Note: excerpt from 'The Lay of Leithian', The Lays of Beleriand, The History of Middle-Earth, Part III; J.R.R. Tolkien; edited by Christopher Tolkien.

Chapter III: Into the Shadows

It was the ninth day since he had left Gandalf at the Crossing of Poros, and Aragorn was already struggling to keep up hope. He had encountered no enemy, nor had he experienced any particularly extraordinary hardships, and yet he was tired, cross and discouraged. The one consolation was that there was no need to appear valiant or unaffected: there was no one to witness his black moods.

He was high amid the Ephel Dûath, scrambling along a scree slope ascending out of a barren valley where he had passed an uneasy night. The heels of his hands were raw from scraping along the rough rocks, and the strips of linen in which he had wrapped his palms and wrists were filthy and shredding swiftly away. His laden pack was heavy upon his back, and though he tried to convince himself that this was a factor in his favour, at the moment all that he cared for was the ache in his shoulders. He was further burdened by four long branches lashed across his back: two nights ago he had halted in a pine copse, and there he had tapped a tree for pitch and set about the smelly and unpleasant task of making torches. He would be glad of them when it came time to venture into caves or tunnels, but at present they were an unwanted load. The torches had further depleted his dwindling supply of spare cloth, and Aragorn was frantically hoping that he would not soon have need of bandages.

Nine days, and in all that time he had found nothing. He had had little chance of picking up a trail by striking a random point in the mountains, and yet he had stumbled upon signs by luck before now. There was no more that could be done: a lone man could not make a systematic search of a vast mountain range. All that he could do was to seek out likely places and hold out hope that his efforts might bear fruit.

As he slipped again, sliding back down the slope and losing several hard-won steps before he managed to dig in his right heel and arrest his descent, he reflected that it was the last part of that equation that was proving the most problematic. He looked up towards the cliff face and the narrow cleft that looked like a passageway of some sort, and gritted his teeth against the effort that it took to convince his heart that this goal was worth pursuing.

In the end he resumed his inelegant climb, less out of hope for what he might find and more out of the knowledge that to turn back now would mean spending another night in the gorge below. It was a barren place, with neither game nor any plant that he trusted as edible. Fortunately he was still well-provisioned. In the lower lands he had had some success with his hunting, catching rabbits or fat southern fowl by day and drying the leftover meat over his nightly fire on a grate made of green branches. It was only in the last few days that he had found himself pressed to eating from the stores he carried. He guessed that even bereft of other sources of sustenance he would have enough to bear him on for three healthy weeks or five frugal, provided that he ate the crabapples before they rotted.

Of greater concern was water. It took a great deal of water to maintain a decent pace on an incline, and in these mountains streams were few. Since he had been obliged to abandon the sources of Poros where they cut a treacherous cleft in the land, he had struggled to find clean sources. In the gully behind him there was only a stagnant mere that might have been the memory of a creek. Now it was shallow and foul-smelling, and it had provided him with murky, bitter water with which to slake his thirst and fill his bottles. He could only hope that it was not riddled with disease. If he pressed on, there was at least the chance of finding a fresh spring that might furnish him with safer drink.

The scree grew steeper: he was near the base of the cliffs now. Gravel slipped beneath his boots and his arms worked furiously to maintain his forward progress. He anchored himself against an outcropping of limestone and halted to catch his breath. His hands throbbed and he was beginning to feel rather overwhelmed. Aragorn stretched his fingers and rounded his back against the weight he carried. He groped for the bottle that hung at his hip, and took three mouthfuls of the unpleasant fluid within. His tongue protested, but his throat was glad of the wetness, and after a minute or two his head grew clearer. He cast his eyes towards his destination. He had only a few rangar more to travel, but here the scree was steep and loose. There were no fixed footholds that he could see, and if he kicked away too much of the debris, the floor of the cleft would prove beyond his reach in a second attempt.

Speed might serve him where careful planning could not. As a child he had taken it as a challenge to move as swiftly and as lightly as an Elf, and though he had never mastered the art of running over unbroken snow or dancing across a single line slung across a river, he could move with greater agility and speed than any other Man he had known. He marshalled his energies and steeled his nerve, then stood up with his feet still braced against the outcropping.

He launched forward, running five paces at a sharp angle before he pitched forward and his hands once more bit into the small, sharp stones. He clambered on, blindly groping ahead, moving too quickly to consider his actions. Suddenly the knuckles of his left hand were barked and torn against solid rock, and he reached up, fumbling for an even surface. He found it, and flung his right arm over its edge, then hauled himself forward as the support slipped from under his feet. He slithered onto the ledge, dragging torso and legs after his wildly working arms. For a moment he was afraid that he would slide back and tumble down the inconstant slope, but then his knee struck solid rock and he knew that he was safe.

He lay there for a minute, panting with exertion and relief. Then he picked himself up and rolled onto his side, leaning back against the rock wall to his left. He looked down at his arms, at the bits of shale imbedded in the cloth of his sleeves and the bright red gems of blood dotting the greyish grime that coated his hands and his wrists.

Closing his eyes, he drew in deep, bracing breaths. He was exhausted. This last was only one in a series of unwelcome exertions as he made his way to ever higher altitudes. Furthermore, he had not slept for more than a couple of hours at a stretch since leaving Gandalf. With the relative safety of Harondor behind him he could not afford to let down his guard and the smallest sound in the night awoke him with a start. Furthermore, dark dreams lingered on the edge of remembrance as his unconscious protested each step that brought him further into the sway of the Shadow. More than once he had roused himself drenched in perspiration and shaking with half-forgotten horrors.

Even the thought of such things was disheartening. Aragorn opened his eyes and began to unwind the ruined bands of linen about his hands. They were fit for nothing but tinder now: he shook them out and stowed them in the pouch at his belt. He took another mouthful of the unpleasant water, and surveyed his surroundings.

He was sitting in a narrow passage between two lofty cliffs. Far above he could see the sky, a gloomy gash of grey against the dark rock. The passage itself turned sharply a few feet away, and vanished around a corner. It was not a safe place to rest, for if something were to come around the bend he would find himself trapped with an enemy before and a nasty fall behind. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet, brushing grime from his legs and sleeves with hands made sticky by gently oozing blood. The scrapes wanted careful cleaning, but he was not sure that he trusted the water he carried. He would press on a little ways and hope for something better.

He drew his long knife. He regretted now his decision, made months before when he and Gandalf had departed from the North, not to carry a sword. Had he but thought, in his wildest imaginings, that he would be returning once more to these lands, he would have carried with him the keenest weapon the armouries of Imladris could provide. He put his back to the rock wall on the concave side of the turn, shuffling slowly to his left and ready at any moment to pivot to meet danger head-on. He braced himself as the next leg of the path came into view, his carefully shifting position revealing...

Nothing.

A breath he had not realized he was holding came out in a puff of heat. He shook his head in quiet disbelief. He was too skittish. In nine days, he had seen no sign of foes. He had spied no likely watchers. It was absurd to be so anxious. He would wear himself out with such vigilance.

Making a conscious effort to remain calm, Aragorn continued down the path. He remained wary, but strove to keep his circumspection within the bounds of sensible caution. His imagination was more highly developed than that of the average knight-errant, and he could not let it rule him. As his eyes shifted constantly to the left, to the right, skyward, forward, down, he tried to occupy his mind by running through the lays of old. He did not dare to sing aloud, but he played the words in his head. Unfortunately, all that sprung to mind was a snippet of the Lay of Leithian:

A devil's laugh they ringing heard
within their pit: 'True, true the word
I hear you speak!' a voice then said.
'T'were little loss if he were dead,
the outlaw mortal, but the king,
the Elf undying, many a thing
no Man could suffer may endure.
Perchance when what these walls immure
of dreadful anguish thy folk learn,
their king to ransom they will yearn,
with gold and gems and high hearts cowed;
or maybe Celegorm the proud
would deem a rival's prison cheap,
and crown and gold himself will keep.
Perchance the errand I shall know,
ere all is done, that ye did go.
The wolf is hungry, the hour is nigh;
no more need Beren wait to die...

He brought himself up sharply, horrified by his lack of self-control. He tried to dredge up some more cheerful scrap of verse: a song in praise of Elbereth, a ballad of love, a fragment of hobbit doggerel, even, but his mind brought forth only chords of darkness and death: the dramatic climax of The Fall of Gil-galad; snatches of the Noldolantë; a lament for the fallen of the Gladden Fields...

'I know what is the matter with me,' he muttered, shuffling forward through the mounting dread in his heart. 'I need sleep.'

A man could only endure so long without submitting to a period of rest, and he had had none the night before, pacing to and fro in the bare valley and listening for spies. He quickened his pace, and as he walked he watched now not only for threats, but for some crevice in the rock where he might conceal himself and attempt to find some semblance of peaceful slumber.

He walked for an hour, or perhaps two. Time was difficult to measure in the indistinct gloom that hung low over the Ephel Dûath. On and on the path wound, turning now east, now south, but most often in a north-easterly direction that brought Aragorn little comfort. That the walls in places seemed strangely uniform, as if hewn long ago by pick and chisel, added to his mounting anxiety. If this had once been an orc-road, who was he to say it was not still in use? To be sure he had seen no signs of other travellers, and orcs of all creatures left clear tokens of their passage, but his mistrustful mind could not disallow the possibility. His hand upon the hilt of his knife was slick with perspiration, the dirty abrasions stinging under the pressure, and his heart was hammering in his temples.

He had walked in these hills before, but then he had not been so haunted by darkness. Perhaps it was only his foreknowledge of what awaited him if he continued in this direction, but he half imagined that there was more to it than that. He had felt the malice of the Enemy in his heart before this, and now it almost seemed as if the ill will of Sauron was washing over this place, surging forth to dishearten any that dared to trespass on his fences.

With this thought came the irrepressible desire to hide, but there was nowhere to secret himself. Cowering under an outcropping of rock would not ease the shadow in his heart anyhow, Aragorn reasoned pragmatically. It was far better to press on, and to hope that he stumbled soon upon some place where he could stretch out his long body and rest.

Another mile slipped past, and he came to a place where the path broadened into a bowl, ringed about with boulders and bordered by sloping walls of rock. He hesitated cautiously before entering the open space, and even once he did he kept to the margins, scanning the scattered stones for signs of motion. He climbed upon a boulder, shoulder-high and flat-topped, and surveyed his surroundings from a greater height. Satisfied that there was no one hiding here, he set about exploring the perimeter of the broad space with greater vigour.

On the far side, close by the place where the path narrowed once more, he found a cave. The entrance was low, vanishing swiftly into darkness. Aragorn leaned an ear to the opening, listening with care. He heard nothing; no echo of movement, no whisper of breath. He picked up a small stone from next to his boot, and tossed it in. Almost immediately he heard it glancing off of a rock-face, but he was not satisfied. He eased his pack off of his shoulders and pulled out his flint and steel and the spent rushlight by which he had darned his cote so many nights ago. Using the torn linen in his pouch for tinder, he lit the candle and held it in his left hand while with his right he kept his knife at the ready.

He had only a few minutes of light, and so he moved forward quickly, bowing his head to allow entrance to the cave. Even past the mouth he could not stand upright. The cave was narrow, and not very deep: ten paces brought him to its back. There were no hidden niches or unseen corners, and he sought swiftly behind the few scattered stones for signs of habitation. Then he inspected the walls for any hint of a hidden door, laying aside his knife to knock upon the walls with a round, smooth rock. No echo answered wherever he struck, and the ceiling was unmarked save for a few small dripstones. Just as he was beginning to feel that this would be a safe place to hide, his rushlight dripped the last of its hot tallow over his fingers and he dropped it with a hiss, shaking his hand to cool the fat before it could burn too deeply.

There was no helping the cleanness of his water now. Hastily he opened his bottle and poured the tepid fluid over the burn, cursing himself for his carelessness. He could not see where the stub of the candle had fallen, and he did not dare to grope about now, for fear of doing further damage to his hand. He moved to the entrance of the cave to collect his pack and the torches, and then retreated to the back of the shelter.

His hand was throbbing in a most annoying manner, but the pain had sharpened his senses and distracted him from the burden on his heart. He ignored the discomfort as he cleared a patch of ground with his foot, scraping aside stones and debris. Then he stretched out on the floor of the cave, drawing his cloak about him. With his back to the wall and his blade in his hand, he was as safe here as he could expect to be anywhere in these lands. His weariness was a dreadful burden. It was with a small thrill of gratitude that he laid it by for a while and slipped into cautious slumber.

lar

He awoke to the unexpected noise of voices, near at hand but oddly hollow-sounding.

'There's trouble down below,' the first voice said. 'I 'ear there won't be enough bread to go 'round, what with all the new boys coming up from the South, and the bother with the maggot-folk and all.'

'If they can't work so as they can feed us proper, I say we eat them instead, and have done!' a second voice put in.

'Just you try it, and see how quick we all starve. Sick slaves work harder'n dead slaves. 'Specially with a little tickle from a nice, nippy whip,' said a third.

Aragorn held his breath, not daring to stir even a hair's breadth from the position in which he lay. Slowly, warily, he opened his eyes, but he saw only blackness. Even the mouth of the cave was obscured in shadow. Night had fallen.

There was a sound of an iron-shod foot glancing off stone, and the pitter-patter of scattered pebbles. 'Whipping 'em won't put food in our bellies, and you know they'll give preference to the regular regiments when it comes to rations. Have to keep 'em happy,' groused the first voice. 'Fighters sittin' idle are more dangerous than a little border-patrol.'

'So?' said Second Voice. 'We'll go down into the hills, catch us something tasty. There's Men in those lands. They make good eating.'

If there had been any doubt before, there was none now. Orcs. At least three, and from the sound of their voices they were outside the cave. Aragorn dared to raise himself on his left elbow, ignoring the protests from his burned hand. He flexed the fingers of his right around the hilt of his knife, and tried to pick out the mouth of the cave.

'Pah! Only if you can catch 'em,' said a deep, scornful fourth voice. 'Tarks aren't so easy to kill as ordinary men. They've got long swords and quick wits.'

Well, quick wits, anyhow, Aragorn thought. Though at the moment he would have given a great deal for a long sword as well.

'You know they won't stand for us making trouble with the tarks.' Third Voice was the cautious one, probably smaller than the others and certainly cleverer. A captive would have to be careful of Third Voice, for he had his race's love of inflicting suffering, coupled with a malice and creativity beyond the scope of an average Uruk.

Aragorn chastised himself. He had no intention of being taken captive. If there were only four, then even armed only with a knife he stood a fighting chance – particularly as they did not know that he was here. With a little luck, he could come out of this unscathed.

Luck was not with him. A fifth voice cut in. 'They don't like this. They won't stand for that. I'm sick of hearing what they want. Don't you City filth have any backbone?'

Aragorn nearly hissed with the other orcs at this show of temerity. Clearly Fifth Voice had no conception of what he was saying. When Third Voice had ventured his remark about conflict with the Rangers of Ithilien – for what other tarks with long swords and quick wits were to be found anywhere near the Mountains of Shadow? – a cold dread had settled upon Aragorn's heart. He had not realized that he had strayed already so far North that he might hear tidings of 'them'. The revelation filled him with terror that a band of five discontented orcs could never hope to match.

'Shut yer mouth, you fool!' hissed Second Voice, no longer quite so brazen. 'Even the stones have ears...'

With no concept of the time, and no idea how long he had slept, Aragorn could not accurately gauge his danger. If it was early in the night, the orcs would most likely move on, resuming their patrol. If dawn was near then they would need shelter, and he had seen no other hiding-place in the miles that he had covered.

Carefully, silently, he got his feet under him, and crept, hands grazing the ground, along the wall of the cave. He found the entrance, and retreated half a yard. He could see light now: the sickly glow of a dirty lantern. It illuminated the knobbly claw that held it, and its faint light made several pairs of red eyes shine like embers in the night. Aragorn counted. Two, four, six, eight... ten eyes. Five orcs: all had spoken. Their sizes and sorts could not be discerned, nor did he dare challenge five in the dark, in an open place, armed only with a knife.

They were a good distance away, near the far end of the open space. Their voices sounded hollow because of the way they reverberated off of the stone walls – not quite an echo, but a curious resonance in the cold mountain air.

They were quarrelling now, as orcs were wont to do. The topic of debate appeared to be the supremacy of those who answered to the guardians of the City over those who served only the Eye. It was an old argument, and not only among orcs. Aragorn had heard many variations upon it, and he knew – even if they did not – that they would not settle the question. It remained to be seen, however, whether they would grow incensed enough to draw blade against each other and thus solve his problem for him.

'Tower rats; what do you know? When war comes, you'll be the first to die. Our masters will see to it that we're kept for the important work, not thrust on the spears of the tarks like a pig on a pike!' Second Voice baited.

'We'll be sent first because the Eye trusts us to make a proper job of it!' snapped Fifth Voice. The tension was palpable. Any moment now they would come to blows. Fifth Voice was outnumbered, but if he could take out even one of his rivals before the others cut him down, only three would remain to be dispatched with the Ranger's knife. 'You cowards would only—'

'That's enough talk! We've got miles to cover 'til we reach the edge, and then we'll need to get back here before sunup! Quit yer squabbling and let's go!'

Silently Aragorn cursed Third Voice and his level-headedness. The others seemed to pause, considering the wily orc's words. First Voice grunted appreciatively. 'Let's go, lads,' he said. 'No sense arguing while there's work to be done.'

The lantern disappeared behind a burly body and the noise of iron-shod feet moved off towards the passageway that led back in the direction from whence Aragorn had come. The Ranger's mind raced.

If they were going all the way back to the edge – which he presumed was a reference to the mouth of the path where he had scrambled up off of the scree – then there must be some hours left until dawn. He could fly from this place, up the other path, and be far away before sunlight stopped these orcs. Yet he knew not what lay ahead, and if these five were a patrol then there surely was a camp from which they had come, and quite likely a captain and other Uruks as well. To run blind into a crowd of foes was the height of folly. Yet if he lingered here and they returned, he had little hope of slaying them all where they might so easily surround him.

If he followed them, on the other hand... He remembered the bend in the path. If they were foolish enough to wander together to the edge, which seemed not unlikely, then he would have them trapped. In that narrow corridor no more than two could stand abreast, and surely he could manage two at a time. Caught between his knife and the long tumble down the slope, he would have them in an excellent position. Of course, it would mean losing all of the distance he had covered today, but he would be able to press on into the unfamiliar territory in the safety of daylight.

It seemed the most logical course of action. Hastily Aragorn caught up his pack, but he left the torches behind. They were unnecessarily cumbersome, and if all went well he could return for them. If all did not go well, a dead man had no need of light.

As silent as the shadows he ran across the bowl. It took a little fumbling against the rock wall to find the place where the path narrowed, but soon he was striding noiselessly through the dark, his quick ears catching the noise of orc-feet and the continued squabbling. Keeping a judicious distance lest they pick up his scent, he followed his quarry.