At the Edge of the Dark Forest

It was her turn to watch. 

They were scarcely a mile away from the edge of Mirkwood.  The days before they had passed the empty husks of the settlements of the last of the Rhovanians they’d met a fortnight before.  The abandoned sturdy log farm homes, were now lonely without their human purpose, slowly passing their time as gravity returned them to the earth.

It had been visible from the start of the day, a constrast in color at the eastern horizon.    From the rich vibrant greens of the Anduin valley trees, always changing with the season, to the wall of Mirkwood, a darker hue, dense, close, heavy with evergreens and other species now changed with the arts of the Lord of Dol Guldor. 

She could smell the change.  The sweet growth of the seasons had retreated at first to a somber flow from the east, what might once have been a sharp fragrance of pines, junipers, cedars and spruces.  A hint still remained, a stubborn resistance to the tide, as dried herbs compared to freshly cut sprigs.

Other odors had less to recommend.  A vague rot seeped in, clutching close to the ground, as if a message from the deeper forest.  It gave her a chill, because it was not entirely unpleasant, a perfume if you will, decadent, unwholesome, but tempting, almost hypnotic.  Whatever its source, they would soon be walking amidst it.

The others were sleeping now.  The moon had risen, passing silently above the eaves of the forest to the east.  Drianna was alone with her thoughts and the night.

So much for the plan eloquently outlined in Rivendell.  Since then she had been quietly enraged for days and days at the thought of her father.  Still unforgiving that he had let her brother Eradan go off weeks ago, knowing his nature.  More so that he had acquiesced to participate at such risk in this venture.  Mostly it was her feeling of helplessness at it all, clinging onto a thread of hope that her brother might still be alive, angry at her father, yet desperately fearful of his fate in events to come.  

She stood at the top of a small knoll, the top crowned with an old growth of oaks and maples.  There was an opening in the grove to the west, where she could see down a gentle slope, a mixture of tall grasses and shrubs, dim and silvery in the moonlight.  Beyond that another cluster of trees, deep in shadow.

It had been quiet since dusk, though something was nagging at her.  She fidgeted, checking the placement of the daggers in her belt, the slender, deadly sword that always welcomed her grip with its effortless, seductive weight, perfectly balanced.  The tension would not go away, something out there calling to her, just beyond the ability of her senses to see.

Time passed. She had almost dozed off.  Another hour and Arahael would take her place.

Then something caught her eye at the edge of the trees at the base of the knoll.  Just a flash of pale white.  Drianna stepped forward, quietly easing her sword from its scabbard.  A figure half emerged from the trees, fifty yards away, down the slope, a shape not that of a man.  Something familiar though about it to her, tugging at her memory.  It came out of the woods now, its head close to the ground, nibbling at a patch of long grass, a horse.

Not just any horse, for even in the moonlight she could make out the distinct dark brown splotch on its left side.

Her breath caught in her throat.  It was Xandr, Eradan’s favorite mount. 

Her pulse raced beneath her field buckskin tunic.  She knew the horse, had helped to raise it from a foal as a gift to her brother.  Drianna edged slowly down the slope as if walking on eggshells.  Xandr raised his head, fixing her with a stare, a pale equine ghost in the moonlight.  His body tensed, readying itself for flight. 

Drianna stopped, quietly cursing her eagerness, not understanding what the horse must have been through, how he had survived.  She sat down.  Xandr watched, still as stone for a few tense moments.  Then the tension eased in his muscles and he lowered his head once again to browse on the long grass.  Drianna thought back several years to the days about the stables when she was shepherding the little colt about.  How she whispered in his ear, even making up a little song for the rambunctious yearling, one that she would sing to him as the dusk faded and the lightning bugs glimmered in the early summer night.

A smile spread across her face.  Still seated in the damp grass she began to hum the song, repeating it over and over, raising the volume ever so slightly with each cycle.  Xandr raised his head from his browsing, not in apprehension, but in curiosity.  Drianna began to put the words to the song, singing softly at first, then raising her voice slightly.  Xandr swished his tail, standing now, focused on Drianna. 

Time to take a chance.  She stood slowly, continuing to sing.  Xandr stayed his ground.

Another recollection from the stables came to her, the hand signals.  Could he see them in the moonlight?  She had one she always used in the morning when she would see him, a movement with pressed palms that opened to a wide sweeping greeting, palms outward.   When he saw that he would rise from his straw and gallop over on his still spindly legs, circling her until she produced some treat from a pocket that he would delicately snatch up in his teeth.

Drianna patted the numerous pockets in her tunic.  There was a slight bump in a small pouch in the lower left side, a last coveted hard candy treat she had kept from the dessert table at Rivendell.  Oh, this would do. She secreted it between her fingers.

She clasped her palms together in front of her.  Xandr raised his head slightly.  Her palms parted as her arms swept out in the welcome she always made those years past.  For a moment nothing happened.  The horse seemed to struggle within himself, front hooves quivering, back legs tensing.  Drianna took another chance and called in a loud whisper

“Xandr…good morning little one”

The great horse moved forward a few steps. 

“Come…we have much to do today” she whispered louder.

The great horse quickened his pace to a trot, then a gallop, circling her, his great head held high.  Drianna kept her position, arms spread, the sugary snack pinned between her fingertips as always.  Xandr tightened the circle, he could smell her now, remembered the scent from his youth, a friend, a trusted friend.  Then he slowed, approaching her directly, edging closer til the breath from his nostrils poured soft on her fingertips.  In an instant he snatched the elven candy from her outstretched hand and pranced away, triumphant, his youth reclaiming him.

“Good boy” Drianna spoke now, her voice low but clear, no longer a whisper.

Xandr returned to her, feeling safety in the pattern of memory that she had extended to him.  He was so big that it startled her, the last memory she had being his coltish eyes staring levelly into hers.  Now he looked down on her, a mighty cavalry steed, fit to bear the son of the Steward.  Still he was her baby and seemed to need that again.

Even in the moonlight she could now see something was wrong about him.  His ears were cruelly chewed, the tender flesh about his eyes scarred with poorly healed wounds, some swollen with infection.  Drianna kept her palms on his body, murmuring to him, slowly working her way along his flanks to his hindquarters.  There she saw more damage, tears and rents still oozing, some covered with scabs.  It was too soon to tell if he would sire more of his courage and spirit.  It was not too soon for her anger to boil up at the thought of who or what could do such a thing and how she would deal with those responsible.

Xandr stiffened suddenly.  Drianna looked back up the slope.  It was Arahael, emerging early for his watch, standing at the opening in the trees, looking down at her, his body language cautious, not understanding what was transpiring. 

“It’s all right Xandr…he is a friend, come…follow me…there are more friends and you will be loved and cared for”

The great horse paused, uncertainty coming over him like a wave, instincts sharpened by recent horror and cruelty now trying to pull him away.  Drianna reached up, gently cradling his head against hers, whispering in his gnarled ears.  Xandr relaxed, the trust from a distant youth reasserting itself, wanting to, wanting to replace the terror of the past weeks.  A decision was made deep inside him and he followed as she walked purposely up to the top of the moonlit slope where Arahael stood.

--------------------------------------------------*--------------------------------------------------------

The wet rasp of a warm tongue on his cheek brought his body abruptly awake.  It was an instinctive thing, eyes suddenly open, arms and shoulders tensing in for a fight.  Fear raced through him, visions of swarming insects tearing flesh as he sat helpless, back to a tree, hands tightly bound behind a scaly trunk.  He struggled violently, thrashing, then wrestling himself up to a standing position.  Wild-eyed, panting heavily he braced for death from hundreds of remorseless pincers and greedy jaws.

But death failed to arrive and after a few moments the fog of fear left him.  Sight and reason returned and he began to take in his surroundings for the first time. 

It was day, perhaps mid-morning, though little sun made its way through the impenetrable canopy above to the forest floor.  Before him lay an old fall of great trees, victims of some long ago bolt of lighting or stormy gale.  Others, dark boughed evergreens, had sprung up to take their place, letting no precious daylight go to waste.

Atop one huge rotting moss covered log sat two large bobcats, eyeing him coolly.  One with golden eyes licked its lips.  Eradan smiled, that first strange sensation on his cheek now clear to him.

“Well at least Clybrindor likes you…or we might have just left you to the bugs” a voice gently mocked just inches from his left ear.

Startled, Eradan wrenched to his left toward the source of the human voice.  It was a human voice!

A figure brushed past him.  Dark green buckskins, slightly above average height, compactly, but solidly built, confident in his stride, at home in the forest. 

“Who are you!” Eradan nearly spluttered, astonished yet grateful at the same time.

The man turned, round face framed by curling golden hair, greying at the temples.  Large, pale blue eyes stared back at him appraisingly.  A small wry, ironic smile suggested humor though the curl of his lip hinted at the potential for cruelty if provoked.

One of the bobcats leapt off the log, gray with a slight bluish tint, the one that had woken him moments ago.  Now it sat at his feet, poised, an attitude of confidence mixed with a tinge of expectancy.  Eradan now saw that his fur was matted with brown stains, some with his own blood.  Both ears sported small puncture holes and a fresh wound below its right eye still oozed.

“Clybindor and I would like to know who you are.  He and Chrisandil fought well for you if that means anything!”

“I am Eradan, son of Mardil, Steward of Gondor.  Release me that I may reach my father who is in great peril!”

The man sat on the log next to the other bobcat, which promptly leapt off to an adjacent fallen tree and began grooming herself, removing the stains from her golden fur.

“What would I know of Stewards and kingdoms.  I have saved you as any man would under the circumstances and lucky indeed it was that I was spying on Dol Guldur at that very moment.  But you are no ordinary man it is clear, to have escaped from Dol Guldur.  How could it be that I can be convinced of your truthfulness.  I must think for a moment.”

Eradan fumed, fists clenched in frustration.

“You don’t understand! I…”

The enigmatic man on the log interrupted him, raising his voice.

“You were a young man high up in the White Mountains in the winter, training with your battalion.  You were climbing a steep icy slope just behind your squad leader.  What happened!?”

Eradan stared, mouth agape at the stranger, whose unnaturally large pale blue eyes bored into his.

“Well….?” Ardugan insisted.

“He fell, slipped on glare ice.  I grabbed the hood of his outer cloak and held him long enough for him to regain his footing.  We were both nearly killed.”

“Good”

“Wait…how do you know such a thing! Nothing was ever said.  We were alone.  It was an early morning test before the rest of the recruits had breakfasted!”

The stranger smiled.  “I have a talent for observation, young man.  Now another question for you.  Your horse was a gift.  Who was the giver?”

“My sister, Drianna.  She raised it from a colt.”  Eradan replied, grudgingly.

Unexpectedly the man approached, walking purposely, pulling a curious knife from a small sheath in the belt about his buckskin tunic.  Eradan tensed, preparing to make whatever fight he could against this adversary.  The man moved with surprising quickness, darting in back of the tree, severing the rope, then agilely evading Eradan’s outstretched arms, ending up on one of the logs, a small bow already drawn, arrow pointed at Eradan’s heart.

“Sit. Listen and learn, Eradan, for you are the son of the Steward as I am the son of a king.”

Eradan sat.  The blue-gray bobcat eased over and joined him.  The stranger leapt down from the log and put away his bow.

“I am Ardugan, son of Arvedui, last king of Arthedain, descendant of Isildur, Elendil’s son.”

Eradan just stared at him, realizing what a ragged figure he must present, tattered orc armor over rags, greasy gray flecked brown hair hanging over his forehead, scars and wounds still seeping blood.  He was hardly a convincing figure, yet this man clad in dark green who claimed noble blood believed him.  Now, was he prepared to believe this stranger with the luminous blue eyes.

The man called Ardugan made his way forward and sat on the ground a few paces in front of Eradan. 

“Your father knows full well his danger.  Your sister, who raised Xandr from a colt was in our company less than a week ago.”

“Drianna?! “ Eradan burst out, “Of what company do you speak! How is it that she is near, yet so far from Gondor!”  Eradan now stood again eyes blazing, confused, yet angry.  Next to him the gray bobcat backed off hissing, baring its teeth.  Ardugan maintained his ground, hardly moving from his sitting position.  After a few moments the silence of the forest soaked up Eradan’s outburst and Ardugan spoke.

“Listen!” he shouted, “We could spend a day and more with what has transpired since your capture at the edge of the Brown Lands weeks ago, but there is not time for storytelling!  We are barely 3 leagues from Dol Guldor.  I have carried you all night and into the day to reach this spot.”

Eradan’s eyes widened as he realized the means of his rescue from the certain death of the night before.  Ardugan resumed.

“This narrow sliver of forest where we sit still resists the foul invasion from the southeast.  An age ago these woods were alive with elven trails.  The land still remembers and resists the dark incursion of mold, vine, and corruption.  But its memory is weak and the fair wood retreats more each year.  Of my reasons for venturing so close to the doom that almost overtook you we will speak later, but not here.  We must go!  There are those who await you and urgently need the counsel of your dark days ‘ere they proceed.  Come! My horse is near and will bear your weight while I and my companions protect the flank.”

Ardugan glanced at Clybrimbor who sauntered off.  He turned his head to Chrisandil who ignored him, continuing her grooming.  

“Come Eradan, this way.” Ardugan gestured to a spot on the other side of the fallen logs. He helped Eradan limp along.  Then the figure of a horse emerged in the dim light, a tall, lean, black stallion, alert and fearless.

“It’s all right Nytral…he is a friend and needs your strength for this day.”

The stallion snorted briefly then turned slightly to allow Eradan to mount.  Disdaining Ardugan’s offer of assistance, Eradan grimaced as he placed his left foot in the stirrup and painfully hauled himself up into the saddle.  Breathing heavily, he managed a strained smile of triumph at what would normally be a small physical feat.

Ardugan fished around in a small pocket at the lower end of his short buckskin tunic. 

“Here”, he said to Eradan, handing him something the size of a walnut wrapped in silvery leaves.  “Chewed, it will give you healing strength, yet will calm your spirits”

Eradan took it reluctantly, eying it suspiciously.

“As you wish” Ardugan commented somewhat wearily, “But I have invested all too much effort to bring you this far only to poison you for sport!  If you have any intention of joining your sister and the others as something other than a weakened husk of your former self you will consume this medicine and give thanks that you will not be walking the next 10 leagues!”

Eradan glared at him momentarily, then removed the small irregular brown nodule from its leafy wrapping and tucked it in his mouth.  It had a curious chewy texture and a sweet, spicy flavor.  He felt the aches and tears of his bruises and wounds fading, replaced with a quiet sense of strength and tranquility.  Relaxed, he leaned forward in the saddle, resting his head on the nape of the horse’s neck.  Moments later he was fast asleep.

Ardugan wrapped a few straps loosely around the battered warrior to insure that he would not fall off the steed.  Then he disappeared into the woods, followed by feline blurs of gray and light golden brown.  Nytral trotted off behind them, picking his way effortlessly through the dense evergreens and the thick matted piles of dead branches and pine needles that carpeted the forest floor.

-------------------------------------------------*---------------------------------------------------------

Drianna and Xandr slowly made their way up the slope to Arahael, her hand on his left hind flank as a measure of security.  They had approached to within yards when the horse stiffened suddenly.  Drianna could feel his pulse quickening beneath her hand.  Xandr raised his head, eyes glistening with intent, scarred snout testing the air.

“Xandr…what is it?” Drianna whispered, afraid that the great horse might abruptly bolt after all her patient coaxing.  He seemed not to hear.  Once again he raised his head, like carved marble in the moonlight.  A sharp snort, then a whinny, almost joyous, burst forth and the great steed reared up, hooves pawing the air.

Drianna backed away and Xandr took off to the east at a spirited gallop, tall swishing, head bobbing with excitement.  Arahael came down the slope to her.

“I made no movement…” he began almost apologetically.

“No…it was not you Arahael, nor was it fear that roused him.” Drianna replied excitedly.  By now Xandr had disappeared in to the east, swallowed by the night.

“Then what was it” Arahael inquired.

“You would not know…the horse was Xandr, Eradan’s mount…a gift from me when we were younger”

“He survived the battle?! Are you sure it was his horse?” Arahael replied disbelieving.

“I raised it from a colt…there is no doubt as to his identity.  Perhaps it is just the dreams of a grieving sister, but I believe it was joy that pulled at him, drawing him off suddenly.  I know only one thing that fills his heart with such joy”

“And that would be…”

“The presence of the only master he will obey, my brother Eradan!” Drianna replied, her voice thick with emotion.

Arahael knew her grief to be great and her heart hardened by its burden carried over the long leagues since she left Gondor.  Now that they were close to the source of what might have been her brother’s certain death, he felt that the pain of such a loss was showing in her words.

Just then they heard Xandr’s whinnying, far off.  But this time the call was answered by that of another horse.  Both Arahael and Drianna were momentarily startled.

“Drianna, we must wake the others! We know not if what approaches is friend or foe!”

Quickly they went through the camp, rousing the companions in the middle of the night.  Soon they all stood in the moonlight, brushing sleep from their eyes and readying their swords.

“You are certain that a different horse answered and not one of our own” Aranarth questioned gruffly, ill disposed to losing sleep to the imagination of an inexperienced cohort.

“We both heard it” Arahael replied evenly, taking slight at his father’s tone, “Drianna has already checked our horses…none are missing.”

“Very well, but it ill behooves us to venture blindly in the night in search of horses this close to Mirkwood”

“Aranarth is right” Gandalf replied, “If indeed this is Eradan’s steed I am gladdened by its presence and what may be another of its companions that may have survived that terrible day.  But we must be cautious.  If this is an enemy let it face our swords together at this place.  If it is no foe then we will grant such greetings as are due.”

“That choice will soon be upon us” Haldir commented, staring hard to the east.

Eyes followed his.  Even at this distance they could sense the pounding hooves and the exuberance of the stallion, a white glimmer in the moonlight some two hundred yards off, emerging from behind the black nighttime shadows of a grove of evergreens.  Down it raced through the tall grasses and shrubs into a shallow crease of the land, then up again towards them, as if in a hurry to pass on news.  In moments it came thundering to a halt, eyes ablaze, head held high, steam billowing in moonlit clouds from his flanks and mouth.

Before any could make a move there was a rustle behind them.  Swords scraped upon scabbards, the air was silent but for the intake of breath before battle. 

“Sheath your weapons…” a tired voice called out, as if preoccupied with more important tasks.

“Ardugan…” Aranarth commented flatly.

“Yes, Ardugan it is and with company…someone help me with him…he has sustained injuries and needs aid.”

Drianna pushed her way through the crowd of men, feeling her way amongst the nighted trees to the voice on the far side of the grove that topped their knoll encampment.   She could discern little other than Ardugan’s form crouched over another in the dappled moonlight under the trees.  

“Eradan....”she whispered to herself, saying a silent prayer of thanks.  Quickly she knelt at Ardugan’s side, heart pounding. 

“Is he…”

“Dead?…no, Drianna, just fast asleep” Ardugan replied.  The others had now arrived and Gandalf gently rested his hand on Drianna’s shoulder.

“Rare indeed is the man who can escape from the clutches of the Necromancer.  Such a story begs to be told, but first we must first tend to his wounds.  Haldir, can you assist us?”

The Marchwarden of Lorien approached quietly.  He, Gandalf and Ardugan cleansed Eradan’s wounds, applied salves and oils, wrapping the most pernicious of the cuts and punctures in cotton bandages.  They would do more on the ‘morrow when daylight might reveal more damage to be repaired.  Haldir then produced a small vial that emitted a pale silvery glow as if it had captured the moonlight itself.

“Lift his head Drianna.  Let us see if he can sip a little of this” Haldir requested

“What is this…what do you give him?” Drianna reacted protectively, shielding Eradan’s lips with her hand

“Fear not sister.  It is called the Light of the Silverlode.  It will cleanse his body of such venoms and poisons that may have been forced upon him which sap his strength and spirit.”

Haldir knelt down, his face softly illumed by the silvery glow.  Carefully he touched the vial to Eradan’s mourth, sparing but little, then backing away.  Even in the dim light Drianna could see a change come over him, lines of tension easing from his face, fists unclenching, muscles relaxing.

“We must let him rest now Drianna” Gandalf whispered into her ear.  She nodded silently, only half hearing him, absorbed by her emotions, immensely grateful that her brother yet lived, still astonished that it had come to pass.  She spread two blankets over his sleeping form, then stood up.

“I will stand watch over him tonight.”  She announced.

“Arahael and Hagar will join you, Drianna” Aranarth replied. “We know not who or what may be in pursuit of Eradan nor the manner of his escape”

“Indeed we know very little!” Gandalf interjected.  “Perhaps Ardugan would favor us with what he knows from his days in the shadow of Dol Guldur.”

And so as Eradan slept, Ardugan told his tale, his secret reconnoiter of the outskirts of the Necromancer’s abode, the sudden appearance of Eradan, rescue from the insect horde and return through the paths of the dark forest.  There was much discussion, then Gandalf bade them all to sleep.

He stayed up after the others had gone to rest, watching the sky.  Clouds now obstructed the moon.  The wind was still from the south, but would shift to the west and north accompanied by a gusty shower or two.  Farther up the vales of the Anduin the shift had already occurred the day before.  That and more he knew from the message that Guaykil had brought him last night.

The birds had left the sanctuary of Rhosgobel.  Indeed, at the time that Guaykil arrived they were resting in great flocks on the south side of the Gladden river, enjoying the repast that the elves had laid out for them.   Few had born witness to their flight, other than a small collection of astonished hobbits, dwelling quietly near the marshy bottomlands of the Gladden where they fished and raised crops in small fields.

Tonight, if all went according to plan, a north wind would have already carried them to Lorien where they would fill the great trees and dine again on elven fare.  There they would rest for a day before making their way east to fulfill their part in the plan. 

He could smell rain on the wind now. It would be upon them soon, but would pass quickly.  The arrival of Eradan was unforeseen and he was uneasy as to what it meant.  Despite his statement to the group extolling Eradan’s bravery, he found his arrival in the very midst of what was perhaps too intricate a plan to be almost suspicious in its timing.

And they could ill afford much delay.  They had to be at the gates of the Necromancer in three days.  He sighed to himself.  It was ever so in Middle Earth.  All his efforts, talents and skills could be undone or made whole by random events.  What Eradan’s appearance meant at this point would have to wait until tomorrow. 

********************************-----************************************

Atop Dol Guluor a darker, more sinister spirit also brooded about the ‘morrow.  He had left the form of the great black wolf, allowing it to slumber on a flat slab of black granite under the cloudy night sky. 

His presence now floated free, a roiling ball of crimson striated with writhing tendrils of orange and black, with an occasional spout of flame.  Deep within, the vague form of a lidless eye emerged briefly from time to time.  He did not sleep.  Days and nights being a contrivance of time and natural phenomena that had meaning only as it affected the affairs of those creatures he strove to dominate.

The ball darkened angrily with that thought as it reminded him of his failure with the Steward’s son.  The others from the battlefield had succumbed one by one to the drugs and deprivations he had inflicted on them, even the one known as Zerephath, who had resisted most stubbornly.  A few finishing touches and they would be automatons, nearly dead, but alive to do his bidding. 

But the dosages and torments that had worked well on them did not break Eradan.  He had become concerned that he might risk killing him, given the toxic effects of the potions, such was the unexpected strength of his will.  That would not do, if he was to return the young master to Gondor as his living, compliant, yet unwitting servant.

So he had sent him to the lower pits while he pondered other elixirs, tortures and terrors.

And then the whelp escaped! 

Once again the crimson ball pulsed and roiled with anger, spitting flame.  Then, after a while, it gradually subsided, fires banked.  He was part to blame, he knew, stripping the garrisons to such a bare minimum to put as many orcs in the field as possible against the approach of Mardil.  Of course, that had no effect on his decision to punish the two dungeon guards who had let him head up the passage towards the beetles, assuming he would have to return once he weighed his chances.  They now dangled from the ceiling of the cavern where his insects gathered, their naked feet inches of the floor.  His little bugs would find the two swaying morsels to their liking, even if it took all night for them to work their way up from the feet to their necks.

No trace of the Steward’s son had been found.  No bones picked clean, no shreds of clothing or the shabby armor he had stolen from the old orc.  Perhaps two score of his favored beetles were discovered in a heap, slashed to ribbons.  Others were dead but intact, smelling of some strange secretion or potion. 

How this could be, none could tell him, unless they turned on each other in a frenzy to compete for the flesh of a man or were set upon by some beast.  No matter, the young warrior would not survive long, becoming dinner for a troupe of his giant spiders.  Even now he might find himself securely wrapped in sticky web, paralyzed with venom, awaiting the pitiless piercing that would slowly drain the life force from his veins.

His death would still be a blow to the detested Gondor.  But an even greater blow was about to be struck, a more valuable prize almost at his doorstep, the Steward himself!

The hovering entity that was Sauron took on a deeper, richer red, suffused with malevolent satisfaction and excitement.  Dead or alive, Mardil was more than an adequate substitute for his son.

The fool! Had he learned nothing from the vainglorious, fatal exploits of Earnur’s challenge to the Witch King or the headstrong pursuit of the mirage of rescue that had entrapped his own son?

It was almost too easy and a small seed of doubt and suspicion lingered deep within him.

Yet there was no mistaking Mardil’s presence along with 1000 of his best cavalry just two days south of the forest’s edge.  And no reinforcements to follow.  The Steward would be outnumbered perhaps three to one.  Though Eradan’s troops had cost him dearly there were still more than enough to handle this force once the bats had sown their chaos and blood in their ranks.  And they would bend to His will, suppressing any fear in their brutish minds.

His focus was to the south and so it had been for days.  It grated on him that His power was still limited, a pale shadow of what he had wielded ages past.  That would change in time.  But now he would not waste it other than the opportunity at hand.  To the north the forest was vacant for hundreds of leagues, the elven king Thranduil having no stomach for battle.  To the west, the last ragged band of Rhovanian remnants had been driven from their meager lands not more than a fortnight ago.  Lorien would not venture beyond the formidable defense of their own borders. 

Other than a small, insignificant trading party that had crossed the Anduin at the Carrock days before, the land around him was empty for all intents and purposes.  And the traders would be a welcome amusement later, imprudently hoping to cut a few weeks off the trek south to Gondor via the eastern banks of the Anduin.  He would think of new ways to send them down the river, something more original than the arrangement he had designed for the earlier party that had left Gondor months before.

Then for a moment another thought, the Istari.  He knew enough that they were abroad in Middle Earth from the West, watching him, plotting perhaps with what feeble remains there were of the Alliance that had defeated him two thousand years past.  Yet the most powerful of them was far to the east.  Two others also east were lost, wanderers without purpose, of little use to whatever mission they might have envisioned. 

The Brown One, well to the north, seemed content with his birds and herbs, a footnote in the history of this world.  The Grey One, a wanderer from what his spies could tell, genial, convivial, eager to befriend the races of Middle Earth, if they were less eager to embrace him.  No there was no immediate threat there either.  Still they were a potential pest, or perhaps a future opportunity much like Mardil.

Such thoughts he dismissed now.  There was business at hand.  It would be dawn in an hour.  He sensed a lightening in the sleep of the huge black wolf to his left and eased into its mind.  The power of its sinews and tendons felt good to the touch.  It still twitched in dreams he could share, visions of prey struggling between gnashing teeth, the pounding hearts of deer out of breath and hope.

No, He did not sleep.  He only paused for a moment in his ageless thought for diversion and in the deep night the great black wolf met His need.

********************************----***********************************

To the west the clouds had cleared after a light shower.  The leaves of the great mallorns, still wet with rain, glistened in the moonlight.  Atop the highest tree on a platform woven into its uppermost branches, two figures stood, facing east.

“It was once like this long ago” the tall woman spoke wistfully, “before the lands sank beneath the seas, the forests of Eriador laid bare to the Numenorean axes or darkened by evil.  We were much closer to the creatures of the world for so much of it had yet to be taken from them.”

The silver haired man next to her nodded silently in the pale light.  It had been an extraordinary day in that respect. 

They had stood on this very platform hours ago in the morning.  To their left the rugged snow-capped peaks of the Misty mountains had marched north piercing a brilliant blue sky.  Down their great slopes stretched long green flanks towards the undulating flatland where the Anduin wound its way out of the northern wastes far over the horizon.  To the east Mirkwood brooded sullenly.

But their eyes had been fixed on a smudge on the northern horizon, hovering in the sky just above the easy rolling plain near the river. She had remembered a quickening in her pulse as the first of the flocks approached.  Celeborn had seen to it that great painted simulacrums of each of the species were hung from the stands of trees where they were to congregate.  And the first were the swifts.  In moments they were upon them in a great rush of wind, their wings beating furiously in rapid, almost bat-like movements, some darting to and fro as the swarm abruptly banked in a steep climb, spiraling up with the first of the morning thermals.  Then, from high up they dove down in a swooping cloud braking at the last moment, entering the trees, chattering and twittering excitedly.

Others followed in sequence, an enormous flock of starlings, darkening the sky with their numbers.  Then the raptors, kestrels, sharphawks, goshawks, and red-tailed hawks.  Finally towards the end of the day came the small owls.  The eagles, unused to tree living, remained to the west, high up upon the mountain crags west of Lorien, though their leader, Aquilar came to give his respects to the Lady of the Wood, arriving majestically from on high.

Lorien was awash in avian conversation as the thousands congregated in the branches, enjoying the foodstuffs tied to perches or dangling from boughs.  It was a sight never before seen in the land and not likely to be experienced again.  Later, an hour before sunset, the flock leaders had gathered with Galadriel on her high platform.  A semicircle of perches had been set for them, with bowls of treats particular to each species attached.

The Lady of the Wood sat before them at a small table covered in purest white linen.  A single silver plate lay before her arranged with delicacies and specialties that she enjoyed.  

After a time she spoke to the assembled lords of the flocks in the manner she had learned long ago from Melian the Maia when she had dwelt in the kingdom of Doriath in the days of the First Age of Middle Earth.

“You honor our Woods with your presence, lords and ladies of the air” she spoke to the group.  Apodidie, leader of the swifts, replied for them.

“We are honored to receive your invitation to share in the bounty and beauty of Lorien, my Lady.  It has become all too rare that many of our numbers grace these boughs and branches.  A time long ago we could fly for days without end over the endless forests.  Now we must take care where we dwell and how we journey.”

“I too mourn the loss that time and evil have brought to the land since I set foot on its distant shore two ages ago.  And now evil has returned.”

“As well we know, many of our long ago roosts and hunting grounds in the Greenwood have turned dark, a place unfit for nesting and gathering.  We too wish to reclaim what has been lost.”

“We shall strive together then.  You know the plan.  We shall house you here tonight and the next day that you may rest.  On the third day as sunset approaches the west wind will carry you to Mirkwood where the hospitality will fall far short of these gentle environs.  The eagles, Galadriel nodded respectfully to Aquilar, have from great heights espied those portions of the wood least hazardous.  There you will land and wait until that moment on the fourth day when the signal will announce your time has come.”

“We will be long without food then.  A feeding tomorrow, perhaps, but then nothing for a number of days.”

“There will be ample dining for some of us that fourth day” Falcoverus, lord of the Kestrels replied with satisfaction, a gleam in his eye.

“What you feed upon here in Lorien will provide you with special properties of strength and endurance.  You will not find your wings tiring nor your spirits dulled with hunger.  Those who do not find live prey appealing are welcome to return here or to the southern shores of the Gladden once their role is done.”   

The lords and ladies of the skies nodded their satisfaction.  There was more discussion both of times past and times to come.  After a time, when dusk had retreated well behind the Misty Mountains, Galadriel bade them good night as they were needed with their flocks. 

That was hours ago. She had remained on the platform since then, watching the stars wheel about the heavens and the moon rise over the eastern horizon.  Celeborn had quietly ascended the stairs to join her. 

Galadriel continued with her thoughts.

“I fear for their safety, that they will be discovered, such are their numbers”

“They will not leave as one, but in individual flocks, with the last and sharpest eyed leaving closest to dusk.  It is not without risk, Galadriel, but His focus will be to the south, on Mardil’s cavalry, not west concerned with the affairs of birds.”

Galadriel listened in silence for a while, her face washed pale in the moonlight, long hair silvered in its glow. 

“Still, I will mourn the loss of even one of these brave creatures, who have suffered the wars and deprivations caused by the pride and prejudices of elves, men, and others.  Despite our plans and provisions notwithstanding they are here nonetheless at risk.”

Now it was Celeborn’s turn to be silent, her words holding a hint of reproach lest he feel that any participant, in what would transpire, could be considered expendable. 

He knew different and knew that she did as well, but that she did not wish to address it now, flush with the company of the flocks and their brave spirits.  The next few days could dictate otherwise.  Indeed, the Age had much yet to impose upon all of those who dwelt in Middle Earth, and he had little doubt that it would bring change and pain for many over the centuries to come.  But those were thoughts for another time and place. 

“They were comforted by your words as you know.  The hazards have been told to them before they set flight.  None are here without foreknowledge of their task.  All have been strengthened by the rest and provisions.  There may be few opportunities left in this Age or others to come for them to affect their own destiny so directly.  Grieve not, Galadriel, for those who may fall.  They do so knowing that to do nothing may presage a greater doom for their descendants”

His words fell away in the night.  Galadriel stared east at the moon, now high in the sky.

Then she stepped forward and embraced Celeborn, locking her eyes, sparkling with that curious mixture of love, longing, power, and compassion that had drawn him to her Ages past.  She made her way down to their high bower in the trees.  Moments later he followed.  They would need their rest.  The next few days would be a test for them and many more facing greater threats.

****************************_____************************************

Gandalf had not slept.  It did not matter.  There was much to contemplate this night and the dawn was pressing ‘ere he was satisfied with the results of his thoughts.  Off to his left he could sense that Haldir had awakened, more than likely to the wracking cough and wretchings of Eradan, finally responding to the treatments the elf had administered the night before.

Gandalf sighed and reluctantly stood, bearing his weight on his staff.  To the west the last stars still glimmered against the roll of the day, its predawn gray already crossing the zenith. It was one of those last cool late spring mornings, wisps of ground fog, droplets of dew on leaf and grass.  Would that they were just a trading party, able to linger in this moment.

The others were wakening now, roused by the sounds of Eradan’s distress.  Drianna, Arahael, and Hagar had slipped into sleep, their place taken by Arthed and Aranarth who were now with Haldir, crouched over with concern over Eradan.  Gandlalf approached.

“The poisons emerge…” Haldir commented, intently observing the Steward’s son.

Indeed, even in the dim light of early dawn, Gandalf could see a black liquid being expectorated, a steaming, malodorous slime fouling the floor of the glade.  Eradan writhed as if a parasite was being drawn from his bowels.  Drianna rose from her sleep in alarm and went to his side, clutching him, looking up accusingly at Haldir.

“Is this the work of your Light? He is ill…look at him! Can you not ease his pain or do you cause this distress in his hour of need!” 

“No child…the elven potion works its way.  Your brother frees himself of the Dark One’s poisons.  We must let it do its way.” Gandalf replied kneeling next to her.

It was so for a period of time and then Eradan’s torment eased.  The sun had come over the eastern horizon and they had all gathered ‘round, unable to keep distance.

He lay panting, bathed in sweat, clad in a rough tunic that Ardugan had provided in place of the rags and orc armament.  Drianna cooled his forehead with a dampened cloth, then turned to the group.

“Have you no better thing than to stare at his misery! Elf and men, kings sons and wizards! Leave us be for a while.  Is there not enough to contemplate ahead that his distress is less a spectacle for you!”

Her blue eyes flashed and the dawn’s flame on the lingering clouds cleaved to the crimson streak in her hair.  They retreated to the western opening of the grove, chastened by her tone and the strength of her will.  But Ardugan lingered, a smile on his face, not his usual disdain, but one of genuine warmth and respect.

“Pardon my intrusion, my lady, but he will be hungry in moments.  Shall I prepare something”

Share glared at him initially, then calmed, realizing the practicality of his advice.

“He will need meat and bread.  Dried fruits will aid his energy.”

“As you wish” and Ardugan bustled off to his pack horse, foraging among his pouches.  He returned with smoked venison, oat bread from Elrond’s larder, and dried apples.  By then Eradan had ceased retching and was seated upright on the floor of the grove, his face haggard but showing determination.  He took a long draught from a water pouch Arudgan proffered then went at the provisions with unalloyed zeal, as if the violence done to his stomach a moment ago had never occurred.

Some yards away a frown darkened Aranarth’s face.

“I am heartened that he is alive, but we can ill afford to delay while he recovers his strength.” Aranarth declared gruffly

“Yet I would chance the delay to glean what he knows about the Necromancer’s lair where he had been captive these long weeks” Gandalf mused.  “He will soon pause in his breakfast, long enough to take in some air as well as food.  It will be time then for him to tell his tale.”

And so it was, that after a while Eradan’s appetite paused, and he drank deeply again from the water and let out a satisfied belch.  Gandalf approached, smiling.

“Well, Eradan, you certainly sound better than you did earlier this morn.”

Indeed he looked better too, Drianna having removed his prison rags and clothed him in clean pants and tunic from Arahael’s pack, the two of them being nearly the same build, save for Eradan’s outsized mace arm and shoulder.  She had combed the tangles out of his mane of brown hair.  Though still somewhat gaunt and blotched with lingering bruises, his strong face was now animated with life.

“I am Gandalf.  Your father and I have met long ago, ‘ere you were born.  You have already met Ardugan.  His brothers Arthed and Aranarth…” Gandalf gestured to the group in conversation at the edge of the glade, “…Hagar, from the far north of the Anduin, Arahael, son of Aranarth, and Haldir, Marchwarden of Lorien.  And of course Drianna’s two cavalrymen you must know.” 

“Balas and Ensil, both good men.  I know not what mission brings them here, but their swords and horses are needed further south where my father, Steward of Gondor, marches toward deadly peril.” Eradan was standing now, his voice earnest, steel grey eyes fixed upon Gandalf.

“Mardil knows full well the risks of his mission…and the rewards that it may bring, Eradan”  Gandalf replied carefully, “as does your sister, who accompanies us of her own free will.”

“He speaks the truth, brother.  Our father has consented to this task and we are here to support him”

“We…? The one called Ardugan claimed to be the son of the last northern king.  Those are his brothers and the one named Arahael is his brother’s son…and another looks like a Rhovanion warrior of old. There is even an elf from Lorien as well! You appear as northern traders, but it is not the business of trade you seek.”

“Indeed not, Eradan.  Our business is with your captor, the Necromancer, and our destination is Dol Guldur.”  Gandalf replied, his tone firm and serious.

Eradan’s face paled at the wizard’s words, but his eyes narrowed a bit.

“None enter save as servants or captives.”

“We are neither.  We seek to drive him out of his lair and destroy such allies as He has gathered to him there.  Your arrival is most fortuitous as it may give us insights into His defenses such as we would otherwise not have.”

Eradan looked at Drianna, seeking confirmation of what he had heard. 

“It is so, brother.  You must tell us what you can.”

“Very well, then I will tell it from the beginning.  Summon your companions then, for it is a lengthy tale and one I have no inclination to tell twice.”

And so it was that they gathered ‘round him, all seated now as he told the story of his pursuit through the northern marches of Gondor, across the Anduin. Then the battle just short of the Dark Forest, the unexpected attack of the bats, a last stand and the appearance of the great black wolf.  Eradan then spoke of his times inside Dol Guldur, beatings, foul creatures, being hauled from one cell and torment to the next.  Once again his features paled as he told of the underground prison, serpents that might have been dreams induced by the Necromancer’s potions, then the escape through the horror of the swarming, carnivorous beetles.

Many questions were posed, the strength of the guard, the orientation of the beasts held in barred cages across from where Eradan had first awoken as prisoner.  All the time Gandalf sat back, away from the others, watching his responses.  They broke for lunch and once again Eradan was voracious, eating thrice as much as any of the others. 

Gandalf signaled to Aranarth and Haldir to join him in a stroll outside the glade.  It was early afternoon.  The sun was strong, spring was giving way to summer.  Bees buzzed about the wildflowers emerging in the rough grasses covering the slope downward from their woody knoll.  White, fair weather clouds sailed eastward, decorating a deep blue sky.

“It would seem as you had expected. He has sent all his forces south to meet Mardil” Aranarth commented approvingly, “There may be little opposition to our quest!”

“Yet we do not know what traps and snares he keeps behind, Aranarth, and we place much stock in the word of one man, however noble, whose escape is curiously timed to our arrival” Haldir replied cautiously.

“You both speak truly.  We must be cautious and yet I see truth in his belief that Dol Guldor has been stripped of its guards for the sake of a telling blow against Mardil.  That is as we had planned and none could know those plans save us.  Yet Haldir’s caution is advised.  We know not what spell may linger in Eradan from his capture, nor can we assume he knows all that He has placed in defense.”

“Such was always the risk with the plan, even with our knowledge of the Hidden Stair” Haldir replied.

“But we did not expect Eradan’s arrival and we must act upon it,” Gandalf said half to himself.  “We must do the unexpected, as insurance that we do not find ourselves walking into His dark sanctuary exactly as He would want us to!”

“What have you in mind” Aranarth queried.

“A diversion” Gandalf’s eyes sparkled and a smile crossed his lips and he would say no more.