Exhaustion slowed them down, and they arrived at the village in the still hour before sunrise. They halted at the centre, and Daevan threw some branches into the fire to make it flare up. The sleepy guard – an old man wearing a tattered cloak and shabby boots - had not heard them enter for he had been patrolling alongside the eastern rim. He apologised in a slurred voice, and wearily shook his head. Daevan read in Strider's face that any kind of attack would have taken the villagers by surprise. They would have died in their beds. No one else was awake, and only the soft sound of snorting filled the air. Daevan decided to rouse his grand-father first.

   “Wake them all… immediately,” Strider told him. “We need every man and woman to prepare the village.”

   “Aye.” Daevan hesitated a moment. “Sit down and rest, I beg of you. I won't be of any help on my own.” When Strider nodded Daevan left for his grandfather’s hut. Standing on the threshold and seeing his face relaxed in sleep, he felt the urge to wake him, but only so that he could send him away. Far away. Maybe to join his father at Minas Tirith. Maybe to just run southward where the danger would be less, or so he hoped. He hated to tell him and all the others of what he had learned and to make them face up to the consequences.

   Strider took the pack off his weary back, finally realising how much the day's march had drained what little strength he had regained. He gazed at the simple huts, and exhaled slowly, grimacing with disgust. It was hard to imagine that Gondor had areas where the threat of the Enemy still consisted of mere rumours. He had seen so many fights, so many battles, so many garrisons facing the evil of Sauron's army. Now he stood in a place of peace that would soon be thrown into chaos. He flinched when a young boy stumbled out of a hut – yawning and scrubbing his unkempt hair – and hurried behind it to relieve himself. He had not even seen the wanderer by the fire, and he did not look toward him when he returned. He felt safe, protected by what he had been told: that the marshes were a borderline no enemy would ever cross.

   The wanderer shook his head. Few safe places existed, and on all his journeys he had found none at all.

   Daevan returned with the villagers behind him. One by one he had roused them, ordered them – his face stern and without giving an explanation - to meet at the fire to hear of the approaching danger. And they all came, asking questions while they hastily put on their cloaks and scarves. Some had left their boots behind and felt the ground cold beneath their bare feet. Some cursed at being woken so early, but others – those who became fully awake quicker – asked Daevan in utmost surprise why he had returned so soon and what kind of peril could threaten their isolated home. They all gathered at the warming fire, and the murmurs became louder when they recognised Strider, who now stood up slowly to address them. He looked at the crowd fixedly, but when he straightened he could not hide the sickness he had suffered only days ago. And though his voice was earnest, it lacked the convincing authority. Doran lifted his brows and tapped on his walking stick in front of him to listen.

   “We saw two Orcs half a day west of the village. I shot them, but there will be more following them.”

   Another wave of murmurs and shouts followed:

   “Why should that concern us?”

   “Will we be attacked?”

   “Shall we flee them?”

   “How many will attack us?”

   “Why are you here telling us this?”

   “So it's two Orcs. Who cares?”

   “Why'd you shoot them? Now they know we are here!”

   “Who knows where they are going? Can't be here! They'd truly drown.”

   Strider held up his hands to silence the people, but they would not heed his request. The chatter went on; fears and harsh words of how unlikely an attack would be were exchanged. The wanderer shook his head and waited. Only when Doran ordered them to listen, did they heed him. The old man nodded to Strider to continue.

   “The two Orcs we saw were scouts.” The wanderer let his eyes wander over the many faces looking up to him. He saw fear and hesitation, listlessness and open anger. For a moment he was reminded of the inhabitants of Ithilien's villages, who had not expected the Enemy to invade their land. And then Osgiliath had been taken. “They were heading eastward, and behind them the horde will follow. How many they are I cannot tell.”

   The crowd murmured again, waving their hands as if they could chase away the threat. Gaellyn wrinkled his nose and then lifted his chin. He stood amid his comrades, who shook their heads.

   “How would you know, stranger from nowhere?” Gaellyn spoke loudly, and turned his head from left to right to collect the approval for his words. “There were two Orcs only, you say. Why should there be more?”

   Strider stared at him.

   “Because Orcs do not journey in pairs, but in hordes of about forty to a hundred. And they always send scouts to explore.”

   “Could be different in this case.” Gaellyn crossed his arms in front of his chest, and his stance indicated he would not be easily convinced.

   Daevan, who had so far silently watched, now stepped aside the wanderer.

   “Gaellyn, you had better watch your tongue!”

   “Woho! Young Daevan thinks he's a great man now!” Laughter roared from Gaellyn's companions, but the young man was unperturbed.

   “I don't! But did you ever meet with Orcs? Do you know of their usual behaviour? They could…”

   “Daevan,” Strider said quietly, putting a hand on the young man's forearm, “they will understand.” Daevan swallowed hard, but nodded. At the same time he evaded Gaellyn's mocking stare. “Daevan is right,” Strider continued calmly and thoughtfully. “I have already fought Orcs, and there will be an attack on this village. Maybe it will take them half a day to get here, 0r maybe it will be a whole day. But they will come!”

   “And what shall we do?” Nilana shouted from the last row. Her question summed up the fear and the indecision many felt. Nelin hid her face in her mother's apron.

   “Shall we flee them? Leave everything behind?” another woman asked, and the little child in her arms whined as if he had understood every word.

   “No help will come! The next garrison is too far away to be informed in time!”

   “We have to help ourselves,” Strider decided. He set his jaw. “You cannot escape them. You either give battle on your own territory and on your terms, or you flee and perish. They will not let you move, but pursue you and your kin as an easy prey.”

   Bradolla shook her head.

   “We wouldn't get far anyway! Too many little ones, too many old bone-sacks like me. We can't run.”

   “But who says we have to?” Gaellyn raised his chin and raised his voice to be heard above the clamour. “He just told you he shot two Orcs! Two are not a hundred! I say it's a bold lie!”

   “He is not lying!” Doran said into the moment of silence. “He could have moved on and left us without a warning! So you had better listen to him.”

   The villagers pondered over the words, undecided what to do. Some women wept; it was a cry of helplessness. They had never thought about anything like this happening. The marshes were their protection; they had kept enemies at bay since the oldest inhabitant could remember. How could they fail now? The men looked from Gaellyn to Strider, grimacing, but presently - and grudgingly - nodding toward the wanderer.

   “Nothing wrong in being prepared.” Dinúvren shrugged. “If they don't come this way all the better.” Others standing by nodded their approval, some grinned about his saying. “What do you propose, Strider?”

   Daevan was relieved and grateful that Dinúvren had spoken. Nilana's older brother was respected among the fishermen and qualified as another voice of reason. While hurrying home Daevan had not thought that anyone would question Strider's report. It was strange to see their disbelief, and he wondered if the traveller had expected that.

   “We need every bowl of oil you can spare.” Strider quickly looked left and right. “The men must dig out a trench west of the village. We will fill it with oil to ignite it the moment the enemies come. Take shovels and axes and go to work.” He exhaled, and found himself steadied by Daevan before he even realised he was swaying. “The paths between the huts have to be secured with traps.” His gaze fell on a tall boy, who gaped at him, but at the same time shivered with cold and fear. “You there… take some of your friends and collect all the nets you can find. When the time comes, you will climb up on a roof and wait for the signal from the ground to throw them down on the enemy.”

   “You think you can lead us, telling us what to do?” Gaellyn cocked his head in mockery. “You can barely stand, so who do you think you are? The King himself?”

   “He needs rest!” Daevan shouted before Strider could stop him. “We both need rest! We hurried back to warn you, but I already regret to have woken you!”

   “Calm down.” The wanderer did not raise his voice, but Daevan heard him nevertheless, and, once more, retreated, growling that the man had less wits left than the imbecile old woman down the river.

   “We'll lose all our gear!” a man beside Gaellyn shouted. “How shall we go fishing then?”

   Strider stared at him so fiercely that the other averted his eyes.

   “If you do not defend your home with all you have got, you will have no home anymore.” Strider took a step forward, looking left and right, his voice strained in its intensity. The first row of the crowd moved backwards. “The Orcs come to plunder. They will take every piece of food they can get, but that is not the worst.” He paused, and now the silence lasted heavily. “They come to take prisoners to make them work for them. And they do not differentiate between man or woman or child.”

   Gaellyn still displayed open distrust, but his question also contained uncertainty now.

   “Why should we believe all that you say?”

   “Because he is the son of Thorongil,” Doran stated firmly, and his shining blue eyes found Gaellyn. “And all of you should listen and obey if you do not want to end up as slaves!”

   Gaellyn's friend shook his head, but remained silent. Whispers went from mouth to mouth, and those who had not known that truth, now stared at the stranger in awe. Nilana blanched. She had given shelter to the son of the great captain of Gondor? Her hand was at her throat, and she felt her heart beat faster. What would have happened to her if he had died?

   Strider turned to address all the inhabitants again.

   “You have to stand and fight or you will be destroyed.”

   “We cannot fight!” another man cried. “We are fishermen, not soldiers!”

   Strider swivelled around and shouted:

   “Then you will defend your people as best you can! There is no other way!”

   The man opened his mouth to object, but shut it again. Some women cried openly, while some of men shook their heads, beaten by the thought of doom on their doorstep.

   Strider panted, and sweat glistened on his brow. He had to remain on his feet at least for a while, so he faced the men.

   “Who of you has got weapons? Swords, spears, halberds, bows?”

   Some laughed bitterly, but Doran said:

   “I've got a lance, some others have got one, too, and we'll find spears, axes, shovels, and knives to bind on a staff if we have to.”

   “Aye, prepare what you can find. We need rope too. Collect every coil and use it to stretch between two huts.”

   “Stretch? You want to make them fall? Of what use is that?” Gaellyn's friend asked.

   “If he trips you beat him to death,” Doran explained with a shrug. “Even you can do that, can't you, Holdan?”

   Holdan bared his teeth and mumbled into his beard, but refused to utter another word.

   “Is there any safe place within the fen?” Strider's gaze found Dinúvren, who nodded, shaken, but resolved on making the best out of the situation. “Then a young woman shall accompany all the children and elderly, who cannot fight, to that place. They must take a boat and stay out of reach until some of you comes to bring them back.” He coughed, and had to pause for a moment.

   Doran straightened and searched for a young girl, who stood weeping behind her father.

   “You there, Talan, take your friends and bring the animals to the fence further south. Do it at once!”

   “You cannot…,” her father interrupted, but Doran waved his bony hand.

   “Do you want to lose the cattle and everything else too? Or did you not listen? There'll be fire! I will not let my hens and goats go mad in that skirmish!”

   “Aye.” Strider wiped his weary face. “The fire might spread, and the Orcs will use burning arrows. Keep buckets with water at hand. We will need them.”

   “What if we can't fend them off?” Talan's father asked, horror in his voice. “What if they are too many?”

   For a long moment the wanderer stared at the ground. How often had he heard these words? How often had he tried to soothe villagers, even soldiers, and give them hope and strength to face an enemy that might prove too strong to subdue? For more than thirty years he had fought the Enemy in almost every part of Middle-earth, side by side with civilians and soldiers, with proud Gondorians or stubborn Rohirrim. He swallowed, then faced the anxious crowd again.

   “The enemy does not expect any resistance . They consider you weak and without arms. An easy prey to rob and carry off. But you shall surprise them and defend your homes with everything you have got. If I can be of any help, I will.”

   Doran nodded his approval and tapped his stick on the hard soil.

   “Aye, we'll do that!” He turned and faced his friends. “Don't dawdle! We have only a few hours to follow his advice!”

   “And you had better rest,” Daevan said into the back of Strider. “You'll be of no help to us so tired.”

   The older man looked over his shoulder.

   “Aye, you're right.”

   “You can sleep in our hut if you want to.”

   “And I take care of the pack to carry out your orders,” said Doran with a sly grin, rubbing his hands.

   Strider agreed, but when he followed the young man, Nilana stepped in his way. She had cried, and the drying tears had left stains on her full cheeks. Though she looked wretched and terrified like many of her kinsmen, her voice was firm and decided.

   “So you have returned to warn us.” She stroked her child's hair in a restless way, and Nelin looked up frightened. “You look dead on your feet. Come, I will give you to drink and something to eat.”

   “There is no need to…”

   “I cared for you once before, I will do so again now.” She turned away from him, and when Strider gazed back to Daevan, the younger man ineffectively tried to hide his grin.

   “Go, follow her,” he urged with a gesture. “I will meet you at midday.”

-o-o-o-o-