Untrodden Paths

by Timmy

Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters of Aragorn, Gollum, and some others mentioned in this story. They belong to Tolkien’s heirs. I just borrow them for the fun and put them back later. All the original characters are my creation (with restless help of Mouse, of course).

Rating: PG 13/ new rating: T

Note: Tolkien left open many parts of Aragorn's life. Here is my approach to one chapter in the long row. Those readers, who stay strictly to the words of Tolkien, might consider the story AU, for the Ranger is not able to take Gollum the straight way to Mirkwood.

I do know that the name of ‘Aule’ is written with two dots above the ‘e’, yet my keyboard has no such feature. That’s why the second best solution of the accent above the ‘e’ has to suffice.

Summary: When the quest for Gollum fails due to a mishap, a sick Ranger finds shelter in a small village. But this is only the beginning of a new part of Aragorn's search.

The story stands alone and has no references to my other ones.

Thanks to Linda the story is beta-read.

My heartfelt thanks – again and with no less vigour – to my best friend Mouse for her help and enthusiasm. You are the one, who keeps me going and still preserves the fun of it all. You make me think that sometimes you even know better what I want to write than I know myself. What would I do without you?

Please, visit my author site on this website.

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter One: Into the Dead Marshes

   Tolkien wrote:

   “There is little to tell of them,” said Aragorn. “If a man must needs walk in the sight of the Black Gate, or tread the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale, then perils he will have. I, too, despaired at last, and I began my homeward journey. And then, by fortune, I came suddenly of what I sought: the marks of soft feet beside a muddy pool. But now the trail was fresh and swift, and it led not to Morder but away. Along the skirts of the Dead Marshes I followed it, and then I had him. Lurking by a stagnant mere, peering in the water as the dark eve dell, I caught him, Gollum. He was covered with green slime. He will never love me, I fear; for he bit me, and I was not gentle. Nothing more did I ever get from his mouth than the marks of his teeth. I deemed it the worst part of all my journey, the road back, watching him day and night, making him walk before me with a halter on his neck, gagged, until he was tamed by lack of drink and food, driving him ever toward Mirkwood. I brought him there at last and gave him to the Elves, for we agreed that this should be done; and I was glad to be rid of his company, for he stank.” (FotR, The Council of Elrond)

   And this:

   “I too once passed the Dimrill Gate,” said Aragorn quietly; “but though I came out alive, the memory is very evil. I do not wish to enter Moria a second time.” (FotR, A Journey in the Dark)

-o-o-o-o-

   TA 3017

   A foul stench was in the air, and clouds of thick, grey mist emitted from the moist ground between the marshland's small islands. No green grass soothed the eyes of the weary wanderer. No colourful flower eased the view over the wasteland that once had been a battlefield. From the western rim it stretched seventy miles eastward with nothing more than grey, dead-like plants amid brown, muddy water that was ruffled by the cool wind. With the deep hanging clouds, which announced the rain to come, it was a place in Middle-earth that no one wanted to walk into or even to pass. Stories were told about this place, and though none of the people alive could tell what truly had happened during the battle of the Last Alliance against Sauron's forces, the mere mentioning of the Dead Marshes made them shudder.

   Wrinkling up his nose and pulling the cloak tighter around his haggard shoulders, the wanderer gazed back the way he had come, ever vigilant to notice the slightest change in his surroundings. He had come to know peril others not even had nightmares about, and in the long years of his service for both King Thengel of Rohan and Steward Ecthelion II of Gondor he had achieved a skill in fighting worthy of lore. There were only a few who matched him in knowledge of warfare and the ability to know the enemy's action in advance and react according to the challenge. He had earned a reputation, but never claimed the reward for his deeds. With the task done, he had left King Thengel, and, with a heart too heavy to bear more, he had also left behind Minas Tirith, many years ago, though it was the city of his ancestors.

   He was alone. Black birds had circled the sky during the early morning hours, but now as noon drew near, not a single sound could be heard. It was a place of the dead. The wanderer tried to encourage himself that he had lived through the worst months while walking the path along the Ephel Dúath to the Morannon, and that he would head westward now to places he knew well and where he would be welcomed. He breathed through the cloth of a scarf he had wound around his neck to ease the smell, but the place itself was saturated with the reek of decay, and there was no escape from it.

   The wanderer decided to hurry even more and quickened his strides. His boots made loud sucking noises, and presently he got almost stuck in the fen, when it proved to be deeper than expected. He pulled himself out, only to notice footprints on the wet sand near the adjoining muddy pool. It had not been caused by a boot, but by feet bare of any covering. It was a unique footprint, one he had sought for long and in vain.

   His heartbeat sped up, and he straightened to search the area anew with keen eyes. His weariness fell off, and hope sparked anew. Seeing no signs through the mist, he moved on carefully, scanning the ground for further tracks. When he found them, he was astonished to realise that they led away from Mordor. The wanderer followed the trail, his eyes on the wet ground, halting here and there to examine the sediment of a puddle to make sure he still moved into the right direction. Along the skirts of the Dead Marshes he trod a path, and as the day waned he reached a stagnant mere. He hunched over to make himself smaller and halted, breathing through his mouth. From afar he heard a whining, complaining sound, and in the next moment the voice was sharp and accusing, uttering words in the Common Speech. For minutes the wanderer, who had never met the creature before, waited. Then he approached him carefully, causing as little noise as possible, his eyes fixed on the spot from where the whining, now loud and pleading, resounded.

   There he crouched: Gollum. A hunched up, meagre beast that once had been a Stoor, but who had been devoured by the One Ring in more than five hundred years of its possession. He was all skin and bone and covered with green slime. His big eyes bulged and shone luminescent in the growing darkness. He was talking to himself, quiet and reassuring now, harsh and aggressive a moment later. The wanderer drew closer, moving behind the being, almost holding his breath. He did not want to alarm the beast for he did not know his strength and abilities. Gandalf had told him only a few details about Gollum, and now that he saw him, pity for the strange creature filled the wanderer's heart. Nevertheless he would fulfil his task.

   Gollum's lament about his hunger went on, the only sound in the dusk. With his long, bony fingers he searched the sediment of the mere's shore, groping for anything to eat. The wanderer was close now, and when the beast made a move to his right in search of another spot to try, he leapt forward, threw himself on the creature‘s back to press him down flat into the shallow water. A gurgling sound emerged, then Gollum turned – slippery like an eel under the weight of the wanderer. He threw sand into the man's face, escaped the fierce grip with a screech, and ran into the marshes again, blind with fear! He ran as fast as his legs and hands would carry him, ran away, not knowing the direction at first. He was dreadfully afraid, and only dared brief glances over his shoulder if the tall being followed.

   The wanderer spat sand and shook his head, blinded for a second, but he did not give up. Quickly he was on his feet again, and though his clothes were wet now, he moved quickly, and followed the beast with long strides. Determination shone in his grey eyes. He spat again and wiped his face, but gained on his prey.

   Gollum turned, searching desperately for a way out, searching, looking left and right, trying to remember the way he had come. He ran on in haste, but no longer blindly though his heart pounded like a drum in his ears. He tried to think faster than the tall being approaching. He heard him come, heard his breath in his back already! Left, left he ran on, speeding on all fours, running eastward. Another small island. Yes, yes, this was the way! This it must be! He splashed through the mud. Another glanced over his shoulder. Still the ground held him. But it held the man too. And he gained on him! Gollum shrieked, doubled his efforts, and turned right. He knew the way! He was the one, the only one who had ever found a way through the Dead Marshes, but now… now he was under pressure! He had to think faster! And faster still! How could he get rid of him? There… O, he knew the way! He yearned to leave this dreadful place, but sensed that it would be his only chance to escape. No, he must not be captured now by just another tall and ugly enemy! On he ran, stumbled, and got up again. He needed to get away from the tall man's hands, his angry face, and the threat of torture. There it was! There was the pool that had almost drowned him just hours ago. Gollum looked over his shoulder, slackened his speed. Yes, yes, the man still followed. O, he was so eager to get his hands on poor Gollum, he did not watch. The beast quickened his steps again. He would add the man's body to the many corpses the Dead Marshes already held!

   And then Gollum tripped and fell.

   The pursuer's boots made squelching noises behind him, and, screeching in despair, Gollum struggled with all he had to escape the hidden root that held his ankle. All his hopes that the man would sink in the fen were crushed when the enemy's hard hands grabbed his neck.

   “Hold still or I will throttle you!” the tall being growled in a deep voice, but Gollum had been in a dark prison for too long to give in. He clutched his long fingers around the wrists of the man, struggling in his tight grip, whining as if he would die at any moment. He kicked his enemy viciously in his stomach, fighting with every fibre of his body. When the pressure eased for the shortest of moments, Gollum pulled hard, using all strength to rip away the angry, stinking hands from his throat! He turned and bit the left hand hard enough to make the man shout in pain. Again he thought to have escaped, but this time the hateful man grabbed his upper arm, and when his hand was free again, knocked him out with a hard blow to his temple. The hissing, shrieking, screeching ended abruptly.

   Silence settled in the Dead Marshes again.

   The wanderer let go of the limp creature. Panting he wiped his nose, and grimaced at the slime-covered bite wound, which bled freely. With the right hand he loosened the pack from his back and took out a small bandage to wind it around his injured hand. He needed to hurry; the creature already stirred again. The wanderer thought it hard to imagine that this pitiable, ugly beast had had possessed the valuable One Ring for such a long time. With a smirk he added that he had never imagined, either, searching for the creature for more than sixteen years to finally get a hold of him.

   Having finished the bandaging, he pulled a thin rope out of his pack and placed a sling around Gollum's neck. He drew up his nose. The creature stank as much as the surroundings and he wished for nothing more than to leave this place immediately. The wanderer stood, gathered his belongings and tugged at the rope, which he had bound around his right wrist. Gollum opened his big, lamp-like eyes, and stared at him with hate and fear.

   “Please, no, no, no, don't tie us!” he then shrieked, and withered on the ground as if the rope was hurting him. His long, bony hand tore at the rope around his throat. “Pleeease, no, don't! It burns! Burns usss!”

   “Get up and walk!” the wanderer ordered sternly, disgusted at the thought of travelling with his captive the long way to Mirkwood. He let another tug follow, but the creature continued tearing at the sling. “Leave it alone, Gollum, or I will bind your hands behind your back! Now move!”

   Gollum growled, hissed, and growled again, but - sensing that he had no chance to win a fight at the moment - rolled on his hands and feet. With a last, hideous look he turned to follow his captor westward. But the wanderer was vigilant and careful, and made Gollum walk in front of him. The beast complained ceaselessly, hissing and cursing ever and anon, but throwing himself on the ground wide-eyed and frightened the moment his captor threatened him. The beast knew instinctively that the tall being had nothing in common with the hateful torturers he had come to know in the dark confines of Mordor, but that did not lighten his mood. He could still feel all the tortures they had made him suffer to get the one information he had had to give: the whereabouts of the One Ring. And in the dark hours of his lonely captivity, when the torment by those ugly monsters had become intolerable, Gollum had finally uttered the valuable words.

   Gollum shrivelled at the thought of what he had done: betrayed his precious! Now the Dark Lord would get it! And when the Ring was on His hand, he would condemn all living beings to a horrible death… The Ring had shown him. The Ring had told him! But all those memories had not lent him the strength he would have needed to withstand the pain and the malice he had faced for such a long time in Minas Morgul. O, how he hated himself for what he had done! But how… how could he have avoided it? How could he have resisted any longer? Now he complained to himself ever and ever again, and the only thought on his mind was to be faster than the enemy. He had to get back, catch the Ring and… vanish! So that no one would ever get close to his precious again. No filthy Baggins, no one.

   But there was that man with the leash behind him, tall and with an impressively fierce look, never taking the eyes of him. Still there was little time left to get rid of him before they left the Marshes. When the thought took shape in his mind, Gollum stopped, and glanced over his shoulder. His captor clad in the weather-worn, dark green clothes with dark, long hair, and short-cropped beard might be an apt fighter or just a pursuer, who – sent by another foe – had captured him out of mere luck. After all he had called him by his name! But Gollum thought that he was more cunning, and would not let anyone hold him prisoner again, no matter what he did or why he did it!

   “Move!” the wanderer ordered getting closer. “We will leave the Marshes behind before nightfall!”

   Pretending to walk on, Gollum suddenly swivelled around, and attacked his captor with all strength and viciousness he could muster. He stretched out his hands and opened his mouth to catch the enemy's throat to strangle him. Bite him if he could! The man was forced two steps backwards, immediately grabbing the creature’s bony arms. They struggled, and, yes, the creature was as strong as he was old! Spitting he growled through his few teeth, and closed his long fingers even tighter around the man's neck while his feet pressed into his belly. He scratched the man's neck, drawing blood. The wanderer fought back, putting strength against strength in desperate need of air. He clenched his teeth and pulled back his head to evade the creature’s teeth bared only inches in front of his face. Gollum's eyes shone in anticipation of the victory as he held on, pressing, pressing tighter, ignoring the pain the tall being caused him on his arms. He had to win! He had to escape again! The wanderer fell on his knees, obviously exhausted and close to fainting. Then, when the old beast thought to have won, his enemy broke the grip. Fierce eyes focused on Gollum, frightening him. The man gasped, and let go of Gollum's left arm for a second to punch him hard across the still slime-covered face. He shoved him away. Gollum screeched, falling on the muddy ground, and was even more infuriated than before, realising he had lost. In his roaring anger he assailed him again, grabbing his coat with a guttural growl, and ripping off the brooch the man wore. The man threw him down once more with even more vigour.

   “Do not ever try that again! Get up and move!” the enemy commanded hoarsely, but he did not see the hideous glare in Gollum's eyes as the beast opened his dirty hand for a moment, only to let the man glimpse at what he got, before he threw the brooch into the water. “No…” It was the decision of a split second as the wanderer stretched out his hand to grope for the valuable brooch, and looked on the surface of the pool.

   Gollum's eyes widened and his thin lips curled into a terrible smile as he watched his enemy stare at the water with his eyes open wide. He had found the brooch, held it in his right hand, but still he could not turn away. He looked into the darkening pool like mesmerised by something only he could see. Slowly, like in trance, he bent forward, frowning, parting his lips as if he was about to answer an unheard question. Then, suddenly, he lost his balance and fell face down into the water. There was a single splash, a surfacing of bubbles, and nothing else. He did not stir anymore.

   The beast chuckled malevolently, jumping from one foot to the other, praising himself for his slyness. Quickly he took the grey rope between his teeth and gnawed on it. Gnawed and spat, and found he could not bite it through! Gollum's joy turned to horror: he was stuck! Still captured! He screeched, and tore at the man's wrist desperately, screaming for release, but only hurt himself. He stomped the muddy ground in panic. He could not get away! He tore and whined even louder, but that did not change his fate.

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter Two: Close to comfort - Part One -

   The air smelt of wood and fresh straw, and the crackling of the logs told him there was a fire nearby. He felt the warmth of woollen blankets around him, and found it difficult to rouse himself from the pleasant feeling of drowsiness. It had been long ago that he had felt so safe and comfortable.

   The wanderer slowly opened his eyes and found his head resting comfortably in the lap of a stout woman with freckles on her nose and rosy cheeks, and he could not think more benign eyes except those of his mother. “Relax,” she cooed, and pulled the blanket up to his chin, “you are safe in my home.” Still dazed, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. They hurt even in the dim light of the hut. Breathing hurt, too, and when the woman held a cup to his lips, he found it hard to swallow though he was thirsty. When the warm water ran down his throat he felt as if it would burn through the skin. He gasped for air. “No, lad, calm down,” she soothed him, caressing his brow, but he could not hold back the coughing, and though he was weak, she was unable to keep him down. “Easy, lad, easy, you must stop, or it will hurt even more.” The coughing fit was followed by heaving, and he turned to his left side to vomit water and bile. “It'll pass,” she said, patting his back sympathetically. “It'll pass. You just need to rest.” She pulled him back gently, wiped his face with a wet cloth, and smiled reassuringly, causing dimples on her full cheeks. “Relax, just relax, you can do no more now.”

   Above him was the soot-stained roof of a wooden hut, illuminated by a fire that burnt a few feet away, but he could not recall having come to this place or why he was in such a desolate state. The wanderer opened his mouth, at least to thank the friendly woman, but no words passed his lips. Instead of any sound the urge to cough rose again and the pain accompanying it. He squeezed his eyes shut to concentrate on the simple task of breathing without giving in. His lungs seemed too tight to let air pass, and no shallow breath eased the feeling of being slowly suffocated.

   “Aye, that's much better, lad. Calm down, think of nothing.” The woman, who had seen no more than thirty summers, wiped away the sweat from his forehead and cheeks and waited patiently until he looked at her again. “Don't try to speak, do you hear me?” He frowned, which made her repeat the words slowly as if speaking to a child. “Just don't. It'll hurt. You must keep quiet.” He wet his lips, and, after a pause, tried again to bring words through his sore throat, but to no avail. “Just don't,” she whispered urgently, and carefully rested his head on a straw-filled pillow to slide back a step and crouch, with her arms folded on her thighs in front of the crude bed.

At least he had awoken, and she was glad about it. Her compassionate smile deepened at the puzzled look of the strange guest she sheltered. With a shudder she thought about the moment he had been brought in. She had thought that there was not much life in that man after all. “I'll clean this up, and bring you some broth, lad. Don't worry, you'll get well again.” She stood with surprising agility, and, after she had rinsed the floor at the bed, went to the fireside.

In the meantime the wanderer took in the details of the small, single room of the hut. Besides two more beds alongside the opposite wall, which looked as old and shabby as the rest, there were some baskets of wickerwork with dried fruits, potatoes, and others with clothes and blankets. At the fire his long-legged boots hung upside down on stakes, and on a small shelf beside the door pieces of pottery and bowls as well as tankards were stored. Under the roof hung fishes to smoke-dry, and their silvery skins glimmered in the firelight, while their smell filled the entire hut.

The wanderer closed his eyes wearily, but he was not granted to rest for long.

The woman returned with a small bowl in her hands and knelt at the bedside. The sleeves of her light brown shirt were rolled up, uncovering strong forearms with equally strong hands used to hard work. Her voice, on the contrary, was soft and childlike when she addressed her guest quietly:

   “I did this myself, and my brother always loves it. So… I hope you'll like it too. I can give you more if you want to. Well, you slept long, but… I thought you'd not be too hungry, …right?“ When he did not react immediately, she added, “You understand Common Speech, don't you?” He nodded slightly, and the bright smile returned to her face, surrounded by curls of fair hair. “Ah, good! Now, let us do this together. You have to sit up a little bit for this.” She put down the bowl on the floor, and resolutely, with the enthusiasm and strength of a learned healer slipped her hands under his shoulders to pull him into her lap again.

The blanket slid down from his chest. The wanderer was taken by surprise and failed to help, but she had expected none. The woman's face gleamed with eagerness as she reached for the bowl. It was the moment the wanderer realised he was not dressed anymore.

“You have to get your strength back,” she emphasised face stern, and left him no moment to cope with the awkwardness he felt. “And this here will help you, I'm sure of that.” When his breathing speeded up, the coughing fit followed, and he fought it down by will, concentrating on this task, and forgetting everything else besides.

His throat and lungs already hurt enough. He pressed his lips tight, fighting the anguish that seized him.

 “Now, calm down, lad, easy! You'll spill the broth!” she reminded him in mild reproach, but smiled again quickly as if to soften her hard words. “Easy. Relax.” She waited until he breathed normally again to hold the bowl to his lips.

He lifted his hands to take it, only to see the thick bandages around both his palms and wrists. And he realised that he had been in more peril than his mind could think of at the moment. “Don't worry. I'll help you.” Bewilderment covered his features, but the woman did not heed it. “Drink slowly. It's warm, not hot.”

He sipped it carefully, and she nodded encouragement every time he swallowed the warm liquid. It was painful though, and he stopped after having emptied only half of it. “You don’t want any more?” she asked and he only closed his eyes for a moment as an answer. “Very well.” She put down the bowl and left her place. “It'll be more next time.” Straightening she looked at him again. “A pity you can't tell me who you are.” But he was already asleep.

-o-o-o-o-

“Is he there, Nilana? And still alive?” a female, high-pitched voice asked. The woman, who stepped over the threshold of the little hut, seemed neither young nor old, but the wrinkles in her tanned face indicated she had seen more than thirty winters. She matched Nilana in age, but not in appearance. Wearing a cloth over her brown, braided hair, and an apron, on which she wiped her hands dry, she got closer, bending forward to peer through the near darkness. Curiosity shone in her eyes. “Really?”

“Yes, Baeni, he is,” Nilana answered in a low voice, gazing at the dark-haired man in her brother's bed. He had been lying there motionless for more than an hour, his lips slightly parted, sighing from time to time, then exhaling in frustration. Now that dusk was close she began to worry again. He was so still she had frequently checked his breathing. But she would not tell Baeni, so all she said was, “He sleeps, so don't upset him.”

“Upset, hum?” Baeni chuckled, then sniffed the air. “You had to do a lot for him, right? Aye, he was rather… soiled, wasn't he? Looked more like a mud cake.”

“It's not your concern.” Nilana intercepted Baeni's attempt to get further into the hut. Baeni straightened her slender form, but did not succeed in passing by the other woman, and her disappointment showed. “I will take care of him.”

“I don't doubt that.” The undertone made Nilana swallow a harsh reply, and Baeni's mocking grin deepened. “If he recovers…”

“He will.”

“…he might prove a fine catch… so to say.” She glimpsed past the woman, who had prodded her hands on her mighty hips. “Ah, cleaned him up, hum? Had you got enough water for this?” Another chuckle followed, tempting Nilana's patience. “He stank as if he'd been in that mere the whole day! Or more likely a week! And those clothes! Must be quite a strange fellow if he walked into the Marshes without knowing them.”

“We will find out later,” Nilana concluded and with a gesture indicated the woman to leave.

“Yes, we will… if he lives long enough.” Baeni gave another ominous glance follow and left the hut, amused by her little banter.

Nilana turned, her hands still on her hips, feeling her cheeks on fire and her heart racing. She knew she should not be upset; Baeni always used to play pranks on her, even more since Nilana had lost her husband a year ago. Baeni had called it a fair decision by the gods, but that was only a quick lie to cover up her yearning for Donyc years ago.

Nilana did not know how long she stood in the dim light and thought about the loss the gods had forced her to bear. Donyc had been a good, well-respected fisherman. He had cared for his wife and child. Now that he was gone, Nilana lived with her brother and daughter, trying to cope with the fact that life would never again be as joyful.

She woke from her contemplation when she saw movement in the bed yonder. Grey eyes looked at her, and Nilana knew from the expression of regret that the stranger had heard the conversation. She blushed even more and knew not what to say. What would he think of her? But then she dismissed the thoughts crossing her mind immediately – none of them good – and put the duty she had taken up before her doubts and assumptions.

Nilana crouched at the bedside.

“Do you want some water?” He parted his lips, and she quickly raised her hand to stop him. “Just nod.” He did, giving her the faintest smile. “Good.” She brought the cup and helped him drink. When his head rested on the pillow again, he looked at her questioningly. “You don't remember how you got here, do you?”

He shook his head, and let go of his breath wearily. With the empty cup in her hands, Nilana reported, “The fishermen – one of them is my brother – heard a kind of shrieking and so they dared to venture into the marshes.” Her look was stern when she added, “They never do that at other times. They really don’t. It’s far too dangerous. But you know that.”

She waved a hand and shot him an amused glance before she became earnest again. “So… they heard that… sound and then saw your boots, says my brother, the good Dinúvren. And that… thing. You were with your head and all under water, no doubt. So it was that thing crying… had to. It was ugly, they say, and… bony, and slimy, and had a hideous look. Ah, not good at all,” she added, shaking her head with disgust. “They got you out. Quite an effort, he says! All wet and heavy with all your clothes on! So many of them! And then they cut loose that creature from your arm. Your poor arm! It bled so badly!” She frowned with sympathy, and then big brown eyes rested on his pale face again. “Why’d you do that? Bind that thing to you! That rope cut through to your bone! That thing must have torn like a wolf! Why in the name of the Valar did you do that?”

The wanderer’s head swam from the information he got at a pace faster than an archer could loose arrows in a fight. And without a pause Nilana went on, “That thing then hissed and bit and ran away, not ever bothering to say thank you!” She deliberately ignored his shock-widened eyes. “But… ah, anyway, they brought you here then. I for myself thought you dead as a chicken without a head. But you were actually breathing.” Another warm smile and she slapped her thigh as if congratulating herself for the miracle. “Well, and now you’re awake also! No, no, stranger, don’t speak. Don’t even try. ‘Tis no good right now.” She shook her head resolutely, and the wanderer gave in, too exhausted to even continue thinking about the loss he had come to grieve. “The foul water burnt your throat and lungs. You are lucky to have survived.“ And gloomily she added, “Many did not return from that evil place. You lost your voice though, and it won’t return for some time. Eat, drink, get your strength back. That is all you can do now.”

She rose and brought back the cup while the wanderer closed his burning eyes again. When she turned, she thought him deeply troubled, but she could not help it. Maybe this thing had been of importance to him, but she was glad it was gone.

-o-o-o-o-

Nilana folded the wet cloth she had prepared, and gently wiped the man's forehead. He was asleep, and she listened to his laboured breathing. Vividly she remembered the evening of the previous day when Dinúvren, Gaellyn, and Daevan had carried the man into the hut. His head had hung down lifelessly, his clothes and hair had been dripping wet and filthy, and his whole outer appearance had appalled her. But she knew her brother's good heart, as he knew of hers, and when they had found him still breathing – miracle that it was – she had undressed him, thoroughly washed him, and covered him with clean blankets.

During the night – Dinúvren had gone to bed completely exhausted after telling his tale to all villagers willing to listen – she had sat at the bedside, guarding the stranger's sleep. He had been so still she had thought more often than not that he had stopped breathing. But every time she had talked to him, touched him ever so slightly, he had inhaled shallowly and eased her worries. She had bandaged his right wrist after cutting the rope, and had renewed the bandage around his left hand, grimacing at the ugly bite wound. For the better part of the night she had wondered what kind of path he had trodden to finally reach the Dead Marshes. And what kind of man he was. Now that he had been delivered into her care, she wanted him to live and recover. It was an unbidden thought, for she held no responsibilities toward that man, but still…

She sighed and put away the cloth. Her gaze travelled to the belongings of the uninvited guest. His jerkin, shirt, and trousers she had washed, and they dried now on the floor behind the bed. The leather coat would need days longer for that as well as the boots. But there were more and stranger things among them: a shattered sword in a sheath beside another in one piece, a pack with pouches – smelling strangely – a water-skin, and a sleeping roll, a long knife – of more value than any of the fishermen had ever seen, as she remembered – and a bow together with arrows in an old quiver. He had not carried any traps, Dinúvren had noticed, but nevertheless had caught that fell thing, which had tried to bite the hands that freed it. And there was that brooch shaped like a star. Silver it was, and a white jewel was set in its centre. Nilana took it out from between his clothes to look at it again. It was beautiful. Far more beautiful than anything she had ever held in her hands, and she pondered about its meaning. Dinúvren had said he had found it in his hand. He had not let go of it though he had been close to drowning. But while her brother had shaken his head, considering such action foolish, Nilana pressed the brooch against her bosom, daydreaming what kind of value stood behind that jewel. She wanted it to be something special. Something he did not only wear because it held his cloak together. The same moment she thought that if the brooch had a meaning, then the man had, perhaps, a woman he would return to.

When the stranger turned his head slightly, she quickly hid the brooch among his garments again. Not too soon. He opened his eyes, but before she could react and offer him to drink or to eat, she heard footsteps drawing closer.

“It's Bradolla,” she whispered and stood to greet the guest.

The old woman, who entered the hut, was so thin that onlookers, who did not know her, would have expected her bones to rattle if it had not been for the loose hanging tunic and long, woollen skirt that covered her. Bent with age, her skin looking like leather tightened over her meagre face, yet the keen, blue eyes were in hard contrast, as sparkling with life and interest, they regarded the sick man on the bed. She knelt beside him, cocked her white-haired head, and tucked up the sleeves of the old and stained shirt.

“What have we here?” she said, and her voice, too, was younger, and clearer than her features implied. “Taken a bath in the Marshes, eh?” Her thin lips curled to a gentle smile as she pulled away the covers from his upper body.

The wanderer was still too much in a daze to even try to resist. He swallowed carefully and needed his strength to fight the immediate urge to cough. She put a hand on his chest, which was partly bruised and had turned purple on both sides of his ribs.

Bradolla's hand was warm and dry, and her touch reassuring as well as her look. “Hum, does not feel good. Rumbles like stones. You exposed yourself far too long to that foul water, y' know?” Her hand moved up to his throat. “Burnt everything inside you. Could you not be more careful, lad?” He shook his head slightly, and her smile deepened. “Ah, you'll recover. Bradolla has seen more than that. Wounds, y'know, bad wounds from fights. Ugly ones, down to the bone.”

“I think he understands,” Nilana interfered firmly, sensing that the old woman's visit confused her patient more than it was useful. “Did you bring herbs for the tea?”

“Yes, yes,” Bradolla replied without taking her eyes of the man. “He has old eyes, eh? Much older than he looks.” She clicked her tongue and wiggled her thin, grey brows. “Been through more than marshes…”

“Bradolla…”

“Ah, my girl…” She pulled the cover over the man's chest and slowly rose, grimacing with discomfort, but still her gaze held the man's. “You know more than you'll ever tell,” she closed quietly, and turned to the younger woman, who impatiently waited for the small pouch of herbs. “Collected them myself. So don't waste them. And make a warm poultice around his neck.”

“Yes, I will.”

“Should have done that already. Bradolla told you. And keep him warm.”

“I do,” Nilana said, determined to shove the old woman out, but the guest did not sway.

“You know it is still very cold at night. Keep the fire going. You got enough fire wood, don't you?”

“Dinúvren brought it today.”

“That's good.” Bradolla looked back to the man on the bed, and frowned deeply. “Do you know who he is?”

“No, and we won’t find out tonight.” She gently pushed the woman out of the hut, and sighed, still holding the pouch in her left hand. When she turned she found the eyes of the stranger resting on her, and saw him smile. “Ah, she is a good woman,” Nilana gave in with a gesture to the dusk that lurked through the open entrance. She turned and crouched at the bedside so that he did not need to look up to her. “She is wise… in her way. She knows much about herbs, and I asked her to bring some of them for your cough and the pain.” He nodded slightly. “And I will do the poultice now,” she closed, rising again. “You brought some trouble, lad. Some trouble indeed.”

-o-o-o-o-

After nightfall the old man sat at the fire, smoking thoughtfully. In the glow his wrinkles seemed deeper than mountain dells, and he looked older than he actually was. He threw another twig into the flames, watched them devour it, and tried to remember events, which had taken place so long ago that even the land had changed in the meantime. He smirked. Pictures of old battlefields came to his mind, and with them he felt the perils again he once had faced. The times had been harder than they were now, but vigilant men had stood fast against the armies of the east and south. Now the evil sparked again, and he could sense it. Bad incidents were looming though they still seemed blurred. He feared they would take shape sooner than later.

He drew the blanket closer around his shoulders. The night turned as cold as the ones before; spring was late this year, and the few plants that had started growing, would need longer to blossom than in the year before. He hoped the harvest would suffice to sustain all the people living here. He had only a few friends and a single grand-son was his whole family, yet the young folk would listen to his stories, and he had plenty to tell. Whenever he sat down in the afternoon, the children and young adults gathered around him, eagerness in their faces, to hear some lore from old grumpy Doran. When he emptied his tankard, he smiled warmly at the memory of the wide eyes and half-open mouths of the boys and girls sitting close to him. Since his son had left the village years ago, he had never felt better than with this friendly and grateful company.

But the evening the day before had ended differently. He had been recalling another of his adventures, when the fishermen had brought the stranger to Dinúvren's hut. Though he had only got a glimpse of him, Doran had not stopped thinking about that man since then. That face… He remembered that face.

-o-o-o-o-

   Dinúvren put down the two rabbits he had caught in the traps north of the marshland, and stomped the mud off his boots.

   “I'm back, and I'm hungry,” he announced loudly, discarding his cloak and hat on the floor near the entrance. “You made supper, didn't you?” he asked Nilana, who came to greet him.

   “I did,” she said, and her tone was slightly indignant when she handed him the bowl of fresh soup. He took it with a grunt, then looked at the man he had helped to rescue.

   “Still breathing, eh?” he said with his mouth full, spilling some soup over his brown, unkempt beard as he sat down. “He's got some strength in him, I'd say. There are not many, who'd have survived this.”

   Nilana followed his gaze and found it strangely annoying that the man had been rescued only to be expected to die the following day.

   “Bradolla brought some herbs, and I made a poultice.” She exhaled, chewing on her lower lip. “Have you got any idea who he is?”

   “Nay, and that thing he had bound to him… ah, I never saw something so ugly and…so horrible. I wonder what it all means.” He gulped the rest of the soup, and gave his sister the bowl, wiping his wet beard.  She looked at him inquisitively. “I mean if he's a good fellow or a bad one.”

   “You saved him,” Nilana said with the hint of a smile. “Even if he's not good, he's grateful. I saw it.”

   “Aye, you saw it,” Dinúvren nodded, and held her in the stare of his knowing, brown eyes. “I know what you wish, sister. And I hope and pray you will get it.”

   Nilana was more embarrassed than she would admit. Quickly she turned to take back the bowl to the pot. Dinúvren stared at her back, and then noticed the guest was awake. With three strides he crossed the short distance to kneel at the bedside.

   “Finally awake, hum? Good to see our efforts were not in vain.” The stranger gave him the smallest nod, unable to do more. “Right, no need to thank me, but I accept it anyway. You were lucky we were out there. We usually don't go there, but Daevan had found some deer tracks, and we tried to figure out where they went.” He smacked his lips. “Wouldn't mind eating some deer for a change.” He chuckled and prodded his big hands on his thighs. “But what were you doing out there in the Marshes? It's dangerous and evil. No one ever wanders there if he wants to live. You had business there?” he asked when he realised that the stranger was not able to talk. He received a small nod. “Aye, with that… thing?” Another nod. “Thought so. But it almost ripped off your hand. Quite a price…” He shook his head, and his gaze found the bandaged hand resting on the blanket. “It was an dreadful sight, stranger. Your arm sticking out of the water and bleeding like a fresh slaughtered hare! You were almost drowned when we got you out. And that thing… I cut it loose, and it still tried to bite me! But Gaellyn chased it away.”

The stranger closed his eyes, and Dinúvren thought this behaviour quite strange. When the man looked at him again, there was an expression of utter loss in his haggard features. Dinúvren did not understand it, shrugged, and went on, “You were lucky, as I said. Forget about this thing, and enjoy being rid of it! Well, I am! I pressed so much water out of you that I thought you’d never stop bringing it up!” He smirked suddenly. “Never thought that one man could have swallowed so much water at a time! Could be that I was a bit harsh with you, but… see, it was the only way, I think, to bring you back alive.” Again he received a nod of gratitude. “Aye, it’s all right, stranger, you’ll feel bad enough for some time. Even without your ribs being bruised like they are.” The wanderer lifted his eyebrows, and Dinúvren understood. “You’re not the first trying to walk through the Dead Marshes. There is no way through; we know that now, but at that time…” He drew up his nose. The memory was evil, and he did not wish to recall it. “We lost some of our friends out there, and swore we’d never venture there again. It’s like walking into a field full of traps.” Dinúvren saw the stranger wet his lips. “Thirsty? Good, I’ll take my leave.” He rose and turned to call for Nilana, but she already stood behind him with a cup in her hands. “Well, stranger,” he concluded with a look that said more than his words, “you’re in good hands, so don’t dare to die.”

-o-o-o-o-

   From the depth of the mere a solemn figure rose to stare at him with pitiless eyes.

   “How can you dare to wander here, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to the man, who betrayed us all?” the pale Elf spoke, and his fair hair, which had once been braided, now floated with the soft rippling of the water. He spoke the words soundlessly, but the hatred poured out of each and every one of them. “It was your ancestor, who made all our sacrifices but a futile slaughter of Men and Elves with no reason behind it! How can you dare to come here and face us, the Dead, who have suffered only to witness the utter weakness of Men? It was your lineage, which could have brought the Evil to its end, but greed made Isildur falter. And you… would you go to the end, in days to come, were the power laid in your hands? No, you would not!” The once blue eyes of the Elf sparked cold fire. “There is no courage and honour in your veins. You would be weak and greedy, hungry for the riches this kind of power could deliver upon you!” Hands with remnants of white flesh stretched out to grab him, and there was no place to hide. The captive's lungs were too tight to breathe. And there was water all around him! He could not move. He could not get up and run away! He was pulled further down, where the light grew dim. “So you shall not live to see this future, for I will not let you surface again and become the bane of your people and mine!” With that the grip around his arms tightened.

   There was no escape.

-o-o-o-o-

   “Wake up, lad, you have to wake up! O, Dinúvren, help! Please, I cannot… Ouch!” Nilana held the right arm of the stranger with all strength when his left hand hit her face. Tears streamed over her cheeks – out of pain and helplessness –, but still she held on, trying to calm down the man in the bed with her words, not knowing what else to do. He was fighting her grip, fighting an unseen enemy, who appeared to hold him too tightly to let him breathe. Nilana wept in worry as the stranger struggled to sit up. His face was contorted with both pain and fear he could scarcely endure as he tried to free himself and get away from her. He was breathing heavily now, coughing as the air irritated his throat, and saliva trickled into his beard. Fragments of words, hoarsely passed his lips in a language Nilana did not understand, seeming to plead for help and release. “Dinúvren, please! I cannot hold him down!”

 Dinúvren, robbed of his pleasant evening relaxation, knelt at the bedside grudgingly.

   “Wake up!” he cried as he grabbed the man's shoulders to press him back on the pillow. “You must wake!” Gurgling noises passed the stranger's lips, and he fought with even more vigour. His eyes were pressed firmly shut and his teeth were grinding together. The fisherman was astonished about the strength still left in the sick body, but it did not match his own. “Come on, lad, wake up!” Dinúvren clenched his teeth and held tight when the stranger's coughing turned to heaving, and he made sounds as if he were being throttled. Nilana's face turned pale.

    “You hurt him!” she accused her brother.

    He shot her an angry look.

    “If I let go, he'll tumble out, won’t he?” Dinúvren hesitated a moment, but, realising he could not stop the stranger's struggle; he quickly slapped the man's face.

Nilana shrieked – “No!” – as if she had been hit, and quickly put her hands on her mouth. Dinúvren did not heed her. The man's eyes flickered open. “Aye, stranger, wake up! Stop dreaming !” he shouted, but did not dare loosen his grip, though the man's haunted look full of fear troubled him. It reminded him of the expression soldiers bore, returning from a battle that had been lost before it had even begun. “Are you with us now?” he added to break the tension he suddenly felt.

The man recognised him, but the same instant he threw up what little food he had eaten. Afraid he would suffocate suddenly, Dinúvren quickly turned him to his left side, but did not move fast enough. “Ah, nay! By the creations of Ilúvathar, that's…” He broke off, and turned away, shaking his right arm. Nilana immediately took his place and supported the man's back until the heaving was over. She felt his heart race, and was even more afraid of his condition when he leant back on the pillow. Tears of pain filled his eyes, and only the weakness of his body had finally stopped the coughing fit. He was deadly pale, and his face glistened with sweat, while his eyes wandered restlessly through the room as if he had to re-orientate himself.

    “Calm down,” she said, patting his arm compassionately, “It’ll be over soon.”

    “Not soon enough,” Dinúvren mumbled. “How shall I get this off me?”

    Nilana had only once before seen her brother so angry: when her daughter, Nelin, had ruined his new fishing rod. Torn between two tasks, she quickly rose to fetch water. She wet a cloth and handed it to her brother, silently praying he would not regret having saved the stranger, and took a second to wipe the sick man's face. For a long moment she thought he had stopped breathing, but then she saw his chest rise and fall, and sighed with relief.

    “You will make it,” she whispered. He looked at her with deepest regret, and she smiled feebly. “It must have been a terrible dream.”

    “I’d bet my catch on it,” grumbled Dinúvren behind her, throwing down the cloth, but turned up his nose at the distinct smell. “I'll be outside, and you'd better clean this up.”

    “I will,” she replied quietly, thanking the gods for their gratitude. “You will recover,” she stated emphatically. He parted his lips, and she quickly put her fingers on them. “No,” she told him, “don't talk . Dinúvren brought you here, and I know you'll thank him when you can. Just be still. I will take care of you.” She gave him water to drink, and then wrung the cloth in the bucket to wash his chest and arms.

    That moment she heard soft footsteps behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and welcomed her little daughter, who had stepped up beside her, and on receiving a kiss, stared at the man with wide eyes.

    “Uncle Din is so upset. Is this… a bad man?” she whispered in her mother's ear.

    “No, he's not.” Nilana put back the cloth into the bucket and covered the man's chest again. Only then she noticed the soaked bandages and sighed. “I have to change that.” She rose, but stopped when her guest raised his right hand an inch from the cover. “Yes?” She looked in his face, trying to make sense out of his searching gaze and small gestures. He was so exhausted she could hardly imagine that he needed more than rest. Frowning she offered, “You want something of yours?” He gave her an almost imperceptible nod. “Your clothes? I let them dry. They are here, but…” He shook his head so slightly she wondered if she had seen it at all. “Not your clothes… Your weapons? They are here too, don't worry. Even that broken sword.” Nilana put down the bucket again and knelt to watch the stranger's face intently. As did her daughter, who seemed silently amused at the fact that the man did not speak. He mouthed a word Nilana did not understand.

    “Is he mute?” Nelin asked in her high, childlike voice, but her mother did not seem to hear her.

    Nilana frowned as he tried again to give her an idea of what he wanted. To no avail. Nilana took a deep breath in frustration. The stranger panted and fought against a coughing fit. Nelin looked around. She had been here the night before – only to be sent to her grand-father, a fact, she did not like – and she remembered there had been something else about him.

    “Your pack?” she offered hesitantly, and he immediately looked at her, nodded an inch, trying to reward her with a minuscule smile.

    “Pack, aye,” Nilana repeated flat-voiced, and pulled it from under the bed. She gave her daughter a queer glance, and the little girl grinned triumphantly. “What do you want from it?” the woman asked as she opened it. He made an effort to lift his head from the pillow. “I wondered what you carry around. Some strange things, I think.” She waited until he had searched the contents and took out a small pouch to hand it to her. “What shall I do with it?” He closed his burning eyes, worn out by the strain of the past minutes. “That’s good, lad. I’ll take it, and you tell me about it later.” Shrugging she held the pouch in her hand and put away the pack.

 Nelin looked at the man's haggard features when he tried one last time to gather strength to make himself understood. It appeared to her that it must be something important, but he had to give in to his weakness and was carried away by it. “I better change the bandages and make a new warm poultice, lad,” Nilana closed softly. She left for the fireplace to heat water. With a last look she put the pouch beside her cooking place and hurried to clean up the floor before her brother returned.

    Nelin waited patiently until her mother ordered her to bring bandages and fresh cloth. She crouched beside the small bucket with hot water and watched the sleeping stranger.

    “He looks awful,” she stated quietly as if she expected him to hear her within his dreams. “So… sad and tired.”

    “That may be.” Nilana sighed. “But he's a good fellow. He's only sick. Very sick,” she added as her gaze travelled from her small daughter, who looked so much like her husband, to the stranger. “But he will get well again.”

    Nelin wrinkled her nose, and stroked a dark brown curl away from her forehead before she buried her hands again in the pockets of her mud-stained jerkin.

    “Really?”

    The high-pitched, frightened tone made Nilana shudder and almost brought her to tears. She had not wept for a long time for the loss of her beloved, but now Nelin had touched a raw nerve she did not like to feel.

    “He will,” she nodded decisively, and wrapped the warm poultice around her patient's neck. The man did not stir. The coughing fit and heaving had left him too exhausted to do more than sleep. “And you had better walk over to your grand-father’s and go to sleep. It's already dark, and the fires will be out soon.”

    “Can I not sleep here again? He snores.”

    “I know, but it won't be for long.”

    Nelin grimaced disappointed, and watched the strange person on her uncle's bed.

    “Grandpa says he swam in the Marshes. And that's stupid.”

    “He was not swimming,” she rebuked and uncovered the man's right wrist. The deep gash of the rope was covered with dried blood, and the skin around it was dark and bruised. “He's teasing you again.”

    “Ai, what did he do?” Nelin asked, repelled by the ugly sight.

    “'Twas a rope.”

    “With that beast on it?” Nelin shuddered visibly, and eyed the sleeping man with a grimace of disgust. “He got it on a leash? Such an ugly thing?”

    “No.” And after a pause she added, “Well, I don't know why he did this. And he won't tell for some time.”

    “So he's mute then?”

    “Only because he's ill,” Nilana said. “He will get his voice back.” She bathed the wound and wrapped a fresh bandage around it. “And you will be polite with him, no matter what others say.”

    “I will,” she promised solemnly and kissed her mother's cheek. “Can I sleep here? Please?”

    Nilana looked into brown eyes so full of love that her heart ached at the thought of sending her away for another night.

    “Yes, my dear, bring back your bedroll and sleep here. We'll share my bed.”

    “Yesss!” Nelin jumped up merrily and was out of the hut before Nilana could say a word about being quiet. Sighing with silent happiness over her healthy little girl she turned back to her patient. The bite wound on the left hand looked worse than the night before, and she winced with fear. Where the beast had left its marks the flesh was swollen and dark red. She did not know what else to do than cleaning it with fresh water and applying a new bandage, but she sensed that it might not be enough. Again unbidden memories flooded her mind, and she swallowed hard.

    She had to talk to Bradolla again.

-o-o-o-o-

    “What's on your mind, Doran?” Daevan asked his grand-father as he sat by the fire. He was seated at his left side, knowing the old man was almost deaf on his right ear. “You are quiet tonight.”

    “Aye.” Doran stared into the flames.

    “Anything I can help you with?”

    “There is something strange about this wanderer.”

    Daevan smirked.

    “Well, whoever had a beast like that on a leash, I would consider an imbecile.”

    But Doran did not even smile.

    “Tell me about the stranger.”

    The younger man lifted his brows, and flicked a strand of his flaxen hair behind his ear.

    “I thought you were already weary of that tale. Dinúvren spoke about nothing else last night.”

    “Tell me what it was strange about him.”

    “Besides that… thing on the leash?” Daevan jested, not understanding his grand-father's interest in the wanderer. Doran only snorted, a sign he was not willing to answer any more questions. “Well, he wore clothes, boots, a cloak, and a long leather coat. Rather a lot of clothes in my opinion. He had a pack with him and several weapons.” Doran lifted his head to face his grand-son. “If you want to know more about them, ask Nilana. She has all his belongings.”

    “Anything else?”

    “He clasped a brooch in his right hand.” Daevan shrugged. With a lazy gesture he added another twig to the fire, which illuminated his clear features and blue eyes. “If you ask me, that's the reason why he almost drowned: he wanted that jewel back.”

    “What did it look like?”

    The young fisherman stroked his beard. He wore it short-cropped, a habit others laughed about since it was unusual for the villagers to take much care of their outer appearances.

    “A star. It's shaped like a star with a jewel in its centre.”

    “Really.” Doran nodded to himself, and let his chin sink on his chest again to silently watch the flames.

    Daevan smirked and shook his head. There were times when not even he understood Doran's behaviour, though he spent much time with his grand-father, when he was not out for hunting or fishing. But since Doran's son had left for Minas Tirith, the old man had become stranger in his demeanour from week to week. Daevan loved him dearly, but at some times he wished that he were more ordinary. But maybe, so he told himself, old people needed to be a bit strange to not get lost among all the young folk.

A smile broadened on his youthful features when he thought about the children listening to his grand-father's tales. He too loved to listen to them. Doran had lived long enough to be full of wisdom and experience. He had served Steward Ecthelion II and had only returned to the village of his ancestors when he had been declared unfit for further service.

 Now his son had taken up the duty of serving the Steward of Gondor, and sometimes Daevan wanted to follow him. But then he looked at the old man with the thin, white beard and knew he had to stay. He could not abandon the old man like his father had done to follow a greater goal. He was the one Doran relied upon since Daevan’s mother had died long ago. There was no denying that Daevan wanted to leave this little village, and at some times, when the hunting left him with empty traps, and he could no longer stand the smell of fish, he was about to pack his few belongings and leave. And every time he changed his mind and stayed.

    “I once knew someone wearing such a jewel.”

    Daevan, sunken in his own thoughts, lifted his head.

    “You did?”

    “Did I not tell you about the mighty warrior, who had come from the west? Who no one knows where he actually came from?” Life sparkled in the old eyes, and, finally, a smile broadened on his wrinkled features. “Aye, I know, I did. You asked for the tale so often that I had no voice left after that!”

    “There were others too, who wanted to listen!” Daevan rebuked good-naturedly.

    “Yes, there were.”

    “And still are.”

    “Aye, sometimes. Tell me then about him.”

    “Thorongil,” Daevan replied with a sigh of pretended listlessness. “The Eagle of the Star.”

    Doran's eyes sparkled with friendly mockery.

   “Very well.” His voice sounded clearer and richer when he continued, as if it was suddenly untouched by age. “All the soldiers knew of his coming; the tidings of his great deeds in the service of Thengel, King of Rohan, had become legendary even before he passed the great gate of Minas Tirith. He was impressive to look upon. A soldier… nay, a captain they all respected from the first day on. His first deed was…”

   “…To summon all garrisons under arms to head south.” Doran squinted at his grand-son. “You are right. You told it more often than you might remember. But I was there with the young folk… most of the time.”

   Doran huffed, but a smile brightened his features.

   “So you listened indeed! Ah, those were times I like to remember, my son, I really do.” He glanced at the hut beyond the fire. “I don't know… That stranger… He reminded me of that great man, but.. it cannot be him, of course. The arrival of Thorongil at Minas Tirith was more than forty years ago. He is an old man now… like myself. If he still lives.” His gaze rested on the entrance of the hut a moment longer. “Yes, if he still lives.”

-o-o-o-o-

   Bradolla had not been polite when Nilana had come to ask for help again, and she was still angry that the young woman had interrupted her sleep. She wrapped her old brown scarf tightly around her shoulders, and followed Nilana to her hut, murmuring the whole time that the stranger would be better off at her side than with the young nuisance. Nilana's cheeks flushed instantly, and she feared the woman would continue the slander even in front of the stranger. Bracing herself against Bradolla's further complaints, they entered the hut.

   “So what are you worried about?” the old woman said impatiently. She knelt at the bedside, still shivering from the cold air outside. “You did the poultice. Good. You changed the bandages, didn't you?”

   “I did, but…” Nilana swallowed, and could not stand Bradolla's glare when she crouched beside her to unwrap the man's right wrist. The stranger stirred the same moment, and – obviously waking from another unpleasant dream – drew away his arm. “No! It's just me! Don't be afraid!” She saw his frightened, haunted eyes. He averted his gaze instantly, but she knew. He breathed too fast and shallowly, and the coughing fit that followed threw him into heaving again.

   “He's not out of the woods yet,” Bradolla stated bluntly as she watched the sick man lean back on the pillow after a moment. She lifted her brows, and her stare became earnest. “And he should be covered up with more blankets than this. He'll catch a cold at least!”

   Nilana hurried to bring a wet cloth to clean the man's face.

   “I will take care of it,” she assured Bradolla hastily, afraid that due to the noise her brother and daughter would wake up. “But…” She hesitated, then looked at the old woman, wringing the cloth in her hands before she put it down, “that is not my main concern.” Knowing the stranger was fully awake; she undid the bandage and showed the deep cut to Bradolla. “See? It does…”

   “It looks very bad,” the healer stressed. She threw her thin hands in the air. “Inflamed! Well, he needs a salve for that, but the herbs…” Resting her hands on the rim of the bed, she faced the stranger, who pointed to the stove. “What say you?”

   “He can't speak!” Nilana stated as if she was talking to a stubborn child.

   “I know that!” Bradolla rebuked her eyes ablaze with anger. “Don't you dare start telling me about that sickness!” The stranger grabbed her hand, and she inhaled, startled by the sudden contact. Letting go of her hand, the man repeated his gesture toward the stove, and his look was pleading. “Nilana, you might better explain what he's trying to tell us.”

   Nilana frowned, confused by the healer's harshness, but then she remembered.

   “He gave me a pouch.” She rose and brought it to Bradolla, who snatched it out of her hands. “I don't know what…”

   “Of course you don't!” Bradolla sniffed the contents, and with her anger still aflame she stared down the young woman. “Why didn't you tell me before? Why did you wait so long?”

   “I thought…”

   “You didn't.” Reining in her temper, Bradolla faced the sick man. “Don't blame her. She would not know a tree from a bush if you did not tell her. So how would she know this?” Standing two steps away, Nilana immediately felt tears coming to her eyes, and she fought hard to suppress the urge to cry. “And since you looked like a scabby wolf she did not expect you to carry these herbs with you.” She patted his arm reassuringly. “But Bradolla knows. She will go and make that salve for you.” She rose with an effort, and stared at the young woman. “Uncover the other hand, too, and wait until I come back. Wrap him in more blankets, but don't do anything else, you hear me?”

   “That was not very kind,” Nilana whispered, unable to stand the grim stare.

   “That is true. But didn't you…”

   “Bradolla, you ought better go.”

    Sensing that she had done enough, the old healer turned to leave, but Nilana could hear her murmuring for a good part of the way back.

    Nilana felt beat. Turning away from the stranger, she could no longer hold back the sobs, and tears streamed down her cheeks freely. She hid her face behind her hands, trying to be quiet, trying to regain her composure. The thought of what else could have gone wrong without Bradolla's help crossed her mind, and instead of stopping she cried even more. Pictures of her husband lying in a bed like this, getting weaker from day to day, appeared unbidden, and she stood for a while trying to calm down again.

    When she turned to do what Bradolla had told her, the stranger's grey eyes rested on her, and the expression of understanding and compassion was almost too much for her to bear. She wiped her cheeks with both hands, drew up her nose, and knelt at the bedside once more.

    “I know I should have…,” she started, but stopped when he touched her forearm, making her look at him. ‘I know’ she read from his lips. “You might,” she whispered, “but there is no forgiveness.” He frowned, but she ignored it, and took off the bandage from his left hand. The bite wound was swollen, and he flinched at the slight touch. “I'm sorry. I caused you more pain than I took from you.” With the soiled bandage in her hands she fought the tears of misery. “I'm of not much use.” He could not ease her self-accusation, and when she rose, she avoided looking at his gaunt face again. “I will bring you another cover.”

    At the same moment she spread the blanket on the bed, Bradolla returned with a small pottery bowl, and its contents diffused a pleasant and wholesome scent. Nilana turned and made way for the old woman, casting her eyes down.

    “Nilana, I…” The old woman smacked her lips, frowning, and searching for words. “I meant no offence,” she then uttered gruffly. “I was upset, yes, and I can't deny it that I still am. But you could not know. Look at me.” The young woman slowly, hesitantly, lifted her chin. The healer's voice grew soft. “You should have asked me… right away.”

    “Aye.”

    “Good.” She seemed about to pat Nilana's arm, but the younger woman moved aside, so that Bradolla could take her place at the bedside. She asked for fresh bandages, and put down the little bowl beside her. “It looks terrible indeed,” she mumbled and shook her head. Facing the man again she asked with a frown, “Why'd you carry this around? Did someone tell you about the use of herbs?” She received a nod and a small smile. “Ah, I see. Well, you don't look like a healer, but at least you know some things.” She applied the salve to his wounds and covered them with the cloth Nilana provided, not caring for the distress she caused. “That should help, and I'll come back to have a look tomorrow.” She straightened carefully, the little bowl in her hands. The stranger – relaxing after the not so gentle treatment – closed his eyes for a moment to thank her, and her face finally brightened to a grin. “Aye, lad, I'd know ways to thank me you haven't yet trod!” She laughed suddenly, and, waving her hand in his direction, left for her home.

 -o-o-o-o-

 A Stranger Named Strider

    Three more days passed, and life in the little village returned to its normal pace. The stranger in Dinúvren’s hut was still the subject of constant rumours, but was no longer the sole topic of interest, and Doran kept his assumptions to himself.

    Slowly the combined efforts of the healer and Nilana showed results. The stranger's cough subsided, and when Nilana brought soup he was able to hold the bowl alone. Her spirits lifted even more at the sight of the healing wounds. Now that she knew the procedure, she changed the bandages, kept the wounds clean and applied salve. Bradolla came once a day, and - making up for her harsh comments - praised Nilana for her nursing.

Despite rejoicing at the patient's recovery, Nilana became frightened every time the stranger slept. For some time he would lie still - he never snored as Nelin pointed out - but later on he would become restless. That was always the moment Nilana rose to crouch at his bedside and tug the blankets tightly around his shivering body, effectively preventing his arms from hitting her again. She heard croaked whispers among his moans, and became even more afraid. The little she could understand sounded like threats to unseen foes of old, and she spoke soothing words to no avail. He growled in a foreign, harsh sounding tongue, and she sat back on her heels aghast at his fierce expression. Only when she cooled his sweat soaked forehead with a wet cloth and repeatedly caressed his bearded cheeks, did he seem to slowly calm down, and finally - to Nilana's relief - sleep peacefully.

    Then Nilana would sit there for a moment longer, staring at his features. There was strength and decisiveness to be found, but fear and frailty also. She longed to know more about him, and at the same time she was afraid of his history: he could prove to be a bad man, someone, who had stolen the jewel and other belongings from a trader and was now in flight from his pursuers, which would explain why he had been found in the Marshes. Nilana shut her mind to these insinuations. She hoped he would turn out to be a good and honourable man, and prove his value to those, who had ventured to save his life.

    “Why you wrap him like this?” Nelin whispered at her side, and Nilana was startled. The girl grinned and repeated her question.

    “He has bad dreams,” she explained in a low voice. “And you should be sleeping.”

    “You were gone.”

    “I come back soon.”

    “You watch him sleep?” Nelin followed her mother's gaze. “And the blankets help protect him against his dreams?”

    “No… not really.” Nilana frowned. “I just do not want him to tumble out of the bed. He tosses quite wildly.” Involuntarily Nelin stepped back. “You don't need to be afraid.”

    “Listen!” the girl said, putting a finger across her lips.

    They both heard his murmurs, fractions of words in a foreign tongue, but the tone was lighter this time. - “Man gonoded eraid dirtnach, meleth nín?”* - He seemed to plead for something, but neither mother nor daughter could catch the meaning. Then his expression changed, and the words became fierce. His movements beneath the blankets increased. Nelin's eyes widened.

    “He's fighting,” she said in a hushed whisper, afraid and excited at the same moment, and torn between retreat and curiosity. “What's he saying?”

    “I don't… I don't know for sure what he's talking about.” Nilana touched the man's brow, flinching compassionately at his inner torment. Nelin handed her a wet cloth, and she took it without averting her eyes from the stranger. “He's so upset…” She laid the cloth on his forehead. “I wish I could understand more. - Help him in any way.”

    “Would you not better wake him? You do with me.”

    “I tried before.” Nilana almost winced when the stranger jerked up his head and grimaced as if he were in pain. The thought of slapping his face came to her, but she had not the heart to do it. She talked to him instead and caressed his face like she had done before with her daughter, whenever the little girl had experienced a nightmare. Nelin's hand rested on her shoulder, and Nilana was reassured by her touch.

   The wanderer fought to wake up, to escape the nightmare that bonds were holding him and pulling him down into an unknown depth. He reached the surface of his dream only to find out he could not move! He struggled, then opened his eyes with a gasp for air. He looked into the warm eyes of Nilana, who smiled and loosened the covers.

   “I had to,” she explained, while his breathing returned to normal, and the coughing fit ceased. He shivered violently. “You were tossing so wildly you might have hurt yourself. And you were talking… after a fashion… the whole time,” she added with a strange look that indicated the unease she shared with her daughter who stood a step behind her. “Did you not know that Steward Ecthelion is dead? I mean, he died a long time ago… Steward Denethor, his son, now rules Gondor. Well, that's what I heard.” She gave him another doubting glance. “Did you know Ecthelion? I mean, no, …how could you? Doran said he died more than thirty years ago!” She shook her head, and forced a smile on her face. “You must have been a little boy at that time.” She saw he wanted to answer, and quickly lifted her hand to stop him. “No, hush, lad, you should not talk now. That dream was bad, I know, but so you should rest now. I will bring you some water if you wish.” The wanderer closed his eyes for a long moment, nodding just as much as Nelin needed to signal her to run and come back with a cup. She handed it to him carefully, and he rewarded her with a quickly fading smile.

   “Thank you,” he croaked after the first sip. Nelin's face lit up. Nilana seemed about to order him again to remain silent, when he already nodded and lifted his hand in a gesture of understanding.

   “Much better, lad… no?” She frowned when he shook his head.

   “Strider,” he managed to whisper. “My name is Strider.”

-o-o-o-o-

   The news that the man had revealed his name, was known to all eighty-three inhabitants by the next morning. Bradolla was praised for her skill as a healer, and Nilana was called a ‘good and caring’ woman. Only Gaellyn, who had accompanied Dinúvren and Daevan into the Marshes, was discontented.

   “Doesn't sound like an honest name, that. Nay, he could be anyone! Some kind of thief too. I never heard of someone called ‘Strider’.” He fumbled with the knots of his net. “What does it mean? That he's striding along somewhere? Escaping from somewhere maybe?”

   Dinúvren expelled his breath into the morning mist. He carefully coiled up the rope of the net and prepared to leave for the day's work.

   “You say then we should not have saved that poor soul out there?”

   Gaellyn cursed when the net became entangled, and needed a moment to answer. Daevan stood a few feet away, already waiting for them. On his broad shoulders he carried the pack for the day and fresh water in skins. The older man's quarrel was a welcome distraction from the dull work ahead.

   “You never know what you catch with your net,” Gaellyn said with a grunt. He finally had the net ready. “So… how can you say he was worth the effort? We could have drowned too, or got bitten by that monster… whatever that was.” He drew up his nose. They began to march north, and Gaellyn eyed Nilana's older brother. “Did he say anything about that?”

   “No. He just gave us his name.”

   “And I wager he won't tell you anything else! He could be connected with those hordes Folar told about some weeks ago.”

   “We don't know anything about them,” Daevan interfered, not liking the older man's insinuation. “And they didn't come through the Dead Marshes. No one has actually seen anyone, it seems to me.”

   “Well, who knows?” Gaellyn grumbled, and with a mocking glance he asked Dinúvren, “Has he stopped puking? You smelt like…”

   “Enough!” Dinúvren requested, his right hand raised. “I cannot smell anything else since then!”

   Gaellyn and Daevan laughed about his annoyed reaction.

   “Thank Nilana that she took care of that!” Daevan said with honest conviction. He walked at a quick pace. The others followed, and their heavy breathing mingled with the thick fog around them. “I suppose you would not.”

   “He would have placed him outside!” Gaellyn evaded the slap against his arm. “Well, you might have got rid of him that way.”

   Daevan and Dinúvren shook their heads, and the laughter subsided.

   “Nay, I would not,” the older man finally said. “Remember two winters ago. I would have given my life if I'd been able to help Berunin.”

   “Aye, I know,” Gaellyn gave in, and silently they trudged on.

-o-o-o-o-

   Two days later Strider woke to find Nelin sitting next to his bed. She held a cup in her hands, and her brown eyes bulged as she almost stopped breathing when he turned his head to look at her.

   “I am… I was… My mother told me to give you this,” she muttered barely audible, and lifted the cup to let him see it. Strider nodded, still drowsy but aware at the same time that his looks must repel the small child. Nelin hesitated, but when the man made no sign that he wanted the water she remained at her place motionlessly. “She told me to wait here.”

   “Aye.” Strider turned his head further to look through the open door. Laughter could be heard, and the crackling of a fire. Smoke wafted across the darkening sky. A young woman shrieked, but laughter followed, and the clanking of tankards as the conversation turned to joyous shouting.

   “You are sleeping in my uncle's bed,” the girl said after a while. “And I must sleep at grand-pa's hut. But I don't like it there.”

   “Where is your father?” Strider asked hoarsely, facing her again.

   Nelin lifted her shoulders as if to hide.

   “He died.” Her voice was no more than a shuddered whisper, and she shied from his interrogative stare.

   “Was he killed… by an enemy?” Strider lifted his head, but the same moment Nelin withdrew even more, putting the cup on the floor with a clanking sound.

   “He was sick.” Nelin's chin trembled when she added, “Like you.”

   For a long moment they both remained silent in their thoughts. Nelin's sobs were the only sound in the room. Strider looked at the brown curls and the fair complexion of the little girl. Her shoulders shook from weeping, and he found no words to console her, but stretched out his hand to gently touch her arm. She looked up, her eyes still filled with tears.

   “You won't die, or?” There was a plea in her eyes Strider had only seen with soldiers severely wounded hoping for his help.

   “I will not,” he said, and in her relief her shoulders sagged, and she exhaled, touching his hand. “But tell me…”

   “My mother prayed for you, but the Gods didn’t listen before.” She drew up her nose. “Father died though she kept on praying.”

   “I see.”

   Nelin's hand dropped when she realised her action.

   “Did you have that beast on a leash?” she suddenly asked and looked straight at him.

   “I did, but only to keep him from running away.”

   “Is it a bad beast then?” He nodded for the coughing stopped his answer. She handed him the cup of water. “Ugly? Uncle Din said it was ugly. And Gaellyn said it was a big beast, with an ugly snout and big teeth.”

   Strider drank and thanked her.

   “It is very old and had long been in hiding.” He saw Nelin frown.

   “Was it ugly, or was Gaellyn fooling me like grand-pa does?”

   “Aye, you might consider him ugly, but he is not big.”

   Nelin drew up her nose again and took the empty cup.

   “You did not try bathing in the marshes,… or did you?”

   Strider arched his brows, but had no time to answer. Nilana entered the hut with a strict “Nelin!” on her lips. The girl stood wide-eyed and fled the hut in a flash. The woman's gaze followed her daughter, and when she turned, she shook her head.

   “I'm sorry,” she said coming closer, “I told her not to be too insolent.”

   Strider suppressed the coughing fit and managed to say:

   “It is no insolence, just curiosity.”

   Nilana snorted.

   “Either way she should not ask you anything.” She lifted the cup from the floor and brought it back to the hearth. Strider struggled to sit up in bed, and Nilana was there to help him, though her glance told him how foolish she considered his action. “You should not exert yourself,” she said meekly. “Your body needs rest. You have to gain strength again… and weight.”

   Strider replied a small smile and flinched when he tried to steady himself with his left hand.

   “I thank you for your care,” he said, and she could only hear his thin voice because she knelt beside him. “But I need to. I had rest enough.”

   She averted her eyes quickly, took a deep breath, and nodded:

   “I see.” She was about to rise when he held her back.

   “Do not consider me ungrateful, Nilana. Not many give their help so willingly.”

   She could only nod and brought him his clothes. He made it into his trousers and shirt, but fumbled with the laces of the jerkin. He was still hampered in using his hands by the bandages around his wrists. Avoiding looking at him, she closed the laces without a word. She felt her throat constrict too tightly to speak, though she would have liked to invite him to stay for a while longer in her home.

   “I thank you,” Strider said when she turned to the side. He followed her movement with his eyes, then she handed him the brooch. Her hand trembled as he took it, and finally she looked up to him. Her eyes asked more questions than she could have put into words, but he felt unable to answer one of them. “This means much to me,” he said, and looked at the glistening jewel. “I was given it a long time ago.”

   Nilana nodded, her face red and hot.

   “You're still too weak to get up,” she managed to say. “You could stay if you want to.”

   “I know, but I should not.”

   Nilana turned to leave, mumbling that she had to look for her daughter.

   Strider gazed after her. Being sick and haunted by nightmares, it had not been an easy task for her to take care of him, but she had never uttered a word of complaint. While it had been a disaster to lose his prey, he was fortunate that he was still alive.

   He rose from the bed, bracing himself against the dizziness following his movements. When the feeling of being buffeted by a storm ceased, he straightened up carefully. The ceiling was low, and his head almost touched the eaves when he stood upright. He made his way to the threshold slowly. Coming to a halt, and inhaling deeply the cool evening air, people nearby suddenly stopped as if frozen. All conversation ceased. They stared at him as if waiting for some spectacle to take place. He frowned and kept his left hand on the door-frame to steady himself.

   About fifteen feet away a small fire had been kindled, and a pot filled with steaming soup was placed above it. Three rows of simple huts like the one in which he had been treated were built around a central clearing where the soil had been trampled. From the protruding roofs, made of thick grass with branches to support them, hung nets, ropes, and the catch of the day. The smell of fish filled the air.

   “Ah, why do you stare like he's a ghost!” a female voice broke the expectant silence, and Bradolla shoved a woman out of her way to greet her patient. “Look, who's up and about!” Now that Strider was standing upright, she had to look up to him, revealing her wrinkled throat. “Made it up here, eh?” she teased, and he rewarded her with a slight bow. She put her hands on her hips, cocked her head, and squinted. “You still look as pale as the new moon.” And when he stepped into the waning sunlight, she added frowning, “Nilana should have fed you better. You still look all skin and bone.”

   “No, Bradolla, Nilana does for me what she can,” he replied in a kindly manner and lifted his right hand for a moment. “Like you do. And I am grateful for your help.” He stifled a cough. “I would not have made it without the care of you both.”

   “Aye, you are right.” She grinned. “At least you reward us with surviving! And giving us more rumours by the day! I'll tell Nilana to bring you a bowl of soup.”

   “I’d like some too!” called Daevan, arriving with his grand-father, who took his place at the fire.

   “No, there is no need to,” Strider replied politely. The thought alone of another bowl of fish soup with fish made his stomach heave. “A piece of bread would suffice.”

   “Very well. Bread then!”

   Strider stepped forward to join the men at the fire, when his knees gave way, and he stumbled. Bradolla reached out to catch him, but Daevan was much faster. In a fluent motion he was at Strider's side, slipping one arm around the man's back, and steadying him with his shoulder. Strider leaned heavily on him, trying to catch his breath, his face grimacing with discomfort.

   “Come, sit down here,” Daevan urged and helped him to sit close to the fire.

   “Up too soon,” Bradolla muttered into the stranger's back. “Stubborn man!”

   The other men and women laughed loudly, jesting, and imitating the old woman trying to keep the tall man from falling.

   “Leave him be,” Dinúvren replied without rancour, and grinned over Daevan's concerned face. “Luckily you're built like a rock!” he said to the young man, who waited close by in case the stranger needed his help again. “I knew you'd have carried him here alone if you had to!”

   “Thank you,” Strider said, looking up to Daevan, who nodded and replied so softly that only he could hear:

   “Tell me next time in advance, and I’ll spare Bradolla the surprise.” They exchanged a small smile and Daevan returned to his place. His grand-father patted his arm congratulating him on his quick reaction.

   Bradolla had a hand at her throat, inhaling deeply, and sending a silent prayer of gratitude to the gods. Gaellyn had seen her shock-widened eyes, and yet laughed heartily.

   “He would have crashed you like a fen beetle!” He yelled from the other side of the fire. “And left nothing of you but dust, probably!”

   “Nay, Bradolla would have caught him too!” she replied good-naturedly, clenching her fists in a demonstration of strength. “Daevan joined in but too soon.”

   “Aye, I see you shoulder him and carry him back to his bed!”

   Roaring laughter followed, and the old woman waved a bony finger into Gaellyn's direction.

   “Never underestimate the little folk! They're sturdier than they look.”

   “Aye, never doubt that!” Dinúvren remarked, and earned more laughter. Then he turned to Strider, who sat to his left side, amused at the jesting. “Finally made your way out here, hum? You're quite tough.” He handed him a tankard with hot water, eyeing him closely. “Besides your unwilling legs…”

   “I feel much better, aye,” the stranger replied with a courteous nod. “I can hardly express my gratitude that you ventured into the Marshes to save me.”

   Dinúvren’s and Strider’s eyes met, and the fisherman said with a straight face:

   “I can tell you there was no easy way, and truly no easy decision.”

   “It was a very courageous deed. You are a brave people.”

   “No soul should be left out there to die.” He turned abruptly to stare into his tankard.

   “I am in your debt, Dinúvren,” Strider finished, but the fisherman only nodded curtly.

   “You should not sit here like this,” Nilana said from behind and wrapped a blanket around the wanderer's waist and legs, not noticing that she jostled against the tankard. Strider lifted it quickly and out of reach to avoid being splashed. “You should not have come out here at all. It's too cold.”

   “You are very kind,” Strider replied, and this time the coughing could not be suppressed. The others at the fire shook their heads smiling.

   “And you're still sick.” Nilana met his gaze briefly, but cast her eyes down again to carefully wrap up Strider's bare feet.

   “It's not that cold anymore.” Dinúvren remarked without mockery, and took his refilled bowl from Baeni, who had joined them at the fire. She looked at the other woman condescendingly, and Strider pondered about the reason. “If you wrap him one more time, he'll trip and fall once he gets up again.”

   “I want a blanket too!” Gaellyn shouted joyously. “You never took care of me like that!”

   “Might be better that way,” Baeni added, her voice cutting as a knife.

   “Hullo, Baeni, that's enough!” Dinúvren interrupted in mild reproach.

   Nilana fled the merriment, and the men sitting side by side laughed and exchanged remarks about Nilana and Bradolla, who firmly ordered Baeni to bring bread.

   “There is no reason to make fun of her.” The wanderer's voice was low and hardly more than a strained whisper. “When it comes to charity, many people fail. Nilana did not.” His gaze went back to his tankard, warming his hands on it.

Amused at Nilana's clumsiness, Daevan was silently following the events and was astonished at how much the stranger had impressed the villagers with his simple words. No one objected. No one even spoke for a while, and the smiles lingering on their wrinkled faces faded. They looked either at the stranger or into their bowls as if pondering over his words. Daevan got the idea that he had put a spell on all of them, and shook his head slowly.

He could not think it possible that a man could have such an influence without delivering a loud and impressive speech telling them of imminent doom on their doorstep. And even that, he thought, would not keep the fishermen from chattering. Sitting two places apart from him he observed Strider unobtrusively. He drank and remained silent, while around him the conversations were hesitantly resumed. Bent forward with shoulders drawn up, he sipped water and listened. Daevan observed that from under the cover of his long dark hair, strands of which fell over his eyes, the wanderer had glanced at Gaellyn and then turned to Doran.

   The old man stared at the stranger openly, muttering to himself.

Nilana brought bread before Baeni was able, and Strider thanked her for it. It was much more than he could eat, so the flat and partly burnt pieces were dispersed around the fire. Again Daevan kept his eyes on the recovering guest. He had to hide a smile when Strider tasted the bread and had difficulties hiding his disgust.

   “Some more water?” Daevan offered, letting the wanderer know by his look that he had seen his discomfort. He filled his tankard and gave it him back. “Dip the bread, Strider, it's not so… hard then.”

   “Thank you for your suggestion,” Strider replied with the hint of a smile. He followed Daevan's advice, which led to Gaellyn's question if the jump into the Marshes had affected his teeth too. More laughter welled up, while Strider shook his head, smiling. “Your care of me is extraordinary.” He held Gaellyn's stare across the low burning fire. “But no. It is just to better enjoy the taste of your wonderful bread.”

   Dinúvren spat water into the fire, unable to hold back his laughter. Doran and Daevan grinned, and Gaellyn nodded in agreement.

   “You’ve got a point there,” he said and took a hearty bite of his piece, which tasted of fish like all the food they ate. The others smiled and returned to their chatter about the fish, the crabs, and the deer they had sought but not found.

   “I never expected deer to come this far west,” Strider said, and though he spoke quietly, Dinúvren heard him.

   “Aye, they usually don't, but…” He arched his brows in an unspoken question, and – not for the first time – pondered over the arduous journey Strider had accomplished so far. “We think they escape from the woods in the east.”

   “Much darkness is brooding there,” Doran said, lifting his head. His old but keen gaze pierced the wanderer across the fire, and the other men fell silent at the sound of his voice. “I can feel it. The Enemy is gathering his troops. His evil forces will spill their venom into our lands. The deer is but the first to sense it and flee.”

   “It won't get that bad.” Gaellyn made a gesture indicating the old man was telling nonsense. “The armies of Minas Tirith have always kept them at bay. They'll do it this time too. And no one will get here.”

   “Your optimism is nothing but a fool's hope.” Doran's expression became grim. “In the older days men like you led their folk to ruin. Hoping against hope that all will turn out to the best. And wasting good and brave men when it was too late.” He snorted loudly. “I saw it happen.”

   “We know that you served your time,” Dinúvren soothed the old man. “Your brave deeds for the Steward are not forgotten.”

   Doran growled a reply, which made Daevan turn to him in astonishment. He had seldom seen his grand-father upset like this.

   “Indeed we all remember them well,” the young man said with a smile. “And I am proud of you.”

   “Pride is a luxury.” Doran pulled out his knife to cut the bread into pieces. “And you will remember my words, friends. You will.” Again his gaze wandered across the fire to Strider. “You have a familiar face, stranger. Very familiar. You resemble a man… a leader of the army of Gondor. He was known by the name Thorongil. Are you related to him?” The wanderer nodded, but his face remained unreadable. “There is quite a resemblance to him. He must be very old by now.” Doran squinted, then nodded to himself. “You could be his son.” Strider held the older man's stare, but remained silent. “Well, I think you are!” The wanderer gave him the hint of a smile. “Now, I would call that a surprise!” Doran shook his almost bald head, and finally his features softened when he bent forward to eye the stranger more closely. “You came a long way, didn't you? From the east, as it seems to me. What tidings are there?”

   Daevan's attention turned from his grand-father, whose mood had visibly lifted, to their no longer strange guest. ‘The son of Thorongil’, Daevan thought and found himself smiling. He had absorbed all the stories about the great Thorongil – a man of so great renown that the mere mention of his name had made him shiver with awe when he had been a young boy –, and now his son sat at the fire with him. A sudden longing filled Daevan's heart, but he forced it down. Instead he watched Strider's reaction. The man took his time to answer as if he was weighing his words carefully. All eyes rested on him suddenly, and he seemed well aware that his reply would determine his status in the village. Still men like Gaellyn thought him to be a strange person, who could be a thief or of worse repute. They would not believe Doran's assumption.

   “You are right, Doran,” Strider said by a while. “Evil is gathering while we speak. The armies of the dark lord are not yet ready to strike, but strike they will.”

   Silence followed his words. The men and women were numbed by the prospect of a war to come.

   “How do you know?” Gaellyn finally asked with open distrust, but Strider stood firm.

   “Not long ago I trod my path along the Morgul Vale.” Whispers of surprise rose around the fire. Baeni and Nilana, who had served the men, looked up. Fear shone in Nilana's eyes. The revelation could mean so much trouble ahead; she would have preferred to not have heard it. “I saw the Enemy move. I saw their scouts and beasts, and I saw their messengers cross the plain.” His eyes returned to the old man. “Your feelings do not betray you. There will be fights again on the plains of Ithilien.”

   “What are you? A prophet?” Gaellyn cut in while the others still stared at the wanderer speechlessly.

   “No, I do not possess any ability of foresight, but I can read the signs the Enemy leaves behind. Signs of destruction… and utter fear.”

   “What made you go to the east while all others are leaving?”

   “I had to.” Strider stared at Gaellyn until the younger man complied. “And I have to leave here as soon as possible,” he declared as Nilana handed him a bowl with steaming hot soup. Her hands were shaking, and she found it difficult not to spill the hot liquid.

   “Leave? So soon?” she asked in a high-pitched tone that indicated her surprise. “But you should not! You are not yet fully healed.”

   Strider looked up to her, reading anxiety above any other feeling.

   “I must. I thank you for your hospitality and care, but my errand is urgent.”

   “Your errand, hum?” Gaellyn looked up from the meal Baeni had provided, challenging the stranger again with his stare. “What kind of errand is it that brought your unlucky soul into the Dead Marshes?”

   “I had to capture that creature you saw.”

   “Creature, aye. An ugly biting beast it was. Is it of any value?”

   Daevan interrupted, sensing this conversation might lead to a quarrel:

   “So you will continue your hunt?”

   Strider turned to him, while Gaellyn pursed his lips, annoyed by the young man's interruption.

   “Yes.”

   His expression indicated that he would not say anything more about his errand, and after a long pause the men took up their conversation again until one by one they left the fire and returned to their huts. Daevan, Gaellyn, Dinúvren, and Strider remained behind, and finally, after pondering over his decision, Daevan addressed Strider in a low voice.

   “The lands around here are dangerous, even if it's not the Dead Marshes. There are many fens to cross whatever way you choose.” They looked at each other, and finally Daevan added, “I could lead you if you need a guide.”

   Strider inhaled deeply. He had seen Doran whisper to his grand-son and thought him to be the reason behind Daevan's offer. He took another swig before asking:

   “How old are you?” Carefully putting down the bowl he thanked Nilana for the meal with a nod.

   The young man's expression was reserved and cautious when he answered:

   “Why do you want to know?”

   The wanderer lifted his hand to calm the man's distrust.

   “It was just a question, Daevan, for you seem quite young to set out on a journey like that.”

   “Not all who live here have always been fishermen,” Daevan said evenly, staring into the fire. “Once my uncle and my grand-father served the Steward of Gondor. That was long ago, but… I think I…” He gave a small smile. “I might have inherited their blood.” He evaded Nilana's pleading stare. She had taken care of him when he had been younger, and the prospect of losing him to an unknown future troubled her more than she would say. “I would not wish to be stuck here all my life. Now this errand of yours… it seems to be too good an opportunity for me to let pass. I could leave this here behind for a while.”

   Strider nodded, but scrutinised the features of the young man, which glowed red in the firelight.

   “I would appreciate your help and company. But there will be many leagues to cover. Did one of you find tracks of that creature?”

   “Some, yes,” said Dinúvren with a nod toward the fen. He hastily wiped the rest of the soup he had quaffed off from his face. “West of here. That… thing can swim, right?” He nodded to himself without waiting for Strider's confirmation. “Ah, well, won’t find much of a trace then. Any idea where it might have turned to? Otherwise your search will be in vain, I fear.”

   “To the mountains, I suppose.” Aragorn drew in his breath carefully. Though his voice had returned, it was still weak and hoarse and his lungs still felt as if they were full of stinging nettles. Pressing for a departure was wrong and foolish, but he still could hear Gandalf's urgent plea to capture Gollum and take him to King Thranduil. So much time had passed since that conversation, and now he could not even estimate how much time it would take him to find Gollum again. It was his duty to depart immediately. “We start out west through the Nindalf-”

   “The marshes south of here are called Wetwang,” Gaellyn corrected him sternly. “And you better be careful out there. Daevan knows the wet lands quite well.” He nodded his appreciation to the man sitting right of him. “But still it's dangerous, without doubt. We lost some of our brothers out there. Not to mention the many who vanished in the east… captured by those fell creatures. They roam our lands ever more freely. It's like they've been gathering somewhere.” He shook his head with disgust, then faced the wanderer again, not concerned that his last words betrayed his denial of a threat growing in the east. “Where'd you come from? Not through the Dead Marshes, as I see it. Why’d you go in there at all? You'd both be drowned there.”

   “I am grateful you took the risk upon yourself to save me,” Aragorn replied politely. “Dire need to capture that creature drove me into the Marshes, as I already told you.”

   “Aye, you said so,” Gaellyn nodded without agreeing, “but you said no word why this thing is of importance to you.” He eyed the strange guest again as he had done many times since he had been brought in.

   “Let me assure you that this creature is of great importance.”

   Gaellyn squinted, then huffed:

   “So you won't tell us!” He rose with a grunt. “Nice way to say thank you.”

   “I apologise for being unable to be more precise, but some things should not be discussed openly.”

   Gaellyn stood, glaring down at the stranger.

   “You are distrusting us, Strider… or whatever your name is. You take our help, live under our roof, but consider us not worth to share the reason for your hunt?” He exhaled noisily and left without giving the wanderer time to think of an answer.

   Nilana folded her hands in front of her mighty bosom, and when she came close, her voice held an unspoken plea.

   “There are strange things happening around here,” she said quietly and took the empty bowl Gaellyn had left behind. “We all know that there's something brewing in the east. And it's no good.” Her hands played with the bowl, clearly displaying her uneasiness. “We are afraid, Strider, we are very afraid, even if he says otherwise.”

   “I understand.” Aragorn rose, carefully taking up the blanket. She looked up to him. “I will set out in two days.” His gaze went back to Daevan still sitting at the fire. “And I go alone if I have to. You shall not accompany me if you do not want to.”

   “I’m coming” Daevan replied frankly.

   “Then I will bid you a good night, Nilana, and thank you for the meal you shared.”

   “You are welcome, Strider, even though being more open with us would settle our worries.”

-o-o-o-o-

   Doran could see his grand-son's hesitation. Standing with the open pack, Daevan held a mug in his hand, undecided if he should take or leave it behind.

   “I always set out only with those things undeniably necessary.”

   Daevan swivelled around.

   “I did not hear you come in.”

   “I do not rattle like that!” the old man chuckled, and sat down on a roll of straw. He waited patiently until Daevan put the cup into the woollen pack.

   “I have never left my home for such a long time before.”

   “You lived here for twenty three summers, and there always comes the time when a man must go out into the world and make his mark,” Doran nodded, looking up to Daevan proudly. “Your time is now.”

   “But what about you?”

   “Do not worry for me. Even if we don't meet again, my young lad, this is the path you should follow. Do not return for the sake of an old man. My winters might be few. And you know that your father will never return, don't you?” Daevan cast his eyes down. “If this is truly Thorongil's son, you should stay with him… learn from him.” And in a tone to cheer up his grand-son he added, “You are given the chance to be with him. If my old legs would allow it, I would go with him and leave you behind to envy me!” Daevan smiled, but still his uneasiness was not stilled, and his grand-father knew. “You should not linger, son. You are young! You must find your own place!”

   Daevan sighed.

   “I hope I will.”

   “Do not think about returning, Daevan. I know you do not want to.”

   They locked eyes, and the young man finally nodded.

   “You know me well, grand-father.”

   “I have eyes to see, son, and what I see is the spirit of your father. You never understood why he left you behind after your mother had died.” He exhaled, and after a pause added, “He thought it best at that time, and a man must do what his conscience orders him to do.” Doran forced a smile on his face. “Now it is your turn.” He rose with a suppressed groan and took his sword from the wall. Daevan stopped packing and turned toward Doran as he presented the weapon to him. “And it is about time to hand you this, lad. Bring honour to your family; this is what this sword was made for.”

   Daevan took it, bereft of words. He let his hand run along the carefully crafted hilt and down the scabbard. The blade had been scratched due to long use, but still this was the weapon the very young Daevan had admired during his childhood, knowing it to be the sword his grand-father had used against the Enemy.

   “You would part with it?” Daevan said at length. “But…”

   “It is yours now, son. It shall always stay in the family, so you are its keeper now.” And he added more gruffly, “And now you'd better be gone, or I still might want to go instead!”

Departure – Part Two –

   Nilana had felt like crying the whole morning, but she remained outwardly calm although she felt tense enough to snap. Her wish would not come true. She would remain alone and dependent on her brother. The stranger had been grateful, and she truly believed him when he said he must move on. Still that did not soothe her aching heart.

   “See, he runs away,” Baeni stated beside her, and not the words, but the way she said them made Nilana angry.

   “He leaves because he must,” she rebuked her and scrubbed the shirt in the washing tub even more vigorously.

   “He puts some creature above everyone! Even his own kin.”

   Nilana ground her teeth.

   “The reason must be serious. I see it in his eyes. He would not leave if there was no need.”

   Baeni put in her husband’s stained clothes. The distinct stench of sweat rose. She wrinkled her nose, and stared at the widow out of narrowed eyes.

   “Maybe he is just escaping any further obligations.”

   “It was never his intention to even come here!” Nilana almost shouted, throwing down the shirt. Water splashed over them both. “He has his mission! And I thank the gods that such men exist, who know where their duty lies, and who do not stay behind when their skill is needed!”

   Baeni's face turned ashen.

   “You have no right to accuse Gaellyn of not helping your husband that night! He ventured there alone! He wanted to!”

   “Only because Gaellyn had quarrelled with him before!”

   “Donyc died because you could not cure him!”

   “Donyc fell sick because Gaellyn is a coward!” Nilana took the wet shirt and abruptly turned away from Baeni. She would not let the other woman see her cry. She ran back the way she had come, her cheeks flushing scarlet. Her clothes were wet with the water dripping from the shirt when she arrived back at her hut. Nelin ran after her, but Daevan, who was about to meet with Strider ready to depart, held her back.

   “Slow down, Nelin, my child, give her a moment of peace alone.”

   “But she's crying!” Nelin looked as if she would weep the same instant too.

   “I know, Nelin,” Daevan soothed her in a deep and friendly tone, “but sometimes women have to, and you cannot help her right now. She'll come out again soon.” He saw the wanderer frown, and with a small smile turned his attention to Nelin again. “You were playing with Horyc. Go back to him. He will be waiting for you.”

   Nelin sent a longing glance to her mother's hut, but nodded and obediently trod away. Daevan rose, flinching.

   “Seems it's not the best time to say farewell.”

   “That cannot be helped.” Strider looked at the sky, brooding with unshed rain. “We have to set off now.” Daevan complied, and Strider entered the dim hut one last time. “Nilana?”

   The woman braced herself to face the wanderer again, rising from where she was crouched near the fireplace. The shirt lay in a heap beside her, now as dirty as before. She quickly wiped away the traces of tears, but that did not help much. Her eyes were reddened, and her voice thin.

   “You are leaving, I know,” she said, unable to look at him. She knew suddenly the gods meant her suffer, but she would endure any punishment for the loss of her beloved Donyc.

   “I came to bid you farewell.” Strider placed a hand on the woman's shoulder. “And I will treasure in my heart all the care you bestowed upon me. You did not know me, and you were not obliged to help me, but still you did. Your care for me is truly one of the greatest blessings given to me in my life.”

   Nilana pressed her eyes shut, but the tears came freely, unbidden as they were. She swallowed and could not utter more than a mumbled “Thank you” between her sobs. Strider waited silently until she looked up to him, before he bowed to her and left the hut.

   Daevan waited for him as did many of the villagers. Even Gaellyn and Baeni had come to say farewell.

   “Were you able to comfort her?” he asked when the wanderer reached him, adjusting his pack and weapons.

   “There is no comfort for a soul that mourns.”

-o-o-o-o-

   They set off at a good pace, and for the first time Daevan was able to enjoy being out of the village, for there was no need as to find the right spot for the nets and fishing rods, or to seek the tracks of rabbits and deer. Nilana had provided enough provisions to last for three to four days, and Daevan remembered vividly the conversation with the young woman early that morning. She had been proud of him to finally have found a purpose to fulfil. Yet she could not hide her tears over his departure. From the moment of his own mother's death Nilana had acted like a mother to him, though she was only twelve years older than Daevan. It had been a strange feeling to see Nilana in a state like that, and Daevan still wondered if the tears had not been out of fear he might get lost in the wilderness. Yet she had convinced him of her sincerity. And – he had added to himself – he was old enough to make his own decisions, and he knew the marshlands well. Better even than the stranger, who seemed to have walked many miles in his life – if the look of his clothes could be regarded as a proof of that assumption.

   Daevan would neither forget Nilana's words of farewell nor the pride she had shown. Daevan would have wished for his mother to share that moment, but it had been Nilana, who had taken care of him whenever he had needed consolation, help, or even encouragement. To see her pride made him feel grown up. He had embraced her tightly, but not promised to return.

   Daevan watched the older man as he had done the previous evenings. ‘Strider’ might not be his real name, but it suited him well. Though not fully recovered, he walked swiftly without apparent haste, and held the speed in spite of the uneven, muddy ground they covered. Daevan led the way at the rim of the Wetwang, but to reach the eastern shore of the River Anduin they would have to cross the fen for many miles. Daevan thought he should be sad or at least somewhat homesick, for he would not see his village for weeks, but instead of being depressed, he looked forward to the journey with the stranger. He felt more and more light-hearted with every step he took, considering every hour a new and adventurous part of his life.

   With every step the scabbard with the silver mounting thudded against Daevan's thigh. It did not hurt, but felt unwonted and awkward because he knew he would not know what to do with it in a fight. He glanced at Strider, who carried two sword sheaths, a strung bow, quiver, and pack, and somehow still looked as if he was not hampered by any of it. Once again Daevan adjusted the belt, and finally held one hand on the hilt to keep it from moving.

   Strider did not talk during the march. Daevan thought his breathing sounded like a faint whistling, laboured and exhausted, but every time he suggested a break, Strider urged his companion to move on. And ever and anon the wanderer looked to the horizon and back the way they had come. To Daevan he appeared more vigilant than a deer on an open range, and he was amused at the stranger seeming to expect a bunch of ruffians to appear at any moment. Daevan followed his gaze, but saw no more than the thick dark clouds, which drew nearer and sent down their load around midday. Strider pulled up the hood of his cloak and moved on without slackening his pace. The young man hurried on, staying at his side and moving in front of him every time the mud became thicker and more dangerous. The whole time he felt the wanderer’s urgency as if it were a third person walking with them. When finally the rain ceased, Daevan saw the man's weariness and put a hand on his forearm, bringing him to a halt.

   “There is no place to rest further westward for ten miles,” he said. Strider turned, and did not try to hide how tired he was. “And I am hungry, I have to admit.”

   Strider glanced a last time northward, then took off his pack and sat down on a small grassy island. Daevan did the same and drank from his water-skin. For a while they rested and caught their breath, until Daevan asked quietly:

   “What does that creature mean to you? I mean, is it valuable, as Gaellyn said?”

   Strider smirked.

   “Nay, you should not ask what it means for me, but for all of us.”

   “All of us?”

   “The future of Middle-earth depends not only on the valour of soldiers defending Ithilien and Minas Tirith, or on the Riders of Rohan, who fight their foes wherever they are found, but on much smaller things.”

   Daevan waited patiently, but when Strider remained silent he could not withhold his curiosity.

   “What kind of things? You speak of that as if it was important, but I don't understand it.”

   “The courage of a few might decide about the fate of many, Daevan.” He lifted his head to the still grey sky. “Let us move on as long as we have light.”

-o-o-o-o-

   They had covered another three miles of rough territory when the water became shallow again, and the dark sand could be seen. Small fish hurried away from them, and the river's tributary was in constant motion. Waves were created where fish were surfacing. The wanderers were about to quicken their steps, when suddenly Daevan grabbed Strider's arm, stopping him. The Ranger froze and looked down along his leg, frowning.

   “What is it, Daevan? Some kind of trap?”

   Daevan grinned with childish glee, and stooped to the water.

   “No, a kind of crab,” he explained and skilfully held the big crab by its claws beside Strider's boot to show it to him. Strider's eyes narrowed in anger.

   “This is no pleasure trip, Daevan, this is…” He inhaled and was about to further comment the young man's behaviour, when a single clinking of metal, carried over by the wind, caught his attention. Two dark shadows appeared beyond the rim of the marshes, and the wanderer stood rigid, his face a mask of dread.

   “You might not know it, but they are delicious with…” Daevan looked up and stopped, following Strider's stare. “Who is…”

   “Orcs,” Strider said, and within a heartbeat held his bow and arrow ready.

   “Orcs? Here? How? I thought they never…,” Daevan muttered, but fell silent when Strider loosed the first arrow.

   Though released across a great distance, the sharp point found its mark. The Orc fell dead and his cry of alarm was cut off, for Strider quickly aimed at the second creature, killing it before it had even turned to flee. There was no more movement. The two bodies remained on the ground, almost out of sight. Shrieking, a few birds fled the carnage. Silence descended again. Still Strider stared northward as if waiting for the horde to follow. He was tense to his core. He had known for some time that it was no longer true that Orcs only walked by night and would shun the light of day. But he had not known them to cross the plain and even fens in search of prey.

   For a while Strider stood motionless, then flung his bow across his shoulder, and turned to Daevan, who had watched him in awe.

   “No dinner, hum?” The young man cleared his throat, still holding the dangling crab in his hand.

   Strider did not heed his remark.

   “Can you find the way back at night?” he asked urgently, already turning to march back the way they had come.

   Daevan let go of the crab, wiped his hands on his wet trousers, and looked up with a concerned frown.

   “Aye, but you need to stay close to me. There won't be much light, and I don't want you to get lost.”

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan set a firm pace, kept his eyes on the ground, and looked neither back nor to the horizon. The deep concern in Strider's face had made him turn immediately; the wanderer had looked as if doom was actually waiting them only a few leagues away. And though his explanation had been meagre, Daevan believed him. The prospect of Orcs roaming eastward was disturbing to say the least, and the young fisherman was driven by the fear that the enemy might arrive before he could warn his friends and family. He had only a mental image of the enemy for Doran had told stories about the many encounters he had had with the mighty minions of Sauron, but it was enough to create dark visions in his mind, and the mere thought of the danger the innocent fishermen and their families were in spurred him onwards.

   He jumped over a small muddy pool to land on a solid flat isle covered with grass and grey, lifeless flowers, and turned his head to see whether the older man followed. Strider leapt, but slipped from the edge and fell sideways into the water. Sand swirled up. Daevan spun around, cursing under his breath.

   “Take my hand!” he yelled and already reached out to grab Strider's left arm. He came to his feet with an effort. Daevan held him tightly until he was certain the older man would not collapse and grimaced. He should have been more considerate! He should have known that Strider was not fully healed and could not almost run back to the village. “I'm sorry, Strider,” he said regretfully. “I really am.”

   “No need to.” Strider carefully straightened again and wiped his face. His hoarse breathing came in shallow gasps, and when he straightened Daevan tried to hide his concern behind an imperturbable expression. “We have to move on.”

   “Strider, we might rest for…”

   “The Orcs… will not stop… because their scouts are dead,” the wanderer replied amid his panting. “We have…”

   “Aye, we go on.” Daevan readjusted his pack and abruptly turned to move on. He could no longer solely concentrate on the ground, but waited for Strider to gain on him every time the weary son of the great captain fell behind. Daevan did not dare to speak up again though he could not hide his worry. Strider followed every movement, adjusted his steps to Daevan's, and though he bent forward and seemed to be at the end of his strength, he neither complained nor asked for a rest. Daevan felt miserable listening to the whistling sound of Strider's breathing right behind him. The sun set like a ball of fire, and with the light failing, Daevan feared they would lose their footing. He slowed down, tested the way he walked with one foot and made sure they could cross without sinking in the mud. So they covered another mile with more care, and the young man felt the exhaustion taking hold of him, too, but the fear for his companions and long-time friends made him go on. He took another step, evaded another dark pool that appeared deep and trod around it on firm ground. Behind him Strider stumbled, and Daevan lent a hand to steady him. Without a word he went on, knowing that there was no debate on the likelihood of impending doom.

   It was dark now, too dark to see further than a foot, and the danger of drowning increased. Daevan paused to take off his pack. Strider watched him standing in silence in the shallow mere. Now that the splashing of water had ceased the night was silent. If he had not known where they were it could have been the void Ilúvathar had created. The darkness seemed to shrink the surroundings, and he impatiently waited to move on.

   Daevan pulled out a small torch smelling of fish. Strider involuntarily turned up his nose.

   “You don't like fish?” Daevan gave the torch to Strider to take out two flints.

   “Let me say that I would prefer to smell something different.”

   “You are polite.” Grinning the young fisherman ignited the torch with a few flying sparks, put away the flints, and took the torch again.

   “And you are well prepared.” They moved on while Daevan held the torch low to see where they were going.

   “There were times,” the young man explained, “when we could see almost nothing during daylight. There was fog all around us, black as soot. I don't know where that comes from, and honestly I don't want to know. That's why we all carry a torch with us. It's a light… and it's a signal to others to come to help.” He looked up briefly to see Strider frown. “Living here is dangerous… by the nature of our environment. But this environment feeds us too. That's why they all stay. Some left, aye, but many stayed. Some don't know where to go, some like to live here.” He shrugged. “Up to now life was good.”

   Strider remained silent, but his expression told Daevan more than he would have wanted to hear.

-o-o-o-o-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   Another wave of murmurs and shouts followed:

   “Why should that concern us?”

   “Will we be attacked?”

   “Shall we flee them?”

   “How many will attack us?”

   “Why are you here telling us this?”

   “So it's two Orcs. Who cares?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

   Strider stared at him.

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

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

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

   “Gaellyn, you had better watch your tongue!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   Bradolla shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Why should we believe all that you say?”

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

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

   Strider turned to address all the inhabitants again.

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

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

   Strider swivelled around and shouted:

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

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

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

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

   Some laughed bitterly, but Doran said:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   The older man looked over his shoulder.

   “Aye, you're right.”

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

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

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

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

   “There is no need to…”

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

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

-o-o-o-o-

Orc Attack – Part Two -

   Doran had never felt so young since the day he had entered service as a Citadel Guard of Minas Tirith. He strode from his hut alongside the rows of small buildings, helping here and there with cheering words, correcting the inept attempts at securing a net to a post, and encouraging those of the women, who said that all their efforts would be in vain. He felt strong again, and it was that feeling he had missed for too long. In the short time since Strider – or whatever name the son of Thorongil preferred – had retreated into Nilana's hut Doran had commanded the aimless crowd to work. He was not surprised that they heeded his words: most of them had not seen service in war. And those who had experience, Doran had immediately assigned to lead small groups of anxious fishermen.

   Doran nodded to himself. He was quite knowledgeable, and the small village was brimming with activity he had not seen for many long years. The children and old people had already left, the cattle were driven out of the village, and some of the young folk, who had as yet only listened to Doran's stories, now came to ask what new tasks he could give them. Despite the bitter doom ahead some thought this to be but the realisation of their dreams. Doran could read enthusiasm in their reddened faces and did everything he could to explain to them the seriousness of the situation, but he was not certain they had understood at all. Silently he shook his head and turned to where the women were carrying bowls and buckets filled with oil westward. Men were still digging the trench, but it would not hold back the enemy for long. He knew that. But he agreed with Strider that their aim was to surprise them. Maybe they would fend them off. Maybe not. Doran could not say, but when asked he displayed all the courage he had learned as a soldier. He wanted to convince them. For once – and he was sure it would not happen again – he was in the position to prove himself worthy as a leader. Now all that he had experienced ought to be of use to his companions. He would not rest until they all had fulfilled their tasks; until they all had taken their positions and were convinced themselves that there was a chance of winning.

   He swallowed, his eyes turned westward. The enemy they expected was cruel and reckless. A shiver ran down his spine thinking of their ugly faces and hideous behaviour. Strider had only pointed out why they would come, but he had not mentioned their viciousness and how they delighted themselves in slaughtering their opponents. It would not be an easy fight even if the number of Orcs was not terrifying enough to make the villagers turn and flee.

   A woman tapped Doran on his arm, her eyes full of fear, and he turned to listen and try to help her.

-o-o-o-o-

   In the hut the light was dim. The fire had burnt low, and when the wanderer woke it took him a moment to realise where he was. The rest had been short, but he felt refreshed. He found a bowl with water to wash his face, and bread and soup to eat. Nilana had left him immediately after he had lain down to sleep, so the hut was quiet and empty. He took a look around, and the thought of a silence lasting forever hit him. Within hours the Orcs could destroy this village, burn and break down the huts, and displace all the men, women, and children. They would be dragged far away to become servants for those beasts. He closed his eyes again, resting his brow on his palms. The thought alone was dreadful, but he had seen it happen.

   When he opened his eyes again, determination shone. Whatever was necessary to help those people, he was willing to do his share.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan exited his grand-father's hut and almost stumbled over two young boys, who stretched taut a rope they held at both ends.

   “Hold it!” he shouted. “I'm not the enemy!”

   “We win!” the first one yelled with glee. “Doran said so!”

   “We beat 'em back!” the other agreed and they ran off with the rope between them, almost bringing a woman to the ground. She screamed at them angrily, and laughing they evaded her slapping hand.

   Daevan shook his head. From the moment of shocked silence to this activity he had obviously been asleep for more than just a few hours. The sun was shining brightly. Squinting, he scrubbed his beard, looking left and right. Doran turned and came to meet him.

   “Aye, you're up finally! You missed quite a lot… tears, outbursts of anger, entangled ropes, curses of different shades…” He flashed a smile with few teeth. “But they are working as you see.”

   “I deemed this quite unlikely.”

   “You deemed right. But Strider and I pushed them into the right directions.”

   “He's already up?” Daevan asked with surprise and stifled a yawn.

   “Aye, and Gaellyn is spitting bile!” The old man laughed. “Go, look for yourself, they're still digging out the trench.”

   “Should I walk in where I could get spat at?”

   Doran slapped his back heartily.

   “Aye, take a shovel and go to work! Or I shall make you!”

   Daevan grinned and walked to where twenty men were busily digging. The wet soil was heavy, the complaints too many to count, and the first sentence the young man heard was “The oil will never burn in here! Not in a lifetime!”

   Strider looked up. His face was covered with sweat and dirt, and his long hair hung in wet strands, but his firmness could not be missed. He welcomed Daevan with a nod, and addressed the speaker.

   “Of course you have to fill it with hay first!”

   “Hay is…”

   “Or old cloth!” he interrupted impatiently. “It has to burn as high as possible to fend them off at least for a while!”

   “What if they see through this…”

   “There are no 'what ifs'!” Dinúvren interrupted heatedly. “If you'd dig more and talk less we'd be finished with this already!”

   Daevan began digging beside the son of Thorongil, and when the sun reached its centre the women brought water, bread, and dried fruits. Again and again all the workers gazed towards the west. No clouds of dust would announce the horde. They would appear suddenly and fall into their village like a plague of locusts. Daevan feared that moment more than he would admit. He had never fought other than in his daydreams after his grand-father had told yet another story of his time with the forces of Gondor. But there was another unbidden thought creeping into his consciousness: if this horde of Orcs had found them, would not others follow? Would it not be wise to desert the village and seek refuge in southern Gondor?

   He dug the shovel with more vigour into the wet ground. They would face the evil now and think about staying or leaving later.

-o-o-o-o-

   “They're coming! They're coming!”

   The fearful shriek of the young boy – much higher than his usual voice – roused the men from their late meal. In the last light of the setting sun he ran as fast as he could as if the Orcs were right behind him. The men stood, and Dinúvren caught the slender boy when he stumbled.

   “Slow down, Fimbre! I have you!”

   The boy's face was contorted with a despair that immediately took a hold of all of them.

   “They're coming!” he repeated amid his panting. “They're close!”

   “How many?” Strider approached, casting aside his bowl. “What did you see?”

   “Many of them!” Fimbre wiped his dirty face. His brown eyes were wide. “Many, many of them. They… they came out suddenly! From… I don't know! But they are huge! And they have spears!”

   Strider put a hand on Fimbre's trembling shoulder, stooping to him.

   “Calm down and tell me exactly what you saw. How many rows did you count?”

   “ A great many.” Fimbre turned to look at Dinúvren for help. Strider exhaled. They had sent a boy, who could not even count.

   “How far are they away?”

   “I ran… I mean, I saw them march… on the horizon. That's when I turned to come back.”

   Strider set his jaw and turned to the waiting men.

   “They'll be here soon! Take up your weapons! Retreat to the first row of huts! We will give them a welcome they will not forget!”

   “Do as he told you! Hurry!” Doran added and shoved one of the women back towards the huts. “Make haste! The lads come with me! I’ll disperse them!” He marched back, not heeding if they followed him, but he had not got far when a group – with Fimbre amid them – departed for the village. Some men collected the shovels, and two women poured oil over the old cloth and thin twigs, which other men had put in the trench. Daevan thought that the stench of fish alone could make the Orcs turn on their tail and flee. He followed Strider back to the border of the village.

   With keen eyes the wanderer stared westward, awaiting the horde. He had his sword ready, a simple but effective piece of craftsmanship. Not for the first time Daevan wondered why Strider carried a second - a broken - sword with him, a device of no use. He decided that – if he were allowed to live through this battle – he would ask Strider.

   “Now's the time to use what I gave you!”

   Daevan swivelled around, startled. Taken at unawares he looked at his grand-father.

   “But I don't know…”

   “Daevan, stop stuttering!” the old man said fiercely. “I gave it to you to use it! Not to rest in its scabbard to rust!”

   “I… I know.” Daevan looked down at the scabbard and the shimmering hilt. He had never thought of Doran parting with his cherished sword. It had proven its value during his serving time, yet Doran had only told little of its ancestry. The one thing Daevan knew was that his grand-father had stated that Ranaél had a mind of its own. “But I…”

   “Nay, there's no time for hesitation. You must help defend our village! No time for lessons now!” He gazed past his grand-son. Strider looked at him with a weary smile. “Aye, I know I should have taught you before! Alas,… ah, I'll better see what the others are doing!” He abruptly turned and left. Daevan still stared at the hilt and sheath, which was scratched, but still beautiful to his eyes. How often had he stared at it while it had hung high on the wall of the hut?

   “He is right,” Strider spoke into his thoughts. “You had better hurry.”

   “Aye.” Daevan swallowed and nervously fastened the belt. The weight on his left side felt strange and comforting. Yet without experience he would not gain a victory just by showing it to his enemies. The few lessons in sword-fighting he had been given seemed to have vanished from his mind.

   “The best defence is to avoid the attack.” Daevan turned his attention to Strider. “Step back, and then raise your own sword. Orcs are slow. They rely on their numbers, not on their agility and skill. Evade and bring down the sword the moment the enemy is taken by his own momentum.”

   Daevan nodded, but was uncertain if he had understood the wanderer's lesson. But there was no time for more. In the distance the torches of the moving horde could be spotted. The young man's heart sank as he took a look around. The village would not be what it was now.

-o-o-o-o-

   The Orcs moved forward, gladly accepting the darkness as their companion, licking their lips in anticipation. For too long they had walked that muddy plain, and many times they had lost one of their companions to the stinking fen. Such an environment they had not encountered before, and they were afraid of it, but had tramped onwards, sent eastward by the Man, whom they had called their leader, and who had ordered them to bring workers from the villages. Now they were in a foul mood, seeking revenge for their losses, seeking fresh meat to feast upon. For weeks they had only chewed on old bread and the remnants of animals they had captured further west. They were starving, but their chieftain had promised them more than they could devour in a night.

   With their torches lighting the way, the mass of bent bodies reached the settlement. In the fire's gleam Daevan saw small eyes and big maws behind crude helmets. Fangs with big yellow teeth were bared, and commands bellowed. The creatures were clad in ragged leather armour and boots made of fur and skin, all of it looking muddy and patched. Daevan swallowed, and gripped the hilt of Doran's sword tighter. His heart beat so fast he felt it pounding against his ribcage. The enemies carried bows, and black scimitars, which were notched and stained by frequent use. The earth trembled with the many feet tramping over it, and for a moment Daevan feared there would be hundreds of them – a simply overwhelming mass -, but when his mind cleared he realised there were no more than fifty of the ugly creatures approaching.

   The fishermen had retreated to the first row of huts, pretending that the village would be easy to invade. At the trench the Orc-captain raised his strong, leather-covered arm. The horde halted impatiently – they could already smell Men - while its leader sniffed the air, then stooped to the trench. He growled deep in his throat. Daevan clamped his mouth shut to stop his teeth from clattering. His hand on the hilt was wet with cold sweat. Another growl followed. The chieftain summoned up enough words in the Common Speech to form a barely comprehendible utterance, but his roar was enough to frighten the fishermen:

   “Move on, you maggots! Men's flesh is waiting for you! Remember to leave some tall ones alive! The others you kill!”

   He jumped over the trench, and, with a jeering yell, his men followed him.

   Strider had hunched behind the corner of the hut, and when half of the gruesome creatures had passed him by, he rose to throw a burning torch into the trench. All of a sudden flames leapt up high in the air, illuminating the figures, blinding them with its light. The Orcs outside the trench screamed in terror. They moved backwards, shouting, rising their clawed hands in self-defence, and squinting their sensitive eyes shut. The others and their chieftain turned, irritated, and taken by surprise. For a moment they halted, not knowing what to do. Then they saw Strider emerge from the shadow. The chieftain raised his scimitar.

   “Move on!” he shouted. “Get them! Pile 'em up! That tark's mine!”

   Then the mayhem started.

   The Orcs poured into the village, driven by hunger and the lust for the kill. Their spears and battleaxes raised they were heedless of any danger, as they rushed forward, each eager to be the first to set his teeth into flesh.

   Strider crossed blades with the chieftain, driving him back. Two Orcs joined him, weapons drawn, and the wanderer slew them both with heavy blows. The leader retreated, and Strider faced another row of goblins, drawing him into battle.

   The first Orcs hurrying into the settlement were felled by a rope, pulled taut across the small pathway. They hit the ground hard, and before they could get up again, heavy blows from axes ended their lives. Gaellyn spat on them and quickly moved back into his hiding place. Their minions turned left, but before they could enter a hut, one of them got entangled in a net thrown from the roof. Men with clubs beat him down until he did not move again. The young boy on the roof yelled with glee, a sound quite bizarre among the gruesome shouts of the enemy.

   Daevan stabbed the first Orc with Doran's sword. The enemy dropped dead to his feet, baring yellow teeth with a last dying howl. The young fisherman stared at the dead body, then at the bloodied blade. He was terrified. A shadow appeared in front of him. Another goblin! Too late he raised his sword. Too late he evaded to the side. Yet the crude blade never scratched him: Strider cut off the Orc's head the moment before the scimitar hit. It tumbled over the ground, while the rest of the body slumped over the first.

   “Watch out!” Strider shouted at him, his face tense and fierce. “Move!” Within a heartbeat he had turned, hewn off the arm of another foe with a raised blade and killed the creature with a fast strike. Daevan retreated quickly, hunted by yet another foe. But the goblin tripped and fell over a coil of rope. Daevan pierced him below the breastplate, pulled back the blade and moved on.

   The fire burnt low. The Orcs, who had run back and forth along the trench, jumped across it and - howling and hissing - they joined their companions. They released flaming arrows, and immediately roofs caught fire. Two boys, who had lain hidden, tumbled down to land hard on the ground. The first one was slain by an enemy. The other, quicker on his feet, threw a handful of dust into the enemy's eyes. Then he escaped around the corner, and dodged behind the main pole. The Orc followed swiftly, but ran into Dinúvren's dagger. He slumped across two others, who had already drawn their last breaths.

   There was no time to help those, who had less luck than the boy. The Orcs now prowled the village, aware of the traps. They avoided some, and the fishermen burst forward too early, running into the blades of the enemy. The villagers fought bravely, and never gave in, but defended their friends. Suddenly they realised that there was a chance to win.

   Strider stabbed the Orc chieftain's back in time to save Dinúvren. The fisherman stood panting, his eyes wide with horror as the creature fell with his scimitar still in his upraised hands. Dinúvren was unable to say a word. Strider made sure he was unhurt before he moved on to battle with three foes, who were pursuing a boy down the settlement's main path. They never got any closer to their prey.

   Daevan retreated. The sight of the hideous creature frightened him, but the long, curved blade bore a much greater threat. He felt a pole behind him, and quickly dodged the deadly blow. The scimitar stuck in the wood. Shrieking the goblin tried to free his weapon, but Daevan slashed his throat. This time he had the weapon ready to keep on fighting, but he only saw Gaellyn, who was in flight from a crooked-legged Orc. Daevan paid no heed to the fearful shouts, but intercepted the goblin, hewing off his hand. He went down bleeding. Gaellyn halted and turned in shock. That moment a dagger was thrust into his right arm. He screamed and dropped to his knees, letting go of his spear. From the other side an arrow was loosed and killed the Orc. It utmost astonishment Daevan saw Fimbre with the bow in his slender hands. He had not even known the lad could draw it.

   The skirmishes went on, illuminated by the spreading fires. Women ran to throw buckets of water to douse the flames, and their husbands and friends defended them against the survivors of the horde. But the Orcs realised that their prey was harder to kill than their chieftain had told them. Ever and anon they were thrown on to defensive, even by boys, who had listened to Doran and who now took advantage of their new found knowledge. The Orcs were maimed and killed, either by traps or by the ferociously fighting villagers. Doran had ordered them to leave none alive, and they were following his advice with cold determination.

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter Ten

Orc Attack – Part Three -

   Strider struck the last fleeing Orc down. When the enemy did not move again, the wanderer dared to take a look around. Dead enemies as well as dead villagers were lying on the paths. Huts were burning, but already the men and women were bringing water to extinguish the flames. Bradolla was one of the first to appear from her hiding place, and on her command those unharmed helped the injured. The larger than usual fire at the centre illuminated the vast amount of damage. Bradolla threw her hands in the air, whining loudly in dismay at the sight of every wounded man brought to her. She ran from one to the other, trying to help them all at the same time, but realising she could not. There were too many.

   The weeping of the wives was mingled with the cries of the wounded defenders. Strider wiped the blade of his sword with a piece of cloth and sheathed it. He was out of breath, worn out by the strain, and yet he felt a strange kind of contentment and pride in the victory.

   Dinúvren appeared beside him. They could see the centre of the village where those who had been wounded were being helped to sit or lie down. Bradolla's high voice could be heard. She commanded the other women to bring water to heat and bandages, while she hurried to her hut to fetch pots with salves and herbs.

   “How many died?” Strider asked quietly.

   “Five men and…” The fisherman swallowed hard. “Three lads.” He avoided Strider's gaze while his eyes filled with tears. “And Oldyna was killed by the fire in her hut. She could not get out when the roof collapsed.”

   Strider was about to answer when he caught sight of Talan's father. He collapsed near the fire and did not move. Quickly the wanderer knelt beside the man, turned him on his back to discover an ugly gash right across his chest. His jerkin was ripped open and saturated with blood.

   “I need hot water and cloths to stanch the bleeding!” he yelled at Dinúvren, who just stood there staring. “And bring my pack! Hurry!”

   “But you can't do that! Bradolla will look after him. You're no…”

   “I said hurry!”

   Dinúvren complied and left. Strider opened the already torn jerkin further. The wound was bleeding freely, and as soon as Nilana's brother handed him the cloth and placed a bowl of steaming water right beside him, Strider used some herbs from his pouch to add to the water to clean the wound and cover it. With a hand on the man's brow he then waited. Dinúvren stood aside, listening to the quiet sound of words he could not understand.

   “You know what to do?” he asked in a hushed whisper, but Strider did not heed him. He felt the man's heart beat strongly and was content. Assured that Talan's father would live, he rose to look after the next man lying on the ground. He had received a blow to his head, and Strider bathed the wound and – again with his hand resting on the man's brow - waited until he opened his eyes. The fisherman’s expression was puzzled, but before he could utter a word the wanderer had already left the place beside him.

   Dinúvren shook his head, but followed the wanderer, providing him with what he demanded.

   Bradolla rose from her crouched position. Did her eyes deceive her, or was that stranger actually washing Rilon's wound? She parted her lips to ask a question, but shut them again when a piercing cry resounded. She turned and saw Nilana carry her child out of her hut.

   “She's hurt!” Nilana screamed. “She's hurt!” And Nelin cried in pain. “Bradolla, you must help her!” Nilana sat on the ground, holding the little girl tight on her lap. “Please, help her!”

   “Why's Nelin here?” Bradolla asked, irritated at the sight of a child in this gruesome place. “She should have been with the others!” And when Nilana only cried, the old healer crouched beside her. “What happened?”

   “She's… She fell.” Nilana shook her head, unable to continue. Her daughter cried even louder, and Bradolla needed a firm hand to make the mother let go of her daughter. Nelin's left arm stood at an odd angle, and the slightest touch caused another heart-wrenching scream.

   “It's broken,” Bradolla stated matter-of-factly.

   “You must help her!” Nilana repeated, blind with tears. “Please!”

   “Well…” Bradolla flinched at trying to move the little girl's arm. She realised that this was beyond her skill. Nelin broke into tears again. “Bradolla doesn't know how… She fears, she can't set that.” She scratched her brow, driven by the urgency to look after so many others, who needed her help far more.

   “You can't? But…” Nilana pulled Nelin tight to her bosom, covering her with her own tears, and rocking her on her lap. “It won't mend like that!”

   “Not really, no.” Bradolla rose her gaze. The moaning of the men and boys called out to her. So many had been wounded. She must leave, and yet the sight of the little girl was awful. She would never be able to fully use her arm again. “But she is young and…”

   “It is only a broken arm.” The wanderer knelt beside Nilana and gently reached for Nelin. She looked up, a glimpse of hope amid her tears.

   “Aye, Bradolla knows that.” She frowned. “But you can't set it right. You're not even a healer!”

   Strider exhaled, his grey eyes fixed on Nelin.

   “I know it is painful,” he said quietly, “but I can help if you let me.”

   “You?” Nilana stared at him, disbelief and hope mingling in her haunted features.

   “You will not mess with that little one!” Bradolla objected face stern.

   Strider did not look at her, but waited until Nelin gave him a slight nod.

   “Aye, Nelin, calm down.” He put his left hand on her brow and closed his eyes. The surroundings became mere shadows, the sounds muffled. Bradolla's arguments and Nilana's frightened questions were lost. He solely concentrated on the little girl, soothing her with more than words, reaching out to her to let her know she could be healed. When he looked at her again, her eyes were half closed, and her breathing had slowed down. “Believe me,” he then said with a grin that seemed strange amidst all the dead and wounded, “I was a boisterous child, and my brothers were not always gentle with me.”

   “Your arm was broken too?” she whispered, and he could see that she no longer feared him.

   He nodded solemnly.

   “More than once.” Strider took Nelin's left hand in his and with the other stroked carefully along her forearm. “When I quarrelled with them, I sometimes got hurt. It is like that among boys.” He stopped his movement and without warning adjusted the broken bones. Nelin screamed. Then her body slackened in her mother's arms.

   “You hurt her!” Nilana shouted, but Strider raised his hand.

   “I had to, but she is fine now. She will wake up soon.” He carefully stroked the child's brow, and turned to Bradolla. “The arm has to be put in splints. Fetch two pieces of wood and cloth to fix it. And she needs a sling for some weeks.”

   “But…” Bradolla frowned, hesitating if she should object. Quickly she shouted the order to another woman standing close by. “Don't gape like that! Get some thin pieces of wood and bandages over here! Right now!” To stress her words she stood up and almost chased the woman to her hut. “You have to explain that… later!” she shouted back at Strider.

   The wanderer still held Nelin's hand, and Nilana reached out to lay her own on it, but stopped as if she was about to do something wrong.

   “Thank you,” she simply said, taking back her hand and stroking her child's hair instead.

   Strider bowed to her and rose. There were still many in need of help. He left Nilana and her daughter, evading two women carrying bowls with salve on Bradolla's command, to crouch beside Gaellyn. The enemy had inflicted a deep gash on his thigh. He bit on a piece of leather while another man tried to stanch the bleeding. Strider took his place and adroitly applied a tourniquet before he left the man in the care of the other.

   “Why… how do you know what to do?” Dinúvren asked beside him, still not believing his own eyes.

   “Just be content that I do.” Strider exhaled and again looked around the fireplace. He felt exhausted, yet he would not rest. They had beaten back the Orc attack, but at a high price: for weeks most of the men would not be able to go out for fishing and hunting. Abruptly he turned to examine another fisherman, writhing with pain. “Get me more water, please.”

   “Aye.” Still puzzled Dinúvren left.

   Bent down beside the man Strider did not see Baeni arrive behind him. Only when she pulled him roughly at his shoulder, did he turn on his knees.

   “Gaellyn is dying because of you!” Baeni accused him loudly, and her face was contorted with anger. “You left him in his blood!” Others looked up to the quarrel, and even Bradolla clamped her mouth shut to listen.

   “He is not dying. He is wounded, aye, and lost blood, but he will heal.”

   Baeni shook her head.

   “You lured them here, didn't you? You lured those foul creatures into our homes! This was your fault! If I wasn't…” Strider held the hand that was about to slap his face.

   “I did not lure them here, woman! If Daevan and I had not seen them, your village would burn now and you all would be taken to become slaves of the Orcs!” He let go of her hand, but Baeni's anger was not soothed. She waved her finger in his direction.

   “A fitting lie, Strider! Who'll ever know what is the truth? I wish you'd never have come here!” She spat on the ground before him and left. For a moment he stared after her, angered on one hand, but on the other hand full of pity for the poor souls, who had suffered in the attack, not only by the wounds one could see.

   “She's not known for her courtesy and gratitude,” Dinúvren said as he handed Strider the bowl. “Don't pay any heed her to words. I'm grateful you came back, and the others see it the same way.” He placed his big hand on the wanderer's shoulder. “We'd be lost without you.”

   Strider nodded curtly, then crumbled some leaves into the hot water. A wholesome scent rose, and with a piece of cloth soaked in it, the wanderer took care of Doran's bleeding shoulder. The old man woke, flinched, and looked up grudgingly.

   “Aye, my son, it's not that bad…” He struggled to sit up, but Strider held him down with a gentle but firm hand.

   “Rest for a while, Doran. Your work is done.”

   Doran gazed around, and with a grimace added:

   “It's a shame I missed some of the battle! How many men did we lose?”

   “Fewer than we would have without Strider's help,” Dinúvren said. They locked eyes, and Doran grinned.

   “Aye, I knew that.”

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan sat on the ground and watched his trembling hands. When he closed his eyes for a moment, his head spun, and the nausea he had experienced earlier returned. He opened his eyes again, breathing deeply, but to no avail. He still shook like a leaf in an autumn storm. Two dead Orcs lay between the huts nearby, their maws with long and sharp teeth opened to a silent cry. Daevan had never before experienced such viciousness like the enemies had displayed. He had not only been taken aback by their fast and relentless approach, but by their whole appearance. They were merciless monsters on crooked legs, hideously ugly and terrifying. He had fought them, but now that it was over, he felt a chill creep up his limbs.

   “Let me see your arm, Daevan,” a friendly voice said, and Daevan looked up startled. He had neither heard nor seen Strider approach, and immediately looked down again.

   “It's not that bad. Please, help the others, who need you more.”

   “They are taken care of,” Strider said evenly, and crouched in front of the young man.

   Daevan swallowed, and clasped his hands to his forearms.

   “Bradolla said, she would come over here.”

   Strider turned on his heels, not leaving his place. Bradolla tried to calm down a young boy, who had suffered a cut to his waist and was screaming at her. The wanderer turned back again.

   “I do not think she will get here soon.” Still Daevan shook his head. Strider's voice dropped low when he continued, “There is no shame in being frightened by these creatures.” A shudder ran through Daevan, and though he was in pain, he would have liked to leave at once. The stench of blood and burnt Orc-flesh saturated the air, and made him heave. “The others were afraid too.”

   “You were not,” Daevan managed to say and bit his lip the moment Strider cut away the cloth of the sleeve to examine the wound beneath.

   “Only because I am familiar with them. I know of their viciousness, and what motivates them. You do not.” Strider bathed the wound with warm water and applied salve and a bandage.

   “You have fought them before?” Daevan asked when Strider helped him stand.

   “I have. Orcs and trolls, Men and beasts.” His face became fierce. “The Enemy gathers his forces, and there will be many fights ere these lands will find peace again.” Abruptly he turned and left Daevan alone.

   The young man stared after him, and finally realised that the battle had been won.

Through the Wetwang – Part One -

   “Has someone taken care of you?” Nilana asked meekly when she welcomed the wanderer to her home once again. He shook his head, too weary and tired to feel like conversation. The wounded had been dispersed to the huts when the rain had started. At last the children and old people had returned to the village, and the delight after their fear had raised everyone’s spirits. Close to sunrise peace and tranquillity was settling again over the village.

   Strider sat on the bed and accepted a tankard of warm water. In a bed on the opposite wall Nelin was already asleep. Nilana had placed the splinted arm on soft covers, and the child's relaxed expression soothed the wanderer in body and spirit. Nilana followed his gaze.

   “You repaid us generously.”

   “I only did my share.”

   “No, Dinúvren was right: if you hadn't come back we'd been lost.” She paused, but then said, “I don't know… how to thank you, Strider.” Nilana's hands played with each other as she stood in front of him. “I didn't think you could do that.” And when he did not lift his head, she added, “Have you thought about staying? We… well, you fended these… things off now, but… I mean, what if they come back?” He drank. She waited for his answer, unable to hide her anxiety. The sight of the Orcs had terrified her to her core. She never wanted to face such danger again. “Should we leave the village?”

   Strider lowered the tankard and rested his eyes on the simple piece of wood. Everything in this village was simple. It was not a place of importance with stone walls built to defend valuable goods. But for those people it was a home and dear to them.

   “There is no safe place in Gondor.” His voice rasped. “Nor in Rohan. When the Enemy moves for his next strike, all of the free peoples will be in danger.”

   For some time Nilana pondered over his words. She had listened to her friends outside; she had heard what Strider had accomplished. The young boys were in awe of his prowess and valour. From their tales it had appeared that the wanderer would have been able to take up the fight with all the Orcs alone.

   “It's but a beast that you hunt,” she finally said into the lasting silence. Again she only heard him breathe. “Could you not do more for your kinsmen? We are all alone out here.”

   “The task to hunt that beast was appointed to me, Nilana, and that is where my path lies.”

   Nilana swallowed the tears, which came unbidden. She had suffered the worst night since her beloved husband had died, and now she would live on in fear for her child and friends. When she spoke again, her voice clearly betrayed her feelings.

   “I hope that in the end you find what you seek.”

   Strider inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes for a moment.

   “That way is much longer and by far harder to tread.”

-o-o-o-o-

   A soft touch on his face woke him, and the wanderer looked up into Nelin's face, bearing a genuine smile where only sadness had been before.

   “How are you faring?” he asked quietly.

   “Fine”. She nodded emphatically. My mother says you're a very skilled healer.” She giggled and sat more comfortably in front of the bed. Her left arm rested in a sling, but she was not in pain anymore. “And she said I must not tell Bradolla.”

   “Aye, she's right. Never harm a soul if there is no need to.” He sat up slowly, clearing his throat. His body felt stiff and weary, and when he wiped his face he discovered the many scratches he had received in the skirmish.

   “You're hurt too. Your face looks awful. Would you not let my mother treat you? She said she would have, but…” She bit her lower lip as if realising she should not have repeated Nilana's words. “You fell asleep too quickly.”

   “What about the others?” The sun had already risen and threw a pale and veiled light into the hut. “Are they well?”

   Nelin nodded, eager to display her knowledge.

   “I was up early, Strider. And I saw Bradolla and my mother tending to them. And the other women too. No one died in the night, and they're all glad about that.” The grin appeared again. “They all want to keep you.” She watched his sad smile and frowned. “But you don't want to be kept.”

   “Nay, I cannot stay.” He rose, and Nelin looked up to him, sticking out her chin.

   “You could teach Bradolla, could you not?” And when he did not reply she held the sleeve of his shirt. “They all say we need you here.”

   He crouched in front of her.

   “Much more rests on my shoulders than the defence of your village, Nelin. I gave my help gladly, but I have to move on.”

   She looked at his face, seeking honesty, and finding solemnity. Without hesitation she put her right arm around his neck, and hid her face at the collar of his jerkin. He returned the embrace, but then stood.

   Nelin wrinkled her nose, but did not wipe away the tears.

   “Mother says you should go with the blessing of the Valar… whatever that means.”

   “May your path be blessed by the gods too.”

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan felt all eyes resting on him as he passed through the rows of men and women, bidding him farewell. They looked grieved and hurt, and the departure felt upsetting to both Daevan and his kinsmen. Their survival had hung by a thread, and they had not yet decided if they would abandon the village. Doran as the oldest had spoken against it. He wanted to secure the village with a fence and train the fishermen to become warriors. But the others were not sure this would work. So Daevan did not even know if his grand-father would still live here when he returned.

   If he returned.

   Doran had spoken to him, again sensing his grand-son's uneasiness with his sharp mind, and had urged him to leave. He had assured the young man that nothing had changed; that still the future should rather lie with the son of Thorongil than with him. Daevan could not change whatever would happen to the village, and so the decision to accompany the wanderer was still the same.

   For many long miles Daevan remained silent. Images of Orc fangs, and the sound of their howling and jeering lingered on his mind. He had not slept much, eaten little, and was in no mood for talking. So they trudged on by the same way they had taken before, but with the difference that they left behind friends waiting in uncertainty and fear. Daevan suddenly felt a strong desire to turn back. At the same time he remembered Doran's words to find his own pride and courage. He did not want to run away like a coward. He had always pondered over leaving the settlement and becoming a man recognized by his name, and he wondered if his father had gained such nobility.

   At noon – when he could no longer ignore his grumbling stomach – Daevan asked for a break, and reluctantly Strider complied. They sat down amid dead wood and wet sand to eat a scanty meal. Daevan gazed northward, uncertain what he expected to see.

   “There is no foretelling about the safety of your village,” Strider said without looking up. “The Orcs multiply, but yet not many of them dare to wander in hostile lands. Most of them still fear the bright light.”

   “If another band of these things come, I hope Doran and the others will welcome them the same way we did.” Daevan shook his head. “But it would be better if none of them ever came again.”

   “You are not bound to me by anything. You can still leave, Daevan.”

   “Aye, I know.”

   Strider looked at him out of the corner of his eye, but when the young man remained silent he stood and prepared to move on.

   “I lost two more days. We have to hurry.”

   Daevan shook his head while he took up his pack to adjust it to his back.

   “You did not lose them!” he said forcefully. “You saved my family and my friends. The time was well used. And besides… you were not yet fully healed. You were quite slow.”

   Strider abruptly turned his head toward him.

   “You should have said so.”

   “I would not want to incur your wrath…,” Daevan replied evenly and passed Strider by with a barely concealed grin.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan realised he should have kept his young mouth shut when Strider set a pace that made him pant even though he considered himself well-trained and used to the exertion. For the better part of the afternoon they marched as fast as the Nindalf allowed. Strider was alongside and even sometimes in front of Daevan, sinking into the muddy waters with every step. It was a fight against nature and time, and Strider was determined to win. Daevan could only comply and at least stay by the traveller's side.

   But the fen was treacherous. After a stretch of shallow water the mud became deeper again. More often than not they sunk in it up to their knees and laboured to get out again. Still the wanderer seemed determined to press forward relentlessly, disregarding his lack of strength. He even overtook Daevan, his eyes fixed on the water . The disturbance the men made in churning up the fen made the water turn brown and the plants float to the surface.

   “Don't step there!” Daevan suddenly exclaimed and stretched out his hand, but Strider had already lowered his foot between the dark green plants, the long sleek leaves of which swam lazily on the surface. He became stuck, and could not pull out his boot again. He looked at his companion, still composed but concerned. “Hold on!” Daevan shouted and hurried over to reach out his hand from the safer position of a small isle. With his chin he nodded towards the bundle of green on the water. “They break up the sand to root,” he explained out of his breath, “but won't carry any weight. Give me your hand, and put your left foot as close to me as you can!” Stooping, Daevan had already grabbed Strider's left arm with his right to pull him up, using all his strength. “Hold on! Don’t let go!” He knew of the danger and feared it. Daevan had already seen one man slowly drown in the marshes, and it had been a sight too horrible to recall. He had helplessly waved his arms and begged to be saved, but no one had dared to get closer while the water swirled, and the sand stirred.

   “Aye.” Strider nodded. His right leg was submerged in the muddy water up to his thigh, and when he moved, he sank in even deeper. “Pull!” His face contorted with strain he stood still, resisting the urge to tread water to get out on his own. He clutched to Daevan's arm, and the younger man pulled carefully, aware that any abrupt movement would only delay the rescue. He broke into sweat, pulling, renewing his grip, trying to slowly release the wanderer from the fen’s grasp. There was a moment when he thought he could no longer keep in control, and a whimper escaped his lips.

   “You have to get out inch by inch!”

   The young man leant back, holding both Strider’s wrists, and again pulled with all his strength. He saw Strider press his lips tightly together, adding his own power, and, finally, when Daevan had thought it was no longer possible, the muddy ground released Strider. Daevan fell back in the shallow water, relaxing his grip. Strider dropped on his knees, panting. The young fisherman shook his head. Droplets of water flew to all sides, and he snorted and wiped his nose, annoyed at being wet.

   Both men breathed heavily for a moment, while the shadows grew longer and the day waned. In the distance dark-winged birds left their hunting grounds to fly to their resting places. Daevan closed his eyes for a moment, unwilling to think about the consequence of losing the son of Thorongil during the first week of their journey. It was a dreadful thought, and he grimaced.

   “Thank you, my friend.” Strider got up and stretched out his hand to help Daevan stand. The shock of having been caught by the unpredictable fen still showed in his eyes.

   The younger man grunted something unintelligible, but Strider at least understood the words “Listen to a guide as long as you got one.” He laughed with relief, and slapped Daevan's back.

   “You are right. I should listen to you,” and when Daevan opened his mouth for an apology, Strider made an inviting gesture toward their path, and - shaking his head with a smile - Daevan moved on.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan found no rest during the starless night. The darkness concealed evil creatures, and with every sound in the distance he was once more jolted into wakefulness. There was no certainty that they were alone in the fen. He heard the water splash whenever fish or crabs moved. For as long as he could remember the marshes surrounding the village to the west and south had been his home. It was a cruel environment for the careless but bore a rich harvest for those who respected the dangers. He had always considered the marshes an ally, and he had learned early how to pass through the fens beyond his village. His father and Doran had taught him what he needed to know. They both had been strict teachers for any mistakes would have led to death. So Daevan had always been cautious, but never frightened. Now this had changed: if Orcs could pass the fens, the dangers were that much greater.

   He turned his head to watch Strider as he slept. The older man seemed haunted. Again and again, he moved his lips, and when he spoke it was in a language Daevan had not heard before. It sounded like some of the names Doran had taught him, but for him they held no meaning. The moment Strider opened his eyes, Daevan greeted him with a sad smile.

   “You don't look rested, Strider. Neither am I.”

   The wanderer sat up and wiped his beard.

   “I recall having slept better, aye.” Wrinkling his nose, he looked at the sky.

   “No rain today, but we're not through yet.” Daevan turned westward as he stood. “Down by the riverside there's a small village just like ours. We meet the people for the harvest festivities once a year, and sometimes some of them come to us for trading.” He looked over his shoulder. Strider took up his pack, refusing Daevan's offer of breakfast. “They're closer to the settlements further south in Ithilien. That's why they got some things we can never get hold of.”

   “I see.”

   Daevan shouldered his pack and left the campsite.

   “We could replenish our supplies there.” He grinned. “More fish.”

   Strider only grimaced.

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter Twelve – Through the Wetwang – Part Two –

   Daevan set the pace and chose a path only the most experienced could see. They laboured their way through the mud and deep water. Islets were rare, and though Daevan looked out for those ways, which seemed drier than the surrounding marshes, they walked with water up to their knees. It was an exhausting march, and they both had to halt close to midday, too weary to go any further.

   “You were in luck Dinúvren was with us that day,” Daevan said quietly as they both gazed back the way they had come. The mist had risen, but the air was still cool, and a gust blew in their backs. “Gaellyn alone would not have lifted a finger to save you. He even wanted to turn back – he had done so before -, but Dinúvren hurried to you at once.”

   “I understand.”

   “You'd have died without him. We both pulled you out, and he made you spit out all that foul water.” He shook his head. “Dinúvren was in a way… desperate to save you. He almost sat on you and pressed your ribs so hard that I thought they'd crack. I know he lost a friend out there, and I think no one ever forgets something like that. Still… he would not have succeeded if you hadn't been strong like a mule.” Strider lifted his brows. “That's what he said… should be a compliment, I suppose.” He smirked. “But anyway… Why did you almost drown? Did you know nothing about those marshes?”

   Strider exhaled, and with an unhappy grimace answered:

   “I do know about the treacherous marshes, yet I was caught unawares.”

   Daevan realised the man's turmoil and went on:

   “Y'know, Nilana took you in gladly, but…” He faced southward again, and they slowly continued their march. “You brought some gossip to our village. A stranger from the Dead Marshes! What will he be? A friend or a foe?” He turned his head, but Strider wore an imperturbable expression. “Nilana defended you all the time as if she knew just by… whatever she saw in you, but she was convinced you could only be a good man.” Still Strider remained silent, and Daevan nodded to himself. “Nilana watched over you like a mother hen.”

   “As I learned, she lost her husband some time ago.”

   “Aye. He was saved from the marshes, but… he died nevertheless.” Daevan shrugged as if to shake off the bitter memory. “But Nilana has always been a kind woman. She looked after any children, whose parents had died during the winter or who did not return from a hunt. I was such a child. She has always cared, and Dinúvren knew you'd be in good hands. And she was right to do so. You generously repaid us with your help. Even though Gaellyn spoke against you all the time.”

   Strider's lips twitched.

   “Should I have judged you all by one man?”

   Daevan held him in his stare.

   “Nay, I think you'd have run back even if we all had been like Gaellyn.” Abruptly he shook his head and grinned. “Dinúvren told the story of your rescue the whole night! Everybody knew of you before you even opened your eyes!” When a shriek resounded they abruptly halted and turned, but there was only a flock of birds circling the northern rim of the fen. “He hoped, too, that you'd be a respectable man and not some rogue, who had stolen what he carried.” Daevan's eyebrows twitched. “Though I must ask: why do you carry a second sword? And one that's broken. It's only shards. What to do with it?”

   Strider took a deep breath, and to the young man he looked older than he was.

   “It is a blade of ancient times, and it once belonged to one of my forefathers.”

   “But you cannot use it.”

   In answer to the young man's puzzlement the wanderer pursed his lips and looked at him solemnly.

   “There will be a time when this sword will be reforged. But it is not yet.” He quickened his steps, and Daevan knew he would get no more answers.

-o-o-o-o-

   For three days they plodded through the sluggish fen. Daevan thought that nature itself was conspiring to keep them from the great river, yet that was where he longed to be. He had not been to the River Anduin for half a year. Daevan imagined the beauty of the wide, wild stream in spring, when the waters from the mountains churned beyond the Rauros Falls and augmented the current. And he looked forward to meeting old friends, and – he did not deny that – some girls he had seen at the harvest feast. It had been a merry week, which he had thought about for a long time. Now he hoped there would be an exchange of tidings from the east. And when they would part the fishermen would provide them with fish and bread, and they would not need to think about drinking water for a long time.

   Though the clouds still hung grey and heavy Daevan's mood lightened. He lifted his gaze eagerly to descry the huts from afar. With the Nindalf at its back the village had grown mainly on a spit of land that stretched into the stream. It was an ideal place to harvest whatever nature gave in plenty. The fishermen were used to good catches, and led a simple, sometimes rough, but also pleasant life. He assumed the village to have grown since his last visit because the water way was the easiest way to transport goods. With the land getting more dangerous by the week the River Anduin was the only safe way remaining. Nilana had been happier here than she was at home, and for some time Daevan had thought that she might move. But she had remained with her friends and her brother, who would not have left the settlement amid the marshes for all the treasures of the Dwarves. Still Daevan thought that here would be life and laughter, much more than at home.

   Presently only a flock of crows circled the riverbank. The birds rose and swooped down again with swift flapping wings, croaking ever and anon their tuneless melody. More were flying in from the west, descending on whatever prey the first ones had found. Daevan squinted, assuming the crows circled the fen, but after a march of another half hour he could see the roofs of huts close to the river. And he saw the birds gathering above them. He turned to Strider only to see his own worry reflected on the older man's features.

   “They must have found something,” Daevan uttered worriedly and quickened his steps. “Something's wrong.”

   “Careful, my young friend. We do not know what…”

   “It’s not that far anymore!” He did not even turn to see Strider shake his head. Driven by urgency and foreboding he hurried on, splashing through the water on both sides in an attempt to run through the mud.

   The crows did not heed the travellers. Under the grey sky and cool drizzle they flew into the village while others left to return with empty beaks. But Strider observed more than the birds, and it deepened his worry.

   The roofs of the wooden huts were darkened by fire. Some had collapsed and only remnants of posts and broken walls remained. When the rain ceased the wind brought the stench of burnt wood, foliage, and cloth. No voices of men or sounds of livestock were to be heard.

   Daevan shook his head in disbelief.

   “No, it cannot be,” he muttered. “It cannot be!” With his trousers and cloak dripping wet he marched up to the first row of huts. Some doors were ajar, ropes and nets lay on the ground amid axes, knives, and buckets. “Hello? Is anybody there?” he shouted anxiously. No one answered. The crows croaked loudly, and where Daevan stood they quickly flew into the air. Behind them they could hear the sound of the Anduin. Daevan ran.

   “Wait!” Strider shouted and hurried after him. “Daevan, no!”

   Daevan reached the first hut, glanced into the single room: it was empty. A small shelf had been overturned, and plates and tankards lay scattered on the ground. He hurried on, calling for his friends, ignoring Strider's warning behind him. The next hut was burnt down to the ground, and the dark wooden spikes that remained looked like hands raised in despair. Daevan gasped as he looked into the other small buildings on the path, driven against hope to find someone alive. All of the huts were empty, some ruined, some broken with axes, and pottery and plates lay in a heap. And between the buildings men and women had been felled as they tried to escape to the river. Among them – killed by short knives used for skinning fish - lay some dead Orcs. The birds feasted upon them, and now that Daevan drew closer they flew up with a shrill cry.

   “No…” For a long time Daevan stood, unable to understand the slaughter. Unable to realise what kind of viciousness had raged here. There had been so much laughter before… He fell on his knees. Tears trickled down his cheeks as he shook his head. “Velon, Arini, Elvori…” He closed his eyes and his chin dropped to his chest. “They're dead… They're all dead.”

   “Not all of them,” Strider observed drawing closer. He held his sword ready, and his keen eyes swept the surroundings. “The boats are gone. Some might have fled the attack.”

   Daevan swallowed, unwilling to face the destruction again. Finally he looked up to the wanderer. He felt numb, robbed of all his dreams.

   “We would have ended up like them, wouldn't we?”

   Strider did not heed him, but remained vigilant amid the ruins while the crows returned with increasing boldness. A growl was heard, and the wanderer stood rigid at the sound.

   “Get up!” he ordered without turning. Daevan frowned and looked down the path. A man had fallen beside a woman, and his hand was outstretched towards her even in death. Only a few feet away an Orc lay on his back with a knife driven through his throat. His notched scimitar had murdered another man only three feet away. “I said get up!” Slowly Daevan got to his feet and wiped away the tears.

   “Where are the others?” he mumbled and looked to the river. At the bollards only one boat was still fastened, but it was half filled with water. On the river bank two more fishermen had been killed. Now the crows were attacking them, tearing at their clothing and skin. “Where have they gone?”

   “Let us assume they escaped.” Strider moved forward carefully. The growling resounded, louder now, mixed with the piercing sound of breaking bones. He renewed his grip on the hilt.

   “Not all.” Daevan exhaled and walked a few steps. He found a track leading westward from the place of destruction. Many feet had trod the wet ground – soft shoes and big boots – and the footprints indicated that they had been led in a row. “The Orcs took them.” He turned. What he saw froze his blood.

   A giant wolf appeared on the path. From its muscular legs to its broad shoulders it stood six feet high and thirteen feet at length, but more impressive than its size was the long muzzle with huge fangs, dripping saliva. The beast had bent its bear-like head and pierced Strider with its small dark eyes. Parts of its short, grey fur and paws were covered with dried blood. The growling grew louder in the monster's throat as it bared its teeth and moved forward in a threatening manner.

   Strider held his sword ready, facing the creature, but Daevan stood rooted to the ground. He simply could not move though he saw the grave danger ahead. He gaped at the wolf, and his hand went to the hilt of Ranaél. Yet his heart beat so fast, and fear gripped him so tightly that his fingers never clasped it.

   The warg snorted, sniffed the air, and then, without further warning, leapt forward. Its mighty claws churned up the hard ground, and its stench of blood reached Daevan. It bore the reek of death. The fisherman shuddered miserably.

   Strider gripped the hilt with both hands and swung the blade against the mighty neck. The warg evaded by a hair's breadth, landed on its forelegs, and swivelled around on its hindquarters with lightning speed. It snapped at the sword. Strider retreated and swung the blade again.

   “Draw your sword!” he cried with the next strike.

   Daevan hardly breathed and was far away from defending himself. The warg turned its mighty head into his direction. Daevan trembled, and Strider jumped into the warg's way.

   “Leave him alone!”

   With all power he could muster Strider inflicted a cut upon the beast's snout. It howled with pain, shook his head and shed blood in a spray. Infuriated it reared and attacked again, bending down its neck while the flews were drawn up menacingly. Its' eyes rolled madly, and the fang was open wide. The predator rammed itself against the traveller, trying to bite its opponent's head. Used to hitting its enemy in a fluent motion and deaf to the threat the sword posed it ran into the upraised blade. Strider could not stand his ground when four-hundred pounds connected with his sword, and was driven backwards, the air driven from his lungs. He stumbled over a bucket and fell flat on his back, hitting his head. He lost the grip on the hilt and the beast thudded on the ground beside him. With a faint growl the warg spent its last foul breath.

   Daevan drew his sword.

   “Strider!”

   The warg lay on its side, and the silver and black hilt – the whole length of the blade was embedded in fur and flesh – shone in the pale afternoon light. Daevan could not see Strider and shouted again. On shaky legs he hurried past the beast's hindquarters. They still twitched, and the fisherman almost jumped aside with a cry. Then he saw Strider lying on the ground beside the warg's ugly head. Blood spilled out of its wounds and saturated the sand.

   “Strider!” Daevan cast his sword aside and fell on his knees beside the wanderer, immediately grabbing his shoulder. “Strider, are you all right?” The wanderer moaned and slowly raised his head. “Are you unhurt? Your face…”

   “It's not my blood.”

   Daevan supported Strider to sit up, and the wanderer carefully touched the back of his head.

   “Thank the Valar!”

   Strider wiped his face, grimacing when his hand was covered in blood.

   “Why did you not draw your sword?” he then asked looking up into the frightened face of the young man. “It almost came after you.”

   Daevan bit his lower lip, uncertain what to say. His eyes rested on the warg. Even dead it was an impressive monster and he shuddered at the mere thought it could have turned direction to assault him.

   “I could not… I don't know. I could not move. I… Thank you,” he stuttered, lowering his gaze.

   Strider nodded, wrinkling his nose. He accepted Daevan's hand to help him stand before he pulled out his sword.

   “Morgoth's creatures have frightened people more experienced than you are,” he said quietly and wiped the blade clean before he sheathed it again. He turned to Daevan and looked at him with his intense grey eyes. “But you should never be frightened by outward appearances. You already fought Orcs though you had not seen them before. You would have bested that beast too.”

   “I don't think so.” Daevan shuddered visibly and, stepping backwards, shook his head. “Look at this… monster. It's thrice the size of a man! And those fangs! It would have ripped me in pieces in the blink of an eye!”

   Strider sighed. Compared to wargs the Orcs were skilled and vicious, and though they lacked strategy their attack on the settlement had been worse than that of the beast.

   He raised his gaze to the destruction around them.

   “Let us hope this was the only one left. But it explains how the Orcs got here.”

   “I found tracks near the river. They went westwards. Looks as if some of those beasts were among them.”

   “Let us see what we can find.” He strode through the village. Daevan, who had taken up his sword again, was close behind him. The sight of more corpses took his breath away.

   “Should we not follow my kinsmen? Can't we do anything for them?”

   Strider inhaled deeply, and then turned to Daevan, candour in his eyes.

   “They are gone for at least two days. Even if we picked up their trail there would be no way to save them. There are too many Orcs with them.” Daevan swallowed and slowly shook his head. “I know how you feel, but I am afraid we can do nothing for them.” He went on, reaching the riverside when the light was already growing dim. He wished to leave the village since there was the possibility of more beasts roaming site of such carnage. Yet there would be no shelter upstream, and they needed a dry place to stay at least for one night.

   The rain had washed away some of the tracks, but the deep imprints left by the wargs had remained. Strider eased himself down on one knee to examine the ground.

   “They came on wargs first,” he said quietly. “They scared the villagers and forced them back to the huts. Some fought and were killed at once, the others were driven together.”

   “And led away,” Daevan closed in a shuddered whisper. “They did not even know what hit them.” He swallowed dryly, and when he looked back he recalled the defence of his own village. “We would have faced the same fate if it hadn't been for you.”

   Strider gazed upstream where one boat remained.

   “We have to cross the river.”

   Lifting his brows Daevan followed Strider's gaze.

   “Then we should better do it here rather than closer to the falls.” He smirked. The width of the river and its strong current – fed by the rain and melting snow from the mountains – would take time and skill to reach the other shore. “Swimming is not recommended.”

   “Is there another boat? I only saw one, and it is damaged.”

   “That should not hinder us.” He turned to Strider and smiled sadly. “At least you have got a fisherman with you who knows of some things even though it's not about wolves.”

-o-o-o-

Into the Woods – Part One –

   The travellers took the easternmost hut to provide shelter for the night, but still Daevan felt much too close to the site of the devastation and the crows, which had only left after sunset. It was distressing and at the same time felt appalling to use the provisions the people had left behind, but their own need of food after the march through the fen made Daevan swallow his objections and disgust. They prepared a meal after which Strider had searched the surroundings of the settlement while the day waned. For a time they sat in silence near the crackling fire. Daevan could not quieten his mind, and every sound he heard made him think of the ugly beast, which had feasted upon the flesh of the dead villagers. There was no escaping from this memory.

   “Did you know about those…?”

   “Wargs.” Strider's brow twitched as he stared into the flames. “Aye, I have seen them before. The Orcs use them for riding for no horse would bear them.”

   Daevan tried to sound calm, but failed. The incident just two hours ago had deeply troubled him, and he glanced at the door, where the darkness peeped through a gap.

   “Are there more of those monsters around here?”

   “I found no more fresh footprints of wargs near the village. But there are many foul beings roaming the lands, worse than wargs and Orcs.”

   Daevan exhaled noisily. He was scared and could not hide it. The sight of the dead warg and fighting Orcs had been gruesome, and now Strider was hinting at even more monsters. He shuddered.

   “Where did those Orcs come from? I mean, are they a race of their own? Or… well, a bad variant of Men?”

   “Lore tells us that the first Orcs were Elves once. Then by black magic Morgoth twisted them and made them work for him in the dark confines of Thangorodrim. There he bred the race of the Orcs to be a mockery of the fairness and beauty of the Elves.”

   Daevan gaped at him.

   “You mean…”

   Strider did not listen, but continued in a gloomy voice:

   “Whatever the Valar created was of great beauty and endurance. They gave the land light, and trees, and beasts. All that they did was meant to brighten Middle-earth, to make it a place worthy to live on for those, who were announced by Ilúvatar to come. But Morgoth cheated on the creations, and everything that he touched turned to evil and ugliness. He despised the work of Yavanna and Aulé and Manwe, and he longed to destroy everything. But the Valar and Maia were mighty enough to preserve some of the things they had made. Not all could be saved, and some things would never mend. Yet finally - after long toil and torment - Morgoth was defeated and thrown into the void where he will dwell forever.”

   Daevan swallowed. His mouth was dry, and the tankard almost slipped out of his hands. He had never been so compelled to a story since he had been a child. Hastily he drank and then asked:

   “So if Morgoth is dead, what made the evil that is coming after us now?”

   Strider set his jaw. For a while his thoughts travelled back to the Morgul Vale, where he had met with peril beyond reckoning. He had had many narrow escapes, and he did not wish to think of them. He exhaled and threw another twig into the fire. He longed to smoke, but he had no leaves left. The night turned cold, and though they had shelter he felt the chill in his bones.

   “When Thangorodrim was overthrown and laid waste and Morgoth put in chains, there were still creatures dwelling in the deep tunnels. No one searched there. The Valar did not heed them and thought them to be unimportant. Yet a servant of Morgoth, Sauron, escaped the downfall of his master's fortress. He fled the place of destruction, and for a long time vanished from sight.” Daevan bent forward without knowing it. His eyes were fixed on Strider's lips, and he frowned when the older man spoke again. “Sauron the Deceiver he was called later on for his look could be fair and full of wisdom. He gave himself a noble appearance and those, whom he could not threaten, he lured by flattering them. Men were easily deceived.” Strider sighed. “They heeded his words more than they should, and for all that Sauron did he only wanted to destroy the dominion of Men and Elves and revenge his master.” Strider frowned deeply, and a shadow was cast over his face.

   “And then? Was he killed by the Elves?”

   The wanderer woke from his reverie.

   “No. He was not killed. When the time came and his power could have been destroyed for all time to come those, who held that power, faltered and failed.”

   “Then… he still lives like a, what, Valar? Maia? Does he exist like Men exist?”

   “He has no human shape anymore, but lingers like a shadow far in the east, in Mordor.”

   Daevan shivered visibly.

   “Then… is it but a shadow that we fear?” Strider's lips twitched. “Is he nothing more than… mist? Like a cloud?”

   “Alas, he is far more than that. And though he cannot take physical shape yet, his minions are real. And there are many, who follow his call. Men and beasts alike.”

   For a while they both watched the flickering flames. Strider closed his weary eyes. Now that his voice had ebbed away the silence lay heavily on him. The absence of chattering children, neighing of horses, the clatter of pottery, and the sudden laughter of people, enjoying themselves, was hard to bear. Too often in the wake of an attack he had endured the shocked stillness of the survivors. It was a fear deep inside him he could not free himself from: that more and more places in Ithilien, Gondor, and Rohan would become as quiet and lifeless as this village. He breathed in deeply, but knew he would not shake off the feeling that whatever deeds he wrought, he would not be able to utterly destroy the Evil that tried to take possession of all of Middle-earth.

   Daevan hung his head in misery, and when he finally spoke again his voice sounded depressed and low.

   “When Doran told about the battles, the enemies, and the strong men standing up against whoever got close to Minas Tirith, I always thought that some of these stories were, well, lore.” He looked at Strider apologetically. “I mean, I would not say that he made them up to frighten the children, but I never thought they could be true… completely true.” He had been hungry on the way here, but now he stared at the bread in his hand and would not eat it. “And now you sit here and tell me things that scare me more… and I have seen things that scare me more than all of the stories my grand-father ever recalled.”

   Strider looked up to him solemnly.

   “Your grand-father might have told you less than he saw and endured.” His gaze fell upon the sword Daevan had put aside. “It bears a name, does it not?”

   “He hardly spoke about it. It was some sad story he did not wish to tell to us. But, aye, it's got a name: Ranaél.” For the blink of an eye Daevan thought Strider's features to darken even more, but it might have been the flicker of light. “Doran only said it was given to him so that he would be its keeper.”

   “And now it is upon you to watch over it.”

   Daevan's mouth twitched.

   “I'm not worthy to be a keeper, I suppose. I did not even draw it.” He lowered his head in shame. “You consider me a coward, don't you?”

   “Nay.” There was something in Strider's voice that made the fisherman gaze at him with a frown. “I do not. You already proved yourself in the defence of your village. The sword was a well-deserved gift.”

   “And I will honour it if I get the chance.” Daevan narrowed his eyes, uncertain about the older man's thoughts. “Still… I do not even know how to wield it.”

   “Such skills can be learned. As can many others.” Seeing Daevan's interest Strider took out several pouches from his pack. Daevan watched him check their contents until he could not hold himself back any longer.

   “Show me what you have got there,… please.”

   “You are interested in herbs?” Strider asked with unconcealed astonishment.

   “I'm interested in everything you do. You’re the son of a great man and if what is said is true. I should learn what I can from you.” And quietly he said, “Nilana also said you carry quite some odd stuff with you.“

   “Did she?”

   “And that your pack smells strange. Apart from the odd stuff. Or because of it. I can’t tell.” And even more quietly he added, “Maybe… well, if you don't mind my curiosity…”

   Strider's lips curled to a grin.

   “I do not. Let me show you.”

~~~~~~~~~

   After a night without much rest Daevan hurried to gather his belongings, replenish their provisions, and walk down the riverside to the damaged boat. He did not want to look at the corpses, and he wished he could close his ears to the sounds of the birds of prey gathering for their feast. Eager to escape the dreadful place he dragged the boat out of the water.

   “Can you repair it?” Strider said from behind him, startling Daevan. He jumped, and paled instantly. “Have you got enough wood to cover the leak?”

   “Aye…,” Daevan stuttered, catching his breath. The crows croaked unnervingly, and he exhaled in frustration. “The fishermen were well equipped. I found everything I need. Where have you been?”

   “I took a look around.” Still his gaze swept the opposite shore.

   “Did you find anything?”

   “Some tracks further into the Nindalf. Some settlers might have made it through the fen.”

   “Good.” Daevan read the concerned expression on Strider's face, but – determined to leave the subject alone – turned to the boat again. “Give me a hand to turn it.”

   When the boat was upside down Daevan rested his hands on his hips, cursing silently. The leak was the size of a man's fist, caused by a stone or a boot. Thoughtfully the fisherman's eyes turned to the swift stream.

   “What do you think?” Strider asked.

   “Is the boat needed further than for crossing the river?”

   “I would prefer to row upstream than to march the long way round.” His gaze travelled northwards up the mighty stream.

   Daevan frowned.

   “With due respect, Strider, but… if the Anduin's like that here in the south, it might be stronger and even swifter beyond the falls.”

   Regretfully Strider nodded, and Daevan went to fetch tools and planks.

   “Tell me,” he said while he hammered on the wood, “why did you look at the surface of the water… back there?”

   Strider made no reply. Too vividly he remembered his failure and then falling. He had no memory of Gollum's attempt to escape, only of his own vain fight against the water and the shadows overcoming him. He still heard the accusing voice of the dead Elf in his head.

   Daevan took the second nail and drove it into the wood.

   “And that thing you had and has gone to… well, some hiding-place in Rohan. Or it let itself drift down the river if he can swim. Who can tell?”

   “He had once been in the mountains and felt safe there. He will try to get there again.”

   Daevan looked up while his fingers groped for another nail.

   “The mountains are vast. How do you know where to look for it… him?”

   “I do not. But I tracked him for too long to give up now.”

   Daevan nodded and hid his bewilderment by looking down on his work.

   “Aye.”

   Strider watched the young man finish the planking.

   “This is not your search, Daevan.”

   “I will get some tar to make this thing watertight,” Daevan stated and brought back the tools he had used. When he reached the hut he considered his action stupid for there was no one left to claim possession of them. He swallowed hard, and for a moment hesitated to leave the hammer and nails behind, but – sending a prayer of forgiveness to the gods – he only searched for the covered up bowl with tar and a brush. There was not much left, but it sufficed to finish his work. When Daevan looked up he found Strider in a restless mood and not for the first time the young man thought the hunt for that beast to be of greater importance than Strider had told him yet. The few pieces of information the traveller had revealed held no meaning for him. “We are ready to leave.” Strider nodded, and together they turned the vessel and carried it back to the shore. “Do you think the Orcs will return?” he asked in a conversational tone as they packed their belongings into the middle of the boat.

   “Not so soon. Are there more settlements down the river?”

   “Just one. But it's about twelve leagues away.” Daevan watched Strider take off his sword to stow it away in the hull. “I don't wish to offend you, Strider,” he then said politely, “but do you know anything about boats?”

   Strider pursed his lips.

   “No offence taken, Daevan, and, aye, I know how to row a boat.”

   Relieved Daevan gave the boat a push and jumped into the hull behind Strider.

   The same moment the current grabbed them with greedy hands, ripping them off the shallows, and sending them in a whirl eastwards. They quickly put the paddles into the water to steer against it. Tthe stream roared loudly in their ears as they fought to control the boat, which was swept into the middle of the river. Foam sprayed into their faces, and within seconds their hair and faces were wet. The other shore seemed a league away as they were carried downstream. The boat bumped up and down on the crests of the waves, and both men needed all the strength and skill they could muster to manoeuvre the vessel between large boulders, which stood upright like watchmen wherever they looked. One seemed to jump at them out of the foam. With a yell of shock Daevan thrust the paddle into the water with more vigour. Strider paddled with him, fighting ferociously against the current. The boulder kept coming closer, growing in size in front of their eyes. It would have been the end of the boat if Daevan had not thrust out his boot against the rock to push them to the side. The boat went about, and gained speed again in the vortex behind the barrier. Water splashed into the hull. Daevan kept the paddle in the water, shaking his head. Droplets sprayed from his wet hair as he tried to see through the haze rising from the surface. He cursed under his breath. They were going too fast! The next boulder was just ahead! The boat bumped into the valley of a wave, and more water splashed over the edge as they almost toppled over. Daevan used his weight to counter the movement, then leant sideways to paddle faster on one side to turn the boat again and avoid the obstacle.

   “Hold your paddle down in the water and keep it there!” he shouted over the clamour. Strider heeded him, and finally they faced forward again. Trying to row the boat to the southern shore developed into a difficult task. Swirls of water kept the boat hard to steer, and when they got closer to the riverbank a shoal they did not see almost stopped the vessel. Strider would have fallen overboard if it had not been for Daevan's quick reaction. He grabbed the wanderer by the collar of his coat and pulled him roughly. Strider thudded backwards with a grunt. Not a moment too late: the next wave caught the vessel and drove it further downstream. Strider sat up quickly and they thrust the paddles into the shallow water like an anchor. Both men sweated with the supreme effort of pulling the bucking boat closer to the shore. With a nod Strider jumped over the edge to drag it upon the sand. Daevan followed swiftly, but even with combined strength the besetting river was hard to beat.

   When they finally secured the vessel on the shore Daevan and Strider were both out of breath, exhausted, and wet to their skins. On the sand, Daevan sank on his back and wiped his face with both hands. He was deafened by the stream's noise, wretched like he had not been during their march through the fen, and glad to have survived the river's menace.

   “You did quite well for someone, who does not live near the water. I mean…” Daevan broke of and held his breath, inwardly cursing his insolence.

   Strider, lying three feet away from him, turned his head. In his eyes shone amusement as well as gratitude.

   “I would not have made it without your help.”

   Daevan swallowed and exhaled.

   “You're welcome. Where do you live… usually, I mean, when you not wander… abroad?”

   Strider wrinkled his nose and sat up slowly. The young man's smooth features reminded him of a friend he had not seen for years. Again a longing gripped his heart he wished to quench. He let his gaze rest on the river.

   “I used to have a home when I was young.” He grimaced. “And even that was not meant to last. There is a home I should live in, but I closed the doors to it long ago.” Strider got to his feet. “We lost half a league. We must hurry, Daevan.”

Chapter 14 - Into the Woods - Part Two -

   Strider gazed eastward. There was no denying that his heart would have made a different decision than his mind. Following the creature to the mountains was a task incomparably unpleasant compared to serving Gondor in the ongoing war. Yet in all the years he had known Gandalf the Grey the wizard had only asked him twice for a favour: the first had been to guard the Shire with the Rangers, and the second to aid him in the hunt for Gollum.

   The travellers had lost time and some distance due to the crossing of the river, and were now marching upstream. Since they preferred to stay close to the shore they had to labour through the muddy terrain, which were much like the fen they had left behind. Carefully they crossed small creeks, which fed into the great river. The wanderer fixed his eyes to the ground, often straying from the shore to collect many a leaf to replenish his supplies of herbs. Daevan assisted him, and every time he brought a wrong leaf he got a lesson in botany.

   Their march became strenuous when the sun broke through the clouds, granting them the first sunny day in a week. Daevan looked up with a grunt and wiped the sweat of his forehead. The sun was pleasant to dry their clothes, but brought warmth he had not expected.

   It was after midday when Strider allowed a rest. They put down their burdens and turned to each other, sweating, panting, with muscles crying out for release. Daevan rolled his shoulders, then sat down to produce a meal from their provisions. The roaring of the Anduin had grown louder the nearer the wanderers got to the Rauros Falls. They would not reach them today, but Daevan was glad Strider had decided to cross the river right at the village. Upstream the torrents would have shattered the boat into pieces and probably drowned them.

   Daevan looked around. He had been to the southern shore years ago as an adolescent. An old fisherman, Arini, had accompanied him to one of the mouths of the Entwash, and he had enjoyed the excursion greatly. At that time every diversion from the dull life in the village had been considered a valuable adventure, and Daevan had been disappointed that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The fisherman had laughed about his questions concerning the enemies the returning soldiers had reported about, and Daevan's disappointment had risen to anger. Life had seemed boring at that time! Now he understood that he had forgotten to cherish the peace he had been allowed to live through.

   His eyes focussed on Strider, who was intently watching the northern shore. Nature around them seemed to be holding its breath wherever the wanderers marched. Daevan felt under scrutiny, and though he considered his thoughts foolish, he could not shake off the feeling of uncertainty. Since the day Strider had shot the Orc scouts Daevan had not felt safe anymore.

   “Did you learn how to row a boat at home?” the young man asked to break the unnerving silence.

   “Aye.”

   Daevan waited for a further explanation, but when Strider remained silent, he added:

   “Did your father teach you?”

   “My brothers did.” Finally Daevan was granted a glimpse of the grey eyes. It was of such a deep sadness that Daevan regretted asking. In a quiet voice Daevan continued:

   “I was taught by my father before he left for Minas Tirith. He was… he is, I hope, a good boatswain. And Arini spent time with me whenever we came to the village. He was very gifted when it came to boats, and rowing,... and teaching.” Daevan swallowed. Arini and all the others he had known for years were gone. It was a fact he had yet to cope with. The experience of death was not new to him, but the immeasurable amount of viciousness the enemy had shown was. And the thought that some of the settlers would be forced to work for the Orcs was even worse. Inhaling deeply Daevan turned his head towards Strider again. “My father encouraged me to learn many things. From him I know how to find tracks, and to sustain myself with roots and wild berries. So I'm not completely inexperienced, but… I know little of warfare for there has never been any need to teach me. I know all the old stories though. I practically took them in from the moment I was born. ‘The Eagle of the Star.’” Daevan stared at the jewel that shone clearly in the sunshine. “Why didn't your father stay longer? Gondor was not safe when he left. They still face an uncertain future, I fear.”

   Strider lifted his brows for a moment, pondering over the question before he quietly stated:

   “I could not stay longer.”

   Daevan lifted his gaze, frowning.

   “You? You mean your father…”

   “It was I, who was once named Thorongil,” the wanderer said, locking eyes with the young man, and conveying his sincerity. “Your grand-father supposed as much. I assume he just did not want to utter it aloud.”

   “But no… you can't… It was you indeed, who helped the King of Rohan fend off the Dunlendings?” Daevan's mouth was gaping, and he needed a moment to compose himself. “It was you who stood beside the soldiers of Gondor when the threat from the south grew stronger?” Strider nodded slightly. Daevan whistled through his teeth, and then shook his head. “Why didn't you say so back at my home?”

   Strider's expression turned grave.

   “Do you believe me?” Daevan exhaled and remained silent, biting his lips. He wanted to rely on Strider's words, but the wanderer's appearance did not correspond with Daevan's imagination. He could accept the fact that the wanderer had great experience and knowledge, but to see in him the saviour of Rohan and Gondor was by far more difficult. “Your fellows truly would not,” Strider continued with his calm voice. “They did not even believe your words when we returned after the encounter with the Orcs.” Once more Daevan admired his grand-father for his foresight and wisdom. He understood much better now why he had urged him to follow Strider. “The truth, Daevan, is a two-edged sword. You rescued me, but none of you trusted me. Telling you my name might have turned your friends against me. They would have called me a liar if not worse. Some already thought that my presence was a threat in itself.”

   Daevan still gaped at him. He nodded, but was unable to grasp the meaning of what he had just heard. He swallowed and still frowning asked:

   “But if you are the same man… should you not be as old as my grand-father? You look no older than… forty winters, maybe.”

   “I am indeed older than I look.”

   But… how? I mean, I don't know exactly how old Doran is. Some say he's older than anyone else in the village, but you…” The young man shook his head. “You cannot be, well, seventy? I mean, I don't remember exactly when Thorongil, I mean, when you helped Thengel…”

   “I came to the house of King Thengel in 2961 and stayed for the time I was needed.”

   Daevan's frown deepened as he tried to calculate the years. He failed.

   “That was… nay, it was very long ago.”

   “Indeed.” Strider lowered his head with a small smile.

   “And still you look so young. Or Nilana has worked a miracle,” Daevan added to hide his puzzlement, but when Strider laughed his face brightened and he grinned. “The night we found you there was not much to see of you under the mud! Could have been an older man then. So you were placed in the right hands, Strider! I never saw her so caring for long. She had done admirable deeds so far. Yet… she would have taken you into her heart and home if you had allowed her.”

   Strider’s good mood faded as fast as it had appeared and only sadness remained. His gaze returned to the waterside. His hands rested on the water-skin he had taken off his belt.

   “While I lead this life I would not bind any woman to me.”

   Daevan sensed the older man's gloom and quietly asked:

   “Would you ever do so? I mean, you say you got no real home, so…”

   Strider looked up, and again took his time to answer.

   “I betrothed myself to a woman many years ago, but until many fights are fought and many a foe slain, there will be no hope for me to meet her again.” He cast his eyes down. “If ever.”

   “Who is she?”

   “The most beautiful woman I know.” With that he turned to stand up, and Daevan knew he would not answer any more questions.

~~~~~~~~~

   For the time they still had light the wanderers marched north-westwards. Tough not of equal height Daevan adapted his steps to the wanderer’s and they made good progress. Daevan's mind was restless. Doran had told him every detail he knew about the great warrior. Now Daevan had met him by chance, and those stories – some he had considered to be myths or simple exaggerations – had turned to reality. He walked side by side with the legendary fighter, who had simply by his skill and outstanding abilities to lead an army won many battles. Daevan cast glances at him from time to time. The images he had formed in his mind since he had been a child were wrong: Strider – Thorongil, he reminded himself – was no shining hero with a beautiful armour, golden helmet, and a magnificent sword. He was but a wanderer clad in travel-worn garments and boots stained with mud. The sword at his side was broken, the second one none of great value, and he did not possess helm or cuirass, not to mention a mail shirt. If his assertion was true, where had he left his belongings?

   Close to sunset they reached another small creek, which flowed into the Anduin at a protrusion of rocks lying in a heap as if the children of giants had once played here.

   “Wait!” Daevan grabbed Strider's arm to bring him to a halt.

   “What do you see?”

   Daevan smacked his lips.

   “A fine catch.”

   Strider cocked his head and smirked.

   “Crab again?”

   “No.” Excited Daevan opened his pack to fetch a twine. “Much better.”

   “We have no time…”

   “O, this is such a marvellous place! There have to be trout under those stones! I know it! They like the fresh water of the river, and the stones to hide under. I’m sure they dwell here all through the year.”

   Strider inhaled deeply.

   “So you might prefer to stay for fishing, but I cannot.”

   Daevan looked up with a sly grin.

   “Our food won't last that long. We should save it for a time when there's nothing else to find. And such fish should not be left behind. It's excellent to carry with us roasted.” Daevan noticed Strider's rising aversion against fish and laughed. “With the proper herbs it will be a feast rather than a meal, Strider.”

   “But are there any herbs already ripe for harvesting?”

   Daevan looked round for two twigs, which could be used as rods.

   “Nay, I took everything with me I need.”

   To that Strider could say no more, and Daevan showed the Ranger how to catch the shy trout in the dim evening light. It was a quiet time with only the sound of running water around them. Neither of the men spoke as they watched the trout that could be descried right below the surface. With outstretched legs Strider sat beside Daevan, silently holding the rod into the swiftly flowing creek. Daevan saw contentment in the older man's features though he pretended to be annoyed by the further delay of their journey.

   “You can still leave, Daevan,” said Strider when they had caught four trout and would catch no more since the last rays of sunlight had vanished. “From here on I know the land and will go on alone. You can refill your pack for the way home.”

   “As long as there is a river I can catch fish and find anything I need in your company.”

   They locked eyes, and Strider quietly asked:

   “Are you sure?”

   “Aye.” Daevan moved on to a dry spot where he could kindle a fire. Strider followed him with a deep frown, uncertain about the young man's intentions. Daevan looked at Strider as frankly as before. “I set out to accompany you. That is what I will do unless you abandon me.”

   While Daevan prepared the trout Strider stared at his hands. Though he had washed them in the river, the grazes could not be washed away. Whenever the wounds mended new ones seemed to appear. He could hardly recall a cycle of the moon in which he had not unsheathed his sword.

   “So you do not wish to return to your village?” Strider took the hot piece of fish and sat down, facing the darkness beyond the eastern wall of Rohan. His stomach growled, and when he had taken the first bite he agreed with Daevan that the meal was much better than the provisions they carried.

   Daevan smirked and took the rest of the fish. Carefully he put the second one on a spit to roast it.

   “My mother said I'm like my father. He was no fisherman by his own decision, and I guess, I would never love that kind of life.”

   “What's so bad about leading a simple life? I wish I could.”

   Daevan opened his mouth and shut it again, seeing the older man's seriousness. Instead of mocking him he asked:

   “So your life is… what, preordained? By whose order?”

   “Not by order, Daevan, but by… something far older than I am.”

   “And you already said you were older than you look,” Daevan stated with his brows raised, and the older man opposite to him curled his lips to a sad grin. “Tell me about it since there seems to be more of the old lore than I have heard since I had ears to listen.”

   “And far more will never be told. How could Doran tell you so much about Gondor?”

   Daevan eyed him for a moment, but when Strider did not yield, he sighed.

   “He served Steward Ecthelion the second. And it has to be said that it was the second Ecthelion since there had been one of them before.” Daevan grimaced. “Doran made me repeat that so often that I wished they would have chosen another name.”

   “Ecthelion was a wise man,” Aragorn replied quietly. “And knew about the dangers Gondor faced.”

   “Aye, I know all that. And my grand-father cannot hide that he mourned for him. And that he is not happy with Denethor's reign.”

   “Every ruler must find his own way. His own alliances, in which his hopes and trust must lie if it comes to battle. Denethor will have done the same.”

   Daevan sensed the older man's dissatisfaction, but said:

   “You deliver wisdom as if you had lived a hundred years.”

   “Not that long,” answered Strider with a miniscule smile.

   “But you are digressing, Strider,” the fisherman stated earnest again. “Would you not at least tell me where you came from?”

   “It is a long story. Too long for a night in the wild.” Strider flinched at Daevan's disappointed expression. “Are you willing to take the first watch?” On Daevan's nod Strider put his bedroll on the stony ground and turned to sleep. Daevan sat a while longer, listening to the toads in their pools yonder in the creek while he turned the trout on the spit. He was reminded of the many evenings he had spent with his grand-father by a fire like this. They had talked, laughed, and the young man had never been tired of listening to Doran's stories. They had eaten and drunk, and more often than not half the night had passed before they had retreated to their hut. Doran had always been there to answer Daevan's questions, and unlike any other, he had known of his restlessness. Again the urgent need to turn back and go home gripped Daevan's heart. His grand-father and his friends might get into danger once more, and he feared he would never see them again. He closed his eyes for a moment. His hands trembled as he thought of the Orcs and the warg with its hideous fangs. What would become of his friends if the wargs and their masters reached the settlement amid the fens?

   Strider turned in his sleep, murmuring words in a foreign language. Daevan roused himself from his musing, gladly accepting the distraction. He watched the wanderer's lined face. How old could he be, he thought. And how could it be that he was so old and did not look his age? Could it be true that a man lived that long without age touching him? Or was Strider – a more troubling thought – not of the race of Men? Daevan dropped the last possibility. That wanderer - covered with his cloak and his head resting on the upper half of his pack – was as much a human being as was he. Otherwise he would not have almost died in the Dead Marshes. And right now he was living through a nightmare as his face contorted with either fear or disgust. Daevan could not tell. But that only added to his curiosity.

~~~~~~

Chapter Fifteen - Into the Woods – Part Three -

   Strider roused Daevan in the early morning before the mist had cleared. The air was clear and chilly, and the wanderers ate their breakfast quickly, eager to set out again. They left behind the last small creek belonging to the Mouths of Entwash at midday. The look of the land changed. Dark grey stones marked the wanderers’ way now, and they climbed up and down the rough terrain alongside the river, sweating due to the heat and exhaustion. Suddenly Strider stooped and with a gesture ordered Daevan to wait. He examined the ground. Daevan frowned. He did not want to appear impatient, though he longed to have a closer look himself.

   “Gollum rested here,” Strider said by a while. “He had no shelter… and no gear with him.”

   “But he had some fish for dinner,” Daevan replied stepping closer, inspecting the scattered leftovers.

   “Aye.” Strider rose and looked upstream. “It is hard to tell how long he has been gone.”

   “Well, he’s way ahead of us.” Daevan crouched down. “More than a week, I assume. There's no burnt wood around. Did he eat the fish raw? Quite a habit.”

   “He eats everything raw that he catches.”

   Daevan grimaced.

   “How can you be sure it is this thing that you are searching for? Could be any… kind of animal.”

   “It could be.” Strider's expression bore little hope. “But unless there are signs that should be read differently, I will stay on this path.”

   Daevan rose and took a look round for any other tracks, but found none on the stones.

   “Well, to me he looked like a beast, but what is he? A kind of Man? A kind of Dwarf?”

   “Neither one of them. As far as I know he was a Stoor once. But that was long ago. Even the Stoor no longer exist.”

   “I never heard of them anyway. How old is this… creature?”

   Strider glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes sparkled with a light of amusement.

   “Older than I am.”

   The fisherman exhaled and shook his head as Strider turned to move on.

~~~~~~~

   The roaring of the falls grew louder by the hour, and by sunset they had reached the place where the Anduin tossed its torrents from the ledge beyond Tol Brandir. The Rauros Falls were well known by name, but Daevan had never set eyes on them. He stood in wonder and watched the white foam and its spray, displaying all colours of the rainbow as the sun shone through it. He would have loved to stay at least for a day. There was so much beauty about this place, so much splendour he had never seen in his life. He felt at peace and wondered why no settlers had ever chosen to live in this place But Daevan was granted no rest. Since Strider had found the fish bones four leagues downstream he was pressing forward with even more urgency. Daevan heard Strider's laboured breathing as he passed him by. He hastened toward the mountain. It towered black before them, mixed with lighter shades of grey where the rocks had been hewn in ages past. Only when Daevan got closer did he see that beneath the wild plants and moss, a stairway led into the mountain side. It climbed up the rock in steep rises, but every step seemed to be narrower than the one before. When he stood at the foot of the mountain and looked into the narrow crevice, Daevan swallowed nervously. To his right the falls cascaded their water and to the left the mountain's massive protrusions were overhung with wet grass and slimy green lichens. The air turned humid and cold as he approached the path, awaiting him with its gloomy thickness. Daevan felt as if he could not breathe.

   “Move on,” Strider rasped behind him, “the light's already fading.”

   Daevan braced himself for the journey uphill. It was not the time to mention that he had never been up so high before. Used to living amid the fens he found the idea of climbing  up the small steps – each one only half as deep as his boot – unnerving. On the partly cracked steps lay loose stones, and on both sides there was only rough scree to find a hold in. Daevan fought the nausea he felt rising and took the first flight of stairs in one single movement. He slipped on the wet moss creeping through every little crack, and clung to a sharp stone to his right. He ground his teeth due to the pain and regained his footing beyond the lichen, on which he had slipped. Praying that he would make it (and cursing the one, who had built the stairs, at the same time) he took the next curve, but did not dare to look forward or behind. His heart was in his mouth as he ascended more carefully. The steps in front of him were broken, and he cursed under his breath as he manoeuvred around them, trying to keep his balance and clinging to a hold on another ledge two feet above him. He broke into a sweat, but did not dare to wipe his brow. The steps seemed to blur before his eyes, and he halted. Behind him he heard the wanderer's sure-footed approach.

   “It is not far now,” Strider said into Daevan's back. He was out of his breath, and the young man briefly pondered why they had not stayed at the riverside for the night.

   “I know.” The young man forced himself to take ten more steps, hoping that this would be the end. Yet he knew the height of the Rauros Falls. He had seen the top of the mountain, and realised that Strider was only trying to calm him. Determined to prove his quality Daevan readjusted his pack and climbed higher up the mountain side. Something scurried away from him, and Daevan was startled. He jerked up his head and lost his footing the same moment. He slipped down three steps and would have fallen if Strider had not steadied him. Pebbles rolled down, clanking loudly until they reached the ground. Daevan panted. His hands held tightly to the cold granite, and he felt the edges pierce his palms. Unbidden Nilana's words came to his mind: he should make his family proud. It would be a disgrace to fail at such a simple matter of climbing a flight of stairs! Daevan nodded to himself, turned to face the steps ahead and went on without pausing until he reached the end of the stairway. Still amid the mountain dell, where darkness had already reached the ground he descried a long path of hard soil leading further north. It was overgrown with slender branches, forming a roof of dark green leaves. Yet the twigs hung down like little arms stretching out for the wanderers, and Daevan forced the picture out of his mind.

   Sighing inwardly, he moved on. The dark walls of stone and plants towered above him, and he felt small, as if he was crouching in front of a beast so huge that it filled his view completely. It seemed as if the path up the mountain would never end. He could not see much and thought that this path might lead to a dead end. When he turned, Strider lifted his gaze and turned his head left and right, vigilant as before. Daevan wondered if the Great Warrior could recognize anything in the dim, rose-coloured light of the fading day, or if his senses were sharper than that of simple Men.

   The sky turned purple and finally dark blue, and the first stars could be descried. Strider halted for a moment, listening intently to the sound emerging from a gorge they had passed to their left. Yet, it was too dark to see anything unless it moved, and Strider went on, glancing over his shoulder ever and anon. He was even more restless than before.

   Deavan was glad to reach the end of the ravine. The air was scented with the sweet grass growing beyond the cream-coloured sand at the riverbank. The Anduin shone in the starlit night. Here it was, the beautiful Great River lore told about. Its width could hardly be measured, and to Daevan it looked more like a big lake than a river, yet it flowed swiftly. He caught his breath as he rested his eyes on the surroundings. Where the mountain slope ended, trees had rooted and grown to different sizes, creating a thick roof over the dark ground. Now that the wind had ceased they stood like watchmen, tall, and dark, and menacing. Relieved after the heavy march, Daevan felt no threat approaching. He was weary to his bones and longed for a good meal and a long night's sleep.

   “I assume we pitch camp here?” he stated and took off his pack.

   “Closer to the mountain,” Strider simply said, and sighing again Daevan followed him. “You should always try to find a place where you have cover at least from one side,” he explained quietly, and suddenly halted again with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Daevan held his breath. He could hear nothing, not even the rustling of leaves. It was a dead silence. “There is something strange about these woods.” Carefully without making a sound, Strider moved on until they reached a gap they had not seen before. Daevan took out his torch, and with Strider's help ignited it. Slowly and attentively they passed the entrance and found a wider opening leading into a round cave with no second way out.

   “Look.” Daevan held the torch to the ground. Fish bones lay amid small stones and sand, but there was also a short piece of grey rope. “It's yours, isn't it?”

   “Aye.” Suddenly exited Strider lifted the piece of dirty, shredded rope. In the torchlight, his eyes sparkled with hope, and a grim smile of satisfaction curled his lips. “Gollum was here. Let’s see if we can find any other tracks.”

   Daevan looked round. Soft footprints of soles could be found, and more remnants of fish. He pointed at them.

   “He used a fishbone to cut it. ‘Twas quite a strong rope. Nilana said so. She needed some strength to get it off your arm… more out of your arm,” he closed with a grimace.

   “He will have rested here for the night and moved on.” Strider let go of the rope, unconsciously rubbing his right wrist. The scar would always remind him of his attempt to hold Gollum captive. “We will stay here for the night. Yet…” He turned to the entrance of the cave. “…we shall keep a fire going. There is something strange about the forest. I have not been here for many years, but I never found it so quiet.”

   “I agree,” Daevan said relieved and put down his pack. “I collected some firewood on the way.”

   While Strider took the torch Daevan quickly stacked up matchwood to kindle a fire at the cave’s exit. They sat down near the warmth and for a while were silent. They ate the rest of the fish they had caught and listened to the crackling of the twigs. Daevan calmed down, relishing on the safety of their camp. While the fire lasted no wild animal would dare to get close, and being satisfied, the young man felt his limbs grow heavy.

   “Go to sleep, Daevan,” Strider said, startling Daevan from his drowsiness. “I will take the first watch.”

   “Aye.”

   Strider left the cave when the young fisherman had fallen asleep. The night was chilly, and from the west deep-hanging clouds moved with the wind, veiling moon and stars. For a considerable time he stood still and listened. The Anduin could be heard, but nothing else beside it. The trees seemed lifeless, burdened with an unnatural stillness. No flapping of wings, no hooting of owls resounded. Strider wondered what kind of spell had been put on this part of the land. When he turned there was a flicker of light amid the tree trunks, but when he looked again he could see nothing but darkness. Yet though he could not see it with his senses he realised that some evil was close, waiting for its prey.

~~~~~

   The fire burnt low, and Daevan was glad that the morning's first light peeped through the narrow path. His dreams had been strange and none of them good. He roused Strider, and after a scanty meal, they continued their march. By unspoken agreement they hurried along the forest's rim, glancing ever and anon into the gloomy darkness. The sky was overcast, the wind picked up speed, and though the coolness was soothing, the drizzle accompanied with it was not. Daevan looked at the clouds. They grew darker by the hour. The wanderers trudged northward and finally reached the end of the slope. To their left, elevated from the ground, stood the ruin of a monument of stone.

   “This is Amon Hen, the Hill of the Eye, and the Seat of Seeing. Once it was a place to exchange tidings with regions far away,” Strider explained. “Now it is but the reminder of a kingdom that was lost long ago.” He saw Daevan bit his lips, but the amusement in his eyes betrayed him. “It was ages ago, my young friend, and I, too, only know of it by lore.”

   Daevan returned the older man's genuine smile.

   “Who taught you so much?”

   “My foster-father… but that was a long time ago.”

   “When you still had a home,” Daevan closed quietly.

   “Aye.”

   Daevan went at Strider's side and could not restrain his curiosity.

   “What happened to your father?”

   Strider looked at him, briefly lifted his brows, and said at length:

   “Orcs killed him while he was on patrol.” Abruptly he turned his gaze toward the hill they ascended. “I was never granted any time to come to know him.”

   “My father left us when I was ten. He said he had to go.” Daevan was silent for a while, and the rain, falling thick like a curtain, was the only sound around them. Yet he did not wish to dwell in a dark memory, and after a while asked, “Did your foster-father learn about all of that lore by means of books or old papers?”

   Strider woke from his musing. He had found a small plant and carefully parted it from the weeds around it before he put it into a pouch.

   “He has lived for many years and knows many things.” Strider's gaze swept the surroundings, but they were still alone in the wild. The rain's intensity grew, and it was getting dark, but still their mood was unspoiled while they climbed the hill to reach Amon Hen. “The Eldar preserve the history of Middle-earth. They are the only ones, who can remember it all.”

   “Remember? You mean, they wrote it down? I heard my grand-father talk about it. He had seen rolls of paper full of letters in the study of Ecthelion… the second,” he added hastily, and avoided to slip down the path by clutching to a young tree trunk. Strider did not notice. To Daevan it looked as if the wanderer would never lose his footing, and he felt clumsy suddenly.

   “They know how to read and write in different tongues, aye, but you heard me right: the Eldar have lived for ages on these lands. They do not die.” Daevan frowned, unable to believe what he had just heard. He wiped his dirty hands on his trousers. “They can die upon blades, though.” Strider turned and swiftly crossed the last steps to the top of the hill. Presently they stood among the ruins of Amon Hen, overlooking the Great River and Tol Brandir. The wanderer breathed through deeply, and for the first time Daevan thought him to be taller and more impressive than he actually was. In spite of his simple garments there was an air of power around him. Strider lifted his chin, and his keen eyes held a cold fire. Suddenly he fit the description of the Great Warrior Doran had once told the young boy about. Daevan could imagine Thorongil command an army to strike and lead the vanguard. “Tell me, Daevan, did Doran know Ecthelion well?” Strider then asked, and the impression faded away.

   Daeavan cleared his throat.

   “For some of the time during his service my grand-father belonged to the Citadel Guard. Ecthelion considered him worthy to be taught - that is what he said - and let him know the lore of Gondor… and the lands beyond.”

   Strider nodded in understanding. They left the ruin behind. The forest stretched to the horizon in the west while the river wound away from it. The rain poured down on them, and no overhead branches would save them from getting drenched to their skins. They made good progress during the afternoon, and where about to choose a place to camp when suddenly a deep growl resounded out of the twilight. Strider halted. They were too far from the river to retreat. And no safe haven could be seen.

   “They have gathered,” he whispered, and when he turned there were two wolves approaching yonder their path. Their mighty heads were bowed, their fangs bared. White teeth glistened. Though not as tall as a warg the wolves were menacing for they never attacked alone. “Quick, climb a tree!” Strider drew his bow, fitted an arrow to the string, and released it. A whining came back in reply. The growling grew louder, rich with anger. It seemed to fill the air around them, and drowned out the rain. Daevan stood at the tree trunk and looked up, undecided what to do. “Hurry! They are already close!”

   Daevan hugged the tree. It did not work. He found no step in the bark to set his foot on, and he had no experience in climbing. The second arrow whirled into the darkness, killing another beast. Daevan broke into sweat. On the thick soil, a dull sound could be heard: the wolves were coming!

   “Up that tree!” shouted Strider in his ear. Sweating Daevan reached for the lowest branch. There were two feet between his outstretched fingers and the wood. “Now!” Strider shot again, then flung the bow across his shoulder. “Step on my hands!” Daevan looked at him, irritated, but realised what the wanderer meant: quickly Daevan used the step Strider had made with his folded hands to lift him up the trunk. He hit his head at the lowest branch, then he grabbed it with both hands, and struggled with his boots at the bark. Strider pushed him up once more, and in the next second had his bow ready again to fire at the hound assailing him. The massive body thudded on the ground right before him. The other was too close. Strider dropped the bow, drew his sword and hewed off the beast's head in a single strike. Panting the wanderer looked up the trunk. Daevan had made it to the next branch, insecure, frightened, but brave in spite of his fears. Strider descried five more wolves in a half circle, closing in on them. Yet they were cowards. They hesitated. Their steps were unsteady, and the stench of blood rising from the decapitated beast robbed them of their remaining courage. Four were dead already, a fifth one lay cringing in the mud. Strider shot one last arrow that missed its mark, then turned to hand the bow to Daevan.

   The young man hung miserably on the thick branch, staring at the wolves. They had halted out of reach, but hunger kept them from turning their tails on the men.

   “Take my bow!” Strider tried to pull himself up the trunk. His hands were wet, and he lost his grip. He slipped down again, cursing under his breath.

   It was at that moment the rest of the pack attacked.

   Daevan stretched out his hand with the bow, clinging with his other hand to the bough. He hung head down and only hoped the branch would hold both their weights.

   “Take it! Hold on!” he shouted. The wolves were close. They sensed their chance. Strider looked up with wide eyes and grabbed the end of the bow. Daevan pulled with all his strength, lifting the wanderer inches from the ground. Strider's hands slipped on the wet wood, but by then he was able to clutch to the lowest branch. He pulled himself up as fast as possible, barely escaping the menacing fangs. Daevan gasped for air. His chest hurt for he had lowered himself as far as he could. The branch cracked, but held his weight. Daevan was shaking like a leaf, watching in horror as the wolves snapped at Strider's heels, growling, bellowing. Their eyes shone with a wild fire. Their fangs were white and menacing, and a stench of blood was about them. They leapt high at the trunk, and their claws scratched the bark. Ever more were pouring from the dense forest. Seven, eight, ten of them sprang around the tree, barking with deep voices. They were hungry and infuriated at not getting their prey.

   Strider struggled to pull himself up to sit on the branch. He was out of breath and closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself against the trunk.

   “Are you all right?” Daevan asked from above, and Strider nodded.

   “Well done.”

   “Aye.” He handed back the bow and tried to find a way to sit comfortably on the branch, yet there was none.

   Strider looked down at the wolves. They still barked and jumped at the trunk, unable to reach him. Yet they were many, and their prey could not rest forever or fly away like birds. It seemed to Strider that the leader of the pack met eyes with him and let him know that it was only a question of time until they would meet with the wolves' sharp teeth. But Strider was not fooled. Having found a position to support himself, he shot the biggest wolf, which had ramped at the trunk, in its open fang. There was a sound as if it was throttled, then it lay still. Strider quickly released two more arrows; one hit its mark. The other beasts retreated in fear, some whining, some silent. Strider groped for another arrow, but when he counted, only three he left them.

   “They will come again,” he stated in a low voice and let out a deep breath

   “What are we to do?” Daevan asked. He did not wish to look down again. The height made him dizzy, and the sight of the beasts frightened him.

   Strider peered into the shadows, but the rain allowed no further sightings.

   “They will wait.” He wrinkled his nose, shivering with cold. “We will stay here for the night.”

   “Stay?” Daevan repeated doubtfully. “But we cannot sleep up here.”

   Strider smiled into the darkness.

   “The Elves of the woodland realm sleep in trees. The night will pass.”

   Daevan settled his back against the trunk, gazing up and down uneasily. He felt his heart beat in his throat. The wolves had the better position: they would wait for their prey to descend.

   “They sleep on branches?” he asked to shake off his nervousness. “Why? Have they got no beds?”

   “The Elves are in a way united with the trees. All of nature is bound to the Elves and they are bound to everything that grows. Yet they do not necessarily sleep on the branch itself, but build flets among the higher branches.”

   “A kind of platform so to say? Well, that would be better than hanging here like a beetle.”

   In spite of the situation, they were in Strider smiled.

   “We are safe for the moment. Be grateful for it.”

   “I am. Yet I see no way to chase the wolves away.”

   “Have you still got flint stone and a torch?”

   “You mean to burn them? Aye, I still have a torch and flints left.”

   Strider gazed upwards through the thick layers of leaves. Big droplets of water fell on his face. The sky was dark grey and did not change when the day waned.

   “We wait until the rain stops.”

   With that he settled against the trunk, folded his arms across the chest and closed his eyes. Daevan above him could not so easily lean his head back against the tree and find rest. He gazed downward. The wolves stared up at him from a short distance, their eyes ablaze with anger, but realising that their prey would not step down. Sneezing and whining some of them retreated into the thick darkness while the downpour lasted. Daevan felt caged. He shivered with cold and the fear to face the shadows once again. He doubted Strider's means to fight them.

~~~~~

Chapter Sixteen

Into the Woods – Part Four –

   The young man shifted his body from one uncomfortable position to the next. He had done that for the long hours of the night – afraid to fall off the tree -, and he was weary and frozen stiff from the cold. He twitched his nose. The rain had stopped some time ago, and only a few droplets from the leaves above him fell on him, mocking his misery. During the night the weather had improved, and the sun had risen to dry and warm the air. Daevan dared to look down. The wolves were not to be seen, but he did not believe that they had decided otherwise and vanished.

   Daevan looked down on the wanderer. In contrast to him, he seemed rested, and he wound some pieces of cloth around the tips of the arrows. His attention was directed to the ground.

   “What will you have me do?” asked the young man, handing down flint stones and torch upon Strider's demand.

   “We will fight our way out of here.” Through his determination a smile shone in his grey eyes. “The time is ripe to test your sword.”

   “Aye.” He knew he would not convince Strider; his voice gave away his nervousness. Daevan watched Strider ignite the torch and force it between two smaller boughs. He lit the cloth. In one fluent motion he put the arrow to his bow and shot the first wolf, which had dared to get closer, in its mighty neck. The wolf was enraged, and - tossing and turning to get rid of the flames burning his fur - ran wildly among the pack. The other wolves scattered, whining with fear. Quickly Strider shot his last two arrows, increasing the mayhem. While one stuck in the ground, the other caught a fleeing beast in its hindquarter. It snapped at the fire, but ran off into the darkness.

   “Now! Get down! Quickly!” Strider flung the bow over his shoulder, extinguished the fire, and climbed down the trunk. He drew his sword while Daevan stuffed the valuable torch into his pack and – with a deep breath and a silent prayer to every god listening to him – slipped down the bough. His landing on the still wet ground was less than elegant, but Strider only glanced at him.

   Three stout wolves had retreated, but still they bore a threat to the wanderers. Their greed was great, and they were driven by a need unaccounted for. With the rising of the dark power in the east they had multiplied, and there was not enough food for all of the packs roaming the lands. They licked their chops and slowly paced between the huge trunks. Strider changed the grip on the hilt of his sword, anticipating the attack. Daevan's hands hurt from the fall off the tree, and his sword seemed heavy and useless. But the moment the first wolf leapt forward, driven by hunger he could not quench, the young man's nervousness vanished. He raised the sword and waited, unaware of his surrounding, unaware even of Strider, who lashed out at the second beast. Daevan swung the blade strongly. The wolf was struck on his nose, it jumped back, snorted, attacked again. Daevan stabbed its shoulder, drove in the broad blade. The claws of the beast scratched his right leg, but the same instant all strength left it. The wolf fell to its right side and lay still. Daevan stood above him, panting, renewing the grip on the hilt, but there was no need.

   The wolves were dead and their bodies left behind the stench of burnt fur and flesh. Daevan breathed deeply. He was relieved to clean and sheathe his sword again. Strider patted his back with a quick vanishing smile.

   “Will there be more of them?” Daevan asked when Strider turned and collected the arrows he could find.

   “We will have left the woods by then.”

   He fell into a trot and Daevan hurried to follow him.

~~~~~

   The vast forest to their left was driven back by the dark grey and black rock formations known as the Emyn Muil. It was a wasteland with no living being roaming the endless emptiness. Strangers, who brought neither food nor water, got lost, and the land looked as if the Valar had never cast an eye upon it.

   Daevan struggled up the strange and twisted hills and down beyond them. Ever and anon, he scraped his hands on jagged stones, and laboured over fissures, which black chasms gaped at him. Then he swallowed and gathered his strength to jump over them, hoping to find hard ground further on. Strider often looked back over his shoulder, and the young man took courage from the wanderer's sure-footed advance. Along slanting ledges the wanderers toiled and no living colour soothed their weary eyes. For the wasteland stretched up to the horizon, and not even on top of a hill there was more to be descried than cliffs with razor-sharp edges under a clear blue sky.

   The march sapped Daevan's good mood and his confidence. He wished the barren land would end, he yearned to return to wet grounds with grass and moss, bushes and trees. And to smell the soft, fresh air of spring. Amid the threatening boulders the fisherman felt lost.

   “How far is East Emnet?” he asked when they rested at noon of the second day.

   Strider gazed westwards.

   “Six leagues as the dove flies. Yet we have to trudge a far longer way.” He saw Daevan's depressed mood. “Do not lose heart, my friend. It is but a desert to cross.” His lips twitched. “We left the wolves behind, and no beast will attack us here.”

   “Aye.” Daevan ate, and, exhaling, followed Strider's gaze. “What will we find when we leave this dreadful place?”

   “The realm of Rohan. Green meadows for many leagues in every direction.” He smiled, recalling memories of days fairer than they were now. “I crossed that land more than once. But that was some time ago.” His smile faded as he looked at Daevan again. “The Rohirrim are a rough but friendly people. They are great horse-breeders, and will not fall prey to the luring of the Dark Lord. Their settlements are few these days, but we might find deer and rabbit to sustain ourselves if we fail to reach a village.”

   “What about the home of the king? The King of Rohan must be your friend. You fought for him.”

   “Nay, Daevan, I fought with his father, Thengel. Now his son, Théoden, rules the land.”

   The young fisherman squinted, cocking his head.

   “And would he not greet you with honour?”

   “He might, but we will not turn to Edoras.” Strider's expression turned to deep concern. “It lies beyond our path. Thus we will turn north and find our way through the downs and the large wold west of the Anduin.”

   Daevan frowned, disappointed to stay out in the wild while there had been a chance to meet the ruler of Rohan (and a comfortable place to sleep for some nights). He found Strider's explanation dissatisfying; as if he held back the true reason for the way he chose.

   “How far are the mountains away when we choose that road?”

   "About a hundred leagues.”

   Daevan's jaw dropped, but he hastily composed himself.

   “Like the dove flies,” he said flat-voiced, causing Strider to smile.

   “In the downs we will make much better progress. Gollum will have shunned Fangorn Forest, and we, too, will not enter it. That prolongs our way.”

   “A forest? What about this forest? Is it, nay, bewitched if you do not wish to walk through it? It sounds like a shortcut.”

   Strider's smile deepened.

   “A shortcut… maybe. Many a story is told about Fangorn Forest, and the Rohirrim tell their children that monsters walk the dim wood at night. It is said that strange things happen and the trees do not stand at their places, but wander here and there. I cannot tell if any of this lore might be true, yet all people avoid entering it, and no living bough will ever be hewn by the axe of a Rohirrim.”

   “We had better avoid getting too close.” Daevan swallowed. The further he got away from home the stranger the land became. Who had ever before heard of walking trees?

   “We will cross the Limlight and head west afterwards.”

   “Limlight?” Daevan nodded knowingly. “Aye, that's the place where Ecthelion rode to battle with Eorl against their foes and granted them land.”

   “Nay, it was Cirion, the twelfth Steward, who founded a truce with the Men of the Ered Nimrais. Upon the victory at the Fields of Celebrant he gave to them Calenardhon, which was later named Rohan.” Strider did not look at the young man, trying to spare him embarrassment. “Ecthelion II was the fifth and twentieth Steward, a man of late valour, yet a man honest to his allies.”

   Daevan's head swam, and he felt like a stupid child again.

   “Was the renewal of the truce of your making?”

   Strider rose and shouldered his pack.

   “It was not. King Thengel had long lived in Gondor and would have stayed if the crown had not called him back to the land of his forebears.” They continued their march. “Yet Thengel proved to be a wise king, and was loved by his people.” He looked back over his shoulder. “And my heart rejoices to have known such a great man.”

   “But what about Ecthelion then? What were his deeds?”

   “He was a man, who wisely chose his counsellors”

   “Such as you.”

   “Not me. There are greater men than I to give counsel. My deeds were few among the bravery and valour of the Men of Gondor.”

   “But you are a great man yourself, are you not? One who should be honoured like my grand-father said?”

   “That is not on me to decide. My road goes ever on.”

-o-o-o-o-

   For four days the wanderers plodded their way through the ghostly land. They spoke little, rested as briefly as they could, and slept at night without finding rest. The emptiness and quietness weighed heavily on them. Yet they moved on with the utmost speed, driven as before. Daevan doubted the road no more, but he hoped that by their strength and relentless effort they would overtake and capture the creature in due time.

   When he lifted his gaze from the rocks Daevan suddenly smiled. Far yonder where the westering sun touched the horizon patches of green could be descried. His heart jumped. They had finally reached the westernmost edge of the Emyn Muil. Strider seemed likewise exalted, and they descended the last half league upon light feet. At the first touch of grass under his soles Daevan could have cried out with joy, but the ever attentive wanderer – who looked less grim then before, he admitted – caused him to remain silent. Yet he could not wipe the silly grin out of his face. He felt content. For miles the soft and intensely green grass rolled with the light wind. Daevan smelled the spring, and for the first time thought that the journey would lead them to a good end.

   “Come,” Strider urged, “we must cover some ground before nightfall.”

   Daevan inhaled deeply, and, with a last dreadful look back east followed the wanderer in a swift trot.

-o-o-o-o-

   For a week, they saw naught but the rolling meadows, rabbits, birds high up in the air, and the clouds drifting by with rain or sunshine. It got warmer from day to day, and the spring of life renewing itself lifted both men's mood. Daevan ran at Strider's side, and they covered many a mile during the day. In the hour of dusk the wanderer taught the young man the art of sword-play. Daevan developed skills with the blade he had thought impossible a month ago. He learned to parry and attack, to thrust and retreat in the right moment, and with the hours of training won a natural elegance.

   Strider deflected Daevan's blade in the last moment. It stuck in the ground, and Daevan swallowed, his eyes wide open with surprise.

   “I see, there will be a time when you teach me a lesson,” Strider laughed breathlessly and threw back Ranaél. Daevan caught it easily at the hilt, ready to fight on.

   “Is it bold to say that I would wish that?” said he, grinning with delight. He felt light-hearted, and for a while the mission seemed of secondary importance to being the pupil of the Great Warrior. He wished for Doran to see him now: fighting with the sword he had cherished for so long.

   “Nay, it is not. Yet this time is yet to come.” With that Strider launched another attack, and Daevan stepped back, evading, parrying the blow. Still he was not fast enough to counter-attack with enough velocity to bear a threat to the experienced fighter. Strider was light on his feet, and his ability to foresee Daevan's intention made it impossible for the young man to break his defence.

   When the night drew nigh Strider raised his sword for greeting. Daevan did the same, then sheathed the blade. They settled for the meal. Daevan's gaze rested on the sunset, which he thought had never been so beautiful. He wiped the sweat off his brow, took out the water-skin, and drank. Only when he put it back he realised that Strider's gaze rested on a small stalk with little leaves, which he turned between his fingers.

   “Is this another kind of herb? What's its name?”

   “I do not know its name.” Strider was silent for a long time. He remembered the day Arwen had plighted her troth with him. He had made the Ring of Barahir a gift for her to keep for the time they were parted, and had promised her to fight the darkness wherever he would encounter it. He had rejoiced in her confidence in him; that she had given him faith he had not felt himself. It had been the most wonderful day of his life, and by now it seemed so far away as Earendil. He sighed. The memory of her benign smile, her soft voice, and the sweet warmth of her skin was all that was left to him now.

   “Is it a good memory at least?” Daevan closed the water-skin and once more turned his gaze to the purple sky. It was getting darker. Crickets sang in the grass.

   Strider woke from his reverie and took a deep breath.

   “Aye, a good one. These leaves… They look like elanor. I once walked upon them far away… in Lothlórien.”

   Daevan looked at the little green flower, which was not yet to blossom.

   “Another place only lore tells about for I think that no one ever saw it.”

   “It is real. I stayed there a long time ago.”

   Daevan curled his lips to a mocking smile.

   “And there you found the woman you loved, but her father kicked you out of his home.”

   Strider drew breath as if he wanted to answer, but then hesitated, frowning.

   “It was not like that,” he then said flat-voiced.

   “But you obviously did not you get what you wanted.”

   “Not as long as I have not proven myself worthy of her.”

   Daevan gaped at him.

   “What is she? A Valar?”

   Strider let go of his breath with a faint and sad smile, telling more about his sorrow than his whispered words.

   “She is one of the Eldar… an Elf.”

   Daevan sat in silence for a while, and only watched Strider's face. Never had he seen the wanderer so sad, and his yearning seemed like an old wound that would not mend. There was no mistake about the heavy burden Strider carried, and that he would never be content though he had achieved victories and led the people of Rohan and Gondor through hard times. Still what he desired most was out of his reach. Daevan sighed. He had not yet bound himself to a woman though Doran had pointed out several daughters within the village and even one from the settlement at the Anduin. So he could not imagine what it meant to a man of Strider's age to wait for his beloved for a time uncounted.

   “What have you got to do to prove yourself?” he asked after yet another long pause.

   Strider stared at the ground, slowly shook his head, and let go of the stalk.

   “I do not know what lies before me. I do not know if I will ever be able to fulfil the expectations set into me.”

   Daevan cleared his throat.

   “Can there be more for you to do than you already did? I mean, the father of that girl would not want you to become… well, the ruler of Gondor or Rohan, would he?”

   “Gondor and Arnor,” Strider said quietly and not for Daevan to hear.

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter Seventeen

Through the Downs

   Strider distrusted the open land the longer their advance endured. He remembered well the villages that once had been among the soft hills. Rohan had always been sparsely populated, but the wanderer sensed evil in the absence of any man or woman in East Emnet. They found nothing but the remnants of huts, which had been deserted some time ago, and replenished their provisions as best as they could. To Daevan's surprise Strider took some chicken feathers with him, but his good mood did not last long. Even to the young man, it seemed as if the Rohirrim had withdrawn from the land to a safer haven and had taken all their steeds with them.

   Yet, the two men did not suffer hunger. With the arrows, he had retrieved after the assault of the wolf pack, Strider shot rabbits at need to replenish their provisions. It was time-consuming yet unavoidable, and Daevan learned how to sustain himself beyond the fen known to him. They found young berries and roots, which could be saved for later. And from the twigs and feathers Strider made himself new arrows while they sat at night by the campfire.

   Daevan realised that his childhood and adolescence now lay a long way behind him. He had learned so much since he had left the village. He thanked his grand-father with every prayer he sent home that he had urged, even shoved him out of the hut to accompany the Great Warrior. Still, Daevan thought that it would be nice to meet the old man again and tell him of the adventures he had lived through. His joy at standing on his own feet and proving himself was spoiled by the knowledge that he might return home too late to ever talk with his grand-father again.

   They crossed the great plain of Rohan in hurried marches. Strider was still relentlessly driven by the need to find the creature, and unlike Daevan, the wanderer did not undertake the journey of his own free will. By now the young man sensed that there was far more behind the hunt. Strider looked as if years of sorrow lay heavily upon his brow, and that his shoulders were bent though he walked upright. Daevan guessed more than he knew that Strider's imperturbability was a facade. Yet he found no way to ask him, and there were days when the wanderer did not talk at all and his mind seemed many miles beyond the path they trod.

   Daevan grew stronger inside. He learned to read the signs of the weather and the wind; he learned to differentiate between the tracks of deer, rabbit, and other animals. He learned to wield the sword given to him. He was the eager pupil of a man, who had much to teach, and with every league they covered he felt more secure in what he did. By following the wanderer's steps he took in many details and would have been able to recall them at need. Though Strider seemed distant at times he was always friendly and observant, easy-going and calm. With every day they shared Daevan could better imagine the Great Warrior to be a leader of armies, a hero, and an example. There he was: a man, who could wield a sword so quickly and strongly that enemies would give up the battle before it had even begun. Then he was: a teacher, whose calmness and benign demeanour taught much more than how to deflect a blade. Again he was: the determined warrior, who did not yield or give up, even if it cost him dear.

   By the first night in the South Downs, where the grass grew thin and the soil hard and dry, Daevan sat down to wipe the blade clean. He had much more confidence in his own skill by now, and it showed. Still all the lessons had only been executed without any intention to cause harm. It would be different to cross blades with an enemy. He thought of the Orcs in his village, the warg, and the wolves. Alone, he would have been lost even though he had carried a weapon. Deep in thought, the young man sheathed the blade, and his hand glided over the hilt. Strider sat beside him and took out a pouch with cloth and oil.

   “You will prove yourself,” he said quietly, but convincingly.

   Daevan exhaled.

   “Did you feel despair in times past? Did you ever think of losing… in all those fights you fought?”

   Strider let the cloth run along the silver shining blade.

   “I did, but I kept on going.”

   “It is hard to imagine standing beside a man, who is never afraid,” Daevan said without lifting his head.

   The wanderer lowered the blade to rest on his crossed legs.

   “You have a noble opinion of me, Daevan, but it is based on lore - stories of old, dressed in garments I never wore.” Daevan lifted his brows in open disbelief. “You think I am strong because I fought many battles, but that strength was born out of need. I was afraid many times, and even despaired at the sight of the tasks ahead of me. Though I won with the hosts I led, there were many dead to mourn for, and I lost friends every time I set out. That is hard on every man, and he wishes not to live through those times again.”

   Daevan lifted his chin.

   “But if you despaired… How could you go on?”

   “There was no other way. To abandon those in need would have condemned them to serve the Enemy or get killed. I could not retreat.” Daevan frowned, and Strider put a hand on his shoulder. His voice was deep and sincere when he continued, and a small smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Your friend Dinúvren ventured into the Dead Marshes to save a stranger from certain death. And you followed him without question. So do not think of me, but of Dinúvren and yourself. It is your courage that should be praised.”

   The young fisherman shook his head.

   “What was our deed compared to yours? Nothing but…”

   “Nay, there is no comparison, Daevan. It was a selfless act to risk your lives. Yet not even for a friend, but for someone, who could have turned out to be an enemy.” Strider pressed Daevan’s shoulder, then released him. “Every deed has its time, and I am grateful and will not forget yours.”

   Daevan grinned. He could not help it. He had never been praised like that. It was a good feeling. And since he had never considered his act as brave, it was even better to be honoured by Thorongil himself.

   “Doran once said you could even talk the dead tree of Minas Tirith into blossoming again. I think he is right.”

~~~~

   After a day with heavy rain, the grey clouds drifted to grant the wanderers warm rays of sunshine. Though the wold and the North Downs were known to be scanty, the change of weather and rising temperatures turned it into a sea of small flowers, blossoming in yellow and light blue. Birds of different colours circled the air, and flocks of butterflies flew up high when the wanderers passed them by. Daevan would have halted to stare in wonder, and while he trotted behind the wanderer, he promised himself that he would once return to this place. Then he laughed about himself: little did he know of what would happen while spring and summer lasted.

   The travellers had already crossed many leagues when they reached the Limlight at the eastern rim of Fangorn Forest. And while the forest loomed with old, bent trees like gloomy guardians of their own small world, Daevan's gaze turned east to the Field of Celebrant yonder the river. In the glistening sunlight reflecting on the water, he tried to imagine what it had been like to ride and march out to meet an enemy so much stronger than the host the Rohirrim and Gondorians could muster. But the battle had been won, and the truce between the two winning peoples had been renewed.

   “Did you ride for the Rohirrim because of the treaty with Gondor?” Daevan asked when they settled down to rest for the night.

   “I accompanied the King of Rohan in a time of need,” Strider simply replied and was about to turn to the other side to sleep when Daevan said with the edge of impatience:

   “Could you not put some fat to the fish?”

   Strider turned back, honestly puzzled.

   “Fat to the fish?”

   Daevan waved his hands to find the right words to explain.

   “It's a saying of my people. It means to tell the whole story; to give more than the bones of the fish. To not withhold what is true or necessary to understand.”

   Strider sat up again, raising his eyebrows.

   “And you ask me to put fat to the fish and tell you the whole story?”

   “Aye.”

   The older man curled his lips to a grin.

   “My elder brother used to look at me like you do now. He always knew when I had done something that was forbidden. And then it was up to him to explain my behaviour.”

   “Why should he?” Daevan asked.

   “He was by far older than I. And our father expected him to take care of me. As he did. For most of the time.”

   The regretful and yet playful expression made Daevan smile.

   “The Great Warrior has a past of his own. And very different from what people might think.” Strider bowed curtly, and they both laughed. “You have a way of digressing, Strider,” he said then, “but is there a reason that you keep your past to yourself?”

   Strider lowered his gaze.

   “When you will have walked Middle-earth for as long a time I have, you will come to understand that there are not many stories you wish to recall. I served King Thengel to save his kingdom from ruin. His men were valiant and strong, but lacked experience. The host was scattered, the tidings would have taken too long to reach the settlements. And if his own home or Gondor were in need, the Eorlingas would get to know of it much too late. My deeds therefore did not lie only with the strength of my hand or the sharpness of my sword, but with counselling the king. He ordered the most experienced men to teach the young. He installed mighty bells on the hills to be heard for miles around. He named errand riders to bring tidings to his allies and receive them the same way. And the old watch-fires on the tops of the mountains were used again.” Strider looked at Daevan gravely. “So my deeds differ from what you were told, I suppose.”

   Daevan shook his head slightly.

   “Doran used to describe you as a Lord among Men, a leader, who was afraid of no one, but to whom enemies would bow and yield. Maybe he told this because this is what he saw in you: the man, who could turn a group of men into determined warriors with a cause to ride to war.”

   “I would have wanted for no man to ride with me. Many battles have already been fought, and there many a good men died.” His voice dropped low and got raspy. “When I walked the Morgul Vale months ago, I wished for the Dark Lord himself to step forward and challenge me.” Daevan shuddered. “Then it would have been a fight, in which only he or I could have fallen. There would have been no more Orc hordes to fulfil the Enemy's commands, no more hosts from Gondor to stand and fight them back. It would have been a single fight. One would have vanquished the other.” Strider drew in breath. “I cannot recall for how many days and nights I wandered in the east, searching for Gollum. And every hour I expected the Enemy's minions to catch me.” He smirked suddenly. “Yet it did not come to pass, and I reached the Dead Marshes unharmed. Only to almost drown myself.”

   “That loss would have been mourned for by more than one people.” Daevan felt a sudden heaviness on his mind. Though he said the words, it was obvious that no one of Gondor or Rohan would ever have come to know these evil tidings. The great Thorongil would have been accounted for dead if he had not met his companions, but they would not have known where he had died.

   “Your words are kind, but it seems to me that I was spared for my tasks are not yet fulfilled. I failed to catch Gollum. It is on me to find him again.”

   With that, he turned, drew up the blanket over his shoulders and left Daevan alone with his thoughts.

~~~~

   They reached the easternmost part of Fangorn Forest, and Daevan had nightmares about boughs stooping towards him and accusing him of cutting wood where it was forbidden. He woke with a cry on his lips, and felt sheepish when Strider looked at him inquiringly. Daevan composed himself and smoothed strands of hair out of his face. Still he did not like to turn his back to the trees.

   “I found some rabbit bones yonder the trees.” Strider wrinkled his nose. The morning air was still chilly, and mist billowed like a soft cloak over the river and the meadows beyond. “We might have gained on Gollum.”

   “He came the same way then.” Daevan lifted his gaze distrustfully toward the tall, strong tree trunks with their long and ramified branches. They looked like giant hands with thin fingers, stretching toward the wanderers. Daevan felt scrutinized. “Will we catch up with him before he reaches the mountains?”

   “Even if we had wings, there are many miles between Fangorn and the Misty Mountains. Gollum will reach the foot-hills first.”

   Daevan's gaze turned westward.

   “There will be no tracks to find on hard stone.”

   “Aye.” Strider rolled up his cloak and bound it to his pack before he rose.

   “Then how will you find that creature? The mountains will be full of… clefts, holes, entrances to caves that might lead on for miles beneath the mountain top. He could hide anywhere.”

   Strider shouldered his pack and waited for Daevan to do the same.

   “Nay, he cannot. There are tunnels in many directions, but entrances are few. Ages ago, the Dwarves built there many ways, but closed natural entrances to secure their hoard. The one entrance I know of lies north. There we will go.”

   Daevan raised his brows, but said naught. Even though he might have had hope to capture Gollum while they crossed the plain, the chance to find him among boulders and rock plates was small.

~~~~

   To Daevan's unspoken surprise, Strider directed his steps toward the forest. The young man fell behind, and when Strider turned to ask for the reason, Daevan lifted his gaze to the mighty treetops, which spread their branches like a roof, impenetrable by the sun.

   “Did you not say we would not enter Fangorn?”

   “The river is ahead of us. We need some wood to build a float.”

   “Some dead wood, I assume.”

   “Aye. Come on, give me a hand.”

   Carefully, and with his eyes everywhere Daevan entered Fangorn Forest. It was a gloomy, fey, and oppressive aura about the trees and their young leaves. Though spring had begun the ground was covered with withered twigs, moss, and lichen, which clung to the twisted knots of roots. Some had crept up a trunk, and in the moist darkness spread their tiny spores. Leaves rustled and twigs cracked under Daevan's boots. The air was filled with the smell of rotten soil and fungi. He stooped to collect boughs thick enough to carry weight, and while he went here and there, went deeper into the oldest forest of Middle-earth. Strider had walked ahead of him, but when the young fisherman straightened, he could see him no more. He turned in every direction, even lifted his gaze. A soft wind set the leaves in motion, and through the twigs with their light and young green, rays of sunshine sparkled as if they were playing a melody only they could hear. Daevan smiled. Fangorn was a forest like any other, he thought, and the Rohirrim only frightened their children. Somewhere a thick bough cracked, and others followed, making rustling noises. Daevan turned once more. The wind was too soft to move the larger branches, and yet he descried them waving yonder where the darkness prevailed. Frowning he got closer, inspired by the idea of telling Strider that the old lore was nothing but nonsense. Yet when he stepped further inside, he heard another sound: a soft whisper, coming to him on the wave of the wind. And there in the strong, grey-clad trunk he could see eyes, dots of dark yellow that turned towards him. Daevan swallowed, then gripped the boughs tighter and pivoted on his heels. There were only trees around him, and he thought them to be more dense and standing closer to each other than before, barring the path. Then he thought of the frightened Rohirrim children, straightened, and marched back the way he had come without erring once. Strider already waited for him. His load lay at the river bank, and he had taken a coil of rope out of his pack.

   “Where have you been, my young friend? One might get lost when venturing too deep into Fangorn.”

   “Aye.” Daevan glanced back over his shoulder. The trees stood unmoved and at the same places they had stood before. Shaking his head, Daevan gave Strider a hand to bind the boughs to a float.

   The Limlight was narrow compared to the Anduin, but still deep and wide enough to possess a considerable current. Strider fixed the last knots on the float when the sun reached its peak. Both wanderers took off their clothes and boots and loaded the small raft with their belongings. Daevan was glad they had come to the river in spring. Still it was a challenge to lower oneself into the icy cold water. Daevan shuddered when the current gripped him. He held tight to one side of the float while Strider took the other. Together they swam carefully and slowly across the river, needing all their strength to fight the current and avoid being taken too far downstream. Playfully, Daevan lifted his chin out of the spray. He was an excellent swimmer, and enjoyed the bath in the clear, cold water. For too long he had missed the exaltation of floating with the waves. The Limlight bore no threat, and when the wanderers reached the northern shore Daevan was disappointed. Strider looked at him amused.

   “Your mood has lightened,” he said quietly and collected his garments, which had stayed almost dry.

   “Aye, whose mood would not rise when having such a ride?” Daevan inhaled deeply and put on his shirt and trousers again.

   “I would not wittingly disarm myself if there was no need,” Strider replied and fumbled to get his wet arms into the sleeves of his shirt. “Yet… the ride was pleasant.”

   “We could catch some fish…,” Daevan proposed with a sparkle in his eyes.

   “We could if we had the time.”

   Grinning impishly, Daevan filled their water-skins, while Strider reclaimed his rope. They saved the wood to kindle a fire. After a short meal, they set out westward toward the towering foothills of the Misty Mountains.

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter Eighteen

Moria – Part One –

   A three day's march was ahead of them, and Daevan thought about Strider's revelations about his life. In sight of the mountain slope they settled for another night to rest, and the young man asked hesitantly:

   “Are you… an Elf?”

   Strider stopped chewing and looked up.

   “I am not. Why?”

   Daevan summoned his courage to go on, and again felt sheepish. His hands played with the leather thong of the water-skin.

   “Of all that you told me… I mean, that woman you plighted a troth with is an Elf, you said. And… it appears to me that your foster-father might be too. You said that your brother was much older, and, hum, you said you are quite old.”

   Strider swallowed the bite of dried meat and gave a slight nod.

   “You are right to say so. But I am no Elf. Yet I was raised among them.”

   “At Rivendell.”

   “Aye.”

   “Nilana said you talked in your sleep. And I heard it, too, but did not understand it. So that might have been… Elvish talk?”

   “Sindarin.”

   “I thought all people spoke Common Speech.”

   Strider held back his smile.

   “Nay, Daevan, many folks have their own languages though Common Speech is known to all of them. There is Rohirric, there is Dwarvish, there is the rolling tongue of the Haradrim and that of the Easterlings. And the Black Speech… of Mordor.” Strider lowered his gaze. “But of that we hopefully will not hear a word.”

   Daevan swallowed, but cast aside the shiver he felt creeping up his spine.

   “Do you know all these languages?”

   “Aye, some better than others. Rohirric is well known to me. And since the Elves once had dealings with the Dwarves, I know of some phrases. I have not used it for a long time though.”

   Daevan was impressed, but tried to hide it. He let go of the thong.

   “Will there be Dwarves in the mountains?”

   “The last tidings I know of said that the Dwarves reclaimed their colony,” Strider said with a glance at the sky, overcast with grey clouds carrying unshed rain. “But there will be Orcs too.”

   Daevan swallowed and tried to keep his voice even.

   “Will at least the Dwarves be… friendly?”

   Strider's lips curled to a grin.

   “The Dwarves are quick with their anger, and quick with their axes. But if you gain their trust, they are loyal friends.” He unfolded his cloak to use as cover for the night. “We can only hope to encounter them in a moment of peace.”

~~~~

   For ten days they plodded through the vast mountain slopes, seeking footholds with care, cautious to avoid rubble. After he had slipped down a few yards and abraded his shins and palms Daevan had cursed, but been more alert than before. And ever and anon they had to cross ancient ravines, gaping before them maliciously. Strider's gaze restlessly swept the sky as if he feared to meet with danger from above. They ascended craggy hills only to descend them on the other side, and their way was dreadful and meant to make them despair. No living soul crossed their path, and the search for food grew more difficult. Yet Daevan was willing to continue as long as Strider found his way without hesitation.

   They looked inside every cave and tunnel, but found no further sign of Gollum. Daevan saw Strider's face turn grim every time they moved on, trying to find their way. They had left the slopes and sought their way through small paths and under overhanging ledges, ever watchful and aware of foes hiding behind rock plates. At some places, the passage was so narrow they had to unload their packs and shove themselves to the other side. And more often than not they found the path coming to an abrupt halt beyond which were chasms they could not cross. Nevertheless, they made progress northward, and though Daevan thought the road would never end, Strider announced that they were getting closer to the Dimrill Dale.

   As the days passed, they grew more careful. One night they heard Orcs nearing their path on patrol and quickly hid in a narrow cave. From that night on Strider forbade Daevan to kindle a fire, and their nights grew chill and uncomfortable. They shortened their rations, but still their provisions were not adequate for weeks in the bare lands of the mountains.

   For their camp that night, they chose to take shelter from the rain under a wide ledge, but the wind blew spray into their hiding place, and they shivered with the sudden cold. Spring had not yet come to the Misty Mountains. The peaks still carried snowcaps, and in the morning, the trails were slippery with frozen wetness. Daevan sought his way with care, and while Strider halted on a steep ridge to scrutinize the surrounding peaks and dales, the young man asked:

   “What will you do once you have captured that beast?”

   Strider glanced over his shoulder, watching Daevan come up to him. His breath created small clouds of vapour in the morning chill.

   “I will deliver him.”

   “And then?”

   “Take up my duties as a Ranger again.”

   “A Ranger?” Daevan straightened beside him and looked across the small valley before them. “You are a Ranger? I heard of them, but… I considered them to be, well, legend.”

   “Well, they are not. There are few left of us now, but they still prove their value in the northern lands and west of the Misty Mountains.”

   “What are they?”

   “Guardians of peace.” Strider turned to move on, frowning. “The entrance to the mountains is ahead of us. So your decision is made?”

   “Must I repeat myself?”

   “This is my task to fulfil, and only I must walk that way, even if it is perilous. The journey could come to a bad end very soon,” Strider said, glancing over his shoulder while he walked up the slope.

   “So be it,” said Daevan with a shrug.

   Strider flinched at the light tone.

   “I do not wish you to come to such an end. You are -”

   “Too young?” Daevan's voice got an edge to it as he continued, “Let me tell you then I am mature. And you insult me by thinking otherwise.”

   Again Strider was taken aback by the fierceness of the young fisherman. At the same time he was content to see the change. This was not a boy's decision to go on an adventure.

   “Still you should…”

   Daevan passed him by, his jaw set.

   “You don't need to watch over me.” With long strides he climbed the slope. On its far end the Dimrill Dale shone in the rising sun.

   “The gods may bless that decision,” Strider said quietly and not for Daevan to hear.

-o-o-o-o-

   The wanderers approached more carefully, now that the Dimrill Stairs came into sight. They sought cover behind a boulder when footsteps approached across the hewn steps with their white and grey stone. Two Orcs in tattered clothes with pieces of armour about them and spears in their stout hands went by on crooked legs. Sniffing the chill evening air, they turned their broad heads here and there, baring snouts rather than faces under notched helmets, which shone dimly beneath the dirt. Dull yellow eyes swept the pathway. They grumbled in their tongue, but when they saw and heard nothing they trod on.

   Daevan let go of his breath. The sight of the foes on the very path to the Dimrill Gate frightened him. How many of them would they meet ere they reached the gate Strider had told him about? And would there be many of them? Would Moria be overrun by Orcs, or did the Dwarves still rule? He swallowed his fear. Strider moved on, soundlessly, vigilant, and bent to be a smaller target. They approached the stairs in the backs of the enemies. Slowly they drew near until they could smell their foul stench and hear their fell voices. Strider gestured the young man to wait, and Daevan reluctantly complied. The day waned quickly; already had the sun plunged behind the mountain peak, and the light grew dim. From a few yards across their way, the young man heard the quick lashing of a sword, a growl, and a muffled shriek of utter fear. Then silence fell again. Daevan turned around, observing any change. But the wind had calmed, and no birds circled the air. No one moved beyond the rocks. When Strider returned he wiped clean the blade of his sword to sheathe it again.

   “We better hurry. There will be more of them at night.”

   They crossed toward the stairs, and by the last glimpse of light lowered into another hiding-place. There were more Orcs coming their way. Daevan counted four and held his breath. They could not fight them all at the same time. There would be one at last to return.

   Hideous mouths with sharp teeth parted, and one of them growled,

   “I smell blood! Go, hurry, that way! They're out here somewhere!”

   And they scattered to climb nimbly over boulders and through clefts to vanish out of sight. Strider rose, and they marched into the opposite direction.

   “Will they not find them and know we are here?”

   “That cannot be helped,” Strider replied under his breath. “We must face that threat in any case now.”

   They evaded three more creatures by crouching in the shadows of large rocks and made it safely to the last boulder. In the cover of a thorny thicket, they lay to watch the gate beyond the vast plateau of rock plates in white and grey. The entrance had once been beautifully carved, back in times that now belonged to myth. The columns were cracked or broken, some statuettes smeared with scrawls, and all over them weeds had grown, covering the letters welcoming the guests to the halls of the mighty Dwarves under the mountain.

   “Hurry, the doors are ajar,” Strider whispered and was up and on the path a moment later. Daevan followed swift.

   They entered the darkness of Moria.

~~~~

   Strider crouched down at the left side of the wall, evading unfriendly eyes. The stairway in the mountain before them was vast, even to the Great Warrior it was breathtaking. Though the old stories were known to him, he had never imagined Moria to be of such unrivalled beauty. The cavern was lofty, sixty paces high, and the stairs winding through seemed to be endless, going in sharp turns down and up, leading to tunnels, which lurked black and ominous. He waited until his eyes had adjusted to the twilight fed by torches along the main wall. He rested his back against the stone, listening to the sounds around him.

   Daevan crouched beside the wanderer, gaping at the constructions the Dwarves had accomplished so long ago. Fully lit he would have seen the patterns along the walls and ceiling, telling the story of the Dwarves in detail. They had toiled long yet in happiness to create the Dwarrowdelf, the home of the free folk. Since the early days the Dwarves had loved everything that was made of rock, and ore, and precious stones, and they had dedicated all their skill to forging dead things into beautiful shapes. Daevan tried to imagine laughter and feasts in the vast halls and on the stairways, but could not. It was a dim and foul light about all that he saw, and from the shadows creatures crawled on crooked legs, hissing as they met with others of their race.

   “Where are the Dwarves?” Deavan whispered. He followed Strider down the first flight of stairs. They were walking too much in the open for his taste, but it could not be helped; the only way to pass into the mines was the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. “Should they not be on guard here?”

   “I cannot tell. There are more ways under the mountains than you and I can imagine. We-“ He stopped, pressed Daevan down into the shadow of the stairway and listened. Iron-shod feet marched by. Two voices could be distinguished. They talked quietly with each other, and their Common Speech was mixed with words of another language.

   “Should be here by now,” the first one growled in a deep voice.

   “I did not trust him at all,” said the second one with a lisp.

   “Patrol's not back yet. We'll see.”

   They turned at the next corner and their voices faded away.

   Strider came out of hiding, and slowly, carefully both men climbed the remaining steps. Daevan felt his heart in his mouth. A torch diffused its flickering light across the wall, and like ghosts shadows danced. He swallowed his fear. The wanderer hurried to the nearest corner, and his face, half in light and shadow, turned grim.

   “More than Orcs,” he said under his breath. “The servants of Mordor are multiplying.” He halted, listened, and then moved on.

   Daevan stayed close behind him, but one thought did not leave him: how could they find a creature smaller than a man in the mines of Moria with so many foes around?

Note: Since you had to wait for chapter 18 quite long, here comes chapter 19. As RS put it so very fittingly: fasten your seatbelts, please!

- T.

~~~~~

Chapter Nineteen

Moria – Part Two –

   Their advance was slow. Sounds reverberated around the hallways. They seemed to come from every direction, and ever and anon, the wanderers halted and strained their ears. Two groups of Orcs marched by, and Strider and Daevan pressed themselves sideways against the walls. Crouching they waited until the creatures were gone, talking about prey and blood, and how they would feast upon their enemies. When the noise ebbed away, Strider went back on the main path. They delved deeper into the mountain. Daevan turned and looked back. Beyond the abyss, the last light of the waning day shone through the doors at the Dimrill Gate.

   “Come, hurry!” Strider urged, and after the next bend, Daevan could see the entrance no more.

   The ways were lit where the Orcs used them frequently, but Daevan realised that the system of tunnels and crossways was much larger than any horde could occupy. Encountering the enemy could be avoided, and Strider had an excellent sense of hearing. So they walked on, peering left and right into openings and rooms. They did not halt until they were both stumbling with fatigue.

   “We need to rest,” Daevan pleaded when they halted at a watchmen's chamber and looked around to make sure they were still alone. “I already feel that I have marched through half the mountain.”

   “We have not.” Strider's smile was strained. “But what we need is to find the main hall and a fountain.”

   “Aye.” Daevan pulled himself up off the wall and moved on, glancing back over his shoulder. “Quick, hide!” He pushed Strider into a smaller tunnel and ran after him. He swallowed hard. Their hiding-place was narrow and not secure, but they had ducked not a moment too soon: a brawling group of Orcs tramped their way. They were quarrelling over a dead rabbit. There was shoving and punching. It got rougher with every step, until the first pulled a knife to ram it into his opponent's belly. The Orc shrieked in dismay and went down bleeding. The first took the rabbit, baring his mighty teeth.

   “And don't ya dare take it from me!” he barked. “I'd take ya down too!” He growled at them, and the others slackened their speed, whining, snarling, but intimidated by the big Orc's stance. They retreated while the other trod past Strider and Daevan without ever turning his head into their direction.

   Daevan allowed himself to breathe again. The stench of blood and Orc saturated the air, but he was grateful to have escaped. He was sure they had feasted upon them both if they had detected them.

   “You have learned much,” Strider praised him and slowly rose from where he was crouching. “I am glad to have your company."

   “Aye.” Daevan smiled feebly, but his eyes roamed here and there, making sure they could continue their march. He was so weary he wished that they could find a small chamber to lock themselves into and get a good night's sleep.

   They continued their march warily. It became warmer as they went deeper, down the slopes, which wound west and north. Daevan glanced back again. Though the tunnels were only dimly lit, Daevan could have found his way back to the Dimrill Dale. Being used to memorizing ways through the fen, he had no difficulty in orientating himself by stones and scratches in the rock. He left some pebbles at corners, securing them out of the way of walking feet. And ever and anon he saw Dwarvish runes on the walls, and though he could not read them he memorised the form.

   Strider raised his hand, signalling Daevan to come to a halt. Lowering himself on to one knee, he peered around the corner. More torches were lit in the adjoining tunnel, almost enough to see the way beyond the hall. Voices could be heard, Orcs and Men, and the smell of meat, burning over an open fire, and wafting toward them. Gesturing, Daevan crept closer. A large hall lay before him, supported by columns. To his left the laughter and noises were loudest. Tankard clanked, boots stomped on the hard ground, and growls were emitted when two Orcs fought about a piece of the prey.

   “They have something to drink.”

   “Aye”, Strider nodded. “There must be a well nearby.”

   Securing their passage, they hurried on, leaving the area of bright light as quickly as possible. But Daevan was already weary, kept on his feet solely by the will of the wanderer and the necessity to find a safe spot to rest. He stumbled, and the chape scraped over the tiles. It was not loud enough to rouse the men feasting behind them, but it did not pass unheard. They crossed at the outer side of the hall and were about to leave it when the sound of iron-shod boots brought them to a skidding halt.

   “That way!” Daevan urged, pointing toward a tunnel, which was small and led away from the beasts approaching them. Strider nodded, and in haste they made for the narrow passage.

   Daevan pressed his sword tight against his thigh and ran. There was little to be seen, and he hoped he would not crash face forward into a wall, but the way led gently down in soft curves. He heard Strider's laboured breathing behind him, but nothing else. After a hundred paces, he halted and turned. They listened. Nothing. Not a single sound. Daevan breathed through his wide-open mouth, slowing down his racing heartbeat. Strider held his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to fight any shadow. They waited in vain. Finally, the wanderer nodded, and Daevan saw just how tired he was.

   “We have to rest,” he whispered urgently, but Strider passed him by, shaking his head.

   “This is no place to rest.”

   On legs quivering with exhaustion, they moved on, halting here and there to listen into the darkness. Then they heard it: water dripping from a source they could not yet see. It was a hollow sound, echoing from the walls. Then another sound was added: a bucket was lowered over a rope, screeching on the hinges. Daevan stepped forward, but Strider held him back. There was another sound emerging closer by.

   The scraping of metal against metal.

-o-o-o-o-

   Strider unsheathed his sword faster than the enemy could hew him down with his blade. The blades clashed with each other, and in the flickering light of three torches, Strider saw that his opponent was a tall and strong Orc, bearing the sign of a white hand on his helmet. He thrust Strider back, opened his mouth to mock him and pressed forward with a yell. He never saw Daevan's sword; it was embedded in his flesh the same moment. The Orc thudded on the ground. Daevan swallowed hard, pulled out his blade and faced the next foe, raising his blade immediately to avoid being decapitated. Strider scrambled to his feet, sword raised; ready to defend the way back. The Orcs were many. He counted seven, and he knew there would be more soon.

   “Retreat!” Strider shouted over the clamour.

   Daevan nodded, hewed the arm off an Orc, who had advanced too recklessly. The beast clutched the stump and fell forward with a piercing cry. The young fisherman fought well, but knew his abilities and strength had limits. Already he had fenced off two .Strider thrust his blade into the side of one fierce goblin. Daevan dodged a blow and parried the next. In the upward momentum, he punched his opponent in the face, and when he stumbled back, Daevan finished him with a thrust into his throat. Yet another took his place, and his blade would have ended the young man's life if Strider had not deflected the blow with his own sword. Daevan was granted a moment to catch his breath and to kill the Orc with one stroke. Strider nodded his approval, and they both shuffled backwards once more, giving in to the pressing numbers of foes. Daevan raised his blade, weary, out of breath, yet determined to defend himself, when suddenly Strider pushed him hard into the right side.

   “Out of here! Find your way back!”

   Daevan looked back, saw Strider's grim and determined face before the warrior launched his weapon again and barred the way to keep the enemies from pursuing his companion. Daevan tumbled down the narrow passage, unable to find a hold. He heard the clanking of the blades fade away. In a desperate attempt to stop his slide, he stretched out his hand while the other clung to his sword, but caught only scree. He grazed his palms and bit back a cry of pain. Down and down he slid, as if pulled by unseen fingers, and he feared he would fall into an abyss and never be able to reach the surface again. Yet, presently his right foot hit a larger stone, and immediately Daevan clung to it with his free hand before he slipped past it. Breathing heavily, he listened to the now faint sounds of the fight. His muscles tensed and quivered; he was at the end of his strength. Dust was in his nose and covered his face, and his body hurt from blows and the slide. He did not know if he was wounded, and in here, it was too dark to see. With an effort, he sheathed his sword to keep his hands free to climb downwards.

-o-o-o-o-

   Strider retreated, challenging the remaining Orcs to follow him. Sharp orders came up from behind. A man's voice bellowed:

   “Catch him alive! No hacking and slashing with this tark!”

   The tunnel allowed only two Orcs to fight side by side at the same time, and Strider fended them off skilfully. His right arm bore scratches already, but the wounds could be neglected. Knowing they would not kill him, he fought recklessly, diminishing the goblins with mighty strokes. When his back touched an edge, he blindly chose the even smaller path. He could not heed where he was going or if the way led to another. Too many goblins pressed toward him, cornering him like wolves corner their prey. When he glanced over his shoulder he realised he had chosen a dead end. He cursed under his breath. The Orcs were multiplying, and he had nowhere to run.

   The Orcs drew closer, yelling, hissing, waving their scimitars. Strider stood with his back pressed tight against the wall, hitting his blade left and right, cutting down his enemies and filling the way with their dead bodies, yet there were many waiting to take the places of the fallen.

   Suddenly there was a sound of stone grinding on stone behind him. The wall moved! Darkness, even darker than were he was standing, opened behind him as if the depth of the mountain itself was bending toward him. The Orcs shrieked in sudden fear, and for a heartbeat, they stopped fighting. Strider felt a breath of wind, then strong hands pulling at his cloak. He stepped backwards, still brandishing his sword at those, who had recovered quickly from the shock. Strider dared to look over his shoulder, but the same moment a goblin launched his weapon. He deflected it by instinct, but stumbled backwards from a heavy pull on his garments. He could not regain his balance, but fell on his back, right into the darkness. From the left side a solid rock closed the gap, shutting out the enemies with a dull sound. Strider hit the back of his head, but still held the hilt of his sword. The Orcs outside on the path shrieked in dismay as they watched the gap close again, separating them from their prey. Strong arms held Strider on the ground. He heard the muffled cries of his enemy, but only saw the outlines of four stout figures when a club appeared before him and sent him to oblivion.

~~~~

   Daevan heard the echo of shrill cries reverberating through the tunnel. He tried to imagine how the Great Warrior fought his enemies and that they were dismayed at how ferociously one man could withstand their vicious strength. Through his admiration for Thorongil, he felt the sting of hurt pride: he had been shoved out of harm's way. Strider had found him too inept to fight on and stand beside him to the end. While Daevan was lying in the darkness and the sounds ebbing away, he ground his teeth. The sudden onslaught of the Orcs had been gruesome, but Daevan was sure that together they would have won. He listened again: the fighting had ended; yet the Orcs scuffled over the ground, gnarling and bellowing. They did not sound as if they captured their prey, and in the darkness, Daevan smiled grimly: Strider had escaped as he had anticipated.

   Slowly he crawled through the dark tunnel, feeling his way more than he saw it, until the way ended in a larger pathway, leading left and right and to a chasm where the stair had been destroyed ages ago. Daevan realised he was alone. There was no protection now for him. There was no assurance he would be able to find the Great Warrior again. Even if he had fended off the enemies by now, none of them knew where the other would head. Suddenly the chill of fear crept upon Daevan. Strider had ordered him to find a way out; to retreat to the dale. But that was not what he wanted to do. Though Strider had finally abandoned him, he would summon his strength and courage and remain in Moria.

   Carefully he looked to both sides and before he chose his way, he remembered the curves and turns they had taken before meeting with the Orcs. Only then, did he slide the last paces and warily moved forward to find his friend and teacher.

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter Twenty

Moria – Part Three –

   The first thing Strider noticed, was the stifling air around him, and the suffocating smell of dust and decay in a room that had not been opened for years. He tried to open his eyes, but could not. A piece of cloth over his eyes hindered him seeing his surroundings. There was whispering a few paces away, and the shuffling of boots on stony ground. His head hurt worse than after the encounter with the warg, and he moaned quietly. The whispering went on, urgent, pressed. Strider understood little, but by the words, which rolled like stones down a ravine, he knew there were Dwarves somewhere close by. He was in a cave or a chamber; the words echoed quietly off the walls. And while his consciousness reeled, he remembered the order given by the Orc chieftain to not kill him. He found no explanation, so turned to the situation at hand.

   “Show yourself!” he demanded. His words echoed much louder than he had uttered them, and a calloused hand was pressed over his mouth immediately. He jerked his head up, but could not lift his hands to defend himself. They were bound behind his back.

   “Be still!” the deep voice in front of him demanded and took away the hand. “The Orcs have ears to hear and claws to dig. And you were meant to be their meal tonight.”

   “Who are you?” Strider asked quietly into his own darkness. “And where have you taken me?”

   “Off the Orcs' plates,” the voice replied, and soft chuckling came from the other side.

   Strider swallowed. He was dizzy with pain, but glad at the same time to have encountered kinsmen of the free folk, who were the known enemies of the goblins.

   “You are Dwarves.”

   “Aye. And you are a Man rousing the Enemy at a time most unwelcome,” another Dwarf, a few feet away, growled, shuffling the sandy ground uneasily.

   Strider sensed the tension.

   “Untie me. I mean you no harm.”

   “We saw you and that young lad enter our realm. Why-“

   “Have you taken him too? Where is he?”

   The Dwarf growled again, out of anger about the man's insolence.

   “The Orcs have not got him yet... as far as we know. He might have found his way out.”

   Strider nodded slowly, hoping that what the Dwarf said was true, and the Dwarf went on.

   “You came here unbidden, and no one enters Khazad-dûm without a reason. It has become a dangerous place. Did you flee from a mighty foe you could not best?”

   “No. I came here on a hunt.”

   The whispering rose again. The Dwarves discussed what they should do with the Man, and the eldest Dwarf grumbled about the danger the stranger brought with him.

   “He will not do it,” Darin said, stumping his stick on the ground. “He is here to steal what is ours.”

   “There will not be many more,” the other, Furin, who was considered a voice of reason among the Dwarves, reminded him. “We came here to fulfil a mission, but with our brothers dead we will not accomplish our it.”

   Darin still growled into his long white beard, shaking his head again. He had seen the most winters of them all, and his experience was unrivalled. Though his garments were old and travel-worn, he had won respect and renown in his long years as a chief and teacher. Furin, who came next, was younger, but had only seen with the eyes of a simple Dwarf. His forebears reached back to the Old Days, and he, too, was a hardened fighter. Right now, they fought a battle of wills to gain what would be best for them and the perilous task ahead.

   The two younger Dwarves, Dini and Lini, waited patiently for the elder brothers' decision. They would do what Darin and Furin decided though they had their own opinions. Young and reckless they were called by their kin, but even so, they were brave and ferocious fighters. Yet, they were grieved at the loss of their companions and wished to fulfil their deed and leave the dreadful place behind.

   Lini glanced at the bound man. He had fought very bravely, and by his demeanour he was not one of the sly and deceiving Dunlendings, who had allied themselves with the Orcs and that other scum, which entered the domain of the Dwarves from time to time, plundering what was left of the once proud realm. Lini was willing to give the Man a chance. He agreed with Furin: there was another way.

   “It is too great a risk,” Darin announced decisively and placed his stout legs apart. His face was grim and unrelenting. “If we fail in our deed-“

   “We will fail if we do not at least try to get his help.” Furin snorted, then turned toward the Man. As long as he was bound, he posed no threat. Though by the way he had fought, he would most likely be a considerable danger to all of them once they released him. He had not mentioned his errand, and Darin might be right that the myth of the hoard of the Dwarves still attracted Men and they would even accept them the risk of being killed by Orcs to get to it. Eventually Furin stepped over to Strider and took away the blindfold.

   “Why did you come here?” the Dwarf asked and looked straight into the eyes of his prisoner. “And you had better be honest with me.”

   Strider squinted in the light of the only torch the Dwarves had lit. When his eyes had adjusted to it, he said:

   “I came here to search for something.”

   Furin raised his chin and quickly exchanged glances with his brothers. They were cautious.

   “Did you find it?”

   Strider tried to sit up, but Dini pressed him down again. Strider struggled only briefly, but gave in, seeing the distrust in the Dwarves' eyes.

   “No. Not yet.”

   Furin pursed his lips, then turned to Darin. The eldest Dwarf stared at him menacingly. He had never been overruled in his long life as a chief. Furin's behaviour was like a stab to his heart and his pride.

   “He might help us if we help him,” Furin whispered in Dwarvish, but Darin was too furious to even think about such a solution to their problem. His answer was a quick barking before he turned his back to Furin. “How much time do you think we have? And how many more of us must be killed before you will see and understand?” But Darin's mind was set, and Furin pondered long about the right conclusion. His shoulders sagged. For the length of their audacious journey and the many weeks they had already stayed in the mine, there had been agreement about Darin's decisions. They had ventured and fought at his side. They had mourned for the dead together, but now Furin knew that only one chance was left and that it did not lie with the Dwarves alone.

   Strider watched the Dwarves' bitter discussion. Though he could not follow every word, he understood enough Dwarvish to know Darin's last sentence: ‘Men are treacherous, and they are with him.’

   “I will not deceive you,” Strider broke into the last silence.

   Furin pierced him with his stare.

   “Our task is by far more important than anything you came for.” He waited. Lini and Dini looked at him doubtful. But finally Furin made up his mind. They had lost four companions in the caverns of Khazad-dûm. He did not wish to lose one more. “If you help us, we will help you to find that thing you are searching for.”

   “What would you have me do?”

   Again Furin hesitated. The Man's agreement was swift and without restrictions; a Dwarf would have pondered long before ever uttering a word of willingness to oblige. Furin heard Darin murmur at his back that there were no Men to be trusted, and a part of him agreed. They had never met a Man, who was trustworthy and who did not in the end steal from the hoard of the Dwarves. Men were greedy and reckless, and he knew that they all would be bound for death if he erred.

   “You will know when we get there.” Furin crossed his stout arms in front of his chest and waited. Lini mimicked the stance while Dini held the torch so they could see the prisoner's face more clearly. “We will take you with us.”

   “I agreed to helping you with your errand, whatever it may be,” Strider admitted grudgingly, “but not as a prisoner.”

   “We could leave you here like this and you would die,” Lini sneered, and his brother nodded with determination.

   Strider was not fooled, and his voice was firm when he replied:

   “Without me you will not get what you seek.”

   There was a pause in the dim light, leaden with the mixed emotions of the parties present. There was hesitation and fear, longing and doubt. The Dwarves retreated into the rear of the room. Strider watched their backs, but his thoughts were with Daevan. He hoped he would be safe by now.

   Finally, after murmurs and angry rebukes, of which Strider understood too little, to make any sense of it, Furin spoke again.

   “We agreed on letting you walk with us, but we keep your weapons and one of us will hold a leash on you.”

   “No. How shall I be of any use unarmed? The Orcs have been roused. They will patrol the ways. There is no safe passage, so you should better rely on the strength of my arm than on your distrust.”

   “Then be without hope.” Another pause followed. Aragorn shifted uncomfortably in his shackles. There was no denying that his fate rested with these Dwarves. They did not trust him any more than he trusted them. Still, they seemed to urgently need him. “Our eldest supposes you came for our treasures. Is it not so?” Lini finally asked.

   Outside the roaring command of an Orc was heard, and all fell silent. A calloused hand was pressed over Strider's mouth once more, and he could not move away from it; right behind him the rough wall hindered him. When the noise abated, the hand was taken away. The wanderer sneezed before he spoke.

   “I'm searching for a creature. His name is Gollum. He might have come here in search of a place to hide.”

   “A creature, hum?” Lini nodded slowly. “A bony, sleeking thing? We saw it. Filthy thing that! That is why you came?” he added in open disbelief.

   “Aye.” Strider exhaled. “Where did you see it?”

   “It moves here and there, but it is still here. Does it have any value for you?”

   “It does. Can you take me to him?”

   “We might.” He would not say more, so Strider asked about what they planned to do. Lini stroked his grey beard and exchanged a long, thoughtful glance with his brothers. Furin nodded curtly.

   “We have to go to a place in Khazad-dûm to open a chamber.”

   “Aye. And once you get there, what do you want? Go in or go through it?”

   “That is all you shall know for now.”

   “So if I fulfil my share, will you stay true to your word?” Aragorn demanded to know, scrutinizing his new allies. A growling by the other two Dwarves answered him, and he felt the tension rise.

   “We are Dwarves,” Furin declared solemnly and propped his short-fingered hands on his belt. “Our word is worth more than that of yours, treacherous Man!”

   “Then take away the shackles,” Strider demanded his deep and clear voice, bearing a superiority the Dwarves immediately perceived, “for I am Thorongil, and you will have heard of me. If I am to trust you, then you will have to trust me.”

   Furin hesitated when Darin shook his head decisively. Under the bushy brows, his eyes had narrowed to slits, and it was obvious he wanted to get rid of the man instead of asking for his help. Though Furin had been bold, he was no fool. Darin had seen many a war against Orcs and Men, and his distrust could not be easily overcome. Right now, they had the Man shackled and secured; he would do them no harm. But the moment they set him free would be the moment of greatest peril. He could either take what he wanted by force, or betray them to the Orcs.

   “I will not be of any help bound like this,” Strider repeated. His grey eyes rested on Furin. “And you will not burden yourself with me in that fashion.”

   “Swear by the Valar that you keep your word,” Darin demanded, holding his hand on the shaft of his axe.

   Strider turned toward him, bowing curtly.

   “I do, but I expect you to swear by Durin that you will do the same. Once your chamber is opened you will help me find Gollum.”

   “We agree,” Furin said, and finally the rope was cut. “Get up slowly. The ceiling’s too low for your stature.”

   Therefore, it came to pass that the Great Warrior became companion of four Dwarves in the deep mines of Moria.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan crouched in a small crack, shivering with fear and uncertainty. The darkness lay heavily on his mind, and it seemed as if hours had passed since he had been parted from Strider. He had crawled forward to the adjacent small corridor, and from a spot, where the torchlight did not illuminate him, watched an Orc patrol march by. By chance, the Orcs came upon a Man in tattered clothes, bearing a short bow and sword upon him, and they halted. Daevan did not understand all of their conversation, but the words “escaped” and “a den behind stone” reached his ears, and he was glad. Judged by the furious disappointment the Man displayed they had anticipated Strider's arrival and planned to capture him. Daevan frowned. The Man said something like “the beast said so” and “find him to get the precious”. Then there was a brawling, and Daevan ventured a little closer.

   “Should not have let him go,” the tall Orc said in rumbling Westron, and the Man took it like an accusation.

   “Your men watched this thing, Brúnak!” he barked. “It was you, who let it get away!”

   “I would have followed it,” Brúnak rebuked, baring long teeth. “You, Hrunas, said it's worth no more. Ask Gurim.”

   Grudgingly Hrunas complied, and his voice dropped to a growl.

   “Find the exit of that cave and get me the intruder. And the other one, too. Double the watch at the gate.”

   “Aye.”

   They parted, and Daevan sat alone in the dark. He was relieved to come to know Strider had escaped, but the tidings that the beast had reached the mountains and allied itself with the Orcs irritated and worried him. And it made his task even more difficult: the enemies would be ever watchful. Carefully he moved on. In the small clefts, there was none or little light, and he felt his way more than he saw it. It was his intention to get back to Strider somehow, though he did not know how. He decided to follow a few Orcs in secret. If they did not lead him to the Great Warrior, they might at least provide him with the information about the well. His water-skin was almost empty, and he would be in need in less than a day.

   In a passage nearby the barked command of an Orc leader resounded. Daevan braced himself and ventured on.

-o-o-o-o-

   Strider crouched low and rubbed his brow. He had lost count how many times he had already hit himself at the ceiling. At every corner he took behind the quick marching Dwarves, the sharp-edged stones seemed to strike at him. Cursing silently, he moved on.

   They had used a brief rest, in which they had shared water and food, to introduce themselves formally. Darin had rejected that polite gesture, and Strider had seen the other Dwarves' awkwardness. It was unheard of that a Dwarf had ever failed to offer a proper greeting.

   Now the Dwarves led the wanderer through the cave and exited through a narrow gap between two boulders. From the outside, the gap was hidden, and content with their doing the Dwarves hurried on. Darin walked behind Strider, never leaving him out of sight. He had been enraged to watch Furin give back the Man's belongings with a courteous bow to their new ally. All of the Dwarves had held their breath in that moment. Both Lini and Dini had kept their hands on the shafts of their axes, ready to strike if that tall ally proved himself as an enemy. However, Strider had shouldered his pack and bow, girt his swords and sheathed the knife. In the moment of expectant silence, he had opened his hands in the unspoken question if they could leave now. The younger Dwarves had nodded curtly and moved on. Furin had eyed the stranger by the name of Thorongil a little while longer, but then agreed to set out. Only Darin had been wary, and his hand had loosened the axe in its holder. The name the Man had given was known to him, but there was no proof at hand to satisfy him. Darin stayed vigilant.

   Strider bent his back as they passed a low arch and then stood in a lofty cavern carried by four strong columns, engraved with Dwarvish runes. Relieved he stretched to his full height, resting one hand on the hilt and wiping his brow with the other. The Dwarves stepped back, again distrustful and about to defend themselves. Strider looked at them and - realising his stance - took away his hand from the sword.

   “I vowed to help you, Furin, son of Nurin, and I will not break my word. You can trust my name and my renown. There is no need to be afraid of me. The Enemy is all around us, and I expect the Orcs have multiplied to swarm all of Moria by now. We should not fight amongst ourselves.” His gaze found Darin, but the oldest Dwarf grumpily evaded it. “Will you still not tell me about your search?” he asked when they crossed the cavern to enter another small corridor, dimly lit like the ones before.

   Lini, who held the torch, looked to Furin, and when he had nodded his agreement, explained,

   “There is a chamber we must enter, but its entrance is blocked.” He flinched. “We lost four of our companions, whom we set out with, so that we are in need of your strength to remove the barricade.”

   “Aye.” Strider looked from one Dwarf to the other, and by their expressions knew he would not get any further answers about the content of the chamber. “Is it far?”

   “Beyond the main hall and up the western path into the mountain peak.” Lini swallowed and added in a gloomy voice, “The path is patrolled by Orcs since our last attempt. There might be resistance before we reach our destination.”

   Strider agreed. He was still tired from the exertion, but moved on; knowing the hardy folk of Durin would not pause until they reached their destination.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan knew the encounter to be inevitable. He had ventured far into their domain, dared to get a closer look at the patrols on their way and had been lucky for too long for it to last. He knew by now where the main host had gathered, and he had marked the ways with pebbles or scratches on the walls. He had kept moving without sleep, too afraid to risk being caught unawares. He had even been led to the well, but had not yet found it unattended so that he could fill his water-skin. He was thirsty and hungry, but those needs had to wait. Two Orcs gained on him the moment he left his hideout. Strong they stood with their patched armour covering massive, stout bodies. In their swarthy hands, they carried notched scimitars, blackened with the blood of their enemies. They sneered at him, and the fangs they bared were filled with yellow teeth.

   “Got away too easy, you slimy maggot! We'll bring ya in and get the reward!”

   Daevan had no time to think; he reacted out of instinct and launched his attack the very moment the smaller Orc raised his weapon. He struck him hard where the armour did not protect him: beneath the crude breast plate. The Orc gasped in shock. Blood spilled out of the ugly wound as Daevan slashed his belly. His minion, taller and broad-shouldered, roared with anger. The scimitar came down on Daevan hard enough to cleave his head. He dodged the blow to his right, and with the upward momentum thrust Ranaél into the beast's body. The scimitar fell off the Orc's powerless hand and clanked on to the ground. The beast stared at Daevan out of breaking eyes, then thudded forward as Daevan pulled out his blade. He breathed heavily and needed a moment to compose himself. Two bodies lay on the stones before him, saturating the ground with their blood while the breath of life left them.

   Breathing through his mouth the young fisherman listened anxiously to the sounds around him. There was only silence answering him and the low crackling of the torch, which had fallen from the Orc's hand. Knowing the patrol would be missed and searched for, he sheathed his sword quickly. He needed to get away, but there was one thing he must do first.

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter Twenty-one

Moria – Part Four -

   Strider stumbled behind Lini and almost fell forward on the Dwarf's shoulder. He halted, steadying himself against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden dizziness. Somewhere close by, water dropped from an unseen source and a far rumbling spoke of the activities of their enemies far away. Lini turned and lifted the torch higher.

   “You cannot go on,” he stated flat-voiced. Darin behind them snorted disgusted at the delay. “Aye, we have to rest. You are of no use to us tired to the bone.”

   Darin exchanged angry glances with Furin and marched on, leading them to a stairway, which lay hidden behind a massive boulder. It reached up twenty paces high and ended in a cavernous protrusion.

   “Sit down and rest,” Darin ordered, and Strider accepted. “We will take the watch in turns. Sleep if you can.” With that, he left him and his fellows behind.

   “Hard times lie behind us and more are before us,” Furin said quietly, leaning his back against the wall. “I ask you to not mind his behaviour. There are Men mingling and working with the scum of Orcs. Balin, son of Fundin, perished under these mountains by the foul hands of Orcs, and our colony was destroyed. For three and twenty winters the Dwarves have been toiling to save what can be saved of our great halls and relics in Khazad-dûm. Our folk dwindle,” he added sadly. “There are not many of us left now, Thorongil, and we, too, have to leave or will be slain. Rest now. We will wake you in three hours.”

   With that, he turned and went to sit with his companions, leaving Strider alone in a remote corner. He unpacked his bedroll and closed his eyes. Sleep came immediately.

~~~~

   The chasm was deep, a gaping mouth in the darkness: toothless, but deadly nevertheless. Whoever vanished in the depths would only surface if the mountains themselves belched him up. Daevan never heard the dead Orc land or his minion, who followed him. Content to be rid of his foes, Daevan turned and picked up the torch. He stank. He hated it, but it could not be helped. The garments and armour of the taller Orc did not fit him properly, but the disguise would suffice for now. He smeared dirt on the back of his hands and on his beard and put on the helmet, covering his flaxen hair. Daevan wrinkled his nose, girding on his sword and knife, but keeping the scimitar stuck through the belt. He shouldered his pack, and – sending a prayer to his Gods – set out toward the main hall.

   Though clad in stained garments and covered with a breastplate that had been made for another being rather than an Orc, he avoided contact with others of that race. Listening carefully to every sound emerging from the paths he dared to walk, he hid under arches and behind protruding stones in order to remain unseen. He had shed the smell of Man, but still his task was dangerous: the well loomed beyond the hall, lit by two torches set in holders. Daevan was sweating and the stench of Orc was all about him, a nuisance he had yet to learn to cope with. To his left, the main host of Orcs had gathered, and they were feasting upon animals that some had slain in the darkness outside the Dimrill Gate. The barking and fighting was loud and menacing; Daevan wished them to be additionally distracted as he slowly descended. The iron-shod boots had not fit him so he had kept his own boots on, which made less sound on the stair. They would give him away if closely scrutinized, but that he could not help. His heart beat fast and strong against his ribcage as he passed by the Orc guards in the dimness.

   His mouth was dry and the thought of being detected and caught did not leave him. He reached the well and took out the two water-skins he carried with him. A bucket on a rope stood on the rim, and he lowered it carefully. Thus, he pulled up the bucket full of water, drank with a ladle and hastily refilled his bottles. Glancing up, he found two Orcs engaged in a heavy brawl, and while they were rolling over the ground and being cheered loudly by their companions, Daevan made for the rear of the hall, escaping stealthily along yet another path.

-o-o-o-o-

   Strider woke to the stillness of the hidden cave. Furin and Dini were asleep while Darin and Lini had left to watch over their hiding place. His muscles were tense, and he was stiff from lying on the stony ground. He drank water and stood up. The darkness of Moria with its endless tunnels, stairways and paths lay heavy on his mind, like a burden he could not lose. There was no time to count, and no miles to measure within the roots of the mountains. In spite of all his experience, Strider felt lost in the vastness of the mine.

   Outside Lini had the watch, and he swivelled around on his heels, his axe ready to strike. Strider lifted his hands, and the Dwarf lowered the blade.

   “Stay behind. It is not safe here,” he said in Common Speech, mingled with a hard accent.

   “Are there Orc patrols around here?”

   “They are everywhere,” Lini replied gloomily. “From the day we arrived and were spotted we have been hunted like animals. They seek our treasures to plunder and destroy. But we do not yield. Our brothers did not yield.”

   “Your companions were taken captive?”

   “Aye.” Lini let go of his breath. “It had been wrong to assume Balin still ruled as King under the Mountain. It had been a dream, but reality caught us ere we had covered half a league.” He fell silent, and they both stood and were lost in thought until Darin came up to them.

   “We move on. The ways are empty at the moment. We have to hurry!”

   Now that they were in the open, the companions advanced with care, sending a vanguard now and then to seek the safest road. With similar caution, they reached the main hall and heard the Orcs beyond. Their guard nearby was less attentive than a dead warg, and the Dwarves passed him by in the deep shadows of the cavernous hall. Lini gazed upward, but he could see nothing of the beauty and vastness of the Dwarrowdelf, and they hurried on, ever on, until they turned west to ascend the stairs toward the chamber.

   “Wait,” Strider suddenly whispered and left the Dwarves behind. Amid the far-off dripping of water, there was the shuffling of iron-shod boots as if someone loomed behind a corner. It was a threat Strider felt more than when he saw a glimpse of the enemy. Yet, when he got closer the breathing of a creature became distinct. Strider crouched and approached the corner slowly, quietly, while the others held their breaths. Without a sound or a light to give him away, he held his hunting knife ready. With his left hand, he felt the rough edge of stone, then, like an arrow sped from a bow he jumped forward. Two Uruks of Mordor were hiding on the stairs. Strider came upon them, slashed the throat of the first one with one strike and granted the second no time to cry for help. He was an unstoppable force, and the second foe fell prey to his ferocity. The Uruks lay drenched in their own blood as Strider turned back. Silence reigned again. Lini stood two feet with the torch, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. He shrank back from the grim expression of the Great Warrior. The other Dwarves joined him, and for a moment stared at their companion. Strider wiped the blade clean and sheathed the knife. “We must move on. There might be more of those foul creatures nearby.”

   For the first time Strider took the lead with Lini, who held the torch. The Dwarves were silent while they marched, but even without a word spoken, the tension within the group had eased. Though Darin remained wary, he could no longer deny Thorongil to be a valuable ally.

   At the end of the flight of stairs, rubble lay in a large heap on the way. Even with the torch held close, the entrance toward the chamber of the Dwarves could not be descried above the many big and small stones, which had fallen from the ceiling. Strider took off his pack, adjusted his gloves, and began to remove the rocks. Some were so heavy; they needed the axes as levers to push them aside. Darin held the torch while the others joined the wanderer in his toil. Each stone had to be taken away carefully: they did not wish to alarm other foes patrolling beyond the path they had taken. Lini almost smiled through the exhaustion they all faced. Finally, they would get through and claim what was rightfully theirs. And then they would leave Moria behind until the Orcs were scattered and dead and a new circle of life could begin under the mountains.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan almost broke down from weariness. He had not slept for more than a day, and with every step he took, he stumbled over his own feet. In need of a place to hide, he almost fell into a cavity. He caught himself, but halted to explore it. Then his lips curled in a thin smile: he had found a place to rest. Carefully he extinguished the torch and settled down. From the outside, the cavity looked like an overhanging rock; he would not be spotted by torches even if they got closer. Relieved to close his eyes, Daevan lay down, still holding his hand on the hilt of his sword.

-o-o-o-o-

   Darin glanced over his shoulder, and repeatedly he handed the torch to Lini to go back the way they had come stealthily and make sure they were still undetected. The clamour of the Orcs had ceased; they were fed and had drunk and now rested. Yet, the unsafe quietness made it even harder for the companions to remain hidden from unfriendly eyes and ears. Darin reminded them to be quiet, but the further they dug, the more dangerous their toil became. Pebbles slid by, and danced down the steps with a light clanking noise. The companions halted ever again to listen. Their laboured breathing seemed unnaturally loud then, but they granted themselves no rest. They nodded to each other and went on carrying the stones out of the way. Strider was the first to take the larger stones down and handed them to Dini, who stowed them away safely, barring the way further west.

 So the work went on for many an hour and they all were exhausted when finally a hole was opened wide enough for a Dwarf to climb through.

   Strider wiped his brow and took out his water-skin to drink from while Lini struggled through the hole, followed by Furin. The older Dwarf loosened some stones with the tip of his boot, and they tumbled down the stair. Breathlessly Furin halted, then, when the silence remained unbroken, he moved on - more carefully now - and vanished in the chamber

   “You are indeed a worthy ally,” Dini said with a courteous bow, “but we have to enlarge that entrance a little further.

   “But you are small, you can fit through.”

   “Aye, but what about you?” He waited for Strider to stow away his water-skin, but when they were about to move another stone from the door, Darin hurried up the stairs, his old face contorted with strain.

   “An Orc patrol is coming this way!”

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan woke from the distant sound of running feet. He shook with fear, afraid he had drawn attention to himself. However, the barked commands of the Men and the growling of Orcs moved away from his hideout. Daevan swallowed his uneasiness and climbed out. The path lay empty and dark before him. He felt his way back until he reached a branching of ways. A torch was set in a holder, illuminating his surroundings.  A clamour rose over the distance. Shouts, clanking of blades, cries of pain and dismay. Daevan would not have wished to be amid the uproar, but if he wanted to see Strider again, he had to finally throw away the fisherman and become a fighter.

   Daevan took a deep breath. Then he ran.

-o-o-o-o-

   “Who was the fool throwing down stones?” Darin hissed. He did not wait for an answer, but squeezed himself through the hole. The hard soles of Orcs could already be heard at the bottom of the stairway. Commands were shouted; there were ten goblins at least coming their way, and a Man was somewhere behind them. “Dini!”

   Hoarse laughter echoed; the Orcs knew of their enemies’ presence and were advancing fast. The ringing and clanking of metal filled the way.

   “I will stay!” the Dwarf rebuked and loosened his axe beside Strider. “I will help to defend us.”

   “Follow them,” Strider urged. “I will hold the passage, and you can make it wider from the inside!”

   “Aye!” Dini threw in his axe first and crawled nimbly over the rubble.

   That moment two Orcs swivelled around the corner. Behind them, fed by the flickering torchlight, great shadows leapt forward and up the walls. Dark growls resounded, multiplied by the path beyond. Uruk-hai appeared in darkened armour and with spears clasped in large hands. Strider gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. The Orc stopped short, undecided what to think of the picture he saw. He never completed the thought. Strider swung his sword in a mighty strike, felling the enemy. The rushing of feet came to a sudden halt as the Great Warrior brandished his blade left and right, thrusting the enemies back into their horde. Some tumbled down, some moved aside, bellowing in dismay. Blood spilled forth, and the dead bodies filled the stairs. However, the more they were driven back, the more their anger grew. From afar through the clanking of blades voices cried. The goblins shrieked in surprise; the order was to leave the tall Man alive! Spitting and hissing, stomping with their feet on the stairs the Orcs advanced, pressing Strider to move back against the stones still barring the entrance to the Dwarves' chamber.

   Strider stood strong and unrelenting as the affray went on. He slew many, and hewed a goblin's head with a single strike, sending its body down toward the others. It dismayed the Orcs to lose their minions in such numbers, for there was not enough space to attack the tark from all sides. His blade seemed to have a mind of its own and was faster than they could assault him. They cried loudly, and then, by an unspoken command, four of them rushed the Man. They held their scimitars down, but their massive bodies crashed Strider against the wall, driving all the air out of his lungs. The warrior cried out. Pain numbed his back. He lashed out his blade one last time, and then swarthy hands wrenched the hilt from his grip. He fought with bare hands, but in vain. Hard punches from hard fists hit his face and belly. Ever more followed as the Orcs unleashed their anger on him. He felt blood trickle down his nose and lips when he finally collapsed.

   His last thought was with the Dwarves, and that his failed defence would lead to their captivity and the plunder of their hoard.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan dared not get any closer. A moment ago, an Orc had crossed his way, but in his disguise, he had been safe from detection. He could not deny the risk he took in walking the trail the Orcs had used, and he quickly pressed himself into a crevice to defer being seen as two more goblins limped along the way toward the stair.

   He frowned. The clamour had reached its peak, and from the bottom, the same Man, Daevan had seen before, shouted commands to those that were fighting.

   “Get him down here! Don't kill him, you fools! Whoever kills him, I will kill!”

   There was an echo of disgust and protest. Some goblins growled threats, but the Man stood fast. He waited impatiently, and when the fighting ceased and the rush of bloodlust left the Orcs he moved upstairs, shoving aside his minions. Daevan found himself following him, but pressed himself into a cleft the moment he realised his boldness. He would be of no help if he were caught. Breathlessly he waited and listened.

   “You braying maggots! I said I wanted him alive!”

   Daevan's heart stopped for a moment and he squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing the bitterness of loss and defeat. He should have been faster, more reckless, but he had only hidden himself. He was a coward in the end, and with shame, he would return home – if he ever made it out of Moria. Shivering, Daevan stood pressed between rough walls. There was no way out now. He must wait until the Orcs had left the path.

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter Twenty-two

Captured – Part One -

   Two of the dark-skinned Uruks were ordered to carry the beaten Man down. His head hung lifelessly, and blood was all over his face. Hrunas followed, shoving Orcs aside here and there to release his frustration. He watched the limp figure of the tall intruder. His garments were smeared with blood, and he had stopped moving. Hrunas found no words to express his fury, but he had announced that heads would roll for the disregard of his order. At the end of the stairs, Gurim stood waiting. He grimaced at the sight of their bloodied enemy, then stooped to look at him as the Uruks lowered the Man. Hrunas joined him, snorting with still blazing anger.

   “That lot's not worth a chip of ore! Fools! Can't even listen!”

   Gurim scrutinized the body and then grinned maliciously.

   “You're the fool, Hrunas! He's alive.”

   “Ah, but he's not,” said Hrunas, shaking his head.

   Gurim did not heed him. He pressed a hand on the Man's chest. Then he looked up to Hrunas.

   “Hum, to me it feels like his heart's still beating.” He turned to the waiting Uruks. “Chain him in the next path and bring water. We'll wake him up!” While the creatures lifted Strider up grudgingly, Gurim stood next to Hrunas, his eyes sparkling the cold fire of greed. “What about the Dwarves?”

   “Sharas went in the chamber with two others.” Hrunas growled deep in his throat. He did not like the look of Gurim, and for all the time they had been together, had feared his attack. There were more bad tidings to report and he did not like them either. “Naught they say. Naught of the Dwarves and naught of gold or precious stones!”

   “Darn! Where did they go? There's only one way out, is there not?”

   “There's a second door all right, but it's locked.” Hrunas cursed viciously. “Blocked by some spell or what I cannot say. There's no handle, no slit to open, nothing at all!”

   Gurim's gaze followed the Uruks and their captive.

   “He'll know.”

   “Aye. I will make him talk like that shrieking thing.”

   “Hum, that skinny beast wanted to talk, Hrunas. He won't.”

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan had not understood all of the conversation Hrunas and Gurim had held. The fact alone that one had laughed and then ordered the other to shackle the captive would have made him jump for joy if he had dared to move at all. Impatiently he waited until the horde had moved back to their quarters. The men remained behind, and Daevan realised from what he had heard that they thought Strider to know about the secrets of the chamber of the Dwarves. He held his breath. Though Strider was alive, he would face the wrath of the Men as well as of the Orcs.

   Daevan had watched the creatures, which were bigger and fiercer than Orcs, carry his friend into a side way not far from the stairs. For a moment, he hesitated, wondering if he should dare attack those beings, but he thought his strength would not match those strong-necked warriors. Their heads alone were half again as large as his own, not to mention their broad shoulders and leather-covered chests. Without the means to free his friend by force of arms, he needed time to explore the immediate surroundings, and while the Men walked up the stairs to have a look for themselves, Daevan left his hideout. He was filled with fear for Strider, and that in the end the warrior would die, if he could not help him fast enough. Yet the young man had to remain on alert, and when he moved he listened to the slightest sound, ready to defend himself.

   He ventured into a crevice, which gaped ten paces wide and led upward in a modest slope. Bracing himself to meet with yet another dead end, he crawled into it. The air was warm and stifling, and Daevan felt centipedes and bugs under his bare hands or scurrying away from him. The way inclined to his right. He scratched his palms and forehead in the darkness as he clambered slowly, avoiding any sound, further into the natural cleft. Suddenly he heard voices; one belonged to an Orc, the other to anUruk. Daevan halted. They sounded quite near! Carefully he felt his way forward until his hands reached the rim of yet another cleft. He could not reach for the other side, but when he dared to look down, he saw the faint flicker of torchlight. Through his exhaustion, Daevan smiled with joy. Though the cleft appeared to plunge far deeper than the path, where Strider was imprisoned, he now had the chance to save his companion.

   He listened to the few words exchanged, and then waited a while longer as the voices faded. Daevan readjusted his pack and turned to climb down the smaller cleft, hoping there would be an exit to the path wide enough for him to fit through.

-o-o-o-o-

   The Great Warrior stirred. His moaning seemed unnaturally loud in the quietness of the deeply buried cavern. No one was in sight. No one came looking; only the stones were listening to his moaning and, finally, a word uttered by him, but they gave no sign of heeding his elvish cries. He made an effort to sit up at the spot where he had been lying, and again the pain in his body could not be ignored. He felt as if he was being hit by a battering ram, but he knew the reason was less exalted. The smell of Orcs was in the air, a foul stench from those creatures Morgoth once created.

   Breathing shallowly, the wanderer waited until the dizziness diminished, and his mind became clear. He had heard a chain rattling, and when he moved again, he felt something heavy around his neck, choking him, and he coughed. He tried to raise his hands, only to find out that they were shackled behind his back. He released a deep breath, hanging his head. The leaden taste of blood was in his mouth, and the left side of his face was swollen badly. The thought that he had escaped from the frying pan to end in the fire, crossed his mind, but this was not the time for jesting. He could see nothing. His captors had brought him deeper into the mines, but left him without a torch. He set his jaw, listening to the faint conversations in the distance. Moving forward he soon found out that the collar around his neck was fastened by a rattling chain above him at the wall, so his efforts concentrated on moving his hands in front of him. He did not get far, and broke off the attempt the moment the sound of heavy boots drew near. Guided by torchlight, a group of goblins appeared from the path yonder. Strider strained his eyes and realised there were two tall and broadly built Men among the Orcs. Under long, unkempt hair and thick eyebrows, dark eyes shone in the glow, and their mouths opened to a menacing smile, hardly visible among their wild beards. They halted in front of him, prodding their hands on their waists, staring down on him.

   “You're up finally,” the first one said in Westron, which bore a rumbling accent, revealing him as a Dunlending. “I told you, Hrunas, he's tough.” His boot connected with the captive's thigh. “And now he'll spit out how we get behind that chamber of those stinking Dwarves!”

   Strider breathed deeply as he looked up at his captors. The leaders were both Dunlendings, and having fought for the Rohirrim, he knew these unrefined hillmen were not known for compassion. If they did not get what they wanted, he would not live for long.

   Hrunas cocked his head and bared two rows of bad teeth.

   “We need to find the others, Gurim, quickly. Don't waste time with this one now.” He spat on the ground and lifted his gloved hand to the hilt of his short sword. “He's secured and won't go anywhere. Let's move on!”

   Gurim wiped his big hands on the front of his leather jerkin. Like the rest of his garments, it was dark brown and old, but contrary to the shreds the goblins wore, his clothes fitted him, and his weapons added to his impressive appearance. Besides a sword, he carried an unstrung bow over his left shoulder, a quiver, and on his belt hung a dagger in a long-worn scabbard.

   “That lad can't get out. And we’ll get the Dwarves too. We'll find them soon enough.” He grabbed the torch from the Orc standing by and stooped to Strider. “You'll tell us first where the treasure is.”

   The wanderer kept his surprise in check.

   “I do not know of any treasure,” Strider replied, staring at the Dunlending, whose eyes were like pieces of coal set afire. “Whatever was left here is long gone, plundered by those creatures in your company.”

   “Nay, it is not.” He waved the torch before Strider's face, and his voice dropped to a growl. “We were told you know of one… precious. And you'll better deliver it.”

   “I cannot give you what I do not possess.”

   Once more, the torch almost brushed Strider's face. He moved backwards, but the rough wall was behind him. He felt the heat in his face, but abruptly the torch was drawn back.

   “You'll tell us soon enough.” He turned to the Orcs, straightening to his full height. “What did he carry, Brúnak? Bring it all! Now!”

   “Only this.” Reluctantly the Orc – taller than the rest of his kin – stepped forward and put Strider's belongings on the ground. His right hand held fast to the cloak, but on Gurim's sharp command he let go. Gurim handed the torch to Hrunas to have a closer look.

   Greedily Gurim rummaged through the pack, watched by the Orcs and Hrunas, who held the torch to cast light. But the Men did not find anything of value. Disgusted at the smell of herbs and disappointed to be left empty-handed, Gurim threw it down the path forcefully. “Nothing!” The pack slid down the rough ground to drop into a crevice. Strider followed it with his eyes, knowing it was lost. He cursed silently, pressed his lips tightly together, and turned to his captors again. Hrunas shot him a knowing glare while Gurim took up the black sheath. “And what's this? That's your weapon?” Gurim laughed aloud as he drew the sword. The blade was broken one foot below the hilt. “That serves for naught!” he exclaimed. “It's of no use anymore.” The sword and its sheath followed the pack down the path. Clanking it disappeared in the crevice. Strider gasped, but composed himself when the blade hit somewhere just below the surface and remained still. He stared at the crevice, trying to hide his dread from his enemies. “Well, that's better.” Gurim nodded to himself and unsheathed the second sword Strider had carried. “A fine blade.” He smacked his lips as his hand travelled its shining length. “Well kept, not notched. Aye, that'll do.”

   “I take it.” Gurim's head swivelled around and he locked eyes with Hrunas. “You already have a fitting blade. I don't.”

   “You can have mine.” Gurim's hand clutched the hilt, unwilling to let go.

   Hrunas stepped forward menacingly.

   “Keep yours. I'll take this one.”

   Gurim rose from his crouch to meet with Hrunas on the same level.

   “You won't oppose me, is that understood?” His growl would have impressed a cave troll, and Hrunas shrank visibly. “I decide what to do and who gets anything. And it's not your turn now.”

   Around them, the Orcs growled. Some of them followed Gurim, the others Hrunas, and they would have fought if Hrunas had not – after a long stare – complied to take Gurim's old sword. Girding it, he stared at the ground to cover his thoughts of having revenge for this humiliation.

   “This is settled,” Gurim concluded loudly, contented to have his way. With less interest than before, he searched the rest of Strider's belongings. Within the rolled up cloak he found the star with the jewel in its centre. Thoughtfully he held it up. A light of its own seemed to glow in it. “And what have we here?” He turned to his prisoner, grinning. “And you say you know of no treasure, you tark?”

   Hrunas quickly took the brooch.

   “Silver and a precious stone?” He tried his teeth on it, but the metal was hard. “A fine start. Where is the rest of the hoard?” Suddenly greed shone in his eyes as he stooped to Strider. “I know there's one! The Dwarves would not be here if there was nothing! They already searched for it! Is it behind that door? Name the place! Now!”

   “He will.” Gurim shoved the rest aside, pulled out his dagger, and held the tip to his prisoner's throat in a fluent motion. “Tell us where it is!”

   Strider lifted his chin, trying to evade the imminent threat. His look was adamant.

   “I can tell you no more than I already did.”

   “You will.” The dagger left a scratch on the prisoner's throat. Gurim inhaled deeply, then stood. “We'll find this little nuisance, and then make him talk.” He turned toward an Uruk, waiting with his head bowed. “You take ten Orcs with you and get me those Dwarves!” The Uruk nodded curtly and left.

   “And you there, Lúruth, watch over him!” Hrunas announced, with a nod to one of the Orcs standing in the first row. “And don't dare leave your place!” With that he turned. Gurim demanded the jewel back for himself, then called the rest of the goblins to follow him. That moment a tall Orc, coming from the path beyond, shoved aside two of his minions then halted in front of Gurim and Hrunas. He was clad differently than the rest of his race, and he had an attitude about him unfitting for goblins. “What do you want?” Hrunas snarled.

   “My master sends his command,” the creature hissed in mocked obedience. “He waits at the Gate and tells you to meet him.”

   “I am on a hunt. Tell him…”

   “He will not wait,” the Orc interrupted, his yellow eyes ablaze. “You bring them, he said. And bring them quickly.”

   Hrunas nodded grudgingly. Gurim jumped first over the narrow cleft in the way, and together they vanished twenty feet further down the path at a flight of stairs.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan cursed silently. He had ventured down the cleft without seeing where he placed his foot, but he had been fortunate that the conversation was loud enough to cover the noise he had made. He had waited out of sight for his chance. If he had dared to venture further down he would have seen Strider lying on the ground just twenty paces away. He lowered himself once more and was suddenly stuck. He could not move forward! Some sharp-edged stone held his pack, and the cleft had become too narrow to manoeuvre. Daevan cursed again. He had to be ready to climb out the moment the horde was out of sight, and now he was worried that he would give himself away. Slowly, holding his breath, he moved upward again.

-o-o-o-o-

   Strider exhaled, secretly testing the shackles, which held his hands behind his back. If there was any chance to escape, he must do it while the horde was gone. He did not have any hope that the Dwarves would save him. Though bound by a vow, they had escaped alone. Strider felt betrayed, a feeling not new to him, yet stinging like a rod. Hoping that his young companion had found his way back safely, he could rely only on himself.

   Lúruth stared at him. Because of the torchlight from a holder above at the wall, he squinted, and his face was a mockery of humanity. The leather skin, the almost bald head, the long nose and pointy ears would have wanted him to never look at himself in a mirror if he knew of the Elves, whom Morgoth had once imprisoned to create the race of the Orcs out of their image. The Evil that Morgoth had poured into their minds now served Sauron and his allies, and the foul race had multiplied in the darkness of Moria. Still they were not content. Sauron had yet to regain the sign of his power to declare victory over all of Middle-earth, and until then, the Orcs would not be free to roam the lands. They were still fought by the free folks, by Rohirrim and Gondorians, and many a goblin had already died. Only at night, they crawled out of their hiding. Lúruth yearned for the open space of the Dimrill Dale when only stars shone. He yearned to prowl the forests and eat what animals he could slay with his clawed hands. He had not participated in the feast, and his stomach was empty. The stinking food he had been given over the last few days he despised. Yet, he would not dare rebel against Hrunas. The Man had once smote an Orc in front of him just as a reminder of who was in charge, and Lúruth had not forgotten that moment.

   Still, he felt no need to stand beside a captive, who was too weak and shackled to get away. The Uruks had fastened the handcuffs and the iron collar, and they all had hardly been able to hide their disappointment that this Man was not for eating. The smell of human flesh was tempting. Lúruth smacked his lips, and – sniffing the air – he decided to take the torch out of its holder and go find some more suitable food for his rumbling stomach. The stench of the prisoner’s pack was still in the air, and he wanted to get rid of it. Casting a last glance at the man sitting on the ground, he went away.

   Immediately Strider tested the chains between the shackles. They would hold any attempt to break them, but seemed long enough to allow some movement. He sat up straight, and pulled the chain down his back. The strain on his wrists increased, but since his captors had taken away his cloak and long coat, he had more space to manoeuvre. Slowly he pulled the shackles through under his legs. He was sweating heavily as the strain on his wrists became intolerable. Then it was done, and he held his hands in front of him. Biting his lips to remain silent, he carefully shoved the shackles higher to ease the pain.

   He tested the collar around his neck. It was closed by a lock, and he had no means to open it. His hands groped for the length of the chain and its attachment to the wall. He pressed his back against the stone to slowly straighten. Strangely enough, the chain had been hooked on the torch holder high above him, but was not secured by another lock. Strider smiled into the darkness as he loosened the chain and weighed it in his hands. He was free – at least to move again and leave this place – but he had to be fast. He did not know when the horde would return. Still he would dare try to get back the shards of Narsil and his pack, if it could by any means be achieved.

   All of a sudden, and appearing out of thin air so it seemed, the small Orc with a torch in his clawed hand rounded the corner and stood rooted to the ground when the light hit the tall man he had thought to be a prisoner. He shrieked and grabbed his curved sword, but Strider was much faster. He wound the chain around the creature’s neck and pulled tight. The Orc’s hand never reached the hilt, and when the body slackened, Strider made sure he was dead before taking away the chain. Panting he searched the Orc for the key, but when he found none he took up the scimitar and the torch. He was alone at the moment, so he carefully moved to the crevice to look down. A few feet below the surface was a ledge. From thereon the crevice went down beyond his sight. Neither his pack nor the sword were to be seen. Frustrated, Strider hung his head.

   Noise could be heard in the distance. Strider stood listening. His heirloom was lost, but he could not help it. With the torch in his right, and the length of the chain in the other hand he moved on.

-o-o-o-o-

   The young fisherman would have shouted if he had dared to. For a moment, he had seen Strider’s head appear in the cleft, but then the sound of enemies marching down the path had made him rethink his options. Then the moment was over and Strider gone. Daevan sighed. He had freed himself by now and climbed down the crevice a second time. The way was dark once more, and when he reached its bottom and groped for a step to clamber the path yonder he found something he had not hoped to put his hand on.

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter Twenty-three

Captured - Part Two -

   Bracing himself against the threat of the Orcs nearby, Strider turned left and – after he had disposed of the torch – felt his way along the rough walls. He was careful to keep the chain in one hand to avoid any noise, but every time he stumbled, the rattling seemed to roar through the narrow dell as if it were announcing the warrior's coming. He halted at every corner, searched the ground and the walls for the right turn to take, and so he only covered little ground. He slipped on some loose stones, lost his footing, and almost fell into a crevice that appeared suddenly in front of him. The chain clanked loudly against the wall as Strider desperately held tight to the edge. His legs dangled over the abyss, and the strain on his hands and wrists increased immensely. For a moment, he gathered his strength, then, knowing too well he only had a small space to pull himself up; he groped for another crack in the rock. Slowly, and with diminishing strength, he reached the edge and hauled himself up. Panting he sat near the fatal drop, but was granted no time to recover. The noise had alarmed the Orcs prowling this part of the mines. They shouted commands. Tankards were thrown to the ground, swords drawn. Strider quickly turned back the way he had come, in search of a smaller path to hide. His memory was good enough to bring him back to a small space he could press himself in and wait for his enemies to pass by. He breathed through his open mouth, avoiding any noise that might give him away. He heard the burning of torches, the primitive leather shoes on the rough ground, and the rattling of metal.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan knelt in the safety of the darkness. A short while ago a group of five Orcs had blocked the small pathway he yearned to walk on. They were quarrelling over something, but he did not understand a word. Daevan could not fight them, he knew that, but until now, he had been lucky to escape the confrontation by silently waiting for them to march by. However, the group had halted and seemed likely to stay for a while, at least until they had decided where to go or what to do. They were drinking water and eating dried meat – Daevan did not wish to know where it came from – and talked loudly to each other. Daevan braced himself. He knew Strider to have taken that way. Now would be the perfect time to gain on his friend, but the way was blocked to him.

-o-o-o-o-

   The Orcs were as numerous as they were hideous, and their sense of smell was excellent. They shuffled over the stones, waving their torches left and right, grumbling in their own, primitive language. They halted at the corner before they jumped nimbly over the crevice. Again they stood, sniffing, turning their heads to every side. The leather of their armour creaked, and some clanked their scimitars against their thighs. After a moment of hesitation a short, bellowed command resounded, and they were about to move an, when a high-pitched screeching brought them to an abrupt halt.

   “Here! Here he is, you fools!” the high voice cried in the darkness. “You missed him!”

   “This way,” the chieftain said grimly and turned to follow the narrow path Strider had taken only seconds ago.

-o-o-o-o-

   The wanderer peered into the darkness, but he did not need to see the two luminescent eyes a few yards away to know, who had betrayed him. He quickly left his hideout to follow Gollum, even if he would lead him deeper into the mines. He had not come such a long and perilous journey to give up his hunt. The enemies' torches behind him cast dancing shadows on the opposite walls, but that was all he needed. With long strides, he followed the old beast down, down the path. He could see his hunched over body as he ran away on all fours, further into the darkness.

-o-o-o-o-

   The Orcs' voices rose from growling to shouting as they alarmed their fellows. Their prey was right in front of them! The Orc-chieftain, who led the pack, could not understand how that Man might have freed himself, but it did not matter. They had to bring him back! They had to catch him, or Hrunas and Gurim would demand his head for this failure! He ran faster, forcing his minions to do the same.

   “Run, you lazy pack! Run if you want to live!”

   And they ran faster.

   Strider did not heed the increasing shouts and the noise of galloping boots behind and in front of him. Faintly he saw Gollum take the next corner, and followed him, coming to a skidding halt to evade a pair of Orcs blocking his way. With both hands he swung the only weapon he possessed: the chain. Its force felled the first Orc. The second ducked the swing and raised a club. Strider pulled back the chain, trying to tear the weapon from the creature's hands. The Orc drew back to attack again, but was too slow. Strider dived under his swinging arm and threw him from the path into the depth of the cavern. Knowing he had lost valuable time, he took up his hunt again. Blindly he chased into the cleft to his right. Darkness awaited him. The howling of the enemies was getting closer, growing in loudness and intensity. The hissing and loud breathing of Gollum was in front of him. He gained on his prey.

   The great Orc cried from afar:

   “Get me that tark! Grab him, tie him, bring him back!”

   More evil creatures poured out of clefts and pathways, and their feet scuffled behind the escapee. The made so much noise they would not have heard a Balrog approaching, but being so many, they reached the most remote corners and - sniffing and shouting – they felt their way, still behind Strider and the creature that, too, had managed to escape their grasp weeks ago. Brúnak thought it to be valuable – in contrast to the Men leading them – and decided to catch it too. With torches held up high, the Orcs hurried on, ever on, following the sideways into dead ends, which the Dwarves had once built to decoy their enemies.

-o-o-o-o-

   Gollum realised he had to leave this path or would be caught. Growling, but afraid at the same time, he squeezed himself through a hole to the left of the gorge he had entered, and stopped. There was a foul stench about this place that even he noticed. He hesitated to go on. A whine of indecision escaped his parched lips. He did not want to go there into the absolute darkness and deeper down into the mine. He truly did not. But – on the other hand – what good reason was there to stay and wait until the Orcs or that tall Man got to him, shackled him, and brought him to some unpleasant fate? No, he would not linger and face the Orcs. For too long he had suffered at their hands. He swallowed, and, with a glance back to where the Man was approaching, moved on, deeper into the heart of the mountain.

-o-o-o-o-

   Strider gritted his teeth and forced himself through the narrow cleft, but at that moment, his prey escaped into an even smaller tunnel, or maybe it was just a hole. It did not matter; he could not follow him that way. The cleft became a dead end only yards from where he stood. Panting, with the chain in his still shackled hands, and knowing he had lost track on his prey; he turned to face his pursuers. Torches behind the first row of foes illuminated the gorge, and the sight of their hideous faces would have frozen the heart of many a brave man. Strider was not fooled. They wanted him alive and would not spoil their prey. Since he could not stay here or move away from them, he approached them, remembering a cleft ten yards back. From there, he might escape the imminent danger. His heart beat fast. If he did not reach the branching, he would face captivity again. He could not endure the thought. The shouting of his enemies was deafening, amplified by the walls. Metal clattered, growls mixed with threats in the foul tongue of the beasts as the smallest Orc swung his crude sword against him. He parried with the chain held between his hands and quickly disarmed the creature. It died upon its own blade. The yelling and hissing rose in volume. Strider took out the next enemy of the crowd: even more were pouring in to get to him. He shoved them back, hewing off limbs and filling the gorge with fallen foes. They could not get closer. There was no space for them. They were actually retreating – getting away from the ferociously fighting Man - but this was a short-lived relief. Strider pressed forward, hoping he could reach that other path within the gorge. But the goblins barred his escape route; he could not play tricks on his enemies and vanish again through a Dwarf door. This time the hunt had been all too successful. Above the skirmish Brúnak cried:

   “Get him! Get him quickly! And no hacking and killing! Take him down, but leave him alive!” He could not follow; there were many of his kinsmen before him. He sensed their lust for the kill. The stench of orc-blood was in the sticky air, and he still heard the clanking of metal, and the high cries of pain. His minions paid with many lives to catch that Man again! That maggot defended himself well! The great Orc growled deep in his throat. He had to put his hands on that Man, or Hrunas and Gurim would take revenge on him. He feared them – they were in conjunction with the Great Sorcerer in the tower – so he would not cross their path.

-o-o-o-o-

   The club hit Strider's shoulder the same instant he felled another Orc to his right. He cried out in pain, but thwarted the next attack out of instinct. His vision blurred as tears came in his eyes, and the enemy in front of him punched his face with the speed of an experienced fighter. Strider's head was thrown backwards. He stumbled and fell.

   The Orcs were above and about him, but he heard their shouts of victory only through a haze. Fists and boots connected with his unprotected body and sent his consciousness to oblivion.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan had started to hold the Great Warrior in high esteem, but to challenge the Orcs to a chase through the vast pathways appeared more foolish than actions he had undertaken in his youth. He shook his head with a sigh, shouldered his belongings, and moved on quietly. If freeing his companion before might have been manageable, it would be a far greater challenge to get him out of this trouble.

-o-o-o-o-

   Gurim walked out into the light of the new day. On the plateau, which Strider and Daevan had crossed to enter Moria, Saruman's chief spy stood waiting. Gurim despised the pale, hunched figure with the heavy lids and sleek, black hair, clad in a coat of black fur and fine trousers and equally fine sewn boots. He despised what that Man was: a walking threat on the leash of the Great Sorcerer. It was he, who had made that outcast of Rohirrim bastards a person that must not be angered or overlooked. And with that mighty hand of protection above him the spy could step before Gurim as a commander and not as the meaningless weakling he actually was.

   As he approached him now, blinking at the pale grey sky overcast with rain clouds, Gurim swallowed hard on his reluctance to even talk with that scum. He wished to twist that maggot’s neck, hear the bone crack under his grip, and get rid of that nuisance. But he could not do that. He feared the sorcerer too much though he was far-off in Isengard. Yet the worst was not his fear, but that the spy knew of it.

   “You are late, Gurim,” said the spy haughtily, and the four Uruks in his company, bearing the White Hand of Saruman, growled to stress his words. “And your delivery is late! Again!”

   Gurim wiped his face and humbled himself to a minuscule bow.

   “Apologies, Grima, the maggots won't work as they should. Their digging's so slow one could…”

   “I do not wish to listen to your complaints, Gurim,” Grima Wormtongue interrupted, his eyes mere slits. His voice was low yet penetrating; there was no mistake about who was in charge. “Make them work faster! Do not try to tell me you have no means to spur those filthy rats down in the mine! You have enough slaves by now. Digging should be swift! The Great Sorcerer wants deliveries! He needs the ore for the War! While you, inept servant could be relieved of your command here with a snap! There are others waiting in line!” He looked past Gurim lifting his black brows in speculation. Hrunas stood there, three paces away, listening intently to the conversation.

   “I will make them work faster,” Gurim hurried to promise. “Yet there was… some trouble.” He did not wish to reveal all of it, but Grima Wormtongue was cunning; he had learned much of Saruman in the years of his service.

   “Well, you should tell me about it,” he said, his voice as sleek as his mocking benevolence. “What kind of trouble did you face?”

   Gurim exchanged a quick glance with Hrunas. Now that he had spilled the news - only meant as a false apology - he had to give away more than he wanted.

   “Dwarves again,” he reluctantly said.

   “Ah, but don't say you still did not get them!” Grima spat, baring his rotten teeth between thin, bloodless lips. “What are your guards for? Only eating and scurrying along the ways?” He did not say that he had never set foot into Moria and would not if it could be avoided. He hated the permanent darkness, and he hated the scurrying, ever fighting Orcs, which could not be trusted. In the deep confines of the earth, a knife meant to stab his back would appear out of thin air, and no one would ever know of it.

   “They watch, Grima, they do, but… those filth knows other ways. Secret ways. They can disappear whenever they want to!”

   “But you said last time you had four of them killed. How could they possibly swarm the mine again? Or did they grow out of stone?”

   “They had help.” Hrunas stepped forward, straightening to his full height and thus towering above the spy, but he failed to impress Grima. Yet, Saruman's minion was sly enough not to comment on that insubordinate behaviour. He had made both Hrunas and Gurim leaders of the group, and he liked it very much that they fought each other. Nothing spurred those stupid Dunlendings better than competition amongst their own ranks.

   “Help? Ah, but I doubt that.” Grima shook his head slightly, and his slanted eyes never left his minions. “Or are you talking of that creature on all fours and the two Men, who arrived here lately?” He relished on the paling faces of the Dunlendings and almost spat out of joy. “I suppose you made them prisoners by now.” Still the leaders only gaped at him, thus giving away that it was true what the spy had stated. “The Great Sorcerer knows many things,” Grima said in a low and menacing tone. Hrunas and Gurim shivered with fear. “There is nothing that can be hidden from him what he desires to know. And now, my obedient servants, tell me how you captured those three the sorcerer wants to see.”

   Grima's malice went right through to Gurim's core; he gasped and was unable to speak. Hrunas composed himself faster.

   “Aye, there was a Man… or better, there were two Men. They came into the mine some days ago. They helped the Dwarves. But we got one. The older one of them. The other can't be far-off.”

   Grima lifted his brows, content to have the Dunlendings shattered. Now they were no more than cringing flesh, ready to devour.

   “You killed him?”

   “Nay, we did not,” Hrunas replied with a fearful glance at Gurim. However, the other leader only brooded over how the sorcerer had gathered such an amount of information. “We have him secured. He's been captured, shackled and all. He can't get away.”

   “What about the thing… this beast? Where is it?” Hrunas ground his teeth and did not dare look at Gurim, who hung his head. “Answer me!” Grima spat, and the Uruks behind him jumped to attention. Their hands went to the hilts of their scimitars, and the Dunlendings felt the threat grow. “Now!”

   “We caught it,” Hrunas replied and lowered his head expecting to be beaten. “But it escaped.”

   “So where did it go? Why did you not find it again?” Hrunas made no answer, so Grima turned his attention to Gurim. “If you have lost your tongue, I might seek for ways to make you talk!”

   “The mine's vast,” Gurim stuttered. “And this thing's small. It could be anywhere.”

   “Then find it!” Grima bared his teeth and leant forward with a cold gleam in his eyes. Though he did not match the men in height, he outmatched them in his stance. “And you had better find that second Man too in the short time I will grant you!” Both Dunlendings nodded without a word. Grima straightened once more. “Does that Man you made captive know about the treasure of the Dwarves?” Hunger shone in his black eyes, a fever that would not be quenched, even by pounds of mithril.

   Hrunas almost stepped back seeing the face of Grima Wormtongue. There was wickedness in his gaunt features; greed beyond reckoning, and the thought behind all was how to get what was in the mine.

   “We questioned him,” Hrunas replied hesitantly, realising his mistake. Grima got a step closer, and the Uruks mimicked the movement; they were shadows and threats alike. Hrunas wished to be in the deep caverns of the mine again. He had acted stupidly, and now he would pay for it. “We will get the answers… sooner or later.”

   “It should be sooner, you useless son of a mountain troll! Otherwise there will be other means to break him.” And Grima added more softly, “Was there anything of value on him? What did he carry?”

   “Naught of any value,” Gurim said defensively and made a disdainful gesture. “Cloak and coat, some things in a pack, and even a broken blade.”

   “A broken blade?” Grima cocked his head and asked very slowly, “Why should a man carry a broken blade, Gurim? Was there anything engraved on it? Or on its sheath? Some signs maybe? Did he tell you why he kept it? And where are you keeping it now?”

   Gurim swallowed. He had never given the slightest thought to the use of a broken blade. Too late, he realised that all he had done had been a mistake.

   “It slid down into a crevice.” He shrugged. “Together with the rest of his belongings. I didn't ask why he kept it and, nay, I can't say what was on it. It was only shards.”

   Hrunas set his jaw, wanting to end the conversation before the sorcerer's minion decided to replace him at once. Yet as if Grima knew, he linked eyes with him, and his piercing stare made Hrunas dwindle before him once more.

   “I saw some signs on it,” he admitted grudgingly. “Just below the hilt. But… can't tell what it was. Some signs of, well, not Dwarvish.”

   Grima almost spat.

   “Why should there be Dwarvish on a Man's blade, you stupid rat? Of course it must be some other language!” He pulled his cloak tighter around his meagre frame. The chill air on the mountains did not suit him. “And you dared to cast it away! Was there anything else on him I need to know? For I tell you, I will report your slow work and make the Great Sorcerer judge what to do about you! You had better tell me everything, and I might soothe him with the tidings that you are not as worthless as he thinks you are! He knows what you do and what you do not do though you should.”

   Hrunas and Gurim trembled within. The wrath of the sorcerer was known to be fierce and ruthless. He could do horrible things without ever being close! Both Dunlendings felt fear creep deep into their bodies as they recalled their doings in the mine. Would he even know what they had talked about?

   “He has another good sword with him,” Gurim revealed and handed the blade to Grima for inspection.

   “See here what you have!” Grima's lips curled to a mocking smile as he looked at the sheath and blade, but found nothing of interest. “What else?”

   “Nothing else,” Gurim stated almost inaudibly and kept his cloak tight around his frame, hiding the jewel he had taken from the wanderer. “Only what you just saw.”

   Behind the false smile on his face, Wormtongue’s mind worked faster than an avalanche in the mountains. He would not dare to venture into the mine now; Gurim and Hrunas were both upset, he knew. And though they feared the sorcerer, they might be tempted to assault him, blaming some of those filthy creatures for his death. Saruman wanted the Men and the beast, and he would get them. Having considered the options, Grima turned grim again.

   “And you wished to withhold this blade from me? Wished to keep it for yourself, hum, Gurim?” He tossed back the sword forcefully. “Tell me what he looked like!” Grima faced Hrunas, and the Dunlending scrambled together some details until the spy was satisfied. “And I tell you this,” he then said with undisclosed menace, “I will report your negligence and your disobedience to the Great Sorcerer. And beware, I will be most thorough! I give you three days time to find the other two and lean on your captive in any way you see fit, but…” Grima held them both with his stare, and his voice sank to a threatening growl that went right through the Dunlendings' shivering bones, “You will not kill him. And you will not kill the others once you put your dirty hands on them! I get your heads served on a platter if one of you dare slit their throats. And do not try to tell me then that one of those stupid Orcs did it. I will blame only you! Did I make myself clear?”

   “Aye,” Gurim managed to squeeze through his tight throat.

   “Very well.” Grima stepped back, nodding toward his escort. “I expect your delivery to leave for Isengard in two days. And I expect you to be here in at dawn in three days with the beast and the two Men, bound securely and still able to speak. If not, there might be changes in command… or worse.” He waited for the Dunlendings to bow to him, then pivoted on his heels and went towards the stairs. The Uruk-hai bared their hideous fangs once, then followed their master.

   “You stubborn, haughty, useless ape!” Gurim spat as soon as they turned their backs to Grima, whose billowing cloak could still be seen, framed by the tall Uruk-hai with their spears in hand. “Why'd you start blurting it all out?”

   “He already knew!” Hrunas shuddered visibly. “How could he know? Do you know what it means if…”

   “No need to tell me!” Gurim glanced over his shoulder once more, but Grima had left the plateau in a hurry. “Three days! That's not enough! Not for questioning and not for finding that beast or the Man! And you let that beast go!”

   “It was Brúnak's fault!”

   “You said it's worth naught!” Gurim nudged Hrunas hard enough to make him step aside.

   “You said nothing else!” Hrunas rebuked and gave back the push.

   Gurim fell silent as they passed the doors. If he had known of the value of that ugly thing, he would never have allowed Brúnak to take care of it. Too late, he realised that his decisions had been wrong from the beginning. Now he would have to deliver three captives to soothe the sorcerer's wrath. It was a burden that he carried most unwillingly.

   “Aye, but that's meaningless now. The Great Sorcerer knows.” Gurim shook his head, still trying to compose himself. He shivered involuntarily. “I better not think…” He swallowed, then eyed his fellow again. “Well, we are in trouble indeed! Not kill that Man! He's already hardly more than dead meat! If he lasts those three days we'll be lucky!”

   “Aye, we ought be careful then…”

   “Stupid brat again! Will you ask him politely to tell you what he knows? Nay, you can't! We either press him hard enough to break him, or he'll be off to Isengard, and we get away with naught!”

   “Hum, why… now, when Grima gets here again, we could give him the one captive we have. Then Saruman will be occupied for some time… You know what they say about that tower he lives in! It's a dark place, and he uses it to torture his enemies.” Hrunas shuddered visibly. “Well, he'll be placated with that Man until the next ore arrives. We are late in digging, you know that. Two days… it's impossible!”

   “Aye, we could do that,” said Gurim with grim determination, “but I want his answers first! So mark my words: if that prisoner delivers the hoard Grima won't be the one to put his bony hands on it!”

   “Sleek spy that he is! There'll be plenty for both of us!” Hrunas stated and slyly watched Gurim's reaction. He knew his companion would not deliver a chip to him if he was not quick enough to dig his hands into the treasure, yet it surprised him to see Gurim nod at once.

   “Sure you'll get your share.”

   “Aye. Let us then hurry back. Brúnak will have made him soft as butter for us!”

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter Twenty-four

A new Menace – Part One -

   When the wanderer's mind cleared of the fog of unconsciousness, he was thrown into another: that of pain. He would have screamed, but pressed his lips tight to not give away the anguish he felt. This time his captors had not been negligent. Strider felt the collar tight around his neck, and he was not granted much movement. His arms were pulled behind his back, and since the chain had been shortened, his hands almost touched each other. The cuffs pressed on his wrists, so he could not turn them or push them higher to lighten their weight. While his consciousness reeled, he could not ignore the waves of pain rushing his body. He vaguely remembered the many foes stooping to him in the narrow gorge. He got aware of his captors nearby - their stench outran their chatter - and with his moaning he gave away that he had woken. He made an effort to open his eyes. Darkness, broken by a fire ten feet away, welcomed him as well as a horde of twenty Orcs gathering in a room that once had been a large kitchen. But that had been ages ago. Now only remnants of pottery, cooking pots and pans were left on some tables and shelves. Shreds were spilled over the ground, and some smaller creatures took pleasure in throwing the bigger parts against the walls, and listen to the shatter. Others hunched at the fire, chewing on dried meat, casting wicked glances at the captive.

   Strider swallowed the leaden taste of blood and the bitter one of defeat: there was no one now to help him, and whatever he did his enemies would not let him leave Moria alive.

   One of the Orcs realised Strider had woken, and grunted in his direction.

   Growling deep in his throat, the Orc-chieftain rose from amid his kinsmen. He was as tall as he was impressive with long, muscled limbs, broad mouth with sharp teeth, and claws at his large hands. He was clad in armour that once might have belonged to four different men; not one part of it fitted the other, but as a whole it protected his body and enlarged the threat he bore with his stance. He wore a bow and a quiver Strider recognized as made by Men. Unintentionally he asked himself how many strangers had spent their lives on the hands of the inexorable Orcs.

   The Orc-chieftain halted in front of the captive, stooped and bared his hideous, rat-like fangs.

   “Where is the treasure?” he asked in his husky voice, and those sitting close by turned their heads in anticipation. The Orc-chieftain, never trusting more than a handful of his fellows, made them avert their eyes because of his penetrating stare. The pack was not easy to control, he knew. “I heard the Men talk about it! You better talk!”

   “There is no treasure,” Strider managed to say, his voice but a breath. The foully stench of the creature saturated the air around him.

   “Poke him a little, Brúnak!” another creature chuckled in a high, whining tone, and continued chewing on something that looked like the sole of a boot. Saliva dripped from his small-lipped mouth. “He might need encouragement.”

   “Leave that to me, Vrug!” Brúnak immediately rebuked, and the other goblin shrank visibly at his place. The chieftain faced Strider again, but before he could add another threat, Hrunas and Gurim entered the hallway. Brúnak stood erect. With obvious reluctance about being interrupted he bowed to his leaders. “We brought him unspoiled as you ordered.”

   “He's awake then?” Gurim asked grimly. He made a short gesture with his hand, sending Brúnak to his minions. The Orc-chieftain narrowed his eyes, but his growl was unintelligible. Hrunas shot him a warning glare, then turned to their captive. After the encounter with Grima he tried to get back some of his self-confidence by threatening their captive. “You caused us much trouble, tark.” Gurim took the bloodied chin of his captive in his hand. Strider broke the grip. Gurim, angered by the obstinacy, grabbed him anew, forcing him to look up to him. “My fellows here only wait to rip you apart. So you better tell me about that treasure before I allow them to feast upon you!”

   “There is nothing you want.” Strider swallowed, his gaze fixed on the jewel at the Dunlending's jerkin. He wanted it back – as much as he wanted to be free – and he would not give in to the enemy's demand. If he was to die in these mines he would do it without giving away the Dwarves' hideout.

   “There is! And you’ll take us there!” He locked eyes with his prisoner, who stood firm to the unspoken threat. Grumbling in hardly understandable Westron, he turned to his companion. “Maybe a night without sleep will help return his memory.” Gurim straightened. “Keep him awake, Vrug! Don’t grant him any rest. You know what I mean.”

   Baring his teeth to a malicious grin Vrug nodded.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan plodded through the paths, bereft of hope to ever make it to a safe hideout. He gave a wide berth to all Orcs prowling the ways, and avoided by a hair's breadth to fall into a crevice gaping suddenly in front of him. His heart beat fast, and he needed a moment to compose himself. The swords and packs weighed him down, and sweat poured down his temples as he slowly, ever vigilant against his foes, crept near the hall again. He knew he must seek a way to free Strider from his captors, but the sheer number of enemies gathered in the one big room made his stamina dwindle. How should he be of any help if there were more Orcs around and about Strider than marching the tunnels? From what he had heard he knew that some Dwarves had been in the company of the wanderer, but - Daevan was furious about it - they had obviously abandoned their ally in a time of dire need. In Daevan rose the decision to not only free but avenge Strider, and it made him stronger, more determined to be the one, who helped Strider instead of seeking salvation by running away.

   His hands explored the rough walls, and he ventured into every little crevice hoping to find one big enough for him to squeeze in. It took him long, and when he finally thought about returning to the hollow he had hid in before, there was a crack in the stone, wide enough for him to explore. His heart lifted when he found it winding to the right. It was small, but sufficed his needs at the moment. Careful to avoid any loose pebbles he settled down, relieved of the weight and the imminent danger to be found by the Orcs.

-o-o-o-o-

   Strider drifted in and out of the clear conscience of his misery. His dreams were bad, full of Orcs prowling and robbing, murdering and stabbing their jagged knives into the flesh of soldiers from Gondor. He heard the warriors’ cries of death. He saw them fall off horses, pierced by black-feathered arrows. He saw the dead bodies in their hundreds on the battlefields of Ithilien, and every dead man seemed to accuse him of his failures. And there was that heavy silence, weighing down on him, adding to his lasting feeling of inaptitude. Villages were burnt and plundered, and the Enemy's despicable minions scurried between the corpses, hunting the survivors of the fights. And they were sneering at their pursuers, who were powerless compared to the sheer number of Orcs roaming their lands.

   Blind fury then gripped him and though stabbing pain clutched his body he jerked up his head with all strength he could muster. A dull crack and a shriek of pain rewarded his effort. He forced open his bloodshot eyes to see Vrug cringing with anguish before him. The creature moved backwards and sat hard on the ground. Blood spilled from his curved nose. Other Orcs jeered, and their barking laughter echoed from the high walls. Strider's vision was blurred. He felt bad enough to sink back to unconsciousness, yet he was grimly content to see his foe writhe around, being a subject of mockery. Vrug bared his teeth and thrust his feet into the captive's belly. Strider coughed and shed blood on his trousers as he pulled up his legs in a vain effort to protect his maltreated body. Vrug cursed some words in his own foul tongue, and more cheering welled up. He made it on his feet again, only to kick Strider hard against the knee.

   “I give ya reward for that!” he spat, wiping the blood off his face with his hairy arm.

   “Aye, but not too much, you fool!” Brúnak warned, pulling Vrug back roughly. “He's to be questioned, not killed.”

   “I know that!” Vrug shook off the chieftain's hand.

   “Give him some of your draught. Hrunas will be back soon and must find him by his wits.”

   Grudgingly and murmuring curses to himself Vrug complied and unfastened a flask from his belt to open it. He knelt beside the captive and pulled him into a sitting position.

   “Open ya mouth, scum, or I'll make ya!”

   Strider's consciousness reeled. Vrug's last assault still sent waves of tormenting pain through him, and he wished to sink back into oblivion. But when the flask was pressed at his lips he gained some strength of will to turn his head. The liquid spilled over his jerkin, and Vrug cursed viciously. To the wanderer it was nothing more than the continuation of the terror, which had filled his dream. He smelt the reek about Vrug and felt his hot breath on his face as the beast tried once more to feed him. Some Orc draught poured into his mouth, and the moment Vrug thought to have won Strider spat it into his face.

   Gales of laughter erupted behind Vrug. All of the minions delighted themselves in watching Vrug struggle with the captive, who should be beaten enough to give up resistance. Some clapped their swarthy hands on their thighs, some threw rabbit bones at Vrug's fur-covered back, and above all their snarled pieces of advice could be heard.

   “Try again!” some shouted. “Make us laugh once more!”

   “Aye, get him to spit at you, you clumsy ape!”

   “Do it yourself! I won't waste any more of it!” Vrug stood, put the lid on his flask and left the kitchen while the roaring grew in volume behind him.

   Brúnak cheered the loudest, and when Vrug had disappeared, got up from his place.

   “Let me show ya maggots how it's done!” he exclaimed in their tongue, and out of their hilarity new expectation rose as the tall Orc took his flask to crouch beside the captive. Strider panted and looked up to the new threat with diminishing hope to win. The bitter and somewhat sour taste of the draught was still in his mouth, and he wished not to repeat it. The hideous face of Brúnak was in front of him, and yellow eyes shone with a cold gleam. Strider would have preferred to face a Balrog instead of that creature. “You better swallow, or this will be really tough,” he snarled in broken Westron, grabbing the chin of the captive tight, pressing the back of his head against the wall. Strider tried to break away, but Brúnak held fast, squeezing the already bruised flesh. The more the wanderer struggled the harder Brúnak gripped him. Strider tried to kick Brúnak, but could not summon enough strength to be effective. With his free hand the Orc-chieftain pressed the flask against Strider's lips. The liquid poured into the wanderer's mouth, and this time the Orc was fast enough and held the captive's lips shut to keep him from spitting. He waited with grim determination, locking eyes with the Man on the ground, conveying he would not let him get away. Strider held his breath, but finally he had to swallow the draught. His captor nodded with a crooked smile as he let go. “Good boy.” He turned to his minions, rising from his crouch. “See, it's done.” And with a barked laughter he added, “And he's still alive!”

   Strider coughed badly and choked on the liquid. The draught reached his stomach and was burning hot inside him. He wished not to know of what it consisted, but it kept him conscious, giving back some strength he had spent in the long and ugly fights. His mind cleared, and his senses returned. To the bitter taste of the drink that of defeat added: he would have to live through another attempt of his captors to question him.

-o-o-o-o-

   Hrunas sat aside. He held a water-skin in his hands, but was too enraged to even drink. He had far too little time to get through to the captive! They had beaten and poked him as long as he had been conscious, but he had not spoken. He had even tried to hit Gurim with his head when he had ventured too close! Hrunas had grinned, but the time of jesting had been short. He had to make the captive talk! When Grima returned to take the Man with him to Isengard, Hrunas would never get to know about any treasure. The sorcerer knew secret, dark, and ugly ways to make captives talk - so it was said - and then he would send the Uruk-hai with the White Hand to claim territory and plunder all that was left of the Dwarves' hoard. Hrunas shook his head, and once more his eyes found the tall captive. He had sunk to his right side. His eyes were shut, his face bloody, and he bled out of several wounds on his arms and legs. After he had attempted to kick Brúnak the Orc-chieftain had put irons around his ankles as well, but no manacle would break the captive's will. Hrunas knew. Gurim knew. Yet the search for his companion - a younger Man as he was told – had brought up naught. He had vanished somewhere in the mine. Maybe he had fallen into a cleft. Maybe he was lost in a tunnel leading deeper into the heart of the mountain, where no Orc would ever set foot because of the unknown monster dwelling there. Or maybe he had been killed in a rage, and the Orcs on patrol did not report it to avoid Hrunas' anger. It did not matter. The search for the Man, the beast, and the Dwarves went on. All Orcs on patrol had been threatened to find them and to not rest until they could deliver the intruders. Hrunas had little hope that one of them would be spotted.

   Still fuming with fury he could not quench, he drank and then returned to the captive. Gurim already waited.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan sat in the darkness only twenty feet away. He sat and bit his knuckles. From the ruins of the kitchen he heard Strider's muffled screams and knew the Dunlendings had returned to torment him once more. He heard the panting while his companion tried to fight the pain, and he heard the curses and questions of the Men in barely understandable Common Speech. Daevan wished for nothing more than strength and skill to step out and help his friend. But he lacked both and could not take up with ten or even more enemies at the same time. He remembered the night of the fight in his village. Strider had not only been their instructor, but had become their leader in those hours of preparation and fight. Daevan had seen Strider battle with three Orcs at the same time, and never had the fall of his sword be a miss.

   Daevan had no such skill or force. He crouched in the darkness and bit his time.

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter Twenty-five

A New Menace – Part Two –

   Gurim exchanged glances with Hrunas. He knew they were losing time as well as credibility. The Orcs in their group already glanced at them with undisguised scorn. Gurim knew the race could only be impressed by victories, gained in any fashion, but they punished ineptitude relentlessly.

   With a gesture, Gurim ordered Brúnak to give the captive more of the Orc draught, and while he watched the procedure, decided on another approach.

   “Get him up!” he barked when the Orc-chieftain stepped back. Puzzled looks were directed towards him. “I said get him up! We are taking him for a walk.”

   Brúnak bellowed to two other Orcs, and they unhooked the chain from the wall and pulled. The captive did not respond, but made a choking sound. Brúnak knew that tark was awake, but he refused cooperation as far as he could.

   “No killing!” Gurim ordered harshly, and with unintelligible curses the Orcs grabbed the Man under the armpits and pulled him to his feet. Gurim lifted the captive's chin and stared at eyes filled with determination shining through the haze of pain. “You will talk, you stinking rat! I make ya talk!”

   “There is nothing to gain for you,” Strider whispered and hung his head the moment Gurim let go with a grunt.

   The Orcs dragged him out of the kitchen and down the hall. Gurim stayed at the Man's side while Hrunas stepped up to him on the way.

   “Why'd you do that?” he hissed. “He won't be…”

   “Shut up! We did not get far with that scum of Man. It's time to cheat a little.”

   Hrunas but stared at him, his face and mind blank of any idea.

   “Cheat?”

   Gurim smiled grimly and gave no answer.

-o-o-o-o-

   Reluctantly the Orcs half dragged and half carried the captive the way back. On Gurim's order some left the group – meant to be a vanguard – and patrolled the paths further on. They needed to be quiet and careful, but failed to be either. The Dunlending ground his teeth. The Orcs were not open to reason. Apart from their gruesome ability to vanquish their foes by any weapon handy, there was no use of their presence.

   When a sound echoed from the other side of a gorge, which could only be crossed by a bridge thirty paces away, Gurim halted the group for a moment. They had almost reached the stairs leading toward the chamber. He listened, but there was only the low dripping of water and a hollow rumbling deep in the roots of the mountain. He felt the stone tremble slightly under his boots. The Orcs became restless immediately – the word of the monster made of fire had spread – and Hrunas spoke a word of command to calm them. The Orcs lowered their captive down. When Gurim turned he saw Strider being awakened, and his gaze was directed attentively toward the source of the noise. Gurim stepped in front of him – barring the sight - and his stance was threatening.

   “Now we are almost where we found you first. Tell us where to go! Tell us how to enter the room behind the chamber! Or end your miserable life right here!”

   Strider looked up from his kneeling position. He gathered his strength and spoke loudly enough to be heard by all – in the open or hidden – and his voice was steady.

   “There is no treasure, you fool! Nothing you want! The only thing you will find here is death. Durin's Bane will get you!”

   The Dunlending growled deep in his throat. To be mocked at in front of his minions was not to his liking. He was used to getting the answers quickly and killing his prey afterwards. That Man had withstood the threats and beating for far too long. His anger rose when he saw the mocking gazes of three of the biggest Orcs and their chieftain. If he could not break the prisoner to show his superiority they would rebel against him. And he knew they would feast upon his flesh regardless of his position. But the time was not now. Others whined anxiously and turned away, for they did not dare oppose the Dunlendings. Not on their own. Gurim knew that only a single glimpse of fire in the darkness would drive the Orcs mad; he had seen it before, and the captive knew of that unseen threat. He had chosen the right words to make the Orcs cringe with fear. One reason more to break him.

   “You better talk, and you better tell me where the Dwarves hide!” Strider did not flinch, and Gurim lost his temper. “Your last chance, tark!” He unsheathed Strider's dagger and turned it in his dirty hand. “Tell me about their hideout!” Strider held his enemy's gaze, pressing his lips tightly together. The dagger got closer to his head. Two creatures pressed down on his shoulders firmly, making it impossible for him to dodge. “You'll crawl like a beast when I'm finished with ya!”

   The dagger was close to his left eye now. Strider could see the tip of the silver blade that would cut his eyeball any moment. Two hands held his head, and he could not move an inch. He was breathing shallowly, bracing himself for the anguish to come. Bracing himself that after the anguish he would be left blinded. He swallowed, and all his muscles tensed.

   Suddenly a stone whirred through the darkness. It hit Gurim's brow hard enough to make him drop his arm and yell out in surprise and pain.

   “What the…!”

   Shouts and anxious cries were uttered, feet shuffled over the ground, weapons were drawn. Strider was pressed down flat on the ground. One Orc knelt on his back while others pivoted to aim their arrows at the darkness across the abyss. Torches were dropped. Arrows hit the sheer wall on the other side of the gap with a clacking noise, angering the Dunlending: they hurt no one. Whoever had waited to attack them was gone. Probably searching for another point to assail them. Gurim cursed viciously, and in his fury kicked the creature standing next to him. The Orc howled and stepped aside.

   “Those filthy Dwarves are trying to save you, miserable rat!” Gurim spoke through clenched teeth and poked Strider's collar. Two of his minions pulled Strider roughly to his feet again and shoved him back the way they had come, seeking cover. A torch was taken up to show the way, but the Orc holding it, almost shrank to the ground, thinking he would be an easy target for the attacker. Gurim made him run faster. Strider was pushed forward, but when he stumbled Hrunas and a tall Orc grabbed him and dragged him along. Gurim hid behind him, growling deep in his throat.

   Strider hung his head. He was too weak to be jubilant, but a grim smile broke through the strain on his maltreated face. Whoever had hidden in the darkness had been an enemy of the Orcs. He did not dare hope that more aid would come, but for the moment he had escaped the threat of being blinded.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan woke with a start. He realised he had fallen asleep in spite of his attempts to stay awake and take any chance granted. He cursed himself for his laziness, yet he could not deny that he felt wretched with the lack of sleep and the labours he had undertaken. The noise from the outside was deafening. Orc cries, bellowed commands, clanking of swords, and wild curses in different languages. Above all a Man shouted,

   “Tie him up! Guard him! Shut up, you fools! There's no army out there attacking you!”

   Daevan crouched even deeper into the darkness of his little hideout. It was narrow, and he could hardly stretch his long limbs. He dared to peep around the corner and saw frightened faces of Orcs, scurrying back to the kitchen. They pulled Strider with them. Daevan grimaced at the sight of his companion. Once more his anger flared. The Dwarves had left the Great Warrior alone. They had concerned themselves only with their hoard and placed metal over friendship! Daevan cursed under his breath. There had to be a way to get to him.

-o-o-o-o-

   Hrunas lifted his thick brows and snorted. The water-skin in his hand was empty, but he did not dare leave the kitchen. Like the others he had been startled (and frightened, he had to admit) to find the enemies so close and so bold! Though he did not think that the attack had been meant as an attempt to free their captive, it had been a daring action. Gurim had taken it as a sign the Dwarves had not yet abandoned their ally, and with a grim smile, he had added that there was still a chance to capture those, who were left in the tunnels. He had sent more sentries to man the paths and every way branching off, and had even promised them a reward. Hrunas denied himself any such hope. The other Dwarves had resisted to the death. And even that Man, who had allied himself with the Dwarves, kept them in the dark. He shook his head. They could try and pretend to have caught a Dwarf, but the only chance that the captive would talk, lay with the other Man, who had not even been spotted.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan had only a little experience in fighting, and his ability for warfare was non-existent. Not good omens for an attack against heavily-armed Orcs. But though he repeatedly told himself that he would be of no use to his friend dead or captured too, he was about to leap up and scream at those creatures tormenting that brave Ranger from the north again. But the voice of reason held him back. He had to rely on Strider's strength and resilience. He had to wait for the right moment. Silently, he moved out of his hiding place, peered into the near darkness where only a few torches were set in holders. He needed a distraction, something that would lure the Orcs out of that big room and make them search for the reason. He watched one goblin emerge from the room with a bucket in his hand. He looked frightened. He was even hurrying. Daevan understood that something had already been set in motion.

-o-o-o-o-

   Strider lay panting in the darkness. Cries of Orcs came from the distance, and through a haze he could hear the low murmur of conversation between Gurim and Hrunas. His strength was fading fast now, but it was certain the Dunlendings would not leave him alone. Nothing he could say would satisfy their greed. The wanderer had made many mistakes in his long life, but none had led to such grievous consequences. When Gurim stood; Strider braced himself against another assault. Hrunas came straight behind him, but held the other man's arm suddenly.

   “Did you not listen, Gurim?” he hissed. “That foul slime of a spy will get ya killed if you spoil him too much!”

   “Shall I watch that maggot take him south? Do you want to stand aside and end up with nothing? Remember, there's only two days left for us now, and then he'll be out of our hands forever!” Gurim broke the grip, cursing under his breath. The dagger shone dully in his hand. “I do not want the sorcerer to put his fingers on that tark and have his way with him! You know what he can do! I heard that he chains his victims up against the walls and tortures them just by his spells!” He shuddered visibly, as did Hrunas. “After that he'll say what he knows! Every little thing, I tell ya!”

   Yet the second leader tried once more to keep his fellow from maiming their captive.

   “Aye, but did you not listen? He knows everything that goes on in here! Everything! How else should he have known of that bony beast and the Men getting here in the first place? And why should he want them all?”

   Strider forced his eyes to remain open. The Dunlendings were trembling with fear; he could see their restlessness. Their dark eyes bore a haunted expression, rooted deep in their twisted minds. Yet the tidings brought no solace. If Strider did not reveal his knowledge to the Dunlendings he would be taken away to face an ever greater enemy: a sorcerer. He swallowed dryly and thought about his options: would the journey grant him a chance to escape? Much could happen if they took him out of the mine and down the dale. And of whom were they talking? Due south lay Isengard and the Tower of Orthanc. Though Gandalf had been wary of Saruman, the wizard was still the head of the Council and his order. He was considered a wise and learned man. Did a threat exist no one had known of before? Had Sauron placed one of his minions near the mountains to conquer Rohan first? Or had Saruman finally left the road of white wizardry and turned to Evil? It was impossible to imagine. Yet whoever the sorcerer was: if Strider passed into his domain there would be less hope for him to ever set free again. He strained his nerves to stay conscious and listen.

   “He won't send many of the White Hand,” Hrunas said, trying to hope against wisdom. “We could still…”

   “I bet you would! But there's Grima also! And he'd not even get down here! He’d get all he wants to know from him! Nay, once he's here we are lost.” Gurim stared down at their captive. The dagger turned in his hand and his jaws ground as he thought about his daring decision. The wanderer knew by his look that his life was about to end if he remained silent. “Either it's now or…”

   There was great commotion resounding from the hall. Hrunas and Gurim looked up. An Orc came running up the stairs.

   “Dwarves!” he cried out of breath and spittle flew. “There are Dwarves up the ledge near the outer hallway!”

-o-o-o-o-

   “Did you corner them?” Gurim shouted back and was running out of the kitchen the same instant. Drawing his sword he eyed the errand-runner.

   “We know where they are!” the Orc retorted and delightedly licked his thin dark lips.

   “Very well! Up, you lazy pack! Up and run!”

   And the pack scrambled to their feet and ran.

   “You there!” Hrunas pointed to one stout goblin, who was about to follow the rest of the horde that were rushing out of the hall. “You stay and watch over the prisoner!” He did not wait to see the Orc's deep disappointment, but hurried after Gurim.

   Strider rested the back of his head against the wall. He did not dare hope that the Dwarves would escape the cruel force unleashed upon them. The Orcs were many; he had seen them fight. And he had seen Uruks of Mordor among them, lusting for flesh. If the Dwarves had been too bold they would get themselves captured or killed. Wearily he glanced at the entrance of the kitchen. The Dunlendings had only left one guard behind. It would be the time to attempt to break free, but his strength had faded. With his hands and feet bound and the collar around his neck he would not even be able to stand up, let alone leave the kitchen.

   The Orc sniffed the air. The noise of feet on the hard ground and clattering weapons died away. The drums sounded in the distance. Dull rang their doom! doom! through the cavernous halls. Some jeers were to be heard, and the minion left behind without a task peeped around the corner. He licked his lips in anticipation. Maybe his fellows would bring back fresh meat for the night's meal! Quickly he shot a glance back to the captive, but the Man did not move and he thought him to be unconscious. Sniffing again, he carefully - afraid of Hrunas’ wrath if he was caught negligent - ventured out of the kitchen. He had his scimitar ready and pricked up his ears to get the tidings first if his companions had caught those nasty Dwarves. One step more he dared to go, whining with uncertainty.

   He never saw the shadow loom.

-o-o-o-o-

   Gurim heard the rolling thunder first. It was a deep rumble as if an avalanche had started at the peaks of the Misty Mountains. Pebbles took up speed down the stairs, and cracks appeared where only small holes had been. The walls trembled, and while the movement lasted the Orcs were wild with terror, whining pitifully in their throats. They looked here and there, but found nothing to point their arrows at, and during the confusion they grouped together, shielding themselves against a threat unseen and unheard. The Dwarves were forgotten; the word of the monster from the unknown depths got around. Of fire they spoke, and the weakest amongst them threw themselves on the ground. The pointy ears of the goblins trembled, teeth clattered. They were close to fleeing when suddenly behind them large stones tumbled from above. Some Orcs were hit and fell with the rocks into the abyss. Amid the roaring the Orcs shrieked: the way back was barred! Dust whirled up, stones broke and jumped. Cries of pain resounded through the deafening clamour. The Orcs fled into the opposite direction, seeking shelter beyond the next branching of ways.

   Amidst the heedless escape of nature's wrath Hrunas and Gurim tried to be heard. No goblin heeded their shouts; like wild beasts they shoved aside their minions, thinking only of themselves. Gurim cursed. The way back to the hall was long and difficult; he had once trod it and did not like the memory. But at the moment the Dunlendings had no choice; they must follow the lot.

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter Twenty-six

Men and Dwarves – Part One –

   Out of the corner of his eye Strider saw a shadow approach him. The far rumbling meant nothing to him, and the fading shrieks of his foes did not even reach him. His reeling consciousness only registered an enemy getting close and borne out of instinct rather than of will, he turned his head. When he saw a tall Orc crouch beside him he tried to draw up his legs to kick him.

   “No! I will not hurt you!” the goblin said in clear Westron and took off the helmet. Strider gaped at the dirty face with the strands of flaxen hair surrounding juvenile features. He could not believe his eyes, and his voice was rasping.

   “Daevan…? How can that be?”

   Daevan's heart rejoiced seeing his companion still alive though barely. He grimaced and shook his head.

   “Of all the questions this is the last I anticipated,” Daevan said and took out a small knife and a hook that he used for fishing. He was nervous about his task and what little time he had. Yet he was determined also. “Have you forgotten what you did? You pushed me out of harm's way. Well, kind of. Some of those beasts were still alive, but not for long. I took their coats then. It was the easiest way to stay out of sight, so to say.”

   “But why did you come here? The Orcs will…”

   “You mean, I should have left you to whatever torment and run away like a frightened child? Are you out of your senses, Strider?” Daevan ground his teeth and continued quieter, “Nay, I prefer to be praised as the one standing beside you than running away when help was needed. More than those Dwarves, anyway.”

   “The guard…”

   “He was quite dead when I left him.” The fisherman inserted the tip of the short blade and the hook into the lock of the collar and probed for the mechanism.

   “Dead? But how…?”

   Daevan lifted his brows. Obviously Strider was out of his wits, so he only nodded. The collar was old and rusty, yet it fitted tightly. The wanderer coughed, and his friend hurried to unlock the device when suddenly Strider cried:

   “Watch out! Behind you!”

   Daevan proved the worth of Strider's lessons: he dropped the knife and hook, swivelled around on his heels, drew his sword, and brought it up in time to thwart the axe aimed to cleave his head. The Dwarf behind the long shaft grunted a curse, yet swung again.

   “Wait! No!” Daevan shouted, jumping to his feet. “I'm no Orc!”

   But his words were lost. The stout Dwarf brought down the axe a second time with grim determination. Daevan evaded to his right, drawing his opponent away from Strider. The axe clanked on the ground, loud enough to shake the walls.

   “Listen, Dwarf, I'm not your enemy! Look at me!”

   The Dwarf stepped back as fast as he had attacked. He cocked his head in stunned disbelief and from under bushy brows and a thick helmet eyed the Man in front of him.

   “You look like Orc.”

   “But I am none! I used it as a disguise!”

   “So you are not here to kill that Man?”

   “No, I'm not!” Daevan slowly lowered his sword. “I am his friend. I'm here to save him.”

   Still on the verge of distrust the Dwarf took down his axe.

   “I came to free Thorongil. I came to cut that chain with my axe!”

   “Aye. Then we are here on the same purpose.” Daevan sheathed the blade gladly and knelt again beside Strider to finish his work. “We need to get away from here at once,” he said quietly. “And without that Dwarf hacking anything.” He fumbled with the padlock, and the crude device did not withstand his skill for long. It could have been opened by hardly more than spitting, but without the use of hands it had been an effective measure to keep the prisoner from getting up. The collar fell from Strider's neck . The wanderer suppressed a coughing fit. Far-off shouts were to be heard. Daevan put on the Orc helm again as if armouring for battle. “There is no time for more. Get up.” He helped him stand on shaky legs. Leaning heavily on the young man, on the verge of breaking down, Strider grimaced.

   “I cannot…”

   “I know you cannot walk.” Daevan breathed through deeply before he shouldered the man and mumbled, “I knew you'd be a burden.” He turned to the grudgingly waiting Dwarf, who seemed about to leave the kitchen, no matter whether the two Men followed him. Daevan held him back. “If you know a hideout, Dwarf, then hurry and lead us there!”

   The little figure straightened and said haughtily:

   “My name is Lini, son of Lomin.”

   Daevan sweat. There was no time for this idle talk! He already felt his knees give way under the weight of the almost unconscious man.

   “Even if you were King under this Mountain,” he huffed, “you are still a Dwarf! So don't start a discussion and move your Dwarf like frame to the next safe spot in this stinking hole!”

   “A stinking hole? It's a mine. And it was a mighty town once!”

   “I don't give anything on the pride of your town in the time of your ancestors. We need a place where he can recover. You hear me, Dwarf? A safe haven.”

   “We never give away our secrets to strangers, Man!”

   Daevan lost his temper, and though his voice was still low, it sounded heavy with restraint anger.

   “Then what had you planned after hewing the chain? Leave him like that? Or leant him your axe for self-defence?”

   “My only concern is you, Man.” Lini stood on his two stout legs, his axe firmly in both hands. He blocked the way effectively. “I trust no one I haven't known for a long time.”

   “This is…”

   “Mellon,” Strider whispered between shallow breaths, and though Daevan did not understand, the Dwarf hesitantly nodded.

   “Aye, if he says so, I will lead you.” He turned on his heals and marched out of the kitchen.

   Daevan followed swift, shifting the weight on his shoulders to bear it better, and while he hastened after the quickly moving Dwarf – ‘How can someone on legs so short be so fast?’ – he quietly asked:

   “What did you say to him?”

   He got no reply. Strider moaned, then slackened, and Daevan knew he had finally fallen unconscious. Cursing without words – he had no breath left for that – he squinted to see any path in the everlasting darkness of the cavern. Without the Dwarf, who was waiting at every corner, he would have lost the safe way in minutes, but the stout figure always seemed to know the right way, never hesitated or went wrong. Nevertheless Daevan would have given much – even call this hole a mine – if the way had been any shorter. He could hear the Orcs' shrill cries reverberating through the lofty halls. Drum-beats followed. It froze his blood. Now the hunt would start anew, and he was already weary!

   Lini waited impatiently.

   “Come, come quick!” he ordered the Man. The rest of the sentence and complaint was lost among the wild cries of the goblins pouring from a cleft. But they were on the other side of an abyss no bridge crossed. Lini hurried on when the short arrows hit the stones ahead and behind of them. Daevan trudged on as fast as he could. Sweat poured from his forehead into his eyes. Since he had no hand free to wipe his brows, he squinted and almost lost his footing when the path grew narrower. He dodged against the rough wall to his right and almost hit Strider's head against the stone.

   “Sorry,” he mumbled, but realised the man was still a dead weight oblivious to his surroundings. Daevan thought that it might be better for him. Even in the dim light of the kitchen the wounds inflicted on his face, legs, and chest had looked hideous. He shuddered at the image that he could have ended up the same way if it had not been for the warrior's decision to push him out of harm's way. Daevan had to admit that he had never thought of facing such danger. The greatest threat to his village had been the attack of the Orc horde, and that had been fended off with Strider's help. Never before had he seen such a large amount of enemies recklessly hunting him for the single purpose of killing.

   “Here, this way!” Lini urged, and the fisherman woke from his reverie. “Don't dawdle!”

   “Dawdle!” Daevan breathed. “You are…” He let his voice trail off. Two Orcs on crooked legs with crooked scimitars, which looked like they had been forged out of fragments, had just turned around the corner in front of them. Daevan halted, panting, not knowing what to do. With his companion on his shoulders he could not defend himself! He lacked the time to lay him down. The Dwarf, ten feet in front of him, did not even slacken his speed. Roaring he swung his long axe, cut the first Orc's legs above the knees and – without losing the momentum – turned the blade to hit the second adversary into the side. The Orcs shrieked in agony and fell to the left and right. Blood dripped from the axe as the Dwarf pivoted.

   “Hurry! There are more coming this way! We have to reach the upper level!” He moved on even faster, and Daevan forced his shaking legs to climb many more steps. He moaned loudly when they reached the second corner to their right, where a flight of stairs seemed to lead to the mountain top. “Come on!” Lini urged. “It's not that far now!”

   Daevan braced himself, forcing his mind on the task ahead and chasing all bad thoughts aside about losing his footing on the small and cracked steps. He panted heavily, and the weight on his shoulders seemed double as much, but he managed to climb the steep stairs one third of the way. There Lini had halted and tapped on the stone to his left. It was a rhythm he repeated twice, and then – though there had been only rough walls before – a large stone rolled aside. Daevan would have whistled if he had had the breath for it. He hurried after the Dwarf, and quickly but without a sound the door closed behind them.

   Inside, the other three Dwarves already waited, and there was hissing and cursing at Lini that he had brought a stranger with him. They held torches almost into Daevan's face, and the Dwarves looked grimmer than the Orcs they had met. Daevan evaded them, and put down his friend carefully on his right side. He almost sank down beside him. All muscles felt tense and quivered, and he hated the thought that the ordeal was not yet over. He felt wretched and had no words to give.

   Behind Daevan Lini was pressed to explain his decision.

   “He is a friend. Thorongil said so. And we should believe him.”

   “But you gave away a secret chamber,” Darin accused him.

   “I had to. There will be others if this proves no longer safe.”

   “Careless you are!”

   “I did what I had to do.” And in a lower voice he added, “I could not have brought him here myself. And we still need him, don't we?”

   Dini stepped in, an eye on the two Men beside where they had stowed their belongings. The younger Man hung his head wearily; the other was unconscious.

   “Two is even better. And Thorongil after all helped our escape last time.”

   Darin shook his head and huffed:

   “Should have brought the healthy one only. Thorongil does not look as if he'd walk out of here!”

   “We are bound by a vow to him,” Furin cut in, ablaze with anger. “He did his deed, and Lini did what was right.”

   That was grudgingly accepted.

   Daevan did not heed their ongoing conversation. He understood no Dwarvish, and he admitted he had no interest in learning it at the moment. In the torch-lit darkness, he sat beside Strider and caught his breath as he took off the helmet and put it aside. He was worn out and longed for nothing more than water to drink and a dry and safe place to sleep.

   Suddenly the conversation behind him stopped. Daevan turned and found all eyes resting on him in a manner he did not like. The Dwarves looked like a bunch of rogues, who were estimating how easily they could betray him. Daevan wrinkled his nose and wearily wiped his sweaty brow.

   “You have some water here?” he asked quietly. “My skins are empty.”

   “Aye,” Lini complied and handed him a water-skin. Daevan drank and found himself still in the centre of the free folk's interest. “I already introduced myself,” Lini said. “And these are Dini, Furin and Darin.”

   “At your service,” the Dwarves said with a curt bow since they were still mistrustful of the Man.

   Daevan gathered his wits and remembered the words Strider had taught him.

   “At your service and that of your family,” he said politely, realising how much the tension loosened in the cavern. “I am Daevan from the marshes.”

   Lini almost beamed as he looked at his companions, conveying he knew all the time that Man would be a proper ally. Then he turned back to the still kneeling Daevan.

   “You were quite brave today for a Man.”

   “You are quite a fighter too,” Daevan replied with a courteous bow toward the Dwarf. “But we should look at what we have. Strider is free, but he's badly hurt. Have you got…”

   “Strider?” Darin echoed. “That's not Strider. He called himself Thorongil!”

   “It's the same man!” Daevan immediately replied to soothe the upcoming distrust. “I just call him that because he has such long legs.” He pursed his lips, afraid they would not buy his blunt lie, but since the Dwarves had trusted this man to be Thorongil, they nodded finally, and Daevan let go of his breath. He drank another swig of water. “Have you got some cloth we could use? And more water? He has some herbs in his pack.”

   “In his pack? But that will be lost!”

   “No, it is not.” Daevan felt a new wave of dizziness hit him. He closed the water-skin and turned to the man lying on the stony ground. He had not moved. From his face blood had dripped on the light grey stone. “I took it.”

   “You're a thief then!” Lini laughed.

   “Even though you're no Hobbit!” Dini added and laughed even more.

   “Hush, you fools!” Darin said. “They'll catch us because of your merriment!”

   Lini and Dini still chuckled, but Daevan could not even smile. He was content to have come this far and still be alive and on his feet. Strider had not had that much luck. When he stirred and slowly opened his eyes, Daevan stooped to him.

   “You are quite lucky I did not follow your orders,” he said quietly with a smirk.

   “I know I am. Thank you, Daevan.” He looked around without moving his aching body too much. “Where are we? Looks like a chamber.”

   “It's one of their very secret places, closed by a very secret door,” Daevan explained, his eyebrows raised. “The other Dwarves almost burnt me with their torches when I entered.” He exhaled. “For the moment we are safe, but you look like you received a harsh beating.“

   Strider flinched when he tried to move his arms.

   “Release me, Daevan. Hurry.”

   “There had not been time yet,” Daevan said regretfully and held the water-skin to the other man's lips. Strider drank and, after putting away the water-skin, the fisherman pulled the little hook and knife used to skin fish out of his pocket again.

   “I will take care of those chains!” Lini behind them announced. “I can do that much better than you with that tiny spit of horn!” Lini gave Daevan some dark brown cloth he had carried in his pack and nodded approval. “Just move him so I can see what I hit, and I will split this iron in no time!”

   “They are much too narrow for such a strike! Let me do it!” Daevan stated shocked, and let go of the cloth to show the hook and knife to the Dwarf in front of him. “I already opened the collar, remember?”

   Lini replied with a haughty stance:

   “I can splinter one ring of that chain in the middle!” And with a growl he added, “Unless he moves.”

   Daevan swallowed. His mind spun thinking of a polite way to talk the Dwarf out of such foolish action.

   “I will do this my way, Master Dwarf. You might be a master of splintering stones, but I won't let you hack his hands into pieces.”

   “Do not insult me!”

   “Please, Master Lini, he meant no offence,” Strider uttered quietly, and Daevan looked at him astonished. The Dwarf still stood with his jaw set. “I asked him to open the shackles, and it would be rude to decide differently now.”

   Lini gave up his posture, growling through his thick beard some Dwarvish words about pride and gratitude before he joined his fellows.

   Daevan turned to Strider and whispered:

   “You asked me. Aye, I hope I won't disappoint you.” Daevan fumbled with the small hook on one side and the tip of the knife on the other side of the lock to open the handcuffs. “I only tried that once, but I think it is way that…” The cuff opened with a soft click. “…leads to success.” Daevan showed the still angry Dwarf the open shackle and concentrated on the second while the wanderer fought to stay conscious. After it was done Strider pulled his hands up front slowly, biting his lips against the anguish seizing him. Daevan gasped. “By all that is holy, these wounds look quite awful.”

   “I have had worse,” Strider replied hoarsely, “but that is not my main concern.” With Daevan's help he sat up and stretched out his left leg. The trousers were torn in the middle, and blood had darkened the cloth. He ripped apart the rest of it, pressing his lips tight to remain silent. The flesh around the kneecap was swollen and had darkened to a crimson purple.

   “I see why you are concerned,” Daevan muttered quietly, appalled at the sight of the wound and realising that this was only one of many. “What do you need?”

   Strider smiled at him with a faint and painful longing in his gaze.

   “My pouches would help now, but…” His pack landed on the ground beside him. “I say you are blessed,” the wanderer whispered in stunned disbelief. “How did you get a hold of it?”

   Daevan clicked his tongue.

   “Anything else, Strider, Ranger from the North? Thorongil, in service for both Rohan and Gondor? Are there other names I should know of, now that I carried not only your pack but you too?”

   Strider shook his head, puzzled by what Daevan had accomplished.

   “How is that possible? I know those Dunlendings took it and cast it away.”

   “It did not fall deep. Now the Dwarves say I am a thief, someone like a Hobbit.” He shrugged. “Maybe that's true though I don't know of any Hobbit, whatever they might be. I rather consider myself a locksmith.” He knelt at the man's feet to try his new talent on the foot chains. It took him longer for the locks were old and rusty. While he worked he thought that the enemies had not planned to release their captive once he had given them the treasure. He shuddered suddenly. The cruelty of the Orcs and their leaders exceeded all he had come to know. The stories Doran had told him when he had been a boy had caused him to shiver, but no longer when he had been grown up. Thinking about those battles now made him understand more thoroughly what his grand-father had experienced in the long years of war.

   Daevan forced the iron bands open when the lock had given in, and Strider thanked him for his efforts.

   “Did you find my sword too?” he then asked, and Daevan almost flinched at the urgency in the wanderer's eyes.

   “The broken one. Aye, I did. It is here with mine. The other one was taken, I suppose.”

   Strider exhaled, relieved at the tidings.

   “I do not think you realise what that means to me.” He stretched out a hand to touch Daevan's forearm, and his grey eyes were set solemnly on the young man. “You will be told of in stories and songs, my friend. You are the one saving the heirloom of Thorongil.”

   “Aye.” Daevan lowered his gaze, uncertain how to react to Strider's praise. “But I almost stumbled over it.”

   Strider wanted to laugh, but it hurt too much, so he shook his head.

   “For how long have we been here?” the older man then asked leaning back. Daevan grimaced at the wanderer's haggard face. The wounds looked worse when the torchlight fell on them, and he knew without having the knowledge of a healer that Strider would not walk out of this cave in a few hours. He already looked as if he could no longer hold his eyes open.

   “Just a short while. They say it's a safe place, but I am not so sure.”

   “I see.” Strider searched his pack and found what he needed. “Have we more water?”

   Daevan rose to bring back a water-skin from the Dwarves. He looked at his companion, content with his abilities, as he handed him a small bowl to mix the crumbled leaves with the water.

   “What will you do?”

   “Make a poultice.” He turned to Lini, who stood aside watching the Men. “Can we stay here for a while?”

   “The place is safe,” the Dwarf replied in his haughty stance, glaring at Daevan. “But though we stored some water it will not last for weeks. We barred one way, but that will only delay the hordes for two days.”

   “I see.” Strider used a piece of cloth to encumber the wet herbs and wound the makeshift bandage around his knee. “How long will it last what we have?”

   “You don’t listen, Thorongil! In two days no place on this side of the cavern will be safe! We must go now to where our treasure is hidden as fast as possible!”

   “I did not forget my vow,” Strider replied, leaning back to rest, grinding his teeth for a moment before he could speak again. “And I will stay true to it. But can you keep yours?”

   Dini and Darin growled in their tongue.

   “Of course we can! You should trust us by now, Thorongil!”

   The wanderer flinched and refrained from another attempt to move his injured leg. Daevan bent forward and said for only Strider to hear:

   “I followed you this far, but if you decide now to go out and help them find their treasure I'll knock you out myself.” He stood firm to the wanderer's unspoken astonishment. “Let me go instead of you.”

   For a moment Strider held Daevan's determined stare, then gave a short nod, and while the young man retreated he faced the Dwarves again.

   “You tell me there is still a way to get to your treasure, but that leaves it open if Gollum can be caught. He might have found a way to escape by now. Days have passed since we met.”

   “Nay.” Dini grumbled and went on, “He’d need to know how to find the wells and preserve the water. If he lacks this, he will not get out.”

   “What do you mean?” Daevan cut in, “That there’s only one well in all of these tunnels?”

   “I did not say that, Man!”

   “Daevan.”

   “I said you need to find them! Many a way leads to secret pools and fountains, but only the Dwarves know of them. All those intruders in these halls will suffer the lack of water.”

   “Well, even I found that spring.”

   “Stubborn Man! This was the main well to provide water for the kitchens! But the way to either gate is long. No creature will make it without water.” And still grumbling he added, “Why do you think the goblins mass in this area? Because they could not find any other water source!”

   To that Daevan could say no more. Lini, who had silently watched Strider fall asleep, turned to his companions, and they talked rapidly in Dwarvish. Daevan lowered Strider’s upper body to the ground, and provided his pack as a pillow. He felt weary enough to sink down beside him, but he did not trust the Dwarves. He had a bad feeling that they might abandon Strider and him the moment he was not looking. He was not distrustful by nature, but the stance and haughtiness of the free folk had roused his suspicions.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Men and Dwarves – Part Two –

   Eventually Darin walked over to eye the marred figure on the ground. He wiped his beard, and when Daevan looked up to him, he said grudgingly,

   “He looks half-dead to me. I say, he's of no use to us any longer”

   “No use?” Daevan felt like spitting into the old and wrinkled face of Strider's ally. “He took the beating for you! He did not betray you like you did with him!”

   “Betray!” Darin's beard trembled with rage, and his fellows came over, likewise upset. Axes were loosened in the belts, and Daevan thought they would attack him, ally or no. “We saved him!”

   “I brought him here,” Daevan rebuked with hardly restraint anger. He was ready to take out his sword if the need occurred.

   “It was our diversion that made this rescue possible!”

   “And how would you have saved him? By dragging him here?”

   “Nevertheless, we did not betray him!” Furin cut in. He raised his hands to signal his fellows to step back. “But he was injured and now...”

   “He brought you to the chamber. Was that not the hiding place of your treasure? Or did you lose it again?” Now the Dwarves grumbled into their long beards, and their feet shuffled over the stony ground. Not one of them held Daevan's interrogative stare, and the young man raised his eyebrows in astonishment. His mouth twitched. “You say you found it and it was lost again?”

   Furin grimaced with regret.

   “We had it, aye, but it is heavy, and we were under attack. We had to hide it!”

   Daevan shrugged.

   “Then get it now. You said you barred the way, so the beasts can't get to it.”

   Dini shook his head, and his voice rose in volume as he spoke.

   “There are far more goblins in this mine, you fool! We barred one way, aye, but there are others! And far more of those beasts! They were deployed through the mine searching for you and that little creature!”

   “Hush!” Darin said, and Dini fell silent at once. Silence broken only by their own breathing surrounded them. After a while the Dwarves calmed down again, and the old Dwarf said quietly, “There are far more dangers ahead of us than you, young lad, might think of.”

   Daevan became rigid and faced the Dwarf-leader with a piercing glare.

   “Do not try and tell me of the dangers, Master Dwarf. I did not leave his side! I know of those monsters and their cruelty!”

   Furin lifted his right hand to soothe Thorongil's young companion.

   “We do know of your bravery, and I admit that none of us had thought Thorongil to be unable to escape by himself.” He waited until Daevan gave him a curt nod. The other Dwarves complied grudgingly. “Our mission has not changed though. What we came for is still not safe.” Furin looked at the unconscious frame of Thorongil beside Daevan, exchanged glances with his companions and then – after a few rapid words in their tongue – said decisively, “You have to carry out his task.”

   Daevan arched his eyebrows, but – stowing away his anger – asked in a smooth and polite way:

   “What was the agreement Strider made with you? And what was your part in it? Was it not to help catch this thing that's hiding here somewhere?”

   Lini and Dini exchanged glances of regret with the others. They had not known that this Man had so much knowledge of the proper ways of dealing with Dwarves.

   Reluctantly Darin admitted:    “Aye, for his help we agreed on helping him catch this beast. But he did not fulfil his part!”

   “Could it be that he was hindered by a horde of Orcs marauding through this place? And that he was caught because he supported you, helped you escape from your secret chamber? With your treasure?”

   “What do you know about…?” Dini exclaimed, but Lini hushed him.

   “Be quiet! They might hear us even here.”

   Daevan nodded to himself.

   “I heard the Men talk about it.” He swallowed, and when grief won him over, he lowered his head. “I heard them press Strider for the answers. They still think you only came to gather your wealth.”

   “It is nothing the Men or Orcs would want,” Furin said quietly. “It is but one piece, which is… dear to us.”

   With that he turned and left Daevan behind to find rest.

-o-o-o-o-

   The young fisherman had hardly closed his eyes when sleep took him. He rested beside Strider, hoping he would wake if any danger occurred. But he was not woken by clamour or a threat from the Dwarves. Yet, it was Lini standing nearby when Daevan drowsily opened his eyes.

   “They had secured you as if you were the treasure.” Lini stooped to eye his ally closer. “Yet… wounded as you are, you will not be the one helping us any longer. The young one has to do it.”

   Daevan was wide awake suddenly, realising that Lini was talking to Strider. He turned to find his companion conscious, but bathed in sweat. The wanderer shivered miserably, and with fading strength he clutched Daevan's wrist.

   “My pouch… Get the…” He squeezed his eyes shut, whispering the Sindarin name, which the fisherman did not understand.

   “I know,” Daevan replied and rummaged through the contents of Strider's pack to find a slim pouch made of fine light-brown leather. He took two leaves out of it and crumbled them into a cup of water. Carefully he lifted Strider's head to help him drink.

   “He won't make it far,” Lini said - not for the first time - shaking his head. “He's but a shadow now.”

   “Don’t say that,” Daevan objected, putting down the cup to wrap the wounded warrior into his cloak. Strider still shivered badly. “He risked much to grant you a safe retreat. You owe him your help!”

   Lini growled in his tongue. Presently he turned to his fellows, and they sat together to discuss their options, now that the strong man had been defeated by more than Orcs.

   Daevan did not heed them. Strider's consciousness faded away. Daevan prayed to the gods to keep him alive since he did not know how serious the wounds were. Strider trembled one last time, then lay still. Daevan hesitated to use the herbs he had been told about, but the wounds inflicted by the evil creatures needed treatment. He could not delay that until Strider could aid him. Since the Dwarves were unwilling to even talk to him, let alone help him with more than water, it fell upon Daevan to take care of the gashes and bloody weals. He flinched. Back at the village, they had Bradolla to take care of the sick and wounded. Suddenly Daevan wished for someone to tell him what to do. Yet he was alone, and the decisions were his own. Exhaling and hoping he would not worsen the man's condition, Daevan assembled the pouches on the ground beside him and tried to remember which herbs were suitable to use. He scratched his head. The wanderer had collected many a leaf during their long journey, and most of them had a distinct smell and appearance. Three sorts of leaves looked almost the same - small, dark green with lighter green in its centre - and though he remembered almost every word Strider had said about the use of them, now he was at a loss. Nevertheless a decision had to be made. Daevan smelled the contents of each pouch. He even closed his eyes and tried to relate Strider's words to that smell.

   “What have you got there?” Lini asked in his rolling accent. Daevan was startled. “Saved his belongings, did you not?”

   “I did.”

   “What's this?” He turned up his nose. “Smells strange to say the least.”

   “These are herbs he uses for healing.”

   Lini's bearded face brightened to a grin.

   “And you don't know how to use them.”

   “I do.” Daevan decided to take the first pouch he held in his hand. Pretending knowledge he asked the Dwarf, “Is it possible to heat water in here?”

   “It is indeed.” Lini rose to his full height (half of Daevan's impressive stature). “This is a hideout of the Dwarves of old, lad. Don't be mistaken! We could sustain ourselves here for…”

   “But you have no water supply here as I understand it.”

   The Dwarf's beard trembled with sudden anger.

   “Don't mock us, stranger! You are here by the lenience of Thorongil and…”

   “Whom you abandon, now that he might be no longer of use for you!” Daevan interrupted heatedly, not caring for the moment that Strider had taught him to never anger a Dwarf for they were quick with their axes.

   “Be quiet!” Furin hissed, stepping closer. Seeing the worry in the young man's eyes his voice grew soft. “We will not abandon him, Daevan. We know the meaning of a vow. Yet…”

   “You'd leave him here if the decision was for you! Now tell me where to heat water so that I can tend to his wounds!”

   “Aye. Come.”

   Furin scrutinized the young man as he filled water in a pot to heat over a small fire. Just by his looks he would have considered Daevan to be no more than a tall boy. Compared to the age Dwarves could reach, he was but a lad, but his demeanour had been impressive, mature even. The old Dwarf realised that the two Men were bound by a bond of friendship, and that through all the dangers the young one had not left the older one alone. It was a fact Furin respected.

   Daevan did not heed Furin's stare. He thought about their escape. Even though one way was barred, the Orcs would find another tunnel to search for their enemies. And it would not take them long to swarm all of the habitable parts of Moria again.

-o-o-o-o-

   “How can I be of help?” Daevan asked when he wound the last piece of cloth around Strider's upper arm. The gash had looked badly inflamed, and he hoped to clean it with the herbs. He still felt worn out and exhausted, but knew that time was pressing.

   Furin, standing aside and watching, cocked his head. The Great Warrior had not stirred for the time his young friend had treated his wounds, and he knew Thorongil might not even be able to flee with them. But that had to be thought of later.

   “Lini mistook you for an Orc. That might prove useful.”

   “How?”

   “You will venture to a cleft where we stowed…” He hesitated and grumbled some words into his grey beard.

   “If you do not tell me about your treasure, Master Dwarf, I will not find it.”

   Furin exchanged glances with Darin. The old Dwarf looked as if he would bite on stone any minute.

   “I cannot give you more proof of my loyalty,” Daevan added and tried ineffectively to wipe away the dried blood from his hands. “I cannot become a Dwarf to make you trust me.”

   “Aye, you cannot.” Furin breathed through deeply. “We hid the Hammer of Aulé in that cleft.” Daevan looked as if he failed to understand the importance of the revelation. “It is an heirloom of the Dwarves of old, lad. There is no equal to it.”

   “Aye. Is it…” He looked from Darin to Furin. “Is it big?”

   Darin let go of his breath; it sounded like the howling of a wounded wolf. Of his words Daevan only understood that he was considered ignorant.

   Furin sighed deeply.

   “Aye, my young friend, it is indeed a great and impressive tool. That hammer was once used by Aulé in the old days, before the world was marred and poisoned by Evil. It was then that the great Aulé went to the mountains and made Durin, the first of all Dwarves, and his first companions. He wanted to create a people who would like stone and all that could be carved and hewn as much as did he.” Furin sighed again. “Ilúvathar, the father of all that lives, became aware of his doings, and He said that no one but He was allowed to create beings. Aulé was about to slay the first Dwarves, but they asked for mercy. Thus Ilúvathar in His greatness realised the Dwarves had already become beings with their own minds. He ordered Aulé to spare the Dwarves.” Furin eyed the young fisherman and was astonished to find him absorbing the lore. Less gravely he concluded, “So it came to pass that the hammer, which Aulé would have used to slay his creations, was put to better use. It was always an heirloom of the Dwarves, and will ever be.”

   Daevan returned from the story to the present. He could vividly imagine a tall man swinging a hammer as mighty as himself. He bowed courteously to Furin and thanked him for sharing the ancient story with him. Furin returned the gesture, content to find the lad polite and using his wits.

   “So you will take me to that cleft?”

   “We were attacked when we went through the passage. It is watched by the enemy.” Furin flinched. “The ledge can be seen from a path beneath. Many arrows followed us when we escaped.” He sighed seeing Daevan's sceptical expression. “You will pass by the guards unnoticed. In the darkness they will take you to be an Orc.”

   “And once I get to that cleft, what do I need?”

   “A rope. You have a rope, do you not?” Daevan nodded; he had seen it in Strider's pack. “Very well. This is settled. We will set out as soon as possible.”

   “But we will come back here,” Daevan urged.

   “Aye, we will,” said the Dwarf already walking toward his companions. “We leave Thorongil behind here in safety.”

   Daevan was about to object when the wanderer grabbed his arm. Immediately he turned to him.

   “Arrows and a bow,” Strider whispered, and grimaced at Daevan's frown. “My bow is lost, but there's only the Bridge of…”

   “The Bridge of Khazad-dûm, aye,” Daevan nodded.

   “We must cross it to get out.” Strider strained to raise his head. “So we need a bow and arrows to…”

   “To kill the guards at the gate, aye.” Daevan exhaled. His task had become more difficult now. He did not wish to meet his enemies in a fight again. Now it had become necessary. “What is it?” he asked when Strider unwrapped the makeshift bandage around his upper arm. He grimaced with pain. “Don't take it off.”

   “What did you use?” the wanderer asked, looking at the crumbled wet leaves. Daevan showed him the pouch, and Strider shook his head, murmuring a rebuke.

   “Hey, most of what I did was right!” the young man cut in.

   “I am grateful for that!” Strider showed Daevan the proper pouch with the herbs and let his head sink back wearily, closing his eyes.

   Daevan looked at the marred features of his companion, while he moistened two leaves and wrapped them around Strider's arm.

   “I'm sorry, Strider, I failed you. And not only with my lack of knowledge of botany.”

   “Failed me?” Strider rasped, squinting at him. “Nay, you did not. You stayed when you could have left. You even came to my rescue.”

   “It was the Dwarves' doing. And…” Daevan hesitated and lowered his gaze. “You pushed me out of harm's way. You thought me to be incapable of standing by your side and fighting to the end.”

   “No, my young friend, no,” the warrior replied, trying to convey sincerity with his look. He held Daevan's forearm. “I consider you very brave. But I knew when that fight started we would both get captured or killed. I wanted you to find a safer passage.”

   “You mean….”

   Strider managed a very weary smile.

   “You exceeded all expectations, Daevan. Your grand-father and your friends will be proud of you. You brought honour to your family.” Strider closed his eyes, and when his arm went limp, Daevan made out his last words before he slept. “If I bring honour to mine I have yet to prove.”

   Daevan frowned, and while his eyes rested on the relaxing face of his companion he thought about his words. Had he really brought honour to his family? He still was no fighter. He was a fisherman thrown into an adventure he had not foreseen. He had had no idea of how many foes and how much cruelty they would meet along the way. But still… if he had known, would he have turned away to leave Strider alone with the task of hunting Gollum?

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter Twenty-eight

A Valuable Tool

   “We will accompany you,” said Darin, placing his stout legs apart. The others stood by his side, determined to go.

   Daevan shouldered his pack and rope and put the helmet back on his head.

   “Not all of you,” he stated astonished and with a deep frown. “We cannot leave Thorongil behind without protection.”

   “The chamber is safe.” There was deep mistrust in Darin's eyes, and Daevan sensed the unrest of the free folk as if it were spoken out loud.

   “If I fail…” He shifted uneasily. “If I fall you have to get Strider out of here. He won't make it alone.”

   Darin spoke rapidly with Furin. The oldest Dwarf stayed his ground, and his beard trembled while his eyes were ablaze with anger. He glared at the young man.

   “They fear for their treasure,” stated Strider from his place. His voice was still strained and low. He grimaced when he tried to sit up. “They think you would take it and disappear.” Daevan nodded slightly.

   “I know you are brave and strong warriors,” he said with all the politeness he could muster. “Therefore two of you will be enough to accompany me to that hiding place.”

   Furin, seeing the reasoning behind Daevan's words, replied firmly:

   “You have to swear by the Valar that you will not keep what is ours.”

   Daevan's face went blank, and he did not know what to say.

   “You already asked me to fulfil Strider's vow, did you not?”

   Furin furrowed his thick brows, and again Darin muttered unintelligible words. Strider, leaning against the wall, looked up to his young companion approvingly and with a hint of amusement. The Dwarves were undecided and had many a word to say about the young lad's behaviour.

   “I will go,” said Darin finally, the hand on the shaft of his axe. He sounded as determined as if he was about to fight the young man. “And Lini will go also.”

   Daevan bowed to the old Dwarf.

   “Your decision is wise,” he said quietly, remembering the lesson about Dwarves, which had taken place ages ago as it seemed to him. The journey had been happier then. He turned to Furin. “If we do not return…” He found the words hard to say. He had survived the dangers of the mine to free Strider, and now he would leave him behind once more without knowing if he would live to continue his journey with him. “You have to promise me to get Strider out of here safely.”

   “We would never abandon our ally,” Furin replied bowing low.

   “We should be gone already,” Darin huffed and left the chamber first.

   Daevan and Strider exchanged glances, then, without a word, Daevan turned and followed the Dwarves.

-o-o-o-o-

   It was up to Lini to secure their exit as they departed. Daevan came next, followed by Darin. The stairs lay empty and silent before them, and the only sound the young man heard was his beating heart. The time in the place of safety had been short, and once again he felt fearful anticipation creep through his body. They moved stealthily down the steps and halted at the branching of the ways. Frowning, at the still paths Lini grabbed his axe tight and ventured further down the main way. Daevan looked left. Far away he descried a small dot of fire. He told Lini, and the Dwarves and their ally hurried on, away from the light. They shielded their own torch, and with only a little light to break the everlasting darkness the small group continued quietly and depressed.

   Presently, there was a roll of thunder, followed by a hiss from depths unknown, as if steam was ventilated through a narrow hole. The earth rumbled beneath their feet. The Dwarves shrieked and cast themselves on the ground near to the wall, heedless of the pebbles hitting them. Daevan frowned. Though anxious he dared to look down the abyss. There was a blinding flash of fire, a single burst of orange flame, followed by a heavy silence. No one stirred. No one came from the deep. The thunder faded away; the earth was once more still and unmoving. Upon turning Daevan watched the two Dwarves recover from shock.

   “What was that?” the young man asked, astonished at the Dwarves' behaviour.

   Darin grumbled in his beard, and both Dwarves looked embarrassed as they dusted their coats.

   “You are better off not knowing,” the old Dwarf said passing him by. He took the torch and the lead, and they hurried on.

   Daevan followed, shaking his head in confusion

   They led Daevan on, back to the habitable parts until Lini finally halted and turned. His face bore an expression of longing mingled with regret and fear. Daevan understood that his part had begun. He pressed the helmet on tightly, and while Lini repeated the description of the way to take, the young man put the coiled up rope across his shoulder and loosened the blade in its sheath.

-o-o-o-o-

   Without the Dwarves, Daevan felt the stillness of the way ever more threatening. The darkness looked like a gaping mouth, ready to swallow him if he ventured too close. He overcame his nervousness. He had been in these tunnels for days; why should he fear them now? The torch in his left hand was heavy as he approached the branching leading to the ledge Furin had spoken of. Sheer walls, which seemed to fall deep into the earth, greeted him as he dared to look down from the ledge. Darin had said that the ladders had been destroyed long ago, and that no enemy could reach him with his sword. Yet their lances and arrows would carry far enough if he was descried from beyond the way. Carefully Daevan moved on. The soft sound of the flickering torch was the only thing he heard for a while. There was no wind, no sound apart from his soft steps, and the growling of thunder he had heard before, seemed to have taken place in his imagination. Then, at the turn of the small path he was walking there were low voices. It was a snarling and hissing going on; of what they spoke Daevan could not tell. It was unavoidable; he had to march out into the open. He hunched his shoulders as the Orcs did, took the curve and hurried on, hoping to pass unseen.

   Daevan saw the creatures crouching on the ground, guarding a pathway ten feet deeper and beyond the cleft. They had only one torch with them, and the light was dim. Getting closer, he understood their words in the Common Speech and knew they brawled over the leadership of the Dunlendings and that none of those Men was worthy of that position. Daevan held the torch low, pressed himself against the wall, and walked on, ever on, keeping an eye on the enemies below. One goblin spat on the ground. The other growled at him, and on they went with their argument, while above them the young fisherman vanished from their sight into yet another path.

   It was a small way, covered with pebbles, and the walls towered above him. Daevan held the torch higher, searching for the scratched sign Darin had told him about. It did not take him long to find it. He put down the torch to look into the cleft, which was hardly a man's width. Down there, almost out of the fire's gleam and out of the reach of his arms, lay a thick wooden handle, which end was decorated with branded symbols. The headpiece was made of dark iron, broad and thick, notched slightly at its edges. Daevan grinned despite the tension. Quickly he unwound the rope and tied it in a sling. He lay on his belly and carefully let down the rope. To his disappointment, his intention to use the sling around the headpiece to pull up the hammer went awry. He cursed under his breath and searched for a way of fastening the rope. Time passed, and with it the danger of discovery rose. Only faintly the voices of the Orcs could be heard, and Daevan was as quiet as possible. He tied a thick knot and pressed it into a crack. The rope was thin and of a material Daevan did not recognise. It looked silvery grey, and when he tested its strength, he tried to forget that he would be stuck forever in this cleft if the rope tore apart. Leaving his pack and sword behind, he slowly and carefully climbed down the cleft until he could reach the valuable tool. It had been made for a man of a larger size, and its weight outmatched those of any Daevan had ever held in his hand, but he stowed it away safely in his belt on his back and pulled himself up again. The rope gave way, and for a moment Daevan thought it would slip, but he reached the rim safely. Torch and pack lay untouched, yet the voices from afar had faded away. Only briefly Daevan wondered if the enemies had noticed his presence, but he was too glad of having accomplished his mission than to think about its possible failure.

   He shouldered his pack and belongings and halted a moment to scrutinize the Hammer of Aulé in the torchlight. Apart from the symbols or letters (he could not tell) on the handle there was nothing special on it. It lay heavily but well-shaped and balanced in his hand, and the surface was smooth to touch. Yet when he turned the handle there was a flicker of light in it. What he saw made him gasp. Along the handle a silver ribbon was embedded in the wood, and it shone on its own. Daevan looked at the head and found the same shimmering light embedded in the iron. The ribbon ended in curved signs on top of the head. Daevan would have whistled if he had dared. That tool was indeed of incredible value! The moment he lowered the torch the symbols faded, and only the tool in its bareness remained.

   He took the torch in his left and the hammer in his right hand and vigilantly hurried back to the ledge.

   Two Orcs jumped from a protruding stone, startling Daevan. He stepped back immediately and evaded the slicing scimitar by the fraction of an inch. He threw the torch at his foes. The first one let it pass, sneering, attacking again. The light went dim. The same instant Daevan swung the hammer with both hands. He hit the Orc's wrist with the weapon. The beast howled in pain, driven back against his minion by the impact. The scimitar clanked on the ground. Once more the hammer came upon him, and its mighty force thrust the Orc against the wall, cracking his ribs. It lay motionless, his eyes broken. The second creature hissed a curse and stormed forward with its blade raised. The young man dodged the downward move and with a roar brought up the hammer once more to let it fall into the back of the creature. The backplate broke. The beast stumbled, lost its balance and fell over the cliff with a shrill cry. Its body slammed on the ground ten paces below. Daevan panted. His eyes were everywhere, expecting yet another assault. It did not come. The Orc guards had been alone. In his haste , he put down the hammer to collect bow and quiver from the dead Orc. He flung it across his shoulder, grabbed the hammer, and looked round one last time. He did not wait to see if there were more guards coming to search for the source of the cry. Lifting the torch he hurried along the ledge.

   Strong hands pulled him in at the next corner. Daevan gasped, but thrust forward the torch.

   “Wait! It is us!” Lini cried, letting go of him, and pushing away the fire from his beard. Daevan breathed in deeply, trying in vain to calm down. His heart beat so fast he felt as if it were outside his ribcage. A dead Orc lay beside them, and another dead body could be spotted three feet away. The Dwarves had not been idle! “That was marvellous! Unrivalled it its mastery!” Lini praised him, still fumbling to quench the smoke on his thick beard. His small weather-beaten face shone with bliss. “After such a long time! It still works!”

   “Give it to me!” Darin snatched the hammer out of Daevan's hand and ran his eyes over the headpiece. “How could you dare…”

   “Let us go!” Daevan urged breathlessly, ignoring the old Dwarf. He had the hand on the hilt of the scimitar. “There will be others coming!”

   “You notched the Hammer of Aulé!” Darin complained following them along the way. The hammer was heavy, and his speaking became strenuous. “You should not have…” But his words were lost, and Lini hushed him as they ran back the path they had come.

-o-o-o-o-

   “He wielded it with skill!” Lini praised much too loudly, and though Furin ordered him to be still, the younger Dwarf's delight could not be quenched. Dini was a welcomed listener. “Those goblins were smashed!”

   “He misused it!” Carefully Darin set down the valuable tool on a piece of cloth in a corner of the secret chamber. When he turned, his glare pierced Daevan. Furin eyed the hammer with loving care, content to have it back in possession. The silver ribbon shone in the fire light. It was even more beautiful than Daevan had thought in the first place. “It was not right! Not right!”

   “There was no time to draw his sword!” Lini rebuked for the forth or fifth time since they had reached their hideout. Darin grumbled ceaselessly, but the others refrained from heeding his complaints. They were content to see it again after they had thought it lost.

   Furin came over to Daevan, who had shed the helmet, quiver, and bow, and was about to settle down. The Dwarf bowed low.

   “We gratefully receive back the heirloom of Aulé, my young companion. You ventured far and gained much. So we hold the vow fulfilled.”

   “I did my deed, Master Dwarf, and we will see to yours.”

   “Aye. Rest. Then we march.” Furin turned, and Daevan faced the Great Warrior, unable to hide his grin.

   “You accomplished indeed much, Daevan,” said Strider quietly, but his glance rested on the tool the Dwarves regarded with awe. “The Hammer of Aulé. Who would have thought of that?”

   Daevan took a water-skin, wiped his sweat-covered brow, and leant back beside his companion. He rested his arms on his knees.

   “Well, one might say, they could put it to good use and forge a new sword out of a broken one.” Strider glared at him, and Daevan hastened to add, “As for a normal sword, I suppose, it would suffice.” He waited anxiously for a rebuke, but suddenly Strider laughed.

   “Indeed you ventured far to become so skilled with your tongue!”

-o-o-o-o-

   Once more the Dwarves shared food and water with their allies, content beyond words and eager to leave behind the mine. Daevan hardly listened to their conversation. Now that the strain was over he felt tiredness creep up upon him. His limbs were heavy, and only now he realised the deed he had done. Yet the worry about Strider kept him from lying down. The warrior was battered and bruised; he had not got up since he had been taken to the chamber, and he looked weak enough to stay for another day. When the Dwarves announced they were leaving for the well after a short rest, the young man was about to object. Strider put his hand on his arm, stopping him.

   “I can go on. We must hasten to capture Gollum and leave.”

   “But…”

   “The Orcs will find a way around the barricade,” Strider said. Daevan nodded, but still he was not convinced. “And the Dunlendings spoke of a sorcerer and his minion. They said he would return in three days. If that happens…”

   “Will he bring an army with him?” Daevan asked, suddenly wide awake. The tidings of yet another enemy to battle upset him.

   “He will come for us.” Strider looked up with pain-filled eyes. “They were ordered to find us all. If he finds me no longer a captive his followers will search Moria, even if it takes  him days.”

   Daevan frowned and tried to hide his fear behind a blank face.

   “But who is he?”

   “I cannot say. I only know that the Dunlendings feared him greatly.”

   “Is he a mighty sorcerer then?”

   “The one wizard I know of who roams southward at Isengard is mighty, aye, but I would not think of him allying himself with Orcs and Dunlendings.”

   “So there is another?” Daevan's head swam with the information. After walking trees and hordes of deadly Orcs the thought of a sorcerer to fear or to fight was unsettling him.

   “There might be. It does not matter now. We have no time to lose.” Strider looked up to him, trying in vain to convince his friend. “We must move.”

   “Aye.” There was a pause, and when Daevan spoke again his voice was pressed. “The way to the well is long and narrow. Let me go to hunt that beast, and I will return to…”

   “No,” Strider interrupted and his grey eyes were set with intensity as he looked at his friend. “There will be no time to come back. The Orcs might be delayed by the Dwarves' trick, but they will find a way around. The moment Gollum is caught we must head for the Dimrill Gate. We must get out or we will be stuck. I do not know the way to the western side of the mountains, but I know that there would be miles to cover before we see sunlight again.” Daevan shivered involuntarily. “There is only this one way. Do not worry about me.”

   Daevan lowered his gaze and said no more.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Gollum

   When Strider exhaled, Daevan called to mind the image of water sprayed on fire. It was clear to him that the man had left their hideout much too early. The young man supported him as best as he could. Nevertheless, Strider's face was covered with sweat by the time they reached their first resting place after plodding their way through the gorges and tunnels for a time uncounted. They had been lucky and only once met Orcs, and the Dwarves and Daevan had been quick with their blades. None had been left alive to report their whereabouts to the Orc-chieftain or the Dunlendings. Warily they had moved on, ever more vigilant and as silent as they could be.

   Wearily they sat down. Lini was detailed to watch while the others shared water and a frugal meal. Daevan unsheathed his sword to wipe clean the blade, and when it shone again in the dim light of the torch, he sighed.

   “I wish I knew about its ancestry,” he said quietly. “And now I think grand-father will never tell me.”

   Strider wiped his brow with his gloved hand. He was worn out, yet he tried to remain upright and ready to leave if the need occurred. No place could be considered safe now.

   “It was my captain's sword,” he said quietly. Daevan's head snapped around to face him. Strider evaded the young man's stare, grimacing. Evanar had been a trustworthy soldier, a man, who should have led the army instead of him. But he had been content as the first captain and riding with the host's vanguard. He had been strong and proud, yet without luck. Strider inhaled deeply. “When he was wounded at the Rammas and taken to the Houses of Healing at Minas Tirith, he knew he would not live to use his sword again. It was an heirloom of his family, but his son had fallen in battle.” He paused, and Daevan knew the memory still hurt. “But he wanted to give it to someone he had come to know and to trust. That man was your grand-father.”

   “Doran? But how? Why?”

   Strider was reluctant to reveal more, but Daevan looked at him pleadingly.

   “Doran had served the army of Minas Tirith for a long time, and the captain and he had known each other for years. You told me he even became a member of the Citadel Guard and that Ecthelion favoured him with his support. So it came to pass that Doran was sent to the captain to ask for his last wishes, and was given the sword to keep as an heirloom of his own family.”

   Speaking exhausted the wanderer, and he rested his head against the wall. Nevertheless, Daevan asked:

   “But… why did he never speak of it?”

   “I cannot tell you this, my friend, but I know that Doran was confident you would take it for a good purpose.”

   “So you knew of it all the time?” Daevan asked, unable to hide his disappointment about the late revelation.

   “I knew when you told me its name.” Strider fell silent, and the young man pondered why Doran had not given the valuable sword to his father. “It is a sad story. Maybe your grand-father did not wish to share the burden with you.”

   “He could have given it to my father.”

   Strider's eyes rested with frankness on the young man.

   “He could have. But he saved it for you. He knew why.”

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan was as eager to leave the mine as were the Dwarves, and though Strider could not cope with their speed, they made good progress. The young man held the wanderer with one hand by his belt and with the other at the wrist drawn across his shoulder. Supported like this, Strider could save his strength. The small group ventured through the vast tunnels, halting repeatedly to listen into the darkness.

   Getting closer to the well Lini was sent first once more, and his reconnaissance took him a long time. His face was dirty and bathed in sweat when he returned with hasty steps.

   “It is there!” he said in a hushed whisper and with a gesture roused them to go on. “I saw it! We must hurry!”

   Lini led the way; Furin followed with the torch, Dini had his axe ready to defend them, while Darin trotted behind with the burden of the long-handled hammer. His breathing was laboured, but he kept his pace. Behind them came Daevan with Strider leaning on him.

   “It is not that far anymore,” Daevan said, as if to soothe the Ranger.

   “How do you know?” Strider lifted his head briefly, and his hair fell into his face. He was weary beyond reckoning, and his left leg burnt from within. The poultice had taken away some of the pain and the inflammation, but the wound had not yet mended.

   “The scratches at the branching,” Daevan said evenly. “I made them.” Strider turned his head to express his surprise with a look. “Well, somehow I had to find my way in this stinking hole.” Darin glared over his shoulder. “A mine,” the young man quickly corrected. “Once a mighty town.”

   “Aye,” Darin grumbled and fell silent again.

   Strider swallowed. Through the pain, he gave Daevan a thin smile.

   “Well, if that is not a happy twist of events.” His voice was but a breath, but the young companion had heard him and moved on with a grin on his lips.

-o-o-o-o-

   The hunched up figure of Gollum had clambered from a cleft toward the fountain where the dull flicker of a torch at the wall gave some light. Daevan would have known his frame and built amidst hundreds of Orcs, but there was none to disturb them. None to try to capture Gollum on his own, and that was why the sly beast had dared to get close to the well. His soft whining as he jumped onto the rim of the well was to be heard on the ledge above on the eastern side. The Dwarves nodded toward the wanderer, who had tried to crouch beside them, but had to stretch out his left leg with a hiss of suppressed pain.

   The area around the fountain lay quiet. Gollum let down the bucket on the rope, and the soft splash as it hit the surface was the only sound. Carefully he checked if they were still alone. Gollum was ready to jump and run back to that small cleft he had lain hidden if need occurred. He would not face those Orcs again! They had been cruel, ever poking his skin, ever mocking though he had given them something of utter importance! Gollum shook his meagre head. Some last remains of hair moved in silent addition to his thoughts of misery. It had been hard to escape, but his cunning had been his salvation! But the ways of Moria were vast. It had been tremendously difficult to remain alive with no hidden pool to serve as a perfect hideout. Longingly he thought of the Lonely Mountains and his precious. O, yes, his precious! Another whine escaped his thin lips. He shook his head once more. His longing for his precious could not be quenched. He would ever want it. Ever need it; ever wish to put it back on his hand where it belonged. It had been his birthday present, and that devilish Hobbit had stolen it from him. Stolen it! How could he have dared to be so bold! He remembered the riddles they had solved in the deep cavern of the mountain. That Hobbit had been good, even clever, but he had cheated on poor Gollum and thus betrayed him!

   Suddenly there was a faint sound. Gollum, about to pull up the bucket, halted and peered into the darkness with his lamp-like eyes. He waited. He waited long until he felt safe again.

   Daevan looked left and right. He distrusted the quietness and the ominous peace. The Orcs were about somewhere, and it would take them only minutes to gather their minions by beating the drums. He could almost feel the presence of other creatures, and Strider beside him seemed to be likewise uneasy. Daevan breathed deeply. He had to remain calm and circumspect. Now that they had come this far he wanted to bind that creature (which had caused all they trouble they were in, he thought resentfully) and get away as soon as possible.

   Gollum worked hard to pull up the bucket, oblivious to the pursuers waiting no more than twenty feet away. When he had made it, he sang softly to himself and gulped down the water. But he was attentive and halted between the swigs to look round. Only then, he stuck his head into the bucket again.

   “He'll run if we try getting closer,” Furin observed doubtfully.

   “If we could catch him from here…” Strider let his voice trail off, but Daevan carefully took off his pack.

   “I have a net with me,” he whispered proudly, and when he unfolded it, Strider praised him for his circumspection. Quickly Daevan collected four stones the size of a small hand and wound them into the corners of the net. The Dwarves turned toward him and eyed his doings with doubt. They had never seen such device before and did not know what should be done with it. “I'll throw it from here,” Daevan announced. “But we have to be quick with him.”

   “Aye, we can do that!” Darin announced grimly and swung the hammer across his shoulder once more, almost hitting Furin with it. “If he moves I'll beat him once and for all!”

   “I need him unharmed.”

   Darin glared at the wanderer, but complied.

   “We will get him anyway,” he stated when Daevan had the net ready. Darin nodded to the young man and stealthily moved into position. Furin, Dini, and Lini accompanied him.

   Gollum smacked his lips and took the bucket down beside the rim, now that he had emptied it to the half. He was content for now. Still there was hunger to quench, but he had had worse days. Worse months even. With a shudder, he remembered his long imprisonment in the Dark Tower. He shook his head as if to lose the memory. And then there had been that awfully tall Man trying to capture him while he was finally on the run! It had been a terrible incident, and he had not yet shaken the fear. And even in here, in the darkness, which should cover him and keep him safe, he had been bound and forced under another Man's will. But he was stronger! He was sly. He would survive.

   Daevan waited. He had not told Strider that he was only used to throwing a net for catching fish (where a miss did not matter), and now his mouth was dry as the stones he stood upon. He swung the net above his head, and when it gained speed, threw it into the dimness at the well. He could hardly follow his pitch, but the creature made an awful shriek. With grim content Daevan turned. Strider already stood. Down below the ledge the Dwarves ran across the flagstones. They were quiet, much quieter than Gollum, who fought the net, whining words in a high-pitched voice. He accused the Dwarves, he struggled viciously, and when he found no way out, his accusations grew louder and more impatient. One more cry followed, then the creature lay still.

   Strider forced himself down the ledge and across the rear part of the hall. He saw Gollum rolled up and tied up and unmoving. He looked at Darin accusingly.

   “You are fast with your club, are you not?”

   Darin bowed.

   “Aye, Thorongil, at your service. But you will see he is still alive.”

   An arrow hit the wall aside the well. Strider turned immediately, pulled Daevan with him, and they dodged for cover. Darin dragged the bound Gollum behind him as the Dwarves quickly scattered to find hiding-places in the shadows. Alarmed yet not fearful they gazed at the opposite ledge.

   “The bow!” Strider urged. Daevan delivered it and handed him two arrows. Another shaft came whirling through the hall, but hit the floor. Strider looked up, aimed, and shot. More arrows whistled by, and Strider used his cover to shoot back effectively. Then, all of a sudden, the sounds ceased, and only a few more black-tipped arrows were loosed against them. The Great Warrior sensed there were more Orcs lying in wait, but the company had no time to hunt them down. “We must leave!” Strider flung the bow across his shoulder and rose. He grimaced at the sudden pain assaulting him, but moved on. The Dwarves ran past them into the darkness. Furin had Gollum on his back like a sack of corn, and still he ran.

   Daevan offered his support, but Strider told him to move on.

   The run for the Dimrill Gate had begun.

-o-o-o-o-

   Dull the drums rang. Doom, doom! They were answered by others, even farther away. The voices of Orcs were to be heard, magnified by the walls on both sides, but as yet none of the creatures were close enough to assail them. The company could recover grimly contented that they had thrown back the attackers once more.

   Darin was sweating under the weight of the great hammer. He tried to carry it in front of him or across his shoulder, but every time he changed position, the tool seemed to become heavier, and though he was as stout and strong as a Dwarf could be, he panted loudly. More often than not, he hit the handle against the stones, causing a noise. Then Darin cursed under his breath. Furin eyed him angrily. Lini had the vanguard, Dini followed with his axe in his hands, while the rearguard consisted of Strider and Daevan. The moment Strider staggered, Daevan simply slipped his shoulder under his companion's arm and dragged him along. With the faint drums behind them and the threat of the guard along the bridge in front of them, there was no time to lose.

   Yet, their speed slackened at the weights and the exhaustion they faced. Lini glanced back over his shoulder and flinched. Darin stumbled more than he walked, and the hammer almost slipped from his sweaty fingers.

   “You'll delay us all!” Lini hissed when his companions got closer. “Give it to the tall man! He can carry it.”

   “But I won't!” Darin protested, holding the heirloom of the Dwarves close to his armour. He wheezed, but still eyed Daevan malevolently. “He might drop it! He might ruin it!”

   “But you'll lose it or get caught,” Lini rebuked. Briefly he looked at the stairs ahead of them. They had to reach the lower level and then, after yet another long way in the open, the Bridge of Khazad-dûm.

   Strider and Daevan had reached them, and out of breath the wanderer urged:

   “Let Daevan carry it, Master Dwarf. We all know of your strength and will, but we are in dire need to get out of the mine.” Still Darin hesitated, turning the handle in his two small hands. “We are allies, Darin, and neither Daevan nor I will try to take away what is rightfully yours.”

   Furin stood aside, eyeing the old leader, pressing him without words. He shifted the weight of Gollum on his back. A while ago the beast had regained consciousness, but due to his loud complaints that period had been short and had ended with yet another blow to the beast's head.

   “He is right,” he said at length. “Do part with it and let us go on.”

   “You have no influence in this!” Darin rebuked, but – with utmost reluctance – handed the Hammer of Aulé to Daevan. “Take it then, as it must be. But I warn you not to drop it. Not to use it. And not to fall over a cliff and get lost with it!”

   “I will see to save me too,” replied Daevan dryly and stowed away the hammer on his back, where it was held by his belt.

   Lini glanced back the way they had come.

   “On, my friends! On we must move!” He took the lead, and his fellows, and the two Men slogged on.

-o-o-o-o-

   They climbed down the stairs in single file and reached the next deep. Just before entering the hall on their way, Lini held the company back with his hand raised. Carefully he peeped around the corner, then snapped back his head.

   “Four goblins,” he reported quietly, “and I cannot say if there are more in the darkness. The hall is huge.”

   “Aye.” Strider took the scimitar Daevan had handed him. “Furin and Darin stay as rearguard, we go.”

   “I will not remain behind like an old pack of rags!” the old Dwarf complained.

   “Hush!” Furin said and turned to Strider. “Are you sure you can…?”

   “I might not look like it, but I can still fight.”

   “We stay,” Furin decided and shot Darin a warning glance. The old Dwarf snarled an unfriendly remark, but the others had already turned away.

   Warily the Dwarves and Men proceeded, and when they reached the corner once more, Lini cast a handful of pebbles to his left, thus alarming the Orcs nearby. There was a shuffle of boots, some questions into the dark, and then the sound of creaking leather as the creatures moved closer.

   Daevan held Ranaél in his right hand as he waited for the goblins to show themselves. The days in the mine had caused him to shed the nervous anticipation of fights; he was calm and expected the Orcs like an experienced warrior. Strider did not fail to notice the younger man's self-confidence, and he was proud.

   The Orcs appeared with only one torch to light the way. The moment they reached the corner the Dwarves attacked them ferociously with their axes, hewing at arms and legs and sending the creatures down howling with pain. The sound was hollow in the hall. Daevan parried the blow of yet another foe assailing him, and from the darkness two more came to aid their fallen minions. But they, too, did not withstand the fighters and lay in their blood only minutes later.

   Silence fell. Daevan and Strider quickly retreated from the torchlight. No more enemies poured from the hall, and no sound announced the arrival of an Orc horde yonder the ways branching from the main room. Only from far away drums resounded.

   “Hurry!” Lini called to his kin, and together they hastened through the hall in the first deep. “There is a chasm ahead!” he said by a while. Left and right no walls could be seen, and Daevan only guessed the greatness of the hall as they ran. “There is a way across on the right!” Lini steered the company that way and all followed him, guided only by the flicker of fire of the dying torch.

   They crossed the chasm and left the hall behind. Down another flight of stairs, they hurried, making as little sound as possible. Nevertheless the guards at the bridge had been alarmed days ago that neither beast nor Men were allowed to leave Moria that way. Therefore, the company crouched in a corner, weary and tired, yet knowing they would be caught between the hammer and the anvil if they did not make it over the bridge immediately.

   “Two on this side I could see,” Lini reported, who had sharp eyes for a Dwarf. “But on the other, close to the next flight of stairs to the first hall there are more.” He swallowed. “How shall we get rid of them?”

   “We have to rest first,” Daevan demanded and looked at Strider. His hair lay in wet strands across his brow, and he steadied himself against the wall behind him. “At least drink something,” he added and handed Strider a water-skin.

   “Aye.” Furin put down the net with Gollum.

   While they all drank the creature moved slightly, and his fierce and hate-filled eyes were set on Strider.

   “Release us, you filthy thief!” he demanded and fumbled again – and in vain – with the net holding him. “You must let us go! You hurt us!”

   Darin had his club ready, but Strider held him back.

   “You either go with me or you will be left behind for the Orcs. What say you?”

   Gollum winced and whined and clattered his few teeth. He writhed miserably in the tight net.

   “Release us! We can…”

   “You are a traitor!” Daevan interrupted, getting closer menacingly. “So you either keep your mouth shut, or I might use the hammer to end your complaints!” He reached for the Hammer – ignoring Darin's accusing “No!” – and made the beast falter.

   “No, no, no! Not hurt poor Gollum!”

   “Then you will shut up!” Daevan held the beast in his stare, but even though Gollum was afraid, the Dwarves took no risk and used a piece of cloth to gag the beast.

   Furin nodded, content with his decision.

   “We move on,” Lini said quietly. The company rose, yet halted when they heard steps and fragments of a conversation. There were more Orcs in front of them than they had anticipated.

Chapter Thirty

The Dimrill Gate

   Gurim cursed viciously. He had not ceased cursing since the stones had barred the path back to the hall and kitchen. The Orcs and Dunlendings had taken the much longer way through the vastness of the mine, and every now and again, they had lost some of their minions to the unpredictable deep. Stairs had been broken away due to decay, and behind every corner, cracks in the stone had appeared making it clear they needed to move on. The group had almost faltered; they were neither courageous nor devoted to their leaders. Gurim had hurried the goblins and the few Uruks among them with threats, and they had doubled their efforts to reach the hall again when the first drums had been heard by those in the vanguard. At that moment, Hrunas had joined the cursing. They had pushed forward their minions relentlessly.

   Gurim still thought about Grima's words – apart from the unmistakable threats – and cursed himself for having been so negligent. They could have caught that creature within a day if they had taken the time and effort to do so. And they would have caught the young Man too, if he had ordered all pathways to be flooded with Orcs so that no one would have been able to escape. But he had not thought of the Men's slyness. And he had not – another curse followed – thought that the Dwarves would still dare to oppose them even though they had lost four of their companions. He had made mistakes, and now, as he plodded through the tunnels and bruised his hands and knees, he realised that he must either capture the Men and the beast or he would lose everything.

-o-o-o-o-

   The affray was hard and still continued. Lini and Dini swung their axes with long-practised skill, hacking and slashing at the Orcs assailing them. Daevan punched an Uruk straight in his face, but the creature only snarled at him. Wide-eyed the young man realised that Uruk-hai did not feel pain. In a fluent motion, he brought up his sword, but was parried by a scimitar. The Uruk bent forward and bared his teeth for a victorious roar. Daevan smelt the stench of him. Abruptly he retreated. The enemy, taken unawares, stumbled forward. Daevan buried the turned blade deep in its belly, then pulled it free again, ready to take out another foe. There were plenty of scimitars just waiting to be countered.

   Beside him, Strider fought. His long years of experience served him well; he evaded the blows and pushed the Orcs back. He was slow on his feet, but his arm was still strong and fast. The enemies were not skilled enough to even scratch him. But his ability to evade was limited. One tall minion approached him from behind, and it was Dini's vigour that saved Thorongil's life. The Dwarf slashed his axe into the creature's back, thus adding him to those dead on the ground.

   Strider was left breathless. But the danger was not yet over, and when the guards from the gate side started firing their shafts – disregarding the probability that they would hit their fellows – it was up to the wanderer to limp to a safe place to release his arrows. The Dwarves and Daevan fought the Orcs hurrying to aid their fellows, and their fight was long and strenuous. Behind them in the tunnel the drums drew closer, and the Bridge of Khazad-dûm still lay ahead of them.

-o-o-o-o-

   Gurim had stopped cursing. He had no breath left. The tidings of the Dwarves and Men fleeing the mine had finally reached him, and the drums were deafening. Now they had a goal! Gurim shouted over the clamour that he would grant those catching the fugitives men flesh, and all who heard him clattered their teeth in anticipation. Gurim and Hrunas were overtaken. Hrunas cursed once more, knowing that the group would now try to kill the Men and Dwarves instead of just hindering their escape. But there was no stopping the horde now.

   They ran.

-o-o-o-o-

   Strider's arrow whistled through the air, and another Orc fell dead into the abyss. But there were still far more than he could fight. Beyond the bridge there were protruding stones to conceal the enemy from him, and behind them another stairway led to the first hall. They were issuing a mocking challenge, and dully their voices rang through the lofty hall.

   He loosed his last arrow, watched the Orc go down on his knees, then left his hideout. A hail of arrows greeted him as he limped back to where the company was fighting, yet the enemy had less skill and were too rash. Two more Orcs were hit by their own minions and fell. An Uruk set his yellow eyes on Strider, roaring a challenge, and within seconds, the wanderer was entangled in a fight. He thrust himself forward, thus gaining some range to swing the crude blade against the neck of the creature. But his strike was intercepted, and he was thrown back. The dark-skinned enemy was about him with two steps, deeming the Man beaten. He swung his scimitar to cleave the Man's head, but Strider was faster. He dodged the deadly blow and brought up his blade to cut through the Uruk's throat. Blood gushed from the wound as the Uruk-hai went down. Strider turned, aiding Lini and shielding Furin, who was hampered by Gollum on the lower part of his back. One more goblin fell dead to the hit of his minion's arrow.

   “Now! Run for the bridge!” Strider cried when the rest of the horde fled the fierce assault of the company.

   They hurried down the last stairs toward the narrow bridge. Daevan braced himself against the dizziness assailing his stout heart. He would not falter now, yet a glance into the unknown deep caused him to slacken his speed.

   “Go on!” Strider urged behind him. “Run and do not look down!”

   Daevan inhaled one last time. He ran as fast as he could, but the Dwarves with their short legs were in front of him. And there were the Orcs' shrill cries resounding through the heights. Arrows came whirling from their left. Daevan realised the Orcs were yelling at their fellows, who had hidden themselves until now. One arrow struck Darin's helmet, but rebounded. Another stuck into Furin's mail coat, but the Dwarf did not even notice. He hurried on as fast as he could. Dini made his way behind him, never taking his eyes off the small bridge without any kerb or rail. It had been long weeks ago that he had entered the ancient halls of his forebears, and now – humiliating as it was – he had to flee them.

   The cries of the enemies grew louder. Most of them had spent their arrows yet still those hated Men and Dwarves were moving! On crooked legs, they scurried like spiders in a web down from the ledge to greet the fugitives with their scimitars.

   Strider forced himself forward. He knew his left leg would be pure agony once he reached the other side, but until then he ground his teeth and limped across the abyss with all the speed he could muster. In front of him, Daevan hurried, but then a black-feathered shaft slid from his breast plate into his left arm. Daevan cried with pain and slowed down, barely keeping his balance on the slender bridge. He did not halt, but pressed his right arm to the wound. Warm blood oozed between his fingers. For a moment he felt as if he were losing his footing; he was afraid he would fall.

   “Move on, Daevan, just move on!” Strider urged behind him. “It's not far now! Just go!”

   Daevan heeded the older man's words. He ground his teeth, fighting the dizziness, and keeping his feet on the stones. His vision blurred, but still he walked. He could not run anymore, but still he did not stumble. More arrows whistled past him. He thought how odd it would be to have survived within the mine and be killed on the last bridge. Behind him Strider still talked to him, disregarding the enemy's threats and howls. And Daevan knew there were more ugly creatures to follow.

-o-o-o-o-

   Gurim caught up with the first Uruks waiting at the branching tunnels.

   “What tidings of the Men?” he shouted at him and would have wanted to shake and hit the creature. He was angry enough to beat anyone. But such a tall creature would fight back, and Gurim restrained himself.

   “They are fleeing to the bridge,” the Uruk said in his deep growling voice. “Two patrols saw them.”

   “Did they capture them?”

   “They tried.” The Uruk bared his teeth and his voice was full of scorn. “But those lazy maggots were weak. They were beaten.”

   Gurim cursed, Hrunas shook his head, and the lot hurried on. They were only a quarter mile away from the second hall.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan's left arm was numb. The Orc-shaft stuck out, and he broke the end away. He reached the other side of the bridge. Three Orcs rushed him; they had lain hidden behind the stones, and were eager to avenge their comrades. Daevan drew his sword and fought back the first, but the second lashed its scimitar against him, hitting the breastplate. Though the scimitar failed to wound him, Daevan was driven back by the impact. From behind Strider appeared, his blade raised high enough to cut through the Orc's shoulder. The goblin jerked back in anguish. A second strike sent him to the ground. Daevan could not deflect the next Orc blade; it hit his thigh, sliced through cloth and skin, and he grimaced with pain. Weakened he retreated from the Orc. The creature came after him, praising victory in his foul tongue, and the moment he launched forward his blade, Daevan stepped aside and kicked the Orc into the abyss. It went down shrieking. Other cries answered in anger. Boots shuffled over the ground yonder the plateau they were fighting.

   “We have to leave!” Daevan shouted over the mayhem. “There are more coming this way!” He felt blood trickle down his leg, but he barely looked at it; there was no time to treat the wound anyway.

   The Dwarves stood their ground. Their stout legs spread apart their axes worked in never tiring hands. Yet the enemy was gathering its forces.

   “We must move on!” Strider stabbed his blade into an Orc's throat, freed the weapon and helped Furin against a taller Uruk-hai, who fought on even though his thighs were bleeding badly from the first hit, and he was on his knees.

   The same instant an Orc rammed Daevan against the wall. The young man cried out and dropped his sword. All air was pressed out of his lungs. The Orc, already bereft of his weapon, stooped to grab Ranaél. Daevan reached for the Hammer of Aulé. He pulled it out half-way when Darin jumped in between, driving his axe deep into the goblin's back. The creature died without a cry, and Darin glared at Daevan.

   “You must not use it!” he shouted.

   Daevan caught his breath and gladly took his sword the Dwarf handed him.

   “Thank you, Darin!”

   “Aye.” The Dwarf turned away, facing yet another of the enemy's minions.

-o-o-o-o-

   Above the drum-beats Gurim heard the clamour of the fight yonder the bridge. He glanced at Hrunas. His fellow had bared his teeth, and his face was grim and determined; he was in the same hunting mood, but worried nevertheless. They would gain nothing if the enemies were killed on their very doorstep.

   “Get me those Men!” Gurim shouted toward those running in front of him. “But don't kill them! Or I'll have your heads too!” He searched for Brúnak, but could not see the Orc-chieftain. He doubted that the group would restrain themselves when their prey was close.

   The hall was right in front of them. Seventy pairs of heavy boots hurried toward the Bridge of Khazad-dûm.

-o-o-o-o-

   Lini threw the Orc against the stairs. Its helmet was cloven, and the beast was beaten like many of its fellows. The Dwarf was sweating and exhausted and his armour was cut at the right shoulder, but still he felt strong and full of life. He turned around to see the company following him. Quickly he took a torch from a holder. Furin came up to him, Darin followed, and though he was old, he seemed inspired by the prospect of getting the Hammer of Aulé finally home. Dini wiped his brow. He was bleeding from a wound right beneath the helmet's rim, but assured his fellows it was a mere scratch. Daevan and Strider were last to reach them. Lini eyed them closely. The young man's face had blanched and he was not sure if the encounter with the enemy, or the wounds had caused his pallor. Strider limped badly now, his face reflecting his agony, but still he nodded toward the Dwarves to go on.

   “Hurry!” he cried, and they all doubled their efforts to climb the stairs ahead of them.

   It was a quarter of a mile to the first hall, but to Daevan it seemed by far longer. He kept the pace, he put one foot before the other, and he heeded Lini's words as the ever vigilant Dwarf warned the company of the presence of two more Orcs, who had lagged behind their patrol. They did not withstand the Dwarves for long and lost their lives on the blades of Dini and Lini. But the fight slowed down their escape. Daevan gazed back over his shoulder. He could see dancing torchlight; he could hear drum-beats and cries, and above all there was the commanding voice of a Dunlending. He swallowed hard. It might be true that most Orcs shunned the daylight, but the Dunlendings would not. Yet he was too weary to think further than taking the next step.

   Strider concentrated on the simple task of keeping his battered body in motion. He did not heed the noise behind them or the threat of more enemies to battle at the gate. His will kept him upright, and he prayed that they all would reach the Dimrill Stair without the horde getting too close. Yet, the shuffling of feet grew louder as they passed the first hall. Echoes of voices rang through the richly decorated passage. Commands were shouted, and the dull drum-beats resounded again, adding to the sound of heavy boots hurrying forward. Strider could only follow Lini and the torch, oblivious to anything else. He knew their escape would cost him dearly.

-o-o-o-o-

   On crooked legs the Orcs ran across the bridge. They were so eager to get to their prey that the faster ones tried to push and shove their fellows out of the way. Some fell, some returned the pushes, and more lost their footing and plunged shrieking into the abyss. The first ones setting foot on the bridge had been shot at, and Gurim had taken up his cursing again. Maddened with bloodlust, the Orcs holding the passage had shot at everyone getting closer, and now Gurim understood why so many of their race lay felled by black-feathered arrows. His curses grew in volume. The fugitives had had an easy escape!

   With Hrunas behind him and assured they would reach the other side without arrows struck through their necks they hurried along. Hrunas did not like the chasm; it was ominous to him, and whenever the ground shook – the reason he did not know – he hoped he would not be standing on that small pathway. But the ground was silent as were the many minions, who had tried to keep the Men and the Dwarves from fleeing. Hrunas did not cast a glance at the dead – he did not wish to know how many of those fellows had fallen on the blades of just a few Men and Dwarves – but ran on behind the Orcs already prowling toward the first hall. He even shouted at them to yield and wait. He hoped that reminder would not come too late.

-o-o-o-o-

   The Dwarves almost cheered as they crossed the first hall and descried the stairs ahead. Now it was for the run, and the company gathered all strength they had left to reach the gate. Daevan dared to glance over his shoulder. The Orcs were approaching fast now! They had spotted their enemies and hunger as well as the lust for the kill drove them madly on. Daevan felt as if he were walking through a thick fen; he could not cover much ground, and with every heartbeat blood dripped from his wounds. Yet, the urge to go on numbed the pain. Strider at his side kept himself upright, but his haggard face was contorted in a grimace of anguish. He had cast away the useless bow and only kept the shards of his sword and the scimitar. Still the journey had to be over sooner than later, or the brave warrior would break down. Daevan remained at his side, offering help, but Strider only shook his head. He would not give up now.

   Darin watched Daevan's back and the Hammer of Aulé. He sent words to his maker asking that he would let them all escape alive and that this young man would remain long enough on his feet to save the hammer they had come for. Darin knew they had not been the first company to enter Moria in an attempt to bring out the heirloom, but they were – another prayer escaped his lips without words – the first one to fulfil the Dwarves' expectations. He could even imagine the words of praise and joy upon entering their last stronghold, and Darin would do everything necessary to make this dream come true.

   The gate was close. However, it was barred by two stout Orcs, who had heard their comrades fight and die. They held their scimitars across their chest and set their hideous faces in a hideous glare. Lini swung his great axe without ever losing speed and hewed the first Orc's legs above the knees. The creature stumbled in utter surprise and went down. Dini faced the second Orc, but was cast aside. He thudded on the ground and shook his head with a grunt. It was up to Darin to outrun Daevan and thrust himself with all of his considerable weight into the belly of the beast. The impact threw the monster backwards against the wall, and Strider was there to end its life with a single strike.

   Darin breathed through deeply, but the hunt was not over. The pursuers reached the hall and crossed it in a desperate hurry. The two Dunlendings had overtaken their minions and shouted at them to restrain themselves.

   “It's now, my friends!” Darin shouted and slipped first through the gate.

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter Thirty-one

Affray

   The sun was high, and its bright light blinded the members of the company as they, one by one, left the darkness of Moria behind. They squinted into the midday sun, not veiled by any cloud. The sky was high and blue, and a warm wind greeted them like a light touch of a caring hand. It was the most wonderful gift to reach the plateau while the daylight lasted.

   At last came Strider, grimacing still, but with a weary smile breaking through on his weather-beaten face. Behind him in the dimness shrill cries resounded, and the vengeful commands of the Dunlendings answered. Many pairs of boots shuffled across the floor, but then there was a sudden and ominous silence with only the commands of the leaders above it. They urged their minions to walk, but cursed when they denied obedience. Only a handful of the stoutest and hardiest shouted their cries of war.

   “We can not outrun them,” Strider said regretfully. His gaze was directed toward Mirrormere, and though he longed for the peaceful view across the still waters, he would not reach it. Not now. He turned to see two Uruk-hai emerge from the stone gate. They howled as the sunlight hit their eyes, but kept moving. Three more of the impressively tall creatures followed, readying their spears. They were strong and unharmed, and they knew of the reward the Dunlendings had promised. They would feast upon the flesh of Men tonight!

   Daevan felt weak. He panted badly and thought he could go on no further. He blinked, and still the Uruk-hai as well as the Dunlendings behind them seemed to blur before his eyes. He raised Ranaél. The sunlight was caught on the blade, and its reflection blinded the Uruk for a moment. Daevan rushed him. He wanted to end this fight. He wanted to beat the Uruk and all enemies approaching him to finally escape the threat of the mine. Daevan did not heed the warning shout from his left. Recklessly he launched his blade. It seemed to vibrate in his hands as he attacked the Uruk. The blade slipped from the scimitar, but bit deep into the beast's arm. Growling it retreated, irritated by the prowess of the assault. Daevan followed, swinging his sword from the left, bringing it down faster on the thick neck than the enemy could deflect it. Yellow eyes broke as the creature thudded to the ground.

   Wide-eyed Daevan turned. To his left Strider battled Hrunas. The Dunlending hacked his sword down on the wanderer. Strider jerked to his right, thus evading the deadly blow. But he fell on one knee, unable to keep his balance. Daevan saw Hrunas raise the blade high, determined to maim his opponent. Daevan launched Ranaél. At that moment he could have sworn the sword acted on his own, and he was only the arm holding it. The shining blade deflected Hrunas' scimitar in its downward movement. The Dunlending grunted as the impact caused the hilt to reverberate. Strider struck up his scimitar, thus embedding it deep into Hrunas’ belly. The Dunlending gasped, doubled over and fell on his knees.

   Daevan helped Strider stand. The wanderer had no breath left for words; he could only nod his gratitude, while the young man shielded him against yet another Uruk, who had dared to leave the darkness. Lini aided Daevan's defence when the young man was thrown back. He wielded his axe with long practice. The dark creature went down with a sliced up belly and was left dying on the grey rocks.

   Gurim had gone after Furin, thinking to gain two captives at once, but the Dwarf stood not alone. Lini and Dini roared their war-cries and quickly came to his aid. Immediately Gurim, faced with three of the kindred, retreated. But he did not stand long against the ferociously fighting free folk. Wherever he thought to hit and maim his opponents, the Dwarves were faster on their feet and relentlessly drove back their enemy. With many wounds Gurim finally collapsed and his blood trickled down the stones. His hand let go of the sword and he stared in utter dismay at the Uruk-hai beaten by Men and Dwarves, who should never have come this far. He knew he would die if no help came, and vaguely he remembered the sorcerer's minion. He remembered the pale face of the ugly Rohirrim; he remembered the threats. But he knew that Grima Wormtongue was a coward as well. Cursing silently that the weak servant of the sorcerer might get the fugitives and the treasures Gurim lost consciousness.

   Furin had a gash on his left arm, and the breastplate and mail shirt were almost cut through, but he was as light-hearted as a Dwarf could be upon a victory. He looked round with pride. His kin had fought bravely, and even the two Men had stood their ground.

   Strider panted and shut his eyes for a moment before he limped over to Gurim to take back what was his. The villain looked at him with hatred, but could not move anymore. It was a victory of its own to collect bow, quiver, sword and even the jewel from the cruel Dunlending. With grim contentment, the wanderer sheathed his sword and flung the bow over his shoulder.

   Yet, when he tried to stand a wave of dizziness almost swept him away, and he remained sitting on the ground to steady himself. He hung his head. He did not wish to get up again. For the time being they had won and no Orc would dare now – after listening to the deaths of their comrades – to leave the safety of the mine behind.

   “We should leave,” said Daevan beside him and held out a hand.

   “I cannot…”

   “You were not weak when you fought.” Daevan grabbed Strider's upper arm. “You must not be weak now.” Strider returned the grip, and Daevan helped him stand.

   He glanced at Ranaél.

   “That gift was well-chosen.”

   “Aye, but it was you who told me how to wield it.”

-o-o-o-o-

   The enemies lay scattered across the plateau. From inside the mine shrieks of fear and despair resounded; the Orcs did not dare venture out. Darin smiled grimly. He patted Furin's back and praised Lini's and Dini's vigilance and prowess. There had not been such a skirmish to win for many a year, and the old Dwarf was reminded of his days as a young fighter, who had always stood his ground against any foe. Those days were gone, but this day would be remembered and written down in the chronicles of the Dwarves.

   “And now, do you think we would have made it without them?” asked Lini with a sly grin, pointing with his chin toward the Men.

   Darin huffed, scratched his beard and remained silent. Yet his look out of shining grey eyes told Lini much.

-o-o-o-o-

   The Dwarves led the way to the Mirrormere. They walked slowly, frequently turning to make sure they were still alone, and to look after the two Men. Lini was worried. The moment the battle had been over Strider had had no strength left to walk on his own, and his young companion had urged him to stand up and move. Though wounded himself, he had almost carried Thorongil down the first steps. Lini had once more admired the young lad's stamina and thought that the Great Warrior had found himself a proper apprentice. Daevan still steadied Strider's stumbling walk as they carefully followed the path down.

   Darin had – gladly and with a bow of gratitude – taken back the Hammer of Aulé, and now carried it as proudly as his forebears. The sight of the hammer lightened the Dwarves' mood as much as the fact that they had left the plateau and adjoining stairs without pursuers.

   Furin even smiled, though he still carried the ever whining creature Gollum on his back. During the battle the beast had been still like death, but now, sensing that the danger was over, it squirmed like fish in a vortex. But the old Dwarf did not heed the movements. He walked straight down to where many a Dwarf had halted on their way to the Dwarrowdelf, and he longed to set eyes on the smooth surface of Kheled-zâram. He would even have walked faster, but he was content to reach the mere in the setting sun, where the golden rays were reflected brilliantly, and the peaks of the mountains, still white with snow, gleamed.

   There the Dwarves took off their helmets and bowed low. Each of them murmured his own silent prayer, and they had much to be grateful for. For a while they stood and stared at the surface, each of them seeing different things none of them talked about. Presently Darin turned. He raised his chin and approached the Men, who had sat down aside to rest.

   “In perilous times the Dwarves do not grant strangers their hand and trust. But you both – Thorongil the wanderer, and Daevan from the marshes - though you are Men, have earned our trust and help whenever you will call for it. This aid I vow to you.” He bowed low to both of them, and the Men returned the gesture.

   “We gladly accept your friendship, Darin son of Narin, for no folk should stay alone in these days of dangers, caused by an Enemy far greater than those we gave battle.”

   “Aye, I know that.” Darin weighed the hammer in his hands. “The free folks will fight long ere peace will come again.”

-o-o-o-o-

Author’s Note:

This is the last chapter of ‘Untrodden Path’. It is also the last piece of fanfiction I wrote for the Tolkien universe.

Thank you readers for your reviews, witty comments, praise and approval. It’s been a pleasure sharing thoughts and opinions with you. I enjoyed it immensely and therefore I somewhat hate to leave.

Thanks to all of you, who recommended my works to other fellow readers and spread the word. I assume, that without that support the stories would have reached only half of you. I’m deeply grateful. And I have reason to be grateful because ‘Castle’ made it to the semi-finals of the Mithril Awards, and the other stories are nominated for different awards, too, which is a great reward, regarding the fact that I have written only so few works.

I didn’t quit writing, though. Within the time this story was posted, I wrote four novel-length stories. Unfortunately for you they do no longer deal with our fellow ranger and his friends, but have their own domains. I might return one day for there are still ideas, which could develop into whole stories, given it time to take shape in my head. So don't give up on me entirely. :) There was that idea about... well, no, I won't tell.

If some of you want to stay in contact, I gladly appreciate it for the communication with all of you is the best an author can get.

Hugs,

Timmy

July 2^nd, 2006

_____________

Epilogue

   The company did not dare rest for long. The Orcs would swarm the hills and dale after nightfall, and they would not be able to throw them back. So the Dwarves once more took the lead and brought the Men to a hideout beyond the mere. It looked like a wall of solid stone first, but behind the hidden entrance, there was a cavern big enough for all of them to settle down. The Dwarves brought water and in the rear corner kindled a small fire. It had a small natural chimney that led away from the side of the mere so that they did not worry that the Orcs would smell the smoke.

   Furin took off the trembling and whining bundle. He released Gollum, but made sure he would not dare to try to escape. Once Gollum tried to reach the entrance, but when Lini barred it and showed the beast his bloodied axe, Gollum hunched over and sat down miserably.

   “Let us go! We mean no harm!” Still Lini did not give way, so the beast growled and became angry. “Filthy Dwarves! Hurting poor Gollum!” And he whined again and this time even louder.

   Furin pitied him and even more so when he saw the beast had been wounded in the forearm and foot during the skirmish. Snarling, Gollum refused any treatment. He snatched the water-skin out of Furin's hand and – when he saw the exit still barred – retreated to the farthest corner of the cave, where he sat on the ground to lick his wounds.

   Strider watched the Dwarf's vain attempts to help the old beast. He had settled down on the ground and tried to catch his breath. His leg and chest were agony by now. Pain gripped him so tightly he felt as if he were being strangled. His body urged to be released from the strain.

   “It is finally time to rest,” Daevan said quietly beside him, and through exhaustion shone a victorious grin. “We made it this far. I still cannot believe it.” He shook his head slightly. He was exhausted beyond reckoning, but in exuberant spirits, which could not even be drowned even by his injuries. He untied the water-skin from his pack and handed it Strider. “To the victory.”

   “To your prowess, my friend.” He held the young man in his gaze. “This is the moment when dawn dispels the night, and the day shines the clearer. This is your victory, Daevan from the marshes.”

   Daevan lowered his eyes, feeling strange at being praised by the Great Warrior, but still proud to have heard it.

   “Thank you, Strider.”

   Strider drank, but then insisted on tending to Daevan's wounds. The young man did not resist or complain; the pain in his arm and leg was reason enough to lie still and let the healer do his work.

   Only then, did the wanderer give in to his weakness and grant his body some rest.

-o-o-o-o-

   Grima was early. He always tried to be early to see if the servants he commanded did their work according to his bidding. It had always been the time to find out that all the creatures only hurried while he was present. Silently watching them, he then gathered information about what the Orcs and Men did while they thought themselves unobserved.

   Thus Grima and his escort reached the plateau of the Dimrill Gate in the waning light of a pleasant and warm spring day. From afar, they had already seen black birds circling the air, and the cries of the crows had warned them of impending danger. Grima had sent forward his guards, and upon their return and report he cursed the stupidity of the Dunlendings. Quickly he strode toward the plateau.

   Gurim lay drenched in his blood. Sharp axes had brought him down, and he could no longer move. He outstretched a hand towards the approaching servant of the sorcerer. There was fear and pain in his dark eyes, yet also despair.

   “You must help me, Grima, please!”

   Grima only bared his teeth, disgusted at the sight of the destruction in the wake of the skirmish. It must have been appalling, he realized, and was glad he had not been present earlier.

   “What happened? Where are the captives? And where is the beast?”

   “Gone…” Gurim swallowed, coughing up blood when he tried to breathe. “They are all gone. Down to…” He drew in breath once more, but felt his strength fading. “Gone… at midday.”

   “You lost the captives?” He kicked Gurim viciously in his side. The Dunlending whined with pain. “Answer me! How could you scum lose them all?”

   “They fought us… fought their way through.”

   “You useless ape!” Grima spat. In a fluent motion, he grabbed a spear from an Uruk standing beside him and thrust the weapon's sharp blade through Gurim's chest. “There is a change in command now!”

   Abruptly Grima turned to where Hrunas had fallen. He turned him with the tip of his boot on to his back. However, the Dunlending had been wounded too badly to regain consciousness. With a short gesture Grima ordered him to be killed too. Still he was outraged. The Men and the beast… How could they have escaped? How was it possible that a whole army had not been able to hold two Men back? Why would he not return to Isengard with all of them bound and defeated to present them to Saruman and be praised for his cunning behaviour? How could he get his hands on the treasures of the Dwarves now?

   Grima kicked the dead Hrunas. Too late he realised that Gurim had not told him where the fugitives had escaped to. And he only had four Uruk-hai about him to start a search. He pondered long while the day waned what would be the best decision.

   And when the sun set and the Orcs left the darkness of the mine for the darkness of the open land to hunt, Grima shied away from the vicious and relentless beasts and did not dare ask for their allegiance, but retreated from the plateau as fast as he could.

-o-o-o-o-

   With the Hammer of Aulé carefully wrapped in a piece of cloth, the Dwarves made ready to leave. It was a new and bright day, and the sun lightened their hearts as well as the aftermath of the victory.

   Lini strode up to Daevan and Strider and bowed low.

   “You proved yourself worthy of the great name once given,” he said politely.

   “Your kin displayed the sturdiness and vigour it is known for,” replied Strider. “We owe you gratitude for your skill in time of need.”

   “At your service, Thorongil.” Lini turned and made way for Furin, who almost smiled at the prospect of returning home. Though it was a long way, the hardest part was over.

   “I am overwhelmed with joy to say that the alliance with you was worth the risk.”

   “At your service and that of your family. I am grateful you placed your faith in me.”

   “But I will not forget the young lad's rescue of the Hammer of Aulé when all thought it to be lost,” said Furin and bowed lowly to Daevan, whose face reddened immediately.

   Strider looked at him, urging him to answer.

   “It… it shall be told that a vow shall never be broken,” he presently said, and Furin looked up to him expectantly. “Even though we are not of the same kin.”

   “Aye, that shall be remembered.”

   There were many words and wishes for the luck of the Men and in return for the Dwarves, and when they had bowed to each other the free folk of the mountains set out to their own realm.

   Strider, Daevan, and Gollum remained behind for another day of rest. The cave gave them shelter, the Mirrormere gave them water, and though they had little food they were content. Daevan had never thought of the outcome of their journey. But at no time, he had wished his choice had been different and that he had stayed with his grand-father. He held the wanderer – the Eagle of Star, he reminded himself – in high esteem, and every lesson he had been taught he cherished. But only now did he see the wisdom behind the older man's teaching.

   Strider knew. Though they did not exchange words, he knew of Daevan's mood; he could read the signs of gratitude and contentment, he saw Daevan smile while he was lost in reverie. And when the sun announced a new day in the spring of that year, Strider left the cave with the young man at his side and a very unhappy and complaining Gollum on a leash. The wanderer still limped, but the wound was mending. Daevan slipped his left hand into the belt and looked on Mirrormere. It lay beautiful in the rising sun, a place to remember. His gaze was filled with longing, but when he faced Strider there was anxiety also. He tried to cover it with a wry smile.

   “Shall we walk, or have I to carry you for a while longer?”

   Strider but lifted his brows.

   “Are you sure to accompany me further? It is a long way to Mirkwood.”

   “I have never been there, Strider, or Thorongil. Whatever your name may be.” Daevan tried to smile but failed.

   Strider bowed to him, putting the right hand on his chest.

   “My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and I welcome you once again gladly in my company.”

   “Aragorn?” Though sensing the other man's sincerity he could not hold back a smile. “If this name shall mean something to me, I am sorry to fail your expectations.”

   Strider returned the smile with the same faint longing Daevan had seen before. There was sadness in it, but today his happier mood prevailed. He put a hand on the young man's shoulder.

   “I am the last in the long ancestry of the Kings of Numénor, my friend. And if I live to see and win the battles that lie ahead I shall once become the King of Gondor and Arnor.”

   Daevan's jaw dropped. The sincerity in the wanderer's words was not to be missed. Daevan knew he was not jesting. Suddenly he found no words to say. He did not know if he should feel pride or fear; if he should bow to him or simply return a slap on his shoulder.

   “The king?” he finally stuttered. “The long lost King of Gondor?” He frowned and remembered his remarks during their quest. He blushed deeply. “Then Doran was right. You are a lord among Men.”

   Still Strider's grey eyes rested solemnly on the features of his young friend, and he inclined his head to a curt bow.

   “He was right, aye. But a long path still lies ahead of me. Yet, there is you to take care of. Would I do you a favour if I recommended you to my old friend Halbarad to make a Ranger out of you?” Daevan's face lit up visibly. Strider nodded and took away his hand. “Though I must say that your mouth is still faster than your sword.”

The End