Into Mirkwood

They had decided to embark shortly after lunch.  Eradan had again made the most of his appetite and was steady on his feet, restored for the time with meat, bread, and a little of the elven grape that Haldir had secreted among his possessions.  There had been much discussion about waiting til the ‘morrow, but Gandalf would have none of that.

“Time works for those who work with it and we have precious little to spare.  We will ride at Ardugan’s lead and camp at dusk.  Balas and Ensil will take the horses back tomorrow and wait for our return.  The rest of the journey will be on foot.”

“On foot?!” Hagar remonstrated.  These horses seem well suited to ride.

“In truth they are, chieftan’s son, but the path beyond tonight’s encampment is ill-suited for a cavalry mount, however valiant.  Even my own steed, accustomed as he his to…well…unusual circumstances, cannot be expected to make passage all the way to Dol Guldur.”  Ardugan replied with a trace of condescension.

“Enough debate.  We know our task.  Let us mount and be gone.” Aranarth growled with finality.

And so they left their little grove on the knoll and headed east.  They went down a gentle slope, tall with waving grass, then marched uphill again approaching a stretch of forest, young, perhaps cut some thirty years past and still growing in.  A semblance of a trail, more like a winding gap between the oaks and beeches, led them on.  The early afternoon sun lit the leaves with the cheerful green of late spring.  Then after twenty minutes time the trees thinned out to an open space, sparse with tired grasses, yellow and pale.  Not far beyond, just a hundred yards or so, a wall of dense, dark green reared up.

There was now a noticeable silence in the air.  The sky, brilliant blue from the grove, had paled like the tone of a colored dish left too long outside.  The sun’s cheer had emptied to a toneless brightness, providing light and heat, but nothing more.  Of birds and animals there was no sound or movement.  The party came to a gradual halt, not out of any order or command, but of instinct, seeing and feeling the end of the familiar and the beginning of something that emptied life as they knew it.

For Ardugan it was not unfamiliar.  He had probed the dark fastness of Mirkwood before and feared not the dark spaces of the world as they were no worse than the haunts of his own soul.  It was not so for the others.

Eradan not the least of them, having barely escaped from its confines with his life not long ago.  What plan the others had was still vague to him, though his sister’s commitment to it comforted him.  Still he harbored a silent resentment that they had pressed him for information yet had not responded fully on their intentions.  Drianna had counseled him to patience, yet that had not assuaged his curiosity or anger at his exclusion from their strategy.

Aranarth stared grimly at the sight before him.  He was too much the realist to expect a quick victory and toasts to valor.  Too many had died in the fall of Arthedain in his far off youth for him to indulge in the blind optimism that coated the fear of death.  There would be losses ahead, he knew well, no matter how sound the plan or powerful the allies.  Too many of his own kin were present for death not to take someone close to him in the next few days.  Still he felt it was not yet his time.

Arthed felt an unfamiliar shiver staring at the hulking forest wall ahead.  He had given little thought to their venture, enjoying the travel and the camaraderie, especially the company of Hagar who reminded him of himself as a youth.  The seriousness he left to Aranarth, but now at the eaves of the forest he knew this was no empty patrol in the lands west of the Misty Mountains.  His great axe, long dormant in battle, could be tested. Rusty skills from nearly a hundred years past chasing the remnants of the Witch King’s armies would be summoned again.

Arahael had no rusty skills to summon, only endless years of training and limited exposure to the wider world under the careful tutelage of Elrond and his sons.  There were no notches in his sword, scars on his visage, or creases in his armor.  He stole a glance at his father, stonily glaring at the woods beyond, and silently envied the older man’s stoicism.

A test was coming and he could feel it.  It was his burden to prove that he could carry the line for another generation.  Far off in Rivendell he thought of his expectant wife and hoped that if it were to be a son, the lad would have a father to guide him.

There was little in the way of introspection in Hagar’s mind.  Perhaps alone amongst the group he had thoughts of battle, swordplay, and victory.  He was now arrayed in his full armor of dragon boots, shield, breastplate, greaves, gloves and armlets.  As one who had not faced death or understood its pain he was oddly best served to ignore its warning signs.   

Not so Drianna, who saw death staring at her from the twisted boughs of the forest wall.

She cursed the fate that drew her brother back against all the odds to the very place that nearly claimed him and might yet claim her father and her own life.  Her teeth gritted at the thought that once again Gondor was taking all the risks.  Yet there was no good alternative and she would not wish to be a distant, helpless observer to the fate of the men in her family.  No, if there was blood to be shed, she would see to it that it was not that of Gondor.

Haldir and Gandalf stared at the edge of Mirkwood together, riding first amongst the companions.

“How strange it is to see so close what appears as just a thin dark line from the highest flets of Lorien” Haldir commented, a tinge of awe in his voice.

“Stranger yet it will appear once we have immersed ourselves in its embrace” Gandalf replied soberly, casting a look back upon the others coming out of the last trees.

After a few moments they were gathered together.  Ahead the forest loomed as an alien organism, broken only by a hole where a path entered, much like the opening of a cave. 

Gandalf turned in his saddle.  They were all gathered before him, their trader guises packed away.  But save Hagar, there was little to be seen in the way of heavy armor, helms, and shields.  Rather they traveled light, with sparing use of heavy layered leather protection and careful deployment of light chain mail.  Speed, mobility and an innate trust in their own weaponry and skill were their protection.   

“You all know what lies ahead, “Gandalf pronounced, “Long have we discussed in our journey the evils that the Necromancer has set upon this once beneficent wood.  There is still time for those whose hearts may seek other ways to battle his will to remain back.”  He gazed long and hard at each of them, probing for doubt or weakness of purpose.  There was none.

Without further ado he rode off, disappearing into the narrow opening in the forest.  Haldir followed, then Aranarth, Arthed and Arahel.  Behind them rode Hagar, Eradan on Xandr, and Drianna, then Balas and Ensil who looked pale and grim.  Ardugan took the rearguard.  The two cats were long gone, whether into the forest ahead of them or back to Rhosgobel, none could say.

It was if a door had shut behind them, entering Mirkwood.  Behind them the opening they had entered receded to a pale point of light, then disappeared as they rounded a bend in the trail.  Inside the forest it was dark, in part from the old growth that had never known the axe, but also from the impenetrable canopy of leaves high up that blotted out all but a few meager pinpoints of sunlight.

It was suffocatingly quiet and still as no wind could breach the closely ranked trees and the thick gnarly undergrowth that seemed to thrive despite the lack of sunlight.  There was the occasional rustle as something unseen scurried on some worrisome errand amongst the deep fall of dead leaves and branches on the forest floor.

But what struck most of all was the sense of grimness and sadness amongst the trees, a palpable feeling of their souls battling on the edge.

“It is all they can do to hang on to their treeness”, Haldir said half to himself, his elven heart sensitive to the ways of living things. “They grow from seed here and spend their lives fighting His spell, but it saps their strength and dims their hope.  When acorns fall, the old trees sigh for they know that the saplings will rise with no knowledge of the fair light that once was and still exists not far to the west.”

Yet there was still a trace of the magic of the early days of the Second Age, when Oropher called this home.  In those days the trails maintained themselves, spells directed the trees to extend their boughs away from the trails and drop their acorns well off the path.  Light springy grasses thrived on the open corridors, nourished by the dappled light through the thin layer of branches directly overhead.  Enough of a vestige of those days remained to make the path passable, at least for the first few leagues into the wood.

As the afternoon wore on the trees began to grow twisted and bent, their leaves fading in color from a drab olive gray to a dusky brown with fine veins of black.  Even the bark became coarse and ragged, with thick bulging deformities.  Small clots of dark mosses began to appear in the crooks between the branches, dripping pungent ichors that attracted flies.  The first thin tendrils of vines began to crawl up the tree trunks, mottled green and black with small pale gray flowers exuding a faint rotten odor.  On the forest floor, the initial sparse undergrowth had given way to a profusion of low thorny shrubs with long black spines and tiny, oily leaves. 

Along with these changes the sense of sadness had faded to that of vague hostility, as if these inhabitants of the forest had finally surrendered their souls, feeling resentment that any living creature should still move amongst them so freely.

Now the already dim light began to fade as late afternoon approached.  Though the early June sun was strong and would not set for another two to three hours, it was dusk in the forest.  And the trail had come to an abrupt end, at least the portion where men could proceed on horseback.  Ahead the trees suddenly closed in, their branches crossing the trail, no longer encumbered by any traces of elven magic.  They would do well even to stand upright when they proceeded on foot.  While Ardugan and his steed Nytral, accustomed to strange environs, might venture further, it was of no use to the others.  Indeed the horses were nervous enough, sensing the ill will of the forest.

Gandalf dismounted and directed his followers.  “There is a small clearing off to the left here, not much, but enough to make camp and secure the horses.”

It was certainly not much at all.  In fact the odor about the place brought a quick comment from Eradan.

“It is an orc encampment!  One they must use in patrols.  You think it wise for us to stay here?”

“If we were wise we might be home in bed” Aranarth growled to himself.   

“There will be no orcs this side of Dol Guldur tonight Eradan.  He will spare no swords for patrols of what he believes to be an empty forest” Gandalf tried to reassure him.

But there was little cheer as the dusk deepened to night and they set up camp in cramped spaces, their noses wrinkling at the heavy orc scent that lingered over the site.  At least the orcs had cleared it of the thorny shrubs and smaller wretched trees, leaving just room enough for them to lay their blankets and see to the horses.

Ardugan had set up a small folding contraption he hauled out of a saddlebag.  It was made of thin metal, blackened with use.  Initially flat on the ground, he raised four sides on hinges to form an enclosure just over a foot tall.  He filled the interior with small twigs, branches, dead leaves and other forest litter.  Soon he had a small, economical fire going, largely hidden behind the metal flanges, each of, which sported a grid of tiny holes to let out air and a minimum of light.

“Do not worry, “ Ardugan announced to his companions, “The holes are filed at an angle such that none can see the light beyond 50 paces and methinks there will be few orcs venturing out tonight in these parts of Mirkwood”

“Few creatures on two feet at any rate” Arthed replied absently, noticing the gradual emergence of points of light beyond their encampment.  Dots of red, yellow, green, some in pairs, some in clusters, some still, some on the move.

“Indeed Arthed is right”, Gandalf commented, “We have curious visitors already, and not all of them will be friendly. The fire will dissuade them as will a strong watch during the night.”

Drianna shivered, her back up against an old rotted stump at the perimeter of their campsite.  She had no fear of bear nor wolf, but the thought of smaller, unnatural creatures creeping over her during the night left little doubt as to how much sleep she would get.  Already she had to deal with a small reminder of some unwholesome denizen’s recent passage, a sticky strand of white that resisted her efforts to scrape it from her boots when she made the mistake of stepping on it. 

“I will take the first watch.” She announced, knowing that it would be better to be up and active than lying on the ground, wide awake, her imagination working at her.

“And I will join you” Eradan replied quickly.

“No brother, you must rest as much as possible” Drianna admonished gently, “Your strength is not yet fully restored and we have larger challenges ahead than this night’s watch.”

Even in the small ruddy light from Ardugan’s firecage she could see his teeth clench at her words.  There was a moment of tension.  She realized that she had done the wrong thing, saying that in front of the others.  Arahael came to the rescue.

“The first watch suits me as well.  Perhaps Eradan would tell me more of his escape from Dol Guldur ‘ere he rests for the night.”

Drianna gave him a grateful look.  Eradan’s scowl faded and his eyes warmed at the prospect of spending a few moments with Arahael, like him the son of a leader.  They walked over to the fire and were soon in animated conversation.

“He has a deft touch, your son” Gandalf commented approvingly to Aranarth.

“One of many things he will need when he is Chieftan of the Dunedain.  Peace is also made with the sword and he has yet to be tested.” Aranarth replied gruffly.

Gandalf did not push the conversation further.  The night deepened and Eradan ended his reprise of the tale of his escape, then eased himself to sleep a few yards from the fire.  The others too went to bed, leaving Drianna and Arahael to watch.  Later they would be replaced by Arthed and Hagar, who in turn would sleep while Ardugan and Haldir awaited the dawn. 

There was little to remark the night.  The west wind off the distant Misty Mountains crossed the Anduin and brushed the high forest canopy, rustling the leaves, but too weak to stir the air close to the ground.  Beyond the soft glow of the fire the flicker of strange eyes on the camp periphery continued, but there was no intrusion.  Drianna and Arahel retired just before midnight.   Hagar grumbled as Arthed roused him to watch, then stood half asleep propped up against a tree until Arthed gave him a shove and he toppled over.

“Is this how the grandson of Fram, dragonslayer, keeps watch?” Arthed glowered at him, his normally light hearted mien twisted into a frown.

Hagar scrambled to his feet, clearly embarrassed, hoping Arthed’s comment and his movements hadn’t waked the others to his plight.

“No…no, I was not…”

“Not thinking that there was anything out there worth defending against.  Just queer looking eyes of small scuttling creatures you would crush with your boot as it they were bugs?!”

“I…uh…”

“This is Mirkwood, not the vales of the Langwell.  What will kill you here will not give fair warning or sporting chance.”  Arthed paused for a moment, waiting for Hagar to gather himself.  “Be grateful you were not sharing watch with Aranarth.  He would take a far harsher view of you.  Now keep an eye over there by yonder tree.”

Hagar dutifully trudged over to the edge of the clearing and stood, attempting a look of fierce watchfulness with all he could muster.  Arthed smiled, taking a similar position on the opposite side of the camp. 

Midnight eased to the wee hours and Ardugan and Haldir awoke and bade Arthed and Hagar take their rest. 

Though the wood seemed still and silent, Ardugan was at once alert, his razor sharp senses detecting something amiss.

“Haldir…the wind, it has quieted for now has it not?”

The elf cocked his head, listening for the distinctive wind driven rasp of leaves upon leaves that Silvan elves learn even as infants. 

“So it would seem…yet there is still a rustle far above and in the distance beyond the meager glow of our campfire.” 

“And more…listen…”

Almost camouflaged by the rustling of the leaves, there was a sound, which for most would have been dismissed as the wind, but was a sporadic mix of hissing and scraping, barely audible.

Ardugan looked up towards the forest canopy high overhead.  It was still at least two hours before dawn.  Above the forest the stars twinkled and the moon shone, but below it was an almost impenetrable gloom save for the guttering coals in his small fireplace.  But his were eyes used to the night, eyes large and luminous that could draw in every shred of light available, like some human owl.  And at the limit of his ability he detected something.  At first he though his eyes still a bit rheumy from interrupted sleep, slightly filmed over.  Blinking and rubbing he looked again. 

High above there was the faintest touch of a light milky haze, but it was not the distant reflection of the glowing coals upon pale leaves, nor the wisp of a night fog haunting the early morning forest.  Neither were the darker patches in the haze, neatly circular.  Ardugan darted over to the fire, blowing fiercely on the embers, stoking it with twigs and fine dry brush.  The campsite went from near pitch dark to a building red glow.

“Ardugan…what are you doing…there is no need for a bonfire…we will be leaving in just a few hours.”  Haldir queried, puzzled at the sudden odd behavior.  But Ardugan behaved as a man with no time for words.  The fire flared up, as did his eyes as he turned to Haldir.  But the time for words was past as one of the horses let out a scream of fear and pain.

“Spiders!” Ardugan cried.  “Rouse the company Haldir! We must defend ourselves!”

Above he could see evil black shapes emerging from the dark circular patches above, great hairy spiders descending on a single strand of thick, sticky web, each deliberately positioned above one of the company or their horses. 

As is often the case in crisis what happened next appeared to him almost as if time was slowed.  Arthed and Aranarth, long used to roaming the wild alone, were on their feet in an instant from a sound sleep, wakened by the cries of the horses.  Their alertness proved providential for the spiders descending over their formerly sleeping forms missed their mark on their downward glide, merely grazing shoulders when they had expected firmer targets.

Aranarth drew his short sword, this not being work for a battle blade. Arthed picked a short battle-axe he kept near his blankets.  Ardugan turned away from them, confident that their battle skills would suffice for the moment.  Not far away he spied Gandalf, also standing, his arachnid predator narrowly missing his form.  His face was unfamiliar to Ardugan, wreathed in anger and disgust, his long staff thrusting into the body of a hissing, wriggling spider the size of a small dog.

To the other side of the encampment it was not so sanguine.  Drianna was half up, screaming under the weight of a fat spider on her shoulders, its spiky legs tangled in her long blond hair.  Hagar was bellowing like a stuck bull, a small, but tenacious devil latched upon his side, its taloned legs seeking purchase to administer a paralyzing sting.

Arahael, who had slept amongst them after his evening conversation, was wrestling with a six-legged monster the size of a small dog, scrabbling on his chest, its writhing mouth parts inches from his face.  And Eradan was assailed by a hissing adversary on his upper back, its long legs probing up to his neck. 

Near the horses, the two cavalrymen, Balas and Ensil, were screaming in terror and pain.   Mixed in was the thunder of hooves and the snap and thrash of ripped vegetation as their mounts bolted in blind panic out of the camp and into the benighted forest, some with horrible dark shapes attached to their flanks.

It was a scene of chaos, made all the worse by the darkness that favored the spiders. This was all in an instant to Ardugan.  But of all of them he alone had spent the time in Mirkwood over the decades and these were familiar predators to him…were often prey if the count had been kept.  He knew what they would do next and what the companions would need to do in response.

“Haldir! To the fire…prepare your bow…more will descend!  Arthed!” his older brother was just finishing off his assailant in a welter of slime and odorous insectile gore.

“What…?”

“Ready your throwing axes…more will descend and Haldir cannot kill them all!”

Arthed flipped aside his blankets…he always kept a brace of deadly throwing axes near him at night.  “I don’t see…”

“You will soon! Stand by the fire and be ready!” Ardugan commanded.

Now he drew his attention to the others.  Arahael had thrust his attacker off his chest, drawn his sword and impaled it, though his success was not without price as the beast had managed to set its sting in his left arm.  But Hagar, Drianna, and Eradan were not faring well.

Luckily Ardugan too slept with weapons at the ready and now drew the first of his knives from a bandolier about shoulders.  Though the light of the fire was meagre his special eyes could see clear and a silver dart flew unerringly towards the fat body of a spider on Drianna’s shoulder. 

There was a sudden jerk, its legs jutting out in surprised pain as it dropped to the ground, leaking vile fluids.  It was too late, though, as Drianna, a look of shock and fear on her face, collapsed next to it badly stung, already sinking into paralysis.

Another of Ardugan’s knives pierced the abdomen of the creature on Hagar’s side, the beast unsuccessful in penetrating his dragon skin armor with its stinger.  Ardugan drew another knife and turned toward Eradan, but saw him being aided by Arahael who was hacking away at the black body clinging to the Steward’s son.

He had four knives left and a glance upward told him that they would be needed as the second wave of spiders descended from the black holes in the webbing above.  He heard a series of low grunts from Arthed as he let fly his small throwing axes at targets dim to him in the flickering light of the campfire.  Two dealt death with a sickening smack of steel on soft flesh.  Then Ardugan’s remaining daggers flashed off to others, piercing heavy, hairy bodies tended to thick sticky webbing as they emerged from above.

There was the fading sound of the horses crashing further away scattered in panic.  Other sounds emerged, less wholesome, men gagging as their muscles seized up, fixed forever by a spider’s poison.  Arthed and Aranarth ran to where the horses had stood watching, helpless at Balas and Ensil, whose limbs twitched and then lay still under the baleful stings of two large spiders. 

Swift work of sword and axe dispatched their six legged attackers, but they had done their work all too well.  The two cavalrymen had taken a fatal blow.

Then the camp was lit by a cool white light.  Gandalf’s voice could be heard, a spell or some sort emerging from his lips, the tip of his staff aglow. 

“Come! Bring the wounded to the fire!” he shouted, trying to gather the company from the chaos of the battle.

Initial dullness and inertia prevailed, those with killing fresh in their minds still staring at the product of their efforts.  Those with the wounded and near dead before them still stunned at the fate of their companions and their own luck to have survived.  Far off the sounds of horses crashing in their death throes echoed in the forest, mixing with the snarl and hiss of bobcats rending insectile adversaries.

Ardugan cast off the fog of battle and went to Drianna, lifting her from the ground and gently laying her beside the fire.  Her face was bathed in sweat, her limbs twitching violently.  Ardugan roughly turned her over, finding the barb of the sting still impaled in her upper right shoulder.  He yanked it out, then drew his long knife and made a cross cut in the hole of the puncture.  Not hesitating a moment he pressed his mouth to the wound, sucking the poison and spitting it out, repeating again and again till the blood flowed clear.  Then he drew a small vial from one of the many pockets in his tunic, smearing the wound with a strongly scented fluid and swallowing the rest himself.  Her movements eased, though pain still creased her face.

Hagar then reeled over to the fire, his long blond hair matted with blood, his own, scalp badly torn by the frustrated spider’s talons. 

Arahael lay slumped up against a tree, left arm and shoulder now numb and useless, eyes still glistening with fear and shock.  Aranarth came to his side and raised him to his feet, helping him over to the fire.

“Quickly! We must attend to his wound!” Aranarth shouted, an edge of desperation in a voice usually gruff and harsh.

“Let me…” Haldir came to his side, assisting Aranarth, gently laying Arahael next to the fire and taking stock of the wound to his left arm.  It was not deep and the sting had been short lived as Arahael had managed to fling the beast off of him.  The elf did much as Ardugan had with Drianna, cross cutting the wound, then applying an elven remedy before securely binding the damaged flesh with a strip of white cloth. 

“He will live and the arm and shoulder will heal, though full strength will not return for a fortnight.” Haldir counseled a worried Aranarth.

But these words were soon replaced by the sounds of madness.

Eradan was on the ground, ripping apart the spider that had set upon him and had received Ardugan’s mortal knife throw.  He was tearing it into small pieces, oblivious of the viscous gore of spent life that covered his hands and arms.  Strange sounds came from him, growls of rage, higher pitched bleats of panic and fear.  Soon he went on to another dead spider, a victim of Aranarth’s short sword, once again tearing it to pieces.

Now they were all watching him, the aftermath of the battle being swept aside by the possession of Eradan.  His growls and bleats increased as his frenzy of spidery destruction increased.  Drianna struggled to overcome her pain and semi-paralysis to go to him but was restrained by Gandalf who whispered something in her ear, calming her for the moment. 

Eradan set after another spider corpse, pounding its oozing remains with his fists.  In time  though his blows eased off then ceased entirely and he sat on the bare earth consumed in great wracking sobs amidst the mashed wreckage of the spider..  Gandalf held his arms up as if to still the others and let this wave of emotion run its course. 

After a while Eradan’s cries eased and he raised his head as if coming out of a deep sleep.  He was awash in sweat, his hair damp and matted, his face haggard and grim.  But his eyes were clear and set.  Gandalf came over to him and spoke to all, his voice somber and serious.

“Two lie mortally wounded, beyond our skills to save them.  Drianna will live but cannot accompany us further.  Arahael will need to make do with his one good arm and Hagar’s head will carry scars of his lost innocence in Mirkwood.” 

“As for Eradan…let none forget what he has borne during his weeks as a prisoner of the Necromancer.  The violence and degradation of his captivity has been drawn out in rage upon these vile creatures.  That no man could disguise by guile or potion.” 

Eradan rose wearily to his feet and spoke to the group.  “I may still be weak…but pledge to join you in cold purpose towards the end you seek.” He paused for a moment, bent over, catching his breath.  

Aranarth replied, his voice pragmatic. “Dawn will be upon us ‘ere long.  We have horses to find, such that still live, comrades to tend to, and hearts beating too hard to think of sleep.”

“Aranarth is right.” Gandalf replied.  “We must tend to the wounded and find the horses at first light.  Events are already in motion that cannot be stopped on our account and we must be off at first light.”   

Thus the time to first light were spent binding wounds and setting plans.  Ardugan stitched Hagar’s scalp together, the blond giant stoicly undergoing the procedure.  Arahael and Aranarth stood off near the fire testing what feeling and movement remained in his semi-paralyzed left arm.  Arthed set about recovering such knives and throwing axes as he could discover embedded in the repulsive corpses of the spiders, some still twitching weakly.  Eradan sat close to Drianna who was being tended to by Haldir.

There was a rustle in the thorny brush beyond the campsite perimeter.  Those standing drew their swords, hearts pounding, bracing for some new forest horror.  Thankfully, friendly faces intruded, in the form of Xandr and Nytral, returning from the unknown darkness of the wood.  A sigh of relief washed over the encampment.  Ardugan sprinted over to his black mount.  Eradan achingly rose to his feet and made his way to Xandr.

The horses edged into the clearing, meeting their masters, though both men would bridle at the term, regarding them as partners.  Ardugan drew close and whispered something into Nytral’s ear.  The horse nodded in response and pawed rhythmically at the earth.  Meanwhile, Eradan was examining new wounds on the already cruelly punished Xandr,  rips and gashes still bleeding from his flight through the thorny brush.  Trails of red also glistened on Nytrals flanks, which were scored with ragged trails from spider talons.

Ardugan turned to the company, his face somber and grim.

“They will lead us to the other horses.  Three are dead.  Two more are stricken but on their feet.  One has lost its mind and is long gone to the north.”

They went off through a rough path cleared by the fleeing horses’ pounding hooves which had crushed and torn aside the thorny underbrush.  After perhaps fifteen minutes they came upon the bodies of the two dead horses. The lingering spiders had scuttled off quickly at the sound of their arrival, not wanting a repeat of the debacle at the campsite.  There was little they could do other than to remove the saddles and other packs that were still strapped on to the doomed mounts. 

A rustle in the thickets to their right brought swords to their hands.  Two more horses emerged, both limping, escorted by Xandr and Nytral.  Ardugan and Eradan approached slowly, not wanting to spook the injured animals.  Their eyes were still wide with fear, their flanks trembling slightly.  The dash through the thorn and bracken had gouged their hides.  Other marks spoke of spider talons, digging in to find purchase while the beasts sought to throw them off, bucking and slamming into trees and spiky brush.

But the two men were keenly attuned to horses, having spent much of their life in partnership with them.  Surprisingly gentle hands and calm words eased the fear out of the horse’s eyes.  Their trip hammer hearts slowed, breathing became natural again.

In a few moments they were able to make their way slowly back to the campsite.

There they found a hive of activity.  Packs, foodstuffs and weapons being sorted and ordered.  Final medications being made to wounds.  Aranarth approached them as they entered the small clearing.

“Can they make their way back, out of the forest?” Aranarth was practical and brusque as always, seemingly oblivious to the distress of the horses.

“Once we attend to their wounds and feed them” Ardugan replied evenly.

“Do your best then, brother, for we must be off for Dol Guldur within the hour, so says Gandalf.  Drianna will take the horses back through the forest.”

Eradan was relieved at his words.  The sight of his sister upon his bare escape from Dol Guldur had been reassuring more than any could imagine.  Yet upon his rough recovery from that dark period he had regained something of his old self, obsessively protective and increasingly alarmed that she should continue to the dark place where had spent these past nightmarish weeks.

Though the thought of her leaving the forest alone to the empty lands bordering the Anduin was of little comfort, it was as best as could be expected.  Still he knew this would be hard for her to bear having coming this far to represent Gondor at the behest of their father, the Steward.  He walked over to her.  She was now standing, though the tightness about her mouth revealed the pain that the spider’s sting had left in her veins.

“It is good to see you up, sister” Eradan ventured

“Yes, though they say it will be a number of days before the pain fully recedes and I have full use of my limbs.” 

“You will be able to ride?” 

“With Xandr one only need sit in the saddle…he will do the rest.  I will make for our camp just outside the forest.  There are enough fast provisions that I will have no want nor need.”

“Balas and Ensil…” 

A shadow crossed her face.  They had accompanied her from Gondor to Rivendell and south into Mirkwood, enduring long marches and her short temper.  Now they were dead, wrapped in blankets, their bodies curiously preserved by the massive doses of spider venom. 

“They will accompany me.  I would see them buried in Gondor if circumstances permit.”

Eradan could see her eyes watering.  It was the first time she had been responsible for the lives of others.  He knew the feeling well.

“Many serve Gondor, Drianna.  Some in her army, some by way of sea, others preparing provisions or forging swords.  Only the best qualify for the cavalry.  And they know that their horses will carry them far from home into battles, some at long odds.  Many such sons of Gondor have fallen leagues from Minas Tirith without the dignity of burial.  Three hundred I have left at the southern reaches of Mirkwood.  I cannot say where their bones lie”

She watched his face grow grim, his eyes go distant and cold.   Her grief at the death of her companions seemed to recede for the moment to a small ball, an ache in her stomach.  Her brother carried something more and should he return from Dol Guldur he would attend individually to each of the families of his slain men.  That did not include his own feelings for companions with whom he had trained and ridden for years.  And even as they stood here their father was positioned on the southern edge of Mirkwood with a full regiment of cavalry, hoping that a complex and risky plan would rid the world of a devil for a while without the sacrifice of more lives.

It was now that she understood.  Not that she would shirk any responsibility thrust upon her.  But the shoes her brother and father walked in were different from most in this world.  Rage as she might at times at the decisions they made, whether rash or cold, until now she had not carried the burden of responsibility for any lives other than her own.    

She made to reply to him, to say something in recognition of his duty.  But this was forestalled by the approach of Gandalf and Aranarth.  The gruff chieftain spoke first.

“Ardugan will soon be done with the horses.  They will be loaded with such provisions and weapons that we will not be able to carry further on foot.  Balas and Ensil…their horses survived and can carry them with you.”

“It has been a difficult night, Drianna and I regret that you are much worse the wear for it” Gandalf commented, “But the way ahead is difficult even for those not badly wounded”

“You need not apologize for my fate.  I would not continue just to be a burden and it is fitting that I leave this place with those who had accompanied me this far.”

Something of the anger that had inhabited her since childhood had given way.  The competition for her father’s attention had died with the passing of Balas and Ensil.  That and her own brush with death with the spider’s venom.

“It will be two days march to Dol Guldur and three days back, assuming we are not otherwise detained.”  Gandalf’s gray eyes looked at her meaningfully through his great bushy brows.  “You will be on your own for nearly a week.”

Drianna’s eyes lit up with some of her old fire at these remarks.  “I have dwelt alone in the White Mountains for a fortnight with little other than a bow and tinder box.  A soft stay in the Vales of the Anduidn will be little test for me.”

“Very well” Gandalf’s eyes twinkled for a moment, enjoying her spirit.  “Though you will be apart from us, keep a look to the south and southeast for signs that will mark our progress and events to come.”

Even as he spoke, there was a gathering occurring.  Ardugan was leading the horses, Xandr at the van with the others, black Nytral aloof and to the rear.

Eradan assisted Drianna up onto Xandr.  They took a long look at each other.  He was tired, his proud face drawn, brown locks showing hints of gray.  Her eyes were alight though her face was tight with pain.  Long ago he was twice her size, riding through the cavalry encampments, holding her tight, the older brother parading her around, flush and confident with his first major commands.

Now they were in the sudden cold marches of their adulthood, together again briefly and unexpectedly, but soon to be parted.  Neither could quite connect the past with the present.

“We will return within the week”  Eradan held the bridle of Xandr firmly, locking his eyes with hers.

“I will be waiting.  Then again, I may recover quickly and have other plans” Drianna taunted.

Eradan smiled.  It was always thus with her, wanting the last word.  “Keep him well, sister” he patted Xandr gently on the side of the head, “no matter what your plans may be”

With that, Eradan gave the great horse a nudge and he ambled off.  The others followed slowly, still limping, their wounded flanks smeared in a healing herbal balm Ardugan had applied.  Nytral took up the rear guard, the black horse casting a reluctant, almost baleful eye at Ardugan.

After a few moments they were gone, disappearing around a bend in the westward trail, their hooves receding in muffled cadence.

Eradan returned to his companions.  They had all donned their packs.  Under thin wools they wore such armor and footwear as suited them.  Swords, axes, knives, and bows were strapped and secured.  Gandalf was another matter, with his heavy black boots, great gray cloak and pointed hat.  Yet he too bore a sword belted beneath the cloak and his staff had unspoken power.

“We have saved these for you” Arahael brought out a heavy pack for Eradan.  In front he laid out boots, shining mail, a gleaming broadsword, two hefty knives, a helmet and gauntlets.

“We pray you will not begrudge the presence of a mace, but these accoutrements of battle are all we can provide”

“A stout branch and a heavy stone would be weapons enough for me.  You do me honor with these and rest assured I will make the most of them.”  Eradan replied.

Standing in the background, Aranarth spared a grudging smile.  Though his own kingdom was gone, the fate of another would be in good hands should this son of Gondor live out the week.  Of his own son, still new to adversity, he could not yet be so sure.