The Gates of the Necromancer

They were riding hard, just the two of them.  The sun was blazing on a rolling plain and the enemy was broken, scattering into clumps of orcs and hillmen.  He could hear Aranarth yelling, his great sword cutting into the fleeing remnants of the Witch King’s armies.  His older brother seemed curiously young, scarcely twenty summers. 

He could feel the rhythm of his own horse beneath him, the haft of a great axe in his right hand.  He and Aranarth then became separated by a small copse of trees.  No matter he charged on after a cluster of the ragged vermin.  Then the light failed, the trees grew large and closed in, the hunted turned, grinning, growing larger and larger til their heads rose above his, mounted on horseback.  A deep throaty laugh surrounded them and a figure in gleaming jet black armor appeared.  Suddenly he felt paralyzed, unable to attack or retreat.  The figure came closer, grew larger, towering over him, reaching out with taloned hands towards his face and….

He awoke, panting, a light sweat of fear clinging to his tall rangy frame. It was still dark. 

It had been a dream…the dream that had begun to haunt him these last weeks.

He sat up on his blanket nestled between the two huge boulders half way up the third dolmen.  Hagar, the young northerner snored loudly on not far away, satisfied to be twenty and tired, irrespective of the hazards of their surroundings.  Below he could discern the blocky figure of his older brother, still and silent, much like the bulging outcrop of stone at the base of the dolmen where he stood the last watch.

Arthed rubbed his eyes and face.  He could smell new moisture in the air, a deck of clouds laying in from the southwest shutting off the night sky and the pinpoint stars. 

He felt old somehow after this dream in Mirkwood’s predawn, as if the thousands of dim mornings he had previously witnessed had finally filled the cup of dawns a man could see or feel.  He looked down to his brother again.  Aranarth’s cup would never fill.  That top had been extended to the sky with the death of their father and the fall of the kingdom.  Nor would Ardugan’s, a hole at the bottom draining out whatever small providence that might pour in.

Arthed sighed quietly.  He was over a hundred years now, still hale, strong of arm and back.  As a son of the last king, an heir to Isildur, the blood would extend his life for many more years.  But his heart was another matter.  This would be his last journey for his birthright.  He had a wife west of the Misty Mountains and sons to enjoy and send onto their own duties as men of the Dunedain.  It was their turn just as Aranarth knew it would soon be Arahael’s. 

The dream had blown away now, just wisps remaining.  There were a few more hours of sleep to be secured and a few more days at risk on the wizard’s quest.  Then home. 

Arthed lay back down on his blanket.  His breathing had settled down.  He closed his eyes for a moment, visualizing a blazing hearth in a great open room hewn from logs stacked and morticed by his own hand.  A tall woman in a long white woven dress stood next to the fire.  Her hair was long, mixed grey and gold, her eyes bright, the smile warm.  Somehow he knew he was dreaming again.  It did not matter.  He was home.

The hearth’s light still glimmered in his mind hours later as he stood with the others facing Gandalf. 

A gray day, the sun obscured behind a thick deck of overcast.  It set a somber mood in the lee of the Dark Mountain which loomed over their shoulders a few leagues to the east.  Gandalf sat, his back to a corner between two rocky outcrops on the dolmen.  A shelf of rock jutted out before him where the others, in a half circle, took their seats.  Once again, he took their measure for a moment before speaking, each standing appraisal from beneath his great bushy eyebrows.

“Well then…” he said finally, slightly embarrassed, realizing they’d been holding their breath the last few moments, waiting on his words.

“Let us start by remembering our task… that we are here to drive him out, He and his minions, before they can build a power here beyond our abilities to reckon with.”

“But not destroy him” Aranarth replied half to himself.

“No…”, Gandalf responded, “That power we do not have…that power He alone has created which is long gone from our ken and His for two thousand years now.”

“So even if we succeed today he may return?” Arthed spoke up.

“How and when I cannot say.  Much depends on a future uncertain in these times.  But at least we may be able to guarantee peace for a time for Middle Earth, be it a watchful one nonetheless.  But enough of the future. The day marches on and we have much to do.  Eradan…what of our diversion?”

“The beasts reside in great cages.  Some are let out after being fed some foul offal to calm them.  The gates to their cages are secured by thick bolts thrust through rude slots of metal, enough to confound the beasts, but without locks. Any strong man could open them”

“The entrance to the cavern appears lightly guarded” Ardugan added.  “It is as Eradan told us…He has sent all that are battleworthy to the south to confront the Steward.” 

Ardugan had been out before dawn, reconnoitering through the ghastly forest at night, creeping up to the very gates of the Necromancer to assess the enemy’s strength.

“I do not like that we divide our forces” A voice spoke firm and evenly.

Heads turned, surprised.  One of them, often grim, stared intently, his dour disposition softened ever so slightly, then spoke.

“What do you propose, Arahael, if not this plan?” Aranarth replied gruffly.

“What plan did we have at the outset?  Eradan’s arrival was not foreseen.  Would we not have taken our full strength up the Hidden Stair?” Arahael replied, not giving ground.

“Indeed, we would” Gandalf interjected.  “And we would have been taking a risk.  All would be well if our surmise was correct and His mountain was unguarded.  But if more than a small force remained, our great ally of surprise would have been lost, even if we should prevail.

“But from Eradan we know his guard is stripped for the battle with the Steward…the mountain was all but bare of torchlight last night” Arahael countered.

“The comments of an old orc gaoler left behind and a single night’s patrol on one side of the mountain.”  This time it was Haldir who spoke, coolly, slightly dismissive.

“What lies inside is still open to question.  If the guard is light, our diversion will cost us nothing.  If more are present, our foray into the cavern may allow the others to reach the summit without compromising the advantage of surprise.”

The consequences to the diversion party of ‘more are present’ settled in on the group, particularly those few who would lead it.  A few moments passed, then Eradan spoke, resolute and serious.

“None know the inside of Dol Guldur as I do and I believe that few remain”  Eradan nodded in Arahael’s direction, “but I also cannot be certain and your mission is too important to be compromised by some unexpected resistance.  We must draw out what forces remain in this diversion, even at the risk of those of us involved.”  A shadow passed over his face at the thought.

“Arahael, I do not begrudge your opinion.” Gandalf commented with respect.  “None here should feel that they march blindly into battle without thought or question, but timing is crucial to our success today.  If we are too early upon the summit, He may realize that He is the target of our efforts, and the arrival of the Steward is just a ruse to commit His forces.  He may cancel his attack, and the trap I have labored to set will not be sprung properly. 

“But, should we arrive too late he may flee if he suspects the battle is lost south of Mirkwood and then our trap snaps shut without Him in it.  While that may not be the worst of outcomes, it is my desire to confront him to insure that his departure is accompanied by such loss and regret that he will not soon return.  The providence of our diversion is an extra measure of new found surety that the journey to the summit will not be interrupted.”

“And it is not my intent to be denied my place when that confrontation occurs.” Eradan replied harshly.  “He has taken too many lives…”

There was silence once again for a few moments.  Then Ardugan spoke.

“The trail from this dolmen to Dol Guldur widens.  You will see…the mushrooms grow with abandon not far off.  They send the injured with carts to collect them from near the base of the mountain.”

“Food for His beasts when there is no fresh meat…” Eradan replied

“And a hazard for any man...or orc…for their consumption brings madness and death” Ardugan added.  “From my hiding places I have seen some of His servants, new to affairs there, tempted by the sweet scent they send off and the soft white rounds of their bloom.  Delight wreathes their faces at first bite, but not long after froth rings their mouths and fear their eyes.  They howl and screech, lashing out with sword and dirk, frenzy increasing til they collapse, twitching, then still and dead.”

“So what is the plan for this diversion?” Aranarth growled impatiently.

Ardugan’s eyes hardened for a moment at his brother’s interruption, then smoothed out, masking his feelings.

 “We will take the trail from here toward the gates to the cavern under Dol Guldur.  There is a clearing in front of the gates where a small bridge crosses the black stream that issues from the interior.  Two broad trails lead from the clearing, one running east around the base of the mountain, then turning south along its eastern flanks, the other trail heading west then south along its other side.  Other smaller trails branch off from time to time.”

“There is a cache of orc armor not far from where the trail from this dolmen ends at the clearing.   Leftovers from some earlier forays I have made to this area.” Ardugan permitted himself a small smile at the thought.  “I will pretend to be an orc with prisoners…Eradan recaptured and Hagar a renegade Rhovanian intent on some sort of revenge for the depredations upon the last of his people outside the forest.”

“You may look an orc but will smell like a man” Aranarth replied skeptically.

“This small vial…” Ardugan plucked a tiny stoppered green glass potion bottle from a side pouch of his heavy leather tunic.  “…will make any that approach me think orc above all else” He smirked defiantly at his older brother.

“And what might that be” Aranarth leaned forward scowling.

“You would not know, brother, only having slain them outright in your youth.  As prisoners they yield up some surprising secrets…when persuaded.  I have found a slow fire the best in that regard, though they seem to quickly perish.  Still, if one is careful, a drizzle of orc fat can be saved, dripping through their armor before they suddenly alight over the coals.  Of course, then they have little more to tell at that point”

Ardugan’s small smile twisted, his eyes widened for a moment.  Their momentary shock at his remarks was a source of quiet pleasure.

“Any enemy of His creatures is friend of mine” Eradan pronounced bluntly, then continued.

“I care not for his means, only the ends.  It is good he will reek of orc…the light guard will accept the ruse on that alone, long enough for us to dispatch them and make our way inside.  They feed the beasts not long after dawn, then leave them for the rest of the day til a second feeding just before sunset.  We will have no trouble freeing the beasts from their cages…their orc masters will do well to rouse themselves from the stupor of the foul ales they drink to pass the day.”

“And when you have roused the beasts…what then?” Arahael returned to the conversation.

“Then they will leave the cavern to the chaos they have created and meet us at the base of the Hidden Stair” Gandalf replied, beginning to weary of what was a longer discussion than he had planned.

“And if they cannot return for some reason…or if the forces inside respond quickly with unexpected strength and they are captured or cut off…what then of our mission, the surprise we covet?” Arahael persisted.

“If there are unexpected forces, better they be occupied with the diversion in the cavern than arrayed before us halfway up the mountain.” Gandalf’s voice had an edge of finality to it.  “If the guard is light as we expect, then our diversionary party will soon join us for the ascent of the mountain.  We must take the opportunity to improve our chances that fate has given us with Eradan’s escape.   Now…let us talk about their rendezvous with the rest of us at the base of the Hidden Stair once their task is done.”

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She awoke to a pair of luminous green eyes staring at her dispassionately from a backdrop of iron grey fur.    She jolted up, instinctively clutching at her sword beside her on the blanket, then recognized the form of Clybrindor.  She remained motionless, patiently waiting for her heartbeat and defensive reflexes to quiet.  Drianna glanced up toward the lumpy pinnacle of the dolmen.  The silhouette of Chrisandil was revealed against the low gray sky, caught in the act of languorous grooming. 

“The horses must have arrived at the grove safely, then” she said half to herself and half to the cat, still fixing its gaze intently on her as she gathered herself.  How long the two of them had been there she knew not.  In any event the snares and trip wires she had laid out about her the night before had proved no obstacle to them. 

Drianna fished a little lembas and some nuts and dried meat out of her pack and munched it into a pulp which she washed down with a measured swallow of water.  The motionless cat made no move to nibble at a few pieces she laid on a rock near his feet.

“Already caught your breakfast then…” Drianna smiled at the bobcat.  She glanced at the sky, the color of lead.  Good, it was just dawn, the rising sun muffled behind the overcast.  She had a chance to catch up if she left at once. 

Drianna flexed her left arm and shoulder.  Stiff and sore still, but less so today.  She stuffed the blanket back into the pack, hauled it up and over her shoulders.   The sword slipped back into its scabbard and the medium bow went over her shoulder.  Above her Chrisandil made her way slowly and regally down the side of the dolmen.  Clybrindor marched down the lower slope of the dolmen and stared back impatiently.

Drianna reached the base of the dolmen and was immersed in the early morning gloom of the forest once again.  The light breeze she had enjoyed in the night was a memory, the mixture of sweet rot, excrescence, and decay returning, a thick miasma that stole at the breath in her lungs.  Chrisandil reached them and let out a yowl of displeasure at the scent, which was quickly cut off by a hiss and snarl from Clybrindor.

The male cat led off around the base of the dolmen on a narrow track hemmed by the rocky slope on their left and the leering vegetation to the right.  Drianna could barely see the way forward as the trail left the east side of the second dolmen, checking her bearings by the twin flashes of green light that signaled Clybrindor’s turned head, keeping track of her from time to time yards ahead on the trail.  The bold cat quickened his pace, forcing her stride to lengthen.  From what she remembered of the charts they’d examined at Rivendell, she was perhaps and hour or so away from the third dolmen where her brother and the rest of the party no doubt had spent the night.  Behind her she heard another whine of displeasure from Chrisandil.

“Complain not to me…it is your brother cat who sets the pace.” Drianna shouted back over her shoulder, tightening the straps of her pack.  She leaned forward slightly and picked up her pace, near to a trot now.    With a little luck she could still catch them before they reached the mountain itself.

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“The scouts report some activity at the edge of the forest, Steward”

Mardil nodded expressionlessly, standing with arms folded.  The Chief of Scouts bowed and made to leave, but Mardil raised his hand for him to remain.  The man stood silently, awaiting further orders. 

A gray heavy dawn.  It would storm before the day was through, the dusty plain turning into a sea of mud and pelting rain.  It would rain on his adversaries too. 

“What did they spy, Jared?” Mardil said quietly.

“It was difficult to be certain in the darkness, Steward”

Mardil sighed impatiently, “I have not time for riddles, Jared.  Your men could steal into my palace bedchamber past my guard if they so chose…and have done in training I might add.  There is no doubt as to what they have seen this past night.  The uncertainty lies in how the news of their efforts will be received.  Out with it man!”

“They heard the voices of orcs…and of men.  Stakes were pounded into the earth beyond the forest edge.  The men, dressed in Gondor’s cavalry colors, were dragged to the stakes, and tied fast.  The orcs mocked them, then retreated to the forest.  Moments later arrows sped out of the woods, some finding mark.  The men were still alive when the scouts made their return ‘ere dawn”

“Who knows of their report, Jared?”  Mardil’s voice was grim, hard.

“None yet, Steward.  I have sequestered the scouts for the while.”

That alone would have the men speculating.  But Mardil knew this was but the opening gambit in which he and his men were to play a part expected of them, as unknowing sheep come to the lair of the wolf.  And the part must be played convincingly or the wolves would not bare their own necks to the threat of a greater pack in sheep’s disguise.  Still, the thought that these might actually be survivors of Eradan’s foray into these desolate plains filled him with a cold rage that he struggled to discipline.

“Call Captain Perrian to me! We will break camp and all will know what foul business these vermin have conducted under cover of darkness.  We will ride to the aid of these men, may they yet live.  Then we will administer punishment at the point of every sword and lance that rides with us today!”

Jared saluted briskly, a smile of satisfied blood lust breaking out on his face.  Mardil returned the salute, his aristocratic face stern and resolute.  Off to his right he could here shouting as orders were being bellowed out, the sounds of tack and gear fastened into place, breakfasts bolted, pots and pans clanging and put away.  Whatever happened the rest of this day, these men would be prepared.  His son might not yet live, but the trap was in place and those responsible for his fate would learn a lesson they would not live to tell.

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Ardugan crouched behind a scaly gray tree trunk just shy of where the trail from the third dolmen emptied out into the broad clearing in front of the gates to Dol Guldur.  Behind him, further back in the shadows, Eradan and Hagar were donning the ragged clothing from the cache, sloughing it over their swords and light chain mail. 

Ardugan had donned his own disguise, a battered orc helm, well worn orc armor, a notched and pitted short sword and shoddy boots.  A liberal application of the grease from the vial left them all gasping with the stench of ‘orc essence’.  His odor would convincingly wrinkle the nose of any of the foul vermin that might stand guard this day, their sense of smell distracted enough to believe the ruse for the moments needed to dispatch them.

Eradan came up from behind.  “We are ready for the rope”

Ardugan stood, inspecting him and Hagar, now trudging over, bereft of his horned battle helmet.

“You both look the proper captives.”  Indeed they did, Eradan still bruised about the face and Hagar’s scalp still bearing streaks of dried blood from the spider attack the day before.

“And you a credible orc” Eradan commented wryly, pinching his nose.

“These bonds will look convincing enough as well” Ardugan busied himself with tying their hands behind their backs.  “But all you need do is twist your hands thusly…” he demonstrated the movement to them, “…and the ropes disengage”

Ardugan left them for a moment and stood again from the egress of the trail.  The clearing in front of the gates was roughly a hundred yards square.  The rank vegetation of the forest had been hacked back, leaving a thick carpet of slimy gray-black coarse grass.  Through the middle of the field a stream meandered out from the heart of the mountain, noisome and steaming, disappearing into swampy oblivion beyond the edge of the encroaching forest on the north side of the clearing. 

A stoutly built bridge crossed the stream.  On either side a well worn muddy track spoke of the recent passage of His servants, now encamped where Mirkwood met the Brown Lands, awaiting Mardil’s arrival.  The track’s scar passed just yards from where they stood, turning south, paralleling the west flank of the mountain, then plunging into a hole in the forest at the southern end of the field.   Not half an hour before they had watched Gandalf and the others follow that same trail in search of the base of the Hidden Stair. 

Ardugan glanced up at the west side of Dol Guldur and spied the winding crease in the mountain’s side, an irregular cleft between two folds of rock, running all the way to the summit.  The Stair was said to follow that groove.  In any event the three of them would be making for it within the hour, once their diversion was complete.

“It is time…” He rose and beckoned to Eradan and Hagar, who walked out into the open area in front of him, hands tied, heads bowed.  Ardugan drew the short sword and held it menacingly in front of him, occasionally poking it into Hagar’s back.

They made their way to the bridge.  From here the entrance to the cavern under the mountain was clearer.  A jagged opening yawned in mountain’s side, roughly triangular in shape, perhaps fifty feet wide and a hundred tall.  Massive gates, thick barred, adorned with spikes and grotesque images, braced the opening from side to side.  Forty feet in height, they were a formidable barrier to escape or entry, but left a gap through which bats and other winged creatures could enter and exit. 

The path from the bridge forked just before the gates, one way heading to the eastern edge of the clearing and back into the looming forest, the other making way directly to the cavern entrance where two guards were engaged in bored conversation. 

Movement and the sound of footfalls caught their attention as Ardugan and his party approached.   

“You there…be lively and open the gate” Ardugan barked out.

“And what’ve we got ‘ere?” One of the guards sneered back, coming forward.  A short, squat, black haired muscular man from the distant east, he had little love for his orcish allies.

“The Steward’s son himself and a Rhovanian renegade…not that it be any of your business” Ardugan replied as insultingly as possible.  “I captured ‘em myself…more’n can be said for you lumps of offal.”

“Captured ‘em yourself ‘ey?”  The second guard came forward now, sword drawn.  He was a different sort, tall, sour faced and malignant.  “Able bodied orc like you ought to be long gone south…not pokin’ ‘round the forest.  And these here two…Steward’s son so you say…”

Ardugan’s grip tightened on his sword.  Before him he could see Hagar’s wrists beginning to twist, loosening the bond.  In an instant they would be upon the guards.

Suddenly there was a shout from their left.  Heads turned to the east where three large ox carts unexpectedly emerged from the forest into the clearing.   Laden with huge noxious mushrooms, they were drawn not by oxen, but by some leathery single horned beasts clumping along on deformed legs.    

Each cart carried three passengers, a driver and two laborers.   

"That’ll be the mornin’ delivery of mushrooms for His beasties delight” the sour faced guard spat.   “Late again today…and He will hear of it!”  The guard strode off past Ardugan, temporarily distracted by the arrival of the carts.  They could here him berating the slow moving supply train, cursing them for their tardiness.   He turned on his heel and stalked back, contempt and disgust smeared across his face.  The carts picked up speed, matching his pace, some last effort at exigency demonstrated by their drivers who lashed away at the hapless beasts.

They arrived almost as a group.  Ardugan gave a gentle poke to Hagar’s back, stilling his wrists for the moment.  Things had changed.  Now there were eleven to dispatch, not two.  The drivers and their laborers looked a surly lot too.  All sported injuries of some sort, eyepatches, arms bereft of left hands, legs with crudely fastened wooden stumps.  Victims of the battle with Eradan, perhaps, relegated to menial duties.  That being the better alternative to the badly wounded who ended up as fodder for His beasts.  Yet they were still strong, heavily muscled, with long wild black hair and dark skins.  The long hooked scythes they carried to fell the mushrooms could easily separate a man’s head from his shoulders.

“Now back to you three” the guard sneered at Ardugan.  One of the drivers approached and interrupted.

“I know this’n…” the driver pointed a thick, dirty finger at Eradan, “…bashing away with ‘is mace…near took my head off, him and ‘is horsemen…”

The sour faced guard turned to Eradan, eyes narrowing.  “So is it the Steward’s son after all…captured by an orc?  Maybe better yet captured by a guard of the Gate…and who would miss an orc then…” he looked menacingly at Ardugan.  The driver and the others from the carts began to mutter darkly, starting to cluster about Ardugan and his ‘captives’.  Things were beginning to unravel. 

Then the air was split by a strange yowl.  All was suspended as heads turned around to a creature sitting behind them a few yards away on a patch of mottled black turf.  Utterly fearless, it glared at them with luminous green eyes set in a noble feline face with fur the color of iron.  Beneath his helmet Ardugan permitted himself a small smile.  A heartbeat later there was a humming noise in the air followed by a thick smack of steel on flesh.

The tall guard was making a gurgling sound, clutching a bright steel shaft that protruded from his throat.  A whirring noise quickly followed, then another.  Two more shafts, steel tipped oak, found homes in the faces of cartmen.  The figure of the gray cat was suddenly draped on the face of the driver.  Another bobcat, golden and imperious, had appeared of nowhere, leapt, and fastened its claws where the eyes of the second, smaller guard once looked out at the world.

Shouts and screams erupted.  Ardugan put himself between the remaining cart men and his ‘captives’.  Hagar and Eradan quickly flung off their bonds and drew swords.  The three of them turned, facing ten cart men with scythes.  The air vibrated again three times in quick succession as three more shafts found deadly homes.  Now it was but seven to three. 

Hagar charged the remaining cart men with a great bellow, swinging his black sword in a wide arc, cleaving the head off one and nearly halving a second at the waist with the force of his blow.  Ardugan made quick work of another in short, deft strokes that would have brought an admiring smile to a king’s master butcher, then completed the work on the two that the cats had clawed to a pulp.  Eradan chased down the last two just short of the forest, killing with the remorseless vengeance only a former captive can know, the only mercy being the single sure stroke that quickly finished each.  

Then he turned, his eye caught by a flash of yellow amidst the desolate grays and blacks.  His jaw dropped, face caught in a mixture of shock, delight, and exasperation.  He would recognize that wild mane of curly golden hair anywhere with its livid crimson streak down the center.  The woman that bore it walked over the bridge towards him, a smug smile on her face, confidence in her stride, one bow over her shoulder and a crossbow dangling loosely from a wrist strap.

She stopped a few yards from where he stood, his sword still dripping blood.  Hands on hips she looked over the carnage that had been wrought.

“Men…so untidy.” She shook her head, then walked past him to the body of the tall guard, face down.  A boot planted on the back of his head, she grasped the back end of a steel shaft and with a grunt pulled it out, shaking off bits of gore.

“Always the women who have to clean up their mess…” Drianna groused mockingly.

“You…!” was all that Eradan could managed at first.

“Saved your life? Yes, quite possibly since the three of you could only manage two dead apiece.  Though why I should rescue someone who seems intent on putting his life in harm’s way I cannot say!”

“You should be leagues away from here! Outside the forest, safe!” Eradan was finding his words again.

Drianna ignored him, stalking over to another corpse to remove an arrow.  Ardugan now approached her brother, removing the stifling orc helmet and face plate.

“We have little time for sibling debate, Eradan.  Drianna is right…this is an untidy scene.  Our task was to free the beasts and escape unseen, leaving the impression that some lazy orc feeder forgot to shut the cages.  Two guards deserting their posts would not arouse suspicion.  But now we have eleven bodies and three carts.  Whatever guard is mustered to deal with the beasts will not be so stupid as to ignore the obvious signs of an attack.  We risk an alert of the remaining forces here or worse.”

Hagar had returned by now, looking over his shoulder as Drianna yanked out the last of her five arrows that met their mark.

“She shoots well” the blond giant commented approvingly.  Eradan glared back at him.  Drianna now approached the three men, tucking the last of her bloodied arrows in the quiver slung over her shoulder.

“Should we not proceed with the diversion…or has battle dulled your enthusiasm?” She smirked at Eradan, knowing she was deliberately provoking him.

“It is as you say, Drianna…” Ardugan broke in before a spluttering Eradan could frame a reply, “…a most untidy scene…hard to explain as anything but an attack.  We must deal with that before we enter the mountain.”

“Why not just heave the bodies in the wood” Hagar offered, trying to be helpful.

“No…we need to create an illusion.” Ardugan’s smile was satisfyingly sinister.  “The fools that harvested the mushrooms obviously succumbed to their aroma and ate some of the fungus themselves.  They went mad and attacked the guards, then each other.  All we need do is hack at them with their own weapons and arrange the bodies in death embraces.  We could even bring two of them inside with us to add to the confusion.”

Eradan was nodding his head.  “It will work…but we must make haste…Drianna you take the two at the edge of the forest.  Hagar, you will carry two inside.  Ardugan and I will arrange the rest and sprinkle some mushroom about their mouths.”

His words signaled that he had grudgingly accepted Drianna’s arrival and it was all business now.  In a few moments their grisly handiwork was done, the corpses locked together, hands gripping weapons stuck deep in adversaries.  Eradan opened the gate and beckoned to the others. 

“It is dim, almost as night inside.  Allow a few moments for your eyes to adjust to the darkness.  The cages are at the far end of the cavern.  If all is clear, Hagar will drop the bodies near one of the cages, as if locked in mortal combat.   Two of us will slide open the bolts in the cage doors then swing them open.  The beasts will emerge quickly…we must each move fast to avoid being a mid-day morsel.  Drianna and I will position ourselves nearer this gate.  Should any of the guard emerge early and threaten our escape we will make them regret their decision.

He glanced quickly at his sister, respect in his eyes, then ducked inside.  She followed, then Hagar.  Ardugan took one last look about the clearing, insuring that they were alone, save for the dead, then entered the cavern of the Necromancer.

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They had parted company with Ardugan’s diversionary party nearly an hour ago, making a brief appearance at the edge of the clearing before plunging back into the forest on a well traveled route wide enough for ten men.  The ruts in the earth and mangled oily gray and black turf spoke of tromping soldiers, heavy wagons, and bestial footprints made not long ago, all heading south to the border with the Brown Lands. 

Overhead, the trees on either side of the trail, laden with thick, greasy vines and dripping molds, merged into a dark canopy that let in little the leaden sky’s feeble light.   They had carefully checked their bearings at the third dolmen, marking the crease on the side of the mountain.  Anticipating where it would meet the forest then finding it would be no mean task. 

The trail they took was a hundred yards off the mountain’s lower flanks, running south, paralleling its western side.  Somewhere about a half a league below the cavern entrance there would be a sign, but one perhaps buried in an entanglement of toxic vegetation, thorns, and mire.  Locating it was something that Haldir and Gandalf were up to, leading their party, the two of them immersed in conversation, occasionally pointing to some shapeless lump in the forest just off the trail, looking around for other clues, then proceeding on once again.   Arthed followed them close behind, eyes scanning the woods for clues of another nature, two legged creatures bearing swords who might be patrolling the near marches of Dol Guldur’s realm.

Further back, Aranarth and Arahael took the rear, wary of any late stragglers He might be sending down to battle with the Steward.

“Your position on the diversion had its merits”, Aranarth broke their silent march abruptly.

“Pity not enough for others to agree” Arahael replied drily, masking his surprise at what was for his father a compliment on the discussion earlier in the day.

“No matter.  You spoke your mind amidst those with more years and experience.  Oft it is the silence of good men that does more harm than the works of darkness.”

“Still I would be comforted more with the others marching amongst us now.”

“And they may yet join us, son.  If not, then they will have played a part that will allow us to succeed.  Look, up ahead…they have stopped.  We may be close to the Stair.”  Aranarth pointed to the forms of Gandalf and Haldir standing together, both gesturing at something in the forest to the east.  Aranarth and Arahael approached the pair, Arthed already beside them.

“Ah, Aranarth, Arahael…” Gandalf turned, smiling at their arrival, “It appears Haldir may have found the sign we seek”

Aranarth looked into the forest, seeing little other than the terminus of a low mound, perhaps some tendril of rock from the mountain, now heavily entombed in twisted roots, black tangled vines, and glistening heaps of spongy moss and fungus.   Haldir picked his way gingerly into the forest and crouched at the base of the mound.  He withdrew a long knive and scraped away layers of moss and dirt to get to the bare rock.  The elf shook his head quietly then moved on to another spot, then a third.

This time he seemed more animated, scraping vigorously, widening the area of exposed rock.  Carefully he brushed away some remaining dirt and moss, then took off the glove from his right hand and gently ran his fingers over the rock. 

Even from twenty feet away they could see it, a pulse of light that warmed Haldir’s face, coming from the rock itself.  Gandalf went over to his side, leaning over his shoulder.

“It is the mark of Celebrimbor!” Haldir said breathlessly, almost reverently speaking the name of the last of the great Elven craftsmen from the Second Age, dead for over three thousand years.  Beneath his fingers the outline of a rune glowed with a shimmering silvery green light, then gradually faded, having responded to his initial touch.

“We have our Stair.  Come let us tell the others”

The two made their way back to the trail, the excitement in Haldir’s eyes betraying the news.

“You’ve found it?”

“Yes Aranarth.  That low mound in the forest runs back some ways to the base of the mountain where the stair begins.  The rune was clear evidence though it has been many a year since it has last felt the touch of an elven hand.”

“What rune?” Arahel inquired.

 “The Stair was intended as a gift, Arahael” Haldir commented, “…My Lady Galadriel and Celeborn had settled in Eregion in the Second Age.  Over time they made contact with the elven lands over the Misty Mountains, first in Lorien and later in Greenwood.  It was not as if she was the first.  After the sundering of Beleriand, other of the Sindar and Noldor had made their way east.”

“And not always welcome from what Thranduil says” Gandalf replied

“No…that is true.  By the time she made contact with Oropher and his people, he had already become wary of their influence in Lorien, the mighty works of the dwarves in Moria and rumors of Sauron’s re-emergence in Mordor.  The Stair was intended as a token of good will, a work of great skill by disciples of Celebrimbor that Galadriel had brought with her to Amon Lanc, as it was then called.”

“But to no avail, it would seem” Gandalf concluded.

Haldir sighed.  “If anything it hastened Oropher’s decision to depart the southern forest, having perceived the power that such workmanship could wreak in the wrong hands. And so it was scarcely used, the Hidden Stair.  Other than Galadriel there may be few, if any who still know of its existence. Those who crafted it died in the destruction of Eregion.  Oropher and many of his people were slain in the War of the Alliance and were by then far removed in time and distance from their ancient home around Dol Guldur.  Even Galadriel did not see it completed, having urgent business back in Eregion.  What she knows comes from the words of the craftsmen upon return from their labors.”

“Then let us share those words with all now here.” Gandalf replied.  Haldir nodded an continued

“It is said that the first step of the Stair is the largest and clear for all to see, but the second and all that follow are Hidden.  Only the footstep of an immortal on the first step will release the next ten that follow.  Then as one climbs, a series of ten upward steps emerges ahead.  Ten remain open behind the one being trod upon.”

“So only ten ahead and ten behind are open at a time?” Arahael queried.

 “What purpose to such a limit?” Arthed said, puzzled.

“To insure that no force of non-mortals would have an easy task of following an elf to the top with any hope of a simple return.  Galadriel intended that the peoples of Lorien and the Silvan Elves at Amon Lanc would be able to signal each other from the high points of their realms, though they be many leagues away.  The summit of the mountain was for elven boots, not the feet of men or dwarves.”

“Or orcs” Aranarth replied gruffly.  “We have been fortunate to make such progress, but the morning wanes.  Are we close to this first step you describe for we have a long climb ahead of us”

“We will have to cut our way through the forest, perhaps two hundred yards, to reach the base of the mountain.  There a deep natural crease in its flanks meets the ground.  That is where the Stair begins.”

“And you are confident still that He will be atop?” Aranarth gave Gandalf a long look.

The wizard met his gaze from beneath his great bushy brows. “His presence is strong, Aranarth.  There are things I can feel of him given his nature…and mine, that others cannot.  His is there, so confident after his first round with Eradan, that he can enjoy this victory from afar.”

“There is the matter of Ardugan and the others” Arthed interjected.

“We will give them an hour as was set out in the plan, no longer.  His woodcraft is such that he will have no trouble marking our path through these dark environs to the base of the mountain.”

“But if he is late, the stair will close behind us” Arthed persisted

“Then let us pray their progress is swift” Aranarth concluded flatly, then turned to his brother, seeing the need for them to commence action.  “Come Arthed, release that great axe of yours and make a way for us through this benighted realm.”

And Arthed indeed did release his axe, adjusting its handle to the maximum.  Then, with the rangy strength in his wide shoulders and long arms he began a wide scything motion.  The cut of the axe whistled through the air and took great gouges out of the tangles of vines and thorn bushes before them. 

His strokes took on an inexorable rhythm, felling all in their way, saplings, even smallish trees.  The pent up energy of their long journey released itself in the simple physical joy he felt when putting the great blade to work.  The others followed behind him, several paces back to avoid the hurtling fragments of torn vegetation, hacking away themselves at some of the plants that seemed to twist and writhe like severed snakes spewing yellowish ichors in their death throes.

It was less than half an hour when they reached the base of the mountain where Arthed chopped away the last of the tangle.   Haldir came up to the front, standing beside him, Arthed breathing heavily from his exertions, a satisfied smile on his face as he looked back at the destruction he had wrought to the nightmarish plants.

“It is as Galadriel said” the elf contemplated the rocky formation before them. 

They stood at the opening to a deep cleft in the side of the mountain that was twenty feet wide at its opening.  The channel ran all the way up the side of the mountain like a great gouge of a knife in its flanks.  The cleft itself seemed clear of vegetation, though on either side of the runnel the sides of the mountain were still cloaked in vines, thorn bushes and gnarled trees grimly hugging its steep slopes.

Haldir walked forward slowly, examining the ground.  The vines and gray-black grass gave way to a roughly level rocky surface that rose slightly as he made his way between the rock walls on either side of the cleft.  The others held back for a moment, fixed by the sight of the elf, now on his hands and knees, deep in the confines, nearing the small space where the rock walls almost met.  As before in the forest, he removed the glove from his right hand and seemed to trace a pattern in the stone on the ground.

This time, though he stood up, replaced the glove and carefully positioned his right foot on the patch of stone that he had just touched.  The stone seemed to glow softly beneath his boot.  Then there was a series of sounds, that of smooth stone sliding upon stone, then a clicking and whirring, like tumblers of an enchanted lock falling into place. 

Haldir stepped back a bit.  Between the frowning walls the narrow flat rock face before him seemed to shift.  One by one, small slabs of rock slid out, with perfectly polished surfaces.  Each was a step, perhaps three feet wide and two deep, set apart by a height less than a man’s knee.  Ten such steps had emerged from the side of the mountain.  Haldir turned, his face illuminated with a joy at the handiwork of his ancestors, still in perfect order after the passage of an Age.

The others made their way in now, single file, as the gap would not permit two abreast for long. 

“It is as you said Haldir” Gandalf commented approvingly.  “Take the first step as it is your tread that will open the rest.”

Haldir took the first step.  Above them they heard the clicking, sliding noise again as another step slid smoothly from its position in the stone.  Haldir took two more and the process repeated itself.  Then he turned about and came back to the base of the cleft.  The steps slid gently back into the mountain, invisible once again.

“It works! My Lady will be greatly heartened to know that this craft of the Noldor is still in service to the fair folk!”

“She will indeed, Haldir, for there are few such creations of his forge yet in existence.  But now we wait for Ardugan, Hagar, and Eradan” Gandalf counseled, “Not too long though…as the wheels that are about to turn will fly by without us if we tarry”