of the small fire in chorus. 'And we were always able to hold them back,' he said, shaping each word with obvious scorn. 'But thirteen years ago, it turned suddenly.' The crackling fire reflected in his eyes as the whetstone struck the axe-head with increasing force. 'We lost many,' he said. 'I have never seen such a thing. It was madness, and it was as if they were driven to try the impossible.' Then he gave an odd laugh. 'They took us by surprise, but only for a while.' It was a short bitter sound of triumph laden with hate. His fists were clenched, trembling as he calmed himself. 'After that first wave, we forced them back. It was a slow and painful task. But we have kept at it.' Then he turned silent, pouring all his attention to sharpening the axe.

'Well,' said Gandalf. 'I heard of trouble.' He looked at Baran speculatively. 'Strange but there was no word on the magnitude of it.'

Baran laid down the whetstone then, and fingered the sharpened edge. 'Not many know, aside from the Woodland Elves and the northern villages,' he said softly. 'We controlled it, order was restored, and the pass remained open.' He picked up the whetstone again, and then thought for a moment. 'There was no need to spread such news and cause unnecessary worry.' As the scrapping sound of stone striking iron began again, Baran spoke. 'Strangely there was less plundering, for they had more trackers to a band then we had seen since then.' He turned then to Gandalf. 'This isn't a matter of passing interest to you,' he said.

Gandalf returned his gaze with a thoughtful look. 'No,' he said then. 'Some knowledge is not meant to be shared.' It seemed to Baran that there was a note of pain, or maybe tiredness in the wizard's voice, as if he had answered this question far too many times. Gandalf squinted at him, and said: 'But trust me when I tell you this: keep up your vigilance. For a time may soon come when your control of these mountains will weigh on the balance between victory and defeat. And even before then, maybe the Beornings will be called upon for what aid you may spare.'

Baran stared hard at Gandalf. 'As ever, you speak in riddles,' he glowered.

'You will have your answers, Baran, all in good time,' Gandalf said with a smile. 'All in good time.'

The Beorning rose then, hefting the axe as wolf howls sounded in the distance. 'I shall think on your words.'

Late one evening, Gandalf approached Aragorn as he stood looking out toward the setting sun, a lone dark figure against the fiery blaze of the last light of day. He stood by Aragorn, wondering what it was that the Dúnadan was searching for, or what he was thinking on. He waited, and watched Aragorn, as the red flames that lit his face flared briefly before fading with great reluctance in a feeble lingering light.

'Could he, or it be here, do you think?' Aragorn asked finally.

Baran's words echoed in his mind. Indeed, what else would drive the goblins forth in such reckless numbers? In his turn, Gandalf peered into the dark creeping swiftly up the mountainside. 'I do not know.' A sudden urge to walk again the path Bilbo had trodden all those years ago seized him. But to what end? Only the hobbit had been to the creature's lair, and he had been lost. To retrace his steps was not an impossible task, but it required time, time that seemed to be in short supply. He shook his head. 'I know what you think, but I feel it a far better choice to begin our search from a trusted source, than to grasp at shadows in the mounting dark.' He turned back toward the campfire. In the faint distance, one of the Hithaeglir's nameless peaks gleamed pale. Somewhere beneath it was the High Pass. 'We can do no more here, but in this we are certain: the Enemy does not have him either. We may yet gain on them.'

Night had claimed the sky, scrapping away all signs of the sun, and replaced the sunset fires with the cold light of stars.

Aragorn walked by his side. 'You sound as if it were a simple task we are to do.'

Gandalf's pace slowed. 'There is always hope, and that is what I hold on to, in this as in all tasks I do.' He turned to face Aragorn. 'It lightens the burden,' he said with a wink even as he covered his healing wound with a hand. Then he sniffed at the air. 'Ah, I believe the water is boiling. Dinner!' He smiled and continued toward the campfire.

As he watched Gandalf walking away, the Dúnadan thought upon his words. He raised his head, searching for the brightest star. Then he too smiled, a faint wisp of mirth that faded quickly. 'Yes, there is always hope,' he whispered as he followed Gandalf.

Early the next afternoon, they halted before a wending path that quickly vanished between two steep flanks of stone. Only Baran was with them.

'Boron awaits you at the pass,' he said. 'Farewell and good luck with what you seek.'

'Farewell,' said Aragorn.

Gandalf said: 'And good luck with your hunt.'

'Always,' Baran growled. He turned, quickly claimed by the stones falling away into the grey day.

--- --- ---

Clouds swirled and scuttled across the air, obscuring the Vales from time to time, while flocks of birds flew at lesser heights, winging their way through wisps of churning cloud, sometimes scattering them to the wind.

Anduin lied far below, thin as a thread running long and silvery against the sun's glare, rushing as ever into the embrace of the unseen ocean away in the South. The land swelled and dipped in myriad shades of yellow, green, grey, marking valleys, hills and groves of trees. Away from the fallow plains on the River's eastern bank a great expanse of dark greenery spread, blanketing the distant horizon -- Mirkwood Forest, brooding and drear.

Three days' journey behind them was the High Pass, hidden again by mists and looming peaks that seemed to grow paler with each passing day as the snow that covered the frowning peaks crept ever downward, engulfing the grey mountain flanks.

'We shall break for the noon-day meal,' Aragorn said as he strode up. 'There is a clearing a little more than three hundred yards away, well shaded.'

Gandalf nodded. 'Lead on then.' He was mending. His wound troubled him no longer and he was not breathless as when they were still crossing the peaks: here on the lower slopes the air was thicker and easier to draw in. Still, the journey tired him for they kept a little off the Forest Road itself, always seeking cover among the stones that lined the grey slopes for aside from the Beornings, there were other watchers of the Road, and they did not wish to draw the attention of unfriendly eyes.

Gandalf still leans far too heavily on his staff, he observed as he led the way. Well on the Road now, Aragorn voiced naught of his concern at the slow progress they made; he was mindful of the need to think of Gandalf's health.

Quick as thought, his hand was on the fletched end of an arrow as a shadow caught his eye. Then he relaxed as he recognized the familiar shape. And yet, despite the toll to the Beornings that ensured their safe passage, still he was wary for though he knew it was inevitable that the Enemy would be alerted to their movement, he wished that the moment of discovery be delayed to the utmost.

The Road wended through the eastern escarpment of an unnamed peak. As he awaited Gandalf, Aragorn looked to where Mirkwood beckoned. He stared at the dark shapes on the horizon, and recalled his last journey into the Forest. Then his thoughts strayed and he turned to the South, Who knows when I will visit again----, he stopped himself as a frown settled upon his brow. Nay, live not in days still beyond reach, though your fate begins to take shape, Aragorn son of Arathorn. He raised his hood then and turned his thoughts to the path ahead.

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